With a strength caused by sheer primal terror, she pulled Dugald to his feet. He felt as limp as a kitten by her side, no more substantial than a doll of rags. “Ye cannot kill him,” Shona sobbed. “Ye canna; he is the greatest warrior that ever lived. Dugald the Dragon, they call him.”
Warwick laughed. The sound quivered through the crackling air like a banshee’s howl. “So you have two dragons! But I only need one!” he shrieked and raised his clawed hand.
Dugald stiffened and staggered backward.
“What’s wrong!” Shona cried, struggling to hold him up. “What is it?”
“He is dying!” Warwick screamed. His voice screeched above the roar of the fire that crackled all around them. “Suffocating because of you.”
“Nay!”
“Give me the amulet.”
“I dunna have it!” she cried.
Dugald staggered sideways. She went with him. Heat seared her legs. Terror scoured her soul.
“Tell me or he dies!” roared Warwick.
Dugald stumbled. She tried to hold him up, but in a moment, he fell to his knees. Shona collapsed to the floor, still encircling him in her arms.
“Let him go! Let him go!” she screamed.
“Give me the amulet!”
“I canna!” she sobbed.
Warwick roared with rage and lunged toward them, arms outstretched.
Death screamed her name. She dropped over Dugald’s body, covering him, holding him for one last moment.
“Warwick!”
The name shrieked through the room. The wizard shuddered to a halt and turned.
Barely daring to breathe, Shona raised her head, but the flames obliterated the doorway.
“Who is there?” shrieked Warwick.
“Let them go!”
It was Liam’s voice. Shona clasped Dugald’s tunic in tight fingers, silently begging him to breathe, to live.
“Who are you?” Warwick asked, stepping forward.
“Let them go,” Liam repeated, “or by all that is mighty, ye will pay.”
“Liam,” Warwick hissed. “Come to me.”
“Tis not likely, old man.”
“Come to me now, or I will kill them both.”
No one spoke. The flames crackled higher. Terror rode Shona like a spurred horseman.
“Very well then,” rasped the old man, and spun toward them.
“Nay!” Liam screamed, and sprang through the doorway.
Flames billowed around him. For a moment he looked like the devil incarnate. But the sparks died in his hair.
“You have come,” Warwick crooned, “after all these years. Twill be you and I, now. We will be invincible…” He turned slowly toward Shona. “Once we have the dragon.”
The breath stopped cold in Shona’s throat. She shuddered and squeezed her eyes closed, unable to meet his gaze. But even then she could feel him coming, knew he would kill her.
“I’ve got the amulet!” Liam’s words echoed in the room.
The wizard turned slowly toward him.
Liam held up his fist. A short length of chain dangled from between his fingers.
The dark wizard stepped toward him. “The powers of the dragon!” he hissed. “We will learn them and leash them. Nothing will withstand our might.”
“Nay, old man,” Liam said. “I have the power.” He raised his fist. “So much power that I dare throw it away. Ye want it…go get it,” he said and twisting about, tossed it into the inferno behind him.
“No!” screamed Warwick. The cry wailed through the castle, and then, like a craven hound, he sprang after it into the flames.
Liam leapt across the floor. Grabbing Shona by the arm, he yanked her to her feet.
“Get out!” he yelled. “Get out!”
She fought wildly against him. “Not without Dugald.”
“He’s dead.”
“Nay!” She jerked her arm free and fell down beside him. “He is not dead!” she cried, and just then she heard him gasp for breath. “He’s not dead,” she gasped, stunned by the truth. “Liam, help me.”
“God’s balls,” Liam swore. A beam of wood crackled and collapsed from above the doorway.
“We’ll not get him out that way.”
“The window!” Shona cried.
Liam rushed to the shattered pane and glanced below. “Twould be kinder to kill him here.”
“When have I ever been kind?” she rasped. “Dugald, get up. We’ll have to jump.”
His eyes opened. “Jump?” he whispered.
Tears welled in her eyes. She smiled and wiped them away. “Tis no great feat for ye. Not for Dugald the Dragon.”
“Tis about time you got my name right.”
She sobbed a laugh. “I’ll not forget again if ye promise to live.”
He raised a hand gently to her cheek. “I fear the choice is not mine, lass,” he said, and let his eyes fall closed.
“Nay!” She jerked at his tunic with both hands. “If ye die now, ye will forever be remembered as Dugald the Dastardly.”
“I do not think I could live with that,” he said.
“Then come,” she whispered, and dragged him to his feet.
He grimaced in agony but shuffled slowly to the window. They crawled onto the sill together and glanced down. Fifty feet below them, the river roiled black and cold.
Shona grasped his hand. Fear coiled in her stomach, but there was a stronger emotion.
“I love ye,” she whispered.
Dugald turned to her, his face streaked with soot and blood. “And I love ye, lass, forever and always, no matter the outcome.”
“God’s balls, will ye two hurry up?” yelled Liam. “The Irishman is frying in here.”
“Forever and always,” Shona said, and they leapt together.
Chapter 30
“Are ye awake?” Shona whispered into the darkness of Blackburn’s infirmary.
Dugald sat up and turned toward the door. “Who’s there?”
“Tis no one,” she said. “Merely a wild figment of your imagination.”
“Ahh.” The moon, bright as a silver coin, shone through the open window and gleamed on his smile, on the mounded muscle of his bandaged chest as he pressed it out to push a pillow between the wall and his back. They had arrived at Blackburn five days ago, and thanks to Rachel’s talents, Dugald was healing well. “So tell me, Damsel Figment, what brings you here in the wee hours of the morning?”
“Me?” Her nerves were stretched taut. In truth, she had tossed and turned all night, wondering how she would bring him this news. Finally, abandoning the hope of sleep, she had snuck from her bed to come here. “I could not wait any longer,” she whispered.
“Oh.” The word was breathless.
“I didna mean it like—” she began, but suddenly his hand touched hers. Fire sparked between them.
“I could not wait, either,” he murmured, stroking her fingers. “I think you have bewitched me.
Or mayhap twas the amulet that ensorceled me.”
“Mayhap Dragonheart knew ye were too stubborn to adore me as ye should.”
Dugald chuckled. “Mayhap it thought my life too peaceful without you.” His fingers skimmed higher over the sensitive crease at her elbow. “Come here,” he whispered, and pulled her to the mattress beside him. Her buttocks settled against his hip. Her breast, covered by nothing more substantial than her nightrail, caressed his chest. “Ye look very much like Shona MacGowan, Maid Figment,” he murmured, and leaning forward, kissed the side of her mouth.
She sighed. “I missed ye. Rachel has been a tyrant, not letting me spend more than a few minutes at a time with ye.”
“Mayhap she thinks I should build up my strength before I see ye,” he suggested, and slipped his finger over the swell of her lips.
She closed her eyes to the dreamlike feel of his fingers on her skin.
“Mayhap she thought you would be too much of a temptation for me.” He kissed her throat. She moaned and leaned her head awa
y, allowing him greater access. “Mayhap she thought you would tax my strength.”
She turned toward him. Already lost to the temptation, she kissed his lips. But in a moment she jerked away.
“Dugald!” she exclaimed, realizing she was once again being distracting and that the truth could wait no longer. “I must tell ye something.”
He sighed and leaned back against his pillow. His fingers found hers in the darkness. “In truth, lass, there is something I must tell you, too.”
“There is?”
“Aye.” His tone was solemn. “I have been lying awake, trying to figure out a way to say it.”
“Ye have?”
“Aye.” He smoothed his fingers across her cheek. “Lass, I am not who you think I am.”
She could not help but smile. “Ye mean to say ye are not a jaded wastrel come to find a wealthy bride?”
“Nay.”
“The spoiled son of an Asian princess?”
He cleared his throat. “She was Asian. In my more romantic bents I tell myself my mother cherished my father and thus could not bear to rid herself of his child before it was born. But whatever the case, she gave me life and sent me to live with her family. Mountain people, they were, peasants….masters of ninjutsu.”
She repeated the word softly.
“Trained killers,” he said. “Spies, assassins. Whatever you wish to call them.”
Her jaw dropped.
“There is a long, twisting story to my life,” he said. “But suffice it to say, I learned certain skills from my grandfather. Skills I finally brought here to the land of my father’s mother. She was of the clan Kinnaird.”
“What skills?” she whispered.
“Skills that won me a place amongst men who saw me as nothing more than an expendable foreigner. They did not like me, but they learned they could use me, and that kept me alive, gave me a place in this country. Tis in battle that I first won the name ‘Dugald the Dragon’. Twas in battle that I excelled. In truth, I did save the duchess of Crondell from ruin. She kept me with her while I healed.
And Lady Fontagne—twas much the same situation. I am no great lover, lass. I am a great killer.”
The room went absolutely still. Night slipped along on silent feet.
“I beg to differ,” she said quietly.
He smiled a little, but his thoughts were dark. She could tell by his expression as he turned toward the window. She watched the cords in his neck stand out in sharp relief.
“Why do ye kill, Dugald?”
He was silent for a moment. “You want me to say I do it to protect the weak, Shona. That I do it for the good of Scotland, but I do not know if that is true. Mayhap killing is simply in my nature.”
“So mayhap ye are an evil man? So evil that ye would risk your life for a young boy from the streets? A boy who meant nothing to ye?”
She raised her fingers to his lips, silencing him. “So evil that ye would risk your life for me, a woman who has bedeviled ye since the very first?”
“I did not come to win a wealthy bride, Shona. I came to kill a wealthy bride.”
“What?” She breathed the word.
“I was hired by Lord Tremayne to murder you.”
“Lord Tremayne?” Her fingers fell from his lips. “Why?”
“He said he had learned through secret means that it was you who planned the king’s assassination, that you and your kinsmen had devised a plot to put another on the throne. He can be very convincing.” A muscle tightened in his jaw.
“But why would he believe that?” Shona asked. “I am naught but a simple maid from the Highlands. No threat to anyone.”
He was silent for a moment, and then he smiled gently. “On the contrary, Damsel, you pose a grave threat, for tis you whom the young king adores, tis you whom he listens to. Think on it. He is surrounded by the wealthy and powerful, old men with shriveled hearts who care for naught but more wealth and more power. Were it not for you and yours, young James might well forget there are others in this land, others who need his good judgment, who need his help.
“I think he feared your influence over the king. Tis a well known fact Tremayne hopes to align Scotland with Spain through James’s marriage, mayhap he even thought you might agree to wed the king yourself and spoil his plans.” A muscle flexed in his jaw again. “Whatever the case, I shall learn the truth.”
She drew a deep breath. “And then what, Dugald? What if ye learn his motives were less than pure?”
“Then I will kill him.”
She shook her head. “Nay, ye will not.”
His fingers tightened on hers. “And how do you know that?”
“Because ye love me,” she whispered. “And I will not have ye risking your life, for I could not bear to lose ye.”
“Shona,” he rasped, but she would not let him speak.
Instead, she kissed him with trembling softness.
He drew her into his arms and moaned against her lips. There was nothing they could do but make love, no way to resist. Their clothes sighed away. Their bodies slid, warm and sensuous, against each other’s, legs entwined, fingers caressing, flesh pressed against flesh as they strove to prove their love to each other.
The night slipped softly away, until finally, sated and at peace, they slept in each other’s arms.
“Dugald!” Shona sat up with a start, suddenly chilled and wary. “Someone’s coming.”
He sat up beside her, snapped his gaze to the burgeoning light in the window, then back to her face.
She wrestled wildly with the covers then finally managed to scramble out of bed.
“My nightrail! Where’s my nightrail?” she gasped, digging madly under the blankets. But although she saw some interesting things, her gown was not among them.
The footfalls grew louder. She searched more frantically, and finally found her gown heaped in a forgotten pile on the floor. She snatched it up and yanked it over her head just as someone knocked at the door.
Panicked, she spun about for a way to escape, found none, and plopped onto a stool beside the bed.
The knock came again.
Dugald’s gaze met Shona’s. She nodded nervously.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Tis me,” came Kelvin’s voice.
“Come in, lad,” Dugald called.
There was relief in his tone, relief that Shona wished she could share. She managed a smile as she wrung her hands, and realized in that moment that her nightrail was inside out.
The door opened, and Kelvin stepped in.
“Lady Shona!” exclaimed the boy.
She nodded nervously.
“I did not expect to find ye here.”
“Well, I…” She cleared her throat and tried to smooth her hair. It was hopeless. “I wished to speak to Dugald afore ye came.”
“Oh. Tis good,” Kelvin said.
“But I didna get a chance to tell—”
“And what brings you by lad?” Dugald interrupted.
The boy approached the bed. “I have come to thank ye, Sir, for coming to my rescue. For coming to Shona’s rescue. Ye are brave beyond words. Scotland will forget neither your courage nor your loyalty.”
“Scotland?” Dugald said, his tone uncertain.
“I must go now, but I feared I would not have time to speak to ye later. Twill be a busy day for me.”
“Busy?” Dugald asked. “How so?”
But just then another boy stepped through the door. He was approximately the same age and size as Kelvin, with the same red hair and the same mischievous eyes, but he was dressed much more richly, with a large bloodstone brooch pinned to his plaid.
“Your Majesty!” Dugald straightened in his bed. Shona winced.
Absolutely silence held the room. And then the king bowed slightly toward Kelvin. “I thought I might find ye here, James.”
Dugald glanced from one to the other. “James?” he said.
“Hawk says I am to fetch ye,” said the richly garbed
boy. “You’ve yet to bathe and change into decent clothing. Although I think ye do look good in my rags, your mother might take offense when she arrives.”
“Your mother?” Dugald asked.
“The queen, of course,” Kelvin said, laughing.
“I must away, for she would indeed take offence.” He turned toward the door, but in a moment he pivoted back around. “Again I apologize for losing your amulet in the burn, Lady Shona,” he said softly. “It slipped away as if by magic.” He shrugged as he turned, but in a moment, he peered over his shoulder, a very adult gleam in his eye. “I will expect the two of ye to wed soon.”
In a moment, he was gone, with the door closed behind him.
Not a soul spoke.
Shona cleared her throat. “He is growing up so fast.”
“Who?” Dugald’s tone was sharp. “Who is growing up so fast?”
She winced. “Tis a long story, Dugald, and ye should rest.” She jerked to her feet, but he yanked her back down.
“Who is growing up so fast, Shona?” he growled.
She tried to look away, but she could not quite break contact with his eyes. “The king?” she said.
“That boy in the rags? That was the king?” His voice was too quiet. It boded ill.
She cleared her throat. “I think it would do ye no good to get all riled now.”
“That boy you had all this while at Dun Ard? That boy that you…” He stopped suddenly, as if shocked. “You tossed the king in the river?”
“He was acting quite arrogant.”
“He’s the king! And you let him run wild, like some Highland stag?”
“Twas part of his disguise, to keep him safe, until the assassin was apprehended.”
“All the time traveling back here. All the intimacies we have shared together, and never once did you tell me he was the king masquerading as…” He flipped a hand toward the door. “As a beggar boy?”
“I resent being referred to as a beggar boy,” said the lad dressed in opulent riches and so many rings they seemed to weigh down his small hands. “I much prefer to be called a waif.”
“Aye,” Shona said, jerking from Dugald’s grasp. “He prefers to be called a waif.”
“Mother of God, Shona, you have been lying to me all this time?”
Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides) Page 35