Highland Warrior by Connie Mason

I am your wife.”
    Ross searched her face so long, Gillian began to fidget beneath his intense scrutiny. Suddenly his face softened and he pulled her against him.
    “You are right. You are my wife, and I intend to have you, lass. Doona try to fight me. Gizela had the right of it.” His mouth hovered scant inches from hers; she could almost taste him. “I can feel your flame scorching me. I must conquer it before it consumes me.”
    “Am I the flame?” Gillian asked.
    He ran his fingers through her hair, holding the bright strands out for her inspection. “What do you think?”
    “I think Gizela is mad, and you along with her. Release me. I am tired and in no mood to be conquered.”
    Ross grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and raised it to meet his mouth. “We are wed; if I am in the mood to conquer, you will be conquered.”
    Immediately Gillian twisted free. “Our vows have been consummated; we doona need to do that again.”
    Angry heat shimmered through Ross. “Are you suggesting that we forgo marital relations for the duration of our marriage?”
    “Aye, that would be my preference.”
    Gillian looked so hopeful Ross nearly laughed aloud. “What about heirs? Am I to be denied children of my own?”
    “A man like you must have countless bairns running about the countryside.”
    Ross’s dark brows lowered. “I have sired no illegitimate bairns.”
    “I suggest you sire a son with one of your lemans and claim him as your heir,” Gillian shot back.
    Ross couldn’t remember when a woman had had him as bewildered as his MacKay wife. Gillian seemed to hate all things MacKenna, especially the MacKenna laird.
    Did she dislike him because he had made her respond to his loving against her will? Ross wondered. Though she had burned in his arms, she seemed to resent his ability to arouse a response in her.
    “You try my patience, Gillian,” Ross bit out. “Am I going to have to force you to perform your wifely duties?”
    Gillian’s chin shot up. “I willna do so willingly. I hate you!”
    Grasping her arms, Ross shoved her backward. She landed on the bed hard. Surprisingly, he made no move toward her. He towered above her, glaring, his body drawn as tight as a bowstring.
    “Verra well, wife, have it your way. I find no pleasure in forcing women, especially women who claim to hate me. While you enjoy your cold bed, you can rest assured that mine will be neither cold nor empty.”
    He stormed from the chamber before Gillian had time to register his words, decipher what they meant and how they would affect her. Did she truly not care with whom Ross slept? How did she feel about other women bearing his children? A frisson of something akin to jealousy swept through her. But how could that be? There was no reason for her to be jealous of the MacKenna. She hated him, didn’t she?
    One thing was sure:
    Gillian hated the way Ross made her feel, the way her body responded to his. Naught had hurt her pride more than surrendering her body to Ross. Was she the last MacKay left with the courage to stand up to the MacKenna?
     
    In the following days, Gillian took on some of the duties of the mistress of the keep and found them not too onerous. She had begun to feel a wee bit more comfortable in the MacKenna stronghold, thanks largely to Hanna and Alice. Donald and some of the others did not warm to her, but it mattered not. She wasn’t trying to make friends. She was just waiting for the day the truce was broken and she could return home.
    Gillian was pleased as well as surprised when she learned she was still allowed to ride each day. Her favorite mare, Silver, had arrived, and she tried to exercise the beastie every day. Gillian did notice, however, that she was never allowed to ride out alone. One of Ross’s kinsmen always trailed behind her. Obviously Ross was taking pains to stop another chance encounter with Angus.
    Gillian saw Ross rarely, the exception being at the evening meal. She had no idea