My Brave Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  Dirk focused on the person who had followed him. Faint quick footsteps slapped against the icy stones.

  The person who paused at the stable entrance was small and slight. Female.

  Isobel?

  She was the last person he expected to trail him into the winter wind. Her head was covered in her dark plaid. A mantle wrapped her slender frame.

  "Dirk?" Her breath fogged. "Are you well?"

  The familiar way she spoke his name sent an odd longing through him. Standing in the darkest portion of the stable, he was near struck immobile to see her here. He'd expected a confrontation from some long lost enemy. Or some teasing from Rebbie. But not her.

  "Aye. What are you doing out here in the cold, Lady Isobel?"

  "I could ask you the same question." She moved forward, closer to him.

  "I don't care for noisy crowds."

  "Nor do I."

  He snorted, remembering how she'd joined in the revelry, dancing for all she was worth. "Not certain I believe that."

  "Why? Because I enjoy a dance now and then?"

  He shrugged, though he was almost certain she couldn't see this. There was naught wrong with enjoying a dance. In fact, he wished he could do the same, but he didn't feel comfortable doing so.

  "You should've asked me to dance," she said in a flirtatious tone that riveted his attention.

  Saints! What could he say except the truth? "I'm not much for dancing."

  "Hmm. What do you like to do?"

  Did she truly expect him to answer that? He didn't think she'd appreciate swiving as an answer. Hell, he could think of naught intelligent to say. Nothing witty or teasing like Rebbie might convey. He felt daft at the moment, then he realized why. He rarely talked to women. For a certainty, he'd indulged in bed sport with plenty of females, but he didn't carry on conversations with them.

  "So… you're not much for dancing, or talking," Isobel said. "Nor do you like eating, judging by the things you left on your trencher. Let me guess. You enjoy riding, fighting, hunting. Swordplay. Rescuing helpless females."

  Heat rushed over him. Not simply embarrassment, but also sexual awareness. "You are no helpless female."

  "I was basically… when you found me."

  "'Haps." He stroked the horse's muzzle, his mind struggling for a response. But he was in no mood for a conversation. All he could think about was Isobel's lushness. The memory of carrying her back to bed was imprinted on his mind and body. He recalled exactly how her light weight and curves felt in his arms, and the tingle of excitement that raced over him when she'd kissed his neck.

  "Did I thank you?" she asked.

  "Aye. And you're most welcome."

  "This is Tulloch, is it not?"

  "Aye."

  She lifted her hand as if to pet the warhorse, which was far taller than she. "Will he bite me?"

  "I hope not."

  "That's reassuring," she said dryly.

  Dirk snickered, not realizing until this moment that talking to a woman could be entertaining.

  "Was that a laugh? Are you laughing at me?" she demanded in a mock severe tone.

  "Nay. Not at you." But something about her, now that he was alone with her, did make him feel the urge to smile more than normal. He was unsure what it was.

  "I think I should like to see you laugh," she said in a husky female tone.

  Damnation, she was teasing him. He knew not how to deal with flirtatious women, especially ones he wasn't supposed to touch. He knew what he would like to do—lift her into his arms and press her against the wall. But, nay, he couldn't do that to a lady betrothed to a neighboring chief.

  "I suppose I will have to think of something funny to say more often so you'll laugh. In the meantime, Tulloch, do not bite me." She sidled even closer to Dirk as she reached up for the horse. The animal sniffed her palm then lowered his huge head. She stroked his muzzle gently.

  "He's naught but a pet," she said with amazement.

  "He's on his best behavior before a lady, but he's sometimes more high-strung and untamed."

  "Could the same be said about you?" she asked in a low, intimate voice.

  "Doubtful." Heat and chills raced over his skin, making him crave… Damnation! She was trying to spur a response from him. But he couldn't give it, no matter how he ached for her.

  "Oh, I'm guessing you can be untamed at times."

  Hell, she could not possibly mean what he thought. Untamed in bed? He hardened fully and all words fled his mind.

  She was a widow, he remembered suddenly. Had her former husband not pleased her in bed? This had been the case with a few of the widows he'd dallied with in the past. To think of Isobel unfulfilled and yearning… And he wondered if she remembered anything about the night she sleepwalked and he carried her back to the bed. She'd made no mention of it.

  "You're a descendant of those wild, invading Norsemen, are you not?" she asked.

  "In part." He sucked in a deep breath of icy air to cool his burning need. Mixed with the scent of hay, he caught a faint whiff of her sweet floral fragrance. It only magnified his lust. "You shouldn't be out here, Isobel."

  "Why not?" She turned to him. In the dim reflection of light from the torches outside, he could only see the curve of her cheekbone and the prim but sensual shape of her lips.

  He cleared his throat and turned away, needing to adjust his trews in the worst way. "I wouldn't want you to catch an ague from the chill wind."

  "I won't. I've lived in the Highlands all my life. I'm accustomed to the cold."

  "Aye, but Rebbie will wonder where his dance partner slipped away to." Had he said that with more bitterness than normal?

  "Nay. I told him I wanted to talk to you."

  "What did he say to that?" Dirk asked, actually wondering what she wanted to talk to him about. Or why.

  "He wished me luck."

  "Hmph. Rebbie is ever full of wit, aye?" Dirk grumbled.

  "You have no need to be jealous of him," she said in a soft voice.

  How had she known he'd been jealous? He wanted to deny it, but that would be a sure-fire lie. Rebbie could talk to any woman all day, and have her laughing every five seconds. Dirk envied him that.

  "We could dance here, you know," she suggested.

  "Dance? In the stable?"

  "Aye."

  "There is no music."

  She started humming and singing a lively jig in a captivating, high-pitched voice, then launched into a country dance. He chuckled at how silly and fun she was. She dragged him into the dance and he let himself be taken in. It was a dance he had done a few times, so he remembered the steps. His toe caught on one of the stone slates of the floor. He stumbled but caught her and braced against the stone wall of the stable so they wouldn't fall.

  He found himself laughing more than he had in a long while. "I'm not so good at dancing, as you can see."

  She giggled and, in the dim light, the flash of her white teeth and the sparkle in her eye were visible. Her lush rose scent in the midst of a Highland stable almost bewitched him. He hadn't remembered her smelling this way. Nay, two nights ago, she hadn't. Mayhap she'd bathed in a new rose-scented soap.

  Was she even real? How could this be happening? It all seemed a mid-winter dream, a heated fantasy he'd concocted to drive off the cold.

  A fantasy he could not resist indulging in for just one moment.

  Chapter Eleven

  Leaning against the rock wall next to the stall, Dirk lowered his head and found Isobel's lips. Mmm. She was sweet, her lips soft and delicate like warm rose petals after a summer rain. Her delectable female flavor mixed with strawberry tart stole his reasoning ability. He had to taste her more. What an enchanting surprise when she opened to him. He explored her mouth, loving the shy flick of her tongue against his.

  Her hands fisted in his hair, drawing his head down and pulling herself up to him, her body sliding along his. He groaned, his hands finding her derriere and dragging her tight against his hard shaft. Ple
asure and need tore through him. Her round arse in his hands, he lifted her higher, devouring her mouth. He moaned before he realized the sound had escaped.

  Damned if this wasn't paradise.

  Her tentative kisses grew bolder and more frantic. Her lips moved over his, her tongue stroked against his and she moaned. "Mmm, Dirk," she whispered. "So good."

  What the hell am I doing?

  Drawing back, he set her away from him. "Iosa is Muire Mhàthair." Growling the Gaelic oath, he tried to catch his breath and think with some logic while he listened to her ragged breathing.

  "I've never… well…" she whispered, supporting herself against the stone wall. "Now we know what you're good at."

  "Damnation, Isobel. Go back inside." He ached for her. He'd craved her for days, but never like this.

  "Now you get surly?" she demanded. "After that?"

  "Especially after that. I can't…" Pacing away, he muttered more Gaelic curses, his frustration knowing no bounds. "We can't do that. You're betrothed."

  "Very well." She straightened, sounding prim and proper of a sudden and beyond vexed. "Blame it on me then."

  "I'm blaming no one. Just… stay away from me." Hell, that had been the wrong thing to say.

  "Bastard," she snapped.

  He sucked in a deep breath, trying to rein himself under control. Aye, let her think whatever she wanted about him, so long as she didn't touch him again. Or allow him to touch her. When he did, his body was no longer under his own command.

  Clearly she was an experienced widow who knew how to seduce him easily. Her future husband might not know the difference, but Dirk would. He had more honor and sense than to lie with a woman who was almost married to someone else.

  She paced away from him, then back. "I but wanted to be friends."

  "Friends do not kiss each other like that," he muttered, wishing he could do it all over again. Never had a kiss been so astounding for him.

  "I know."

  "For God's sake, Isobel, go back inside." He knew his tone was near begging but he couldn't help it. He had to fight for self-control around her. His mind latched onto how much she'd enjoyed the kiss, how she'd responded, kissing him back like a love-starved wanton, rubbing up against him. If she touched him again now, he might have her pinned to the wall in a matter of seconds, their clothing pushed aside and…

  Nay, don't think of that. He shook his head, trying to clear away the erotic images.

  When she came closer, he drew in a deep breath, craving the smell of her, the taste of her. He stiffened, refusing to move.

  "I just wanted to say… I enjoyed that more than…"

  "What do you think I am?" he growled, arousal rampaging through him. "A saint? A eunuch?"

  She shook her head, then strode regally from the stable out into the courtyard.

  What had she meant to say? She'd enjoyed the kiss more than any other she'd received? Had neither her betrothed nor her late husband ever kissed her as if they could devour her? Well… that's how he'd felt. 'Haps he should be ashamed of that, but he wasn't. She was delicious and damned arousing. If she'd stayed, she'd find herself spread upon a pile of hay in one of the empty stalls, her skirts flung to her waist, while he gave her exactly what she'd been asking for.

  ***

  Hand pressed against her burning lips, Isobel rushed across the frigid bailey, disturbing the thin layer of snow. Her lips tingled, and on her tongue she savored the lingering taste of Dirk—spicy male. His scrumptious mouth had near scorched hers in the cold air. She might be a widow, but she'd never been gifted with such a sinful kiss. She had not even known such kisses were possible.

  She'd never wanted a man's mouth on hers anyway. Her late husband had always had perpetually bad breath. Neither had her betrothed, the MacLeod, kissed her. She barely knew the man. But Dirk's breath, and his mouth, had tasted like sweet spiced wine… cinnamon, cloves and honey added to an unmistakably appealing masculine flavor that made her want to bite him and lick him all over.

  She'd felt his considerable erection pressed against her lower belly. That was something she'd never felt before, and she couldn't believe how hard it was.

  What would he do if she turned and ran back to the stable? Not that she would. She wasn't witless. His angry rejection was obvious.

  Of course, there was more to consider than simply what her body craved. She must think of the clans and the well-being of all the clansmen. What she, a mere woman, wanted was of no importance. No one cared about her dreams or desires.

  She ran up the steps to the castle portal. A guard helped her open it from the inside and then she entered the warm great hall. Unable to withstand more of the music and dancing, she skirted the dance floor and slipped up the narrow turnpike stairwell.

  In the chamber they'd assigned her, Beitris had maintained the cozy fire and was snoozing on a pallet in front of it.

  After partially disrobing, Isobel crawled between the cool linen sheets, glad several woolen blankets were piled on top. She covered her head and thought of Dirk. Her chin still burned where his beard stubble had rasped against her. Her whole body was flushed and tingling from the way he'd kissed her, consuming her mouth as if starving for the taste of it… oh heavens! She craved him with the same hunger.

  She didn't understand what he'd made her feel. Was it magic? Her heart had sped up as if under some sort of potent spell or witch's potion. And the flood of hot yearning… deep inside… between her legs. She would've done anything he'd asked at that moment. Anything he'd wanted, especially after he'd drawn her intimately against his aroused shaft.

  Obviously, he'd wanted more, and she wished he'd taken more. The thought of his heated, naked skin sliding along hers near drove her mad. She wanted him to be the one to make her a woman in truth. At five-and-twenty she was well beyond the age when she should know what coupling felt like. With Dirk, she craved this strange and elusive connection as never before. 'Haps she had remained a virgin too long and her woman's body was rebelling, demanding a man's body for fulfillment and completion.

  If he knew of her innocence, he would likely stay even further away from her. He must not find out.

  ***

  "What the devil are you doing out here?"

  Dirk jumped and turned from the horse's stall. Rebbie stood in the stable entrance. Why hadn't he heard his friend's approach? His thoughts of Isobel had distracted him.

  "Naught. Examining the stables."

  "Ha. Indeed?" Rebbie paced across the hay-strewn floor and glanced in at his own horse. "Seems more than sufficient."

  "Aye."

  "Did Isobel come out here?"

  "Why? What did she tell you?"

  "Naught. But when she returned, she raced across the great hall and disappeared up the steps as if the fires of hell licked at her heels."

  "Hmph." Maybe Dirk had frightened her. He hadn't meant to, though he did have to warn her to stay away from him. If they had a tryst, the repercussions would be hellish indeed—clan wars.

  "Did you say anything to upset her?" Rebbie asked.

  "Nay." So that was a lie. Could not be helped.

  "But she was here?" Rebbie asked.

  "Aye."

  "Something must have happened."

  Dirk ground his teeth. Rebbie's prying combined with his earlier flirtation with Isobel truly grated on Dirk's patience. "'Tis none of your concern," he snapped.

  "Ah… well." Rebbie drew back. "I see."

  Did he see? Dirk didn't think so. He hated the torturous position he currently found himself in and Rebbie was not helping matters. He was but twisting the knife.

  Rebbie chuckled softly.

  "What?" Dirk growled.

  "'Tis plain to see, man. She has you all riled up."

  Dirk snorted, trying his best to hide his true feelings about the situation. Of a certainty, he'd felt desire before. Lust. But never with the burning intensity he experienced when Isobel was near. "You have vivid imaginings."

  "I ken you want
her. Admit it."

  "No more than you want her," Dirk grumbled with a glare toward his friend. The memory of Rebbie and Isobel's conversation during supper, then the dancing, made Dirk's gut wrench.

  "Aha! There's where you're wrong, my friend," Rebbie said. "I'm not dimwitted enough to chase after the skirts of an almost married woman."

  "Nor am I. Do you think I want a feud with the MacLeods?"

  "Nay. I see that's holding you back."

  "It's enough." Aye, indeed, more than enough. He couldn't return to his clan only to lead them into a battle of his own making. He didn't kidnap MacLeod's bride; he rescued her.

  "But if not for that?"

  "It matters not, because she's betrothed. Naught will change that fact," Dirk said in a hard tone, as much to himself as to his friend. Wishes and fantasies were for silly, frivolous lasses and held no purpose. Dirk lived in the real world.

  "And yet, true love always finds a way," Rebbie mused.

  Love? Had Rebbie gone daft of a sudden? Love and lust were many miles apart.

  "Hmph. What are you, a poet? A bard?" Dirk asked.

  "'Haps I should be. The ladies would love it, I'm thinking."

  "I'm certain," Dirk muttered dryly. Anything Rebbie did, the ladies loved.

  "Except for Lady Isobel and Lady Jessie, Dunnakeil is near bereft of lovely ladies, though, is it not? 'Twould be nice to have a buxom lass to warm my bed at night."

  Dirk frowned. "You're not thinking of seducing my sister," he said in a warning tone.

  "Nay, strangely, she's too much like a female version of you. 'Tis a bit bizarre."

  "She's not the least bit mannish."

  "Nay, she's utterly feminine and beautiful, but the look in her eyes. 'Tis almost like looking at your eyes."

  Dirk believed he understood what his friend meant. He and Jessie resembled each other a great deal, including having eyes like their father. Anyway, he was glad Rebbie wasn't attracted to her. One less thing to worry about. "And you're not thinking of seducing Isobel either." Dirk knew his words came out like an order, but he couldn't help it.

  "Nay, not Isobel either. Obviously, she is spoken for twice over."