For the Highlander's Pleasure

“He is a Highlander,” Violet observed foolishly, her manners vanishing under duress. “That is to say, you are most welcome, sir.” She curtsied low to atone for her poor greeting. “We are simply unaccustomed to seeing many Highlanders in Caladan.”

Finn’s expression remained placid. “Perhaps that is because the natives refuse to provide foreigners with directions to your keep.”

Maybe the warrior was not so placid as he appeared. Clearly he had not appreciated her attempt to misguide him. For him to have found Caladan so soon, he must have learned very quickly after their encounter that she had not spoken truthfully. Before her da could pose a question or form a response to a statement that surely must have puzzled him, however, Finn continued.

“Thank you for the warm welcome, Lady Violet. I am pleased to serve you.” He made a brief bow, although his stance managed to lack any real deference.

In fact, his eyes were anything but polite as his gaze combed slowly over her. Was it her imagination, or did the grin he smothered suggest that he recalled the way he’d last seen her?

Somehow his glance worsened the heat upon her skin, making the sensitive flesh pulse with fresh awareness.

She turned to her father to see if he noticed the way the man gazed upon her. Surely even through the haze of drink her da would not appreciate the stranger’s hot, lingering stare? But the earl merely clenched scarred knuckles around his cup and took another sip.

“Father, may I speak with you a moment?” She stared at him meaningfully, willing him to eject the mammoth Highlander from the hall.

“We will talk all you like at sup with our new champion,” her sire spluttered, his words indistinct thanks to the great amounts of wine he must have consumed. “And you will endeavor to entertain our guest properly.”

“Of course,” she assured him, unwilling for the foreigner to witness the full extent of her father’s temperament. She would find no help from that quarter. “Please take your seats, my lords, and I will call for the repast.”

Finn’s gaze followed her, and Violet had the sense that his sea-blue eyes missed nothing. Was he considering the weakened state of Caladan’s lord? Or disrobing her with his mind? The heat in her skin simmered at the thought and she could not understand what had come over her. Could the herbs have irritated her skin that much? It seemed strange that the condition would worsen when the Highlander looked her way. Then again, perhaps embarrassment somehow added to the effect of Morag’s blend of stems and leaves. No man had ever seen her as Finn had today—her tunic unlaced and breasts bared. Maybe the fire along her flesh was increased by her discomfiture.

Absently she rubbed her hands over her arms and tried to distract herself from the maddening sensation by pondering the stranger’s real motive for coming to Caladan. He was no new knight seeking fame in answering her father’s call. Nay, even she could tell Finn Mac Néill was a warrior in his prime—a man of means and experience. Did he come to assess how easily Caladan could be wrested away from the sickly lord who held it?

Shoving aside the thought, Violet convened with Inna and the servers to begin the meal. She had spent a sennight overseeing the food preparations at her father’s behest, expecting more guests than the one man bold enough to answer the call. There was mackerel and herring, salmon and trout, all freshly caught for the occasion.

Hurrying back to take her place with the men, she prayed for strength to get through this meal. She feared her father would make plans for her betrothal to the one man who had accepted his invitation to the feast. She could not allow that to happen, especially when Finn had hidden motives for being there.

Besides, the warrior’s gaze was far too disconcerting. Until she figured out the strange effect he had upon her, she wished to keep as distant from him as possible.

“Daughter, you will dance now,” her father ordered, gesturing to the harpist who had just begun plucking a tune for the meal. “Entertain our guest.”

“Oh.” Her gasp of dismay was surely heard by all save her father, who seemed too concerned with having his cup refilled to notice. How could she possibly dance when she was so unsteady?

Her gaze met—locked—with Finn’s. She expected to see lustful eagerness in his eyes. Instead, his brows slashed downward in a forbidding scowl. The expression was fleeting—there one moment and vanished the next. He turned toward her father.

“I assure you…” The visitor spoke up. “I require no entertainments. A hearth fire and your fine spirits are far more comfort than I have had in many moons.”