Sue-Ellen Welfonder

by Master of the Highlands

  Just a wee hint of her fragrance, barely there and already fading away, but potent enough to fire the fiercely carnal side of him that—he now knew—had ne’er truly wakened until he laid eyes on her.

  And oh how he burned to address those newly discovered needs.

  To slake them every one.

  His, and hers.

  Especially hers.

  His loins setting like granite, his pulse thundering in his ears, he turned back to his garron and set his annoyingly clumsy fingers to unfastening the remaining saddle ties.

  A twig snapped behind him then, and the wind sent another scent to tickle his nose… but a decidedly masculine one this time. Unpleasantly familiar, and a dubious blend.

  “Must you e’er lurk so close at my shoulder?” he ground out without turning around.

  “We must speak of your penance, too,” came Gavin’s response.

  Iain gritted his teeth and counted to ten.

  Snapping at the bastard that he was beginning to remind Iain of his long-dead mother would only give him more fodder to relay to Donall.

  Not that Iain really cared.

  Not now when the shores of Doon seemed less inviting than the welcoming arms of a certain bonnie lass.

  Squaring his shoulders, he drew a long breath and expelled it very slowly. “Take heart in knowing that, too, has not slipped my mind,” he said at last, yanking free the hated pilgrim’s staff. To his relief, the wide-brimmed hat and beggar’s bowl gave him less resistance.

  He gave Gavin a tight smile. “I shall continue to pray for easement of my worst vices at whate’er holy site we happen upon,” he conceded, kneeling to place the items on the stony ground at the base of the chapel wall. “But I shall no longer disguise myself as a pilgrim, nor shall I deny my name.”

  Straightening, he shot MacFie a defiant look. “In especial before the lass.”

  Gavin cocked a doubtful brow. “And if she questions why you are no longer a pilgrim? Why you continue to kneel before shrines?”

  “I shall tell her truth of the whole sordid tale before she can ask,” Iain declared, the assertion knocking a few more clumps of rust off his corroded pride. “At least the most of it,” he added beneath his breath.

  And regrettably, loud enough for MacFie to hear.

  Gavin leaned toward him, looking as if he wasn’t about to relinquish his good office of gaoler and Clan MacLean’s highest-ranking lairdly tattler. “And just what part of it will you keep from the lass?”

  The most damning part, Iain’s shame answered.

  “Exactly why I was so distraught I knocked over the candlestand,” he amended, taking his plaid from its place of concealment within his leather travel pouch and flinging it boldly over his shoulder.

  He’d tell her, too, that were she wise, she’d have done washing the grime from her limbs and use the shelter of the yew trees to scramble over the kirkyard wall and hasten away.

  Seize the moment and run for her sweet life.

  Run a thousand miles before her Master of the High-lands forgets his blighted touch and claims her for his own.

  Claim her for his own.

  The words shot through Madeline, a tingling hot streak of sizzling, molten gold, freezing her in her tracks before she’d taken more than a few steps into the open kirkyard, then spinning away before she could even catch her breath.

  Almost reeling, she fought to regain her balance, but the heated passion crackling behind those few words she’d caught still eddied through her, making her dizzy.

  As did the man himself.

  Even Nella gawked at him… or at least Madeline thought she did, for her friend stood equally still beside her.

  Madeline stared, too, her heart tilting dangerously while some small corner of logic deep inside her nodded in satisfaction at having recognized the master beneath the dusty pilgrim’s garb.

  Those rags—and the accompanying trappings—lay forgotten in the dirt, discarded and exchanged for the proud plaid now slung so casually across his wide-set shoulders. A pilgrim no more, he seemed to tower above his auburn-haired friend, though Madeline knew the other to be a hairbreadth taller.

  His hair glistened in the sunlight, no longer pulled back from his face, but spilling loose over his shoulders, full black and silky-looking, shimmering as a raven’s wing, and making her fingers itch to touch the gleaming strands.

  Madeline swallowed, stared hard at his hair. Dear saints above, its sleekness fell near to his waist. Just looking at it set her to trembling, turned her knees liquid, and stirred her to such a degree she had to remind herself to breathe.

  She swallowed again, wholly captivated by his dark beauty, enthralled by the aura of barely contained masculine power emanating from every inch of his tall, well-muscled body.

  Were she less overwhelmed, less startled by the transformation, she would have smiled, for nary a man could walk the earth who better fit the style she’d given him.

  But she could only stare, too awed to do aught else.

  The man—whoe’er he truly was—was simply irresistible.

  A vibrancy, a living intensity, such as she’d ne’er seen a man—or anyone—possess, rolled off him in dark waves burnished with gold, his sheer presence filling the little kirkyard, beguiling her senses, and surely branding any female within a hundred miles as his own.

  If he cared to claim them.

  For one laming instant, Madeline’s pounding heart thumped out of beat, her palms growing cold and clammy, as her damnable gift sent his words echoing faintly through her once more.

  Claim her for his own, he’d said or thought… and Madeline had caught the sentiment. She’d felt its blazing need to the roots of her soul… and wished so fervently he’d meant her and not the one woman whose heart he carried within his own.

  Wished, too, she could shake off her disappointment, free herself of the thrall he’d seemed to cast o’er her, and stride forward to greet him fairly—her true Master of the Highlands—rather than hang back in the shadows and make moon eyes at a man she desperately wanted but could ne’er call her own.

  Determined to ignore Gavin’s gog-eyed perusal, Iain blew out a gusty, frustrated breath and made a bit of a show of smoothing his plaid’s fine, woolen folds into place as best he could until he calmed enough to search his bags for his sadly misplaced brooch.

  That, too, grated on his nerves, so he indulged himself by tossing aside the thin leather band Gavin was e’er pressing him to use to tie back his long hair, insisting a man with hair nigh to his arse would ne’er make a believable pilgrim.

  Enjoying the feel of his hair spilling unhindered down his back once more, Iain tossed his head and bit back a near-irresistible urge to shout out loud with the sheer glory of this wee, but to him important, reclaiming of his freedom.

  He did level a deliberately dark look on MacFie, half-expecting the gawking bastard to take advantage of the eye contact to admonish him to confess his sins to the lass in their damning entirety, but the Islesman merely cleared his throat.

  More than once, and quite affectedly.

  So exaggeratedly, in fact, Iain wasn’t at all surprised when the fine hairs on his nape prickled, and he spun around to find two limpid green eyes fastened on him.

  She stood but a few scant paces beyond the yews, her friend hovering protectively at her elbow, and he’d been too caught up in thoughts of ravishing her and defying MacFie to notice her approach!

  And most mortifying of all, her green-gold gaze flew from him straight to the discarded accoutrements of his sham pilgrimhood, then back to him, drifting over his plaid and his unbound hair, the widening of her eyes and the paling of her creamy-smooth skin sure enough signs she’d guessed all.

  Knew before he could tell her that he was anything but a common miracle seeker.

  An unfortunate turn of events any way he twisted it, but one he knew he could have easily mended were it not for the grim set of her beautiful face, the hint of disappointment clouding her lovely eyes.


  Rampant disappointment lest along with his tarnished honor and rusted pride, his ability to read a woman had waned as well.

  Hoping it wasn’t so, he straightened his spine and captured her gaze, holding fast to its startled loveliness until he could peer deep enough to be sure.

  And when he did, his heart plummeted, for it was indeed disappointment he found.

  Biting back his own, Iain steeled himself to cross the kirkyard to her side. But before he went, he turned his back on the sweet vision she made and stared up at the brilliant blue of the sky, blinking a time or two until his frustration ceased poking hot needles into the backs of his eyes.

  And wondering, too, why the saints, good fortune and fate, and mayhap the devil himself, had chosen such a bonnie, sun-filled afternoon to steal away his slowly burgeoning happiness and make him feel like a Master of Nothing once more.

  Chapter Seven

  MADELINE DRUMMOND, once known as Lady of Abercairn Castle, dutiful and grieving daughter, flame-haired avenger of the weak, mostly fearless, cursed with a witchy gift she loathed and hopelessly attracted to a man who loved another, stared across the stony ground of St. Thenew’s kirkyard at the object of her affections and wondered if perchance her Master of the Highlands was also an accomplished practitioner of the darker arts.

  The old ways revered by their Celtic ancestors.

  Tall, dark, and brooding as a storm-chased night, he’d turned his broad back to her, and her mouth went dry at the sight.

  For truth, she near forgot to breathe.

  His unbound hair, sleek and blue-black, spilled unhindered to his waist and powerful muscles in his neck and shoulders bunched and rippled as he threw back his head to stare at the heavens, his strong profile revealing how tightly he’d clenched his jaw, how grim-set his handsome features.

  The proud way he wore his plaid and his wide-legged stance marking him as a man well accustomed to getting his way.

  For one heart-stopping moment, the very air seemed to come alive. It crackled and snapped around her, the brilliant blue of the sky suddenly appearing slate gray, and boiled with thick, shifting mist.

  Madeline shivered, chills racing up and down her spine, raising gooseflesh and lifting the fine hair on her skin, but she couldn’t for the life of her tear her gaze from him.

  Ne’er had she seen a more beautiful man.

  Nor a more intensely powerful one.

  “There is a man with the might and vigor to bend others to his will,” Nella whispered beside her, instinctively or nay, placing a steadying hand on the small of Madeline’s back.

  Madeline nodded in awed agreement. Reaching for her friend, she latched cold fingers around the warmth of Nella’s wrist and held tight, for a chill wind had shrieked into the kirkyard, its frigid breath lashing at her skirts and even tossing the great yews.

  Their rustling leaves and creaking branches made an infernal din, a hellish din unholy enough to curl her toes and convince her all the more that her shadow man— whoe’er he truly was—was working some ancient pagan spell designed to isolate them in time.

  A queer magic to plunge them into a harsher age and place than their own… a world where none would dare challenge the whim and wishes of one such as he.

  But just when she feared the howling wind and night-dark sky would plunder every shred of courage she possessed, a quicksilver flash of melancholy slid across her heart.

  His, she knew, for the familiar sadness wound through her, following its usual path and laced as always with loss and despair. But then he lowered his head and the impression—and accompanying darkness—was gone.

  Vanished as swiftly as it’d come… and so thoroughly, she suspected no eyes and ears but her own had perceived the storm.

  Her flesh still chilled from the biting wind, she glanced at Nella only to find the older woman looking awed, but far from unsettled or frightened.

  Faith, she didn’t even look ruffled.

  Not in the least.

  Nor did her shadow man’s friend appear troubled or concerned.

  Indeed, the man called Gavin MacFie was already crossing the grass, heading long-strided for Nella, a quite ordinary smile spreading across his open, bearded face.

  Only he bore remnants of what she’d seen, for the edges of his plaid curled as if still lifted by a fierce, whipping wind, and his magnificent hair tossed and rippled as if caught up in a wild and spirited dance with the elements.

  Then he swung round, his dark gaze claiming hers as he strode forward, and Madeline Drummond, unlikely candidate for nunhood and not particularly fond of sacrists, had to struggle with a near-overwhelming urge to cross herself.

  He closed the distance between them with astonishing speed, reaching her before she could catch her breath much less recover her wits. She moistened her lips, strove to regain her calm. Mercy, but he towered over her… and she was a well-grown woman, taller than most.

  She angled her chin to look up at him, her heart pounding a frantic beat, the wild-edged emotions whirling inside her, hers alone and no one else’s.

  Breathing deep, she met his gaze, but if her accursed gift sought to absorb whatever thoughts lurked behind the determined glint in his peaty brown eyes, her Master of the Highlands had thrown up impenetrable shields, leaving her no choice but to guess his purpose.

  And that alone was all she could discern—that he had a purpose… and wouldn’t be swayed from it.

  Uncomfortable beneath his intent scrutiny, Madeline lifted her hand to the enameled cairngorm brooch she’d borrowed from his cloak, pressed her fingertips against its smooth coolness.

  She dug the fingers of her other hand into the cloak itself, clasping its warmth tight against her waist as if she could draw a portion of his strength and bravura from the worn and travel-stained cloth.

  Strength and courage she needed, for her own seemed to be cowering behind her.

  She sneaked another glance at Nella, who sat atop the drystone wall some paces away, deeply immersed in conversation with the auburn-haired Islesman, the two seemingly oblivious to aught but themselves.

  Madeline’s brow knitted.

  The Master of the Highlands smiled… if the wee upward lift at the left corner of his lips could qualify as a smile.

  “Fair maid,” he addressed her, the richness of his molten gold voice weakening her knees. “It would seem our companions are becoming rather… friendly.”

  Madeline cleared her throat, half-afraid her own voice would fail her. “Nella does not usually warm to strangers, most especially men. Gavin MacFie must be an exemplary man to win her trust so quickly.”

  “My brother would heartily agree,” her shadow man ventured, and threw a quick glance at the couple. “I am relieved they get on.”

  Relieved?

  Madeline blew a curl off her cheek and studied him, tried to see behind the dark of his eyes. He’d made that sound as if it were of great import that Nella and his friend understood each other.

  His mention of a brother caught her interest, too.

  But before she could question him, a slight change in his expression, something in the way he was looking at her, stole her breath.

  Her heart responded, knocked wildly against her ribs.

  “I would that we, too, understand each other,” he said, and a little thrill of excitement tripped through her. Again, his mellifluous voice flowed into and all around her, its smooth deepness charming her as easily as he’d be-spelled the blue of the sky.

  Madeline wet her lips. “Understand each other?” she echoed, her own voice an embarrassing squeak by comparison.

  He inclined his dark head. “Shall we begin with my apologies for withholding my full identity?” he suggested, making her a small bow. “I am—”

  “You are my shadow man,” Madeline clapped a hand o’er her mouth.

  Now she knew he’d bewitched her. Dear saints, she’d almost blurted the intimacies they’d already shared… his nightly appearances in her dreams and his own
heart’s deepest secrets.

  Everything her accursed gift had shown her.

  He was watching her closely, one dark brow casually lifted, something bold, unsettlingly ravenous, and oddly knowing glimmering in the bottomless depths of his rich brown eyes.

  Catching her hand, he brought it to his lips and placed a gentle but searing kiss against her knuckles.

  A kiss she felt clear to her toes.

  A kiss like no man had e’er bestowed on her.

  Truth to tell, she’d ne’er been kissed at all.

  Not properly.

  “Allow me to correct my earlier omission,” he began again, releasing her hand. “I am Iain MacLean, my lady.” The words tumbled from his lips in a startling rush.

  Surprising, too, because a hint of nervousness discolored the burnished gold of his beautiful voice.

  “Not simply Iain,” he added, almost as if he needed to convince himself. “My name is Iain MacLean.”

  The easiest part of his task now behind him, Iain drew a great shuddering breath but immediately regretted it, for in doing so, he’d filled his lungs with the wildly distracting essence of her.

  And he already knew her scent could be his undoing.

  Delicate and fresh, its heathery lightness held the faintest note of musk, just enough promise of woman to spin headiest magic all around him, befuddle his senses, and—almost—make him forget she’d called him gallant.

  A myriad of emotions flickered across her lovely face, some disconcerting, yet others so inviting he ached to flash her a seductive smile steeped with all the heart-winning charm he’d once been capable of summoning in the blink of an eye. But as he’d known would befall him, the best he could muster was his usual half smile… one he suspected lacked the dazzle to enchant even the most easily impressed of lasses.

  So he simply squared his shoulders and hoped she’d not change her mind about his valor and gallantry now that he’d forced himself to stride across the kirkyard, dredge up more courage than he’d need in a good sword fight, and confess his name to her.