To Love a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Instead, their faces sobered. “Aye, well…” As so often, they spoke as one.

  Roag stepped forward, gripped Sorley’s arm. “That’s the other reason we followed you. To make our farewells.”

  “I’m no’ staying at Duncreag.” Sorley looked around at the others. They still weren’t smiling. “My business there willnae take long.”

  “You’re mishearing us as aye.” Roag tightened his grasp on Sorley’s arm, then let go, stepping back. “We’re the ones leaving.”

  Sorley blinked, looking at him. “You?”

  “Aye, all three of us, though I’m away on my own.” Roag glanced at Andrew and Caelan, then back at Sorley. “You ken, when the wind whistles…”

  “A wolf is sharpening his teeth,” Sorley finished the Fenris code words, wondering what Alex Stewart, the Wolf, was planning for his friends.

  “So it is,” Andrew spoke up, his chest swelling a bit. “You didn’t think you were the only reason we didn’t ride away with Alex when he left Stirling, did you? Truth is,” he lowered his voice, “he wanted us to leave later and ride up through the hills as cattle drovers. He doesnae trust some of the lairds selling beasts at the Crieff cattle market. Two of them have disappeared mysteriously, and we’ll be looking for them.”

  “They’re either dead or guilty,” Caelan added, stepping forward. “The Wolf wants to know.”

  “And you?” Sorley turned to Roag, not liking the fool’s grin.

  “Och, I’m off to the Hebrides!” He hooked his thumbs in his sword-belt and rocked back on his heels. His chest puffed out even more than Andrew’s. “ ’Tis a great chieftain of the Isles I’ll be guising as.” He winked, clearly amused. “Alex isn’t at all fond of Hebrideans and wants someone in place to keep an eye on the bastards.

  “There’s piracy, rapine, and worse going on in thon waters. And”—he glanced about, his voice dropping dramatically—“Alex and his brother, the King, suspect some of the chiefs are planning a campaign to take the crown. The gods ken those Islesmen are bold enough to try.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.” Sorley agreed, secretly envious of his friends’ adventures, especially Roag’s. “Then you’ll be gone a good while.”

  The three of them nodded in unison.

  Sorley inclined his own head, feeling oddly sorry to see them leave. He stepped back, instinctively knowing they were about to fade into the mist again. “God go with you, all three of you.”

  “He wouldn’t dare.” Roag laughed and leaned in to punch Sorley’s arm. “No’ if He doesnae want his eyes catching fire. I, for one, willnae just be after scheming Hebridean chieftains. I hear the women in those Isles ken how to kindle a heat that blazes hotter than the sun. And I dinnae mean a hearth fire.” He winked, his grin flashing when the others laughed.

  Only Sorley didn’t.

  For some inexplicable reason, he didn’t even make a rude quip when they announced they were heading back to the Red Lion, wanting to finish what they’d started with William’s waiting lovelies.

  By the time he did open his mouth to make such a jest, they were gone.

  It was then, listening to their cloaks rustling through the mist, their footfalls growing fainter, that he realized why he felt so strange.

  This night was the first time he’d ever thought of them as true friends.

  Frowning darkly, he set off down the road again, hoping to be back at the castle within the hour. No matter how he viewed Roag, Andrew, and Caelan, he should be glad to have his peace from them for a while.

  To be sure, he wouldn’t miss them.

  Nor would he miss Mirabelle when he took his farewell of her. Far from it, he’d be relieved to see the last of the trouble-making lass.

  For all her witchy enchantments, she was the last female he needed in his life.

  She could bring utter ruination to a man.

  One glance from her sapphire-blue eyes would suffice, a mere crook of her finger. A single whiff of her heady rose perfume and all good sense fled.

  She was danger, walking.

  For a man in his position, a vixen to be avoided at all costs. Leastways, where a man’s heart and deeper emotions were concerned.

  Pausing, he lifted a hand and glared at the damage to his skin. The scratches were livid red and many, some of the welts even swelling. The wee kitten was a fighter, had spirit.

  Roag, Andrew, and Caelan had the right of it.

  No man suffered the like gladly.

  But wouldn’t he do anything for the woman he loved?

  Chapter Fourteen

  She tempted him.

  Mirabelle savored that small triumph as she entered her small but well-appointed bedchamber in the castle’s ladies’ quarters. It was late evening, but she still remembered every word she and Sorley had exchanged on the battlements that morning. She also couldn’t forget how he’d looked at her, raking her with heated glances, from head to toe, his boldness scorching her everywhere in between. She’d melted, feeling his gaze as surely as if he’d touched her. Wishing he had, she closed the door behind her and rested her weight against it. In truth, too much excitement, and hope, prickled inside her to trust her feet to carry her deeper into the room.

  She felt positively giddy.

  Who would’ve thought Sorley the Hawk would admit the like?

  It wasn’t in his nature to desire a virtuous maid.

  Yet…

  He’d declared that he found her lips luscious and her bottom delectable. Such admissions were beyond her wildest expectations. Mirabelle shivered, her entire body tingling, her heartbeat increasing. She just hoped she could make him feel more than lust for her. At the very least, she hoped he’d give her a chance to tell him why she’d walked away at the Highland reel all those years ago. Why she’d left him standing alone.

  She might also tell him that she wanted his passion for the memories she could cling to on cold, dark nights in distant days when, as she knew would happen, she’d be compelled to wed a man of suitable station and breeding.

  That she believed remembrance of his touch would then sustain her. If he knew, perhaps his heart would soften toward her.

  Not sure that was possible, considering Sorley was, well, Sorley, she lifted a hand to her breast, letting her eyes adjust to the room’s dimness. She could see that a small fire still burned in the grate, though the flames were weak, the peat bricks beginning to fall to ash. But someone had lit her bedside night candle and two of the wall sconces, although they also flickered and smoked, their flames not even casting a glow onto the floor rushes.

  It scarce mattered.

  The room was functional, not grand. There weren’t any lavishly carved chairs, tables, and gew-gaws set about, waiting to trip her in the darkness. Only one sturdy trestle table, safely pushed against the far wall, a single straight-backed chair, a few hooks for her clothes, and a plain wooden chest to hold her bulkier goods. Even the bed was unadorned, a simple oaken four-poster bearing nary a swirl of decoration. Still, it was welcoming enough, with clean sheets, soft pillows, and warm woolen blankets.

  Dark blue covers that were moving!

  “Holy sainted heather!” Mirabelle pushed away from the door, her eyes rounding. The bedding rose and fell as if a disembodied fist punched up through the mattress, perhaps hoping to seize her.

  She clapped both hands to her cheeks, her heart hammering. The cover-jumps increased, now racing up and down her bed, out of control.

  “Saints have mercy…” She took a slow step backward again, reaching behind her for the door. Her fingers trembled and her palms were damp, so slick she couldn’t properly grasp the latch.

  Her legs were less help, feeling leaden, making it impossible to run even if she could open the door and flee. Taking a deep breath, she silently vowed to light a hundred candles in the chapel if only whatever devil was in her bed would leave.

  Surely wanting Sorley’s assistance wasn’t a great enough sin for the gods to send demons after her?

  She’d
loved him for years, after all.

  He was the one man in the whole of the world she’d ever wanted. The only soul she knew she’d never forget, not for all her days, nor even beyond. He’d affected her that strongly when they’d been younger. Seeing and knowing him as a man confirmed the depth of her feelings.

  Whatever force had seized her bed was also powerful.

  The covers jigged and leapt, as if damning her for the truth in her heart. Condemning her for the way her breath hitched just to think of him, how his dangerously handsome face, his kisses, occupied her always, even following her into her sleep, claiming her dreams.

  To her mind, true love was never bad. It was certainly not deserving of such a terror as possessed coverlets.

  “Mercy!” She pressed her back into the solid wood of the door, her gaze fixed on the bed as something else struck her: What if Sorley was being equally punished?

  He’d gone to meet with Grim that day and as far as she was aware, he hadn’t yet returned.

  No one knew anything about the rough-looking Highlander from Nought in the distant Glen of Many Legends.

  What if he’d been sent by the gods to strike down Sorley?

  Mirabelle shuddered, icy chills racing along her spine. She couldn’t bear it if that was so. She’d feel especially dreadful if the deities’ wrath came because he’d agreed to help her out of her quandary with Sir John.

  Aid her in a limited way, that was.

  Kisses in the hall and—her face flushed and a rush of heat swept her secret places—a few touches of his hands to the bared flesh of her breasts. That was all, she was sure. They wouldn’t advance to any deeper intimacies. Hadn’t their encounter in the Rose Room, and on the battlements, made that clear?

  Suchlike was sinning enough.

  Leastways it was for Scottish gods below the Highland line. Lowland folk were less tolerant than Highlanders in matters of the heart and fleshly delights. Such goings-on as she and Sorley meant to perform in the hall were an unpardonable wickedness. Wanton behavior beyond all decency and grace. Leastways if the lady involved was a virgin of noble blood, born of a good house and name.

  Mirabelle frowned, released a shuddery breath.

  Keeping her gaze on the jumping covers, she again tried the door latch. But her grip only proved more clumsy than before, as if the gods wished to trap her.

  She bit her lip, her pulse racing.

  There were times she envied such lasses as Maili. The freedom they had to love where, and with whom, they desired. Although even if she could indulge herself thus, she’d want only Sorley.

  He’d been branded on her soul from the moment she’d seen him across the raucous great hall at her uncle’s feasting celebration so many years before. When she’d gone to him for a dance and their gazes had locked, she’d been lost, his forevermore. He’d dazzled her with a glance, his dark good looks, even then. He’d stolen her heart, claiming it with his bold, flashing smile, his swagger and pride.

  Sadly, what happened next had made him revile her. She couldn’t blame him. After all, wasn’t that exactly what she’d set out to do? Leastways, after she’d spotted her fierce-eyed, man-hating great-aunt and her father’s brawniest, most bull-like champion storming across the cleared space of the dancing area, both of them bent on murder.

  The brutish guard would’ve beaten Sorley to a pulp, perhaps worse. She couldn’t have allowed that to happen. But sparing him a thrashing had broken her heart.

  Now…

  She only wished she knew he’d returned safely from the Red Lion.

  She also wanted her bed to stop moving. She usually didn’t fear aught, but devils and demons did exist, as all Highlanders knew.

  However…

  The evil eye was also real, so perhaps if she stared fiercely enough at the bed, the jerky movements would go away. So she fixed a fearsome scowl on her face and glared at the bouncing covers.

  They stilled at once.

  “Praise be!” She took a few steps forward, her gaze not leaving the rumpled sheets.

  “Yeoooooow!” A tiny gray head with huge white-rimmed eyes and large pointy ears popped up between her pillows, the kitten’s blue gaze latching on hers as it yowled again, this time even louder.

  “Little Heart!” She ran across the room, her own heart bursting.

  “Dear heavens!” She dropped to her knees beside the bed and reached for him, hoping to cuddle him to her breast.

  She didn’t need to, because he flew at her, landing on her shoulder and clinging fast, purring a storm. Mirabelle stood, holding him against her, blinking hard to chase the heat stinging her eyes.

  “Oh, you sweet wee mite!” She stroked his velvet fur, wincing at his airlike weight, his thinness that let her feel every one of his ribs. “You will never be hungry again, I promise,” she vowed, kneeling to place him on the rushes, her heart swelling to see his wobbly steps bringing him right back to her.

  His limp was gone.

  He seemed to know her, appeared just as happy to be hers as she was to have him.

  She scooped him up against her cheek, turning her head to kiss his soft little face. “You won’t have to ever worry about anything ever again. You’re mine now and your name is Little Heart.”

  He pressed into her, purring as if he knew.

  And she knew how he got here.

  There was only one explanation, and it filled her with as much joy as finding the kitten in her bed.

  Sorley had caught him for her. That meant he’d returned safely from his meeting with Grim Mackintosh. Unless he’d retrieved Little Heart before he’d left Stirling to make his way to the Red Lion.

  She wouldn’t have known, as she’d spent the day with her father in the castle scriptorium.

  But she meant to find out, and soon.

  She also needed to thank Sorley. She’d consider the meaning of his rescue of Little Heart later. She didn’t want to get her hopes up. She did have to fetch food for the kitten.

  “You darling…” She lifted him back onto her bed, hating to leave him. “I’ll be back anon, I promise.”

  Then she bent down and kissed him again. “Till soon.”

  As he mewed in answer, she turned and slipped from the room, closing the door gently behind her.

  Sorley knew the moment Mirabelle entered the great hall.

  Much to his annoyance, Sir John also noticed.

  He sat not far from where Sorley stood in the shadows of a window embrasure. Two court beauties flanked the noble, each one famed for how generously she shared her charms. Even so, Sir John turned his head as Mirabelle passed his table. Stroking his pointy black beard, he let his hooded gaze follow Mirabelle’s progress down the hall’s broad center aisle. With a grace all her own, she was heading for the raised dais where her father dined with his guardsmen.

  She glowed, looking happier than he’d ever seen her.

  He could guess why.

  And her delight affected him so deeply that he lost all awareness of everyone and everything else in the hall. He saw only her sparkling eyes, the pleased flush on her cheekbones, and the soft curve of her lips, her smile warming him clear to his toes.

  He should be admiring how her glorious hair gleamed in the torchlight. Or that her deep blue gown displayed the creamy top swells of her breasts and clung to her waist and hips, leaving little doubt how lushly she was made. He half believed he caught a tantalizing hint of her rose perfume floating in the air behind her.

  The length of her skirts flattered her long legs, so slender and shapely. The kind of limbs a man loved having wrapped tight around his hips. Better yet, her tempting thighs, when parted, would offer a succulent feast.

  He’d glimpsed the shadow of those curls in the Rose Room, knew they’d be burnished and glossy. Rich with the heady scent of her deepest femininity, her secret places drew him fiercely. His urge to touch her there, to taste her, almost consumed him.

  Indeed, he wanted her so much that just the sheen of the torches on the expos
ed half-moons of her breasts sent hot blood rushing to his nether regions, quickening his desire, setting him like stone.

  That he ached to lie with her stood without question.

  Yet…

  Watching her enter the hall caused his heart to start a slow, hard beating.

  And that was a problem.

  Heart thumpings meant something more than simple lust.

  Pure carnal need could be slaked in a shadowed alcove of the hall or on a quiet stair landing. Plenty other places would do as well. Many were the kitchen lasses and laundresses eager to lift their skirts. Wyldes’s Red Lion wenches were aye eager to sate such urges.

  In desperation, his hand would serve.

  Regrettably, none of those options would ever satisfy him again. He shifted, uncomfortable with the notion. But there was no denying the unaccustomed tightness in his chest each time he saw Mirabelle, the way his pulse leapt when she looked at him. He couldn’t speak to her without wanting to touch her flame-bright hair, or better yet, grab her and pull her to him, kissing her soundly and more.

  Most alarming, she made him wish for things that could never be. Like the pleasure of waking beside her in the morning, seeing her sleep-mussed and soft-eyed, all warm and pliant in his arms. The new day theirs to claim, any way they wished to enjoy the hours.

  Such thoughts were new to him, and disturbing.

  He was well used to desiring a woman, but he’d never before adored one.

  Frowning, he lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck, aware he could’ve used a much stronger word.

  Truth was, no female had ever stirred him so thoroughly, to the bone and deeper. Mirabelle was a poison in his blood, and he doubted he’d ever be able to purge himself of her. Especially since he would soon do everything to and with her that was possible without taking her maidenhead. It was a fool plan and dangerous. But she’d made the offer and he couldn’t resist.

  Besides, he had a few plans of his own. Wasn’t it a Fenris truth, even carved into everything he was, that a man never gained aught unless he fought for it? He might be the last man who’d qualify as a suitable husband for Lady Mirabelle, but he damn well could protect her from landing in the arms of an even worse choice.