Devil of the Highlands (3 page)

The caress was surprisingly pleasant. She found herself holding on to his arms rather than pushing him away, and her eyes closed as a little sigh slipped from her mouth to his.

No one had ever kissed Evelinde. No one would have dared. She had never left d'Aumesbery and, as the daughter of the lord, was forbidden to dally with the knights and servants of the castle. This was a first for her, and she really wasn't sure if she liked this kissing business. It was interesting, and was causing little stirs of excitement in her, but they were faint and well overshadowed by her confusion. Evelinde wasn't terribly disappointed when he broke the kiss. But he didn't release her as she expected, instead his mouth simply trailed its way across her uninjured cheek.

"Sir," Evelinde murmured, thinking it time she introduce herself and tell him he had to stop. She had no fear he wouldn't. The moment she mentioned being betrothed to the Devil of Donnachaidh, he'd probably thrust her away himself. Everyone feared the Devil, she thought then stilled again as he began to nuzzle the side of her neck.

Her breath caught in her throat at the havoc sent rioting through her. Evelinde found her eyes drooping closed again, and a murmur of surprised pleasure slipped from her lips as she tilted her head to allow him better access. She even shifted a little closer to the man, her hands now clutching at his arms and urging him nearer rather than pushing him away. All sorts of tingly sensations were rushing through her as his mouth moved over her skin to her ear. He concentrated there until Evelinde found herself standing on her tiptoes in the circle of his arms, gasping and moaning.

His mouth finally returned to hers, and this time, she was not quiescent. Evelinde kissed him back, her tongue now wrestling with his. His hands began to move then, releasing the hold he'd kept on her head and sliding down her back until they slid over her bottom. Clasping the curve of each cheek, he lifted her off her feet and pressed her against him.

Evelinde groaned into his mouth as a hardness ground against the apex of her thighs through their clothes. It sent a sharp new excitement shooting through her, and she found herself shifting her hips and tightening her arms around his neck as she tried to get closer still.

When he suddenly broke their kiss, she moaned in disappointment, but when he then reclaimed his seat on the fallen log and tugged her forward to tumble into his lap, some of her common sense resurfaced.

"Oh, nay, sir! We should not be doing this. I am betrothed to the Devil of Donnachaidh."

Evelinde had expected that to bring an abrupt halt to the proceedings, but the man merely muttered, "I am the Duncan and would have a kiss."

His mouth descended on hers again, and Evelinde gave up her feeble struggles. One kiss did not seem so bad, she thought, as his tongue invaded her again, resurrecting her excitement. At least she would have these memories to warm her in her cold marriage bed, she thought, then—conscience soothed—Evelinde stopped thinking and allowed herself to enjoy his kiss.

It was much nicer sitting in his lap. She was surrounded by him, cocooned by the hard lap beneath her and the warm chest and arms around her. Relaxing against the arm at her back, she slid her own arms around his neck again, careful to avoid the sore spot on the back of his head as she kissed him enthusiastically. Evelinde shuddered and pressed against him as his hands slid over her back, and then gasped and arched as his hand moved around to find and clasp one breast through her damp chemise. Clutching at the cloth of his plaid, Evelinde groaned into his mouth and held on for dear life as he kneaded the round orb, and she was inundated by a whole new swell of sensations.

When his thumb brushed over the excited nipple through the cloth, it sent shocks of pleasure through her, and she couldn't keep from wiggling in his lap. Her hips moved of their own volition as they ground her bottom down against the hardness under her.

This seemed to have an electrifying effect on the Duncan, his kiss immediately became more demanding.

The hand at her back shifted to her head to tilt her one way, then the other as the fingers at her breast tightened and began to pluck at her nipple through the quickly drying cloth.

This time Evelinde turned her head to give him better access when his mouth moved to her ear once more.

His attention there soon had her gasping and moaning. Other than to dig her fingers more firmly into his shoulders, she hardly noticed when he leaned her back against his arm so his mouth could travel down her neck.

His hand was still doing delightful things to first one breast, then the other, and that, combined with his lips nibbling over the flesh of her throat, had her giving one long, seemingly unending moan. By the time he reached the shockingly sensitive area of her collarbone, she was a mass of excitement, wiggling in his lap in response to the liquid heat now pooling in her lower belly.

So distracted was she, Evelinde didn't realize he had tugged aside the top of her chemise, revealing one breast, until his lips suddenly left her collarbone and dipped to close over the naked nipple.

She cried out then with both shock and excitement and tugged frantically at his plaid as he suckled and drew on the nipple, his tongue flicking over it repeatedly.

Evelinde knew she shouldn't be allowing this. She was betrothed to someone else. Even if she hadn't been, however, as an unmarried lady, she shouldn't be allowing it… but it felt so
good
. And really, if she was going to be married off to the Devil of Donnachaidh and left to wither away in misery, or possibly beaten to death by the man, it did seem less of a sin to allow herself the momentary pleasure of a kiss or two.

Besides, it was the most amazing thing she had yet experienced in her life. Evelinde had never felt so…

alive. She was afire with passions she'd never even imagined existed, her body reacting of its own volition as it pressed and rubbed against him, seeking something she didn't understand.

The excitement he was causing in her was a living thing that built and built until Evelinde couldn't bear it anymore. Only then did the Duncan let her nipple slip from his mouth with one last rasp of the tongue and lift his head to cover her mouth again. If his earlier kiss had been passionate and demanding, it was nothing compared to this one. He wielded his tongue like a weapon, thrusting it into her mouth as if thrusting a sword into an opponent. Evelinde welcomed it and parried with her own.

His hand was again at her breast, fingers cupping and squeezing as his thumb rubbed back and forth over the sensitive nub. Evelinde groaned and found herself squeezing her thighs together as heat pooled there.

When his hand drifted away from her breast, she felt a keen sense of regret. However, that quickly turned to alarm as she felt it begin to drift up her leg, pushing the hem of her chemise before it. Evelinde squawked into his mouth and immediately began to struggle. This was definitely further than she was willing even to contemplate going.

She must have caught him by surprise, for Evelinde was sure he could have held on to her had he wished to, but he didn't. He removed both hands at once, and she quickly pushed herself from his lap, managing to send herself tumbling to the ground at his feet.

The Duncan immediately reached for her, but Evelinde scrabbled backward out of his reach, then scrambled to her feet and rushed over to snatch up her wet dress. Aware he was following and afraid he would try to drag her back, she kept moving, circling the clearing as she struggled to drag the gown on over her head, babbling anxiously as she tried to stay out of his reach.

"Pray, sir, you must stop. I should not have allowed even the one kiss. I am betrothed to the Devil of Donnachaidh. He's said to have a vile temper and—"

Her words died on a gasp as he caught her from behind and whirled her around to face him. He couldn't kiss her, however—her gown was wet and recalcitrant and caught on her head. Evelinde expected him to rip it back off and continue his barrage of kisses. Instead, however, he tugged at it, helping her to don it. It seemed mention of her betrothed had stopped him after all.

Relieved he wouldn't tempt her to further sin, Evelinde beamed a smile at him as soon as the cloth was tugged down from her face, and said, "Thank you."

The Duncan finished tugging the dress into place, then straightened and peered into her face.

Evelinde stared back, trying to memorize his features to take out and examine in the long miserable years to come, sure this face was the one bright spot she would have in her life once she was married off to the Devil of Donnachaidh. She was sure it was his eyes she'd remember best. They spoke of what he was feeling. At the moment, they were afire with a hunger she suspected was mirrored in her own. It was madness, she didn't know this man, but in truth, all she really wanted to do at that moment was forget everything, strip off her gown and chemise, and make him kiss her again. She wanted his hands moving over her body, making the fire jump and run under her skin as he had moments ago. It was something Evelinde had never experienced before today and something she suspected she'd never experience again as the wife of the Devil of Donnachaidh.

Apparently it was something the Duncan wanted to do, too, because his head started to lower, his mouth aiming for hers, but Evelinde stepped quickly away. "Nay. I pray you, Sir Duncan. No more."

He hesitated, a frown claiming his lips as if he was confused by her refusal. "Ye liked me kisses. Doona deny it. I ken ye did."

"Aye," she admitted sadly. "And I would give a lot to have more of them, but not your life. If he lives up to his reputation, the Devil of Donnachaidh would probably kill you if he found out about the kiss we already shared. I would not see him kill you for something that will be a lovely memory and will no doubt sustain me through many a dreadful night in my marriage bed."

He blinked at her words, then shook his head. "Lass, I am
the Duncan
."

"Duncan," she repeated softly. "I shall never forget your name."

He rolled his eyes with disgust, then explained, "Duncan is me clan name, I am Cullen… the Duncan," he said meaningfully.

"Cullen," she breathed, thinking it much nicer than Duncan.

Frowning now he said, "Duncan in Gaelic is Donnachaidh."

Evelinde's eyes widened with a dawning horror. This was just awful, the worst thing she could imagine. If he was a member of her future husband's clan, then she would no doubt see a lot of him. He would be there day in and day out, a temptation she would have to resist for both their sakes. Their very lives would depend on it.

"Oh this is awful," she breathed, imagining years of torture ahead. "You are kin to my betrothed."

"Nay," he said with exasperation. "I
am
yer betrothed."

"You cannot be."

Cullen's eyebrows rose at that dismayed whisper from Evelinde d'Aumesbery, his bride-to-be. Moments ago, she'd been warm and willing in his arms, and now she appeared utterly horrified. Mouth turning down grimly, he assured her, "I am."

"Nay, you cannot be the Devil of Donnachaidh," she assured him. "He is… well a
Devil
. Everyone knows that. And you…" She peered at him helplessly. "You are handsome and sweet and have kind eyes. And you made me feel…" She paused and shook her head firmly. "You cannot be the Devil."

Cullen's expression softened at her words. She found him handsome? He could do without the sweet and kind eyes nonsense, but he liked that she thought him handsome.

"What did I make ye feel?" he growled, moving closer to slide one hand up her arm, suppressing a satisfied smile when she shivered and gasped at the light touch.

"My lady!"

Cullen froze and nearly cursed aloud at the interruption as he became aware of the sound of hoof-beats closing on them. Scowling, he turned a glare on the hapless man who charged into the clearing on a light reddish brown roan.

"Mac." There was no missing the relief in her voice as Evelinde pulled away and turned to greet the man.

"There ye are. I was starting to worry. I—"

Cullen's eyebrows rose as the man's words died and his expression darkened with rage. He followed the fellow's gaze to Evelinde and immediately understood. The woman was a complete and utter mess. Her dress was still damp and torn in at least three places; the worst of which was a long rent from shoulder to waistline. It left one side of her gown gaping open like a flap, giving them both a perfect view of the bruise on her side, visible through the still-damp cloth of her chemise. If that wasn't enough to convince the man his mistress had been attacked, there was also the darkening bruise on her chin, her lips, swollen from his kisses, the knotted mass her hair was, and the still-stunned look on her face.

The fury on the man's expression made Cullen positive he was going to get some welcome exercise to work off the unsatisfied desire still rolling through him, but then he noted the man didn't have a sword. A servant then, he realized with disappointment.

"Ye'd be the Donnachaidh, then?" the man asked, his voice shaking with fury.

"Aye." Cullen answered, supposing his men must have reached the castle before this man had ridden out. If they had mentioned coming across a woman in the woods and their laird staying behind with her, it might even be the reason he'd headed out in search of his mistress. It suggested he was protective of her, and not a coward if he was willing to face the infamous Devil of Donnachaidh for his lady.

As he caught Evelinde by the arm and urged her to her mare, Cullen considered easing the man's mind by explaining he was not the cause of any of her injuries, but then decided against it. He rarely bothered to explain anything. Cullen preferred to let people make up their own minds about things, which was part of the reason he had such a fearsome reputation. Left to their own devices, people almost always chose the most damning explanation for events. That usually worked to his advantage, however. It was quite handy being considered the cruel, heartless Devil of Donnachaidh. His reputation assured most battles were won before they even began.

He'd found there was no better weapon in the world than the fear inspired by the ridiculous tales of the Devil of Donnachaidh.

"Thank you," Evelinde murmured, when he lifted her onto her mare.

He glanced at her then to find she was eyeing him with an expression that was both worried and perplexed.

For some reason that made him want to kiss her again… so he did. Ignoring the watching servant, Cullen caught her by the back of the neck and drew her head down for a brief hard kiss that made her gasp in surprise.

Then he released her, and she sat back up in the saddle. Apparently, the action hadn't been reassuring to her. If anything, she looked more worried as well as more perplexed.

Women are like that though
, Cullen thought as he caught the reins of her horse in hand and led it to his own mount.
Always thinking, always fretting, and never logical, but that was why God had made men, to protect the
silly creatures from themselves
.

He hauled himself up into the saddle and turned to eye the servant expectantly. The man glanced from him to his mistress, then ground his teeth together and urged his horse out of the clearing. Cullen followed, drawing Evelinde's horse behind.

With any other woman he would have paid her no more heed than that, but Cullen found himself glancing repeatedly over his shoulder as they rode. He couldn't seem to help himself. Every time he looked back, it was to find her returning the stare, and her expression was different each time. Perplexed, worried, thoughtful…

When Cullen glanced back to find a soft smile on her face, it was too much for him. He stopped his horse, drew her mare to a halt as it cantered alongside his mount, and reached out to draw her onto his horse before him.

"Who is he?" Cullen asked as he urged his mount to start moving again.

"Mac," she answered. "He is our stable master… and a friend."

Cullen considered the back of the grizzled man's head, but quickly decided he was no threat. The stable master was not an amorous interest to the girl he was sure. The man's influence was probably more fatherly in nature. From her complete lack of finesse when he'd first kissed her, it seemed obvious his betrothed had never been kissed before. She'd learned quickly though, he thought with satisfaction and allowed the hand he had around her waist to slide up to rest just below one breast. She would please him in bed.

"He thinks I raped ye," he announced, and she jerked in his arms.

"What? No! Why would he think that?" she asked, twisting around to look at him.

Cullen merely raised one eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over her. Evelinde followed his gaze and groaned as she took note of the state she was in, then caught the gaping flap of her gown and tried to draw it up to cover herself, but his arm and hand were in the way.

Sighing, she gave up the effort, and asked, "Why did you not explain?"

Cullen shrugged, the action bringing his hand up higher so it brushed against the bottom of her breast. "I am the Devil of Donnachaidh."

Evelinde peered up at him silently, and Cullen felt himself suddenly uncomfortable under that gaze. He suspected he'd revealed more than he'd intended with those words.

Scowling, he snapped his mouth shut and turned his gaze forward. This was exactly why he didn't like talking.

Cullen remained silent for the rest of the ride, but Evelinde didn't mind. She was caught up in her own thoughts, but found it somewhat difficult to concentrate with his hand brushing repeatedly against her breast.

Each time it did, an arrow of anticipation shot through her as her body recalled the pleasure he'd given her in the clearing.

And that was a problem. Evelinde was terribly confused. The Devil of Donnachaidh, or the Duncan as he kept calling himself, wasn't at all what she'd expected. She hadn't felt any fear at all of the man. Even when he'd first appeared in the meadow, she hadn't been frightened so much as startled to find someone next to her.

Evelinde hadn't had much time to think about her upcoming marriage to the Devil of Donnachaidh, but she was sure she wouldn't have imagined he could inspire the passion in her he had. The Devil was supposed to be a cold, heartless, and cruel bastard. He was supposed to have murdered his father and uncle to gain his title as laird of his clan. He was also supposed to have killed his first wife because she produced no bairns for him.

Perhaps Evelinde was naive, but it seemed to her a man like that should look cruel and heartless. He should inspire fear in a body the moment one laid eyes on him, and he shouldn't be able to stir the concern and passion in her that Evelinde had experienced back in the clearing.

That was only one of her worries, however. The other was that she feared—after her wanton behavior in the clearing—the man might think her free with her affections. And she hadn't even known he was her betrothed.

Did he think she was not just wanton but also the sort of woman who would be unfaithful? Because she
had
been unfaithful. Perhaps not technically since it turned out he was the man she was to marry, but Evelinde hadn't known that when she was letting him kiss her so passionately and do those other things, and now she was ashamed of herself and afraid of what he thought of her.

Cullen's thumb suddenly brushed across the bottom of her breast, distracting Evelinde again. Glancing up, she noted they had arrived back at d'Aumesbery and were crossing the drawbridge. Her gaze lifted to the men on the wall, and she frowned as she noted how silent they were and how grim their expressions. Obviously, they had noted her condition and were thinking the worst.

Feeling herself blush with embarrassment, Evelinde bit her lip on the instinct to shout out that she hadn't been raped and merely turned her face forward as they passed into the bailey.

Edda was waiting for them at the doors of the keep as they crossed the bailey. Five rugged-looking men in plaids stood around her.

"Your men?" Evelinde asked, her gaze sliding over them. Each and every one towered over Edda, and Edda was not short. Her stepmother stood at least four inches taller than she, so it seemed obvious they were all good-sized men. They stood with arms crossed over their chests and grim expressions on their faces. They didn't look particularly pleased to be there.

Edda, on the other hand, looked like the cat who found the cream. Her smile widened with every step Cullen's mount took as she was better able to see the state her stepdaughter was in.

Evelinde had no doubt the woman was coming to the same conclusions that Mac had, only her stepmother was apparently enjoying these conclusions. She wasn't really surprised. Edda had never liked her and had made no bones about letting her know it. No doubt she'd convinced the king to choose the Devil of Donnachaidh as Evelinde's betrothed in the hopes of ensuring her a miserable future. In fact, she suspected Edda would probably be most upset to know what had really happened. If the odious woman thought for one moment that Evelinde had gained her bruises—not from this man—but in a fall in the river, or that the Duncan had but kissed her and—worse yet—that she'd enjoyed his kisses and caresses, Edda might very well find some way to end this betrothal.

That thought gave Evelinde pause. When she'd ridden out of the bailey the idea of finding a way to end her betrothal to the Devil of Donnachaidh would have been a welcome one. Was it still?

She twisted to look at the man behind her. Cullen's chin was high, his eyes on the people on the stairs, his expression as grim as those of the men they were approaching… but she recalled the soft words of praise he'd given his horse and the affectionate pat he'd offered the animal. His kisses had been passionate and yet not roughly so, while his caresses and touch had been gentle. And when she'd begun to struggle, he'd released her at once, even though, as her betrothed, he really needn't have. He had also handled her gently when he'd lifted her onto her mount, and again when he'd lifted her from her mount to join him on his own horse on the return journey.

All of this made Evelinde wonder now how many of the terrible tales about him were simply that: tales.

People assuming they knew what happened and he allowing them to do so.

It was little enough to go on, but more than she'd known before their meeting in the meadow.

Evelinde wasn't yet sure of much about this man, but she was sure about one thing. She was not afraid of him. Her instincts were telling her she was safe in his hands.

It made her positive she did not wish Edda finding out the truth of things. She would not risk the woman bringing an end to this betrothal, only to marry her off to someone she
was
afraid of, or whom she would find sharing a bed with to be thoroughly repulsive, because Evelinde was quite sure she would not have that problem with this man. He had already stirred passions in her she hadn't known existed.

No, Evelinde decided, she would allow Edda and everyone else to think the worst… and marry this man.

When Cullen reined in his mount and slid off the back of the horse, Evelinde immediately started to slide off unaided, but he was there to catch her by the waist before her feet hit the dirt. Their eyes met briefly as he set her gently on the ground, and she almost smiled her thanks, but then she remembered Edda and glowered instead. She saw surprise flash through his eyes and nearly blurted an apology, but caught it back and instead murmured, "Forgive me, my lord, for what is about to take place. I shall explain later. Just, pray, be the Devil of Donnachaidh as you were with Mac."

Much to her relief, he didn't demand an explanation. One eyebrow merely arched slightly on his forehead, but that was the only reaction he showed.

She turned to walk forward, her steps slow and a bit rigid as her bruising began to pain her. Stiffness was setting in, she realized with a grimace. No doubt it would only worsen in the coming hours.

Her gaze slid to Edda to see the woman was almost in the throes of ecstasy as she watched her approach.