To Love a Highlander Read online

  “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.

  Since Lady Mirabelle’s appearance, he’d lost his appetite for bedding any other lass.

  He only wanted her.

  Wishing he didn’t, he rolled onto his side and resisted punching the bedpost. Busted knuckles would serve him naught. And he’d regret the dent he’d plow into the bed’s richly carved oak frame. He’d spent too many years sleeping on a scatter of hay in a dark corner of the castle kitchens as a lad to damage the proud “laird’s” bed he’d bought with his first hard-earned coin.

  Still, he was furious to have fallen under Mirabelle’s spell.

  Praise God it was only lust he felt for her.

  He just hoped the powerful urges she stirred in him faded once she was gone, that he’d then forget her, his usually ravenous appetite for women returning. All women, in their vast and delightful variety. He didn’t relish going through his days primed for the one female he shouldn’t desire and could never make his own, no taste remaining for the other lovelies of the fairer sex.

  He wasn’t made to monk.

  Mirabelle appeared to grace the earth for the sole purpose of maddening him.

  It was an undertaking she executed with great skill.

  She was by turn seductively provocative and alluring in her innocence. She knew how to walk, taking every advantage of the generous curves the good gods had bestowed on her. She teased with smooth alabaster skin that begged to be touched. And—he was convinced—she bathed in rivers of rose oil, the witchy scent too beguiling for any man to withstand.

  He refused to consider her remarkable eyes and what happened to him when she swept him with one of her bold, all-too-direct gazes.

  Her lips tasted as luscious as he’d aye imagined, while her tongue…

  “Hellfire and damnation!” Sorley flipped onto his back and glared up at the bed’s intricately-carved oak canopy. For the first time in his memory, he resented the bare-breasted wood nymphs made to look as if they peered down from the panels of black, age-glossed wood.

  He had the distinct impression they were laughing at him.

  Closing his eyes, he ignored them.

  He wasn’t as successful putting Mirabelle from his mind. But he did know one thing. And it was a greater truth than anything else.

  The sooner he saw the last of her, the better.

  Chapter Ten

  Much later, in the darkest, most still hours of the night, Mirabelle stood alone in the castle’s exquisitely appointed Rose Room. Only a few doors from her guest chamber, the favored haunt of court ladies was lavish beyond her wildest imaginings, the room’s sumptuous furnishings so grand she wondered if she was still in bed, dreaming.

  Yet she was awake, her inability to sleep having brought her here.

  She’d hoped to encounter a few women, having heard their chatter drifting from the room often enough. But apparently Stirling’s ladies enjoyed better slumber than her own. No one had greeted her when she slipped into the oh-so-feminine, rose-colored chamber.

  In truth, the walls were whitewashed, though so many large tapestries graced the room that its real color couldn’t be seen. It was the rose-bedecked wall coverings that drew the eye, each masterpiece shimmering in hues of palest pink to deepest red, the embroidered blooms looking so real that she almost felt as if she’d stepped into a beautiful rose garden blossoming in all its summer glory.

  Even the artfully carved fireplace was crafted of smooth and gleaming pink marble.

  A dazzle of silken cushions in the same shade adorned the benches in the room’s three deep-set window embrasures, while thick, pink-waxed candles glimmered softly in delicately arched wall niches. Never before had she seen such colored candles, and their glow only added to the chamber’s magical air of enchantment.

  Whoever cared for the room had placed wine jugs, silver-edged cups, and an array of tempting-looking cheeses and oatcakes on a table draped with a rich damask covering in a fetching shade of dark rose.

  Mirabelle’s belly rumbled, but she went to stand before one of the chamber’s tall arch-topped windows rather than indulging in the potent Rhenish wine or the delicious-looking refreshments that she was sure would only sit like rocks
in her stomach.

  The Rose Room and its fairytale trappings could’ve sprung from a bard’s most romantic storytelling, but her mind was filled with more important matters than admiring fripperies, or even eating.

  She couldn’t forget Sorley’s kiss.

  Neither her glimpse of the castle’s pink lady, her unpleasant meeting with Sir John, nor her encounter with the Wolf and his lady could banish the heated memory of his lips claiming hers. He was beyond all doubt the most dashing, alluring, and compelling man she’d ever met and she half believed he’d cast a spell on her.

  Just thinking about his kiss, how his tongue had slid inside her mouth to tangle with her own, made her breasts swell and ache and sent an embarrassingly wicked rush of hot, damp warmth tingling across her most private places. Any moment she would burst into flame, she was sure.

  Worst of all, her wantonness made her forget proper decency.

  She should have told him about the Highlander who’d called in at the Red Lion, asking of him.

  She’d meant to do so. Something told her the man’s business with Sorley was earnest.

  But…

  He stole her wits. His proximity, even just the way he looked at her, or simply breathing the same air, chased all else from her mind. Nothing remained except her burning wish for him to take her in his arms and ravish her. Not only by kissing her, but entirely.

  She’d hoped a bit of converse with another, equally sleep-deprived maid would turn her thoughts to less dangerous musings. That the hours until first light would pass more quickly, once she returned to her bed.

  For it was then, at daybreak, that she planned to visit Sorley’s quarters.

  Not to press him about her proposal and his insulting stipulations, but to warn him about the Highlander.

  If early morning found him a bit sleep-befuddled and he then decided to kiss her…

  So be it.

  She wouldn’t complain.

  She stepped closer to the window, inhaled deeply of the cold night air. Her shift and bed-robe weren’t much protection against the chill, but she didn’t mind. In truth, she appreciated the briskness. She also took pleasure in the hour’s stillness.

  Stirling Castle wasn’t often quiet.

  So she nearly jumped from her skin when the sound of the door latch echoed through the Rose Room’s elegant splendor.

  She jolted, awareness sluicing her as the door opened and closed behind her. The beat of her heart quickened, her pulse thundering. She knew without looking who’d entered the room, and it wasn’t one of the court ladies. Only one person could provoke such a reaction in her, simply by stepping over a threshold, his presence already flowing around her so potently that she could hardly breathe.

  “Sorley.” Turning to face him, she wasn’t surprised to see that he looked murderous. He made right for her, his stride bold and forceful, the fierce glint in his eye sparking her own ire. “This is a ladies’ chamber.” She lifted her chin as he neared, meeting his furious gaze. “We are in the women’s tower, a place that should be safe from male intrusion, especially at this late hour.”

  “I ken exactly where we are.” He stopped before her, catching her arm. His grip was tight, his expression even darker this close. “What I’d hear is what you are doing here. In the Rose Room, and”—he swept her with a heated gaze, from her tumbled, unbound hair to her slippered toes and back again—“half-dressed in naught but your bedclothes.”

  Mirabelle kept her chin raised. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Neither could I, you little she-vixen.” He leaned in, didn’t release his hold on her. “My bedchamber looks directly across to this room. Imagine my surprise to gaze this way and see you limned in thon window arch, the light of the moon and the Rose Room’s candle glow treating me to a sight no man should be presented with unless he’s about to strip down himself and bed a woman. Had anyone else seen you…” He let the implication hang between them, meaningfully.

  Mirabelle didn’t like his assumption. “Someone else wouldn’t have stormed across the bailey and barged into this room, spoiling my night’s peace and—”

  “Think you?” He released her then and stepped back, shoved both hands through his hair. “Are you so naïve that you dinnae ken this chamber’s purpose?”

  Mirabelle blinked. “Ladies of quality come here for refreshments. I have heard their chatter, ofttimes late of an e’en.” She had, hence hoping to exchange a few pleasantries with one or two this night. “I thought to—”

  “You erred badly.” Sorley glanced about the lovely room, and even in the soft glow of the candlelight, she could see the agitation in his eyes. When he looked back at her, his jaw was hard-set, a muscle clenching there. “To be sure, fine ladies frequent this room. But they dinnae come here to engage in simple blether.”

  “I do not follow your meaning.” She did, but was too stunned to say so.

  “Indeed?” He arched a brow, his piercing gaze warning her that she trod on dangerous ground. “Shall I tell you what goes on here, lass?”

  “I am sure you know.”

  “No’ just myself.” He indicated the nearest tapestry with a jerk of his chin. It was exceptionally lovely, covered with silk-embroidered roses in full bloom. “Can you guess why the room is called after roses?”

  Mirabelle set her hands on her hips. “Because of the wall hangings; each one is covered with roses. They’re even on the cushions of the window embrasure benches.”

  “So they are.”

  Mirabelle lifted her own brow, holding his gaze. “Why do I have the feeling you’re about to say something for the sole purpose of shocking me?”

  “I came here to protect you.” His face turned even more thunderous. “The roses you see everywhere in this chamber, and the room’s name, refer to another type of rose. A wonderfully feminine one much enjoyed by men.”

  “A female rose?” Mirabelle didn’t understand.

  Then she did, a wash of heat soaring onto her cheeks. She flashed a quick look about the chamber, at all the pink and red blooms. Dear heavens… She lifted a hand and clutched her bed-robe tighter across her breasts, hoping the dim lighting would hide the color she knew must be making her face glow. “Surely you do not mean—”

  “I do.” His tone was earnest. “Be glad none of the court ladies were entertaining admirers when you happened in here. Some of the men who hold trysts in the Rose Room are darker-natured than most. Your arrival, so scantily clad, would’ve invited trouble.”

  “My robe covers more than the gown I wear at the high table each evening.” Mirabelle knew that was true.

  She wouldn’t have left her guest chamber otherwise.

  Sorley just looked at her, his handsome features setting in hard lines as he slowly shook his head. “That may be so, sweet. Until you commit the folly of standing in a window arch with the light of the moon shining on you and the flames of candles limning you from behind.

  “Very little of you wasn’t to be seen,” he told her, his voice deepening on the words, as did the look in his eyes. “You could well have been unclothed.”

  “Oh.” Mirabelle swallowed, the shift between them charging the air, making her tingle in indecent places. She looked up at Sorley from beneath her lashes, wondered if he knew that his words affected her so powerfully. That, despite her innocence, she dreamed of standing before him wearing nothing but desire. Of lying naked in his arms, living the passion she’d savor ever after.

  “Dinnae e’er come here again,” he fair growled the warning, the heated look that had flared in his eyes once more replaced by anger. Whate’er possessed you to do so?” He took her arm again, leading her away from the window.

  “I told you, I couldn’t sleep.” Mirabelle spoke true. “Indeed, you are the reason I couldn’t,” she added, becoming as annoyed as he was. It was humiliating that he could admit to seeing her near naked, yet even then, well-lusted as he was known to be, he clearly didn’t desire her.

  Freeing herself of his grasp, she
stood as straight as she could and flipped her hair back over her shoulder. “I’d planned to visit your quarters at first light,” she informed him, her tone as cold and clipped as his had been scored by ire. “I had tidings to share with you and grew restless waiting for the sun to rise.”

  He looked at her, his face expressionless. “You’ve changed your mind about our plan to thwart Sinclair?”

  “Not at all.” Mirabelle stiffened at his tone, quite sure his stony features were meant to hide how much he hoped she did want to cancel their agreement. “I meant to tell you that a man came asking for you at the Red Lion Inn when I was there with my father. He was a Highlander, Grim Mackintosh of the Glen of Many Legends.

  “He was questioning the innkeeper about you,” she rushed on, noting how his expression was closing even more. “I forgot to mention him in the chapel. He seemed so eager to hear of you, I thought you should know.”

  To her surprise, he shrugged. “Many men come looking for me, lass.”

  Mirabelle frowned, confused.

  She had been so sure he’d be glad to know. She’d even thought…

  “He was a fighting man, a battle-hardened warrior by the look of him.” She reached to touch Sorley’s arm, abandoning caution to put her suspicions to words. “I think he may have heard you’re a Fenris—”

  Sorley placed two fingers to her lips, silencing her. “There are no such men, sweetness. They are a myth, no more. Legends the storytellers sing of on long, dark winter nights before the fire.”

  “He knew your name.” Mirabelle twisted free, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I heard him ask for you.”

  Sorley wasn’t about to speak of the Fenris with her.

  He most assuredly wouldn’t do so when she was hovering so near, little more than a slip of cloth and her bewitching rose perfume between them, her lush, female warmth beckoning him so fiercely he was set like granite. He’d run full mad to come to her here.

  Yet if he hadn’t…

  “I can’t believe you’re not concerned.” She frowned at him, proving her prickliness.