To Desire a Highlander Read Free Page B

atop the ship’s prow-platform where, until just moments ago, he’d been in a good temper, enjoying the cold winds and steep running seas. In particular, he’d been admiring the isle’s soaring cliffs and rugged headlands. He appreciated wild places and was eager to reach his new home.
    Now he wore a frown, his brows drawn together as he tried to peer through the thick wall of mist that had swept up out of nowhere.
    “There are nae women on that rocky spit of land, be sure of it!” Roag lifted his voice above the wind, willing it so. “Some say a wee laddie walks the isle, a boy thin as air and easy to gaze through!” He glanced over his shoulderat the men on the oar-banks, flashed a grin. “The poor mite gave the isle its name, so the legend.
    “For sure, the stories of him scare folk away.” He turned back to the sea, the whirling mist that only seemed to worsen. “I cannae think of any women who’d dare risk meeting him.”
    Some of the men behind him chuckled, clearly of the same opinion.
    “I saw a lass, I say you!” Conn argued, belligerent as always. “Right fetching, she was. Well-made and with a fine set of—”
    “You saw rocks and mist, you arse.” Roag glanced up at the dragon-head above him, prayed to the gods that his friend was wrong, his mistake caused by a trick of the mist or, more likely, all the ale he’d quaffed the night before.
    “Think you I cannae tell a wench from stone?” Conn thumped his chest, his mirth making the others laugh again. “I haven’t yet seen a curl o’ mist that made my fingers itch to grab it.”
    A smile twisted Roag’s lips despite his annoyance. “Then its ale fumes bewitching you, letting your eyes see what’s no’ there. The mist hereabouts isn’t like other mist. It drifts and dances, some say it even has a soul. Could be a curl of it thought to tempt you?”
    His men sniggered.
    Conn roared, his laughter echoing across the waves. “ ’Tis smooth, hot, and wet female flesh that maddens me, as every man here knows.
    “And there be naught wrong with my eyes.” He fell quiet then, and Roag knew he’d be nodding his shaggy, red-bearded head, looking round for sympathy.
    Roag just hoped his sight had deceived him as well.He’d also glimpsed a shapely, flame-haired female on the islet’s rocky shore. She’d looked right at him, her eyes blazing with fury, her hands on her hips as if by sheer will she hoped to blast him from the sea.
    Then the wretched fog swept in and she was gone.
    Unfortunately, he could still feel her out there, staring at him with fire in her eye, wishing him ill with a ferocity that scorched his gizzard.
    She could only be a siren, a selkie, or a sorceress.
    As she clearly despised men, he didn’t care to discover which.
    If he was lucky, his own aching ale-head had conjured her.
    He and his men had knocked back a few ales too many at the Saucy Wench inn and tavern before they’d set sail for the last stretch of their journey, a foray of great importance that didn’t need the distraction or interference of females, mythic or otherwise.
    For that reason, he’d made certain that his men enjoyed themselves to the hilt, as it were, with the big-hearted, light-skirted lassies at the Saucy Wench.
    He peered again into the mist, this time catching another glimpse of the island’s rugged and precipitous coast. It was hard to tell for sure, but he’d almost swear he could make out the square keep and its curtain walls, high atop the jutting promontory.
    Of the wild-haired, blazing-eyed siren was no sign.
    He should be glad.
    Instead, his jaw tightened and he found himself narrowing his eyes even more, searching the rock-strewn shore for a flash of her fiery-red hair.
    “Have done, you fool,” he snarled at himself beneathhis breath, now wishing he’d joined his men in airing a few skirts at the Saucy Wench.
    Had he indulged—and for some inexplicable reason, he hadn’t been in the mood—he’d now be watching for