No Other Woman (No Other Series)

by Shannon Drake

  "Go ahead then, my lady. Whatever pleases you."

  She plucked her pillow from the bed and dragged off the quilted coverlet. She did her best to make herself comfortable in the chair before the fire.

  David cast off his cape and boots, and lay down upon the bed.

  "Good night," he said pleasantly.

  "Go to hell."

  He ignored her, stretching out comfortably.

  She could scarcely believe it.

  Seconds of night ticked away. His eyes were closed. He seemed comfortable, and at ease.

  She was wretched in the chair.

  But he did sleep, so it seemed. She was unbelievably uncomfortable. Surely, it would have been better to attempt to sleep with him near her on the bed. Nay... that would have been even more wretched!

  She threw her pillow and coverlet upon the floor before the hearth, and tried to curl up there. The stone was cold. She watched the fire, and prayed for sleep.

  * * *

  He didn't sleep; not so easily.

  He remained very still as the night passed, determined that she would think him quite naturally at rest. When she finished fidgeting in the chair and curled down upon the floor, he continued to remain still for a long time.

  Then he halfway sat up, eyeing her prone form. This was a strange anguish when the temptation was to swear impatiently, wrench her up, and pull her into the warmth and softness of the bed with him.

  And then...

  It would be a far better thing for him were she not to realize that he found her quite so tantalizing.

  Wanting her had indeed, once upon a time, sent him into all the blazes and tortures of pure hell.

  David lay back down upon his pillow, closing his eyes tightly. He pressed his thumb and forefinger against his temple, as if he could squeeze away the pressure building in his head.

  God, he had lived that night over and over again in the years that had followed it!

  He could see her every time just as she had come to him that night. Through the secret stairway. And she had stood, framed by the moonlight, whispering his name.

  "David..."

  And he had agreed to meet her at the stables.

  He closed his eyes, wishing that he could not always remember with such startling clarity so much that had taken place that night.

  But he could always remember.

  Every word.

  Every whisper and movement.

  Going to the stables. Drinking the wine, changing glasses with her.

  Their argument. Over Alastair.

  "Must you be so hypocritical?" he had demanded.

  "Must you be so hateful?" she had returned.

  And he had tried to walk away. In all honesty, he had tried to walk away. But she had called him back. "I do—I do intend to show you... something... give you all that is offered..."

  The sensations became overwhelming. She was in his arms; he had her lips, and then he had her down upon the poor bed in the stables, and she'd been all that mattered. He'd known he was drugged, but the very essence of the drug had kept him from caring.

  How curious now that he could still remember every little nuance of that night. Remember, see her, feel her...

  She twisted beneath him as he kissed her, discovering that he couldn't know her lips enough. Her gown inched up. He dragged it farther, his hands caressing her naked hip and thigh with growing passion and demand. His robe parted. He kissed her throat. She whispered; words he didn't understand. He slipped her gown from her shoulder, her breast. He fastened his mouth upon her nipple, laving the hardening peak again and again with his tongue. She gasped and shuddered, fingers ripping into his arms. He thrust her gown far above her hips and abdomen, buried his face against the soft, vulnerable flesh there, delved his fingers into the raven black triangle of hair until he touched her with unbearable intimacy. Shudders ripped the length of her, words escaped her, words, having no sense and no reason.

  "... just show you..." she gasped.

  The flesh of her belly was unbelievably soft, silken fascination. He moved his lips upon it, traveled, delved. The brush of his fingers became bold, demanding, intimate, that of his lips even more so. She filled him, she was every breath, every caress, every beat of his heart, sweet, fragrant, musky. She twisted, writhed; words ceased to come from her. He heard her frantic intake of breath, felt her fingers digging into his shoulders and hair. She cried out, her body as rigid as steel, and the honey of her seemed to fill him again with intoxicating sensation. He rose over her, knees parting her thighs. She didn't open her eyes; her face was pale and beautiful. He groaned with a shudder that seemed to rise from him with volcanic volatility, enwrapped her, thrust himself fully, deeply within her.

  The sound that escaped her was a breath, no more. He looked into her face again. Her eyes were opened, glazed.

  "Shawna..."

  Her name from his lips was pained; what was done he had not intended.

  What was done he could not have avoided. And even now he didn't seem to be in his right senses because what had been done did not matter. He wanted her. Could not withdraw from her, had to have her. Again, sensation was painfully acute, desire was desperate. In a distant corner of his mind, he was angry with himself; he was a man, not an animal with no reason or logic. Anger didn't matter, what pain he might have caused her didn't matter. She twisted; he held taut. She cried out suddenly, her arms coming around him, her face pressed against his shoulder. Pain had stunned her; he could not have withdrawn, yet she was suddenly the aggressor, clinging to him. Crimson light and fury seemed to fill him; he moved with desperate energy against her, sheathed, filled, urgent, reveling in every movement, wanting more and more. Climax built wildly within him, spiraled. He was vaguely aware of the rough wool blanket beneath them. The world still smelled sweetly of new-mown hay, more sweetly still of flowers and the woman and the musk of their bedding.

  Her face remained buried against him. He caught her hair, forced her to meet his eyes. Hers remained blue and glistening with unshed tears. He found the sweetness of her mouth once again, forcing her lips to part to his. And they did, and she met the hunger of his kiss with a thirst of her own, hesitantly at first, then more fully, until he thought that he would drown in the seduction of her. Then the force of the climax that had been building within him burst wildly upon him; muscles constricted and taut, he held above her and within her as wave after wave of release seized him, shook him, spilled from him, and into her. As he stared down at her then, he was dimly aware that Shawna had never intended for her game to go so far.

  He started to brush her face with his knuckles, to tell her that if her bargain was marriage, then so be it. She was far too anguished, he thought, and he was far too proud to tell her that she had just aroused and seduced him like no other woman. Such admissions with a lass like Shawna could be far too costly for a man in his position at this time. She was still a MacGinnis, lady of the Craig Rock MacGinnises, and dangerous in that holding.

  Her eyes closed. Her body glistened in lamplit crimson beauty.

  Sated, soaked, both satisfied and aware he'd be wanting far more, he opened his mouth to speak.

  No words came from him.

  Just the pain. An ungodly pain within his head.

  He saw red...

  He touched his hand to his temple, and it came away covered with blood.

  The color before him turned to black...

  The world began spinning into deeper and deeper shades of crimson and black before him.

  Yellow, gold, orange, blue...

  Fire.

  There was fire. He didn't know if he felt the searing pain at his head and then the fire immediately, or if there had been time between the two. He felt the heat of the fire and he struggled to clear his mind....

  Black again. Ebony. A void...

  Death...?

  Aye, death, it was what someone had intended, and in a way, he was indeed to die that night.

  Aye, it was death, and the comi
ng of it slow and miserable. He tossed. He felt pain; he felt nothing. Terrible cold, burning heat. Darkness...

  No, color again. Color... blue, the sky, the sky at morning. The sun was in his eyes, causing his head to burst with pain once again.

  He could hear the lap of water. He was on a boat, he realized. Out in the loch?

  "Get this one up and moving, there, man! There's work to be done on the sails."

  He jumped as he was viciously kicked in the ribs. Despite the pain that continued to wrack his head, he managed to leap up to a squatting position.

  Sunlight filled his eyes, nearly blinding him. He realized that he was naked and filthy. And indeed, he was upon the water, on a large ship. Seamen surrounded him, doing the bidding of a peg-legged man who stared down at him now with contempt.

  "Get this murdering, ragged-ass bastard up and about!" the peg-leg shouted. He had an accent. A strange accent.

  David tried to stand, tottered, nearly fell. He saw that he had been lying on a pallet. He staggered to his feet once again, in agony, but was ready to leap for the throat of the peg-leg. "Do you know whom you address?" David demanded in a rage.

  "Aye, you jackanapes! You're going to live you sorry bastard, but 'tis my belief you should have met with the •hangman in Glasgow."

  "The hangman?"

  "For murderin' that poor wee lass."

  "Murder...?"

  He did leap at the peg-leg. The man shouted, choking. In seconds, half a dozen brawny seaman were atop David. He fought them off; had no strength. He fell back to his knees, a wave of nausea and dizziness sweeping over him again. The peg-leg had remarkable balance and struck David with his wooden limb, knocking him to the deck. David barely felt the pain. What were they talking about? What had happened after he had been knocked out in the stables? He could remember nothing but the smell of fire. Had someone come and done harm to Shawna? "Murder!" he cried, pushing back to his knees. "If she's dead—"

  "Aye, the wee lass is dead, you cut her throat on a drunken binge on a cold Glasgow night, my man, and in my care, I bloody well swear that you'll pay for it!"

  "Glasgow!"

  "So drunk he canna remember his own crime!" Peg-leg muttered with disgust. "Mr. Phipps!" he cried to one of his men. "Take the bastard back to the hold for the next few days; he's been in a fever too long to be much good to us yet. But mark me, Mr. MacDonald, I'll wring flesh and blood from you yet, I will."

  "MacDonald!" David roared. "I am not a MacDonald. I am David Douglas of Craig Rock, heir to the laird!"

  Snickering from the seamen who had gathered round him greeted his words.

  "Get the bastard below!" the peg-legged captain shouted with disgust.

  "Have me touched again, you pathetic piece of pig sty, and I'll murder you, I swear it!" David promised.

  Peg-leg seemed to take the threat to heart. "Shackle him, wrists and ankles!" Peg-leg commanded.

  The first man came toward David. David managed to deal him a telling blow to the left jaw. He spun in time to catch the man to his right with an elbow jab to the ribs. He kicked the one before him, slammed the one in the rear with both fists.

  But there were four more to fall atop him. He was shackled, and a solid blow with a fisherman's sinker sent him spinning back into oblivion once again.

  He came to stretched out upon dirty, molding straw. A stench surrounded him. He had been wrapped in the remnants of a blanket. A small, ragged little man with sharp features and huge eyes was attempting to spoon some kind of tasteless gruel between his lips. David coughed, sputtered, and managed to lift a hand to stop the man.

  "Water," he croaked.

  The little man provided it, watching him anxiously. He drank, forcing himself to be careful. His voice remained a sorry croak as he asked, "What manner of ship is this? Into what pit of hell have I fallen."

  "A sorry pit, indeed," the little fellow said. "You're on the convict ship. Revenge, bound for labor in Australia, mate."

  "Sweet Jesu, heads will roll for this! I am the heir to Laird Douglas of Craig Rock!"

  The little man was still. In a fury, David knocked the bowl of gruel from the very hands that had tried to help him. "Why will no one believe me, man?"

  "The Douglas heir was killed in a fire a good two weeks ago now."

  "What? The fire was two weeks ago—"

  "The laird's son is dead and buried, MacDonald, and most men aboard think it's blasphemy that you, the murderer of a young woman, dare to use his name."

  "What young woman was murdered? Shawna of Craig Rock?"

  The man shook his head in confusion. "Nay, MacDonald! The serving wench you met in Oarmsby Tavern!"

  "I met no serving wench, and I haven't been to Glasgow in years! If we can but turn this ship around, I can prove—"

  "Sh! Sh!" the little monkey of a man warned him. "Some think as how that fever you suffered has you daft now, man, believing you're a laird and able to put on airs and all. But the captain, he's a fierce man, and he says that from now on, every time as how you start claimin' to be a Douglas, you're to receive twenty lashes with a cat-o'-nine-tails."

  "I am David Douglas!" he roared.

  There was a bursting sound as the swinging door to the hold was thrown open. Peg-leg maneuvered down the ladder, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the hold. He was followed by a number of his seaman, one of them the nasty-looking fellow David had previously struck in the jaw.

  The seaman's face was still swollen. David had probably cost the fellow a number of teeth.

  "MacDonald, I'll have no more of your mad cries on board my ship!" Peg-leg roared. "See to him, men."

  Again, David fought. In the end, he was too weak to face so many men. He found himself dragged up, still naked, bound to the center post in the hold.

  And the threat of the twenty lashes with the cat-o'-ninetails was carried out. The man with the swollen face was to carry out the punishment, but even he paused, voicing a protest to Peg-leg. " 'E's half-dead, now, Cap'n. Twenty lashes will kill him."

  "He stands tall as an oak and he's muscled like a fighter. He used that strength against the innocent. God will judge him. If he dies, so be it, but I'll watch each strike—he's a fine one for work in Sydney, and worth more to me alive than dead. Carry on."

  Each lash bit cruelly into David's flesh. In his weakened state, the pain was unbearable. He blacked out before it was over.

  He came to with the little man by his side, staring at him sorrowfully. "Your name is Collum MacDonald," the little man warned. "Ach, sir! Be you the laird's issue in truth, you'd best forget it for now. Captain Barnes will kill you like as not if you give him more reason! Work the sails, scrub the decks as he commands you. Live to tell your story where someone might care to hear it!"

  "I am David Douglas, eldest son and heir to the laird of Castle Rock, Craig Rock, the Highlands," David insisted.

  "Fine, man, and I'll believe you. But if you've a mind for livin', answer to the name 'MacDonald,' sir. And try to eat this broth. Something's got to keep you going. They'll be draggin' you up to work, soon enough."

  David stared at the little man and frowned.

  "Who the bloody hell are you and why do you care, man?"

  The jackanapes smiled. "Once upon a time, I was Dr. James McGregor of High Street, Glasgow. But that was before a great man's mistress chose to abort his child, then come for my help. She died as I tried to staunch the flow of blood pouring from her womb. The great man let the courts convict me, but the mercy of a judge sent me aboard this ship rather than straight to the hangman. Now, sir, they'd not believe my story, and they'll not believe yours."

  "Doctor," he mused.

  "They call me murderer now."

  David stared at the little man, and at last saw the wisdom in his words.

  "I am MacDonald, eh?"

  "Aye, that I beg of you."

  David shrugged. "Not a bad clan as clans go. Even good families must throw out a bad egg now and then, eh?"

  "MacDon
ald. A good enough name to live by if you'd seek to retrieve your own."

  Indeed.

  There was but one way for him to find justice and vengeance, and that was to survive. His rage against what had happened, against her and those who had conspired with her, would not help him now.

  Had he been supposed to die?

  But he had not perished.

  Yet it did not seem that he had lived.

  He had found hell on earth.

  But he was going to survive it. He was going to survive it because he was going to go back. Find out who had sought to kill him, and who was buried in his stead. Discover what evil cunning and conspiracy had brought him to this pit of eternal fire.

  And he was going to enter her life again.

  And God help him...

  She would have all the fury of hell to pay, and he would see to it that they were damned together.

  * * *

  David awoke with a start. He was no longer aboard a ship, nor was he any man's prisoner. He had found his freedom, and he was back in his room at Castle Rock.

  In his own bed.

  He looked quickly to the floor. She slept.

  All those years...

  All those years he had waited to come back, and she had been both the focus of his revenge and the spirit that plagued his sleep, for, though he longed for his revenge, he had found himself simply longing for her as well. Her scent had haunted him in the night. Memories of the satin-smooth feel of her flesh had come to him in the darkness, along with those of the soft brush of her hair against his limbs. And now...

  He still longed both to hold her tenderly, and to shake her. When she had been younger, he had cared for her as an unruly, headstrong, beautiful child.

  When she had grown and matured, he had desired her.

  Aye, he had wanted her, therein had lain his weakness, and therein now lay his thirst for revenge.

  Yet again, it was Shawna twisting his heart and senses and reason.

  He rose from the bed and walked to where she slept now upon the cold stone of the castle floor. He gently picked her up and laid her upon the bed.

  And because he could not help himself, he gently placed his lips against her mouth, and there tasted her sweetness with the breath of his kiss.