Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures

by Heather Graham

  And now they would fight with their fists. She had to fight him! She could not give up without a battle herself, for she was the lady here, and they called her the princess of the Isle of the Angels. "Nay, my lord! I am not a prize! And you have won nothing, for you've not won me!"

  His blue eyes looked angry. "Brave talk, my princess!" And he gave her a deep, mocking bow. "But indeed, you are the prize, and you are won. And this very night, you will be my bride."

  "Never!" she promised fervently.

  "I am the conqueror, lady. And now the king of all that I see."

  "Then I shall blind you, and you will see nothing."

  "Too late, lady. For I have seen you. And you are mine. Aye, mine. Now. Tonight."

  The door closed behind him with a heavy slam, kicked shut by his foot.

  "Don't you dare think to touch me! I will call upon what men I have—"

  "I dare anything, lady. And any man knows that to disturb me now would mean his death. Would you still call upon your men, lady?"

  She held still. Dear God, she'd have no more men die over this isle!

  The cold steel of his sword clattered upon the floor.

  And he strode into the room.

  She could not let him touch her. Reaching wildly, she found the earthenware water pitcher and hurtled hurled it across the room. He ducked, and it crashed over his head, and suddenly his laughter filled the room. It was deep, rich and husky, and it caused the cascade of fire to leap within her again. He came toward her once more, his strides incredibly long. She leaped on top of the bed, a mattress of down on tight-wound ropes, and tried to escape by way of the other side.

  It was not possible to do so. His hands closed around her arm. She cried out, swinging hard with her free hand to strike him, to free herself. Her fingers swept across his ruggedly handsome jawline, touching the red and gold fire of his beard, but doing little damage. She lashed out frantically then, trying to strike him again. She heard the sound as her hand at last caught his cheek with a slap which reverberated in the stillness that was only softened by the rush of their breath.

  His eyes narrowed. None dared strike this great Northern jarl in the face. No man, ever, had done so.

  And now she...

  Thunder crossed his brow. Thunder that seemed to shake the heavens; thunder and darkness. There was a great trembling, and it was seconds before she realized that it came from her heart.

  "Nay!" she cried, for his hand was raised against her, and she was suddenly afraid.

  Afraid...

  For he towered over her. His thighs were twice the size of her own, taut, rippled, looking stronger than oak. And his shoulders, laden with scars, were so hard, rippling bronze once again as she stared down at him, as still as the air around them for split seconds as her eyes locked with his, the green of the earth locked with the blue of the sky and the sea...

  "Now, my lady!" he repeated.

  And even as she stood poised to flee on the bed, she shrieked out again, for he had jerked her arm and she was falling, falling on the softness of the down bedding. She screamed again as he fell on her, for once he was over her, there could be no escape. Arms of steel embraced her like the bars of a prison. Thighs of rippling, fevered muscle locked her in more securely than any walls of earth or wood or stone.

  "Nay!" she shrieked again, her head tossing from side to side. "I am the trueborn lady here, and you, sir, are base and vile, a heathen cast upon the sea—"

  "An adventurer, my lady, indeed," he responded, his thumb and fingers pinning her jaw still so that her eyes were forced to his once again. "Base, lady? Never. I am the son of a grandson of a great jarl, and born not a morning's swim distance from this place. Someone was destined to take this isle. Someone was destined to hold it. That someone, lady, is me!"

  "The isle is mine—"

  "But you, lady, are mine, spread now beneath me, and nothing more is fact," he said simply. Then, staring down at her, he smiled slowly.

  It was a wicked smile. Full, sensual lips beneath the vivid gold of his beard drew back to display white, perfect teeth. Teeth as strong as the man; handsome, compelling. Fire flashed in his eyes. Blue fire. Tempting, searing fire.

  Then his hand was at her breast, ruthlessly ripping the beautiful blue linen of her garment.

  "Oh!" she cried out, and she struggled again, furious, terrified...

  Excited.

  "Nay..."

  She tried furiously to strike him again. His lingers wound around her wrists. His hands joined together, and he held both of hers with one of his.

  Then his knuckles moved slowly, sensually over her cheek. His eyes burned into hers, taunting her. And he lowered the mane of his blond hair slowly against her. His mouth closed over one of the full, tempting breasts he had just bared to his pleasure.

  She shrieked out again, writhing madly to free herself.

  The heat of his laughter touched her flesh where his kiss had just been. His tongue moved over the delicate bud of her breast. The feel of it hit her mercilessly. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to fight him unto death...

  She wanted to still the fever that he created. Oh, to her horror, she wanted him to find her lips, to kiss them, to touch her.

  "I will fight you forever!" she swore to him passionately, tears of fear and fury and frustration threatening to spill from her eyes.

  "Fight me, lady, but fight me well." And then his lips did find hers. They found them pitilessly, and with no mercy. They swept down on them, full, hot, openmouthed, and demanding. Beneath the onslaught, her mouth parted; she felt the searing heat and fire of his mouth, of his touch, as his tongue entered into her mouth, deep into her mouth Oh, so suggestively into her mouth. Sweeping, warming, stirring...

  And somehow warning her that he would enter her. As ruthlessly and as completely.

  She tried to toss her head. She tried to fight the kiss. His free hand held her, forced her to remain. His tongue grew more gentle, more cajoling. More lulling. And then he was still.

  And she was suddenly motionless herself. Waiting. Her eyes half closed, her body... alive.

  Then she opened her eyes once again, and saw his. Saw the triumph within them.

  He had won again...

  "Nay!" she screamed in outrage.

  But it was too late. Oh, far too late.

  For every warning, every promise, was made good. Ere she could begin to move, he shifted, grasping her slender limbs. She fought, but no mercy was asked, and none was given.

  She did not cry out again. His eyes caught hers, and his powerful body irrevocably parted her legs. She felt the brazen touch of his fingers, moving lower over her belly.

  Then she felt the pain, and she screamed.

  "Nay, lady, nay..." It was he who protested then. The sweetness, the husky fever and the moist warmth of his whisper against the sensitive area of her earlobe and her throat. His lips touched her flesh again and again. His whisper continued. Then his mouth found hers and caressed and seduced it, his tongue plunging into her slowly and erotically.

  Like the great movement of his body, like the rhythm of his desire. He held her first in his arms, letting her know him, letting her body embrace and accept his own. Then he was slow. Filling her until she thought she would split, until she was certain she would die, until she could bear it no longer...

  Then slowly, so slowly, he would near be gone. Until he came again. Deeper and deeper, wedging his way into her body. Into her soul. Into her life. Everlasting.

  Then suddenly it seemed that the storm within him broke. He cried out himself, some primitive cry of his ancient, heathen gods. Clouds and thunder seemed to cascade upon them. He moved with fierce speed, engulfing her in his great rhythm. The pain was gone, for it could not combat the speed. They might have ridden a dragon ship over a black and tempestuous sea. It did not matter, for his arms held her. Indeed, she no longer felt the pain.

  Just the heat. A wave of it. Rippling down on her. Dancing along her back. Entering in
to the center of her, to that very secret place when his body entered hers, reached up, and touched...

  The storm exploded, into the heavens, into the fall of the night. It seemed to sweep over her and through her. He shuddered above her, fiercely.

  He rose above her, his captured prize. His princess.

  His love.

  For, aye, he loved her. Loved her more passionately than he had ever loved any land, coveted her more than he had ever imagined coveting a woman.

  They had been enemies afar.

  But now...

  She would be his bride. He had won the land. He had fought his rivals, and he had won. And he would have his love.

  He smiled and looked down on her. Her eyes were halfway closed. There was the most curious curve to her lips.

  For she loved him, too. He was sure of it. She'd had to fight that last battle. She'd had no choice.

  But now...

  "Now, lady, you are mine," he told her.

  By all the gods, she was beautiful. A wealth of blonde hair spilled around her on the linens and furs that covered the bed. Her face was pure and beautiful like alabaster. Her high cheekbones were ivory and pink, her nose was fine and straight and perfect. Her lips, swollen now from the force of his kiss, were still the color of a summer rose, while the rich wealth of lashes that half covered her eyes were honey dark. Her brows, delicately arched and fine, were that same deep color despite the golden-blond array of her hair.

  Her eyes...

  They opened now to his. Ah, but they were green! Greener than gems, greener than the earth! Greener, deeper, more beautiful than any shade or hue of life.

  Color stained her cheeks. A soft, lovely blush. "I am lady here!" she vowed to him. But her voice was husky and sweet. "I will fight you—"

  "And I will love you, my lady, forever." He smoothed back her hair. "Forever, and ever, and ever."

  Her lips trembled.

  "But you cannot—"

  He touched his finger to her lips, then softly stroked the length of her beautiful hair. "I have watched, and we have battled, and I have waited. And as I waited, I dreamed of a day like today. Of touching you. Of kissing you. Of feeling your fair body entwined with mine. Of laying my hand against your breast. I am the man meant to have you, my love, and the time has come. Would you have preferred that dark lord, Egan, or the Dane, Radwald? Nay, lady, I see your smile. I think not. Indeed, I come from the heathens, far across the seas. But, lady, I love this island, as I love you. And come what may, I will have you both. And heathen though they call me, I will love you, and honor you, and cherish you, love, from this day forward."

  She touched his cheek in wonder. The fierce, sweet fire tore through her once again.

  "Can it be true?" she asked him. "Will you really love me so?"

  "Aye!" he vowed fiercely. He held her close to his heart. "Aye, I will love you. Forever." He laid his cheek against her breast. "Forever. No storm shall ever sway me, no man, no woman, no beast or creature of any heaven or any hell shall stop me. Indeed, not even death shall sway me. I do love you. And I will love you forever."

  Her fingers curled around his. She smiled the rose-sweet smile that truly captured his heart.

  "Forever," she agreed softly.

  And forever it would be.

  Chapter 1

  The Fortress Glenraven Isle of the Angels 1746, after Culloden

  It was her birthright, but she had not wanted to come here.

  It was beautiful, men said, but surely that was their interpretation of beauty, for to Marina, this was not beauty.

  This was darkness, this was foreboding—rugged and sparse. This was bare rock and jutting cliff. Marina was certain that if she could fly, and look down, the Isle of the Angels would appear like one great ragged rock, tossed down by an even craggier coastline.

  Sometimes, when the tide was low, a tall man—or a mounted man—could ford the distance from the island to the shore. But sometimes, when the winds whipped and storms came, the sea between the island and the coast became deep and wild, drowning the unwary, clutching them up and swallowing them whole. Ships were sometimes fooled, and captains were caught on the cliff and rocks today, just as they had been since the Scotia tribes had first come from Ireland to settle this coastline, giving the country its name.

  Looking up at the solid rock wall of the island, Marina shivered. The Isle of the Angels had become home to well over five thousand men, women, and children. They raised their surefooted sheep here. They kept fields of wheat and corn in the expanses of land made safe from the sea by the great stretches of rocks that rose to the sky. It was her home. They were her people.

  But she hadn't wanted to return.

  "You must come and reside in the palace," her cousin Kevin had written. "Uncle Fraser is dead in the war with the German, and all here is dependent on you. I am still in control of our forces, and of our family, but as you are the MacCannan in truth, you must now come home. God bless, us, Marina, but they've taken the best of the Highlands, they've cut us down and sliced off our heads. They've stripped us of our rights to our tartans and our colors, and they seek to strip us of our honor. We can hold this place. If only we've the colors to rally round. Come to the palace..."

  He had called the family castle a palace.

  Now, that stretched anyone's imagination. And, as usual, he had referred to King George as "the German." Well, that was much the way he was thought of here, for right or wrong. No matter what the religious differences, the Highlanders still looked to the Stuart line as the true kings of Scotland and England. A Stuart hadn't ruled since Queen Anne died in 1715, when the very Protestant English government had ignored James, the Catholic son of Anne's father, the deposed James II, and sent across the sea to the House of Hanover for another great-grandchild of James I—George. The first Hanoverian king had never bothered to speak the English language, but to a nation where the reformation of the church had been strong and firm, the idea of a Catholic—and a foundling!—on the throne had been unacceptable. Those who supported the Papist James had taken on a title for the Latin of his name. They were Jacobites.

  And continually, so it seemed to Marina, they lost.

  James was no longer for the crown—it was his son, Charles, the Young Pretender, as the English called him, who had fought at Culloden Field. In the Highlands, they called him Bonnie Prince Charlie. He was a charming man—Marina knew him well—dedicated, intelligent, and handsome. But his quest had brought great grief to many, and for that, Marina was heartily sorry.

  Just as she had been sorry to leave France.

  There had been no hopeless causes in Paris, no sheer rock cliffs to rise above the sea—and no thousands of clan members to shield from the wrath of the English. Two years ago, her Uncle Fraser had determined that she must be sent to Paris while the battles raged here. She had been weary of the constant tug between those supporting the Protestant causes and those championing the handsome young prince. She had been weary of the battle cries. Were any men more argumentative than the Highlanders? More determined to wage battle after battle?

  But she was back. She had been ordered home by her family, and so she was here. Watching the rising stone appear closer and closer as her dinghy from the mainland neared the shore, Marina bit lightly on her lower lip. She would not let Kevin and Darrin have the best of her, she swore it. As Kevin had written to her, she was the MacCannan now. They were not going to press her into any action that she did not deem fit.

  She did not want to be here...

  But even as the dinghy came closer and closer, sliding smoothly through the shallow water at the practiced command of a Glenraven oarsman, she felt a trembling, as if a shivering had begun in her heart. It echoed throughout her limbs with a hum, and to her surprise, she felt a growing sense of excitement.

  Yes, she was home.

  She loved the sheer and brutal rise of rock—

  She hated it!

  No, rebel as she might, this was her home. She loved t
he fields on the spit of rock, and she loved the wind when it came. She loved the westwardly view out to the seemingly endless Irish Sea, and she loved to turn her eyes to the east, the craggy rise of the Scottish mainland.

  "We're nearin' shore, me lady," Howard, the oarsman, informed her cheerily. "I kin see yer cousin, Sir Kevin, awaiting ye there. And the clan, lady, see, there! One by one, they be coming to the dockside, all to pay ye tribute!"

  Indeed, they were coming. Men, women, and children, flocking down to the docks. A cheer had rung out, and people waved, from the sheepherders in their simple wool garments to the merchants and soldiers with their more fashionable wives. Yet even the women with their embroidered bodices and boned skirts were oft wearing some piece of their colors, a scarf in a plaid, a swatch of wool across a chest here or there, a band for a hat.

  And then, of course, there was Kevin.

  "See, lady, there be your cousin, in the midst of them."

  "Aye, I see him," Marina said. And she lifted her hand, gesturing toward her tall, proud cousin. Kevin, ye knave! she thought, feeling a sinking in her heart. For more so than any man or woman there, he was dressed still in his colors, kilted in the MacCannan plaid of heavy blues and greens and cross weaves of brilliant red. He wore a white ruffled shirt as well and a handsome black frock coat. He was dressed in formal wear to greet her, she saw, but she knew him well, and knew that he would ride into battle much the same.

  We press our luck with the German king! she thought.

  "Marina!"

  The small dinghy thrust hard against the shore. Marina prepared to step carefully from the dinghy to the dock, but Howard quickly rose and handed her over from boat to shore.

  As she stepped on the wooden dock, a chill suddenly swept through her, hard and fierce. She looked up. Far up. The sun was nearly out this day, breaking through the clouds. She stared up to the tower, to the oldest section of the fortress. It was surrounded by the cliff that formed a natural barrier to the island, but the structure itself had been crafted of hardwood hundreds of years ago. The very first laird of the isle had begun its construction, holding tenaciously to his little kingdom with it.