To Love a Highlander (16 page)

For once, he wasn’t of a mind to wrestle with them. The morrow would suffice.

He just hoped they didn’t follow him into his dreams.

Above all, he didn’t want to find Lady Mirabelle there.

Lifelong devils he could handle.

He’d been battling the beasties ever since he’d first learned the true meaning of bastard, what it meant not to have a father in a world where blood and lineage was everything. His devils were a plague, but he knew how to silence them. How to control the darkness he wouldn’t allow to invade his life, making him miserable.

He wasn’t sure what to do about Mirabelle, or, more specifically, what he should do about his feelings for her.

That they existed couldn’t be denied.

Furious that was so, he knocked down the remainder of his uisge beatha, not surprised he felt more like a caged beast than ever before in his life.

The question was how fast Lady Mirabelle could run if he couldn’t control his savage desires.

He hoped she wouldn’t be put to the test.

Sometime in the small hours, Sorley snapped out of a deep, uisge-beatha–inspired sleep, sure his plaguey demons
were
coming for him.

Fanglike teeth flashing, red eyes ablaze, and with their talonlike claws extended, they scratched at his bedchamber door. Clawing relentlessly, seeking entry so they could finally get their shriveled, leathery hands on him, at last claiming his black, sinful soul.

That he knew, sure as he breathed.

Yet.

Then the skull-splitting haze from too many cups of strong Highland spirits thinned just enough for him to hear the beasties’ clawing—
tap, tap, tap
—for what it really was: someone knocking at his door.

The raps were soft enough to scream stealth.

Whoever was out there, trying to waken him, didn’t wish to be seen.

And didn’t he know only one person who skulked about the castle so late at night, poking her pretty nose into places it didn’t belong?

How dare she come to his room again?

“Bluidy hell!” He threw back the covers and leapt from his bed.

Unfortunately, the first thing he then did was to trip over his discarded boot.

Tap, tap, tap!

The knocking turned more insistent.

Righting himself, he cursed again and stormed toward the door, bare-arsed as he was. If the sight of his free-swinging nakedness shocked her—which wasn’t likely, as she’d seen him thus before—so be it.

She deserved no better for disrupting his night’s rest.

As if his demons wished to disturb
him
, the wall sconces had guttered as he’d slept. Rarely had his room seemed so dark, so full of shadow and gloom. Even his night candle on the table beside his bed had gone out. In his fuzzy-headed state, he couldn’t see well and slammed his toe into an iron-bound chest near the door.

“Suffering saints!” He hopped on one foot, clutching his throbbing toe.

Outside, the
tapping
ceased.

“Och, nae, sweet,” Sorley growled, “you’re no’ sneaking away now.” He grabbed the latch, yanking open the door before she could flee. “What the bluidy—”

His jaw slipped, and he was stunned into silence to find Maili on the threshold.

“Sakes, lass!” He pulled her inside, closing the door behind her. He grabbed a plaid off a hook on the wall, slinging the tartan—a MacKenzie weave, as he admired that clan—around his hips, leaving his chest bare. “Can a man no’ have his sleep?”

“Think you I’d not rather be abed?” She moved deeper into the room, away from the door. She carried a small hand torch and set its tip to several of Sorley’s wall sconces, finally placing her torch in an iron hook near a window. “It’s been a long day and I’m tired.” She met his annoyed gaze, her own earnest. “William sent me.”

Sorley blinked. “Wyldes?”

“Himself it was, aye.” Maili stood beside his bed, her hands clasped before her.

Sorley shook his head, trying to scatter the last of the uisge beatha fumes. So this was why Maili had ridden back to Stirling with Mirabelle and her guard. The question was why the innkeeper had sent her.

William Wyldes did nothing without reason.

Sorley frowned. He was sure he wouldn’t like Maili’s tidings.

News that came in the wee hours was seldom good.

“I saw Wyldes this morn.” Sorley couldn’t help his querulous tone. “Is there a problem at the inn?”

“Not trouble, a visitor.” Maili dropped onto the edge of his bed, smoothing her skirts. “A man called in not long after you left. He came asking about you. William thought you should know.”

“Did the man say why he’s seeking me?”

“Not that I heard. William didn’t tell me if he knew.”

“Many men stop at the Red Lion.” Sorley leaned against the bedpost, considering. He also forced a casualness he didn’t feel, not wanting to alarm Maili.

“This wasn’t just any man, not a common wayfarer.” She lounged against his pillows, her expression anything but troubled.

Sorley’s instincts were on high alert.

Wyldes could smell a rat at a hundred paces. He’d think to have whiffed a monstrous one to have sent Maili to pester him in the middle of the night.

So he spoke plain. “I have my enemies, lass. Old ones with long memories and deeper grudges, new foes I make every day.” That was as close as he’d go to mentioning the Fenris. “Now and again suchlike surface to challenge me. Did this man give his name? Is he lodging at the inn? If so, I’ll head over to the Red Lion in the morning.”

He’d welcome a fight.

There was only one pastime he enjoyed more. And as that wasn’t possible, leastways not with the lady of his choice, he wouldn’t mind breaking the bones of whoever thought to call him out for a tussle.

He could think of no other reason for anyone to look for him.

“I’m not sure he’s an enemy.” Maili’s face softened, taking on the dreamy look she always wore when she fancied a man. “I do think he’s a warrior, though. He’s a great giant of a man with a thick mane of wild black hair and smoke-gray eyes. He has a beard, too, and wears silver rings braided into it. Ne’er have I seen the like…” Her eyelashes fluttered and she bit her lower lip, clearly smitten. “Handsome he is, in a fierce, hardened way. And he had an amulet hanging around his neck, a silver Thor’s hammer.”

Sorley fought the urge to snort.

He also bit his tongue rather than tell Maili he didn’t care if the man had the Norse god’s lightning bolts shooting out his arse.

“His name, lass, that’s all that interests me.” That wasn’t quite true.

From Maili’s description, he’d never met such a man. And that mystery caused an unpleasant tension to start building in his shoulders. He didn’t expect anything good to come of meeting the stranger. Though he would relish a fight if it came to one, and he suspected it would.

The man sounded like a mercenary, like as not, someone sent by one of his less stout-hearted foes. The kind of man who saw his might in coin rather than his sword arm. Sorley found paid fighters distasteful. He disliked their employers even more. Men should fight their own battles.

Maili was twirling a curl of her dark brown hair around her finger, her lips curved in a smile that could only be called besotted.

Sorley frowned. “He did give his name?”

“He’s Grim Mackintosh.” Maili leaned deeper into his pillows, linking her hands behind her neck. “He’s a Highlander from Nought territory in the Glen of Many Legends. A
Highlander
,” she enthused, saying the word as if such beings had winged ankles, walking without their feet touching the lowly ground.

Sorley’s mood darkened.

Once, he’d also been in awe of Highlanders. But that was long ago, back when he’d been a wee gullible lad and hadn’t yet learned how cruel such men could be. Hope had still beat in his boyish heart. Secretly, he’d believed his Highland chieftain father would come for him, whisking him away, making his world right, as they’d ride off to the distant hills he dreamed of and felt so drawn to.

That was then.

He was a boy no more.

These days any whiff of tartan put his back up, souring his mood and ruining his day.

There were a few exceptions.

King Robert’s brother, Alex, commonly known as the Wolf of Badenoch and as deserving of the name as a mortal
man could be, stood in Sorley’s highest regard. It was Alex, more than his kingly brother, who truly steered the Fenris. A fearsome but great-hearted man, the Wolf also loved his wild hills and moors above everything and enjoyed nothing better than parading about court in full Highland regalia, his plaid and his pride proudly displayed.

Sorley also excluded MacKenzie plaids from his aversion to tartan. He held MacKenzies in grudging admiration because of their much-famed chieftain, Duncan, the Black Stag of Kintail. He couldn’t count the rousing tales spun about the man, or how often he’d heard it said that the Black Stag was even greater than his legend.

So sometimes he wore that clan’s blue-and-green tartan, simply because no one would dare tell him not to. He also did so in tribute, though he was not wont to admit it.

“Not many Highlanders visit the Red Lion.” Maili’s wistful tone reminded him he wasn’t alone.

He looked at her, found her twirling a tassel on one of his bed cushions. Her eyes were even dreamier than before. Whoever the Highlander was, he’d turned Maili’s head.

He still couldn’t place any Grim Mackintosh of Nought in the Glen of Many Legends.

“Nought, aye?” He had heard of the Mackintosh lands. “That’s said to be a godforsaken place, all rocky, jagged peaks, mist, and cold winds. Folk claim Nought is wild, remote, and so rugged only mountain goats and fools would dare set foot there. I ken no Nought men.”

He did envy them, deep in his heart.

That was a truth that scalded him to the bone. It also clamped around his chest, so tight the longing almost wrung the breath from him.

He could imagine the remote splendor. As a lad, he’d dreamt of belonging to a place like Nought. Somewhere carved of soaring, wind-beaten heights, deep gorges filled with cascading waterfalls, and high moors where the heather
rolled on forever, the desolation so glorious it hurt the eyes to behold such grandness.

Sorley set his jaw against the images, pushing them from his mind.

If a Nought man—and a warrior, at that—had gone to William seeking him, it wouldn’t be to regale Sorley with the wonders of his home.

“This Grim…” He angled his head, his mind racing. “He’s a warring man, you say? Are you sure he’s no’ a Sassenach in disguise?”

That could be a reason for Wyldes’s warning.

Maili looked shocked. “No Englishman could speak so beautifully. I vow”—her cheeks flushed pink—“I nearly
enjoyed
myself just listening to him. Only Highlanders can melt a woman with their voices, making us—”

“Have done, lass!” Sorley scowled at her. “There’s more to man than his burr.”

Maili sighed dreamily. “Say you.”

“I do. I’ll also say I’m surprised you aren’t in a hurry to race back to the Red Lion. If this Grim is such a paragon”—Sorley didn’t hide his annoyance—“I’d think you’d be eager to return to his bed. Sakes, you look close to needing to fan your face each time you speak of him.”

“I do fancy him.” Maili jumped to her feet, brushed at her skirts. “And I did ask if he required his comforts addressed, his bed made warmer…” She glanced aside, seeming embarrassed. “He wasn’t interested, said he just wanted a clean room to sleep and victuals.”

Sorley’s jaw slipped. “Then he’ll be of another bent than most men, sweet.”

He wouldn’t have thought it, but still…

Maili
was
fetching. She had a cheery, saucy air that drew men, always. Few could resist her. Sorley only did because he loved her like a sister. Otherwise he’d also be tempted, mightily so.

“There are men who dinnae favor ladies.” He sought to make her feel better.

“Oh, nae, Grim’s not that way.” She shook her head, her dark curls bouncing. “He’s married, he is. He—”

Sorley snorted. “Most men are, love. A wife rarely stops a man from—”

“Not a wife, perhaps, but love.” Maili’s eyes warmed, turning dreamy again. “Truest love always stays a man. He may look at such as me, but he’ll enjoy only his meal and ale at the Red Lion. Grim Mackintosh is such a man.” She stood straighter, squaring her shoulders as if to defend him. “He even told me I’m bonnie and that the bards in his hills would sing of my charms. But he also said that, for him, his lady wife shines brighter than all the stars in the heaven. That her light and warmth is with him always, wherever he goes.”

“Long-winded bastard, what?” Sorley snorted again.

Such a man likely had
other
problems keeping him from tumbling a fine lass like Maili.

“He’s not a bastard at all. He—” Maili clapped a hand to her lips, her eyes rounding. “Och, sorry! I didn’t mean—”

“That I ken, sweeting.” Sorley slid an arm around her, drawing her close as he guided her to the door. Releasing her, he set his hand on the latch. “Did William have aught else for me to hear?”

Maili shook her head. “Only that he feels Grim’s tidings are important.”

Sorley nodded. “Then all I can do is to find out what he wants.”

“I can’t wait to hear.” Maili reached to squeeze his arm as she nipped past him, quickly disappearing down the dimly lit corridor.

Sorley closed the door behind her, his mood now worse than ever. And not because some stranger named Grim blew in from one of the bleakest corners of the Highlands, calling at the Red Lion to ask of him. Whatever the man
wanted would be addressed swiftly, with swords, fists, or words, however their meeting fell.

Crossing the room, Sorley climbed back into his bed, huffed an agitated breath. He’d lied out the gills to Maili, and not the Fenris-driven falsehoods that were necessary and acceptable.

He’d stooped to the lowly, despicable kind of lie that would eat into him for days, damning him to the bone.

He’d have never believed it, but he understood Grim Mackintosh’s wish to sleep alone. Only difference was that it was lust and not love that diminished Sorley’s usually rampant need for a woman.