To Love a Highlander Page 4

  “Lastly, for the reason you already stated.” He crossed to the table and tossed back the wine he’d refused. Setting down the empty chalice, he deliberately let his gaze slide over her from head to toe. “Everyone at court is aware of my appetite for comely women.”

  “Your appreciation of ladies was a consideration.” She held his gaze, not flinching.

  “I said women, no’ ladies. There is a difference.”

  “I know that very well.”

  Sorley studied her with narrowed eyes. “Yet you wish to explore why that is so?”

  “Would I be here otherwise?” She angled her head, her gaze as sharp as his. “I think not.”

  “I say you dinnae ken what you’re asking.” His temper fraying, Sorley stepped closer and braced his arms on either side of her. He splayed his hands against the wall so she was caught between him and a colorful unicorn tapestry. “Sweet lass, I am no’ a weak-wristed, embroidered tunic-wearing courtier. A passionless man who likely beds his wife beneath the coverlet, all candles snuffed. If you had even the slightest idea of what it’s like to couple with a man like me, you’d run screaming from this room.”

  Her chin came up. “I never scream. Nor do I cry. Not even when I wish I could.”

  On her words, Sorley felt like an arse.

  But his pride cut deeper.

  So he leaned in, wishing his every breath wasn’t laced with her intoxicating rose scent. He touched his lips to the curve of her neck, nipped lightly. “I could make you cry out in pleasure, Lady Mirabelle.

  “A pity I have no desire to do so.” He stepped back, folded his arms. “I learned long ago that dallying with highborn lasses brings naught but grief.”

  Rather than color with indignation and sail from his room as he’d expected her to do, she simply lifted her hands to the jeweled clasp of her cloak and undid the pin so that her mantle fell open to reveal the outrageously provocative gown she wore beneath.

  Surely designed to singe a man’s eyes, the raiment’s rich, emerald silk clung to her every dip and curve. Threads of deep bronze were woven into the fabric, an intricate pattern that glittered in the firelight. Her glossy red-gold hair shone to equal advantage, annoyingly lustrous against the jeweled tones of her dress. Worse, her bodice dipped low, offering tantalizing glimpses of her creamy skin and full, round breasts. A braided belt of golden cord circled her slim waist, the tasseled ends dangling suggestively near a very feminine place Sorley did not want to notice. More gold glittered along the delicate border edging the top of the gown, drawing his attention back to her lush bosom.

  She looked like a living flame.

  And damn if he didn’t feel a powerful urge to be burned to a crisp.

  Instead, he frowned, ignoring the heat spearing straight to the swelling hardness he was sure she could see.

  Secretly, he now hoped she did.

  He was that angry.

  For truth, he could see the top crescents of her nipples! They were a lovely pink and puckered, peeking up above her bodice’s gold-edged border.

  “I’ll no’ deny you’re lovely, my lady.” He could hardly speak. “Though along with erroneous judgment, I suspect your hearing is no’ what it should be. I told you I am no’ the man to fulfill your request.”

  “I did not err in coming here. You are the only man who can help me.”

  “You will easily find another.” Sorley turned his back on her to stare out into the cold, wet night. He didn’t like the way just looking at her did funny things to his chest. Elsewhere, he was setting like granite, curse the lass. “You found your way in here. You can leave by the same door.”

  “I thought you were a man who courts danger.” She joined him at the window. “Was I mistaken? Are you not as daring as everyone says?”

  “I am that and more, sweetness. What I am no’, is a fool. And I’m no’ of a mind to make myself one by tearing that fine gown off of you and initiating you in the pleasures of carnal passion.

  “I’ll leave that honor to a man less wise.” He fixed his gaze on the misty drizzle, the darkly gleaming cobbles of the bailey far below. “There’s nothing you can say to sway me otherwise.”

  “Not even if I told you helping me would enrage John Sinclair?”

  Sorley stiffened, the name chilling his innards. He closed his eyes and took a long breath of the cold, damp air. Lady Mirabelle’s mention of the much-lauded, sneakily treacherous noble struck him like a fist in the ribs.

  Sinclair was his greatest enemy.

  Even if the dastard didn’t know Sorley was aware of his crimes. That one of the innocent young bastard women he’d once raped and tormented had been a lass Sorley loved as strongly as if she’d been his sister. Now she was no more and hadn’t been for many years. The courtier’s twisted pleasures had caused her to drown herself, ending her shame in the cold waters of the River Forth.

  It was a death Sorley meant to avenge.

  He was only waiting for the best opportunity.

  “I see I guessed rightly.” Lady Mirabelle touched his arm. “You do not care for Sir John?”

  “There are some who dinnae admire the man. I am one of them, aye.” Sorley tamped down the revulsion surging through him. He turned to meet Mirabelle’s gaze. “What does he have to do with you?”

  Sorley had a good idea, but wanted to hear the words from her.

  “He’s been making overtures.” She spoke plainly. “Enough so that I believe he intends to ask for my hand. As my father is”—she paused, drew a tight breath—“more accustomed to peering at his precious books than into the character of men, I fear he will accept such an offer. I am determined to avoid his bid at all costs.”

  “So that is the way of it.” Sorley now understood why she wanted to be rid of her virginity. “You are hoping Sinclair will no’ want soiled goods?”

  “I am certain he will not.” She looked up at him from beneath thick, surprisingly dark lashes.

  “There are many ladies at court who welcome his interest.” Sorley wished it wasn’t true. “The King has aye held him in high esteem.”

  “With all respect, the King is a Lowlander. I am Highland born and bred.” She lifted her chin, her pride unmistakable. “With some exceptions”—she blushed, clearly thinking of her scholarly sire—“we are not easily fooled. I also put out discreet enquiries.”

  “Many women wouldn’t have bothered.” Sorley went back to the table, helping himself to another measure of wine. “They see only—”

  “I am not ‘other women.’ I am myself, always.” She followed him across the room, boldly putting herself in his path when he would’ve started pacing again. “I am not blinded by golden torques and beringed fingers, raiments adorned with jewels.

  “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.

  Chapter Two

  The 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.