Highland Dragon

by Kimberly Killion

  Calin laughed, but when he repositioned himself on the lower branch, she tightened her hold. Her arms wrapped around his neck nearly choking him, and her legs curled around his waist. Any other time he would have welcomed such an embrace, but the woman had the sheer strength of a warrior. “I’ll not let ye fall.”

  “Please just go.”

  He shimmied down the trunk only knocking her head against one branch. When he jumped to the ground from the last limb, a grunt escaped him. She slid to her feet, smoothed her skirt, and rubbed the side of her skull.

  “Sorry, lass. That branch snuck up on me.”

  “’Tis no harm. I appreciate ye not cursing at me.” She turned and started back to camp. Pulling a congenial “thank you” from her could prove more difficult than pulling teeth. Instead of fighting that battle, he followed her dainty footsteps through the woodland. When they reached camp, they found the others buried in their wools and snoring soundly. Calin quietly laid out a second fur pelt for her beside the one he’d spread earlier and willed his aching body to find rest.

  An hour later, his internal request remained unfulfilled. His ears wouldn’t allow him sleep. The men snored like pipers, and the north wind had developed a howl. Obviously uncomfortable with the close proximity of their sleeping arrangements, Akira had curled into a ball at the edge of the palette. Her teeth chattered a tune that made his bones ache. His patience taxed, Calin reached a bold arm around her waist and closed the foot separating them. He added the weight of his fur to her shivering body and whispered into her hair. “Your teeth are stealing my sleeping hours.”

  “F–f–forgive me, m’laird. I am used t–t–to sleeping with my sisters. Could ye not build up the fire?”

  “Nay. We’ll not be on my land until we cross the Minch. A fire could reveal our position to brigands. I dinnae want ye in danger.” He probably should have assigned one of his men to stand guard, but like him, none of them had slept in days.

  “Would ye think me brazen if I used your body for warmth this night?” she asked.

  “Nay. Ye may use my body however ye like,” Calin said with a lewd grin. But the rakish comment and his smile were wasted on her innocence and the dark.

  Akira turned into him, folded his beefy arm around her, then wiggled her way into the niche of his chest. The woman was freezing. Like the glass atop the loch on May Day.

  “Ye are warmer than my sisters,” she whispered against his chest as her body relaxed and then drifted to sleep. Though the flutter of her peaceful breathing soothed his ears, her soft curves now had him in turmoil. A wool-covered thigh had wormed its way between his, while the swell of her breasts pressed gently against his chest. Her feminine scent could drive a man to murder, and just when he thought his cock couldn’t possibly get harder, she slid a hand between them and unconsciously massaged his earlobe.

  She’d make a good wife—once he tamed her temper.

  He wished his father could see the man he’d become. He was confident Da would be proud of his dedication to the alliance. Calin dwelled on little else over the years. Having apprenticed under Uncle Kerk, he’d been trained by most of the men now in his charge—men who were loyal and dedicated to the clan. He would do anything for kin, and his union with Akira would protect them and their lands.

  He closed his eyes, wishing he never had to tell her the truth.

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  Chapter Six

  Laird Baen Kinnon sat at his trestle table and clutched his throbbing skull. Morning always brought the same damned ache. The same frigid cold. Dawn’s light had already cut through the mist and crawled up the tower wall. Gray light cast a shadow over the young girl cowering in the corner of his solar. He pointed to a satchel atop a three-legged cuttie stool. “Fetch me that poke o’

  herbs and come fill my cup with ale, wench.”

  The girl shuffled across the moldy floor rushes to do his bidding. She’d spent the night curled up with a few orange cats in front of an empty hearth. Had he not been blind drunk, her pathetic bawling would have kept him up half the night. Luckily, the drink had swiftly overcome him.

  Her tear-spiked lashes rose just enough for her to peek at him through dirty, pale hair as she handed him the satchel. She shivered.

  He grinned. Just being in his presence terrified her, and he had yet to touch her. He retrieved the satchel from her shaking hand and proceeded to crush the dried herbs with the mortar and pestle, letting the biting smell penetrate the fog in his head. The mixture had been one of the sparse bits of knowledge his father left him. The concoction had softened his old man’s fists in the early hours of day and, by twilight, his father had always been too drunk again to stand, much less beat him. He sprinkled the dust into his cup, stirred the ale with his finger, and then consumed the drink in a single swallow. He held out his cup for the girl to refill. Her hands shook with the task, but once completed, she attempted to scramble away. He snagged her wrist and pulled her onto his lap. Her soft young skin contrasted with the leathery hide of his hand. He stroked her cold neck and felt her shake beneath his fingertips. Leaning into her, he watched her pulse beat in her throat. “How auld ye be?”

  “Ten an’ three, m’laird,” she mumbled, her lips near blue, her jaw quivering. He could feel her panic. Could smell her fear. He needed to intensify her terror before her father came. His hand slipped into her loose bodice to cup her small breast. She jerked against him, her ice-cold fingers clutched his forearm.

  “Ye are auld enough to marry. Have ye a laddie in mind?”

  “Nay, m’laird.”

  “Mayhap I should take ye to my bed. Teach ye how to pleasure a mon.”

  The girl’s response came in the form of a shuddering sob.

  Her future held no import to him. He sought her revulsion. He intended to use the little innocent to coax information from her father. Something had been amiss for months. He’d sensed his warriors’ betrayal on the training field. There was a snake among them, and he needed to find the vermin before he bit. Once he discovered who he was, he would force Darach to carry out the traitor’s punishment. The wretch had yet to kill a man, much less torture a prisoner. Darach needed to spill some blood to gain the respect of the Kinnon warriors before he claimed chieftainship.

  Kinnon scoffed, lost in his thoughts. Darach couldn’t lead a frog to water. The whore he’d bought the boy from long ago claimed he had the blood of a Spanish aristocrat. But Darach had turned out to be a sniveling twit without a trace of backbone. How many years had the boy been skulking about in the north tower—hiding away from dusk to dawn?

  His named heir possessed no character for leadership. No skill for manipulating others. The only pawns he managed to maneuver were the armies of cats scuttling throughout the interior walls of the tower. The closest Darach got to the training field was a crow’s flight from the parapet atop the north tower. The knave was of no more value to him than his four dead daughters. At least they might have filled his coffers through marriage.

  If only Lena had borne him a son—a male bairn possessing his own noble blood, things would have been different. Thoughts of her still infuriated him eighteen years later. He awoke often at night to the hollow sound of sorrow and the cries of babes in the nursery. She haunted the walls of Brycen Castle, of this he was certain. Nigh every chamber remained irritably cold like her betraying heart. Her lavender scent was the only smell that didn’t reek in this Godforsaken keep. How could the bitch still live inside his head?

  He ceased the mild assault on the skittish doe in his lap and flung her to the floor. “Get off me.”

  The girl tripped over a pile of old chicken bones as she scrambled to reach the farthest corner of his solar. Laird Kinnon stood abruptly, knocking back his chair. A sharp pain coursed behind his eye. He refilled his tankard and in one swallow, he emptied the cup. With his exhale came the hot plumes of anger.

  Lena had turned him into the monster he was today. He’d been respected by his clan before he marrie
d that whore, and she betrayed him with the MacLeod. Dalkirth had belonged to the Kinnon ancestors for decades and he would see his soil in English hands before a MacLeod dare own a blade of his grass.

  He finished the flagon of ale then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. The ruckus outside his solar door reminded him of his present task. The girl’s father had arrived. He crossed the chamber and pulled her up by her hair. She yelped then he forced her hand beneath his plaid and pressed her icy palm against his semi-hard erection. She blanched, and he thought she might swoon. Not giving her the opportunity, he gripped her around the waist and threw her atop a feather tick buried beneath shrouds of drapes.

  A high-pitched scream rang out of her mouth at the same time the chamber door burst open and slammed against the stone wall.

  “Let her alone, m’laird!” Niall Kinnon yelled as Kinnon’s warriors threw him into the room. He scurried to his feet and rushed across the floor to get to his daughter. “She’s all I have left in the world.”

  Laird Kinnon motioned for his guest to sit.

  “I mean ye no dishonor, m’laird, but I’d rather stand,” Niall said, while pushing his daughter behind him. With a single nod, Kinnon dismissed his men standing beneath the doorframe, then returned his attentions to Niall. “Do ye decline your laird’s hospitality? Like ye refused my order for an audience? Your daughter would be safe in her bed had ye come when I summoned ye.”

  He marched over the planks of his solar and rammed his fist into Niall’s gut, sending him to his hands and knees. “A Kinnon warrior does not fall after one blow. Get up! Ye are a disgrace to my clan. I should strip ye o’ my name and your bitch daughter, too.”

  He kicked him in the ribs. “Get up, ye worthless cur.”

  Gasping for air, Niall stood clutching his side. He stared remorsefully at his daughter and took a place at the trestle table. He didn’t turn away the silver flask of whisky Kinnon offered him. Instead, he took a hearty sip followed by another. Laird Kinnon joined him in the drink, giving him ample time to comprehend the seriousness of his situation. “Ye pledged fealty to me a decade ago. I took your family in when ye had nowhere to go. I’ve been verra good to ye and trained ye beneath my own sword. After all I’ve done, why have ye betrayed me?”

  Niall’s eyes widened. His skin turned ashen. Knuckles whitened around the flask. He took another gulp. Kinnon recognized fear easily.

  “Answer me!”

  “I have not betrayed ye, m’laird.”

  Kinnon was sick to death of the lies. He crushed Niall’s head to the table. Blood spilled from his nose and mouth. “Ye lie!

  I have protected these lands for my kin, and my warriors repay me with lies.” He pulled his sgian dubh from his stocking and held the blade firm behind Niall’s ear.

  His daughter cried out.

  “If ye e’er wish to hear her screams again, ye will tell me who leads the rebellion against me,” Kinnon threatened. Niall’s head shook and sweat gathered at his temple. “I dinnae know. I swear it. I dinnae know.”

  More damned lies. Kinnon launched off him and grabbed the girl by the back of the neck. Holding her tight in front of him, he pressed the blade against her breast. A dab of crimson bled into her sark. “I’ll cut out her heart and feed it to ye raw if ye dinnae answer me.”

  “Please, have mercy, m’laird.”

  “Give me the traitor’s name, and I’ll release her.”

  Niall pinched his eyes tight. His loyalty to the enemy sparked a fury in Laird Kinnon that summoned the beast inside him.

  “I’ll give ye the time it takes me to rape your daughter to reveal the traitor’s name then I’ll kill her in front of ye.” With a rip, the girl’s bodice hung from her waist.

  Niall’s eyes flooded with unshed tears. His head fell and his lips moved in prayer. “Kendrick. Kendrick Neish,” he confessed. “Now please, free my child and do with me what ye will.”

  Laird Kinnon smiled. Kendrick was a traitor just like his father, Murrdock Neish, and could be dealt with the same way. He could enjoy using each one of Kendrick’s sisters until he flushed out the bastard. The same way he had Murrdock. The same way he handled all those who rebelled against him, including Niall.

  Tossing the girl aside with the flick of his wrist, he turned his blade on her father. Strong fingers laced over Niall’s forehead as Kinnon pulled his head back then sliced his throat open. He couldn’t have the informant infecting his new plan, nor would he tolerate disloyalty.

  “Da!” Niall’s daughter screamed and fisted her hands over her mouth.

  Satisfaction filled Kinnon’s chest as he met the girl’s horrified eyes. “It seems your father has met with an untimely death. As your laird, ’tis my duty to see that ye are fostered accordingly.”

  He licked his lips and followed the screaming girl to the floor.

  Chapter Seven

  Akira awoke to Calin’s moist lips seducing hers. He tasted sinfully delicious. His warm inviting mouth aroused her senses. Until those senses fully awoke, and she realized what she was doing. She shouldn’t return his kisses so willingly, so wantonly. They were not yet wed and she wanted his respect—and the strength of his arousal pressing against her thigh had nothing to do with respect. Mam had not taught her propriety for her to lay beside this man and allow him to have his way with her. She tried backing away, but the ground prevented her goal. “Have ye plans to rut with me now, m’laird?” she asked, displaying a congenial smile.

  “By the saints, lass. There is nay reason to be so wicked so early. Try again. This time mayhap ye could say something a wee bit more pleasant.”

  Akira looked past him into a gray sky and searched her mind for pleasant words. It would be pleasant if I could go home. It would be pleasant if I wasnae cursed. It would be pleasant if I dinnae enjoy the fact that your hand just slipped beneath my wool. The man had her wanton again. “If ye dinnae remove your person from me, I’ll introduce my knee to your bollocks. I might add, this may not be pleasant for ye.”

  He laughed at her threat. “Those werenae pleasant words. Try again.”

  Spiteful words came easily to her. She’d known harsh words as a child and learned long ago how to deflect the jeering. No matter how many barbs she threw at Calin, he dodged them and pressed forward. Mayhap he was a good match for her. The tightness of her face smoothed into a genuine smile. She conceded to his game. “Good morrow, m’laird.”

  “There. That wasnae so difficult. And my response would be: ’Tis as beautiful a morn as the vision I awoke to.” Calin smiled at her as if he’d known her a hundred years and could wake to her face a hundred more. The man was born with a silver tongue and a reckless ability to lie with it. Not for one second did she believe he thought she was beautiful. What was his game? She’d agreed to be his wife. Why was he making such great efforts to flatter her now?

  Calin continued. “And your sleepy eyes and supple lips are all a mon needs to arise in good spirits. Of course, the fact I’ve managed to untie these three pesky ribbons brightens my morn all the more.”

  Now he was the one being wicked. The palm of his hand lay over her stomach while playful fingers danced circles around her navel. She wished her body would quit betraying her. The man’s closeness had her near scorched with foreign desires. She squirmed just enough that her knee brushed the base of his heavy sac causing him to flinch. She wondered if he awoke every morn in such a state of arousal. The fleeting question sent a jolt of expectancy through her mons. Calin leaned in to kiss her, again, but she placed a finger over his lips, removed his hand from beneath her plaid and stopped him. “Why are ye kissing me, m’laird?”

  “Ye agreed to this condition. That ye would kiss me every morn, and every night, and anytime I felt the need to kiss ye.”

  The grin splitting his face reminded her of how improper she’d been the night before. “This condition was made based on our union, and we are not yet married. So your kisses will have to wait along with the rest of ye that has arisen.”
He looked crestfallen, staring down at her like a child who lost his pet.

  “And if I dinnae want to wait?” Calin questioned.

  “Then I’ll have to make more demands of ye.” Akira held back the smile threatening her face while contemplating her options. Her curiosity about their betrothal had been piqued the night before when he readily agreed to her requests. She wondered why he chose her so many years ago. Why not Maggie or Neala? Did Papa or Kendrick owe him a debt? Kendrick had known him longer than she’d been alive and her brother would be the only one who could answer her questions. Not that Kendrick had ever been loose with his answers in the past. She gave up trying to pry information out of her brother long ago. She needed to know what Calin would gain from their union, but the man guarded her like a knight protecting his king. She had to ride with Kendrick today. But how?

  As she stroked Calin’s dense auburn beard and inhaled his masculine scent, a mischievous idea developed in her head. She traced a fingertip over the brow that always seemed to be raised. “If ye intend to take liberties on my lips prior to our union, I would request that ye bathe with soap a minimum of once a sennight. Starting this day.”

  He snorted loudly at her blatant insult. “M’lady, are ye implying that I smell?”

  “I am implying naught. I am telling ye that ye stink.” Akira batted her thick lashes at him. “And this”—she tugged roughly at his beard—“I fear may be infested. If ye’ve any inclination of kissing me prior to our vows, then your beard will need to go as weel.”Calin’s eyes widened. “M’lady, a Highlander without a beard is as rare as a sheep with nay wool. I have nary a doubt, ye are testing me.”

  Akira crossed her arms over her chest and raised both brows to challenge him.

  “Ye cannae be serious. Ye want me to…shave. The bath is acceptable, even desirable at this point, I admit. But the beard?

  ’Tis a most unreasonable request. Ye cannae ask this of me.”