To Love a Highlander (4 page)

“Nor do I care for arrogance.” She put her hands on her hips, her determination and wit beginning to delight him as much as her other, more obvious charms. “I do not trust Sir John’s smile. I’m also not fond of his eyes.

“Such things are more telling than words.” She flipped back her hair. “That is why I asked a trusted servant to befriend those working in the castle kitchens. Such people often know more about a person’s true nature than anyone sitting at the high table.”

“Is that so?”

“I believe you know that it is.”

“Indeed, I do.” Sorley squelched the smile tugging at his lips.

The last thing he wanted was for her to guess how much he admired her good sense. Most ladies at court fawned all over Sir John Sinclair.

It scarce mattered that the noble’s underhanded dealings and treachery had cost him lands and wealth. Or that he’d also lost esteem in the eyes of a few. Those worthies who looked beyond Sinclair’s slick, oiled hair and handsome face; the shining mail and lavish clothes he favored. Somehow he managed to dress himself extravagantly even when reputed to have lost much of his coin.

Despite it all, he stayed within the bounds allowed him, craftily avoiding royal wrath.

By comparison, Sorley wasn’t half as skilled at self-preservation.

He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortably aware that he couldn’t possibly keep hiding how appealing he found Lady Mirabelle.

He wanted to despise her.

As if she sensed his approaching capitulation, she came forward, her bewitching perfume floating with her. The
fragrance swirled about him, teasing and tempting him, the delicate rose scent forming a trap more inescapable than bars of hot-forged iron.

“So you agree?” She stopped right before him, so near he couldn’t breathe.

“I share your opinion of Sinclair.” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

She pounced, the flare of hope in her eyes almost persuading him. “If he believes I am no longer—”

“Sweet lass, I regret spoiling your plans, but they won’t work. No’ with Sinclair.” His voice hardened just thinking of the man. “A woman’s purity matters naught to him. He isn’t a fastidious sort. No’ in that regard.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed. “But he is fiercely proud.”

“No’ that proud.” Sorley let his gaze again dip to her breasts. Looking up again, he smoothed the backs of his fingers down her cheek, brushed his thumb over the corner of her lips. “If he wants you, which isn’t surprising, he’ll no’ leave you be until he’s had you.

“And there’ll be hell to pay if you resist him.” Sorley knew it well. “John Sinclair is no’ a man you’d wish to rile, my lady.”

“If you help me, that won’t be necessary.”

“Have you Heiland bog cotton in your ears, lass? Sinclair won’t care a whit if you’re soiled or pure. Not that lecherous bastard.”

To Sorley’s surprise, she glanced aside, color once again blooming on her cheeks. When she looked back at him, he could almost feel the embarrassment rolling off her. But she stood tall, her shoulders straight and her head raised. Whatever her faults—and he knew she had them—her courage delighted and fascinated him.

She moistened her lips. “My servant also asked around about you.”

Sorley’s brow went up. “Is that so?”

“It was necessary.” She held his gaze, her voice strong. “I learned there’s bad blood between you and Sir John. If you help me, you’d benefit as well.”

Sorley almost choked. “Any man would enjoy taking you to his bed.”

He just wasn’t that man.

“Aside from the obvious”—he gripped her chin, his gaze fierce—“how would such an association favor me?”

“It is known at court that Sir John reviles you as much as you dislike him.” She spoke as if she’d rehearsed her arguments. “He considers any woman touched by you as tainted goods. They are no longer worth his esteem.

“You’ve never been in a position to challenge him before his peers.” She looked at him with those sparkling eyes, speaking easily of his lowly birth. “Now you have the chance to thwart him, spoiling his plans.”

For a heartbeat, Sorley was tempted.

Greatly so.

But he knew Sinclair too well.

So he went to the door, setting his hand on the latch. “Sir John’s fury would be terrible, my lady. I dinnae care for myself, but he would—”

“He won’t lay a hand on me.” She joined him at the door, touched his elbow. “I’ll be home to Knocking Tower before he’d have the chance. Besides”—she gave him a smile that went straight to his heart, almost convincing him—“the Highlands are no place for a Lowland noble. He wouldn’t find me there if he tried.

“So, please…” She squeezed his arm. “Will you not agree to help me?”

“I will consider it.” He wouldn’t, but she needn’t know that. “Meet me in the castle chapel tomorrow e’en and I’ll give you my answer. If anyone questions you, you can say you’re hoping to catch a glimpse of the pink lady. That’s where she is most frequently seen.”

“I will be there.” She lifted on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

“I’ve no’ yet agreed.” He was determined to say no.

Placing a hand on the small of her back, he urged her out the door. Once it was closed again, he leaned his back against the wood, a smile curving his lips. Perhaps there was a way he could assist her and scratch an itch that had plagued him for years.

Sometimes the gods did favor a man, and who was he to refuse their gifts?

Pushing away from the door, he went to the window and braced his hands on the cold, damp stone of the ledge. As if the fates truly were tempting him, he was in time to see Lady Mirabelle crossing the bailey. A thin drizzle still fell and an enormous moon drifted in and out of the clouds. Wind blew sheets of mist across the courtyard, but Mirabelle strode through the rain as if she was made for such weather.

His smile deepened as he watched her.

She paused before the sheltered arcade on the far side of the bailey and tipped back her head as if she savored the misty damp on her face. Sorley’s pulse quickened, a whirl of heated images filling his mind. In his experience, women who appreciated rough weather were equally wild and passionate in a man’s arms.

He’d enjoy discovering if the same was true of Lady Mirabelle.

His blood ran hot at the thought, pure masculine anticipation surging through him as she disappeared into the shadows of the arcade. Rarely had a woman roused such an intense response in him. And never had he been more inclined to ignore such yearnings.

What a shame he knew he wouldn’t.

T
he rain had stopped by the time Sorley wakened early the next morning. Through his window arch he could see a clear gray sky and a scattering of stars. Wind howled round the tower and the predawn air had turned so cold he almost expected to find a dusting of frost on the bailey cobbles. Not that he was eager to leave the warmth of his bed and trudge across the room to confirm his suspicions. Doing so would require braving a floor that rolled like waves on the sea and suffering the sight of walls that appeared to breathe.

Even so, he pushed up on his elbows to glare at the toppled ewer of wine lying on the floor rushes in the middle of his bedchamber.

It swam in and out of view, as did the equally empty ale jug on the table.

In truth, there were a few other discarded ale and wine vessels littering the quarters he usually kept as tidy as possible.

He knew because he’d downed the contents of each one.

Now he was paying for his folly.

Rarely had his head pained him so greatly.

“Devil take the lass,” he snarled the curse, the effort only worsening the thunder at his temples. He glowered into his room’s dark and chilly shadows, furious he’d felt such a need to banish certain images from his mind. But what man could find sleep when the memory of Lady Mirabelle’s pert nipples wouldn’t give him any peace?

Praise be he’d only glimpsed their puckered upper crests.

Had he seen more…

He pulled a hand down over his face, not wanting to imagine. Never before had a woman driven him to such madness. His head pounded, he felt queasy, and he doubted if he had the strength to crawl from his bed, much less stand and face the morning.

And wasn’t this the worst day to find himself in such a state?

Duty called. Fenris business he’d been tending for ages and with the intricate care required of one of his sort. Bringing down any man for shady, villainous maneuvers was aye a pleasure. But when the blackguard counted himself among the highest in the land, such outlawry had to be handled with especial caution. In this case, severity, the Fenris having been urged to stretch punishment to the farthest reach of their efficiency.

And few Fenris were as hardened, proud, and skilled as Sorley.

Never yet had he disappointed his King.

He wouldn’t now either.

So he bit back a groan, threw aside the bed covers, and pushed to his feet. The room careened around him, but he grumbled his way across the rushes to the one ewer he hadn’t touched. Feeling queasy, he bent over his wash basin and poured the jug’s icy water onto his head.

“Satan’s arse!” Spluttering, he straightened and grabbed a drying cloth, rubbing briskly at his drenched hair and aching eyes.

The shock helped some, but the room still spun.

He quirked a small smile on noting that, despite his wretched condition, he’d remembered to place his weapons by the door before he’d slept.

When he reached his destination, a hard and rough hamlet on the River Forth, near to the ruined Abbey of St. Mary, he’d have need of his sword and dirk. For good measure, he’d even added a broad-bladed war ax. He eyed the arms now as he dragged on his clothes, having the greatest struggle with his tall, soft-leathered journeying-boots. The truth was, as foul as he felt, he might forgo weapons and use his bare hands to have done with the miscreant known to be sharing the King’s secrets with the English enemy.

Relishing the possibility, he somehow managed to tug on his boots, buckle his sword-belt low about his hips, and even stuff a ratty, moth-eaten pilgrim’s cloak into a large leather satchel. His war ax followed. A man with a sword at his hip wasn’t an unusual sight about Stirling, but a fighting ax would draw unwanted attention.

He’d retrieve the weapon when he donned the wayfarer’s mantle. For now, all he needed was to rid himself of the pain ripping through his head.

The wretched pounding was worse than a hammer on a forge anvil.

Blessedly, he knew a cure.

Frowning because a scowl also helped soothe a raging ale-head, he slung the leather pouch over his shoulder and left his room, hoping the wall torches in the corridor weren’t burning too brightly.

The gods were kind.

Most of the passage was steeped in darkness. Only a few sconces flickered, their light too feeble to stab his hurting eyes.

Grateful for such small mercies, he strode down the corridor and then took the winding stair up to the battlements.
When he reached the top and opened the door, a blast of chill air hit him. The cold stung his eyes and helped clear his aching, ale-fuzzed head. Knowing the view from his special corner of the ramparts would do the rest, giving him the strength he needed to start his day, he stepped into the icy wind and turned toward the eastern wall.

He stopped short after only a few steps.

Lady Mirabelle stood near his favorite spot, her lovely face turned to the wind, her red-gold hair tumbling loose about her shoulders.

“By all that’s holy,” Sorley swore, glaring at her as the pain in his head returned with a vengeance.

“You!” She spun about at once, her eyes flying wide. “What are you doing here so early of a morn?”

“I might ask the same of you.” Sorley strolled over to her, retreat no longer an option. “Myself, I greet each new day up here. The brisk, clean air and the view”—he swung out an arm, indicating the broad spread of rich farmland, misty hills, and the distant peaks of the Highlands—“is one of the few pleasures I allow myself.”

Her cheeks colored most becomingly on the word
pleasures.

Selfishly pleased to have unsettled her, Sorley stepped around her and braced his hands on a merlon. He fixed his gaze on the winding path of the river, knowing she’d join him.

When she did, he glanced at her. “Truth is, sweetness, I’ve been visiting this viewpoint nearly every morn since I was all of six years. How is it that you, a visitor to the castle, would seek such an out-of-the-way spot?” He held her gaze, hoping to see a flash of guilt.

Hadn’t he once offered to bring her here?

All those long years ago when she’d come to Stirling with her father and her uncle?

If she remembered, she showed no sign.

Her forgetfulness added a sharp jab of annoyance to the ills already plaguing him that morning.

“I always miss the hills when I’m away.” She turned her gaze back to the far-off mountains that were just beginning to glow with hints of the coming dawn. “Most of all, I yearn for my home, Knocking Tower. Someone at the high table yestere’en mentioned one can see clear to the Highlands from up here. I wanted to look.”

“The view is exceptional this morn.” Sorley put just enough suggestiveness into his tone to rattle her. He also slanted her a glance that left no doubt to his meaning.

When her blush deepened, he almost regretted the taunt, but it bothered him more than it should that she had no recollection of their youthful encounter.

She brought out the worst in him.

So much so that he straightened, turning away from the wall to glance boldly down the length of her body and back up again. He took special delight in allowing his gaze to linger where she clutched her cloak together over the swell of her luscious breasts.

Not dressed as splendidly as the night before, she wore a simple mantle of deep blue, its edges fluttering in the wind to reveal a plain gown of the same hue beneath. Her hair shone, silky and lustrous in the pale morning sun. The shining strands minded him of richly hued autumn leaves. And weren’t her great blue eyes bright, the high color on her cheekbones flattering, and—something inside him twisted with annoyance—her ripe lips as red as rowan berries? He was certain no fairer maid walked the land.

Despite all reason, he wanted to devour her whole.

Her chin came up as if she knew. “You are not looking at the view.”

“Aye, I am.” He gave her a slow, lazy smile. “I’ve ne’er seen aught finer.”

A slight lifting of her brow indicated she knew exactly
what he meant. “If that is so, are you now willing to help me?”

“You’ll have my answer this e’en in the chapel, as we agreed.” He cupped her cheek in one hand, unable to resist. “As yet, I’m undecided.”

It was a bald-faced lie.

Regrettably, the hammering in his head and her ability to scatter his wits drove him to share his misery. He couldn’t tamp down the powerful urge to unsettle her as much as she did him.

“Then I shall hope you decide in my favor.” She looked up at him, speaking as calmly as if she’d commented on the weather and not something as scandalous as her wish for him to deflower her.

He almost told her the truth; that he’d enjoy nothing more, taking great pleasure in the deed. Sakes, even with the cold morning wind racing over the battlements, he could almost feel the heat of her as if she were already in his arms.

Somehow his fingers went to her hair, touching glossy strands as if the devil himself wouldn’t allow him to lower this hand. In truth, the fiend had nothing to do with his lack of willpower. It was her. She was simply breathtaking in the soft morning light.

He frowned, not wanting her to guess how fetching he found her. “Lady, I’d have thought a good night’s sleep would put such nonsense from your mind.”

“To me, the matter is most serious.” Annoyance flickered over her face. “Will you not even consider it?”

He’d thought of nothing else since he’d wakened to find her in his bedchamber.

A truth he was not about to share with her.

“I make no promises.” His tone was harsher than he’d have wished, but she rode him like a sharp-clawed, ring-tailed she-devil.

Nae, a vixen of the very kind he sought to avoid at all costs.

She was a cunning and devious minx, brazen, provocative, and entirely too alluring. She was also a lady of good breeding, her lineage beyond question, her virginity equally so.

He stepped away from her at last, leaning against the wall with all the casualness he could muster. He crossed his arms, his mind racing for a way to be rid of her. A look, a phrase, anything he could avail himself of that would send her fleeing from the ramparts, away from his special place. Above all, out of his sight.

“So-o-o, sweetness…” He looked at her with hooded eyes, putting just enough arrogance into his tone to rile her. “Did you hope to catch a glimpse of the pink lady up here? Or were you truly only after gazing toward your distant homeland? If you’re pining so fiercely for the hills, surely you can persuade your father to take you back to Knocking Tower?”

“Where are you heading this fine morn?” Ignoring his questions, she glanced pointedly at the bulky leather pouch he’d left beside the stair tower door. When she looked at him again, she angled her head, her gaze challenging. “Can it be you’re off to visit ladies, pink or otherwise?”

“I’m on my way to the Red Lion.” He spoke true, just not mentioning that he intended to pay a call at the popular tavern not this morning, but much later, after he’d met with her in the chapel. He meant to slake his need for her with the comeliest, most wanton joy woman tending her trade at the Red Lion that night.

Only so, by thoroughly taking the edge off his raging desire for Lady Mirabelle, could he keep to the offer he intended to make her.

She glanced again at his travel pouch. “You must have a most expensive lady in mind if you need such a large bag to carry her payment.”

“I ne’er have need of coin for such delights.” He pushed away from the wall, guilt pinching him when his words put a deep flush on her face.

A pity his irritation weighed more than shame for speaking so plainly. “If you’d hear the right of it, many are the bonnie lasses who come freely to my bed. Others, such as your own lovely self, offer recompense for my attentions.

“No’ that I accept such boons.” He hooked his thumbs in his sword-belt, well aware he’d gone too far but unable to curb his tongue.

She annoyed him that greatly.

So he leaned in, giving her a wink. “The ladies’
favor
is payment enough.”

Her eyes rounded. “You, sir, are insufferable.”

“So many say.” He flashed his most roguish smile. “But you err in calling me sir. Surely you’ve not forgotten my nameless birth?”

“I’ve forgotten nothing.” Her temper flaring, she narrowed her gaze at him.

Sorley shrugged, feigning indifference.

In truth, she made him damned uncomfortable.

What a shame that even now, aware of her perfidy as he was, just standing so close to her hit him like a punch to the gut. She made him feel four and ten summers again, young and vulnerable. He didn’t like the feeling. Yet for some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t summon the will to turn and leave her standing alone, to stroll away with just enough swagger to put another maidenly flush on her face. He did brace a hand on the rampart wall, careful to keep his gaze on the distant hills.

“If you’ve forgotten nothing, fair lady,”—he spoke without looking at her—“you’ll remember from last night that I am no’ a man to be taken off guard. If you thought to sway my decision by waiting for me up here—”

“I did not come here to meet with you.” The truth in her denial was vexing.