Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (8 page)

Martha was blind in one eye because her first husband had taken a hot poker to it. Shortly thereafter, he’d fallen down stone steps in a drunken stupor and snapped his neck. Despite what she’d suffered at her former husband’s hands, Martha was fierce, efficient, and confident. She wore a red coral necklace, and she caressed the coral now as she took in the grim expression on Sorcha’s face. She gave Sorcha’s shoulder a squeeze. “Ye can do this, lass. Ye can. Ye may nae be able to scrub the heathen Highlander out of ‘im, but ye can try.” She smiled devilishly and the other girls laughed. Buckets of warm water were emptied into the tub with a splash, followed by scented oils. “Careful, Bess!” Martha cried. “The water is supposed to go
in
the tub!”

When they were finished setting up the bath, Sorcha was left alone in the bedchamber. She waited, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the wind continuing to rattle the shutters on the window. At least the steam from the bath made the air moist, warm, and pleasant.

She sat on the bed, her hands folded in her lap, and waited. And then he was there, his tall, muscled frame filling the doorway.

9

“I met him once,” he said, coming into the room and shutting the door behind him.

He began to remove his plaid as if it were the most natural thing in the world to begin to disrobe in front of a stranger.

“Met who?” Sorcha asked, rising from the bed where she’d been sitting and moving to stand next to him, waiting to take and fold his discarded clothing. She realized her fists were curled at her sides and she unclenched them.

“King James the Second. I was eight summers. He invited me and my mother and father to Edinburgh along with a host of scryers, magicians, and astrologers—those who cast horoscopes and read stars and looked for the future in bowls hissing with smoke. Mostly fortune hunters who claimed to be fortune tellers.”

Instead of handing her the plaid, he strode across the room, folded it, and placed it atop the trunk. He removed his leather boots and his leine, pulling it over his head. Sorcha’s eyes drifted across his wide, naked shoulders, the hardened muscles of his arms, the dark matt of hair on his chest. “I had heard the tale. That ye ha’e the Sight and were summoned to the king’s presence because of yer visions.”

She reached for his leine and he handed it to her. Sorcha concentrated on folding it, turning her back to him. She laid it atop the chair. “Do ye ha’e the Sight, Highlander?”

“I havena had a vision for many years,” he said. “I still ha’e dreams once in a great while, a flash of something I canna explain, but nae like….”

“The vision in which ye saw the bloody defeat of my clan? The vision of the day Murry Douglas and his auldest sons were killed? Lady Douglas was nearly five summers then. Too young to lose a father and brothers she cared so deeply for.” She whirled and pierced him with her heated gaze. And immediately regretted it. He’d removed his wet trews and braies, dropping them atop the plaid, and sauntered to the tub.

His legs were powerful and she tried not to stare at his wide back and manly buttocks as he stepped into the tub and sat down. Sorcha felt her face flame. Yet determinedly she grabbed a sponge and stood next to him.

“Yer vera fond of the Lady Douglas, despite the way she talks to ye.” He rested his arms on the sides of the tub.

She nodded.

“I dunna like the way she talks to ye. It reveals much about her character.”

““Shall I wash…yer arms?”

There was the merest trace of amusement on his face. He was tall and his knees came nearly to his square chin as he sat in the tub. She fought the urge to laugh herself.

“Arms do tend to get vera dirty in the Lowlands. Yea, please wash my arms.”

Sorcha dipped the sponge in the warm water and slowly rubbed it along his muscled forearms. “Ye dunna dress like a laird,” she said absently.

“How should a laird dress?” he asked, watching the movement of her small hands as she stroked his skin.

“I expected gold and jeweled brooches and rich clothing. Lady Douglas said ye almost look like a cleric.”

“She did, did she?” He laughed, the sound deep and rich. “Almost like a cleric?”

“More like a devil in cleric’s clothing.”

“I dunna think a man should look like a velvet curtain or a moving tapestry and so I dunna dress flamboyantly.”

Sorcha laughed, surprising herself.

He caught her hand in his and it was big and warm, nearly engulfing her own. “Ye wear a silver ring. Curious.”

Sorcha near panicked. She’d forgotten to remove it.

“Is it a gift from a lover? Are ye betrothed?”

Yea, to an arrogant Highlander,
she thought. “Betrothed? Nay. ‘Twas my mother’s ring. She died many summers ago.”

He did not release her fingers and the warmth of his wet hand was startling.

“I am sorry to hear it. Were ye close to her?”

She nodded.

He released her hand gently and she continued to sponge his arm, distracted by his masculine form and the way the water beaded and dripped on his olive skin. There was the shadow of a dark beard on his square jaw and his amber eyes were far too probing.

“I think my arm is vera clean now.”

“Och,” she said, clearing her throat. “Are ye comfortable? Do ye ha’e enough sponges to sit upon? Would ye like to get dressed now?”

He laughed. “I just got into the tub.” He frowned. “Yer uncomfortable bathing me. Ye act as if ye’ve ne’er bathed a man before.”

Her resolve returned. “Nay, Highlander. I am nae uncomfortable bathing ye…bathing a man. I ha’e done it…many times.”

“Will ye wash my chest then?”

She nodded and reached awkwardly across his body, nearly falling into the tub with him. He caught her arm and steadied her.

“It’s usually best if ye kneel beside the tub.”

“I ken it, Highlander.” She pulled her arm from his grasp, knelt beside the tub, and slowly drew the sponge across the vast expanse of his chest, noting the battle scars on his sides. To distract herself, she asked, “What was he like, the king? And the castle at Edinburgh? I’ve heard people talk of it but I ha’e ne’er been to see it.”

“The castle is more like a fortress, nae vera welcoming. I remember thinking the king’s guards and servants scuttled about the darkened passages like rats. They seemed e’er ready to smite someone who approached the king without being invited or said the wrong word in his royal presence.” He frowned. “It seemed to take fore’er to get up the hill that leads to the castle. It sits upon a great rock. ’Twas a strange experience, meeting James of the Fiery Face. I had to be vera careful what I said, for he had a fondness for nailing people’s ears to the pillory if they displeased him in some way, or slicing them off.”

“Was the birthmark on his face truly red like fire?”

“It was large and red, and I was warned nae to stare at it for James was sensitive about his face. ‘Twas strange to be in a room full of people trying to predict his future, telling him the things he wanted to hear. He didna wish to die as his father had, trapped in a cellar and assassinated by the vera men he trusted.” He paused. “My shoulders now.”

She moved the sponge slowly along the arch of his powerful neck and shoulders.

“He was an imposing figure but there was something youthful and mischievous about him. I had also been warned, however, he was nae a man to cross. He was rumored to be quick tempered and ‘twas true. He grew angry with an auld scryer with a bent back who dared to patronize him. He ordered his guards to nail the man’s ear to the pillory in the market square and then to cut it off.”

Sorcha’s eyes rounded.

“I dunna ken what happened to that man.”

“What did ye tell James about his future?”

“I told him nae to pull the lion’s tail and he laughed, because he is the Lion Rampant of Scotland. It is ne’er wise to tell a king ye’ve seen his death in a vision. So I told him simply nae to pull the lion’s tail. He didna realize I was talking about a cannon that would kill him five summers hence at the siege of Roxburgh, a powerful cannon that was named ‘the Lion’. But I was a lad of only eight summers. I was afraid if I told him the truth, I would ha’e my ear nailed to the pillory and cut off, or worse.”

Sorcha frowned. “I remember hearing of how the cannon exploded and killed him instantly. And ye saw this in a dream five summers before it happened?”

Malcolm nodded. “I had no wish to see those things. My mother, Isobel, is a Seer. Mayhap I am like her. I canna explain it. That day in the castle in Edinburgh, he wanted to reward me for my visions and so he gave me the forfeited Douglas land and the Lady Sorcha Douglas as my future wife.” He smiled. “I was vera insulted because he betrothed me to a Lowlander.”

Sorcha laughed.

“The King laughed at my reaction, too. Well, yer lady’s manners
are
atrocious. She is nae at all what I expected. I dunna like that bell she rings or her strident tone. Yet I must admit the keep is vera well run and well maintained.”

“But do ye find her beautiful? That is what matters most to a man. Beauty or a woman’s riches.”

“There are many kinds of beauty and hers is cold. Beauty and wealth is nae all that matters to a man. Sometimes ‘tis nae about outward beauty or riches at all. There is a calling of the body, the spirit, and the mind…the seduction of an entire man’s being in a way that canna always be explained. ‘Twas so for my own parents. My father had a startling dream and acted upon it, traveling hours in a blinding snowstorm to the MacKinnon keep to save my mother at the vera moment her own clan tried to burn her at the stake. She was a woman he’d ne’er met and had only seen in a dream. She is beautiful, but ‘twas much more than beauty that drew him to her. ‘Twas destiny. I fear my own marriage will have a destiny altogether different.”

Sorcha realized with a start how close his face was to her own. He studied her so intently she wasn’t sure if she saw lust or loathing in his eyes.

“Destiny is a powerful thing,” he said, “but sometimes it only whispers, and ye ha’e to listen vera carefully to hear it and be vera brave to follow it.”

“I displease ye,” she said softly. “And the bath water grows cold. I am nae a vera good maid.”

“On the contrary.”

His black hair glistened in the candlelight and the muscles in his jaw tensed. He stared at Sorcha’s lips. “I willna deny I find myself much more intrigued by Lady Douglas’ spirited and outspoken maid than by the lady herself.”

Sorcha’s heart beat erratically and she felt uncharacteristically flustered. “’Tis probably just indigestion from Cook’s oatcakes. It will pass. Be thankful ‘tis nae autumn, for then ye’d ha’e to eat his bashed neeps.”

He laughed heartily and traced a finger softly along her cheek. “For all yer bravado, ye seem to fear me. Tell me, Nessa, do I look like a man who drinks the blood of his enemies from their hollowed out skulls? Like an ogre who could cut out a man’s heart with a mere glance? An unpredictable monster? A devil in cleric’s clothing?”

Before she could answer, he caught a strand of her fiery auburn hair in his fist. She was forced to move even closer to him and noted the faint shadows of fatigue under his luminous eyes. He was striking looking. But Sorcha remembered Nessa’s warning by the Burn of Black Sorrow, remembered how Lulach had seduced her friend with flattering words and caresses and then broke her heart without a thought or a backwards glance, marrying a rich Italian woman named Caterina Cellini. Sorcha was going to do everything in her power to avoid marrying the Highlander, to send him away as quickly as possible, so it would not do to be seduced by him.

“I dunna ken ye at all,” Sorcha breathed. “We ha’e only just met. Ye could vera well be the devil in cleric’s clothing.”

His sensual lips took hers. The kiss was beyond Sorcha’s limited experience, warm yet commanding. When at length he drew back, her lips were tender from the press of his mouth. “So soft,” he said.

Sorcha was horrified. He thought her a serving girl and would he…expect more? She’d ne’er been with a man and fear spiraled through her being.
Fear and excitement, if she was honest with herself.

“The bath grows cold,” she repeated and stood.

“No matter. I think I am clean and refreshed now. Hand me the linen.”

She handed him the clean cloth, averting her eyes when he stepped from the tub and wrapped it around himself.

“Where are yer things? Yer other clothes? They havena yet been brought up?”

“Apparently nae.”

“Well, ye canna step back into a pair of wet trews. I’ll go and see about it right away, Highlander.”

“Call me Malcolm. ‘Tis my name.”