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  The lady rolled her eyes, gave the men a wide berth, and poured herself a glass of wine. “Why did Chieftain MacCoinnich send the two of ye rather than come here himself? Does he think so little of Clan Greyloch? It might be true we’re a small clan, but it’s apparent we have something he not only wants but needs. Would that not warrant a visit from the chieftain himself rather than a meeting with two of his lessers?”

  “Sorcha Elaine! Where in heaven’s name are yer manners?” Greyloch pointed toward a sitting area in front of the windows. “Let us all sit and get to the meat of this matter. That is, if my sharp-tongued daughter hasna already dissuaded ye with her insults.”

  Dissuaded? Nay. Intrigued? Aye, and for certain. Lady Sorcha possessed the sort of fire Sutherland admired. She always had. And if there was anything he loved more than the lasses, it was a challenge. He rose from his knee, poured himself another drink, and joined them. Raising his glass, he hid a smile as Chieftain Greyloch and Magnus seated themselves in the only pair of chairs available, leaving a small, two-person sofa as the only remaining place to sit.

  “Da!” Lady Sorcha glared at her father.

  Greyloch gave her a sharp look, then jerked a nod at the sofa. “Nay, daughter. Ye will sit beside the man and behave yerself. ’Tis yer penance for yer unladylike language and forgetting yer manners after Master MacCoinnich did his part by offering a heartfelt apology.”

  “Heartfelt apology, my—”

  “Sorcha!” Greyloch’s tone rang with parental warning.

  “I shall be happy to stand,” Sutherland offered with a gallant bow. “Please, m’lady. Have the sofa all to yerself with my blessing.”

  The lady bristled even more. She stomped over to the couch, dropped down with a huff, then smacked the cushion beside her. “By all means, Master MacCoinnich, please do sit beside me. I promise not to bite.”

  Bite away, lass. He wouldn’t mind a nibble or two from this fair darling. His man parts took even more notice of the situation, forcing him to adjust the folds of his kilt to hide the bulging in his trews. He settled down beside her, pleased to discover that the cozy piece of furniture tucked them together quite nicely. In fact, if he dared shift the barest bit to his right, his shoulder and flank might actually brush against her. He resettled himself in the seat, taking care to rest a forearm across his lap to cover the evidence of his interest. He cleared his throat. “Now, as to yer question about Chieftain MacCoinnich assigning this visit to myself and Master de Gray?”

  “Aye?” Lady Sorcha encouraged with a defiant glare.

  “Rest assured that Chieftain MacCoinnich holds Clan Greyloch in the verra highest esteem.” He paused, glancing over at Chief Greyloch to ensure the man knew he wasn’t just dancing about and flattering with words to make peace with the man’s daughter. “The size of a clan doesna guarantee its greatness. It is a clan’s courage and honor that matters.” He looked back at Lady Sorcha and smiled. “It hasna been so many years since Clan MacCoinnich’s ranks were decimated to less than a dozen. But we didna give up after the morbid sore throat tried to kill us all. We pushed onward and fought hard to get where we are today. Even survived the massacre at Glencoe. We sense that same courage and honor in Clan Greyloch, and we are proud to call ye allies.”

  “Be that as it may…” Lady Sorcha gave a graceful nod paired with a sly smile. “Ye didna answer my question. Why are ye here rather than yer chieftain?”

  Sutherland held his breath to keep from laughing aloud. Bless his soul, she was a stubborn minx, and he loved it. “I know horses and their needs far better than my brother. Alexander shines when it comes to planning battles, but when it comes to the precious breed that all of Scotland craves, Alexander only knows which end eats and which end shites.”

  By all that was holy, had the lady actually almost smiled? Not wishing to lose any progress he might’ve made with the enchanting mistress of Castle Greyloch, Sutherland turned his attention back to her father. “That is why I am here rather than Alexander. Our stable master and I are in agreement. The glens remaining within Clan MacCoinnich’s borders are not large enough for our stock. Without more grazing choices, we’ll not be able to increase the herds as we had planned. Grazing rights on Clan Greyloch’s lands would help us continue the growth we had hoped to achieve over the next few years.”

  Greyloch didn’t respond. Instead, the intensity of his glare sharpened as he locked eyes with his daughter.

  Lady Sorcha gave the slightest shake of her head.

  “Ye wish us to turn over our lands to the MacCoinnich herds?” the chief clarified. “When ye ken as well as I that yer herders will accompany yer horses and could verra well interfere with the effective grazing of our own prized Highland cattle? Is this yer poor attempt to expand yer borders and swallow up Clan Greyloch like ye did Clan Neal?”

  This time it was Magnus’s turn to give a warning shake of his head in Sutherland’s direction. The silent signal advised that words needed to be chosen with care and not allow tempers to speak. Sutherland dipped his chin in acknowledgment that the message had been received, but Magnus’s warning was unnecessary. Chieftain Greyloch’s inquiry was valid. Sutherland expected no less from the man.

  “We would never attempt such, sir. Our solicitor would draw up a document stating our full intent for the benefit of both clans that would also offer Clan Greyloch a percentage in the profits from the sale of any herds rotated through yer lands.” That should ease some of their doubts. MacCoinnich horses brought a dear price, and buyers traveled from far and wide to purchase the much sought after breed.

  “What percentage?” Lady Sorcha asked.

  He had wondered how long she’d be able to remain quiet. She had fidgeted beside him like a worm in hot coals. Lady Sorcha was not a woman content to sit quietly and keep her thoughts to herself. Curious, he decided to see just how much she would say instead of allowing her father to negotiate the agreement. Just a wee test to see if this lass was as clever as she was beautiful.

  Rumors hinted that it was she who truly ran the clan. The whispers had also claimed her father was too addled with age to handle the duties of a chieftain. Sutherland barely controlled his amusement at that idiocy. Chieftain Greyloch was definitely in full possession of his faculties. Rumors of his weaknesses were false and probably a sham propagated by the chief himself out of craftiness. So, what of the rumor about Lady Sorcha’s assistance with controlling the clan?

  “Twenty percent,” Sutherland said in a tone that dared her to argue. Alexander had given him permission to go as high as fifty, but they didn’t have to know that—at least, not yet.

  She gave him a look that said he could go straight to hell. “Preposterous! Ye mean to have yer horses clip our pastures clean and only offer us twenty percent? Nay, I say! Keep yer beasts on yer own land or risk getting shot.”

  He warmed even more to the game, daring to shift so close the delicious heat of her caressed his thigh. “I am quite open to negotiation, m’lady. What do ye propose?”

  Her gaze dipped to the lack of space between them, but she held her ground—even dared to scoot closer, so the length of her fine long leg pressed firmly against his. Damnation. The woman was trying to kill him. He resettled his arms across his lap to conceal his admiration that was growing stiffer by the minute.

  “Sixty-five percent,” she said, pausing for a sip of her wine. Lowering her glass, she graced him with a calculating smile. “Whilst horses and cattle graze in different ways, the herds will have to be managed carefully to prevent stripping the land bare and rendering it useless for either of them. Not only will we be sharing our land, but it will also take more of our herders to ensure the animals are moved properly from glen to glen without issue.”

  “Forty percent.” Maybe if he made her negotiate longer, she would move closer still—Lord Almighty, what he wouldn’t give to get her into his lap.

  She didn’t blink those gorgeous eyes of hers that had shifted to a piercing golden shade rather than the ea
rlier hazel green. “Seventy percent.”

  “Daughter!”

  Chieftain Greyloch barked out the word, but Lady Sorcha held up a finger to silence him without breaking her gaze from Sutherland’s. “What say ye Master MacCoinnich?”

  “I say ye’re going the wrong way, m’lady.” Emboldened by her daring, he took her hand and lifted it for a kiss. “Fifty percent and the finest colt born to the herd this spring belongs to ye personally. I shall see to its training myself so ye’ll have a fine new mount to ride when it comes of age.” He allowed his lips to linger on the silkiness of her skin a bit longer to help her decide.

  “Fifty percent and my pick of the foals born to the herd every year ye make use of our lands. Be it a colt or not that I choose, one foal comes to Greyloch stables each year. What say ye?” With a smug look, she pulled her hand free of his.

  “Fifty percent, yer pick of the foals every year, and a kiss to seal the bargain.” He couldn’t resist. Her full lips looked as delectable and succulent as fresh berries. Damn, he was starving for a wee taste.

  “Done, sir.” She brushed a glancing kiss across his cheek as she rose and hurried to take a stance beside her father’s chair. “A fair and suitable agreement. Do ye not agree, Da?”

  Chieftain Greyloch beamed with a self-satisfied grin. “Well done, daughter. Shall we drink on it, sirs? Then I shall have our own solicitor draft the document for yer clan solicitor’s perusal, aye?”

  “Not yet,” Sutherland said as he slowly stood. The woman might think herself clever with that harmless peck on his cheek, but he wasn’t about to let her off that easily. “Our bargain isna sealed as yet, m’lady. There is still the matter of the kiss.”

  “Ye received yer kiss, sir. On yer cheek.” Victory sparkled in her eyes. The lass was so pleased with herself, she could barely stand still.

  “Nay, m’lady. That wee pecking was little more than a greeting to a friend or a brother.” He took a step closer. “I am neither. I am a man looking to seal an agreement once papers are drawn and signatures are rendered.” He moved forward again until he stood close enough to take her in his arms. “Or are ye afraid?” he asked softly.

  “Afraid?” She spit out the word like throwing down a gauntlet.

  Sutherland resettled his stance. Aye, he’d read the vixen correctly. The lady wouldn’t tolerate anyone thinking her fearful of anything. “Aye, m’lady. Afraid. We’re hardly unchaperoned. Yer father sits right here. What else could it be holding back yer gift of a proper kiss other than fear of me?”

  “My own good sense and ensuring ye realize ye’ve not been forgiven for being such an arse!” She didn’t retreat, but nor did she step forward.

  Chieftain Greyloch sidled around in his chair to improve his view, his grin stretching into a full-blown smile.

  Sutherland held out a hand as though asking the lady to dance. “A genuine kiss to bind our bargain is just that, and I assure ye, m’lady, I know damn good and well ye’ve not forgiven me.” It took every ounce of control he possessed to keep from pulling her into his arms and crushing her against him. A groan almost escaped him at the sight of her wetting her lips. He refused to retreat. She would learn he was as stubborn as she.

  It was when her eyes narrowed the slightest bit, and her jaw tightened that Sutherland knew he had won.

  Lady Sorcha closed the space between them, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her curves against his hardness with daring tightness. Her lips brushed across his as she spoke, “Well? Get on with it then.”

  He tangled his fingers in the braid at the base of her neck, tilted her back, and wrapped his other arm around her waist. With her locked closer, he took her mouth, pouring every ounce of frustration, desire, and admiration she had stirred within him into the kiss. She tasted of wine and the firm realization that one kiss from this rare woman would never be enough.

  Her embrace tightened, and she opened her mouth wider, returning his ferocity. She inflamed him more than any woman ever had before. Hell’s fire, if she didn’t kill him with a pistol, she would surely kill him with the sheer obsession to possess her. Before he could stop, he groaned and pressed his hardened length into her softness even more.

  Lady Sorcha broke the kiss. Pushing herself out of his arms, she straightened her clothes as well as her hair. “There, sir. Is that kiss a good enough seal to our bargain until proper documentation is available?”

  “Aye, m’lady,” he managed to utter. “That kiss most definitely sealed everything.”

  Chapter Two

  If she had possessed any doubts, Sutherland’s kiss had vanquished them.

  He was most definitely the one for her. A perfect choice as husband and father to her future children. But she had to manage this campaign wisely. Just because he lusted after her didn’t mean he would go so far as to ask her to take his name. She had to tempt him beyond reason without weakening in her own resolve in the process. If she gave in too quickly, he’d slip away like a fish stealing bait.

  Sorcha drew in a deep breath and eased it out. Remain calm, calculating, and steadfast. Quite the monumental task after that kiss. She pressed her lips tighter together. Saints have mercy on her soul, if he kissed like that, what other fiery magic might he possess? Obviously, the rumors about the man’s talents with women were not exaggerated.

  “Excuse me, m’lady. The seating at the chief’s table this evening?”

  Sorcha snapped out of the delicious daze she had struggled with ever since the more than satisfying encounter in the library. “Masters MacCoinnich and de Gray to Da’s left,” she instructed Mrs. Finnia Breckenridge, Castle Greyloch’s housekeeper for as long as Sorcha could remember.

  Mrs. Breckenridge wrinkled her long, narrow nose as though she smelled something foul. “And the other two?”

  The other two. Lady Delyth Culane and her bullish son, Garthin Napier. They had been at the keep almost a month now, blaming the weather for keeping them at Castle Greyloch longer than planned. The weather had grown a sight more stable, but still, they hadn’t left. Sorcha gave a curt nod. “Master Napier at one end of the table and Lady Culane at the other.”

  “As far from the chieftain and yerself as possible, aye?” murmured the astute housekeeper. “And shall we double the guard at yer father’s chamber door this evening? I received word the lady is most determined.”

  “Aye, most definitely double the guard,” Sorcha agreed as they continued their inspection of the hall in preparation for the evening’s meal. “I, too, was told the woman attempted four visits to Da’s rooms last night alone. Poor Godfrey. He said he’s too old to be chasing off a bitch in heat. Replace him with younger guards. Maybe she’ll chase after one of them to warm her bed and leave Da alone.” Sorcha came to a halt. “On second thought, replace Godfrey with Raibie and Kiff. Neither of them will be tempted with the likes of that one.” She glanced around the large room, wishing she could simply order the unwanted guests packed up and carted off. With a conspiratorial nod, she lowered her voice. “I have no doubt those tonics the woman drinks are meant to get her with a bairn. I believe she’d lay with anyone in the keep to be able to claim Da as the father.”

  “Hmm.” The housekeeper’s response spoke volumes. Mrs. Breckenridge was completely devoted to Chieftain Greyloch. “And yet Himself swears he never invited them here for a wee visit as they claimed he did?”

  “Adamantly.” Sorcha continued inspecting the room, checking the table holding all the candlesticks the servants had cleaned and refilled for the evening.

  Those of silver were meant for the head table and gleamed without a single fingerprint. The heavier iron candelabras were destined for the narrow side tables along the walls. Those had been scrubbed free of old wax drippings and oiled until they shone a lustrous black. The dark chandeliers hanging from above had also been cleaned and fitted with fresh beeswax candles. “I asked Da three times if he invited that cow and her son to come and visit. He swears on Mama’s tomb that he did not.”

/>   “Then I believe Himself,” Mrs. Breckenridge said, loyalty ringing in her tone. “It was probably that old Raibert Pearsley. I dinna trust that man one whit. If there’s a loose woman to be found, Raibert Pearsley will find her, and ye ken as well as I how little store he places on a woman leading the clan. He’s been the most outspoken against any decisions ye’ve made.”

  Sorcha agreed with Mrs. Breckenridge’s assessment completely. Raibert Pearsley was one of Clan Greyloch’s advisors and a likely suspect in trying to saddle her father with another wife in a bid to get him a son and a more acceptable heir than Sorcha—“a mere daughter” in the man’s own words. And the rest of the advisors, and Da, too, had spent far too many of their waking hours trying to marry Sorcha off to the highest bidder. Said they were doing it for the sake of the clan. She had lost count of how many offers she’d refused. Apparently, many in Clan Greyloch feared a woman’s leadership.

  “Make certain all the advisors except for War Chief MacIlroy are aware that they are not to sit at the head table.” Sorcha eyed the layout of the room again, then pointed to one of the draftier corners. “Move a table for the advisors to that spot just below the window. With all their hot air, they’ll be plenty warm enough, I’m sure.”

  “I shall see it done.” The housekeeper halted as they came even with the hearth closest to the archway leading to the kitchens. “Look at that! Still filthy as can be. Excuse me, m’lady. Apparently, it’s time I lit a fire under a few lazy slugabeds.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Breckenridge.” Sorcha had no doubt the housekeeper would have that hearth clean enough to eat a meal off of within an hour’s time.