by Paula Quinn
Good Lord, he’d had her letters in his hand. He could have seen the words she’d penned over the months for him, about him. She would have died if he had read them.
She tried to sleep but memories of his kiss tortured her. His lips were warm and full, malleable to his passion and bewitching. His tongue was a flame across the inside of her mouth, igniting an uncontainable fire. Hadn’t she sworn to herself that she’d never fall for him again?
She stayed awake thanks to his extraordinarily beautiful eyes and the way they looked through her, to her soul, with a warning of danger that sizzled her blood.
She fumbled down the stairs the next morning with puffy eyes and curses on her lips. Darach Grant was the last person she wanted to see but her future had to be discussed. The sooner something was done about the Menzies, the sooner Grant could leave. It would need to be quick before she became attracted to him again.
She made her way to the Great Hall only to find her brother waiting inside alone.
Since the Menzies had begun attacking, Will had stopped smiling. He loved Ravenglade. Janet believed this place meant more to her brother than it did to Malcolm Grant. He would do anything to keep it out of Menzie hands, but what would happen when Malcolm Grant returned and ruled here? Would Will step aside?
More than her future, she worried about her brother giving up his life for Ravenglade. They’d grown up hearing tales about the famous castle. When they were old enough they visited it during the many months and years Malcolm had neglected it. Will loved it then, but he never imagined living in it.
“Where is Grant?” she asked him before taking her seat at the empty table.
“He left quite early. Said he needed to bring his horse to the stables.”
“Ootside?” she asked incredulously. “He had the drawbridge lowered?”
William drew his cup to his mouth. “He did indeed.” Her brother swigged what she hoped was water this early in the morning, then sighed. “A jolting reminder of how reckless he is. He assured me that if he had to, he could take on the Menzies before they got inside.”
“Alone?” Janet asked, wanting to laugh, but felt too sick to her stomach to do so. Was their “savior” fool enough to think he could take on the Menzies alone? They were doomed. He’d die and her brother would have to keep his word to her himself. He’d have to find a way out of marrying her off, and Janet was no longer sure Will could keep his word.
“Fergive me, Janet,” her brother said, sounding defeated. “We will find a way—”
“Is that ale ye’re drinking?”
When he nodded, she lifted her bottom off the chair and leaned across the table to snatch the cup out if his hand. She tossed it into the hearth without taking her eyes off him as it crashed into the wall. “We will not find a way out of this if we’re too drunk to stand. Get a hold of yerself, Will. I need to think with a clear head, and I need to know that I am not alone.”
“Janet.” His eyes on her grew large and round with pity and worry. Two things she didn’t want or need. “If we kill the Menzie chief…” He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, and then began again. “What do ye mean to do?”
The fear in his eyes was clear to read, and he had every right to feel it. If they killed the Menzie chief they would start a feud that would likely last for decades. No chief, no matter how thrust upon him the title was, wanted to start a feud. William certainly didn’t. The only other option was to give Roddie what they’d agreed upon. Her.
There had to be another way to get out of the agreement without starting a feud.
“She isna’ goin’ to do anything.”
She turned in her chair to see Grant standing beneath the doorframe, pulling off his riding gloves. Lord help her, how did the man manage to look so virile and divine at the same time? He carried in his eyes the green frost of an early ending summer, and he released from his body the cool morning air of the outdoors. As he came closer to her, a chill swept through her blood, a chill scented with leather and pine. She couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting to his mouth. He’d removed his own stitches. Damn it all, he had a sexy mouth. He didn’t offer her a smile when he reached her chair and stared down at her.
“Ye’ll do as I say, Miss Buchanan.” His voice was a slow, rich blend of satin and the deep melody of his ancient race. Like a sorcerer’s spell, it compelled her to agree with whatever he wanted.
He was more dangerous to her than any Menzie.
And a hundred times more irritating.
“Grant.” She stood to her feet so as to have to look up to him less when she said, “Ye are not my master.”
He didn’t reply right away, but instead took ownership of her with a mere slant of his gaze down the length of her. She felt it like a touch, potent and whisper soft over her flesh, making the delicate hairs along her skin rise. He lingered on the swell of her hip, drinking her up and luring her deeper into his decadent spell. His hooded gaze fired her blood until she felt consumed with passion and desire… to step forward and slap his face.
The only reason she didn’t do it was to save William from having to worry about the Menzies and Darach Grant.
“I have nae desire to be yer master, Miss Buchanan,” he said without bothering to conceal the contradictory edge to his voice and the spark of flint in his eyes. “I do, however, intend to save this castle and ye from having to wed Roddie Menzie if ye stay oot of m’ way.”
Damn it, he sounded so certain, so confident that he could do it, that he could save them all. It was what she wanted. What she needed—someone to stand with her and fight. Hell, she didn’t mind moving aside and letting a man help her with her dilemma. But Darach was a fool. An arrogant fool.
“Do ye intend to save us all on yer own?” she asked him, folding her arms across her chest. “Ye had the drawbridge lowered and put us all in danger. How am I supposed to trust ye?”
He smiled, so slightly that she would have missed it if she didn’t know his face so well, hadn’t dreamed of it for so long.
“I didna’ ask ye to trust me. I asked ye to stay oot of m’ way.” He stepped around the table and stood before a seat a few inches from Will. “As fer savin’ ye all on m’ own”—he motioned for her to be seated and then followed her lead—“there are twenty-six Menzies encamped thirteen leagues north of here. Takin’ them down on m’ own would be difficult, but no’ impossible.”
“How d’ye know there are twenty-six Menzies in their camp,” she asked him. How could he possibly know for certain? “Or where their camp is exactly?”
“I counted them.” He glanced up when their cook, Kevin, her cousin twice removed, entered the Great Hall.
“Ye…” He wasn’t just an arrogant fool, but also a mad, arrogant fool. “Ye counted them?” she asked him, almost speechless. She cast her gaze to Will.
“Aye,” Darach told her, “this mornin’ while they slept.”
He was mad… or utterly fearless and possibly able to get them out of this.
“Why did ye not kill them all then?”
“Because as skilled a fighter as I am, I canna’ kill twenty-six men at once. Really, Miss Buchanan, plans must be made before an attack.” He cast her brother an impatient look, then returned his gaze to her. “Ye will bring m’ plans to ruin if ye try anything foolish.”
She wanted to shout at him that she didn’t care about his plans. It was her life to be sacrificed to a bleating goat. Was she supposed to entrust her life to a man she’d met all but two times, and both times, he was beaten to a bloody mess? He could barely defend himself, let alone her and a castle. She was afraid.
But she said nothing. She didn’t have a plan and if she did and she told it to him, he would try to stop her anyway. Instead, she watched Kevin serve their food—month-old mutton drenched in a white mushroom gravy and stale brown bread. Darach took one look at it, angled his head an inch to inhale, then pushed the dish away.
“We’ve been living on what we had for the last few months,” Janet defend
ed. “Our livestock are all but gone and we haven’t been able to hunt.”
He startled her when he bolted to his feet, tall and angry. “That willna’ do.”
She and Will, along with Kevin, watched him storm out of the Hall. What did he mean to do? Janet didn’t wait to find out, but sprang to her feet and followed him, her brother close behind.
Chapter Seven
“What are ye going to do?”
Darach turned to look at the woman keeping pace with him while he strode down the long corridor leading to the kitchen. When he returned home he was going to break Malcolm’s nose, again, for sending him here. Saving Ravenglade was one thing. Putting him in the company of this woman was asking too damn much.
So what if she dreamed of him? Many lasses likely did. So what if looking at her delighted him? She was bonny. So were a hundred other women. She was braw, not unafraid, but not silenced by fear. Her saucy mouth and mane of wild golden curls made him want to conquer her to the ancient rhythm of his blood. He didn’t think she’d surrender easily. It only provoked his blood to burn hotter. Damn him.
Damn her.
“We’re goin’ huntin’.” He ignored the slight gasp breaking through her lips. She was going to be difficult, hot on his heels at every turn, wanting to know his every decision and then trying to dissuade him from it. And he would likely give in to each of her requests.
“Will,” he turned to her brother, who’d remained quiet for the most part this morning. “Arm half a dozen of yer men with bows and arrows, and bring one fer me, as well. I’ll meet ye and the others at the end of the tunnel.”
When Will nodded, looking a little pale, Darach turned from him and to his sister.
Her face distracted him from Will’s departure. The slight tilt of her dimpled chin urged him to smile. The lightning tempest in her eyes promised a worthy fight. She would be easy to pen a song about…
He closed his eyes for a moment, clearing his head of her. “Ye’ll remain here,” he ordered, then, at the risk of losing it, pressed his finger to her lips. “Dinna’ argue. If ye do, I’ll return to Skye later on today and ye and yer brother can do whatever ye wish. If the Menzies take Ravenglade, m’ kin will just take it back when we return next spring or whenever Malcolm decides.”
He watched the storm in her eyes darken her expression. He didn’t care if she hated him. He didn’t want her going out there and getting herself killed. But damn it, she wasn’t his responsibility. He had to keep a clear head around her. He’d ponder why she clouded his thoughts in the first place tomorrow. If she lived that long. Her hand on his arm stopped him when he turned to leave her.
“If the Menzies come upon ye, they’ll overtake the eight of ye.”
“They willna’ come upon us,” he assured her. “We’re goin’ only to hunt. We’ll fight another day.”
“If ye’re going only to hunt,” she challenged, “why not let me come?”
Hell, he couldn’t decide if he liked her stubborn will or if it was the most irritating thing about her. If she wanted the truth, he’d give it to her. She could handle it. “Because ye’re bloodthirsty,” he said. “If we come upon one of them pissin’ in the woods, ye’re likely to fling yer dagger into his throat.”
“What would be so terrible about that?” she asked, tempting him to conclude that, irritating or not, she was the most irresistible woman he’d met in his lifetime.
He liked that she wasn’t afraid of some blood, but the Menzies were too dangerous. Some of them would think nothing of killing her, woman or not. He’d have to kill every damn one of them then.
“I’m coming with ye,” she called out, stopping his departure again. “And if ye leave because of it, there might not be a Ravenglade left fer Malcolm to return to. Fires cause devastating spoil, ye know.”
He turned around to her slowly, his eyes wide with disbelief. Had he heard her right? Did she just threaten to burn Ravenglade down? She was mad, and she was determined to drag him into her madness, too.
Would she do it? He looked at her standing there, shoulders squared, chest out, jaw angled slightly upward like a fiery mare, ready to stand head-to-head with him, to call his bluff on whatever threat he cast at her. Was he confident about doing the same?
Nae. She would do it. She would put torch to the castle with a smile on her face. He thought of all the tapestries woven by his kin’s hands, the furniture his uncle Connor built, all ashes.
“Verra’ well,” he conceded, only vaguely concerned that she’d beaten him at his own game. There would be other rounds. He looked forward to them. “Come wi’ us, then. Start a fight though and I’ll let ye finish it.”
He ignored her venomous oath and continued on toward the kitchen. On the way, he lifted two torches from the wall and handed one to her. There were dozens of torch stands in the tunnel that needed to be lit so that the group could see where they were going.
He entered the kitchen and removed the trap door from the floor. He climbed inside and lit the first torch stand while Janet dropped through the door next.
“What about William and the others?” she called out to him when he kept moving, lighting the way.
“We’ll wait fer yer brother at the end of the tunnel. That was the plan, if ye had been listenin’.”
She ignored his jab and lit the next torch stand. “D’ye think we’ll run into any Menzies?”
“Tell me now, lass. Are ye goin’ to ask questions durin’ the entire excursion?”
She turned to him with frost in her eyes. “Are ye truly my only hope? Ye’re sure there is no way to send word to yer kin to send us someone else?”
In front of her, one corner of his mouth hooked into a smile. “If every man in the whole of Skye came here, I’d still be yer only hope.”
She laughed and the gentle tinkling sound echoed through the dim light. “Is yer opinion of yerself so high that ye think ye’re the only man who can help me?”
“Nae.” He lit another torch and turned to her again, her torch between them. “I think that after an hour in yer torturous company m’ kin would all turn to the Menzies’ side.”
She stopped walking and stared at him like he’d just put a hand to her. Hell, he’d gone too far. The thought of making her cry hooked him in the gut more deeply than he expected it would. He enjoyed their banter. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. What the hell did he know about a lass’s sensitivities? He was used to making them giggle and groan. Not weep. And why did he care so much about this particular lass? Why did simply looking at her inspire him to write new verses describing every facet of her?
“Come now,” he said before he thought about it some more, “ye must admit that ye’re opinionated and stubborn and no’ always pleasant to be aroond.”
Her eyes opened wider and he closed his mouth. He could write a dozen lines of words worthy of his father’s lute but he didn’t know what to say to comfort a lass.
But this lass didn’t need comforting. What he thought was insult in her eyes was scorn, smoldering and robust. “This isn’t yer feeble attempt at an apology, is it, Grant?”
He smiled. Something thoroughly wicked snapped across his back and seared his blood just taking in the sight of her against the soft torchlight, ready to take him on. She was no thin-skinned flower, able to throw a strike but unable to take one back. He liked it. He always had.
Damn him.
“I’m glad I’m not pleasant to be aroond, Grant,” she said, moving to pass him. “If I can make yer stay here less tolerable, then my duty is—”
Closing his fingers around her wrist, he pulled her back and hauled her hard against him. He didn’t give her time to protest but leaned over her, and cupping the back of her head in his palm, he captured her mouth with his and kissed her like he didn’t have a right to and he didn’t give a damn. His tongue delved deep within her parted lips, stroking her, tasting her, and hell, but she tasted fine. When her tongue met his, caressing him in a fevered dance as old as time, he closed
his arms around her tighter and pressed his hips to hers.
She gasped at the feel of his iron-hard cock nestled against her and tried to break free. He let her and she swung her hand around and slapped him across the face. For a moment, while his cheek stung, he simply stared at her, breathing her in, basking in the full glory of her will to hate him. He took a step back, but she followed. She made no further objections when he pushed her up against the wall.
He knew he should stop. He usually possessed much more control than this. But Janet Buchanan tempted him beyond his endurance and drove him mad with the need to conquer her.
Stretching her arms over her head, he settled his weight against her and ravished her mouth, her tongue. She moved against him until slowly, she curled a calf around his leg, opening herself to him until he thought he might go mad.
“I won’t be yer conquest.” She broke their kiss and breathed hard beneath him.
“Fine.” He licked the seam of her mouth. “I’ll be yers.”
She smiled at him for the first time and he fought the maddening desire to stop everything and think of the right words to describe it. He wedged his hips deeper against hers and rubbed her while he explored the deepest corners of her mouth.
He could take her. He knew what to do, what to say, and how to move to make her wild for him. But something stopped him.
It wasn’t because she was a Buchanan, or because she might cut his throat later for plundering her against a tunnel wall. And hell, but he wanted to plunder her. He’d never wanted anything so badly in his life, and that too frightened him. She had fire and fearlessness that drew him like a moth, helpless to resist. She was unlike other lasses he knew, and because of that, he didn’t want to treat her like a common wench. She wouldn’t want that either. He was getting the hell out of here as soon as he took care of the Menzies. He likely would not see her again for a long time and he feared that if he took her and left her, his tortured heart would not be able to stand it.