Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (24 page)

Catriona admired the clean lines of his face, his well-shaped and very kissable lips. She loved the elegant sweep of his eyebrows, and when he looked at her, his dark lashes lowered slightly, seeming to accent the green of his eyes and the passion reflected in them. As always, before Branan kissed her, he held her gaze for a long moment, as if waiting for the perfect instant, as if trying to drive her mad with anticipation. And when she could stand it no longer, he tilted her chin up and proceeded to kiss her senseless.

Too quickly, Branan ended the kiss, his breathing ragged against her neck. “My bonny lass, I have missed ye so.”

Her throat tightened and tears threatened. Dear Lord, she had to get her emotions under control. “What...what are you doing here?”

“Having a wicked rendezvous with the woman I love.” His voice suddenly sounded harsh and primitive.

Catriona’s heart reeled. Branan had voiced the words before, but they impacted her no less than they had on that first night.

“How did you get in?”

His smile grew rakish. “I arrived at evensong, just afore the gates closed.”

Her jaw went slack and indignation replaced her shock. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“Forgive me, my bonny lass. I remained in the barracks to make sure there wouldna be a danger to ye. If Strickland’s spies spot me, he would send his men forthwith.”

“And my chambers?” Catriona asked suspiciously.

He winked at her. “’Tis a talent Duguald taught me in my youth. There is nary a lock or bolt he canna open.”

“Does anyone know you’re here?”

“Only Edmund and Greystoke. I thought it prudent to inform them, lest someone see me sneaking into your chamber. I have no desire to be run through by my own men.”

Catriona settled her head against his chest, her indignation melting. Branan was here, that was all that mattered. She closed her eyes, listening to his heart beat a slow and strong rhythm.

“But,” he said, tilting her chin up again, “the night ages and I plan on savoring every moment.” His mouth claimed hers and Catriona did not hesitate. Suddenly reminded of the evening in her shelter, when Branan held her in his lap, but they had not truly pursued their desires, Catriona now planned to correct that immediately. She acceded to Branan’s lips and he swept his tongue across hers, threatening to devour her. She relaxed against him, inviting him to touch her.

He eased her back in his left arm, his free hand moving to deftly untie the laces at the throat of her nightrail His fingers followed the fabric as he pulled it away, lightly caressing her skin and sending tiny shivers through her. Her breasts felt hard and heavy. Warmth bloomed within her, settling low in her belly.

Branan pulled the gown from her shoulder and exposed her breast. He lifted his head and gazed at it for a long moment. Thick anticipation rose within her. Branan licked his lips, the action coming close to driving her insane, then he lowered his head and drew her into his mouth.

Fire shot through her and a primal groan escaped her lips. She felt so wonderfully helpless in his arms. His mouth provoked a tempest within her, and once again the storm raged out of control. She wove her fingers through his thick hair, tiny sounds she could not control encouraging him.

Slowly, Branan’s velvet lips slid upward to her throat, where he gently nibbled her sensitive skin. His hands stroked her nightrail off her shoulders, pushing it down to her waist, and then returned to softly fondle her breasts.

Catriona felt the heat of his body radiating through his clothing. She struggled to free him of it, especially the heavy belt he wore, which jabbed her in the side.

Branan stopped, removing his belt and then his inar. Catriona scrambled off of him so he could divest himself of the rest of his clothing, her nightrail puddled on the floor at her feet. Branan quickly freed himself from his clothes, but instead of leading her to the bed as she expected, he again sat in the chair, took her hand and pulled her toward him.

His lips lifted in the roguish smile she loved so much. In the firelight, his green eyes gleamed with a feral spark.

Catriona returned his smile, gazing at his swollen shaft jutting upward against his flat belly. Oh, this might indeed be fun. Branan tugged her closer. She sat on his lap facing him so that her legs went around his waist. Fortunately, the chair did not have any arms and it was a sturdy piece of furniture.

He kissed her, his mouth toying with hers, and she felt his shaft slide over the damp folds of her femininity. A soft gasp escaped her, but her position was awkward and she couldn’t move like she wanted to. “Surely there is an easier way,” she muttered.

Branan chuckled, a guttural sound in his chest. “Aye, lassie, but ye will find this most satisfying. Trust me.”

She did trust him. She loved him, savored the feel of his mouth against hers, of his hands caressing her body. He gripped her sides and gently lifted her. “Guide me inside ye, lass.”

Catriona did so and moaned as he filled her. For an instant, she couldn’t move as waves of pleasure wracked through her. Branan filled her utterly. Glorious sensations radiated deep within her being, spreading outward to the tips of her fingers, toes, and aching breasts. Gently, he shifted his hips. They were fit so tightly together, Branan had no need to move much. She cried out as the agonizing pleasure cut through her even more intensely. She arched upward and threw her head back.

“Aye, my sweet love,” he whispered. “Wrap yer arms around my neck, lean back just a bit more.”

She obeyed as he moved again inside her. His mouth closed over her breast and his thumb found the most sensitive spot between her legs.

She moaned his name in total abandon as Branan expertly tortured her with exquisite pleasure. She found herself rocking her hips back and forth, driving his shaft deeper within her. She whimpered as his thumb persecuted the throbbing nub between her legs and his teeth nipped and teased her nipple.

“Sweet glory,” he growled under his breath.

A dim part of Catriona’s mind acknowledged that she was being selfish, working only to fulfill her own pleasure. But Branan offered this to her freely and she found she couldn’t deny him.

The coil of energy forming deep within her expanded and her movements became harsher, more desperate. She panted and moaned his name, begging him to free her from this torture. His thumb moved forcefully over her aching nub and his mouth drew hard on her breast, his hips shoved forward, and the world exploded in ecstasy.

HHH

Catriona cried his name as his hot seed filled her gloriously tight passage. Branan felt her body convulse around, him adding exquisite torture to perfect joy. He shoved himself into her again and again, sweat rolling from his brow, his thumb continued to work, wringing every last convulsion of pleasure he could from her. He savored the taste of her, the scent of her mingling with his own.

She relaxed suddenly against him, her face buried against his neck. Branan fought to catch his breath. The aftershocks continued to move through her and he changed the tempo with which he touched her, from demanding to a soothing caress over her sensitive femininity.

Branan backed away and gathered her in his arms, although his strength had abandoned him. He carried her to the bed where they collapsed and he covered them with the blankets.

Catriona snuggled close. “I love you, Branan,” she purred into his ear.

He squeezed his eyes closed and wrapped her in a tight embrace, his heart rioting. “And I love ye, Catriona. More than ye will ever know.”

Once again, Branan could only lightly doze, a part of him aware of Catriona curled so wonderfully against him as she slept. But there was also a part of him aware that he had to leave before dawn, the moment the gates opened and allowed traders to come and go as they pleased.

God, he didn’t want to. He desperately wanted to stop time and remain with her without worry. But when Branan heard the sounds of life stirring within the castle, he slowly tore himself away from her. At first, he toyed with the idea of waking her by making love to her again, but ultimately decided against it. It was hard enough to leave her, if he awakened her, he might never find the door, and if he made love to her yet again, he might not be able to walk at all.

Branan silently dressed, but wrapped his brat around her. Taking the old one he had left before, he shoved it into the small pack he carried. He paused, lightly caressing Catriona’s hair, and then kissed her cheek. As silently as he had arrived, Branan slipped from the room. Outside, he vanished into the pre-dawn mist.

Bastard of Strickland

D
avid Strickland watched two rats fighting over a small, foul hunk of food that had somehow escaped the maids. Normally, his impeccably clean hall remained just that—but rats managed a foray now and again. He should whistle for his dogs and enjoy the hunt, but right now the battle of the rats provided entertainment. They were ferocious creatures, to be sure.

The two rats snarled and snapped. At first, it appeared to be mostly blustering, but one rat grew bold, threatening to impose himself between the other and the food. It was then that David realized the first rat was a male and the second a female with suckling kits.

The female turned violently on the male. Never underestimate a wench with babes at breast. She attacked with a ruthlessness that would have made a wolf envious. The male rat shrieked as the female’s teeth sank into its foreleg in a telling strike. This was not a warning nip, but an attack with injury.

David laughed as the female rat seized her hard won prize. “Zeus, Athena!” he called for his favorite hounds. The two dogs leaped from their place near the kitchen. David merely pointed toward the rats. The dogs spotted the movement of the female trying to escape with her prize and the male trying to retreat with a damaged foreleg.

He chuckled as the dogs made short work of the vermin. Unfortunately, the female’s kits would wait a very long time for another meal...would probably die waiting. But such was the way of life.

David turned, his entertainment forgotten. He thought only of his morose existence. He hated being known as the bastard of Strickland. Although the term twisted his gut and soured his heart, he did have one comfort.

Historically, William had been known as the Bastard before he became known as William the Conqueror.

He resolved that was exactly what they would call him after this was over—the conqueror. Although David wouldn’t have the glory of conquering a kingdom, he would bring Inglewood to heel and destroy the Scottish swine known as the MacTavish.

“But how?” he muttered, brooding over a cup of wine in the great hall. He couldn’t find the whelp, and no matter the abuse the people suffered, they refused to give him up, like some glorified Robin o’ the Hood. David scoffed over the injustice of it all. Granted, he may have been a bastard, but how could the people want to put a Scottish half-breed in the Wardenship At least David had the honor of being of English blood.

David tortured his brain, trying to come up with ideas. The thought of marrying de Courcy’s widow had been a wonderful one. But he never imagined she could be such a stubborn bitch. He had been certain that a few well-placed threats would have cowed her instantly. Yet her defiance only made him want her more. The thought of the beautiful hellcat screaming in his bed as he broke her was enough to send fire through his loins and harden his shaft on the spot.

He had toyed with the idea of abducting her and taking what he wanted. That would surely pull the Scottish demon out of hiding. But his forces still keenly felt the losses suffered at Brackenburgh. The battle had cost him, and because of the continued raids, David did not have the resources to recoup men and supplies.

The damnable raids.

That was the crux of the matter. The raids kept David off balance and financially unstable. He never knew where MacTavish would strike next. David had tried to divine a pattern, but the MacTavish remained infuriatingly unpredictable. He knew he had to change the rules of the game and do it quickly.

David took a long drink. How did one hunt what couldn’t be found, what couldn’t be tracked, what might as well not even exist? He scowled. Not by stalking, but by making it come to him. Abducting the bitch would accomplish that, but he did not have the manpower.

So what else did MacTavish want?

He wanted the Wardenship, along with David and his father dead. David sat up sharply. Was that it? Would that be enough to draw MacTavish out of hiding and into a trap?

David chuckled softly. Setting himself and his father as bait would be risky indeed. But it would cause MacTavish to finally become predictable—and once David was sure of the Scotsman’s motives, David could predict quite a bit. He rose from the table and went to find his father.

A few minutes later, David watched his father stroke his beard thoughtfully as he considered his idea.

“Risky,” his father agreed. “But I like it. Making the Scottish demon come to us is a good idea. But we need to take it all the way. With proper planning, we can finish this.”

“How so, Father?”

“You will spring your trap on MacTavish. No doubt once he is captured some of his men will go to Brackenburgh in an effort to reinforce and protect that little whore of his. I will be waiting with the rest of the men. They will have to open the gates, and when they do, I will take control of Brackenburgh.”

“Are you sure, Father? Our last attempt did not go so well.”

“That is because we failed to account for reinforcements. I vow the MacTavish conjured them out of thin air.”

“Aye.”

“Son, you must be prepared. MacTavish will bring all of his forces against you. My taking Brackenburgh will be simple compared to what you will face.”

“I know, Father, but don’t worry, we will have the advantage of surprise.”

“This is all pointless if you die.” He thought for a long moment. “David, I’m going to do all I can to see this succeeds, because if it fails, we are finished.”

“What are you planning, Father?”

“One last gambit to ensure we have the men we need to defeat MacTavish once and for all.”

HHH

A fortnight after passionate rendezvous, Branan gazed at Catriona’s letter and rubbed his jaw. All of the people coming to Brackenburgh to trade made it an excellent resource for rumor and gossip.

Now rumor had it Strickland and his bastard had grown desperate. They threw the last of their finances into men and weapons and enlisted the aid of a Jewish moneylender. Although Strickland had tried to keep the situation quiet, they had been forced to contact some of de Courcy’s competitors, and Branan had learned Strickland and his bastard would be near Brackenburgh arranging the deal with the moneylender. They were going into huge debt over this, and the moneylender would not be satisfied with the pact until it was signed in Strickland blood.

At first, both Branan and Catriona were uncertain about the validity of the rumor, but decided it was one that bore watching. Then even more rumors surfaced about its untruth. Strickland had plenty of money and there was no way he would stoop to begging aid from a Jew. He had simply chosen not to put Branan in his place because he wasn’t worth the trouble.

Branan knew otherwise.

His raids had nearly crippled Strickland financially. Strickland’s inability to put a stop to them embarrassed him publicly. Strickland would not live well with Branan’s continued claim to the Wardenship. These were only the first items on a very long list.

In her letter, Catriona wondered, and Branan agreed, if Strickland’s efforts to put these wild rumors to rest meant they had more validity than appearances dictated.

“There’s one way to find out,” Branan muttered and called for Gavin and Duguald.

HHH

Why do people always do underhanded deeds in the middle of the night?
Branan wondered and silently fumed. He was cold, tired, and hungry—and getting a serious cramp in his right calf muscle from staying hidden for so long.

He peered through the thick undergrowth at a small hovel hours away from Thistlewood. A tiny glow from a lamp inside reflected golden in the filthy windows. Three men waited in the hovel. Branan was not sure, but it appeared to be the moneylender and two guards.

Forty of Branan’s men also hid in various locations around the quiet hovel. All of them waited for only one thing: Strickland’s arrival.

And he was certainly taking his blasted time.

Branan worried something had spooked Strickland. He wondered about the rumor—what if it was wrong? Yet the fact the moneylender was here was a good sign.

Quiet sounds echoed down the trail. Branan scowled, peering through the undergrowth. Slowly, cautiously, six horses approached. The riders were heavily cloaked, but obviously well-armed. In the middle rode two men, the first glancing furtively from under his cowl. The second, a larger man, rode stooped in the saddle, his head down.

Branan’s mouth went dry and his hand tightened on his claymore.

The men dismounted, leaving only one to watch the horses, then approached the door. The man who had been glancing from under his cowl knocked. The door opened and the light fell on his face.

David Strickland.

Branan’s heart soared. No doubt the stooped man behind him was his father.

David and his father entered with two men, leaving one outside the door plus the one holding the horses. Branan waited until he heard voices in the hovel. Then he made a soft whistle through his teeth, like a tiny cricket chirping. Shadows moved in the woods around him, ghostly and without substance.

The man guarding the horses dropped silently, his throat slit, and the same fate quickly followed for the man at the door. Branan heard another soft cricket sound and stalked from his hiding place.

Branan’s men covered the windows while Branan, with Duguald, Gavin, and the Scotsmen, gathered at the door.

Inside, he heard the voices rise in heated discussion.

Branan nodded at Duguald.

With a roar, Duguald broke the door down and lunged through, Branan and Gavin following. Duguald killed one of the guards before the man’s sword cleared his scabbard. Gavin fell on the second and Branan’s gaze locked on the stooped man only a pace away. Strickland.

The man who murdered his parents.

Branan lifted his claymore.

The stooped man straightened, throwing back his cloak. Dimly, Branan’s mind registered that old man Strickland had suddenly turned into an unfamiliar giant knight, one who pointed a crossbow at him.

In less than a heartbeat, Branan’s mind also told him to stop, but it was too late for his body to listen. In the midst of his swing, the bolt launched from the bow and slammed into Branan’s right shoulder, staggering him back a pace. Pain blasted through him and his hand went numb. His claymore hit the floor with a dull thud.

Stunned, Branan focused on David, who was grinning maniacally. Then Branan saw the man he had thought was the Jewish moneylender. He wore armor and also lifted a crossbow. The bolt sailed past Branan, narrowly missing his head, and struck a man behind him.

He heard shouts and battle cries outside . . . and the sound of men dying.

A bloody trap!

Another man charged him and Branan simply reacted. Fury at his own stupidity surged through him. Branan drew his dagger with his left hand and roared. His vision tinted red, his fists flew with devastating effect. He felt no pain, he knew only burning rage. They would kill him this night, but he vowed he would take David with him, even if he had to do it with his bare hands.

HHH

Catriona was sitting at the table to eat when Edmund burst through the door. “My lady,” he cried, the alarm in his voice uncharacteristically ill-contained. “Your brother and Jamie approach.”

Terror shot through her. She had been expecting some sort of word on Branan’s foray against Strickland, but now knew something was terribly wrong.

She bolted to her feet and ran after Edmund.

“We were just closing the gates for the night,” Edmund said. He paused only to take her arm while descending the narrow flight of stairs to the bailey. “We heard a hail. Your brother is leading the mount with Jamie slumped over the back.”

“Oh God,” she whispered, reaching the last stair and sprinting for the gates.

She saw Gavin and his state nearly made her scream. Blood soaked his left arm, his hair, and the left side of his face. He led the horse, but had flung his right arm over its neck to support him. Both he and the horse limped badly. Jamie, as Edmund had said, was slumped over the back, his plaid dark with blood. It took a moment for her to realize he was tied to the saddle.

Four more men followed, all badly wounded, barely able to keep their feet.

“Branan?” she whispered. “Where is he?”

But her question went unanswered as a low rumbling sound caught her attention.

Greystoke tore his focus away from the wounded and stared into the darkness. Suddenly, his face lost all color. “Close the gates!” he roared and grabbed Catriona’s arm. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he hauled Catriona back toward the keep.

“Close the gates!” he bellowed again.

“Greystoke,” she gasped, trying to wrench free from him. “What’s wrong with you?”

The rumble grew louder. The gates slowly swung closed, but a rider burst through, trampling two wounded men. He carried a javelin and galloped straight to the windlass that controlled the gates and portcullis. The rider jammed the javelin into the machinery, causing it to grind to a halt.

“Get those gates closed!” Greystoke barked. “Form a shield wall, get pikes on the line. Prepare for cavalry!”

More horses galloped through the gates, followed by men-at-arms. They slew everyone within reach. Another horse charged in, but slid to a stop and reared. Strickland sat on its back, his dark eyes glittering with hatred. Catriona’s blood ran cold. He was supposed to be at the meeting with the moneylender. A trap, she belatedly realized. Branan had fallen into a trap and was probably dead. That’s why Gavin had returned in such a state.

Greystoke hauled her into the keep and shoved her toward the stairs. “Lock yourself in the solar,” he said and threw the bar on the door. “The escape route is worthless since Strickland knows about it.”

“Branan,” she whispered, tears coming to her eyes. “He’s probably dead.”

“We don’t know that,” Greystoke snapped. “But it matters not, I swore an oath to him that I would defend you with my life and I will uphold that oath. Now go!”

A sharp thud sounded against the door and Greystoke readied his sword.