Sins of a Highland Devil Page 12

  Furious, he tightened his grip on the Banner of the Wind. Never had a maid turned him inside out with such ease. He’d only flicked her thumb with his tongue and caught the merest hint of her nipples, and he ached to drown in the feel, taste, and scent of her. She’d stirred such a fever in him that he didn’t trust himself to speak.

  Alasdair showed no such reticence. “My regrets, Cameron, that we’ve disrupted your peace. We’ll be on our way in the morning. My sister told you why we came. She thought she saw one of our younger hounds trail after you when you left us. It would seem she erred.” He shot a glance at his sister. “The dog isn’t here.”

  “I could’ve told you that.” James tried not to show his irritation when Hector’s tail began to wag beneath the table.

  “The whelp is a favorite of Catriona’s. We spent days searching around Blackshore, but couldn’t find him. So we thought—”

  “He followed me?” James knew better.

  “It was a hope, aye.” Alasdair nodded, clearly duped.

  Catriona sipped her wine, all innocence.

  James wondered what spells she’d worked to trick Alasdair again. “No such animal trailed me. Though I’ll suggest you make a more thorough search on your return to Blackshore. If the dog is young”—he suspected there wasn’t a lost dog at all—“he might have taken a fright to something and hied himself beneath a bed.”

  That was the closest he’d come to bursting Catriona’s ploy.

  He did fix her with an I-know-what-you’re-about stare.

  Looking at her crossly was safer than letting her guess that her campaign to see him again filled him with ridiculous pleasure. It was a giddy, unwanted elation that flared in some dark, unnamed place deep inside him. And—the worrisome feeling warmed and spread—it was a sensation entirely different than his urge to see more of her nipples.

  He hoped it wasn’t his heart.

  “You could be right.” She was watching him over her wine cup’s rim. “Perhaps we’ll find Beadle in my—”

  “Beadle?” Alasdair’s eyes widened. “I thought we were searching for Birkie?”

  “Did I say Beadle?” Catriona didn’t blink. “I did mean Birkie.”

  Isobel hid a smile behind a cough. Colin leaned forward to peer at them, watching James much too closely. And—this could mean no good—the rest of the hall fell silent. Even Sir Walter and his men had stopped eating to crane their necks toward the dais.

  “I’m good with dogs.” Hugh half stood from his chair. “If anyone can find Birkie, I—”

  “You’re needed in your turret, taking up your quill to record the trials we’re facing these days.” James glared at Hugh until he lowered his big, thickset body into his seat. “There are others who can be of service to Lady Catriona.”

  Hugh glowered back at him, looking mutinous.

  James tucked the Banner of the Wind more securely beneath his arm and stalked to the hearth at the rear of the dais. Someone had tossed several fat logs onto the fire, causing it to blaze. No doubt some loon who felt that the softly smoldering peats they usually burned wouldn’t keep Catriona sufficiently warm.

  Peats glow, after all.

  Cut wood…

  He scowled at the roaring fire. The dancing flames offended him. Log fires were for Lowland Scots and the English. All those too thin-skinned to suffer the cold, black nights of Highland winter.

  He preferred peat.

  “Damnation!” He jigged when one of the fire logs popped, sending out a spray of orange-red sparks. Holding the Banner of the Wind aloft with one hand, he used the other to swat at the swirling cinders.

  A chorus of hoots came from the hall. But when he whipped around and swept the fools with a glare, their chortles died away. Satisfied, he placed the banner on a coffer and then marched over to the ewer and basin on the ledge of a window embrasure. He splashed water into the bowl and washed the soot from his hands.

  He ignored the ash on his legs.

  He’d bathe later.

  Now he needed to figure out how to rouse his men with Alasdair present. He’d meant to use the clan’s long-standing feud with MacDonalds and Mackintoshes to fire their blood. But so long as MacDonalds whiled beneath his roof, courtesy demanded he not slur their name.

  As did his honor.

  Frustrated, he snatched a length of folded linen off the embrasure’s stone ledge and wiped his hands. Moonlight slanted through the alcove’s window slit, spilling across the bowl of water. Its surface glistened like smooth, dark glass. Or—his nape prickled—like his sister’s and Scandia’s shining raven tresses.

  Two women who both, in their own time, loved the glen fiercely.

  Catriona shared that passion. She carried her love for the glen inside her as a burning, living flame. It plagued him to admit it, but he knew she stood in as much awe of their hills and moors as he did. This wild and beautiful place meant everything to her. She’d cling to the last rock in the glen, gripping so tight her fingers bled, before she’d let anyone, even a king, tear her away.

  He sensed that devotion in her, blazing bright with every beat of her heart. He also felt her looking at him. It was like a physical touch. And he didn’t need to turn around to know her gaze was sweeping over him, moving from his hair to his shoulders and lower.

  She lingered around his hips, his buttocks. Praise God, he wasn’t facing her. Even so, the assessment in her stare made heat pulse inside him.

  He took a deep breath, squeezing his hands to fists.

  Behind him, the hall was silent. His men would have recognized Ottar’s banner by now. They’d be staring at its glory, the silken folds gleaming so proudly on the coffer by the wall. Stone laid by the Fire-worshipper’s own hands. Or so the legend-tellers claimed, boasting that the mighty half-Viking war-leader had taken pride in toiling alongside his men as they’d raised the stronghold.

  James drew another tight breath, willing himself to think of Ottar and his banner rather than the enemy vixen sitting at his high table, making him burn to feel her skin against his. How he was consumed by an agonizing desire to plunder her mouth with his tongue, to kiss her for hours, and everywhere.

  Steeling himself against her, he stepped deeper into the embrasure, welcoming the cold, damp air until the ancient pride surged through him, gripping him more powerfully than if an iron fist squeezed his heart. Outside, the night wind whistled and moaned, rushing through the trees and sending dead leaves rattling across the bailey. To a fanciful mind, the skitter of leaves could almost be the metallic clink of mail, the clanking of long-ago swords, as Ottar and his men ran through the glen, chasing their windblown banner, their hearts bursting with exultation when the standard’s pole plunged into rich, peaty earth.

  He could almost feel their glee, hear their triumphant whoops.

  They were that real, that close…

  Then, somewhere in the depth of the hall, someone shouted for more ale. Other cries followed, breaking the strange silence. Chaos returned. And Ottar the Fire-worshipper and his mail-draped pagan followers vanished into the cold darkness whence they’d come.

  But rain still battered the tower’s thick stone walls and drummed on the roof. The wind wailed louder than ever. And beneath the storm’s fury came the familiar roar of the cataracts that plunged down the gorge in the hillside nearest Castle Haven’s curtain wall.

  It was a night like every other.

  A night of sounds—Highland sounds—that might be similar on the distant Isle of Lewis. But that couldn’t ever fill him with the same love, pride, and sense of oneness that beat through him now.

  He closed his eyes, his heart thundering.

  Ottar the Fire-worshipper might be gone, but he was here.

  Something inside him cracked and split, flooding him with a white-hot determination such as he’d never known. Highlanders and their land were inseparable. His bond with these hills was deep, powerful, and impossible to sever. The Glen of Many Legends was more than just his home.

  It w
as his soul.

  And he’d face down the Dark One himself before he’d allow even a single kinsmen—or a MacDonald or Mackintosh—to do anything that might give the King reason to enforce his threat to transport them.

  Not that any of them would go.

  They’d sooner fall on their swords and spare themselves the agony.

  He meant to see that such a tragedy never happened.

  So he retrieved the Banner of the Wind, taking the relic to the edge of the dais, where he unfurled the precious red-and-yellow standard with a flourish.

  He flashed a glance at Catriona. She looked like a Valkyrie with the torchlight shining on her garnet-red hair and casting shadows across her proud face and magnificent breasts. Her gaze met and locked with his, and she raised her chin, challenging him.

  Then a smile lifted the corner of her mouth, and in that moment, she was no longer the enemy. She was a woman of the glen, showing support. But it was a tenuous bond that could only be fleeting.

  So James turned back to the hall, not wanting to see the passion fade from her eyes or the prideful smile slip from her lips.

  “Camerons! Kinsmen, friends, and guests—hear me!” He held the banner high, half of the rippling silk slipping down his arm. “Behold our Banner of the Wind! The clan’s most ancient and worthy relic, carried by our great forebear, Ottar the Fire-worshipper, when he—”

  “Ottar! Ottar!” Loud cheers interrupted him, voices rising as the din grew deafening.

  Everywhere men pounded fists on tables and stomped their feet. Some leapt onto the trestle benches, whipping out their swords and waving them above their heads. The shouts echoed to the rafters, calls for Lowland blood mixed in with the repeated Cameron slogan.

  “Chlanna nan con thigibh a so’s gheibh sibh feoil!”

  “Sons of the hounds, come here and get flesh!”

  The cries shook the walls and filled the air. Sir Walter and his men strode from the hall, their noses high. Glad to see their backs, James gathered the banner as the clan rallied. He smoothed his hand down over the ancient rippling silk, using the ruckus to drape the precious relic over his laird’s chair. He took care to ensure that the banner’s snarling dog was prominently displayed, the exquisitely stitched beast making his heart pound and inflaming his blood. As he hoped the sight would do for his warriors.

  Certain it would, he crossed his arms and waited for the commotion to settle. When it did, he hoped his words wouldn’t dampen his men’s enthusiasm.

  He also risked a look at Alasdair.

  The fate of them all might depend on the other chieftain’s reaction.

  “Cameron is a man after my own heart.” Alasdair’s voice held a mix of admiration and annoyance. “He has a good tongue in his head, for all his tainted blood. A pity he’s no’ a MacDonald.”

  “Shhh!” Catriona almost choked on a sugared almond. “We’re at his high table, if you’ve forgotten. Even in this din, words carry.” She reached out, pinching his arm. “Someone might hear you.”

  She glanced at Isobel, hoping she especially hadn’t heard. Thankfully, her back was turned. Catriona felt a catch in her breast, looking at her. Were their clans not feuding, she wouldn’t mind being Isobel’s friend. It hadn’t taken long to discover they were very much alike. She’d come here expecting to admire James’s sister, but she’d been surprised to find she also liked her.

  And she’d find ways to make Alasdair sorry if he offended her.

  “Have a care, please.” She released his arm. “This isn’t Blackshore.”

  “I know fine where we are.” Alasdair leaned close, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Be glad I was speaking of himself and no’ you. Were I to say what I think of your trickery with Beadle, Birkie, or whichever dog you claimed went missing, you’d have more cause to flush than hearing me say I wish Cameron were of our own noble stock.

  “You’d best hope Birkie is at Blackshore when we return.” He gave her a hard look. “Otherwise—”

  “He’s in my bedchamber.” Catriona brushed a bit of sugar off her sleeve. “Maili’s seeing to him.”

  Alasdair snorted. “I thought as much.”

  Ignoring him, Catriona peered past him at James. He stood beside his laird’s chair and looked so tall and proud, so perilously tempting, that her heart hurt. If it weren’t for her wicked streak, she’d push back from his table and flee the hall. No good could come of hanging her heart on the chief of a rival clan. Worse things would result from indulging her longing for him.

  But she’d endured those yearnings for too many years, and now that’d she’d been in his arms—even if he hadn’t held her in passion—she couldn’t help but want more, regardless of the consequences.

  She’d rather be wicked than good.

  How could she resist when firelight danced across the wall behind James, so that he looked as if he towered at the rim of hell? His standard gleamed brightly, its silken length almost seeming alive, as if the banner preened beneath the clan’s adulation.

  The fierce-looking dog at the standard’s center appeared even more real. Glistening black threads spun his fur, embroidered hackles that seemed to rise as the stitched beast turned glowing, accusatory eyes on her. Almost as if the banner mascot were chiding her for hoping to steal a kiss from his master.

  She sat up straighter, refusing to feel guilty.

  She did feel brazen. But it was a delicious kind of daring. And one that wasn’t going to go away until James’s arms went around her and she could revel in the searing-hot brand of his kiss. He’d sworn they’d be savage, and the thought ignited tingling awareness inside her. Sensations she’d enjoy if Alasdair weren’t being such an ox, purposely leaning forward to block her view of James.

  “How did you plan to explain Birkie’s presence in your room?” Alasdair’s gaze was implacable.

  Catriona popped a sugared almond into her mouth, chewing deliberately.

  When she reached for another, he shot out a hand to seize her wrist. “Well?”

  “Bog mist.”

  Alasdair’s eyes rounded. “You’ve run mad.”

  “Pah.” She jerked her arm from his grasp. “There was a thick mist when James left Blackshore. I could’ve mistaken a swirl of fog for a small, wayward dog.”

  She rubbed her sleeve, smoothing the crease he’d made. “When James headed into the hills, I thought I saw an animal trailing him. Laoigh Feigh Ban. The magical white stag his clan calls Rannoch. But when I looked again, it was only a patch of blowing mist that seemed to be chasing after him.”

  “As you are doing now.”

  “So you say.”

  “So I know. And I’d hear why you went to such lengths to see him again?”

  “I wanted to come to Castle Haven.” Catriona sat up straighter. She refused to discuss the seductive attraction James held for her. “Everyone knows the King’s arrival is imminent. I thought to catch a glimpse of him.”

  Alasdair snorted. “You’d sooner scatter stinging nettles in the King’s bed than swoon in adulation when he and his entourage clatter past.”

  Catriona said nothing. She had hoped to see the King. But she’d intended to glare at the royal party, not fall into a flutter.

  The look in Alasdair’s eye said he knew.

  But before he could say so, a burst of foot stomping and whoops swept the hall.

  “Camerons!” James’ voice rose above the chaos. “Hear me, you who carry the blood of Ottar. And you, men of the glen, but of your own proud lineage.” He threw a glance at Alasdair, then the MacDonald guards, crowding a long table near the dais. “I know of your bellyaching, how some of you burn to have done with our woes. And I challenge you to think well before you yield to the glories of the old ways.”

  A low rumbling of dissent rolled through the hall.

  James gave his men a stiff nod. “Hear me now and I’ll show you the foolery of such notions.”

  “How so?” A large-bellied, bearded man jumped to his feet. “Would you see us turn f
rom snarling dogs to whipped curs, howling in the wilderness?”

  James met the man’s angry stare. “Since when would any Cameron even consider being mistaken for a whipped cur? The men I know and respect as fellow kinsmen would ne’er make such an error.”

  “Hah!” Alasdair reached for his wine cup. “Did I no’ say he has a fine tongue?”

  Catriona glanced at her brother and wasn’t surprised to see a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he sipped his wine. It pained her to know his sympathy would turn to scowls if he knew her feelings.

  James’s voice boomed on. “Fire and sword might’ve served Ottar the Fire-worshipper, but his day is gone. Such flourishes now, and against the King’s own men, will bring none of the splendor of yore.”

  Someone slapped a table. “He speaks true!”

  “Any such actions”—James fisted his hands on his hips and raked the hall, his dark eyes glittering—“would make our days here as fleeting as moonlight on water.”

  “Hear him!” The cry whipped around the hall, growing louder as more men joined in.

  “Armies of Lowland knights and fighters would pour north from their burghs and towns.” James was shouting now, his words echoing in the smoke-hazed hall. “They’d come in droves to avenge the men you’d like to dirk and pitch over cliffs or into bogs. They’d flood the glen, more men than if all the Highland clans banded together. As one, they’d scourge our hills, giving no quarter until even the last suckling bairn lies dead in the heather!

  “If any of you think we’d meet a kinder fate on the Isle of Lewis”—his voice chilled—“be assured there isn’t a poet living who could do justice to the trials we’d suffer there. And it wouldn’t be the cold darkness of a Hebridean winter that would freeze our hearts.”

  A chorus of ayes surged through the throng.

  When James spoke again, the air rang with his words. “Lewis and its black nights can have nothing on us. Few men are more winter-hardy than we of this lonely and windswept glen. We thrive in ice-rain and beneath cold, stone-gray skies. Shrieking gales are music to our souls, and ne’er do our hearts sing louder than on the stormiest days!”

  The men in the hall went wild. The ruckus swelled to a great roar, the clamor reaching deafening proportions. Castle Haven’s dogs raced everywhere, streaking through the aisles and around the crowded tables, their shrill barks lending to the confusion.