Highlander in Her Bed (23 page)

She closed her eyes in ecstasy, arching her back as the sweetest sigh escaped her lips. Her straining breasts flushed a deeper red and her fingers clenched tighter, gliding up and down, up and down, furiously milking him—and he could not feel a thing!

"No-o-o!" he roared, damning the veil of her dream that cheated him of her touch. "I-canna-bear-it," he hissed through his teeth, hot anguish sweeping him.

And then she was gone, leaving only a length of ragged and soiled tartan. MacNeil of Barra tartan, and quickly snatched up by a harried-looking laundress as she hastened past, a bundle of linens and plaids clutched to her breast.

"My pardon," she called over her shoulder as she scurried away, the mud-stained tartan trailing behind her.

Alex stared after her, too stunned to move. Gradually, his heart stopped racing and he dragged a shaky hand across his brow, not at all surprised to find it damp.

"Saints, Maria, and Joseph," he breathed, grateful that if he had to succumb to such a public display of rutting fever, it had happened in Bran of Barra's bailey, where nary a soul seemed to have noticed.

Or would have cared if they did.

Even so, he dragged a hand down over his face, heaved a ragged sigh. Ne'er had a wench so consumed him. Had she not been a dream figment, he would have fallen to his knees and taken her on the cold and muddied cobbles.

And more than once! No matter who might've looked on.

Only she mattered.

Having her.

She'd worked her witchy magic on him in other ways, too. He pinched the bridge of his nose, amazement making his head pound. Had he really thought of her as dreaming in
her
bed?

Not his, but hers?

Aye, he had. And he supposed that, come the night, the moon would now fall from the sky.

But he hadn't come this far not to escape her, and he would.

Even if it meant bedding every wench Bran had to offer.

To that end, he marched long-strided across the bailey, making for a tall stone building with a high sloping roof. Bran's keep. Within its stout walls nestled the Hebridean chieftain's far-famed hall-of-all-pleasures.

The sun glinted off the keep's narrow round-topped windows and Alex stepped faster, shouldering aside a few lurching drunkards as he crossed the drawbridge, then mounted the steep stone ramp to a door set high into the thickness of the wall.

Massive and iron studded, the door yawned wide, leaving entry into Bran's private realm unchallenged. Alex paused on the threshold, adjusting his plaid. Then he drew back his shoulders and stepped inside.

He gasped despite himself, ill prepared for the sight before him.

Seldom had he seen such a throng. And the din was deafening. Shouting, jostling men were everywhere, crowding the trestle tables and milling about the aisles. A full score of blowsy, bare-breasted women preened near the huge open hearth, some singing bawdy songs, others airing their skirts—much to the delight of their bearded, ale-swilling audience.

Laughter and lewd encouragement filled the air, and with the desired result!

A muscle twitched in Alex's jaw. And elsewhere. Such bold displays of naked female flesh were more than… entertaining. But just as when he'd made himself visible in the bailey, unsavory smells rushed him from all sides.

He steeled himself, tried not to rumple his nose. Offending his host was the last thing he wanted to do.

But the floor rushes were matted and soiled and obviously hadn't been changed in more centuries than he cared to guess. Worse, they squished beneath his feet, and the stench rising up with every step was almost powerful enough to knock him out.

His stomach began lurching, and the thick, smoky air near choked him. The fresh, clean air of his Mara's world flashed through his mind and he swallowed a curse, disguising it behind a cough. Already heads were swiveling, curious glances flying his way.

Not that he cared who gawked at him.

Nor did it matter if he did, for it was too late to leave.

He'd been seen.

His host was sitting in one of the window embrasures, a half-clad wanton on his knee. "Lo! Do my own eyes deceive me?" the Hebridean chieftain boomed, springing to his feet. "Is that yourself? Alex Douglas? Come to grace my hall?"

Narrowing bloodshot eyes, he snatched an ale from a passing reveler, drained it, and then tossed the empty tankard onto the floor rushes. "Lucifer's knees, it is you!" he bellowed, slapping his thigh. "On my soul—this is a right surprise!"

Then he was hurrying forward, all laughter and charm, his bushy-bearded face splitting in a grin. "Welcome, welcome!" he cried, grabbing Alex's shoulders, shaking him. "My house is yours. And anything in it that might catch your fancy!"

He released Alex, gave him a hearty cuff on the arm. "So many of my
fancies
as you desire."

"And one for you." Alex reached inside his plaid, produced a quickly fashioned shoulder belt of finest leather, magnificently tooled. "For your fine welcome."

Bran of Barra grinned. "Leave it to a Douglas to come bearing gifts worthy of a king," he said, unrolling the belt with obvious delight. "I say thank you!"

Alex opened his mouth, then shut it on another faked cough. He'd been about to deny his reason for being there, but before he could form the words,
her
face rose up out of nowhere, her amber eyes staring at him from the shadows.

Staring coldly. Angrily.

Heat shot around Alex's chest, clamping like a vise.

He swallowed, feeling like a wee laddie caught doing what he ought not. "You are as generous as I remember," he said to Bran, forcing the expected gallantry. "The splendor of your hospitality is staggering—"

"Heigho!" Bran cut him off, jammed meaty hands on his hips. "So you
have
come to join in our merrymaking? Say it is so!" He rocked back on his heels, looking pleased. "Does this mean you've finally chased the last MacDougall from that accursed bed of yours?"

Alex flushed. He slid a glance in a certain direction, relief washing over him when he saw that his lady's image was gone.

"That bed and the MacDougalls still plague me." he admitted, opting for the truth—if not the whole of it. "Mightily of late. So I came to seek diversion, aye."

Bran cocked a bushy red brow. "The sort such as yon Hardwick favors?" he teased, jerking his head toward the hall's raised dais.

Alex took a deep breath, then looked down the hall, knowing what he'd see. And he wasn't disappointed.

Hardwick lay sprawled the length of a cushioned trestle bench meant for honored guests. A buxom wench with flowing hair the color of midnight sat astride him, the rhythmic rocking of her shapely hips leaving no doubts as to the type of diversion she was bestowing.

Alex's loins quickened at the sight, the whore's lusty cries sending heat all through him. His shaft swelled at once, its hard length tenting his plaid.

But it was
her
he needed.

Mara bloody MacDougall. Herself, with her hot temper and affection for old dogs and bandy-legged graybeards.

Not some Hebridean light-skirt whose face he'd forget before he pulled out of her.

Something inside Alex caught fire, a burning, ripping pain deep inside his chest. But he ignored it, focused only on the throbbing at his groin.

"No need to answer, my friend," Bran was saying. He threw an arm round Alex's shoulders. "It's plain to see you came for the same reason Hardwick fair lives here!"

Beaming, he propelled Alex deeper into the hall.

"I have just the wench for you—Galiana. She'll see to your wants and satisfy your every wish, even fetch you a fresh maid after you're done with her if you so desire."

Alex nodded, his throat suddenly as tight as his man-parts.

Now that the time to break his centuries-long abstinence was finally upon him, he couldn't shake the nagging fear that no other female but Mara would suit him.

Unthinkable if he ended up like Hardwick—sporting a ragingly hard lance yet unable to find release.

He pushed the thought aside, refused to consider it. He could thrust his sword wherever he chose, and he'd take great satisfaction in the task!

After he'd recovered from Galiana, he'd work his way through a whole score of Bran's
fancies
, savoring them all until every last drop of desire drained from his sated body.

Only then would he risk returning to Ravenscraig and facing Mara MacDougall. See her banished in earnest.

Before either of them tore an even greater hole in their hearts.

"
Well
?" Bran's deep voice rang out beside him. "Is she not all I promised?"

Alex started. He hadn't even realized they'd reached the dais.

But they had, and Bran stood grinning at him, his hand on the shoulder of a well-made woman draped in scarlet and gold. The Islesman lifted the woman's heavy flaxen braid, bringing it to his lips for a smacking kiss.

"Behold Galiana," he said, his barrel chest swelling. "She carries the blood of Norse kings, is unequalled in her skill. I would not offer her to just anyone."

Alex swallowed, unable to speak. The woman
was
desirable, and… challenging.

She breathed sensuality of the darkest, most elemental sort. She was generously made and bold of eye; just looking at her would send lust beating through any man. Already, Alex's mouth had gone dry and he could feel love juices gathering on the knob of his shaft.

But there was an old dog casting about in the rushes not far from where the beauty sat—an old dog that looked strikingly like Ben and that stopped its snuffling to fix Alex with an unblinking stare.

An unblinking, hostile stare.

"Well, my friend? Will she do?" Bran was eyeing him, one brow arcing. "If not, there's plenty more to choose from. Red ones, black ones, dusky wenches from afar. Even a maid or two, if you prefer them untried."

Alex shook his head, waved a dismissive hand. He'd seen enough to know the woman would suit. Best of all, her hair was white-blond and not burnished bronze. And her frank gaze was the clear blue of a spring sky, not the amber-gold of sun-warmed honey.

"Aye, she will serve me well," he said, knowing she would. Wishing the admission didn't make him feel like the world's greatest lout.

Doing his best to ignore the old dog's glare.

Instead, he kept his attention on the woman, let her bounty make him forget. The sensual curve of her lips sent a jolt of heat to his groin, and he could even see her nipples through the transparency of her gown, the dark vee of her nether curls. Her creamy white skin looked silky-smooth, her curves lush enough for a man to drown in.

"Lady Galiana—I welcome your company," he said, the words thick, but honest.

He needed her. Just not for the reasons she surely assumed.

She appeared pleased as she nodded, the slight flaring of her eyes revealing her consent, her eagerness to share pleasure with him.

"Then, so be it!" Bran announced, pulling the woman to her feet. He patted her ample bottom, gave her an affectionate shove forward. "Take my friend Alex to the finest chamber available and see to his comfort."

Then the big Islesman turned away, dropping his bulk into his laird's chair and yanking another beauty onto his lap, one hand already sliding inside the maid's low-cut bodice.

"Lord Bran knows how much a woman enjoys a man's touch," Lady Galiana commented, stepping close to rub her own full breasts against Alex as she slipped her hand through his arm. "I would know if everything I've heard about the
touch
of Douglas men bears truth?"

"Then show me to my chamber," Alex returned, "and I shall endeavor not to disappoint you."

"O-o-oh, I can already see that you will not," she purred, smoothing her hand across his groin as they exited the hall. She leaned into him, letting her fingers cup and measure his fullness, the thick, steely length of his need. "You are a man like no other."

Alex doubted that and almost told her so, but her skilled ministrations felt too good for him to care. Exaggerated praise or nay, so long as her fingers spun such magic, her cooed words mattered little.

The lass clearly knew her way with men and, already, her roving fingers were chasing Mara MacDougall from his mind.

Blinding him, too, for at the end of a dank-smelling and poorly lit corridor, just before the entrance to an even darker-looking stairwell, they collided with a solid object.

A tall, broad-shouldered object with raven black hair and a tented plaid to rival Alex's own.

"By the Rood!" Alex swore, blinking at Hardwick.

"Holy Saints!" Hardwick swore back, his eyes almost bugging from his head. "What are you doing here?"

"That should be obvious." Alex glared at him. "Or is your memory so short that you do not recall suggesting I pay Bran a visit? For the fine Hebridean air and other… delights?"

Hardwick frowned. "I but jested, as I thought you knew," he said, his gaze flicking to where Lady Galiana's fingers moved with deliberate slowness over Alex's thrusting arousal. "You have no reason to visit this haven of whores. The only female you need awaits you at Ravenscraig."

Alex stiffened. "I saw you earlier, you craven," he said, putting back his shoulders. "It would seem you don't mind dipping your own wick in Bran's offerings."

Hardwick's mouth twitched. "Perhaps because my heart is not given."

"And you think mine is?"

"Think?" Hardwick snorted. "I know it is. I have seen the way you look at her."

"She is a MacDougall."

"You love her."

Alex clenched his fists, something inside him twisting. "I am a ghost—if you've forgotten!"

Hardwick laughed. "She does not care."

Alex could feel the back of his neck flaming. "I love no woman, you fool."

" 'Tis you who are the fool," Hardwick shot back, sending another disapproving glance to Alex's crotch, where Lady Galiana continued her wily assault. "If you do not hie yourself back where you belong, I shall be tempted to challenge you to meet me in the lists."

This time Alex snorted. "Take yourself back to the hall and seek amusement where you will. I shall do the same—with or without your approval."