An aching, pulsing heat that intensified the longer she looked upon him.
Heat stole into her cheeks as well, and, embarrassed, she tore her gaze away. Very slowly, the pulsing warmth in her most feminine core ebbed, and the room’s damp chill claimed her once more.
Only now she felt empty as well as cold.
Bereft and hollow, as if for a brief moment, she’d had something unique and wonderful in her grasp, only to have it cruelly ripped away from her.
A very faint fluttering still rippled through her and, instinctively, she pressed her thighs together to ease the ache she didn’t understand.
She wanted naught to do with such stirrings.
Not from a man who did not want her.
A man she aught despise for his name alone, lest all his other shortcomings.
To her great relief, anger gradually replaced the disturbing sensations gazing at his nakedness had aroused in her.
Praise God he hadn’t awakened and caught her eyeing him.
Would he have been able to tell her belly had gone liquid and warm at the sight of his virility, his blatant maleness?
Could he have guessed how she’d yearned to reach out and touch him?
She shuddered.
The possibility he might be able to read her thoughts was unthinkable.
Shaming.
She would’ve died of mortification.
Another loud bang reverberated around the room as the wind once more flung the loose shutter against the tower wall. This time her husband gave a slight groan and rolled onto his side.
Not wishing to risk his waking, Linnet crept from the bed as carefully as she could and refastened the loose shutter. To her alarm, the rusty latch made a loud grating noise that brought another mumbled groan from the direction of the bed.
Linnet froze in place, her hands on the cold metal latch, determined not to move until she was certain he slept soundly again. Fortune was with her. The sound of his gentle snores soon blended with the hollow whistle of the wind, the patter of rain, and the low drone of nesting bees.
Nesting bees?
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled, standing suddenly on end as unease crept up her spine.
She’d not noticed so much as a spider in the chamber. Nor had she seen signs of bugs or vermin in the floor rushes. Truth to tell, they appeared newly strewn. Someone had even scented them with fresh meadowsweet.
Had the bees swarmed into the room to escape the rain? Warily, lest she make a noise, she drew her husband’s blue-and-green plaid off a chairback and draped it loosely around her shoulders against the chill as she cautiously scanned the chamber for the bees.
Her gaze darted about, but she saw naught.
Even though the whirring noise grew so loud her temples began to throb.
The room was empty.
Nothing moved save the shadows dancing along the walls.
With dawning comprehension, Linnet stared at the oddly elongated shadows, watching as they took shape, forming themselves into a copse of pine trees.
The buzzing reached a piercing level, hurting her ears. Then a cloud of mist rose up from the floor, its shifting tendrils blocking out all but the circle of pines… and the bed.
Fear constricted her throat, and her heart slammed against her chest as beads of moisture sprang onto her forehead. ’Twas only a vision, only a vision, she repeated to herself, trying desperately to cling to the knowledge it’d pass in a moment.
They always did.
But this one was different.
Different, yet frighteningly familiar.
Biting her lower lip till she tasted blood, Linnet struggled to stifle the scream building inside her. She mustn’t cry out, mustn’t awaken her husband.
Her lot with him was precarious enough without him seeing her in the throes of one of her fits, as her da called them.
Biting harder on her lip, she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the vision would dissipate by the time she opened them again. But the pressure in her head and the humming in her ears only increased.
She had to look.
The nightmare wouldn’t end until she did.
Dread consumed her, pressing the breath from her lungs, but she opened her eyes and sent her gaze where it had to go.
Straight through the mist to the prone shape stretched upon her bed.
The image there beseeched her with eyes so filled with pain and sorrow their powerful impact near bent her double.
’Twas the black stag.
The beast whose heart had been ripped from its body.
Blood ran down her chin as her teeth sank deeper into her lip, filling her mouth with a brassy, metallic taste.
She tried to look away, but couldn’t. Frozen in place, bound by a force stronger than she, Linnet watched the terrifying spectacle unfold.
Then the wretched creature on the bed shifted, changing shape as she’d known it would. Before her eyes, the stag became the man.
One whose identity she now knew.
Her husband.
The man without a heart.
And like the beast, Duncan MacKenzie beseeched her with his eyes.
Troubled eyes holding her spellbound, forbidding her to look elsewhere.
As before, he reached for her with blood-soaked hands. But this time his mouth worked soundlessly, forming silent words whilst his tormented gaze held her captive.
“Please… I need…” he pleaded, his voice raw, broken.
His anguish wrapped itself around her, suffocating her in a stranglehold from which she couldn’t break free. She could only stand immovable as stone and pray the vision end soon lest she perish from fright.
“Please…” he said again, but the word faded, ending on a ragged gasp.
The mists dissipated, too. No longer dense, the thin, curling wisps receded into the floor whence they’d come. And the tall shadows against the walls were once again just that, shadows.
Gone, the dark copse of trees she’d seen but moments before.
She still heard the whirring noise but it, too, lessened as the normal night sounds returned: the light patter of rain against the closed shutters and the sigh of the wind chasing away the unholy drone that accompanied such visitations.
Only he lingered on, his ravaged state growing in terrifying clarity with each breath she took, his anguish a living thing.
’Twas so real she could smell the blood gushing from the wound in his chest, almost feel the damp warmth of the deep red stains on the bedclothes, hear his lifeblood dripping onto the floor, where it formed a pool, staining the rushes.
Aye, ’twas real.
Too real.
Linnet’s fingers dug into the plaid, holding it tight as if its nubby wool could shield her from the nightmare before her.
In desperation, she turned away, staring instead at the tightly shuttered windows. She must keep her wits, dared not do aught to awaken her husband.
Or shatter the frightening image.
Ill tidings came to those who tampered with visions such as hers.
A soft rustling sound made her glance fearfully back to the bed. To her horror, she saw he’d moved, raised himself up on his elbows.
Pinning her with his stare, he struggled to speak, but his mouth only formed silent words.
And he tried to lean forward.
Why? To reach her?
A shudder passed through her at the thought. Pure terror welled inside her, demanding release. Trembling, she clamped a hand over her mouth.
Then he spoke.
Garbled words she couldn’t understand.
With tremendous effort, he took a deep breath, holding it within as if to gather strength before he released the air on a rush.
The words that burst forth from his lips curdled Linnet’s blood.
“Give back my heart!”
Linnet jumped back and released the cry she could hold back no longer.
’Twas an earsplitting shriek that echoed through the castle and was su
rely heard all the way to the farthest shores of the loch.
A bloodcurdling scream rent the night’s quiet, instantly banishing the sweet oblivion of Duncan MacKenzie’s deep slumber. With a curse, he sprang from the bed, his hands reaching for his sword.
Sweet Mother of God, they were under attack!
“Man the walls!” he roared. “We’re under siege!”
Frantically, he searched for his arms. Naught was where it should be. Thunder of heaven, where was his blade? In his haste, his bare foot collided with a misplaced chest, shooting a red-hot arrow of pain up his leg.
“By Lucifer’s knees, who rearranged my chamber?” he cursed, limping toward his sword. It was propped against a wall near the door, with his dagger and belt on the floor nearby.
As if they’d been carelessly flung there.
Puzzlement drew his brows together. Ne’er would he have cast aside his arms so clumsily. ’Twas his way to lay his weapons atop his carefully folded plaid each night.
Within easy reach.
His confusion grew.
Where was his plaid?
Something foul was afoot and if the castle women would cease shrieking and his head didn’t ache as if it’d been cleaved in twain, mayhap he’d get to the bottom of the matter.
But first he had to see to the safety of his clan.
Unclothed, if need be.
Fastening his belt around his bare hips, Duncan thrust his dagger beneath the wide leather band, then made ready to dash from the room, anxious to join the fray.
But the door wouldn’t open.
’Twas locked from the outside!
Unease seized him at the same moment a shrill cry sounded behind him—he hadn’t heard the castle wenches screaming, the cries came from within the chamber! Brandishing his sword, he whirled around only to… freeze.
A banshee stood before the hearth!
Her flame-colored hair wild about her shoulders, blood dribbling down her chin, her vacant eyes staring at him from a face pale as a week-old corpse, the bean shith’s wail turned his very bones to water.
And, saints preserve him, she wore his plaid!
“Dinna come closer!” the banshee cried.
As if she feared him, she threw up her arms in a defensive gesture, letting loose of the plaid as she did so. It fell to the floor, pooling around her ankles.
Realization hit him with the force of a wind straight from hell, stealing his breath. His heart skipped a beat, and his jaw dropped.
Eilean Creag wasn’t under attack, nor had a bean shith penetrated its thick walls.
The banshee was his wife!
And she stood before him in her chamber, not his.
“By the lance of God, what goes on here?” Duncan thundered, his heart hammering in his chest. “Saints alive, woman, you’ve blood dribbling down your chin!”
Visibly shaken, his bride lifted a hand to her lips. Her trembling fingers came away smeared with red. “I did not intend to disturb your sleep, my lord,” she said, examining her bloodied fingertips rather than look at him. “I am not oft visited by such alarming manifestations.”
“The blood…” Duncan let his question hang in the chill air between them. For the love of St. Mungo, he still felt as if he was teetering on the threshold to hell’s antechamber.
“I bit my lip, ’tis all, sir. You’ve no need fetch the leech.”
Duncan’s alarm eased upon the realization she’d been in the throes of a vision. But blessed knowledge didn’t slow the blood racing through his veins. He blew out a ragged breath. Every muscle in his body screamed with tension.
Including ones he hadn’t known he possessed.
Needing to do something… anything… he set his weapons aside and strode to the bed. He ripped a strip of cloth from the bedcurtains, closing his fingers around the makeshift bandage with the same fierceness a certain question squeezed his innards.
“Did you see what I must know?” he asked, still facing the bed. “Is the boy mine?”
Silence answered him.
Duncan curled his hands to fists. Was he ne’er to be granted surcease from his doubts? Not even now after binding himself to a lass whose abilities were sung throughout the Highlands?
A lass who, though gifted with the sight, seemed to have lost her tongue. Duncan’s ire grew. A speech-deprived seeress served him naught.
“I canna tell you if Robbie is yours,” came her reply at last. “The vision had naught to do with what you want to know.”
Want to know? Duncan glanced heavenward and swallowed an oath that would’ve curled the devil’s own tail.
Did she not realize he needed to know?
His impatience got the better of him, and Duncan spun around, the strip of cloth dangling from the fingers of his outstretched hand. “For your chin,” he said, but the sharp-toned words died on his tongue as a very different type of need assailed him.
Throat of Christ, was he growing as blind as a cloudy-eyed graybeard? How had he missed noticing the maid stood before him wearing naught but a blush?
A blush that deepened as she snatched the cloth from his fingers and pressed it against her lower lip. “Thank you,” she said, but Duncan scarce noticed. Blood surged to his loins, intense desire, hard and swift, causing his too-long-neglected arousal to lengthen and swell.
He let his gaze roam over her, drinking in the sight of her freely displayed bounty, inch by intoxicating inch. Doing so was torture in its most exquisite form, but so pleasurable, he couldn’t deny himself.
The soft glow of the dying embers in the hearth illuminated her unclothed body in all its naked glory, taunting him with the fullness of her breasts and the gentle curve of her hip, whilst a lush tangle of curls beckoned to him from betwixt her thighs.
Curls the same color and every bit as alluring as the luxuriant red-gold tresses cascading to well below her waist.
A man less skilled in the arts of love would’ve spilled his seed just looking upon her!
His shaft now fully engorged and aching, Duncan nearly joined the ranks of such depraved and ignoble souls when he glanced at her face and caught her peering intently at his swollen sex. His maleness bucked under her innocent perusal, filling and lengthening even more beneath her gaze.
Saints, but she fired his blood!
“I thought you had no desire to bed me, milord?”
The confusion in her voice banished the haze of Duncan’s desire, deflating his passion and stealing the rampant lust she’d stirred in him. Ne’er had it been his intent to confuse or hurt her, yet he’d behaved like a stag in rut and done just what he’d vowed he wouldn’t.
“You have seen I desire you,” he replied, unable to keep the thickness from his voice. “But naught has changed. It would not be wise and was never my intent to take my ease with you.”
“I see,” she said in the same tone of voice she’d used in his solar when they’d first discussed what was to be expected of her.
Duncan scowled at the memory of that illfated meeting.
He did not want to desire her. Ne’er had he expected her to stoke flames he’d thought were long extinguished, flames powerful enough to do more damage than merely supply his neglected tarse with its ease.
The most lackluster-brained dolt would see the danger of slaking one’s lust upon his lady’s bountiful offerings. A man who dared would lose more than his seed on her… he’d lose his soul.
And Duncan didn’t have one to give.
A pestilence on his men for convincing him to fetch her. He’d wanted an ill-favored bride, not one whose charms would tempt a monk!
With an oath, he raked both hands through his hair. Using one hand to shield his arousal as best he could, he snatched his plaid off the floor with the other, then tossed it at her.
“Cover yourself,” he ordered, his tone harsher than he’d intended. Turning his back to her, he added, “It is not wise for me to look upon you.”
He waited until the soft rustling of wool ceased before he spoke
again. “Be you covered?”
“Aye,” came her shaky reply.
He wheeled back to face her, but focused his gaze on the wall, just to the left of her head. “Return to your bed, I shall not disturb you. The chair will serve me well for the remainder of the night.”
For once she didn’t contradict him, but fairly flew across the room, his plaid clutched tightly to her breast. The stricken look on her face twisted the knife in his gut, making him despise himself for the heartless bastard he’d become.
But if he’d had to gaze upon her another moment, he’d have lost control and tossed her upon the rushes, not even bothering to carry her the few steps to the bed.
Splendor of Heaven, she’d looked like a mythical water nymph risen from the depths of the loch, all wild and lush and tempting.
Too tempting.
Duncan waited until all grew still beneath the bedcovers, then lowered himself into the high-backed chair beside the hearth, stretching his legs out before him.
The long-dead fire left not a pretense of warmth but he was too drained to start another.
Nor did he relish passing the long hours till morn sitting naked, cold, and uncomfortable, in his wife’s bedchamber.
He scarce recalled his men half-carrying, half-dragging him up the stairs, then stripping him of his clothes and tossing him upon her bed, but he’d think on the matter of their boldness later—when his head hurt less.
Scowling, he looked about for something with which to cover himself.
Anything capable of providing even a semblance of warmth.
But the room was scant furnished and held none of the elaborate trappings his first wife had kept about her chamber.
Naught but his new wife’s worn leather herb satchel caught his eye. It rested on the floor, close to his chair. Duncan regarded the pouch with bitter irony.
How fitting for him to contemplate using the soft leather satchel to warm himself when his bride slept, chaste and alone, not four paces away.
She might as well be four leagues away for all the comfort she spent him!
With a muttered oath, he snatched up the pouch and settled it across his loins. The butter-soft leather would keep his tender parts warm if naught else.
Not that he need concern himself with keeping himself warm.
Devil in a Kilt Page 9