Sins of a Highland Devil Read online

Most females would be shivering beneath the folds of their cloaks. They’d be drawing those mantles closer about themselves. They’d shift their feet, rubbing their arms and blowing on their hands, seeking warmth. In this wood, in the heart of the Glen of Many Legends, they’d also cast cautious glances about them, watching the darkness.

  She watched only him.

  And she did so in a way that was damned unsettling.

  James gave her a hard stare. It was so easy to imagine her as he’d seen her just a short while ago, in the heated depths of his dream. Standing so near to her brought a stirring to his loins, a pestiferous throbbing so annoying it was all he could do not to seize her and give full rein to the maddening heat crawling through him.

  Instead, he let his gaze drop to where her cloak outlined the swell of her breasts. Lush, ripe curves he burned to plump and caress. His fingers itched so badly that he balled his hands to tight fists. Other parts of him ached in ways he refused to acknowledge.

  She eyed him boldly, the rise and fall of her bosom showing her agitation, fueling his desire. “I know fine how early it is.” She lifted her chin, her color rising. “You needn’t mind me.”

  Any other time he would’ve laughed. Minding her was the last thing he’d like to do to her just now.

  If she pushed him, he’d heed those urges.

  “This is an ungodly hour.” He struggled to catch himself. “Goodly womenfolk should yet be abed, no’ marching about like she-devils.” He spoke more harshly than he would have liked. But her scent, so light yet tantalizing, was irritating the hell out of him.

  He looked her up and down, noting the pleasing curve of her hips, his wicked mind imagining the intimate place between her thighs. She didn’t flinch, and—something inside him twisted with annoyance—the longer she accepted his brazen perusal, the more he noticed her damnable scent. It wrapped around him, teasing and provoking.

  Her eyes glinted in the moonlight, triumphant. Almost as if she knew.

  “You call me a she-devil.” She spoke the word with relish. “If I were such a creature, I’d fire-blast you, making this a morn you’d never forget.”

  James almost choked.

  She’d already made it a day he’d long remember.

  It wasn’t often that a woman’s mere presence made him feel like a ravening beast. She didn’t need fire-blasts. Her scent alone was more than memorable and roused him in ways that weren’t good for him.

  Allowing himself to wonder if the curls topping her thighs flamed as brightly as the hair on her head disturbed him enough to make him want to break something.

  He tightened his grip on his sword belt, furious.

  It’d been forever since he’d lain with a woman. Even so, he’d sooner gorge himself on a trencher piled high with thick black slabs of peat than allow the seductive fragrance wafting from Catriona MacDonald’s flaming-red hair make him hot, hard, and aroused.

  So he kept his scowl in place and did his best not to inhale. “By rights, lady, it is still night.”

  “So?” She didn’t blink.

  She did touch the amber necklace at her throat, letting her fingers glide along the stones in a way surely meant to provoke him.

  He frowned at her, refusing to look lower than her chin. “I’ve ne’er seen you out this early. As a maid of this glen, you—”

  “You track my whereabouts?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “You should know it isn’t wise to creep about before the sun rises.” He ignored her objection. “There are reasons this vale is called the Glen of Many Legends. And there are truths behind every hair-raising tale.

  “Nor”—he caught another whiff of gillyflower—“is it seemly for—”

  “MacDonalds don’t creep anywhere. And you’ve no right to speak of what is seemly. You forfeited that privilege when you charged up behind me, trying to catch me unawares.” She looked him in the eye, daunting. “Until you accosted me, I’ve never once felt threatened here.”

  “Perhaps you should be more wary the next time you venture into this wood.” James threw a glance at the silent trees. Blackness lurked there, deep and impenetrable. “There are many men about just now. Strangers unused to our Highland ways.”

  “Then they shouldn’t be here.”

  “But they are. And none of us can say what might push one of them past his limits.” He wasn’t about to mention the hooded figure. Cameron men didn’t frighten women unduly. But she did need a warning.

  “You could tempt one of these Lowlanders into villainy.” He spoke true, seeing no reason to lie. The proud tilt of her head was proof enough that she knew her worth. Whether she knew what her kind of vital sensuality could do to a man was another matter.

  “And you, James Cameron?” Her sapphire eyes burned into him. “Are you tempted?”

  He snorted, keeping his answer to himself.

  But he did let his gaze flick over her again, certain she was disaster walking. Her hair spilled freely now, curling around her face and her shoulders in seductive dishevelment. And her cloak had come undone in their tussle and gaped open, revealing how provocatively her gown’s low-cut bodice clung to the round fullness of her breasts. Her ambers gleamed against those luscious swells, and she still toyed with the necklace, letting its golden length slide across her hand, twining it suggestively around her wrist.

  Her high color and all those lush, ripe curves would be any man’s undoing. But it was her spirit that proved irresistible. He burned for her with a part of himself that had nothing to do with honor or clan loyalties, and everything to do with his maleness. Just the provocative blaze in her eyes took his breath and made him desire her with a fierceness he’d never felt for any woman.

  He could take her, quenching his need…

  Instead, he straightened his shoulders, incensed that she had such an effect on him.

  “Well?” She let the necklace fall. “Have I pushed you past your limits?”

  “You test my patience merely being here. This is Cameron land and no place for a MacDonald. Nor are you to my taste—as I’ve told you.” Guilt flayed him on the lie. “I came after you because it is my duty to ensure no ills befall a woman. As chief, especially, I am sworn to defend the weak and—”

  “You speak like my brother. He—” she broke off abruptly, her face coloring.

  “Your brother is a fool.” James meant it. Were Alasdair MacDonald before him now, he’d upbraid him for his light-mindedness. “No chief of merit would allow a woman, much less his sister—”

  He stared at her, realization dawning. “He doesn’t know, does he? Somehow you’ve tricked Alasdair, slipping away behind his back to sneak down the glen each morn and glare your venom at the Lowland minions building their viewing platforms and barricades.”

  “They deserve glares.” She bent a heated gaze on him, daring him to disagree.

  He didn’t, but that wasn’t the point.

  He took a step toward her. “You spearing them with stares will change nothing. The men of this glen will deal with them, as ever we have done.”

  “Do as you will.” She jammed her hands on her hips. “I say it is the trial by combat that will serve naught. My glares show Sir Walter and his ilk that at least one dweller of this glen despises them.”

  “I ne’er said they are to my liking. And you”—his voice was steely—“will answer me now. Your brother doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

  “He knows I’ve been coming here.” Her gaze met and held his, indignant still. “He wasn’t pleased, it is true. He ranted, even threatening to set a guard at my bedchamber door. That’s why I left Blackshore so early. It was necessary to get away while he slept.”

  James stared at her, torn between admiring her spirit and being annoyed to discover Alasdair was a better man than he cared to admit.

  But the MacDonald chief had made one error he wouldn’t have. “Your brother should’ve made good his threat to have your room guarded.”

  “He did.” She tilted her he
ad as she looked at him. “I persuaded one of the laundresses to distract the man as I slipped away.”

  James watched something like amusement flicker in her eyes. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised. Catriona MacDonald might be virtuous—indeed, he was certain of it—but she was anything but innocent.

  She was a she-devil.

  And whether it suited her or not, he was escorting her back to her brother’s keep. Now, before the torrid images from his dream could return to torture him. He could see her still, her naked body swathed in moonglow and her glorious breasts swaying with her sinuous movements. Her nipples tight and thrusting, begging for his touch…

  James scowled, the breath scorching his lungs. “I’ll see you returned to Blackshore.” His voice was rough, strained. “Quickly, before you vex even me beyond endurance.”

  “I can go myself. You needn’t—”

  “Ah, but I must.” He towered over her, the devil in him wakening. “I would have words with your brother. It is in his interest, and my own, that he knows to place a more stalwart guard on your door. One who isn’t so easily lured from his duty.”

  She jerked away when he reached for her. “You wouldn’t dare—”

  “I dare much, sweet.” He was on her in a beat, sliding an arm around her waist and clamping her to his side as he marched her into the trees, leading her in the direction of her brother’s stronghold.

  “Let me go!” She tried to wriggle free, but he only tightened his grip.

  “Och, I’ll release you, no worries.” He tromped on, not about to risk a glance at her. “You’ll be free of me as soon as we reach Blackshore’s gate.”

  Not a moment before. Though he kept that sentiment to himself.

  Catriona MacDonald was one dangerous female.

  He’d be more than happy to hand her into her brother’s care. The only trouble was that some deep and secret part of him wished she’d manage to slip away again. He wouldn’t mind enjoying another round of argument with her. Perhaps next time, he’d even kiss her, plundering her lips and scattering her wits, regardless of her name.

  For all her evil-tempered fieriness, she was magnificent.

  And she did tempt him greatly.

  Damn the woman, anyway.

  Chapter Three

  Is this true?”

  Alasdair MacDonald hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and stared across his solar at Catriona. Not caring for his tone, she resisted the urge to move away from his regard and sweep through the door. She did aim a withering glance at James Cameron, the man responsible for her present quandary. Alasdair didn’t even look at the blackguard. Ignoring him, he kept his attention on her, his sharp-eyed gaze flicking over her tangled hair and then dipping to her wet and muddied shoes. When his perusal turned to the blood smears on her gown, she raised her chin. Alasdair’s face darkened. Worse, the fierce lowering of his brows as he surveyed her ruined skirts showed that he faulted her for her sullied appearance.

  And that was intolerable.

  He should have been challenging James—the devil—Cameron for accosting her.

  No other man would’ve dared to haul her into his arms so roughly. Or seize her at all, truth be told. She bent another chilly gaze on the lout, not surprised by the hard line of his jaw or the glint of arrogance that flared in his dark eyes when he met her stare.

  She glared back, furious that the wickedly sensual curve of his mouth made her heart knock against her ribs.

  He arched a brow, his insolence chased by a flash of pure masculine triumph as if he knew exactly how much he flustered her.

  Knew, and delighted in riling her.

  Look away, her good sense warned her. Don’t let him see he affects you.

  But she still felt too raw, too unsettled by the blood thundering in her veins, to tear her gaze from him. She did narrow her eyes in challenge, hoping her own piercing regard would put him at ill ease.

  The look he gave her said that was impossible.

  Simmering inwardly, she held her ground. And—because she just couldn’t help it—she let her gaze settle once again on his sinfully tempting mouth.

  She should have lifted her chin higher and straightened her shoulders, showing him how deeply she reviled him. Not gawp at his lips, wondering what his kiss would taste like and recalling the rush of sensations that flooded her when he’d grabbed her with his big hands and pulled her so close to his hard-muscled body.

  Even now—and knowing him to be one of the worst scoundrels in the land—she could still feel the brace of his arm around her waist, how his strong fingers had gripped her, the edge of his thumb brushing against the sensitive lower swells of her breasts. His warmth had penetrated the thick folds of his plaid, even burning through her own cloak, to heat her skin with scalding intimacy.

  When he’d dragged her through Blackshore’s gate and into the bailey, clearly manhandling her, Alasdair should’ve greeted him with murderous rage.

  Instead, her brother had ushered the scoundrel into his great hall, led him past rows of trestle tables filled with startled, swivel-necked kinsmen, and then—Catriona bristled—even escorted him inside the keep’s lovely painted solar, where a bountiful table had been laid with sumptuous victuals and libations.

  Now, having lost apparent interest in provoking her, James hovered near that well-set table. As she looked on, he helped himself to generous portions of plump smoke-dried herring and fine fresh-baked oatcakes spread thickly with Cook’s special herbed cheese.

  Catriona watched him eat, noting the relish he put into each bite. Outrage swept her, and she placed her hands on her hips, irritation making her pulse race. She hoped he’d swallow a fish bone. She narrowed her eyes, willing it to happen.

  Her anger smoldered and burned, cauldron hot.

  Especially when she saw that the welcome offerings included a large platter of honey cakes, each tempting treat dusted with costly sugar. It was clear her brother had taken the famed code of Highland hospitality more than a shade past the expected courtesies.

  Just now Alasdair was arching a brow at her. “Well, my sister?”

  Catriona raised her chin a fraction, matching his glare. She stepped closer to the hearth fire, secretly annoyed that it burned so brightly. Considering who shared the room with them, she would have preferred cold ash. As things stood, she hoped the dancing flames would pick out every nuance of her dishevelment.

  Her rumpled appearance was a badge of honor.

  She wore each stain, mud speck, and hair knot with pride.

  Alasdair’s expression soured as if he’d read her thoughts. “Dinnae test my patience.” He folded his arms, waiting. “I’ll have your answer.”

  Catriona didn’t flinch. “You can see that I was out.”

  “That is no’ what I asked you.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Were you caught in the wood at Castle Haven? Did you leave this stronghold, alone and against my wishes? Or”—he flashed a look at James, who stood admiring a vibrantly colored mural of the sea god, Manannan Mac Lir, flying across the foam in Wave Sweeper, the deity’s self-sailing boat—“do my own eyes and ears deceive me?

  “The Camerons may no’ be our friends.” Alasdair paused, his voice hardening. “But I have ne’er had cause to call their chief a liar.”

  “And I am one?” Catriona looked him in the eye. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I say you are headstrong and”—her brother sent another glance to the Cameron—“at times, foolish. That is a sad truth and one I am loath to admit, for you are my sister and should stand above such capering. What you did this morn was more than thoughtless. It was dangerous. Do you no’ have any regrets or contrition?”

  “I do.” She let her eyes snap. “I’m pained to see a Cameron whiling in our best solar and”—she flicked her own look at James—“tipping our finest MacDonald ale down his arrogant throat.”

  “Catriona!” Alasdair’s face colored.

  James nearly choked. He did set down his cup, returning it to the lavi
shly decked table, placed so near the painted wake of Manannan’s enchanted galley. How Catriona wished those vividly captured waves would burst to life, sending the frothing spume into the solar to swallow the proud Cameron chieftain and carry him out to sea where he could plague her no more.

  At the very least, she wouldn’t mind seeing the magnificent flowing-bearded, blue-robed god whirl around from his place on the wall and use the pointy end of his trident to jab the Cameron’s arse.

  Sadly, Manannan chose to ignore her wishes.

  Wholly unthreatened, her nemesis merely dragged his sleeve over his mouth. But not before his lips twitched in what could have been the beginning of an amused smile.

  The bastard was laughing at her!

  Catriona opened her eyes very wide, showing scorn.

  Impervious, the lout remained where he was, standing near the table, Manannan towering behind him like a fierce and indignant ally. But unlike the sea god’s fixed stare, his gaze slid over her, settling on her face in a way that made her feel disturbingly breathless.

  “Be assured, Lady Catriona, that you”—a touch of pride entered his voice—“or anyone of your household would be met with the same deference should you ever appear at Castle Haven’s gate.

  “Although”—his lips quirked again—“I’ll no’ deny such amenities would be offered out of a sense of honor and duty and no’ because we’d be pleased to greet you.”

  “And you, sirrah, needn’t worry about expending the effort.” Catriona glared at him, her entire body flaming. “I can think of no MacDonald who’d willingly trouble themselves to seek your door.”

  “If that includes you, my sister, I shall be relieved to know you’ll no longer be beating a path across the glen, heading in just that direction.” Alasdair poured another measure of ale into James’s cup and handed it to him. “Such knowledge will save me from—”

  “Spare you what?” Catriona seethed as James accepted the ale. “Setting another keeper on my door? Perhaps two this time? Or will you forgo guardsmen and just bar my door from the outside?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Alasdair spoke smoothly. “And you will no’ be locked in your quarters. You may go wherever you wish so long as you remain within the castle walls. If you attempt to leave, you’ll be stopped.”