Unwilling (Highland Historical #2)

you to
marry him.  Once a berserker chooses his mate, it is up to her to accept him .  They’re powerless until you do.”
    Lindsay’s eyes narrowed.  “Is that
so?”
    ***
    Connor paced the length of the
armory, trying his utmost not to use his fist to wipe the obsequious smile from
his brother’s face with fists.  Or something sharper.
    He was familiar with every inch of
this room, from the weight of each weapon stored at the stocks, to the family
heritage of each coat of arms hung on the stone walls.  Every kin and clan that
claimed protection from the MacLauchlan house was represented above the weapons
used against their enemies.  It had been a prosperous time, of late, for the
MacLauchlans.  Though the clannish wars raged in the Lowlands, and noblemen
fought for scraps of English favor like savage hounds, his valley had been
protected from all that.  Since the death of his warlord father, Connor had
used his own reputation, forged on the battlefield, to create new alliances, broker
peace and trade with neighboring clans.
      Now, because of the actions of
his berserker, he risked the ire of the great Ross clan and the vicious
MacKays.  All for a raven-haired woman he did not want nor ask for.
    Nay, he couldn’t claim that as
truth.  He wanted her.  He wanted her like a starving man hungered for a meal
or a doomed man yearned for mercy.  He wanted her with a great, yawning
desperation that startled him with its savage intensity.   He wanted her spread
before him, beneath him, screaming his name loud enough to rouse the Gods.
    A frustrated snarl escaped him as
he ran a hand over his skull.      
    “I doona see why yer so provoked,
Connor.  A mate is a great boon to ye.  In fact, with both of us mated, the
magic we would wield would serve to mitigate the danger from the Norse
berserkers who would see line of the Celts ended.”  Roderick leaned against the
armory doorway.
    “Do ye think that hasna crossed my
mind?”  Connor well remembered his brother’s battle with Alrik the Blue, a
frenetic berserker from the Norse lands.  He’d taken Roderick’s ability to
speak, and almost abducted his mate, as well.  It was Roderick’s devotion to Evelyn
and her acceptance of him that won Roderick the battle and the use of his voice.
    “Well, then tell me why yer acting
like hellhounds are nipping at yer heels ready to drag ye to perdition?” 
Roderick blocked his path, interrupting a perfectly good pace. 
    Connor growled at him.
    “Ye’ve got a beautiful, fiery lass
up there just waiting to be wooed.  She desires ye, anyone can see that.  In my
experience, ye can use that to yer favor.”  He gave a lascivious waggle of his
eyebrows. 
    Shoving his brother out of the way,
Connor resumed his pace.  “That’s not an option,” he insisted. 
    “Well, if yer preparing to win her
with yer personality, I’d say my plan has a better chance, but I willna—”
    “I’m not going to fucking win her!”
Connor exploded.  Grabbing a rack full of pole arms, he heaved it over.  The
weapons toppled out in dangerous directions, but none of them had a point for
him.  The outburst didn’t aid the helpless frustration churning within him. 
Shoulders sagging, he let out a deep breath.  “I should just pack her up and
send her away,” he muttered.  “I was a fool to bring her here.” 
    “Connor,” he felt the weight of
Roderick’s hand on his shoulder and it only added to the load threatening to
topple him.  He didn’t even have the strength to shrug it off.  “Why don’t ye
tell me what this is really about?”
    “You know what it’s about.”  They both
knew.
    “Father?”
    Connor glared at the mess of
weapons strewn over the packed earth.  “We’ve always been told that a berserker
canna hurt his mate.”  He turned to face his brother, who regarded him with a
concerned frown.  “But a man can.”
    Roderick looked away, the pain of
their mother’s death still a fresh wound in his eyes.  They’d both found their
father that day, years past, when he’d struck their mother too hard while he’d
been drunk.  They buried their father that day, as well, and had never spoken
of it again.
    “Since ye’ve been mated to Evelyn,
havena ye ever been afraid that ye’ll—”
    “ Never .  Doona even say it.”
    “Well I am, Goddamnit!  I am
afraid of the rage that burns inside of me.  Not the rage of the berserker, but
that of a man who carries an anger toward