Secrets Of A Highland Warrior. Nicole Locke

but the tight grasp on the shears told him the cost of her remaining silent.

      This was a woman who thought with her mind. She was beautiful and intelligent. Such a daughter would be prized and even an old swordsman would have hopes that his issue would do better than merely marrying a man from an enemy clan, even if that man was the Chief’s son.

      ‘You are saying, that even upon your death, I, as a Lochmore, may not be accepted by McCrieffs.’

      ‘In truth,’ Frederick said, ‘it would be...beneficial for me to remain ruler of McCrieffs.’

      ‘A bright future for me. Marrying a woman, who doesn’t want to be married. To marry into a clan, who may never accept me. And all of this to inherit nothing more than what a king already granted me.’ Rory crossed his arms, watched the play of emotions in Frederick’s eyes until he saw what he needed to see. ‘But that is not all you want.’

      A fierce gleam in the warrior’s eyes, before he hid it with a shrug. ‘What I expect and what is possible, what could be, are two different matters.’

      Could be. Rory was right. The generations of animosity were too long furrowed into the families of McCrieffs and Lochmores. Even if they married and had issue, the divide could be permanent.

      Or it could be more. But if he didn’t marry Ailsa, there would never be the chance of something more. A chance to combine the clans. He choked down that bit of hope which had no place in these negotiations.

      ‘Not a generous offer. What makes you think I’ll accept?’ Rory said as evenly as possible. No tone of flippancy, no curiosity. Nothing to reveal his roiling emotions at the McCrieffs’ leader suggesting a hope for his future or his descendants. ‘I am a Lochmore, son of a chief, and will be Chief one day. I am a not a pawn to be moved at the whimsy of anyone.’

      He’d underestimated the McCrieffs. Or maybe it was only this man, whom he needed to be more cautious with and whom he needed to warn. Rory had no intention of being underestimated.

      Frederick rested his arms on the chair’s rests. ‘I never presumed that you were such a sort. If I did, I would not have made the offer of my precious daughter to you. Know this, Lochmore, she is very dear to me.’

      At that the woman in the chair shifted and Rory’s eyes were drawn to her again. No crease between her brows, no tenseness in her shoulders. She had decided. From her silence, and the fact she wasn’t trying to leave, he could only presume she agreed with her father.

      Rory allowed himself to look at the man not as an enemy, but as a father. To see the lines of age and care in his face. The strain around his eyes not because he faced a foe before him, but because he made himself truly vulnerable. He meant it. The old warrior meant to give his daughter to him.

      ‘Dear or not, she is only a gift if I want her and I do not accept.’

      Frederick stood then, his expression revealing he’d heard the insult.

      Rory raised his hand. ‘Do not tell me to think about it. I am not your son, nor part of this clan. In fact, Lochmores lose power and control by this marriage.’

      ‘How?’ Ailsa demanded. ‘How do they lose?’

      ‘The land,’ Rory said. ‘The King decreed the borderland to now be Lochmore land. If we marry, there will be a question whether the land belongs to the Lochmores or the McCrieffs. McCrieffs will no doubt still use it and how could I wage war against my wife’s family?’

      ‘You throw away much too quickly and without thought,’ Frederick said. ‘Think of the future.’

      ‘I live in the present. Your daughter is only a prize if I should want her. Did you think her so fair that my head would turn for her? The ale so potent that it would muddle my thoughts? A king decreed the land already to be mine. What you offer gains me nothing. I do not need to bargain with you, I only came to claim what is Lochmores.’

      ‘Then you are a fool just like the others,’ Ailsa said.

      The words were quiet and steady...almost reasonable sounding. However, if she were her father and said such words, he would have drawn his sword. If he had one.

      Another almost reaction when he didn’t want to reveal a single one. He consoled himself that the impulse was still there only because he was too close to the edge. A Lochmore marry a McCrieff?

      He addressed Frederick. ‘Give me time alone with your daughter.’

      ‘There’s no need for it. He said his piece,’ Ailsa said.

      ‘There is a need,’ Rory said. ‘I’m unarmed, unlike your daughter, and she could make a cry that would be heard by every man in the Hall should she need it.’

      ‘Will this change your mind?’ Frederick adjusted his sword.

      Rory doubted it. But he’d been plagued all day with too many questions. And the nature of this woman was one question he would find the answers to. She agreed to it, but why? ‘Perhaps.’

      Frederick pointed. ‘I’ll go through that door. Very few people will see me, but I will not escape notice long so you will not have much time.’

      Rory watched Ailsa, who played with the shears in her hands, but remained quiet until the door closed.

      ‘What is it that you want, Lochmore?’

      With her red hair and green eyes, she looked very much like something from tales told to him as a child. A harpy, a sprite, a vengeful faery. But the rest of her wasn’t from his childhood. The rest of her reminded him that he was very much a man and she was a full-grown woman. Her twirling the shears in front of her accentuated her breasts, tightened the fabric of her gown, so he could admire the dip of her waist and her generous hips.

      She was petite, but then everyone was to him, yet she was generously made. Whereas some women might have a shine to their hair or a sparkle in the eyes, Ailsa’s pale skin, moss-coloured eyes and sunrise hair overflowed with colour. Her body was ample, thick in areas where a man could grab and sink into her lusciousness.

      Everything about her called to him. It was the reason he’d seen her across the courtyard. Enemies with weapons in their hands and just the mere glimpse of her arrested him.

      Now that he had seen her this close, exchanged a handful of words, he couldn’t shake the feeling of déjà vu. As if...he knew her already.

      ‘You threatened me with shears,’ he said ignoring her question and adjusting his large body in to one of the chairs. For an instant, he was distracted by the fact the chair was not too small for him. He stretched, liking the fact he could do so. At home, there were no chairs built for him and he didn’t ask for them to be. In truth, he preferred to stand, but knew in this negotiation, his size would be to his detriment. He was here to find answers, not intimidate.

      She shrugged. ‘They were handy and you arrived on short notice.’

      ‘They’re sharp. You could do me harm.’

      ‘I ensure their usability, that is all.’

      ‘For gardening,’ he guessed.

      ‘Of sorts,’ she said, tucking the shears in her belt and laying her hands in her lap. ‘What are you here for?’

      ‘To claim the land,’ he said. ‘What is it you do here, Ailsa, that you need shears?’

      She sighed. ‘I heal. I’m the healer...you seemed surprised.’

      Not surprised, but somehow, oddly pleased. She was intelligent in more ways than one. ‘Aren’t healers old and wizened?’

      ‘They don’t start out that way. Rhona, my mentor, died two winters past. So I’m it now. Though my father...’ She shook her head.

      ‘Though your father?’ he prompted.

      Her eyes narrowed and he saw the spark of fire she held when she’d aimed her shears at his throat. ‘I’m a healer,