Highlander in Her Bed (5 page)

He risked another glance at the chair, considered continuing his watch from its well-padded depths. After all, no one would know, and surely it wasn't beneath his dignity to allow himself a wee respite?

The MacDougall chit hadn't stirred in hours.

Besides, he was a seasoned warrior, greatly respected in his time and with no need to prove his prowess or stamina.

Neither was there any cause for caution.

Not because of
this
MacDougall.

Alex's lip curled with derision. While she had the distinct look of a bawd about her, the only sharp object she seemed in possession of was her tongue.

And such a small indulgence as whiling a few moments in comfort was the least the MacDougalls owed him.

His decision made, he lowered himself into the chair, almost letting out a sigh of pleasure. Instead, he unsheathed his sword and rested it across his knees.

For effect and good purpose.

A battle-clad knight with a gleaming brand at the ready made a more intimidating appearance than a bone-weary one sagged into a chair!

But as soon as he struck a comfortable and sufficiently daunting pose, the wench moved.

And in such a way that instantly banished his exhaustion. Indeed, his every nerve leapt to high alert as she twisted and writhed beneath the bed coverings. Practiced movements, to be sure, and calculated to make a man admire her wantonness, even harden with the urge to possess her.

To sink himself deep inside her until her writhings and moans were caused by his rhythmic in-and-out glides and not the simple vagaries of sleep.

Banishing the fool notion at once, Alex glared at her, determined not to harden no matter how provocatively she tossed and stretched beneath the coverlet. Indeed, as if she sensed his ill ease, she stilled suddenly, appearing to have turned onto her side, but he couldn't tell her exact position for certain because she'd pulled the coverlet to her chin.

Only her hair identified her as the MacDougall spawn determined to claim his bed. And what hair it was, too.
Temptress
hair, all flame-bright curls and tousled waves. The kind of hair that made a man ache to bury his face in its richness and just inhale until he drowned in its swirling, silken strands.

The dark, sensuous scent of her.

A fearsome scowl threatening at the thought, he tried to look away and found that he couldn't.

MacDougall or no, she
did
have glorious hair.

Great, glossy skeins of red-gold streamed across her pillow in a blaze of color sure to bewitch the susceptible. And for one crazy-mad moment, even he wondered whether such bounty would feel as silky as it looked. Especially how such lusciousness might feel sliding across the bared flesh of his chest or certain other sensitive places.

Not that suchlike interested him!

The passing of so many centuries must've pickled his brain for such foolishness to even cross his mind. But then she moved again, the slight shifting only emphasizing the ripe fullness of her body, and even worse thoughts assailed him.

Not that he could help it, for she'd rolled onto her back and stretched her arms above her head in a lascivious pose surely designed to take unfair advantage of centuries of agonizing abstemiousness.

Feeling bedeviled indeed, Alex squirmed, his annoyance mounting when the coverings slipped to reveal twin mounds of the creamiest, most perfect breasts he'd ever seen. Full and luscious they were, and topped with deep rose-colored nipples that puckered under his stare.

And the wench still wasn't through with her trickery!

As if she knew she had a captive audience, she began inching her right foot up the calf of her left leg, her raised knee lifting the bedding just enough to reveal a part of her that no red-blooded man could resist gazing upon.

And perturbed or no, Alex leaned forward, as close as he dared.

Near enough to see quite plainly that not the barest slip of modesty shielded her secrets from view. Clamping his jaw lest he disgrace himself by groaning, he stared at the triangular thatch of red-gold curls.

Stared, and used every shred of his willpower to remain…
unaffected
.

Or at least not rage so hard he forgot his purpose.

Blessedly, she soon lowered her knee again, and with it, the covers. So he returned his attention to her breasts, not surprised to discover them still fully bared, their peaks still puckered and thrusting.

Heat flashing all through him, he tried to ignore the tautness in his vitals and concentrated on stifling all thought of what it might be like to graze those hardened peaks with his teeth. Suckle them until she arched her back and cried out her need for deeper, more intimate ministrations.

Throbbing pleasures he had no business thinking about.

And certainly not involving a MacDougall!

His frown growing blacker by the moment, he swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. If the wench meant to tempt or shock him with her wanton display, it would not do to have her catch him with beads of perspiration misting his brow.

" 'Tis not sitting and scowling I'd be doing in the face of such temptation," came a deep voice from the shadows.

"And just what
are
you doing here?" Alex whirled around, the shock of his friend's untimely arrival making his heart plunge. "Have you naught better to do than spy on me, you black-hearted varlet?"

"Something better to do?" Hardwin de Studley of Seagrave lounged against the doorjamb, a look of high amusement on his aristocratic face. "Nay, my friend, I cannot say that I do."

"So I see," Alex shot back, anything but pleased.

He should have known the womanizing scoundrel would make an appearance.

Warring companions and friends in life, they were now assured a continuing relationship through an odd twist of fate. Like Alex, Hardwick, as the dark-visaged knight was commonly known, had also fallen victim of an enchantment.

Or a curse, depending on how one looked at it.

A notorious wencher, Hardwick was bound by a traveling minstrel's spell to spend eternity pleasing women yet nevermore to attain his own release. For the minor slight of refusing a night's lodging to the wandering bard, the
sennachie
reversed their roles, binding Alex's friend to roam the earth, doomed to satisfy a different woman every night for all eternity.

Alex's lips twitched and his vexation began to ebb. At least he need only guard his bed, keeping it free of MacDougalls. Even MacDougalls who roused unwanted urgings in him and stirred his deepest senses. An existence such as his friend must endure did not bear contemplation.

"Be that the latest MacDougall?" Hardwick changed the subject, his glance on the bed.

"So it would seem," Alex confirmed, careful not to let his gaze dip to the thrusting evidence of Hardwick's affliction. "And a pricklier female ne'er walked the earth."

"Indeed?" Hardwick's eyes glinted with interest. "Shall I soften her
disposition
for you? The task would be a pleasure."

"No doubt." Alex frowned, his expression darkening even more upon following the other's gaze.

Saints, he'd forgotten the wench's exposed bosom!

A lush feast for manly eyes, her breasts rose and fell with the rhythm of her sleep, their rounded swells beckoning.

"Leave her be, Seagrave. She deserves no such attention."

Hardwick took a step toward the bed. "Ah, but her loveliness begs to be—"

"Ignored!" Alex shot to his feet and used the tip of his sword to flick the coverlet into place.

But not before Hardwick burst out in broad, raucous laughter.

"So that is the way of it," he hooted, scarce containing himself.

Refusing to be baited, Alex returned to the chair. "Nay, that is not the way of it," he denied, slapping his blade back across his knees. "Beshrew me for caring, but I only meant to shield you. I strongly suspect—"

"Shield me?" Hardwick's jaw dropped. "And from such a sweetmeat?"

"I strongly suspect she is of the fey," Alex finished with a glare.

Truth be told, he was certain of it.

But his friend only grinned and folded his arms. "Your sour countenance doesn't fool me."

"Be that as it may," Alex said, returning his stare to the slumbering wench, "you would be wise to think for once with your head rather than your—"

"My tarse?" Hardwick laughed. "If my poor, accursed
condition
makes you uncomfortable, then I shall leave you to seek my pleasure elsewhere. But one question before I go: Why did you cover the maid's breasts?"

Alex flashed a hot glance at him, but the other knight was already gone. Melted into the air before Alex's irritation could scorch him. Only his laughter remained, echoing in the darkness until the last of Hardwick's chuckles faded to silence and Alex was alone once more.

Alone with the MacDougall witch-woman.

A spell-casting enchantress whose dark tricks sent shivers clear through his marrow.

So why
had
he covered her breasts?

And why did he sit here still, watching her sleep, rather than return to the relative peace of Dimbleby's back room and his own empty bed?

The answer came in one last disembodied chuckle, floating to him from the shadows near the door.

An answer so unappealing, he would almost rather change curses with his mirth-filled friend.

Almost.

He'd simply have to do everything in his power to ensure that he never had to make such a choice.

Chapter 3

Oban.

The long train journey from London behind her, Mara stood in the middle of the waterfront promenade of the West Highland capital and took a deep breath of Scotland, and then another and another. Clean, cold air, rain fresh and brisk, smelling slightly of the sea and proving everything her father had ever said about even the air of Scotland being different.

Special.

He'd sworn it would be so, and now that she was here, a scant month after her fateful dinner with Percival Combe at London's posh Wig and Pen Club, she surprised herself by having to admit that there really was something almost intoxicating about inhaling so much good, clean air.

Good, clean Highland air, the increased thumping of her heart reminded her. And with enough of a jolt to make her straighten her back and square her shoulders against the unexpected swell of emotion Hugh McDougall would insist came from setting foot on Scottish soil.

The earth of home.

And Mara supposed it was—for her long-dead ancestor John the Immigrant. Him, and the countless Scotophiles like her father whose throats thicken at the first skirl of pipes and flash of kilted plaid.

She had a cooler head on her shoulders, recognized the tightness in her chest for exactly what it was: simple regret that her father's health had kept him from sharing this moment with her.

"But you're here, aren't you, Ben?" She reached down to stroke the aged border collie's head, found comfort in his dark, heart-melting gaze.

An accepting gaze, laced perhaps with a touch of gratitude, for Ben was Lady Warfield's living legacy, and the gentle old dog seemed to know that his new mistress's great affection for canines had spared him spending his twilight years in some loveless London dogs' home.