Behind the Plaid (7 page)

Right now that issue was a certain beautiful
, red-haired, supple creature housed within my castle.

I dove deep, letting the cool temperatures of the water sink
into my skin, down to my bones, washing the remnants of battle sweat, blood and muck away. Letting it quell the heat that raged in my veins from the aftermath of the attack and my encounter with Emma.

Emma.

Who was she? How had she ended up upon the stairs of Gealach Castle? Images of her tumbling backward, end over end, long, shapely legs exposed. Breasts stretched across the front of her blouse. Heaving breaths accentuating those breasts. Though she’d yanked her skirt down, I’d caught a glimpse of an arse built for gripping in the throes of passion. She’d looked up at me with her large, almond shaped blue eyes. Seductive eyes. Soulful eyes. I felt as though she saw right inside of me, to the very core of my darkest secrets. And yet she hadna run, she’d let me take her hand in mine. Even after the battle, when I’d found her running down the corridor of the castle, headed nowhere, she’d stopped. Waited. Let me touch her. Let me breathe in her sweet scent.

Ballocks, how I’d wanted to crush her to me. To kiss her. To claim her for my own.

There was something about her. Almost as if her soul reached out to mine. Like we were connected, but ’twas impossible. I’d never met the lass in my life. Pushing harder in the water, I touched the bottom before shooting back to the top, lungs burning for a breath of air. Finally, I burst upon the surface, taking that much needed breath, flicking wet hair from my face.

“Who are ye?” I asked, looking up at the castle toward the chamber she occupied—the one that connected through a secret staircase to my library and another secret panel to the chamber next door—mine. The room was meant for the Lady of Gealach. Why had I
given it to her?

I convinced myself ’twas because I wanted to keep an eye on her, and what better way than having her connected to the two rooms I used most?

However, another part of me suggested a separate reason… I wanted her.

More than just a claiming, more than to touch her, stroke her. I wanted her for…
My heart skipped a beat, pushing blood forcefully through my body and straight into my cock. Rigid, straining, nearly painfully so with the need to fill her. To teach her. To have her submit to me and set us both free.

I shook my head, water droplets flicking into my eyes. Thank ye Gods
for the refreshing water of the loch. Exercise was the only way to cure the surge of heat in my veins. I pulled my arms through the water, rotating my shoulders, twisting from side to side, legs kicking powerfully. A mile down the loch and back.

The ships we’d commandeered loomed from the docks like monsters in the dark. They were silent. All who’d occupied the
vessels either dead or in my dungeon. The battle had been quick and easy, especially since we were prepared. We watched patiently from the battlements as the forces laid anchor, climbed from their rope ladders into the row boats and came to shore. My men were eager, ready then to storm the beach, but I wasna. I wanted the bastards to think they had the upper hand. And my plan worked.

Not as many warriors disembarked as I’d thought. Perhaps the number of ships was meant to scare, or they thought they’d have quite a bit to load when they’d vanquished us. Perhaps taking ou
r people back to the Isles as slaves. I had no idea, nor did I care at the moment. I was simply astounded to see that not as many had climbed into the row boats. Maybe a hundred at most.

And still while they climbed the cliffs, we dared nay move. As soon as the first man set foot on the dawn’s dewy grass, I issued a silent order to descend into the bailey. The crofters and clan members had long since been told to hide, to make the castle appear as though it were uninhabited by anything save spirits. Had been eerie for certes, to see and hear nothing but the gentle breeze.
Then a crash of thunder hurled from above, lightning whizzing down to spark at my boots. ’Twas the most violent storm I’d seen yet—without rain. I took it as a sign from God, we would prevail. He would strike those heathens down. My men agreed.

We left the castle, running into Emma along the way. Her presence still bothered me. I’d not seen her come over the Great Glen. For certain I would have
. ’Twas as if one moment there was no one and the next… she appeared as though from the mist. Perhaps delivered from the sky herself to tantalize me. Sway me. Disturb me.

My eyes once more fell on the well-built war ships, almost ancient in appearance with their swooping Viking design and dragon bows.
But the wood was new. Polished, cared for. The design was meant to entice fear. To bring out the memories of Vikings invading these lands. Ravishing the women, annihilating the men, enslaving the children.

A cruel master of these ships. Could only be one man. My greatest enemy
, besides the truth—MacDonald.

Laird MacDonald ha
d been after Gealach for years, his father before him warring with my own in a conflict centuries old. Even though the MacDonald had to come to Gealach by ship, that never stopped him. And there was more incentive now behind his recent attack.

More than merely
a centuries old conflict, more than simply to take.

The king
whispered to MacDonald of Gealach’s secrets when well into his cups. I’d stumbled across them late one night at Stirling when the king called all his leaders for his annual assembly, where we all agreed in treatise not to war with one another and to remain loyal to our king. MacDonald sneered in my direction as he swore upon the heavens to uphold the king’s decree.

He
was a liar.

The bastard filled the king’s cup as I heard them whispering before the hearth in
the king’s inner hall. Everyone else had long since been dismissed and gone off to drink, gamble, or spend the eve with a wench or three. I sat in a darkened alcove, had been there for a while—enjoying my latest gift from the king. James would have never let anyone else entertain a wench in his inner hall. When she was gone, I remained. And listened. MacDonald was completely sober, his cup bone dry as he pretended to sip. I knew this because he never refilled his own cup. As many sips as he’d taken, he could have drunk an entire cask of ale. I suspected MacDonald of inebriating the king before, and now, I saw for myself as he filled the king’s cup with whisky splashed with a drop of ale to keep him talking. The bastard pried the king for information, speaking jovially, laughing, pretending to be sotted, but his eyes were bright, clear.

He asked the king about Gealach, wanting to know more about me. How to defeat me—though he didn’t ask outright. He simply asked the importance of the place the king prized most. While the king had been foolish enough to divulge of our buried treasures, he’d at least had the wherewithal to keep the biggest of
Gealach’s secrets to himself. Else, I’d be dead already.

Floating in the water,
I glanced down at my hands, at the thick gold ring on my right ring finger. Celtic knots surrounded a single large ruby. King James gave me the ring on my seventeenth birthday. When the young king slipped it on my finger, he gave with it the news that turned my life from one of proud, eager son, to one of terror and tragedy. I still recall the look on my mother’s face when he’d graced our doorstep, presumably to offer his condolences to the late laird’s family and to require the allegiance of the new laird—me. She’d looked panicked, petrified. Glancing from one of us to the other—already knowing what was to come, and yet perhaps having hoped it would never come to pass. Mother had then fainted straight away and never recovered. The physician said her heart simply stopped beating.

At that moment, I loved James and hated him at the same time. We
shared a common bond, one I could not ignore. One forged in blood. One he’d learned after having escaped the clutches of his step-father’s greed. He needed me. Needed an ally, a protector. I hated him for what he’d done to my mother.

The king had not stopped giving me gif
ts since. A guilty conscience, perhaps. Bribery to remain on his side when I might loathe him for being what he was to me—not just my king.

Anger sliced th
rough me as I watched the ships gently sway in the moonlight. MacDonald had not come with his men. He’d not sent all of his men either. This couldna be the end of it. ’Twas only the beginning.

Trusting in MacDonald was apt to get any man killed. Not even my king—although I’ll never admit such to anyone. I dare not think it too often to myself. A man was best to believe that all surrounding him were his enemies. The only person I trust
ed completely was Ewan—yet even he knew naught of my buried secret.

Walking up onto the beach, cold sand pushing between my naked toes, I grabbed for my plaid,
pleating it around my hips and belting it in place. No easy feat as many had to lie upon the ground. I taught myself young to dress quick and on my feet. Difficult, but not impossible. I stood upon the beach taking in the sights and sounds. Relishing the freedom that came with my position as laird and yet, I was still bound. Tied. Not truly free.

Shadows
from the sliver of moon, danced all around, making leaping black figures frolic upon the damp cliffs. The crashing of waves and soft trill of wind was a welcome song.

I glanced up at the castle. My eyes riveted on the darkened windows of Emma’s chamber.
Not even a flicker of candlelight. ’Twas after midnight. She’d be asleep, the maids having followed my orders to see her bathed, dressed, fed and tucked into bed. The woman had been exhausted, evidenced by the dark purple smudges between her eyes. ’Twas apparent even in the way she’d walked, swaying a little on her feet and a slight limp from having fallen. When I’d lifted her in my arms, she’d weighed no more than a feather and her form molded perfectly to mine.

Lush, warm, feminine curves.
Her clothing odd, her accent disturbing. She’d said she was from Washington. A place across the sea. Was she from the New World? I’d heard rumors the Spanish were exploring vast new continents halfway to hell and back. Why was her accent disturbingly close to the Sassenachs?

Where she was from, that didna explain how she ended up on the stairs of Gealach Castle. There were only four reasons for someone to climb
my stairs—by accident, sent by an ally, sent by an enemy, or to attack. I prayed it was the first reason that put her within my grasp. If she’d been sent by an ally she would have mentioned it. The latter two only made me want to batter the MacDonald men harder.

I dinna believe in coincidence.

“
Mo creach
,” I cursed to the sky. “Why do ye test me?”

Was it the heavy burden I’d been dealt? The truth of my birth that plagued me? My whole life
seemed a test. A test of patience. Fortitude. Strength. Loyalty. Intelligence. Even Emma was a test to what I could stand. Beyond an affair, she couldn’t be mine. King James would choose a wife for me. And I had my suspicions about why Emma had suddenly appeared. The disappointment of her not being meant for me hit deep. And unreasonably so, since I’d nay idea who in holy hell she was. Mayhap ’twas because I wanted her for myself. To have just one thing I could savor. Something to believe in that was innocent of guile, and wholly sensual. She’d responded to my touch instantly. Her skin pebbling beneath my breath, her body shivering. Nearly panting. Nipples budding.

Merely thinking of her had my cock hardening, lengthening. Lord grant me patience. A few clouds wafted over, covering what little light the sliver of moon had illuminated. Before a storm broke, I headed for the hidden stair cut into the cliff that would take me to the top. Rounding a jumbled bit of tall rocks and slipping into the crevice that was wide enough for only a man, I climbed the always slippery steps, my bare toes feeling the familiar moss and algae that grew with abandon
upon the stairs.

When I reached the top, the wind picked up, my plaid billowing out and then plastering to my thighs, a constant give and take with the erratic and fickle winds. A rather intense storm it would be judging from how swiftly the clouds
came in.

I’d not sleep well this night. Every broken bone I ever had—and that would be many in my thirty years—ached on nights like this. The only thing that quenched it was whisky and women. I’d no interest in the first and hoped to rectify the latter with a visit to my
comely guest.

Was she warm and soft,
huddled deep within the blankets? Or did she sit in the dark, plotting her escape?

A sudden though
t wrenched inside me. What if she was sent as a spy—and as I stood here upon the glen she rifled through my library? A spy would have thought to look for a secret staircase.

“Och, ballocks!” I raced toward the castle, proud to see the men upon the battlements and gatehouse stay their ground despite the impending storm.

Why had I not thought to leave a guard at her door, or even told one of the maids to keep guard inside? Hell, a guard
in
her chamber!

Her beauty was distracting. Her curves an enticement I’d not found the will to turn away from. Emma would make the perfect spy. She could slip inside my bed, tire me with erotic prowess and then search the castle unfettered to find what
ever she’d been sent to retrieve.