Flushed, her body screaming for release, she stood on her tip-toes, taking control of their kiss as she’d wanted to since earlier that day.
And he gave as good as he got—even more so—fulfilling her deepest most sensual needs.
And her every longing.
“What?” MacDougal bellowed, slamming his fist into the already scarred surface of his table. “What dae ye mean they are all dead?” His voice was raised, his heart pounding, as he listened to Barton repeat what he’d said moments ago.
“When none o’ the men returned tae the bolt hole, I went tae check…” Barton’s face turned green then red again. “They were all dead, butchered. I have never seen such viciousness in an attack before.”
“Ye said there were only three o’them—three! And one o’ them a woman! How do two men kill eight?”
“I cannae say,” Barton admitted, his lips pressed into a thin line.
His blood thickening as bile coated his tongue, MacDougal spat.
“Bring his wench here; she has much tae answer for.”
Barton tensed, eyeing MacDougal carefully. “My laird…I dinnae know if that will matter.”
He huffed impatiently. “What? Dinnae speak in riddles, ye daft git, I havenae the patience for it!”
“In the village, there were some who spied the MacPherson with another woman. A woman with red hair, wearing the MacPherson tartan. He introduced her as Owains. And they were pettin’ one another.”
MacDougal snorted. “What man doesna have a whore on the side, Barton? What does this have tae do with anythin’?”
“The woman…she was askin’ ’round ’bout the MacDearghs,” Barton replied, his voice heavy with unspoken portent. “And there were many who didnae believe MacPherson about her bein’ an Owains. Whenever he mentioned her surname, she flinched, as though she were unused tae it.”
“A red-headed wench askin’ round ’bout the MacDearghs, ye say?” It couldn’t be, it was impossible… But was it? Perhaps the Lord has seen fit to provide MacDougal one more piece to add to his unfolding plan.
“Send for the Welshman,” MacDougal sneered, a hateful glee filling him. “We’ll put his skills tae use as soon as can be arranged, and by the end o’ the fortnight, the MacPherson and his whore will be rottin’ corpses.”
Twelve days had passed since that night they were attacked…and they’d first ravished one another. And every night since, they’d fallen into bed together, enjoying the pleasure they would bring one another, and it was absolute heaven. But Thorn could not ignore the prickle of unease that had been growing into an outright stabbing in his chest. For every moment spent with Rose, there was a sense of foreboding that would spoil the nearly perfect experience.
She was everything he ever thought he wanted in a mate; beautiful, intelligent, fierce, and breathtakingly passionate in bed. She was as insatiable as he was, often tearing at his tartan to get to his naked skin, and sometimes they hadn’t even removed all of their clothes before he was inside of her, plunging into utter bliss as he groaned in ecstasy and she cried out his name.
Aye, heaven. And despite the stubborn woman’s insistence that they were not betrothed, he continued to hope that she would see reason, that she would find something in him worth keeping.
Lying beside her, after another bed-shaking round of tupping, he grinned at her incessant questions, knowing it was time to tell her all.
“Fine, I will tell you about fostering with the Owains,” he replied, tucking her head against his chest so he could play with the tendrils of hair that tickled his belly.
“Then go on, tell me,” she said, beaming up at him.
God, he would never get over how beautiful she was.
Clearing his throat, he responded, “I had an older brother, Aron. He died when I was thirteen—”
“And I would have been four,” she interjected correctly.
“Aye.”
“How did he die?”
Thorn, knowing the pain would come, sighed heavily. “There was an accident. Two boys lost their lives and Aron took the blame for it… He hung himself.”
Rose gasped, her lovely face gone pale. Tears made her eyes glimmer as she stared at him with shock and sorrow on her face.
“I am sorry,” she whispered, her breath warm against his chest. He closed his eyes, drinking in the sensation of having her soft curves pressed against him, comforting now even though it had been stirring before.
“’Twas a long time ago. As it was, one of the lads who died was the son of the Lord Owains, who had sent his son to Gleneden to foster with my father, a man who had saved his life during a voyage to Spain when they were both lads themselves. Feeling responsible for the lad’s death, my father agreed to send me to Wales, to the Owains, to foster there as sort of a penance for what had happened. I remained there until my father died four year ago.”
“And your search for your betrothed began in earnest,” she drawled, her voice flat.
“Aye, it did. And I found her,” he remarked, not missing the way she stiffened, pulling herself away from him.
Every discussion they’d had about her remaining at Gleneden would often dissolve into an argument, but those arguments always turned into the most earth-shattering sex he’d ever experienced. But everything was like that with Rose; there was never a moment of wasted emotion or sensation or thought. She brought out the best and worst in him, and he was grateful for that. She’d become what he’d needed most after his father’s death…the peace he’d never thought to know. With her, he was happy.
But hell was clawing at his happiness; he could feel it, but he couldn’t put a finger on what it was.
Not wanting to argue just then, though, Thorn wrapped his arms around her naked form and held her against him. They remained like that for long, silent moments, until she fell to sleep, her soft snores making him smile despite the troubling thoughts starting to fill his mind.
Since breaking off things with Briar, the castle hadn’t run as smoothly as it usually did; Briar had drawn into herself, only venturing out into the common areas for meals. Thorn was saddened because he’d disappointed someone he genuinely cared about—just not in the way she had wanted him to. He’d known Briar for too long, and while his body had been attracted to her, everything else about him had been resigned to marriage simply because she had been the only choice that hadn’t turned his stomach completely.
Now, though, the only choice he could ever consider making was between seducing Rose into marriage or finding something else to tempt her with. Either way, she would be his wife.
She could rebel against what was between them only so long before she gave in. And he would be there, arms wide open.
Chapter Fifteen
“When did this come?” Thorn bellowed, lifting and shaking the missive in his hand as Garrick and his other men stared on.
Garrick answered, “George said it was hung from the gate with a dagger—”
“I found it this morn, when I went outside tae check the perimeter,” George finished the report, his voice carrying through the great hall from where he was standing by the door. He looked ready to flee under Thorn’s rage.
“And has anyone checked her chambers?” Thorn inquired, his voice like ice and fire, cold yet still hot with discontent.
Garrick shifted, lifting his chin. “I checked as soon as I read the missive, my laird. She isnae there, and the room looks torn tae shreds.”
A bitter bile rose into Thorn’s throat and he spat.
“I must do as MacDougal demands…” though he loathed that very thought of it with every breath in his body.
Garrick growled, his familiar face hardening into a florid mask of disgust.
“Nay, Thorn! Gather the men; we will tear down MacDougal’s walls. We will make him rue the day he thought tae take undue action against the MacPhersons!”
Rose cursed, coming to stand beside Thorn, her hand wrapped around his arm and he immediately felt the calm, the peace that ca
me with her touch—when not in the bedchamber.
“But the missive said that he was to come alone or MacDougal would kill her and hang her corpse from the battlements as a sign of your betrayal to the clans.”
“Damn that! The man has lost his mind. More than likely, he will kill her anyway, just tae hurt whoever he can. He has hated the MacPhersons for as long as I can remember—”
“Why?” Rose’s question seemed to throw Garrick off-kilter. “What could the MacPhersons have possibly done to arouse such malice in one man?”
As though someone had reached into his chest to squeeze his heart, Thorn felt it shudder, struggling to pump through the overwhelming grief that slammed into him.
MacDougal blamed the MacPhersons for something that was as tragic to Thorn as it was to MacDougal. But the man had obviously broken and, if the wound in his heart had healed, it hadn’t healed right. Though he’d been gone for twenty-two years since the event that devastated them both, Thorn had heard rumors of MacDougal’s constant threats, his machinations to destroy any of MacPherson’s allies, and his focus on making “all those bloody MacPhersons pay….” Thorn couldn’t understand the man’s unwavering focus on something that had happened so long ago, and he certainly couldn’t understand why MacDougal blamed all MacPhersons for what happened to his son.
Aye, it was terrible and it shouldn’t have happened at all, but MacDougal hadn’t been the only one to lose someone that day, and yet he couldn’t see past his own grief. His own twisted need for revenge.
Because MacDougal had been relatively silent over the last four years since Thorn’s father’s death, Thorn had been fool enough to think the trouble was done. Apparently, MacDougal had simply been lying in wait, probably for any sign of weakness. A fiancée was a weakness, even though Briar was no longer his betrothed. Not that it mattered—she was still his responsibility, her safety his duty as her laird.
Swallowing to wet his suddenly parched throat, Thorn finally replied, “’Tisn’t the time to discuss it. We have only three hours with which to shore up the castle defenses in the event that MacDougal succeeds in his plan to kill me. I have no doubt that, once I am dead, he will turn his wrath toward Gleneden.” He knew what that damn missive said; he’d read it a hundred times it seemed, but every time he considered doing as MacDougal demanded, his lips would twist into a sneer and the urge to roar climbed up his backbone. But he had to; he couldn’t take the chance. If even there was the slightest hope that Briar could be saved, he had to do whatever he could to ensure her safety.
But what of Rose? his heart cried. What would happen to her? If he did, indeed, die that eve, would she remain at Gleneden, or would she return to Wales, to the Rees? The very thought of Rose leaving made his blood run cold. Nay, she couldn’t go, and he refused to die—they had only just begun their lives together.
Oh, aye, she had continued to refuse his offer of marriage, citing that she could never be a laird’s bride, but he knew she had it in her to be a loyal, compassionate, and fiery Lady MacPherson. And that wasn’t all…he knew there was something else she wasn’t telling, another piece of the puzzle he hadn’t found yet, the piece that would open her heart and let him in.
“Thorn?” Rose’s softly prodding voice interrupted his thoughts, and he peered down into her upturned face. There was worry in her lovely eyes, worry for him, and it made his heart swell. If she worried for him, perhaps there was something there between them he could build on.
“If we dinnae march in, what are we supposed tae do, Thorn?” Garrick asked, his tone telling Thorn that he didn’t like not marching in. “We cannae do nothin’.”
“Nay, we cannot march in but we can prepare for any retaliatory action against us. We send men to the walls, triple the patrols, and make sure the men remain alert for any trouble. I will go, just as he wanted, but I refuse to leave Gleneden vulnerable,” Thorn intoned.
The men all nodded, the group thrumming with anxiety, the need to move, to go, to put blade to throat—though the latter would only occur if MacDougal was foolish enough to attack them. There were hundreds of MacPherson warriors to the several dozen MacDougals, but that wouldn’t stop a madman from sending his own men to die for his near-sighted and black intentions.
“Go! We have little time left,” Thorn shouted, and the men scrambled to do as commanded, filing from the great hall to prepare.
Garrick remained behind, striding to Thorn and placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Ye truly mean tae give yerself up tae MacDougal?” he asked, his brows dipped into a vicious V. Garrick had never liked MacDougal, and Thorn knew his friend hated Thorn putting himself in danger, but there was little else either Thorn or Garrick could do about it. Garrick knew that, too.
“Aye. I cannot allow Briar to pay for whatever it is MacDougal thinks I have done.”
“Apparently, he thinks you have done something worth all this insanity,” Rose grumbled, her arms crossed over her chest. He knew that look; it meant she was displeased and he was bound for a confrontation with her. Usually, he looked forward to their confrontations, because they usually led to quick and brutal coupling, but this time, he knew there would be no pleasure in the end.
“I will go; I will speak with him. Hopefully, he can be reasoned with,” Thorn offered, knowing full well that reason had gone the way of the wind with MacDougal. But, for Briar, for his people, he would try. “If all goes well, I will return with her before the sunrise.”
Garrick snorted his disbelief but Rose remained silent.
Examining her expression, Thorn noticed there was a determined set to her head, and that her eyes were flickering from dark to light brown as though she were quickly shuffling through one thought after another.
What is she thinking? He would forever be asking that question, but now was not the time for that.
“Rose, I expect you to remain here where it is safe.”
Waiting for her absolute refusal, Thorn was thrown when she simply notched her chin and said, “Aye.”
Her answer offered little relief.
For the next hour, Thorn focused on his men, their preparations, and his desire not to die. He knew he was walking into a trap, but there was no choice. When he’d become laird, he knew his duty was to his people, to the very point of death. He was ready to die for any one of the MacPhersons and their kin.
But, God, I want to live.
His gaze scoured the great hall, looking for Rose. After the missive had arrived and the plans were set in motion, she’d disappeared, and that made Thorn’s wariness bang against him. Where was she? If he was going to his death, he wanted to see her one last time, to press himself into her welcome heat one more time, to visit heaven in her arms one last time.
Garrick’s heavy footfalls made Thorn look up from where his hands were fisted in his lap.
“’Tis time, Thorn,” he murmured, his head low.
Thorn swallowed the sudden rush of emotion—for his friend and for the reality of what was coming.
“Thank you, for all you have done, my friend,” Thorn said, rising to his feet to embrace the man who was more his brother than his head of guard.
“Dinnae thank me yet, ye bastard. Ye still have tae come back. Then, ye can thank me proper, with a feast in my honor.”
Chuckling deeply, Thorn slapped Garrick on the back.
Nary twenty minutes later, Thorn rode through the outer bailey gates of Gleneden, his course set for his probable death, and yet…his thoughts were on the woman he was leaving behind.
Chapter Sixteen
Getting into Kinlochbern was much easier than Rose had expected, which only made her all the more alert. It was possible that MacDougal’s men were focused on the front gate through which Thorn would ride, but what sort of man would leave his rear flank unprotected?
He’s mad, and he’s arrogant. ’Tis no wonder he thinks himself impervious. The man believed he had Thorn by the bollocks, but the bastard didn’t know that those bollocks belonged to R
ose and she was determined to protect them. And that meant sneaking into the large keep, finding Briar, and then rescuing the twat. After Briar was secure, Rose would return to rescue Thorn. That was the plan, anyway.
Now, dressed in a plain brown frock she’d snatched from a drying line behind the kitchens, Rose made her way down a corridor she hoped would take her to the upper levels of the castle. Aye, Briar could have been taken to the dungeons, but Rose had a feeling that Briar wasn’t simply an innocent casualty of a one-sided family feud. She couldn’t explain the feeling, but instinct had never steered her wrong before. There was something about the woman that had always struck Rose wrong, as though she were hiding her true self behind her pretty dresses, her practiced smiles, and her supposed understanding of Thorn’s dismissal of their betrothal. If Rose had been dismissed—hell, if any woman were dismissed by the betrothed they had been pining after for decades—she wouldn’t have been quite so nice about it.
Pushing aside her thoughts, she continued forward, her feet taking her to the very end of one corridor where she came face to face with a guard in full armor. He was a hulking brute, and smelled of sour arse and ale, and he was standing at the bottom of a staircase that wound upward around a central support. She had to get up there.
Thankfully, the smelly brute was asleep on his feet, leaning against the wall with his head thrown back, snoring into the low-hanging ceiling. Rose bit back a snicker then slid by him.
Hurrying upward, she made it to the second floor of the castle. It was semi-dark with flickering candles in sconces, one every six feet. And every six feet was a closed door.
Damn! Finding Briar would take an age at that rate, and Rose didn’t have an age. She needed to get to Thorn—the urgency was beating at her, making her skin feel too tight for her bones. She couldn’t lose Thorn; he’d come to mean much to her during their short, passionate, feverish love affair.
Is that all it is? An affair—there and then done? She refused to think on it just then, though she knew she would have to.
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