Sins of a Highland Devil Page 6

  “There are no things between us.” Catriona felt hot color rush onto her cheeks. “You are arrogance walking!”

  “I have been called worse. Though”—he glanced at the guards lining the wall-walk above them, then back to her—“no’ usually when I am trying to be honorable. Do you truly believe I’d offend your brother’s hospitality by compromising his sister beneath his very nose?”

  Catriona couldn’t respond. She believed every wicked tale she’d ever heard about him. Most especially the wilder stories that claimed he kept scores of women trapped in the impenetrable fastnesses of Rannoch Moor and visited them regularly, forcing them to satisfy his basest cravings. She shivered, just imagining. Yet everything female inside her whirled in hot tumult, and she was sure that if she opened her mouth, all the sordid images conjured by his words would come spilling out to shame her.

  Purring in sweet contentment…

  She bristled.

  She’d known for years what his touch could do to a woman. At least, she knew what he did to her. How she wished she didn’t, for she’d be long wed and bouncing bairns on her knee if her secret obsession with him hadn’t made all her suitors seem like toads.

  She also knew he spoke the truth.

  He was too proud to mar his lairdly reputation by breaching Highland hospitality codes. She could prance naked before him and he wouldn’t look at her—save with scorn—so long as she performed such a spectacle beneath Alasdair’s roof.

  “I see you agree.” He spoke at last, sounding satisfied.

  “I said nothing.”

  “But you’re eager to know why I’m here.”

  She tucked a curl behind her ear, feigning indifference. “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

  “I wanted to leave you with a warning.” He looked across the loch to the distant hills. “Know that if I find you on Cameron land again, alone and without your brother’s knowledge, I will no’ be as gallant as I was this morn.

  “Indeed”—his dark gaze fixed on her—“I will make good my threat from the last time.”

  Catriona’s eyes widened. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

  She knew exactly what he meant.

  And the words made her light-headed. Shimmering desire warmed her, and she was sharply aware of him coming across the strand toward her, his strides predatory.

  “That’s right, Catriona.” He spoke when he reached her, his voice intimately low. “I will prove to you that my kisses will scorch you far worse than any dreagan’s fire-breath. They’d brand you forever.

  “So”—he cupped her chin, his touch searing her—“if you’ll no’ be wishing to taste them, take heed and keep to the safety of your lady’s bower.”

  Catriona stood still, sure the air between them was about to burst into flame. But before she could regain her composure, he leaned in, bringing his face dangerously close to hers.

  “See you, sweet”—he gave her a look that made her hot all over—“you rouse me even when I’m not holding you crushed against me. Dinnae make me show you what’ll happen if you tempt me into kissing you.”

  Catriona’s heart flipped. Her knees began to tremble, badly. “I—”

  “You’ve been warned, lass.” He tightened his grip on her chin and stared down at her, his eyes fierce. Then he turned and strode back across the little strand, disappearing through the seaward gate.

  Catriona stared at the empty archway, unable to breathe. The force of her feelings—her surprise—shook her to the core. She pressed a hand to her breast, letting her fingers clasp her amber necklace, needing the familiar comfort she took in the gemstones.

  He hadn’t forgotten their long-ago meeting, high on the moors.

  And his agitation could only mean that the encounter haunted him in the same way it’d stayed with her. He wanted her—at least, carnally.

  She’d seen the lust in his eyes, heard it in his voice.

  It was a revelation that thrilled her to her toes. Even though she did despise him and knew well that he surely didn’t favor her. Yet there was passion between them. The only trouble was that she didn’t know where such desire might lead. Whatever path she chose was fraught with danger.

  Any kisses from James wouldn’t just brand her.

  They’d be incinerating.

  And forbidden.

  Alasdair might even punish her by seeing her wed to some bleary-eyed, age-palsied laird who couldn’t keep his dribble from his beard.

  Of late, he’d hinted at the possibility.

  If—she shuddered—she dared once again to decline a viable bid for her hand.

  But she burned too hotly for James to care. Nor was she known for backing away from a challenge. She certainly couldn’t resist one that made her feel all warm, melting, and tingly. James did that to her, and more. Even now, annoyed with him as she was, her stomach fluttered deliciously and her knees were so weak she could hardly stand.

  If he kissed her…

  And, o-o-oh, she wanted his kisses.

  One would do, just to satisfy her curiosity and let her explore the tumultuous emotions and exciting sensations he stirred inside her.

  She turned back to the loch, smiling for the first time in days. She’d take his own words and make him regret tossing down such a tantalizing gauntlet. She would tempt him into kissing her. A plan to do so was already forming in her mind. And the possibilities sent shivers of anticipation rippling all through her.

  One little kiss should be easy to provoke.

  Afterward, she might feel shaken to the soul, perhaps even worse than sinful. But she would have tasted a wee bit of sparkling bliss.

  And—she shook back her hair, her heart pounding—she wasn’t going to let anyone take that from her.

  Chapter Four

  James strode purposely across Blackshore’s bailey, careful to keep his face as hard-set as possible. If he looked fierce, the long-nosed guards watching him wouldn’t suspect how tempted he was to march back to the boat strand, toss Catriona over his shoulder, and carry her away with him. But first, he’d seize her and kiss the wicked breath from her for pushing him to his limits.

  Instead, he quickened his pace and made for the gatehouse, eager to be gone.

  He could make his head ache on his own, without the help of a firebrand more vexatious and—a plague on her—so scintillating, he wondered she didn’t burn the clothes right off her lushly curved body.

  If he didn’t soon put Blackshore behind him, he’d do the deed himself. The rapid beat of his heart proved how much he’d enjoy ripping each shred of cloth from her until the entire well-made length of her stood naked before him, vulnerable and enticing.

  The trouble was he had no wish to add to his already long list of sins by stripping the gently born sister of one of his worst foes.

  He was of a mind to be wary.

  He’d been shown hospitality, but he was still on enemy ground and couldn’t discount an attack from nowhere. MacDonalds were known for their hotheadedness. And not all of them were as courteous as Alasdair, even if his openhandedness had more to do with the circumstances of James’s visit than any desire to be welcoming.

  Alasdair wouldn’t taint his name by not adhering to the Highland tradition of greeting all guests warmly, regardless of their name.

  In another time and place, Alasdair would show his blood. Everyone knew MacDonalds were masters at ambush. They flitted like shadows from darkness to launch assaults and then melted into the mist before a man knew what—or who—had struck him a fatal blow.

  James scowled, sure of that truth.

  It was just a pity that the threat of a quick dirk in the ribs wasn’t the reason for his frown.

  That honor fell to a lusciously rousing hellcat named Catriona.

  Overwhelmed by the urge to touch and taste her, he tightened his fists as he neared the gate. The brazen minx stirred him in ways he couldn’t ignore. And—damn her snapping sapphire eyes—he found her most appealing when she was at her lively, high
-spirited worst.

  There was vibrancy in every mouthwatering, sweetly turned curve of her, and it galled him that he noticed. He’d come very close to ravishing her on the little sliver of a boat strand. And if he had, his plundering of her would’ve been rough and savage. He wasn’t a man to hold back in a fury. And his rage at her—and himself because he wanted her—roiled like a storm inside him.

  Hot, thunderous, and barely controlled.

  His blood seethed and his head would surely split any moment. Praise God he had the will to ignore the persistent pounding elsewhere.

  A pity he couldn’t banish it.

  But it’d been so long since he’d slaked his need with a woman, and—he loathed admitting the truth—the sharp-tongued, dagger-carrying hellion tempted him more than any female he’d ever known.

  Grimacing, he stalked on, keeping an angry eye on the gate before him.

  Already standing wide, no doubt in anticipation of his departure, the gate gave a fine view of Loch Moidart. Mist still floated across the water, and he caught the strong scent of the nearby sea. The air also held traces of drying fish and seaweed, the unsavory smells lending just enough nose-wrinkling piquancy to suit his mood.

  Catriona wasn’t the only reason for his ire.

  Blackshore’s courtyard minded him too much of his bailey at Castle Haven. Even the smoke rising from the tower chimneys and the yellow glint of torchlight in the turret windows struck him as an affront.

  The similarity almost made him choke.

  He’d rather have found black, foul-reeking weeds growing between the courtyard cobbles and a gaggle of hunch-backed, wart-nosed crones cackling in a corner, their glowing-eyed, hissing and spitting felines winding about their mistresses’ spindly legs. At the very least, the arched pend leading through the gatehouse could’ve been hung with the winged bodies of a few bats.

  A cauldron filled with a steaming blood-red brew would have been a nice touch.

  As things stood…

  Men bustled everywhere, a handful of dogs bounded over to run circles around him, and several strapping lads were pulling carts piled high with cut wood and peats toward the shadowed entrance to the kitchens. A chill wind came from that direction, bringing a waft of woodsmoke and savory stew, making his mouth water.

  But the keep’s homey appearance was deceptive.

  Several guards leaned against the tower wall, watching his progress with sullen eyes. Others paced the battlements, where the MacDonald banner snapped in the wind and morning sun glinted on well-polished helms and mail. Each garrison man bristled with arms, and James knew by the sour glances aimed his way that they’d love nothing better than to give him a taste of their steel.

  “Is it true you once tossed your sword higher than the clouds?” came a small boy’s voice behind him.

  “Ho, there!” James swung around, nearly colliding with a skinny, tousle-haired lad. The boy stood less than a pace away, his thin arms clutching a creel of onions—a basket almost bigger than himself—as he peered up at James with round, wondering eyes.

  The boy edged closer, the reek of onions with him. “The storytellers say you caught the blade when it fell.”

  Before James could respond, an older lad, equally dirt-smeared and scruffy, sauntered over to them. “He caught an angel, you nit-head.” Thumping the younger boy’s shoulder, the second lad puffed his chest. “The sword went as high as heaven, where the blade snagged the skirts of the angel, pulling her down to earth. But as soon as she landed in his arms, she was an angel no more!”

  “There’s no’ a word of truth in that.” James eyed the older boy sternly. He’d savored the pleasures of more angels than he could recall, but not a one of them had been of the heavenly variety.

  And he wasn’t sinner enough to soil the ears of wee laddies with his amorous adventures.

  “Then you cannae toss your sword so high?” The younger boy’s face fell.

  His friend cuffed him. “You are a daftie. He means he didn’t tumble an angel.”

  “Tumble?” The younger boy’s brow furrowed.

  The older lad smirked. “It’s what—”

  “See here.” James drew his sword and held her at arm’s length, his attention on the smaller boy, whose eyes were again wide. “You’re both too young to think of swords or”—he shot a warning look at the older lad—“heavenly beings. Though if your chief will let me, I’ll return one day and show you how to do this.”

  He tossed the blade in the air, secretly pleased by the boys’ gasps as the sword arced high and then spun, turning brightly before racing down to land, almost magically, in his outstretched hand.

  “Now run along and remember”—James slid the blade back into his scabbard—“this isn’t the time to fash yourselves o’er swords taller than you are. The day will come sooner than you think.”

  James watched them go, then threw a quick glance across the bailey to the postern gate. The devil inside him made him wish Catriona might have left the boat strand and seen his sword toss.

  He was rather proud of his flourish.

  But she was nowhere in view, though when he turned to leave, a door opened in the thickness of the curtain walling near the castle gate. An ancient stiff-legged dog appeared, followed by Alasdair. The other chieftain did his fierce reputation justice, with his plaid thrown proudly over one shoulder and his sword belted low at his hip. He wore a different blade than in his solar. This one had a large amber stone gracing its pommel and other, smaller ambers glittering from the elaborately tooled scabbard.

  “A word, Cameron!” Alasdair started toward him, matching his pace to the hinky-hipped gait of his dog. “I’ll no’ keep you long.”

  James waited, his rival’s approach minding him of his own aged beast, Hector.

  He, too, needed twice as long to make his late-night castle rounds in recent years because Hector insisted on shuffling along with him. There were times when he even carried Hector for the last few turns of the stairs to his bedchamber, saving the dog his dignity rather than let him stumble just before they finished their patrol. Something told him that the MacDonald followed a similar routine.

  James frowned, not wanting to feel sympathy with his foe.

  Or even Alasdair’s dog.

  But when the other chief reached him and the dog plopped onto his bony haunches, James couldn’t muster the stern look he’d intended to turn on his rival. The younger dogs tailing him bolted away and nosed Alasdair until he pulled a leather pouch from his plaid and gave each dog, including the old one, a twisted length of dried meat.

  “You wish to speak of the trial by combat?” James guessed at Alasdair’s reason for hailing him. “No good will come of it, I vow.”

  “You’re well prepared. That was no mean feat with your blade just now. Though”—Alasdair grinned—“I’ll still cut you till your bones show.”

  James returned the smile but pulled back his plaid to display his sword. “You can try. Many men have done, and now lie sleeping beneath the heather.”

  “I’ll keep using my bed, be warned.” Alasdair didn’t sound concerned. “And I didn’t stop you to speak of the battle.” His gaze flicked across the bailey to the seaward gate. “There’s a matter I didn’t wish to broach before my sister. Even in the best of times, she can be—”

  “Your sister is—” James broke off, heat flashing up the back of his neck. Had he truly been about to declare that she was the most vibrant, desirable creature he’d ever encountered?

  He cleared his throat. “She…”

  “She is herself!” Alasdair sounded proud, for all that James was sure his words weren’t meant to flatter. “And she can vex even those of us who love her well. She also turns heads. She does so effortlessly, rousing passion in all men with red blood in their veins.”

  James looked at him sharply. “Surely you dinnae think that I—”

  “Misused her?” Alasdair put the outrageous notion to words. “God be good, I meant none the like. I may no’ care
for you claiming a goodly portion of my glen, but I’ll no’ be laying such sins at your feet, whatever.”

  James blinked, only mildly relieved.

  He shifted uncomfortably, certain that his every lustful thought about Catriona was stamped on his forehead, red and glowing like a brand.

  “Aye, well.” He brushed at his plaid. “A man would have to be blind no’ to see her charms.”

  “True enough.” Alasdair reached down to stroke his dog’s ears. “What I’d know from you”—he met James’s eye, his gaze piercing—“is why you accompanied her here?”

  “No’ to salt your tail, I assure you.” James didn’t waste words. “And however fetching she is, it wasn’t because of her charming company.”

  “That I can believe.” Alasdair’s lips twitched. “Yet I’m also sure there was cause beyond your chiefly concern for womenfolk lost in your wood. And”—a thread of steel entered his voice—“I’m for thinking that reason is one I should be hearing.”

  “I was concerned for her.” James’s mind worked furiously. “She—”

  Alasdair harrumphed. “She knows the glen. She could’ve found her way home.”

  “It was still dark, the mist thick.” James rubbed the back of his neck. “No fine day for a young lass to traipse about the glen whether she—”

  “You’re tying your tongue in knots.” Alasdair’s blue eyes glinted. “Her tender age didn’t stop you from chasing her from your land with tales of dreagans years ago. As I recall”—he folded his arms—“you taunted her, claiming the fire-breathing beasties eat MacDonalds? She arrived here in a terrible state, having raced through the whole of the glen, alone and frightened.”

  James bit his tongue. He was sure nothing had ever scared Catriona in her life.

  Not even dreagans.

  Even so, he had treated her abominably.

  “I was a lad.” He quashed a surge of guilt. “That was a foolhardy cantrip, no more. Now I place more value on honor than youthful pranks and devilry.”