The Highlander's Haunted Kiss (2 page)

Eventually, he would chase her away. For now, he wanted to take her measure. Brown hair the color of a fawn's coat spread out over the pillow where she lay, the tresses escaping from a white linen nightcap that was half-crushed from the weight of the hair it should have restrained. He guessed the silky brown mass would be just past her shoulders when she stood, the ends curling in soft waves. Her face was narrow, with pale skin and thick dark eyebrows. Her pink bow of a mouth seemed the most classically pretty feature. Dark lashes fluttered uneasily against high cheekbones as she sighed and murmured unhappily in her sleep.

Here lay a great beauty. Even if he
hadn't
been without a woman for too long to reckon, he would have thought her lovely. Beneath the covers, her body curved generously in all the right places. She did not possess the long, lean frame that other women coveted in her era. But men from any time period would appreciate the lush sensuality of the feminine form that wriggled between the sheets, so close he could reach out and touch her. Iain did not dare to look his fill, lest he develop too much heated interest.

Rising from the trunk, he walked stiffly about the chamber to weigh his options for learning more about her. He would not let his clan accuse him of doing his job poorly. Why would a lady wealthy enough to travel with servants and sleep in fine linens make her home in a deteriorating ruin?

Drumming his fingers against the window's ledge, he pondered how to obtain the answers he needed.

Until the woman screamed.

The blood-curdling shriek tore straight through him. The sound set his teeth on edge and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He turned to see the maiden clutching her sheets in a white-knuckled grip.

In her other hand, she gripped a small blade.

The intruding lass obviously saw him clear as day. Not as a fleeting shadow in a corner, the way some had perceived him over the years. But as a living, breathing man. Her eyes locked on his, in fact. The revelation blindsided him. Not until that moment had he dared admit to himself that was really why he'd entered her chamber—to discover how keen her gaze was for his presence.

“Hush, lass,” Iain urged her, unsettled to the core by this new realization. “I mean you no harm. Do not wail at me like a banshee in my own home.”

Abruptly, she ceased her shouting. She lifted her blade high, her hand trembling so that he feared more for her than him.

“I
beg
your pardon, sir?” Breathless from the howl she'd set up, she gasped between words, eyes wide and her fingers dancing nervously on the hilt of a blade that would do him little harm unless she got close enough to aim it very, very well.

The white linen nightcap clung to her neck by a thin ribbon, sagging over one shoulder like a wilted flower. Her eyes, he noticed, were a honey-gold that shone bright in the firelight.

“Be careful, lass,” he warned her, holding his hands up to assure her he meant no harm. “The blade is sharp and your grip is uneasy.”

“Get out,” she hissed at him, her face as pale as the lightweight gown she wore for sleep.

“Let us talk reasonably,” he urged, studying her critically now that she was on her feet. Her night rail covered her from chin to toe, the stiff fabric hiding far too much for his liking. “You are far more the intruder than I.”

“You're mad.” She pressed her back to the wall behind her, although he noticed that arguing with her made her spine straighten a bit.

“Yet I'm not the one making myself at home in someone else's bed, so you've hardly a right to screech at me with orders to leave.”

“Explain yourself at once,” she demanded, tilting her nose in the air like a highborn queen instead of some runaway lass in a dusty and forgotten keep. “Before my servants arrive to attend me and escort you out the front gates.”

“Your servants are too exhausted from their labor to hear you.” He'd seen the trio asleep in the great hall, each laying claim to a corner of the only other room with a hearth fire.

He kept his voice low and even, his hands loose in front of him where she could see them. While he was always happy to strike fear into the hearts of men, he had not meant to cause her such distress. Especially not when he needed to coax answers from this mysterious maid.

“My husband is… due back in the keep at any moment.” She shifted her feet on the bed to stay upright, the soft pillows making for awkward footing. Her bare toes curled against snowy linens. “He will call you out for this offense.”

“If you had a husband, lady, I would hope for your sake he would be the sort who would kill me dead rather than call me anything.” He knew there was no husband due to return home. He had seen no sign of such a man from the moment of her arrival. “In truth, ‘tis your man who should feel the point of my blade for leaving his lady alone and unprotected in a remote Highland keep. But I suspect there will be none such arriving any time soon.”

“There is,” she insisted, her feminine voice a sweet pleasure to his ears. “Depend on it.”

“Fine. But until then, you need not fear me.” He managed a short bow. “I am the lord of Invergale. How came you to install yourself in my chamber?”

Her perfect pink mouth worked soundlessly as she seemed to grapple with an answer.

“It is a simple question.” He leaned an elbow on the ledge of a window, the view familiar to him in every season even though right now the lands below were dark. “You have sought out Invergale on purpose. You are young and not well chaperoned. You have made yourself comfortable in the master's bed. Are you in need of a… er… extra coin for your services?”

“Excuse me?” She stepped down from the bed to stand on the floor, tugging a linen with her to clutch in front of her, as if she was not well covered enough.

She was younger than he'd realized, her face unlined, her expression uncertain now that he could see her more clearly in the light of a hearth fire.

“It is not unheard of for a maiden who has fallen on difficult times to offer her favors to the lord in exchange for his protection. You are obviously in trouble to seek shelter here.” Certainly, he liked this notion more than his earlier fear that she spied for his enemy. “Perhaps you merely tremble because you are inexperienced?”

She shook her head. “No!”

“Even better.” A new heat flared within him. “An experienced woman is all the more welcome-”

“I am not here to offer…” She pressed her lips together hard, her shoulders shaking as she seemed to wrestle with her words. Her cheeks flushed crimson. Finally, her mouth opened. “Myself.” She drew a deep breath. “I am the new mistress of Invergale.”

The heat that had been flowing pleasantly through his veins suddenly chilled. She could not have declared herself his enemy more clearly.

“If you will excuse me.” She straightened to her full height, which was barely past his shoulder. “I will dress and meet you in the hall if you would like to discuss this further. I hope we will not need to involve the local sheriff, but I can have my steward rouse him from his bed if you do not believe me.”

“Invergale is
mine.
” He hadn't meant to roar the words like some territorial beast, but they surged from his throat with the ferocity of a dying man's last wish. “No one has the authority to rule here save me.”

Frowning, she lifted her pitifully small blade a bit, as if to remind him she still wielded it.

“And look at how the place thrives under your careful stewardship.” She gestured to the roof of the tower where a hint of starlight was visible through a bit of crumbled stone. “Perhaps you have overseen the property for so long that you have come to think of it as yours, but I assure you that you have no legal claim.”

He straightened from the window ledge and advanced on her, good intentions be damned. “Do I look like any man's chamberlain to you?”

He stopped a hand's span from her, close enough to remind her she dealt with a trained warrior and not some weak-eyed clerk whose biggest responsibility was holding the keys to the storage rooms. Iain's sheer size should have made his station in life clear.

“You look like a man far too accustomed to having his way, but I assure you, you are wrong in this.” The impudent female hugged the bed linens tighter to her chest, but she stood her ground with silent stubbornness despite her more obvious fear.

“Do you see the sword at my back?” he asked, waiting while her gaze flicked up to the jeweled hilt over his shoulder. “My ancestors wielded it at Flodden and Bannockburn.”

“It appears far better cared for than the tower falling down around our ears.”

The biting words were softly uttered, giving them a damning quality only a woman could manage. He shook his head, aware that his anger was fading, replaced by a simmering awareness he should not feel.

“Your boldness should not surprise me after the way you barged past locked doors to rest your head in my keep.”

The hearth fire sizzled and popped while the lady's cheeks colored prettily. He could not help but enjoy the way offending her made her less fearful.

“It is
my
keep, sir. We can call upon the magistrate on the morrow to convince you, but you must leave at once.” She reached up with nervous fingers to tuck a silky brown hair behind one ear. The movement shifted the linens she held, stirring the scent of heather in the air.

Stirring the scent of the woman herself.

His nostrils flared, desire awakening with a sudden fierceness he had not counted on. He was seized with the need to lay a claim all his own. To follow the heated tension in the air to its natural conclusion. The woman was warm with sleep and her keen eyes saw him where others could not. That alone—that she could
see
him—called to him on a soul-deep level.

“You court a dangerous risk, baiting me on this,” he warned. His voice rasped on a gravelly note and he told himself to take a step back.

But his hands itched to reach out and touch her. Test the feel of her beneath the stiff fabric she wore. If she belonged to him, she would have been sleeping naked in his bed, not garbed in a gown that covered her from shoulder to toe. Her chest rose and fell faster, the movement visible above the bundled bed sheets. He felt every year of his abstinence like a century.

“Are you threatening to take back my lands?” The confusion in her voice surprised him, forcing him to shake off some of the haze of arousal.

She was frightened again. Despite her earlier bravado, she was just a simple maid and he had scared her.

Or, mayhap, his hunger for her had been what scared her. She seemed more unsettled now than when he'd roared out his claim to Invergale as its lord.

Taking a step back, he began to see the situation more clearly. Amazing how much better a man could think without a woman's body close enough to touch.

“I have never given over my lands, so I don't need to threaten you with taking them.” He sucked in a deep breath that wasn't filled with her scent, hoping to clear his head. “The risk you take isn't with the land. It's with your body.”

She practically tripped on her own feet to scramble away from him. Her boldness vanished at those words.

By the saints, how could he have been so blind to the obvious? Sighing, he dropped down onto his bed.

“You're no more than an untouched maiden, are you?”

* * *

Lily had feared this question from her dead husband's lawyers or his relatives. She had worried her maids or even the laundress would accuse her of as much after her uneventful wedding night.

But a midnight invader—a strangely dressed and extremely attractive madman claiming to be lord of the keep—was the last person she had ever suspected would guess her secret. She half feared she was delusional to dream him up, this Highland warrior that her footman had not been able to see. What if she spoke to a mere ghost? Or worse—the shadows of her own mind?

“Why would you-” She swallowed hard, feeling ridiculous for asking him what gave away her secret. “That is—I am a widow, sir.”

Perhaps she should have just continued to demand that he leave. But he'd shown no inclination of moving. Now her awkward stumbling felt like more of an admission than any words she might have used. Her face flushed so hot she felt her heart pulse under her skin with every beat, each flaring vibration announcing her guilt in a bright blush.

The warrior settled deeper on the bed Glenda had made up for her, the sword at his back shifting a bit to one side to accommodate him. Seeing his big frame at rest, his massive arms bulging with muscles that no English lord possessed, did curious things to Lily's insides. This whole night was preposterous, so it should not surprise her that — on top of everything else—she found the imposter exceedingly pleasing to look upon.

At times during their ridiculous confrontation, she had been certain she dreamed. Yet seeing him now, his plaid askew across an otherwise bare chest, his strong thighs, Lily could not deny that he seemed very real. Could she truly be entertaining a man in her bedchamber?

A man who'd known, at a glance, her deepest secret?

She cursed her eyes for returning to his exposed legs again. She'd had no notion that a man's thighs could affect a woman in such a way.

“Please sir,” she tried again, wishing now she had been more moderate in her conversation with him, just in case he was every bit as dangerous as he appeared. “I am sure there is a misunderstanding we can work out in the morning-”

He ignored her as surely as if he had not heard her.

“Most women are only too proud to declare their virginal status,” the stranger mused. “I have known well-experienced ladies who have tried to pass themselves off as untried maidens to woo a man.”

Were they back to this awkward subject? Her body flushed with embarrassment to recall his suggestion that she'd been in his bed to seduce him. She thanked heaven they had cleared up
that
misunderstanding, at least. What if he had climbed into bed with her on that wicked assumption?