To Love a Highlander (10 page)

“Nary a soul.” Roag shook free, his words letting Sorley’s heart slow again. “She—”

“I heard her scream.”

He had. And now she’d vanished like a curl of mist, her father’s man and Maili with her.

“So she did.” Roag swiped his arm across his brow. A steel-gray drizzle was beginning to fall, a fine mist rolling along the narrow road. “But she didnae cry out because of the eel-reeking Sassenach.

“He ate steel later. It was the other one who made her scream.” He glanced to the dead mutton-stew-and-ale purveyor and back again. “She and her party came trotting out of the abbey burial ground just as—”

Sorley raised a hand, silencing him. “Dinnae tell me she saw you skewer a hapless hawker.” He eyed the poor man’s back, the blood surrounding him like a scarlet robe. He could see Roag chasing the Englishman, blade drawn and not paying any heed to a bumbling, big-bellied man and his stew cart, trundling along the road. “He’ll haunt you all your days.”

“I think no’.”

“He should.”

“Nae, you ought to thank me for cutting him down.” Roag swelled his chest. “Truth is, it was seeing him pull his blade from beneath the straw of his peddler’s wagon that made Lady Mirabelle scream. The cart was near the gate to the burial ground when she and her party rode into the road.” Roag shook his head, remembering. “Imagine the lady’s fright to see a lowly stew-and-ale hawker whip out a
longsword, transforming himself into a warrior before her startled, gently-bred eyes? Her guard drew his blade, but he soon saw the man wasn’t interested in his lady or Maili.

“The Highlander slewed his horse about, slapped the rumps of the ladies’ steeds, and they thundered away. The hawker…” He pulled a hand down over his chin. “He shook his blade at their backs and then took off after you.”

“He wasn’t fit to lift a sword, much less swing one.” Sorley glanced at the man again, still seeing no more than a pitiful peddler. “He was fat,” he added, turning an accusatory look on Roag.

“Aye, he was, but no’ from too much ale.” Roag strolled to the toppled cart, pulling a sword from under its shattered side. Tossing a glance at Sorley, he used the blade’s tip to lift something from the road’s edge.

It was a well-stuffed linen sack, about the size of the hawker’s belly.

“This was the man’s girth.” Roag jiggled the sword, sending goose feathers into the air. “If I hadn’t caught him, and his English pal, you’d have been fighting three against one down by the river.”

“I saw him earlier, selling his stew.” Sorley shook his head, astounded. “He looked more like a pig farmer than any fighting man.”

Roag shrugged. “If you dinnae believe me, roll him onto his back. You’ll see he’s as hard-muscled as we are. Or he was.” He flicked the sword, letting the feather sack slip to the ground.

The blade he flipped into the air, catching the hilt as it dropped. “I’ve done you two favors this day. And you”—he began tying the sword to his belt, using a spare length of leather—“have forgotten one of the Fenris’s basic credos.

“It’s times of trouble that prove a man’s mettle.” He looked up, the new sword hanging at his hip. “Peril and hardship—”

“Reveal friend or foe.” Sorley took a whisky flask from a belt at his own hip and handed it to Roag. He nodded gruffly when Roag tipped the flask to his lips, drinking deeply.

Roag wiped his mouth and returned the flask to Sorley. “I’d hoped to take Maili abovestairs at the Red Lion this e’en, but now she’s heading to Stirling with your lady and her guardsman. So-o-o”—he winked—“what say you we hie ourselves back to the inn and see what other lovelies Wyldes has working tonight?”

“I’m no’ in the mood.” Sorley wasn’t. The thought didn’t cause the slightest stirring in his loins.

“Och, come.” Roag sketched a female form in the air. “A bit of female comfort will do you good, help you sleep.”

“Nae.” Sorley swung up onto his saddle. “The last thing I want is a wench in my bed this e’en.”

He couldn’t believe how smoothly the lie fell from his tongue.

He did desire a woman, and badly.

The problem was that he didn’t ache for just any female’s charms. He wanted Mirabelle. He burned to ravish her, devouring her whole.

He doubted he’d be able to keep his hands off her when they met in the castle chapel later that night.

As he was feeling now, he’d pounce on her. Lowborn as he was, he was more than capable of such predaceous behavior, especially when he wanted something as fiercely as he desired Mirabelle.

She should never have come to him.

But she had.

When they parted ways, he would be the one left empty-handed, his heart ripped asunder.

Even so, he could scarce control the thrum of anticipation inside him, didn’t know how he’d manage the long ride back to the castle, the necessity of a much-needed bath, and then
the waiting until she opened the chapel door, joining him in the dimly lit privacy he’d make sure they’d have. He might even kiss her, there before God and sundry saints.

He frowned, now feeling most definite stirrings.

What did that say about him?

He knew, and it was a challenge he wasn’t of a mind to deny.

M
uch later that evening, Mirabelle stood outside Stirling Castle’s small stone chapel and did her best to hold on to her composure. The truth was she’d felt the weight of her actions bearing down on her more heavily with every step she’d taken across the courtyard. She didn’t know whether that was because of excitement or nerves. She wasn’t a fearful person. Indeed, many at Knocking called her spirited and bold. But it wasn’t every day that she considered such an outrageous plan, giving herself to a man she scarcely knew.

She
was
attracted to him.

And why not?

He was darkly handsome, strapping and tall, with broad shoulders. And he had a roguish air that drew her. He was celebrated in courtly and common circles, reaping admiration because he’d earned every bit of his fame.

Few men could rise to such adulation from Sorley’s lowly beginnings.

He truly was a man apart.

And while she might be known for her fiery temperament, her skill at convincing her father of Sir John’s true
nature had proved lacking. Adept at presenting himself as a gallant, prosperous and polished, the noble held the confidence of even the most astute courtiers. Any whisperings against him were discarded as the grumblings of the envious. Mirabelle’s objections fell on deaf ears.

In truth, nothing could be proven against him.

Still, Mirabelle trusted the feeling that washed over her when he was near.

If he looked at her…

She shivered, her skin prickling. Sir John need only enter a room and a shadow seemed to spread out from him, dimming the light, darkening his surroundings. Unfortunately, few others at court noticed.

Sorley did.

Heat swirled low in her belly and she shivered again, this time for very different reasons. “Oh, dear saints.” She took a deep breath of the night’s chill air, needing to calm herself.

Her emotions raged, unleashed and tumultuous. The only thing remaining between her and ruination was the thickness of a door. She had only to open it and step inside to learn if Sorley the Hawk would accept her offer.

If he’d despoil her as only he could, using darkly seductive skills she knew would be deeply carnal, dangerously lascivious, and maddeningly addictive.

Instinct told her he’d agree.

Her heart warned she’d be in trouble if he did.

She was also sure he was the beggar she’d met in the stableyard of the Red Lion Inn. No other man could wear such rags and still possess an air of blatant, almost savage masculinity. His cloak’s hood had shadowed much of his face, including his eyes. But she’d felt him looking at her, sensed his searing gaze, so much bolder than any simple wayfarer would have dared to turn on her.

Sorley was a notorious rogue.

He’d stare down the devil if it pleased him.

He might stand high in the King’s favor, but he took pride in shunning the rules and strictures of courtly behavior. His appetite for carnal delights was legend. Ladies of high birth blushed on hearing his name, even vied for his attention. Word was they often fought each other to land in his arms. They didn’t care that he ruined reputations with one dark glance, a meaningful nod toward the shadows of a quiet stairwell.

Everyone knew what then transpired. In the stair tower, against the wall, or—Mirabelle bit her lower lip and inhaled—atop the silken sheets of a massive four-poster bed in a noblewoman’s privy quarters.

No doubt his sumptuous bedchamber had witnessed many scandals, the tapestried walls echoing with the cries of lust-crazed females.

Forbidden pleasures were his specialty.

Mirabelle pressed closer to the chapel door. The night was turning colder, the wind cutting like a knife. She felt as hot as a balefire. Visions of wild orgies and all manner of debauchery gave her no peace. Each heated image made her heart beat faster.

Was this what it meant to be wanton?

She was sure that was so.

She was also certain she wouldn’t remember a word of the carefully crafted arguments she’d prepared should Sorley refuse to ravish her.

In truth, he already had—seducing her in his bedchamber with the dark, decadent heat of his peat-brown eyes.

In the shadowy gloom, she’d imagined his hands on her, even hoped for his kiss.

Worse, she’d tingled.

And in a place no well-bred and proper young lady should acknowledge.

It was madness to tryst with him in the close confines of a candlelit chapel where the saints were sure to scowl down at her for her reckless, scandalous behavior.

Yet…

What red-blooded female could resist such a devilishly handsome scoundrel?

She certainly couldn’t.

His appeal might prove dangerous, but his oh-so-intimate gazes melted her. She already knew that his touch stirred forbidden desires so thrilling any woman would gladly surrender to his lovemaking.

And…

She’d seen him naked.

She’d stood before him when he was in such a state, less than a hand’s breadth separating her from all that magnificent masculinity.

His powerfully intense virility was known to her. How easily she’d succumbed, his stunning maleness taking her breath, even charging the air around them. She’d been unable to look away, not caring about the wicked tales whispered about him. The cast-aside bedmates rumored to spend their days pining for him. The married ladies who’d risked everything for the expertise of his amorous attentions.

Soon she’d join their ranks.

But first she lifted a hand to her throat, felt the racing of her pulse. A still-hesitant part of her couldn’t believe her daring. Yet now that she was so close to the culmination of her plan, a fresh rush of delicious, shivery excitement swept her, proving she’d welcome his attentions, even pure and inexperienced as she was.

Hoping she wouldn’t remain so much longer, she glanced across the deserted bailey. A light drizzle had been falling for hours, keeping most castle dwellers inside the warm, firelit hall. Guards did patrol the battlements, but their gaze was turned outward, watching the night-darkened hills and the surrounding countryside. Here in the stronghold’s heart, little stirred. Drifts of fine, chill mist blurred the edges of
the soaring castle walls and outbuildings, the fog dampening any voices and evening revelry that might’ve otherwise escaped the keep.

The chapel was equally silent, a tiny ancient-walled structure, humble for all its royal connections; an even older place of worship had once stood on the site.

Few remains existed of the place where, according to castle tongue-waggers, long-ago Druids worshipped the sun and pagans sacrificed virgins to bloodthirsty Celtic deities. But there were a few faint etchings in some of the stones that supported the chapel’s foundation. Embellishments that would’ve been bold and handsome in their day, the carvings consisted of mythical beasts and strange swirling lines and interlaced circles that no one now living could decipher.

Some claimed raucous couplings once took place atop the chapel’s altar stone, a large piece of unusually smooth granite said to have sparkled brilliantly when pagan lovers found their release.

The notion sent a flood of heat to Mirabelle’s cheeks and she took another calming breath of the chill air. She let her gaze flick over the courtyard’s enclosing arcade to be sure she was unobserved.

On her way to the chapel, she’d thought she’d caught a glimpse of Sir John Sinclair watching her from the shadows behind one of the arcade’s pillars.

Blessedly, she saw no one now.

The arcaded walkways appeared deserted.

So she pushed open the door and stepped into the chapel. The air was cold and damp, smelling of old stone, candle wax, and smoky-sweet incense. Votive candles burned on prickets and many-armed candelabra, their golden flames casting a glow across the altar stone and the brightly painted pillars that lined the outer edges of the nave. Though small, its rough-stoned walls ancient, the chapel’s interior was
richly decorated. There were even a few elaborately carved granite tombs set in alcoves near the altar.

But none of that interested her as she moved deeper into the chapel, her steps echoing against the low, barrel-vaulted ceiling. She searched the shadows, peered into the darkest corners, and even peeked behind startlingly lifelike effigies on the tall, granite tombs. She walked up and down the nave twice, looking everywhere for Sorley.

He wasn’t there.

The chapel was empty.

Pausing near the altar, she rubbed her arms and adjusted her cloak. The night’s chill damp slipped in through the narrow windows set high in the thick walls. The candles, however plentiful, did nothing to chase the cold.

In truth, her need to draw her mantle closer had more to do with her than the worsening weather.

Sorley’s failure to appear sent her hopes plummeting.

She’d been so certain he’d keep his word.

Now…

She headed back to the door, wishing the votive lights didn’t cause so many shadows to leap and dance across the walls. Sir John Sinclair’s face seemed to stare at her from the darkest corner, his hooded eyes glinting in triumph, his mouth quirked in a self-satisfied smile. She knew he wasn’t really there, but his imagined expression was just the sort of look he’d give her if her father capitulated, accepting the slippery nobleman’s bid for her hand.

Munro MacLaren knew herbs and mosses, healing lore and the beauty of words.

He was easily fooled by men.

And so, it would seem, was she.

Disappointment bit deep. Worry also rose inside her, making her feel slightly faint. It was one thing to undress before Sorley, a compelling, boldly handsome man she was strongly attracted to. She accepted that her proposal meant
he would ravish her. The carnal act was her choice, her only means of deterring Sinclair. She’d been fully prepared to pursue her plan to its inevitable conclusion, the ruination of her name and the loss of her maidenly virtue. Indeed, she’d even embrace such a fate.

She was not willing to lie with Sir John.

The possibility, and all its sickening consequences, hit her in the stomach. For a moment, her world tilted, the stone floor seeming to dip beneath her feet. The chapel walls appeared to close in around her, pressing so near it became hard for her to breathe.

Needing air, she reached for the door.

Before her fingers could close on the latch, the door swung open and Sorley stood before her. He filled the arched entry, his broad shoulders and tall, strapping body etched against the silvery mist blowing across the courtyard.

“Lady Mirabelle.” His tone was low, deep, and shockingly intimate. It also sent awareness rushing all through her. “Were you leaving already?”

He closed the door and stepped forward, setting his hands on her shoulders. “I was no’ able to get away until now.”

“I haven’t waited long…” Mirabelle stared up at him. Her heart thundered so fiercely, she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He took her breath, robbing her of all thought. Resplendent was the first word that came to her mind. In the chapel’s incense-scented dimness, the flickering candlelight showed the intensity of his gaze. His dark eyes shone like clear, night-blackened water. The wind had tossed his hair, blowing it across his brow in a way that made her yearn to reach and smooth back the gleaming strands. His cloak was a deep, rich blue and woven of costliest wool. Through the mantle’s opening, she could see a fine silvered belt slung low on his hips, and the great sword he carried with obvious pride. His leather boots were of a higher
quality than any pair possessed by her father. He smelled of sandalwood, the exotic scent playing havoc with her senses. Unfortunately, his jaw was hard-set and his eyes held a dangerous glint.

He didn’t appear pleased to see her.

Nor did anything about him hint that he’d recently worn the tattered rags of a beggar.

Or that he’d been in the company of a similarly guised man who’d lurched into the narrow lane that ran through the village of St. Mary’s Abbey, a supposed leper who’d grabbed her guard’s leg, babbling incoherently. She’d seen more chaos in the village, and had witnessed a stew-and-ale hawker suddenly yank a sword from his cart as she and her party had left the abbey’s ruined burial ground.

Her father’s man had slewed his horse around, blocking her view and then galloping with her and Maili from the strange scene. But they’d heard the shouts and clashing of steel as they’d thundered away. It’d been a fierce, nightmarish affray that shouldn’t have involved two penniless beggars, unless they hadn’t been what they seemed.

Her eyes, and her imagination, could’ve tricked her.

Still…

“Has the chapel’s cold frozen your tongue, my lady?” He leaned toward her, his breath grazing her cheek. “Shall I warm you?”

“I am fine,” Mirabelle lied. “The cold never bothers me. I much prefer it to being hot.”

“Indeed?” For a beat, he looked amused.

“Yes. I mean—” She broke off, realizing her gaffe.

“I know what you meant.” His levity gone, he looked at her with such a fierce expression that her stomach quivered. “Even so, I would no’ be responsible for you catching a chill. I regret keeping you.”