Devil Black

by Laura Strickland

  “You will perform the marriage service here this night,” he tossed at O’Rourke.

  The priest, who Dougal knew from experience could handle prodigious amounts of drink, remained sober enough to look surprised. “A marriage, man? Whose?”

  “Mine.”

  “That is what your man said, but I doubted it. We have not read the bans—”

  Dougal glared at him. “You will perform the marriage and swear it true, either at your own behest or at sword point.”

  “Ah ’tis like that, is it? Get me a drink.”

  “I do not doubt you have had your fill,” Dougal said, but filled a cup with whisky anyway and put it in O’Rourke’s hand. He had known the priest three years, since the fellow appeared in the district without warning or explanation, apparently banished from Ireland for deeds better left unspoken. O’Rourke looked like a leprechaun and had the mind of a lecher.

  “Who is the lass?” he inquired. “And why the great rush?”

  An interruption occurred then in the form of Lachlan hurrying into the room, his color high and his cravat askew. “Dougal, what in high hell is going on? Is it somewhat to do with—” He broke off abruptly when he noticed the priest. “O’Rourke?”

  “Good evening to you, Laird MacElwain. We are here for a wedding, it seems.”

  Lachlan’s mouth fell open, and he stared at Dougal. “You are not!”

  “I am that. My bride prepares herself as we speak.” Dougal poured more whisky and drank deep. Quite possibly he himself was no longer quite sober.

  Lachlan began to laugh, which explained in a nutshell his relationship with Dougal, or so Dougal thought. “Aye, so?”

  “You are to serve as witness, you and Meg.”

  “I believe I begin to enjoy myself.” Lachlan grinned, then spun about as Meg entered the room. He made her a bow. “Mistress.”

  “Oh, aye, just what this farce needed,” Meg said tightly. “A fool.”

  “Where is my bride?” Dougal demanded, drinking deep. “I am waiting.”

  “She is on her way, and you will wait.” Meg gave O’Rourke a disparaging look and then said to Lachlan, “I do not suppose you can talk sense to my brother?”

  Lachy bowed again. “Evidently I am a fool, lady. I speak no sense.”

  Dougal drawled, “Does what I do not fit with the King’s decree?”

  “The King?” O’Rourke’s eyes widened. “What has that bastard to do with it?”

  “Careful, O’Rourke—you could lose your head for such talk. The King, hearing complaint of me, has decided I should wed and settle.”

  O’Rourke snorted. “As if any woman alive could make you settle, man.”

  At that moment, the bride entered the room. Everyone turned to stare, and Dougal lost all the breath in his body.

  Meg and her woman had wrought magic. From out of nowhere they had produced a gown of soft green that clothed the woman’s body like a caress, showing to advantage her breasts and the length of her legs. She came with her head high, the auburn hair piled atop it like a crown, and pride in her eyes. At the sight of her, Dougal felt something strike him, sharp as pain.

  Lachlan swore softly. Dougal stood where he was, afraid to move and break the spell.

  She approached him, moving like a queen, her eyes clinging to his. Dougal MacRae, devil that he was and never at a loss for composure, nevertheless could find no words.

  O’Rourke cleared his throat and spoke up. “My good lady, I have been brought here to wed you with this man. I must ask if you come to the marriage freely and in good faith, of your own will.”

  A flush stole up her cheeks. Her glance strayed to O’Rourke, then returned to Dougal’s. “I do.”

  “Well, then.” O’Rourke swayed slightly. “The witnesses stand ready, as do I. I need only know your name.”

  “Catherine,” Dougal said. “Catherine—”

  “Maitland,” she supplied. Her chin lifted still higher. “But it is Isobel. Isobel Maitland.”

  Had she said she was the daughter of Lucifer, Dougal would not have cared, at that moment. He experienced one flash of surprise, sure that her servants had called her “Lady Catherine,” and then he stepped forward and offered her his arm. When she laid her fingers on it, he could feel the heat clear through his sleeve.

  He wondered how many bridegrooms had taken the holy vows with a length of iron between their legs. He saw little holy about this rite anyway, and he was so hard for her he ached. He remembered nothing of the vows, later, only that standing beside her intoxicated him as much as whisky and he burned to take her upstairs.

  Afterwards, the witnesses, the bride, and the groom all signed the parchment O’Rourke produced. Dougal stared at her name—Isobel Maitland—and thought, with a staggering wave of possessiveness: Isobel MacRae now. She is mine.

  By the time all was finished, the hour ran late. Meg retired, and Lachy began plying O’Rourke with whisky. Dougal knew they would sit by the fire till dawn.

  Upstairs, a bed waited. He turned to his wife. “It is done.”

  She nodded. All the color had flown from her face, but her eyes burned.

  He said, “Shall we complete the night’s work?”

  She looked at him with something like wonder. Did it only now occur to her, the step she had taken? Would she whine and weep?

  But she nodded again. He offered her his arm, and they climbed the stone stairs to her chamber. No need of a guard, this night.

  He closed the door and stood, trying to control his desire.

  She turned and looked at him. “We must speak.”

  “Aye, later. After.”

  “That will be too late.”

  He saw her bosom rise as she struggled to breathe. Aye, well, most women about to be plundered experienced some fear, especially those gently bred. He would get her past it.

  He unlaced his tunic, shrugged out of it, shot his sleeves and hauled open his shirt. Her eyes widened.

  “You said you would not force me.”

  “And I shall not.” He approached her carefully, as one might a skittish pony, reached out, and captured her face between his hands. He could see her pulse stir the lace at her throat.

  His eyes swept her for an instant before he bent his head and kissed her, intending to keep it gentle and ease her into offering herself to him. He—they both—had felt the heat that simmered. He need only tap into that, then ride her till dawn.

  Aye, he meant to be gentle, but the instant his lips met hers that fire came leaping. His mouth turned savage on hers and all the sense in his head burned away.

  A fire like this could consume them both.

  For a glorious instant, they both hung on the point of flame. Then she drew away and uttered one word: “Please!”

  His hands, already at work, had slid beneath the collar of the green gown, pushing it from her shoulders. He craved the taste of her skin and, lovely as the gown was, wanted it off her. With difficulty, he focused on her face.

  “Aye, Lady Wife?”

  She appeared to struggle with some emotion of her own. “I must tell you—before we... You do need to know.”

  “Then speak. I am impatient for you.” And there was a braw understatement. Impatient did not begin to describe his state. Surely she could feel the truth through his kilt and her gown?

  Doubt flickered in her beautiful, dark blue eyes—or perhaps it was fear. “I am not what you think.”

  “No? Are you not beautiful and desirable, and my wife? I care for naught else now.”

  “Is it so? You care not you have married a woman who—”

  “Speak, Wife!”

  Her gaze fell to his lips, then further still, and she paled. “You will discover the truth when we lie together. I am no virgin.”

  Despite his state of double intoxication with whisky and lust, Dougal felt a rush of surprise. Was it so? Would Randal MacNab accept such a bride for his son and heir?

  For an instant he froze, his hands still against the silke
n skin of her shoulders, his desire raging, yet curiosity whispered to him.

  “How is it, then, MacNab accepted you as suitable?”

  She lifted her eyes to his once more, and he saw pain there, and shame, and hard pride as well. “He did not know. It is a long story.”

  “And no time for it now.”

  “I just thought you should—” She cast a despairing look at the bed.

  Dougal felt a crooked smile tug at his lips. Probably just as well, he thought through the haze that possessed his mind. The way he felt, he had little of the restraint required to pluck a tender virgin.

  “I thank you for your honesty.”

  She drew a breath he felt shudder through her. “It is my hope we will always be honest with each other.”

  “A worthy hope.”

  “So you—” Her lips worked, seeking to form the words. “You do not mean to cast me off for this reason?”

  For one, sober moment Dougal gazed at her. He did not think he could cast her off now even had he learned she had been plucked by the devil himself.

  His hands finished their work, pushed the green gown from her shoulders. The fabric fell to her waist, revealing all that lay beneath.

  “Lady Wife,” he said, “I have many desires at this moment, but none to cast you off. Come to the bed and let me show you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Kiss me,” the Black Devil bade Isobel, and obediently she turned to him, parted her lips, and felt the languorous passion pour through her again. For many hours now she—who usually never embraced obedience—had complied with Dougal’s every request, placing her body, her lips, where he instructed, kissing, licking, biting, with the most astonishing results. She had never dreamed such acts, performed together, constituted coupling. It felt surprisingly like magic—black magic, probably—and bore absolutely no relation to what had passed between herself and he who had ruined her, back in her father’s stable.

  Dougal MacRae, she decided, using what shreds of wit she still possessed, must be a master at the art of lovemaking. He had only to touch her with his long-fingered, rough-palmed hands and she lost all inhibition—all decency—and caught fire with heedless delight. His fingers wooed her body in places she barely knew existed, coaxing from her responses she had never imagined.

  After many hours in the great, canopied bed, she no longer felt her body was entirely her own, but she did not mind. Were she to give herself, body and soul, to any man, it would be him.

  He spoke in whispers that filled her ears, his Scots burr, in moments of intense pleasure, becoming a buzz of sensuality. The scent of him filled and seduced her, as did the feel of his glossy, black hair trailing across her bare skin when he bent to fondle her breast with his mouth. The first time he did that, Isobel nearly flew from the bed, so sharp was the pleasure.

  His hands and that weapon between his legs—ever at the ready, it seemed—had claimed her, but it was into his eyes she fell: bottomless eyes the color of a wild mist, spiked with black lashes. The eyes of a devil, or a saint?

  Did she care? Not at this moment. She stretched her naked limbs as he kissed her and felt his hand slide down her body and slip between her legs once again.

  He broke the kiss to whisper, “I should let you sleep, Lady Wife. Are you not weary? It is nearly dawn.”

  Isobel made a sound of protest deep in her throat and opened her eyes just enough to see him. By God, he was a beautiful creature, naked save for the black hair flowing over his shoulders, every muscle sculpted and defined. She now knew him to be incredibly strong, agile and skillful.

  She could think of things she would rather do than sleep.

  He must have seen those things in her eyes, for he gave a small, wicked smile. “Ah, ’tis that way, is it?” Gently, his fingers parted her thighs and entered her, even while his gaze held hers. “Only tell me, Isobel, what you want.”

  Isobel’s thoughts stuttered. Until a few hours ago she had no idea her body could break apart at a man’s touch, fly away beyond her control, and dissolve in racking waves of pleasure. She had thought coupling a quick, ultimately painful act that resulted in shame.

  She supposed she should be ashamed, now—cavorting, naked, as she was, begging inwardly for inconceivable things. But when he touched her, she lost all reason.

  “I want—” But she had no words for it.

  The wicked smile invaded his eyes. He needed no words. He cupped her breast, bent his mouth to it, and his fingers, inside her, played her as a master harper might his instrument.

  “I wish, Wife,” he said when at last the waves of pleasure subsided, “I might always find you thus—with your beautiful breasts bare and your body ready to welcome me.”

  “Do you?” she whispered, striving to regain her wits and her composure.

  “Oh, aye. But I suppose such a thing would shock even my hardened warriors, or dissolve them in jealousy.” He tangled his fingers in her hair. “You are a bonny thing—for an English flower.”

  “Only half English,” she confessed. “My mother was a Scotswoman.”

  “Is it so? That explains much, including the beauty of your red hair.”

  He calls me beautiful, Isobel thought with a rush of dazed amazement. Either he thinks it also, or he is a damn fine liar.

  The door of the chamber flew open. Isobel, lying brazenly naked atop the blanket with only select parts of her husband’s body covering her, stiffened in alarm and then tried to hide herself.

  A man appeared in the doorway, likely one of those rough individuals Isobel had seen the day before. He stared his fill at the scene on the bed.

  Dougal, rounding on him, snarled, “What is it? Have you no more sense than to interrupt a man on his bridal night?”

  “’Tis no longer night,” the man replied insolently. “And MacNab’s agent is downstairs. They are scouring the country round about for his son’s lost bride.”

  Dougal laughed. “And they came to me?”

  “They are asking everyone.” The man still plundered Isobel with his eyes. “A wrecked coach has been discovered and dead servants found.”

  Dead? For the first time in hours, Isobel’s thoughts strayed beyond the confines of the bed.

  Dougal got to his feet, utterly careless of his nakedness. He reached for his sword before his clothing, and Isobel was struck by the picture he made, wild and graceful, with the bare blade in his hand.

  “They search for Mistress Catherine Maitland?” he asked, with a wicked glance at Isobel. “Certainly I shall help them search, for she is not here. Only my wife resides beneath this roof. Now, Dermott, get your filthy eyes off my woman!”

  The man withdrew. Dougal dressed quickly, the smile still hovering about his lips. When he finished, he turned back to Isobel.

  “Wait for me,” he bade. He leaned down, kissed her fiercely, and marched from the room.

  Isobel sat where she was in the bed, her head clearing slowly. She began to shiver uncontrollably, as if with shock, and drew the blanket about herself.

  What now? The man had gone from the room, apparently taking his magic spell with him. She felt released from a kind of madness. What had she been thinking these hours past—marrying a stranger, indulging in round after round of wild pleasures with him. Now she found herself clothed only in her hair, every inch of her body tingling and, were she honest, still crying out for him.

  He must, truly, be some sort of devil. Only such could possess his masculine beauty, his skill, and the ability to make her forget her past and consign her future to the unknown.

  She drew a breath and then scrambled from the bed, went to the washstand, and poured from the ewer of water, which was cold. She deserved cold water, she told herself, and a bed of nails. She washed and then climbed into a crumpled morning gown. She still struggled to put up her hair when another knock sounded at the door. Before she could reply, it opened.

  MacRae’s sister, Meg, stood there. She bore a tray and entered the room without invitation.
>
  “I brought you breakfast,” she announced. “No doubt you need it.”

  No one could ever question Meg was Dougal’s sister, Isobel reflected. They shared the same black hair, the same almost shocking beauty, and the identical air of self-possession. Isobel found it difficult to believe Meg came to her now out of charity. Her expression looked too cold and her eyes, moving to examine Isobel, the room, and the bed, too merciless.

  “So,” she said, setting down the tray. “You survived your night with the Devil Black, then? I will confess, I had some concerns. He has a reputation for charming women of every ilk, yet I could but wonder about a tender English maiden.”

  Not knowing how to reply, Isobel kept silent.

  “I see no wounds,” Meg said. “If you wish to complain of him to me, I will listen. I may even sympathize. But remember, you chose this course for yourself and made your bed, as they say.”

  “I have no complaints.”

  That caused Meg’s eyebrows to fly up. “No? You find yourself wed to the worst outlaw in all Central Scotland, a man so heinous even the King despairs of him, yet you make no complaint? Are you foolish as well as heedless?”

  “I am heedless, am I?”

  “Sit down. Allow me to tell you a few things about my brother.”

  The fire in the hearth had long since burned out; the room felt cold. But they sat on the low bench facing the hearth and regarded one another like civilized women.

  Meg looked thoughtful. “Let me begin by saying my brother has few redeeming qualities. He is intelligent—but his mind is twisted, and he uses his wits unwisely. He is, aye, confident, but he abuses his power and puts his clan at risk. He knows nothing of kindness or mercy—and so say I, who have, myself, been accused of cruelty. He flouts convention, custom, and the King’s law with equal enthusiasm and, I believe, will one day end either by hanging or by losing his head. And I will not mourn, when that day comes.”

  Isobel’s eyes widened. “It is a harsh thing to say of your brother.”

  Meg’s expression became tight with fury or pain. “I hate him. I cannot wait to see him get what he deserves.”