The Highlander's Stolen Touch

Praise for Terri Brisbin:

THE MERCENARY’S BRIDE ‘Brisbin’s latest Knights of Brittany book is just as thrilling and passionate as the rest. Brisbin excels at immersing readers in history and bringing her characters to life.’ —RT Book Reviews

THE CONQUEROR’S LADY ‘Riveting with its rich narrative, pulsing sexual tension and chilling suspense. It’s a tale of a man of passion, action and heat, and the innocent beauty who conquers him body and soul.’ —RT Book Reviews

SURRENDER TO THE HIGHLANDER ‘Rich in historical detail, laced with the perfect amount of passion, Ms Brisbin continually delivers highly satisfying romances. Don’t miss it.’ —Romance Reviews Today

TAMING THE HIGHLANDER ‘TAMING THE HIGHLANDER is a lively, frolicking tale of life in the Highlands; truly a must-read.’ —Historical Romance Writers

THE MAID OF LORNE ‘With her usual superb sense of characterisation and exceptional gift for creating sizzling sexual chemistry, Brisbin fashions a splendidly satisfying medieval historical.’ —Booklist

There was an instant when he knew he should stop and simply return her to the house, when he knew they should talk more in the cool light of the morn. But that moment passed by so quickly it did not hinder his next action at all. Tavis pulled her back into his arms, tilted her head with his hand and leaned his mouth to hers.

He kissed her, and all his good intentions to show simple compassion were tossed asunder at the first touch of his mouth on hers.

He kissed her with all the longing in his body and heart. He kissed her with the respect and liking he felt for her. He kissed her for all the wanting and knowing he could never have her. He kissed her.

Not as a beginning, as her husband-to-be had, but as an ending—because her place, her life, would be here and not with him.

About the Author

TERRI BRISBIN is wife to one, mother of three, and dental hygienist to hundreds when not living the life of a glamorous romance author. She was born, raised, and is still living in the southern New Jersey suburbs. Terri’s love of history led her to write time-travel romances and historical romances set in Scotland and England.

Readers are invited to visit her website for more information at www.terribrisbin.com, or contact her at PO Box 41, Berlin, NJ 08009-0041, USA.

Previous novels by the same author:

THE DUMONT BRIDE

LOVE AT FIRST STEP

(short story in The Christmas Visit) THE NORMAN’S BRIDE THE COUNTESS BRIDE THE EARL’S SECRET TAMING THE HIGHLANDER SURRENDER TO THE HIGHLANDER POSSESSED BY THE HIGHLANDER BLAME IT ON THE MISTLETOE (short story in One Candlelit Christmas) THE MAID OF LORNE THE CONQUEROR’S LADY* THE MERCENARY’S BRIDE* HIS ENEMY’S DAUGHTER*

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

and in Mills & Boon^® Historical Undone! eBooks:

A NIGHT FOR HER PLEASURE*

*The Knights of Brittany

And in Mills & Boon WHAT THE DUCHESS WANTS (part of Royal Weddings Through the Ages)

The Highlander’s Stolen Touch

Terri Brisbin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated to my editor, Anna Boatman, for all of her guidance, advice, and gentle prodding in making this story the lovely romance it is now! Thanks, Anna.

Prologue

‘She has to die.’

Ciara whispered it to her nearest and dearest friend, knowing her secret wish was safe with her. The terrible words branded her as a person of the most horrible kind. Nine years of age and already beyond redemption. She sighed, knowing it was true.

The young woman, the current object of their observation, saw nothing but the man waiting for her at the door to the chapel. She looked neither left nor right, making Ciara hate her even more. The only thing worse was that he gazed back at her with the same intensity. Her own heart hurt then, understanding that she was witnessing love.

‘Should we trip her?’ Elizabeth whispered back. Ever her stalwart friend, she would see this through with Ciara.

The puddle of mud to one side of the path was appealing, but Ciara shook her head. From the way Tavis gazed at Saraid, he would look at her the same way even if she was covered in the slime and muck. Ciara’s breath caught at the strength and clarity of the feelings between Tavis and his soon-to-be wife. Later, when someone asked her what love was, she would describe it as just that—the expression Ciara could see in Tavis’s eyes when he looked at his bride.

‘Nay,’ she whispered, turning away as tears filled her eyes. ‘Leave her be.’

Elizabeth looked from her to the couple, now walking together into the chapel, and sighed. ‘What will you do, then?’

Ciara shrugged and did not answer right away. The doors to the chapel remained open and, if she’d cared to watch, she could have seen the whole ceremony as Tavis and Saraid promised to love and cherish each other for life. But she walked away and sought out her favourite thinking place, leaving her friend behind to sigh and watch the wedding she could not.

* * *

Hours later, Ciara realised that there was not much she could do about this—she could not kill Saraid and even wishing her ill made Ciara’s stomach hurt. So, after considering her choices for most of the afternoon, Ciara accepted that there was only one thing she could do about this.

She could wait for her chance to love Tavis and to gain his love.

She could wait.

And so she did.

In spite of his marriage, Tavis still welcomed her company and their unusual friendship continued. As she gained in years and in knowledge, she was present many times when Tavis would report to her stepfather, the clan’s Peacemaker, after carrying out some task for him. Tavis walked her back to her family’s cottage after one such journey and Ciara tried to show what she’d learned only that week.

‘Cogito, ergo sum,’ she said with confidence. Latin was one of the languages she loved and she was, as her tutor had told her parents, quite proficient in it. She waited for Tavis to react, but he simply laughed and shrugged.

‘I do not ken Latin,’ Tavis said. ‘Unlike you, I have only the Gàidhlig and some Scots. Oh, and a bit of the English.’ From his tone, she did not think him insulted by her knowledge or embarrassed by his lack of it.

‘I could teach you some of the words,’ she offered. ‘Or to read.’ She was his friend and she wanted to help him however she could. Even now at ten-and-three years, she could at least do that for him.

‘There are other ways you should be spending your time, lass,’ he said, winking at her as he spoke.

Her mother had been speaking, or rather complaining, to him again. She sighed and looked away. Most likely bemoaning that she did not take her needlework as seriously as she did her study of languages or numbers or … well, not seriously at all.

‘I hate needlework,’ she said, crossing her arms over her chest and lifting her chin. Surely he would not take her mother’s side of it?

‘Ah,’ he said softly, while taking her hand in his. ‘Needlework is a worthy task and a needed skill. Along with numbers, speaking your five languages and reading a few more than that.’ He tugged her hand and they continued their walk towards her home.

‘If ’tis such a worthy skill, why do you not learn it?’ she asked, irreverently. Shrugging off his hold on her, she waited for his answer.

Oh, aye, she understood the different roles of men and women. But as she was exposed to more and more knowledge and experiences by her father, she doubted she could ever simply return to the constricted life expected of a young woman in her time and place. Did her father know that by allowing her education to surpass other girls her age, he was creating a need within her to learn more and more? Since Tavis was still a man, she waited for his rebuff of her challenge.

‘I can already sew, lass. Many warriors have need of it after a battle. Needlework is no different than that,’ he answered as they arrived outside her parents’ cottage.

Then he offered her the most beautiful, most irritating, aggravating smile, the one that told her he was certain he would be victorious over her in this matter. Ciara wanted to stomp her foot and scream. Of all the things she thought safe to challenge him on, why did it have to be that? While still considering what to say next, he reached over and lifted her chin so he could look at her as he spoke.

‘My sister Bradana and Saraid are both skilled at it,’ he began. Glancing over his shoulder at her door, he leaned in and whispered, ‘And both softer taskmasters than your mother. Though you should never tell her I said such a thing.’ He released her and stepped back, motioning towards her home. ‘I can speak to either of them about it, if you wish?’

How had this happened? She had manoeuvred herself right into doing the one thing she most wished to avoid. All by trying to show off her skills to her friend. Without uttering a word of surrender, she just nodded and walked away. Ciara almost reached the door when he called out to her.

‘I will tell Saraid to expect you on the morrow.’

Ciara did stomp her foot then and slammed the door behind her as she pushed inside, making it rattle the frame on which it was hung. Tavis’s laughter echoed outside as he walked away.

As much as she’d like to ignore his offer and refuse to practise sewing and embroidery, Ciara could not. This was another instance of him guiding her to the right choice. She let out an exasperated sigh and walked into her room. Her gaze went right to the collection of wooden animals that sat on her mantel. Tavis had been her friend forever, or at least since she’d been only five years and he came with her stepfather to bring her to Lairig Dubh—her new home and new family.

Though she never wanted to admit he belonged with someone else, watching him with his wife had given her a glimpse at true love. Just as her parents’ marriage was a love match, Tavis and Saraid’s was as well, even she could see it now. And just as Tavis would do anything to make Saraid happy, so she would do for him—even if it meant becoming proficient with a needle and thread.

Ciara showed up at Saraid’s door the next day and on many other days, too. Sometimes she remained after her lessons to help the young woman. Sometimes, may God forgive her weak character, she remained only to see Tavis. Saraid, for her part, seemed to understand that Ciara was important to her husband and accepted her presence and help. Tavis approved and Ciara found herself drawn into friendship with Saraid. With younger siblings, Ciara was familiar with being the oldest sister, but with Saraid, she felt like the younger one, for they were nearer in age than Ciara was to Tavis.

Over the next few years, Ciara grew in her knowledge and skills until her father allowed her to assist him in his work for the laird. But the kinship that developed between her and Tavis’s wife was torn apart when Saraid died and a distance grew between Ciara and Tavis, too.

As close as they’d been, nothing Ciara said or did mattered to or helped Tavis in his grief. Some time passed before he seemed at ease with her again, but the recognition that she was growing up and reaching adulthood changed things between them. Tavis began taking on more and more duties and travelled on the laird’s business almost as an escape, she thought, from having to face the village alone and to avoid the now-empty cottage where he lived.

Ciara continued to excel in her studies and her father allowed her to accompany him and to read his contracts and documents, leaving her little time for needlework or other womanly skills. And that suited her just fine. By that time, Tavis’s attentions were focused solely on his duties to the laird and anything she did went unnoticed by him.

And still she waited.

Chapter One

Lairig Dubh, Scotland—spring, AD 1370

Ciara Robertson sat away from the table, almost in the corner of the room her stepfather had chosen for the meeting. It was a large chamber and comfortable, but did not offer too much comfort. The shuttered windows were open, allowing the cool spring breezes in. Food and drink were offered, but sparingly. This was not about hospitality—this was about business.

She met no one’s gaze and most of the men there probably thought she was a servant awaiting their orders. But she was no servant—she was the eldest daughter of the MacLerie peacemaker, Duncan, and was being trained by him even now.

As he had instructed, she listened to every word said, watched the expressions of those speaking and even the way they sat or gestured to gain an understanding of who held the true power in these discussions. ’Twas not always the oldest or wealthiest or the loudest, he’d told her many times. The true power usually sat out of the attention. The true power delegated to lessers and set their leash. The true power spoke quietly and wielded their control carefully.

Now listening and watching, she believed that the MacLaren’s younger brother was the one making the decisions in this series of negotiations for a trade agreement with the MacLeries. Though another man, older and calmer, spoke the MacLaren’s position, it was clear to her he was not in charge.

The session went on for a few hours, each side clarifying and posturing, and several times Ciara had to force the smile from her lips as she watched her stepfather work—pushing here, cajoling there, complimenting egos, urging that one or the other—to get the best terms for the MacLeries. By the time they agreed to complete the agreement in the morning and break for their evening meal, Duncan the Peacemaker had guided the MacLarens down the paths he wanted them to follow and would close the deal on the morrow. She stood, curtsying to them as they left, and waited for her stepfather to discuss the day’s work.

She understood how he worked, for he’d not taken notes during the talks, but he would remember every word and clause agreed to by both parties. He would write down his thoughts and plans before speaking to anyone, so she did act the servant then, pouring ale into cups and giving them to the MacLeries remaining in the room now. Her uncle the laird and the laird’s steward waited for her father to collect his thoughts and speak about how to bring these negotiations to a successful conclusion.

A few minutes passed and it felt good to stretch her legs and walk after sitting quietly for such a while. Quiet and sitting were not her usual custom of behaviour. The laird’s gaze followed her, but when she met it, he smiled and looked off. Her stepfather, the only father she’d ever known, raised his head and cleared his throat, signalling that he was ready now to discuss the day’s progress, or lack of it, with them. He surprised her with his first words.

‘Ciara, give me your impressions of the talks today,’ he said. He smiled reassuringly at her and nodded for her to begin.

Words stuck in her throat as she tried to say something useful, something pertinent, now that she’d been asked. While talking in private, giving her opinion or making observations had never been a problem at all. She enjoyed a spirited debate with the man who’d raised her as his own after marrying her mother and she never felt worried over her words. Now though, with the laird and his steward watching and waiting, her palms grew sweaty and her mind went blank.

‘Do you think the laird will agree to my request to lengthen the term of this agreement?’ he asked, clearly guiding her in her reply. Ciara put the others present out of her thoughts and replied as she would if only speaking to Duncan.

‘I think the laird is willing to extend it as you’ve asked, but I suspect his brother is not. And it is his brother who will make the decision.’ What if she were wrong? What if her observations were completely backwards?

Duncan looked at her intently and then glanced at the laird. Connor MacLerie could be intimidating when he wished to be so and, right now, his expression grew dark and his face stern. Had she made an error? She reached up and wiped her hand across her forehead where small beads of perspiration were gathering now, too.

‘Did I not tell you, Connor?’ her father said to the laird. Had she made a mess of the first time she was permitted to observe? How could she tell her mother, who’d supported her in her education and encouraged her along this unorthodox course for a young woman? If she failed now …

‘Aye, Duncan, you did,’ the laird replied, now smiling. ‘The lass is a bright one and sees through their posturing.’ Connor nodded to her. ‘And it did not take her as long as it took me to see it.’

Her stepfather beamed, pride in his eyes and a smile on his lips, and Ciara realised she’d been correct.

‘What else, lass?’ the laird asked. ‘Tell me what else you noticed during the discussions.’

‘The cattle interested his brother more than it did MacLaren. And I think he is overestimating the men he can call to arms if needed,’ she said.

A little more at ease, she explained how she came to her conclusions and answered questions from the laird, his steward and her stepfather. They discussed the concessions they’d got already and ones they still wanted.

Only a loud banging on the door had interrupted them some time later.

‘They will not serve until you are at table, Connor,’ his wife, Jocelyn, said, glaring at each of them as though they could have hurried the laird when he did not wish to be. ‘Everyone is waiting to eat and you dawdle here. Even the MacLarens sit waiting.’

Ciara tried to hold her laugh in, but the sight of this powerful man being cowed by his wife and not resisting her efforts made her chuckle. Her father flashed a warning frown, but she could see the mirth in his own eyes at seeing Jocelyn badgering Connor. Her mother did not hesitate to speak boldly to her stepfather and Ciara suspected that she might be waiting to do just that in the great hall. But, as Jocelyn had held her tongue until none but family remained to hear her, so would her mother.

Watching as the laird took his wife by the hand, entwined their fingers and walked at her side, Ciara now understood that the laird and her father did not simply allow their wives behaviours that other men might not. They accepted them completely in a manner that could be explained only one way—they loved them.

Having accompanied her father on many journeys on the laird’s business, Ciara also understood that it was not the usual custom in most other clans or marriages.

Would she find that in her marriage?

Though not meant to, she’d overheard her parents discussing her marriageable age and about the possibility of seeking a betrothal for her. The time for that was quickly approaching. The dowry bestowed on her would only increase the offers and her ties to two very powerful clans would increase her importance to others who coveted a closer connection to either or both of them. She would be the usual bride—one bartered for her perceived value and not her own worth.

No man would value a woman who was smarter than he or who could understand how legalities worked. Men wanted a woman to fill their bed, oversee their households and lessen their burdens. Whether they knew it or not, her parents had prepared her for a life and for a husband who did not exist. Fortunately or unfortunately, that dowry would plough through most objections right away.

Well, one man would be able to look past all of her accomplishments and see the true woman inside. One man always had and surely he would again.

Tavis MacLerie.

She had kept her true feelings a secret these years from all but her closest friend and confidant Elizabeth, but she’d not forgotten or given up on him and the possibility of something more between them. As a child, she had not realised what that meant other than a fanciful dream, but now she did.

And she was ready for more to happen between them.

The small group walked through the great hall, approached the raised table and she took her place at her parents’ side for the meal. The laird introduced her by name to all the MacLarens present and, other than a few raised eyebrows, none expressed surprise at her name. During the talks they most likely thought her only a maidservant to the MacLeries. Now, they understood her standing and things would change.

The glint in the MacLaren brothers’ eyes made it clear—she was something to include in the agreement, a tangible way to strengthen their position with the MacLeries. A brief but telling glance between the brothers made this development clear to both of them and now their demands would change to include a betrothal.

The rest of the meal moved past her in a blur, for she became lost in her own thoughts. If talk of betrothals and marriage contracts would begin in earnest, then she could not lose any more time and chance losing Tavis forever. In spite of his being yet trapped within his own grief of losing his wife, this was now the time to broach their own future.

The negotiations concluded after several more days of discussions during which her name was raised—and squashed immediately by the laird on her behalf. But rather than feeling relief, she knew it had been the first in many that would follow. Soon there would be no rational or legitimate reason to refuse to consider such offers. Ciara knew the time had come and, when Tavis returned from one of the laird’s other holdings, she prepared herself to do the boldest, most terrifying thing she’d ever done.

She waited until dark, when she knew he would be alone, before sneaking out of Elizabeth’s cottage and making her way to his. Knowing it would be impossible to leave the keep once the gates were closed for the night, she’d made plans with her closest friend, who would cover for her absence, if need be. Now, standing near his door and out of the light cast by the full moon, she raised her shaking hand to knock.

Just tell him how you feel and then ask him, she repeated to herself for the hundredth time since leaving Elizabeth behind. It did not ease her nervousness or increase her courage as she forced her hand into a fist and reached up to tap gently on his door.

You are an educated woman, one who can read and write in five languages and one who can understand contracts and negotiating. You are accomplished in skills and knowledge that most men know nothing of. You are intelligent, quick-witted and any man would be glad to have you as his wife.

The words her stepfather had repeated to her when her confidence waned echoed in her thoughts, but this time, did not bolster her courage, especially not as Tavis’s steps approached her from the other side of the door. She sucked in a breath and tried to calm her racing heart. When he pulled open the door and whispered her name, she lost any hope of it.

He was so beautiful that it took her breath away.

Beautiful was not the correct word, but it seemed to describe his appearance—wholly male, but incredibly beautiful at the same time. Small braids of his dark brown hair hung from his temples and the rest of it hung loose to his shoulders. His tall, muscular form blocked out any light in the hearth behind him as he filled the doorway. Tavis stepped closer to her, glancing behind her and then out on to the path, so close she could feel the heat of his body. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the scent of him, before realising that she must look daft standing before him so.

‘Is something wrong, Ciara?’ he asked quietly. ‘It is late.’ She took a deep breath and plunged forwards with her plan.

‘I would speak to you, Tavis,’ she said, entwining her fingers together to make their shaking less apparent.

‘We should speak in the morning … in the keep,’ he said, stepping back and depriving her of his scent and his heat. Then a suspicious glint entered his eyes. ‘Do your parents know you are walking alone through the village in the dark?’

‘I am no bairn, Tavis, and have lived here long enough to know every turn of every path and every soul who abides in Lairig Dubh.’

‘So your parents have no idea that you run free.’

Ciara worried her teeth along her bottom lip, not giving him an answer. She did not believe he would turn her away without listening to her first, but the way his face hardened gave her pause that he might do exactly that!

‘Best come in out of the chill air,’ he said, relenting. He stepped back, opening the door up and waiting for her to enter. Tavis closed the door and walked across the cottage to the hearth. Pointing to a stool nearby, he offered her a seat.

Ciara decided to stand and walked closer to the low fire burning in the hearth. She’d thought about the words she wanted to say for days, but now, standing in his house, the one he’d shared with his wife Saraid, all of them scattered, leaving her silent.

‘Ciara?’ His voice, low and deep, sent waves of pleasure and anticipation through her, forcing her to gather her thoughts and speak of the matter between them. Rather than mincing words, she sought the candour they always shared and got right to the heart of it.

‘I have come to speak to you about the matter of marriage, Tavis,’ she blurted out. Then she sat down on the offered stool, since now her legs trembled as much as her hands did. Quite proud of how she’d been so very forthright with him, the frown that furrowed his brow surprised her.

‘Marriage? Does someone seek your hand, then?’ he asked. ‘Does Duncan favour the suit?’

‘Nay, no one has offered,’ she said. Not as yet, not a serious offer, though with her age and her dowry, ’twas only a matter of time. She wanted to get this settled before they would begin in earnest.

‘Do you fear marriage, then?’ he asked, concern lacing his tone in spite of his own terrible experience in the marital state. ‘Marian would speak candidly to you about that, lass.’

Ciara closed her eyes for a moment, prayed for courage and then said the words that would damn her or give her her heart’s desire.

‘I would marry you, Tavis.’

The air in the cottage stilled and not a sound could be heard, though Ciara was certain her heart pounding against her chest must be loud. Tavis did not move. His gaze remained on her face, but he gave no sign that he had heard her or, indeed, that he even yet breathed. Moments passed—mayhap hours did, too—while she waited for him to say something to her. Heat flushed in her cheeks and her stomach began to grip. She brushed some loosened hair back away from her face and then repeated her words, for by some chance, he must not have understood them the first time.

‘I said I would marry you.’

‘Ciara,’ he said—her name on his lips was almost a plea. ‘Do not—’

‘I have much to offer,’ she rushed out the words. ‘I can read and write in five languages and know how to cipher. I bring a good dowry to the marriage and I …’ She stopped then, watching all the colour drain from his face. This was not going well. So she delivered the last bit she was certain would convince him of the rightness of this. ‘And I love you, Tavis.’

Whatever reaction she expected of him—surprise, understanding, acceptance—she received something completely different. He startled as though slapped and began to shake his head. ‘Do not say such things, lass.’

‘’tis the truth, Tavis. I have loved you for years, even before you married Saraid …’ She gasped and clamped her hands over her mouth, though too late to avoid mentioning the one name about whom he would never speak.

‘You do not know what you are saying, Ciara. Marriage is not possible between us for many reasons,’ he said without meeting her gaze now. He turned and faced the hearth, his body tense and his voice hollow. ‘I have told you. I will not marry again.’

‘But I will be a good wife to you, Tavis,’ she pleaded, unable to stop the words now that she’d begun. ‘My parents like you and know you and I would not have to leave Lairig Dubh.’

Silence stood between them as she waited for him to see the wisdom in her plan, even if he could not see the love in her heart. Then he faced her and the expression in his eyes was bleaker than she’d ever seen. She shuddered at the profound sadness and knew her cause was lost.

‘You have been raised to make some man a wonderful wife, Ciara, but that man is not me. I have nothing to offer you that you do not already have more or better of—I cannot read or write, I have no fortune or blood ties to match yours. Your parents may know me and like me, but the laird intends a marriage for you that will bind clans together. Your fortune is meant to add to your husband’s wealth. I am simply a soldier in service to his laird and not high enough in standing to ever gain a bride such as you.’

He shook his head once more at her and her tears rained down. The final blow was about to fall and she could see it coming her way.

‘And I cannot love you, lass. My heart was given once and I have nothing to offer you now.’