For the Highlander's Pleasure

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Hurrying, Violet stepped over the threshold in time to see her da clap a hand upon the shoulder of the largest man she had ever met. The Highlander she had sent away at the riverbank.

She stifled a gasp.

The sight of the warrior lord had an immediate and fierce effect upon her. Tall and broad, the great Scots chieftain loomed above her father’s height. His dull chain mail gleamed bronze in the firelight, dusty from his time on the road. Still, the fine cloth of his garments beneath the mail was apparent. The sleeves of his tunic had been embroidered heavily by a skilled needle, the patterns of exotic beasts and interwoven swords apparent even though the color of the thread was no different than the pale shade of the tunic itself. And though the lower half of the warrior’s body was hidden by a trestle table, Violet spied the hilt of a heavy, Frankish sword at his side, a weapon that would have been prized by any knight.

Even his aspect appeared fashioned for war. His broad forehead and straight nose formed a strong expression emulated by the shape of most men’s helms. Perhaps his face had been used as a guide for the metalworker’s hands. A few days’ growth of beard hid the specifics of his jawline, but she suspected that, too, was squared and unrelenting. His hair, at least, gave him some appearance of humanity. The dark locks fell to his shoulders without the knotty, matted quality that marked most men’s hair.

Aye, he was an impressive-looking man if only for the fierceness of him. But even that did not explain the sudden blaze of heat in Violet’s skin, a distinct warming of her flesh from the tingle under her neck cloth to the spreading fire along her breasts and over her belly. Her discomfort was sharp and immediate, leaving her confused and distracted when she needed to focus on this new development.

“This is my daughter, Violet.” Her father waved her closer. “Daughter, you will want to welcome Finn Mac Néill, our most honored guest.”