Beauty and the Highland Beast

by Lecia Cornwall

  “Love? Don’t be daft,” Jock said. “Women are just canny, know how to make us give them our hearts and hearths. It all comes down to a fine pair of—”

  “Ho there!”

  They turned as Logan rode into the bailey, leading a garron with a body draped over its back.

  Angus lifted the dead man’s head. “It’s Lulach Murray!” He looked at Logan in surprise. Logan’s eyes were hot, and there was blood on his hands.

  “’Tis one of the bastards that killed the chief,” Logan said.

  “Lulach?” Ruari said. “He’s hardly the kind to take down a tail of fine fighting men. He’s just a shepherd.”

  Logan opened his saddlebag and pulled out a plaid, dyed black to hide the sett. “He had this in his hut. See the blood? It’s the chief’s blood. I asked Lulach why he’d done it—because the clan is cursed, he said. Then he came at me with a dirk, tried to kill me, and we fought a terrible fight. He preferred to die rather than give up his friends, so I stabbed him in the heart.”

  Angus noted Logan’s lack of injury, felt a surge of unease.

  “But I know his friends,” Andrew said. “His wife was my mother’s cousin. Lulach knows all the folk we know. I’ve never known him to stir away from his flocks. I always thought he was a quiet, dull sort of man.”

  “It’s the quiet ones who have the deepest secrets. His son was one of the men killed at Berwick,” Angus said.

  Logan raised the dyed plaid in his fist. “I made a pledge the night Padraig died that I would find the men responsible.” Logan said. “This is a start.”

  Ruari frowned. “Why the devil did Dair send you out alone? He should have sent all of us. Padraig was our chief too. We have as much right to avenge him as any other Sinclair.”

  Logan smiled, but his expression remained cold. “Dair didn’t send me. He didn’t send anyone, but it had to be done. I chose to go on my own.”

  Angus felt his gut clench as the men looked at each other and grumbled.

  “Good work, Logan, lad,” Jock said, slapping him on the back. “Come inside and have a drink with us.”

  Angus looked again at Lulach’s corpse. The shepherd’s lifeless eyes were open still, staring at the patter of his own blood dripping on the dusty ground. Angus lifted his head again. Lulach hadn’t been stabbed in the heart—his throat had been cut from ear to ear, and there was a cross carved on his forehead. Now, why would that be there?

  He grabbed Ruari’s arm as he passed. “We’d best find Dair. He’ll want to know about this.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  One more rock. And another. Dair’s body ached with the strain. Jeannie’s cairn was nearly done, but there were other deaths to be commemorated. It seemed every inch of Sinclair land was soaked in blood. He’d ask his clan to help him build the others, one for each of the men they’d lost, one for their murdered chief—so many, all in less than a year. There’d be a forest of cairns, a sad reminder.

  He’d started this because he wanted revenge for Jeannie’s death. Did he still? He thought of the English sailors, wrongfully hanged in Edinburgh, the clansmen cut down with his father, his crew, his cousin. Perhaps it would be better to lay them to rest, remember them, but consider the future, build for it, let the past go. As chief, he’d do that.

  Someone moved in the heather behind him, crouched low. Dair felt his senses sharpen. Had the murderers come for him? He drew his dirk. He wouldn’t make it easy for them . . . He strode forward, and nearly fell over Fia.

  She was on her knees, her eyes on the ground, picking flowers, concentrating so hard she had no idea he was right behind her. Relief turned to anger. She was supposed to be inside the castle walls, safe. What if someone else had found her? It would be all too easy to grab her, hold a knife to her throat, pin her down . . . Nausea rose in his belly, and the memory of Jeannie’s torture and the sword slash across his father’s belly all blotted out the sunlight. He gasped at the pain in his breast.

  She turned so suddenly she fell sideways and sprawled in the grass with a surprisingly colorful curse. Her dirk was poised to strike him dead. She knocked over the basket and the contents spilled—yellow flowers on golden grass, her red gown against purple heather, black earth.

  He stared down at her. She was beautiful in the sunlight. Her russet hair was wind tossed, silky tendrils caressing sun-kissed cheeks. She’d kilted her skirts against the heat of the day, and her exposed legs were long and white. She’d undone the top buttons of her gown, too, and he could see the slopes of her breasts. New images forced the darker ones from his mind, made him mad all over again—with desire.

  “Ach, you startled me,” she said, putting her knife away, sitting up.

  “You were told not to leave the safety of the castle,” he growled. He stood over her, his shadow blocking out the sun. She held out a hand, expecting him to take it, help her up. He ignored it. She rose on her own.

  “I had things to do, and so does everyone else,” she said, and crossed her arms over her chest, which only served to push her cleavage higher and make the open edges of her bodice gape. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and his cock stirred hopefully. He forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand.

  “You didn’t even see me coming.”

  She tossed her head. “I knew you were at the cairn.”

  “Then why was it so easy to surprise you?”

  She blushed. “I was busy, and I hardly expected you’d sneak up on me. Surely I have no cause to fear you, Dair.” He shut his eyes. She had no idea of the dark thoughts going through his mind. “Or do I?” she added, scanning his expression, her cheeks flushing pink.

  He glared at her. “Anyone could have slipped up behind you and—”

  Fia put her hand on his wrist, her touch light and warm. She smelled of the plants she’d been gathering—something lemony and pungent. Her soft gaze caressed him, soothed him. She understood, knew what he’d imagined. She’d been there, in the night, as he ranted, relived the horror . . . she squeezed his arm, shook him, insistent, forcing him to stay with her, to see her—live, vibrant, beautiful, desirable Fia.

  He hardly realized what he was doing as he hauled her into his arms and lowered his mouth to hers. It was a hard, desperate kiss, rough and dangerous, but he didn’t want to be gentle. She took it, kissed him back, slid her hands around his neck, stood on her toes in the heather, and made soft sounds of need in her throat.

  He deepened the kiss, his tongue sparring with hers. She tasted as sweet as she smelled. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, and she tilted her head, gave him access, her eyes closed, her lips parted. His hands slid up the sides of her body, over the flare of her hips, her narrow waist. She sighed as he cupped her breast, laid kisses on the sun-warmed slopes, with the lace edging of her stays tickling his face. Her fingers twined in his hair, pulled him closer. She likes it, his body said, urging him on.

  He was on fire, aching with need, and he gripped a handful of her skirt, dragged it upward, crooked his hand under her knee, brought her leg up to his waist, and ground his arousal against the apex of her body.

  “Tell me what to do,” she whispered in his ear, her voice a husky purr. “Teach me.”

  It was like throwing cold water on a fire. He let her go at once and stepped back.

  She was unsteady on her feet, breathing hard, her breasts heaving. Two more buttons were open—missing, actually. Had he done that? He swallowed a groan. Her eyes were wide, but not with fear. With desire. “Don’t stop. I didn’t ask you to stop, Dair.”

  He turned away, bent with his hands on his knees, his teeth gritted, his eyes closed, willing away the cockstand, the barbaric desire to toss her on her back, take her here in the heather, ease himself upon her like a pirate.

  But she wasn’t a tavern wench or a knowing courtesan. She was a laird’s daughter, and a virgin.

  “You don’t understand what you’re asking, lass.”

  He heard a rush of sound, recognized the sibilant hiss o
f silk. Heaven help him. She’d pulled her gown over her head, stood wearing nothing but her thin muslin shift and her stays. The bright summer sun shone through the delicate fabric, illuminated the slim shape of her limbs, the dark V between her thighs, the rosy nipples peaking the cloth. He stared at the pink ribbon between her breasts, the tie that bound her stays. How easy it would be to reach up, take the trailing end of the silk, and tug . . . His erection jerked hopefully.

  “Lass,” he said softly, making it a plea. “You don’t know what you’re asking. I may not be chief for very long. I’m mad, haunted, broken.”

  She blushed, turning as pink as the damned ribbon. “I do know what I’m asking, Dair. I want to know what it’s like to be loved by a man. I don’t expect marriage, if that’s what you fear. I will probably never—” She bit her lip.

  “What would your father say? Your sister?”

  She raised her chin to a stubborn little point. “They aren’t here. I’m a grown woman, Dair. No man ever called me beautiful, or wanted to kiss me, before you.”

  He read the desire in her eyes, clear and honest. She was most definitely a grown woman. She held out her hand, and this time he took it. She pulled him back into her arms and fell into the soft grass with him atop her. The heather closed around them like a secret bower, and only the sky was visible above them. “Aye,” she said. “Oh, aye.” She wrapped her arms around him, held him, and her kisses were as ardent as his own.

  He trailed openmouthed kisses down her throat as he grasped the end of the pink ribbon after all, and pulled. Her stays parted, revealed her to his hungry gaze.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, and ran his fingertips over her breasts, cupped them in his hands, watched the nipples ruche as her head fell back and her lips parted. He drew her nipple into his mouth, and she moaned softly and tangled her hands in his hair, holding him to her. Her hips moved restively, her body unschooled but eager.

  Fia could feel his arousal against her belly, knew what it meant. He desired her, Fia MacLeod. She felt a thrill of power go through her. She pushed his plaid and shirt off his shoulders. The scars were there, raw and new, but she’d seen them before, in the night, and they held no power to shock her. She ran her fingertips over them gently, learning them because they were part of him. The scent of his skin poured over her, sharp and masculine, intoxicating. She pressed her mouth to his chest. Boldly, she found his nipple and bit gently, swirled her tongue over the hard pebble, just as he’d done with hers. He gasped for breath. “Oh, Fia, lass,” he said, “Mo leannain, sweetheart.”

  He’d raised her skirts, and now he pushed aside the thin muslin of her shift and smoothed a hand over her bare skin, setting her on fire everywhere his fingers brushed. She arched against him, restless, desperate, wanting what came next. “Please,” she said softly.

  But he continued to take his time, made a slow exploration of her body with his hands, lips, and tongue. She writhed as his palm caressed her with infuriating slowness. She bucked against his hand as it dipped low over her belly, let her thighs part for him, wanting more. It was within his power to grant it, but he held back, made her wait. He brought his mouth back to hers, and she opened, biting and sucking his tongue and lips. She heard his breath turn into grunts of suppressed desire, and his erection ground into her hip. She reached down to caress it through his plaid. He panted, murmuring in Gaelic.

  His hand still hovered over the delicate lips of her sex, and then his fingers dipped between and found the place she needed him most. She cried out, and he began to stroke and circle and tease, taking her beyond anything she’d ever even imagined was possible, to a place of such exquisite pleasure she feared she would die of it. Her hand fluttered over his, half afraid of what was to come, half afraid he’d stop. The sensation burst over her, flames and sparks, stars, and all that was holy. She clung to him, blinded by the sun above her, feeling like the light had entered her veins to sing through her blood, lift her high above the earth.

  He held her close, kissed her until she could breathe again. She turned to look at him. “And now?” she said, breathless.

  He grinned. “Relentless wench.” He bent to kiss her, but she didn’t want mere kisses. There was more, much more—the thing poets sang of and lasses swooned for. She wanted that. Boldly, she reached under his plaid, touched the hot, silken, unfamiliar hardness. He grunted as she closed her hand around it, thrust against her palm. She squeezed, and his eyes popped. He swore and clamped his hand over hers. “It’ll be over before it’s begun if you do that. Slowly—”

  “Dair? Where the devil are you?” His head came up at the sound of Angus’s voice. It brought them out of the erotic mist instantly. Dair stayed still for a moment, his eyes clenched shut as if he was in pain.

  “Dair?” the call came again.

  “It’s Angus,” he whispered to Fia.

  Fia gasped, fumbled to find her gown, hugged it to her chest. He gently pressed her back into the heather when she tried to sit up. “Stay still, lass. I’ll go and see what he wants.” He pulled his shirt back into place and made sure his belt was still buckled before he rose, stepped away from her. Fia shut her eyes and waited.

  “Here,” Dair said, a short distance away.

  “Och, there you are. I thought you’d vanished. Ye’re needed. Logan rode in with one of the men who killed the chief.”

  Fia’s heart leaped. “Is he alive?” Dair asked, his voice dark.

  “No. Logan killed him. It’s Lulach Murray, Dair. Daniel’s da.”

  There was silence for a moment, and Fia waited for Dair to reply. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Fia lay in the heather, her body still burning, tingling, and stared up at the sky, waited for the sound of their footsteps to fade. She wished . . . What?

  That they had not been interrupted, most of all.

  But Dair was chief, and she was a laird’s daughter. She understood responsibility. She tied her stays closed with shaking fingers, pulled her gown on. What she had done this day was the opposite of responsible, perhaps, but she did not regret it. A cloud coasted across the sun, and the wind rose to ruffle the grasses.

  She picked up the basket with a sigh. Perhaps she did have one regret. She wanted more, all the pleasures, all the mysteries. Yet now, both the sky and the events of the day had darkened. She looked around her, wondered if Dair was right, that danger truly did lurk behind every tree and rock at Carraig Brigh. The wind moaned, and she shivered, but she did not believe in curses.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  There was a storm coming. The wind buffeted the castle, rattled the shutters. Distant thunder rolled over the ocean, striding over thrashing waves to reach land.

  Dair paced the floor of his chamber. Logan said he’d been out hunting. He’d stopped at Lulach’s cott for a drink of water and to offer the shepherd one of the rabbits he’d caught. When Logan’s eye fell on the black clothing in a corner of the hut, bloody and rumpled, Lulach had attacked him with a knife. Logan had killed him, taken revenge for Padraig and the others. The clan was hailing the lad as a hero.

  Still, there was something not quite right in Dair’s opinion. There wasn’t a single wound on Lulach’s chest, but there were marks on his body against witchcraft. Logan offered no explanation for those. The shepherd had reason to be angry, but he kept to himself, lived apart. He wasn’t the type to join a mob—and killing the chief made no sense, when Dair was to blame for Daniel’s death . . . He shut his eyes. Rumors of witchcraft and curses had been spreading through the clan like plague since the chief’s death. The Sinclairs wanted someone to blame. Dair wanted the men responsible for his father’s death as much as anyone—more—but he wanted the reason for the attack. If he didn’t find the real culprits soon, his folk would turn on each other.

  Time was running out. He looked again at the letter that had arrived that afternoon, a summons from Lord Queensbury, the queen’s commissioner, that he could not ignore. It had been agreed that an Anglo-Scottish commission, includi
ng the chief of the Sinclairs, was to gather to negotiate terms for the Treaty of Union, which would join Scotland and England under one government. As Padraig’s heir and the new chief, Dair would have to go, and soon. He had a scant handful of days to catch his father’s killers and lay fear and superstition to rest.

  He’d decided to leave Will Sinclair in charge in his absence, since he’d decided to send Fia and her sister home, with Angus and John to escort them. He couldn’t spare more men than that.

  It was best that she left. If she didn’t, he’d finish what had been interrupted. If he persisted in kisses and almost-sex, he’d ruin her, break her heart. She would regret it, and he couldn’t bear that.

  He was shaking with desire, just thinking of her lying in his arms in the heather, her face flushed with pleasure. He crossed to the washbowl to splash water on his face, though what he really needed was a long swim in an ice-cold loch. He met his reflection in the mirror. He’d forgotten to cover it again after the first time he kissed Fia, here, in this room. Lightning flashed, lit up his scars, his damaged nose, the mad, haunted look. They’d fade in time, become less frightening, but he’d never grow used to it. How could Fia bear it, being debauched by a beast like him? He could imagine the horror in Donal MacLeod’s eyes when he heard that Dair had bedded his daughter—not because he’d done the deed, but because the MacLeod would be forced to insist on a wedding, and Fia would be tied to a scarred madman for life. Dair was grateful that Angus had interrupted things when he had that afternoon. It might have been disaster otherwise.

  Or heaven.

  A boom of thunder shook the room, and the wind thrust the shutters wide open, and they flapped in the gale like a portent of doom. They fought Dair’s efforts to close them, drove the rain into his face like needles, and flouted the will of the new chief of the Sinclairs of Carraig Brigh.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Fia couldn’t sleep. Not while her body buzzed with desire. Outside, a storm raged with all the power, the passion, and the raw need she felt inside.