Sins of a Highland Devil Page 9

  Moving swiftly, she led him toward the steep rise, where the cave’s black-jawed opening grew more ominous the closer they came. Jagged rocks guarded either side of the entrance, and any moment he expected the boulders to rear up as scaly-backed, fire-breathing dreagans.

  But as they neared the cave, it was only Gorm who stepped from the darkness to greet them.

  A small, slightly bent man with a whirr of iron-gray hair and a particularly fine beard that reached to his knees, he hobbled forward on short bandy legs, his elfin face lit with a smile.

  “It’s yourself, young James!” He beamed welcome from warm, intelligent eyes. “I know why you’re here and can put your mind to rest.”

  Relief flooded James. “Clan Cameron will be victorious? The King will honor—”

  “The King will be just, sure as I’m standing here. But…” Gorm closed his eyes, drawing a long breath. “You know fine I cannot tell you more. To do so would break faith with the Old Ones who’ve asked me to guard this sacred place.

  “Truth to tell”—he opened his eyes, and James saw a flicker of sadness in the clear blue depths—“they’d poison the waters of the Pool of Truth and cause it to overflow, flooding this high moor and, belike, the whole of the glen. The deluge would be unending, not stopping until a vast loch covered every stone and no living creature, man or beast, could ever call this land home again.”

  “Pah!” Grizel kicked a pebble with her tiny black-shod foot.

  Gorm gave her a look, undaunted.

  James felt the blood rush in his ears, a dull roar that crushed his hopes. His gut twisted, and a scalding heat filled his chest, making it hard to breathe. When he then noticed Gorm’s hands—both clasped loosely before him—he knew real dread.

  Whatever truth the Maker of Dreams had seen, it held both good and evil.

  Through Gorm’s fingers, James could see tiny bursts of brilliant blue-white flames and dark, pulsing shadows, blacker than the coldest night.

  “Is the answer there?” He couldn’t look away from Gorm’s joined hands.

  “So it is, aye.” The ancient nodded. “I have seen a truth that belongs to many men. You and your warriors will not stand alone on the field that day. Others will be there, too. Champions who fight and”—his eyes met James’s, piercing—“those who simply watch.

  “I have seen into the hearts of all these souls.” He paused, flinging up his hands so that the swirls of light and darkness were caught by the wind and swept away. “It is your mingled fates, and the outcome you share, that I brought from the cave.”

  “And that you’ve now released.” James couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

  “I could do naught else.” Gorm took a step toward him, his beard fluttering in the wind. “Such is the truth I’ve seen, and no power on earth, not even my own, can change the events about to unfold.”

  James cocked a brow. “Yet you say my mind should be eased?”

  “I’ve been given a message to lighten your heart.” Gorm’s ancient voice rang deep, bold, and powerful. “Men cannot alter their destiny, but they can choose how they master what comes. The words I have for you are ones the gods allow me to share. No more, no less. If you are wise, their portent should please you.”

  “Then tell him.” Grizel jabbed him with a bony elbow.

  Gorm kept his dignity. “I have seen”—he stepped aside to make room for Rannoch when he clattered up to the cave, joining them—“that peace will be had when innocents pay the price of blood and gold covers the glen.”

  James stared at him. “That’s a riddle. It makes no sense.”

  “It is what will be.”

  “And if I ignore it?”

  “You can, to be sure.” Gorm took a slow breath. “But doing so will not change the prophecy.”

  “It’s a prophecy?” James felt as if icy mists were swirling around him, dark and terrible.

  “It is the truth.” Gorm’s words came from far away, an echo beneath the rushing wind.

  James frowned and clutched his plaid, the wind buffeting him. He struggled, staggering against the lashing gale and furious because he wanted to tell Gorm—and Grizel and their nosy white stag—that he didn’t care for their truths, by any name.

  But when the wind died, he was no longer with the ancients at their cave. He was back at the corrie, his arm braced against the outcrop that—his eyes rounded—was no longer the shining, rune-carved Bowing Stone, but a jumble of towering, weathered stone.

  And the end of the ravine once again tailed away into nothingness. The gap he’d passed through was no more.

  Not that it mattered.

  He knew where he’d been and what he’d heard.

  He just didn’t like it.

  And he’d be damned if he was going to accept a fate that didn’t please him. So he squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and started down the hill.

  He had much to do.

  Chapter Six

  Lady—you’ll catch your death in that draught.”

  Maili, Blackshore’s laundress and Catriona’s friend, swept up to the window in a cloud of musky perfume and swirled a shawl around Catriona’s shoulders. In a flash, two small dogs flew off Catriona’s bed and sped across the room, barking madly. They leapt at Maili, hurling themselves against her legs as if she had something dire in mind rather than seeing to her mistress’s comfort.

  “Birkie, Beadle”—Catriona spoke sharply to the yapping dogs—“be still. Maili isn’t hurting me.”

  “That be true.” Maili stood back and yanked her skirts aside, away from the jumping beasties. She was a plump maid with bouncing dark curls, a generous bosom, and merry brown eyes. “But they’re only trying to protect you, as am I. The wind is cold and—”

  “Brisk air is good for the lungs.” Catriona smoothed the shawl in place all the same. “And I’m not in need of protection. It’s our men who are in danger.”

  “Men have swords.” Maili flounced onto one of the window embrasure’s cushioned benches. “Two kinds, praise God. And most of them”—she crossed her legs, swinging one foot—“wield both weapons with mastery.”

  “Pah.” Catriona’s gaze went to the black clouds racing in from the sea, then back to Maili. “If they knew what they were about, the King’s men wouldn’t be in the glen, fouling good Highland air.”

  She ignored the rest of her friend’s comment.

  Maili couldn’t breathe without swooning over men’s amatory skills. Catriona understood—especially since she’d felt the hard press of James’s powerful body against hers when he’d hurried her through the glen, how he’d almost kissed her on the boat strand, his breath teasing her skin and the heat in his eyes making her tingle—but unlike Maili, she lacked experience in such delights.

  And she was interested in only one man.

  Her heart beat for James Cameron alone, even if her position as Lady of Blackshore made him the least suitable contender for her affections.

  Her feelings for him were a plague she’d always managed to suppress until their fiery encounter in the wood. Now tinder had been thrown onto the flames, and she feared she’d never be the same again.

  She did lean down to scratch Birkie and Beadle behind the ears, and then straightened when they dashed across the room and leapt back onto the bed.

  As soon as they settled, she turned again to the window. She liked the cold rain just beginning to spit down from the heavens, and the lashing wind suited her mood. If James wasn’t going to return and darken Blackshore’s gate, she wouldn’t mind him receiving a drenching on his journey back to Castle Haven.

  A dousing from above to match the wet and soggy feet he’d earned when he’d stomped across Blackshore’s causeway as the tide raced in.

  Had he returned as any sensible man would’ve done, given the wild and roiling skies, he could’ve spent the evening in a chair by the hearth, his belly full, sipping ale, and—she was quite sure—proving to her that his kisses were hotter than dreagan fire.

&nb
sp; As it was…

  He’d preferred to stalk off into the gloaming.

  She bristled, his ability to ignore her twisting like a knife in her gut. Her worry about him—there wasn’t a MacDonald born who wasn’t a wizard with a sword, after all—tightened her chest, almost suffocating her.

  The intensity of her concern was galling.

  She should hate him.

  Instead, just the thought of him made her pulse quicken and her heart pound as whirls of deliciously heated prickles spilled through her, until she was left wanting him more badly than ever before.

  If he fell at the trial by combat, she’d never recover.

  There had to be something she could do. Indeed, she would do something if only Alasdair weren’t treating her as if she’d lost her wits.

  She glanced at Maili, bristling. “The men should be locked in their bedchambers, not me.”

  “But you aren’t, my lady.” Maili’s dark eyes met hers. “You’re free to roam anywhere—”

  “Anywhere within Blackshore’s walls, which is the same as being trapped in my room.” Catriona fumed inwardly, a wild and wicked part of her rebelling against her brother’s foolery. “I’d wager my toes that James Cameron hasn’t forbid his sister from leaving Castle Haven.”

  “Lady Isobel isn’t you.” Maili tucked her feet up under her on the window bench. “Word is she’s quiet and biddable. She’s not one to stir trouble.”

  Catriona turned back to the window. A thick wall of mist was beginning to slide across the loch, blanketing the far shore and the hills beyond. “I don’t stir trouble.”

  “Mischief, then.”

  “That neither.”

  “There are some who’d argue that you do.”

  “Then they aren’t harangued by overprotective brothers who sometimes can’t be suffered without a touch of trickery.” Catriona took a deep breath, remembering Alasdair’s most recent sampling of good intentions. He’d proposed she wed a deep-pursed, generously landed laird who—for once—had been only a few years older than herself, but whose face had been marred by bulging, fishlike eyes.

  The man had also possessed the annoying habit of slurping when he tipped back his ale.

  Catriona shuddered. “I promise you, any woman would stoop to mischief if the need arose.” She shot a look at Maili. “Including Isobel Cameron, I’m sure. Indeed, I should like to meet her. I’ve no doubt that she’s just as troubled by King Robert’s writ as I am.”

  On the bed, Birkie and Beadle barked agreement.

  Maili twirled a glossy brown curl around her fingers. “I’m thinking it’s Lady Isobel’s brother you’re twitching to see again.”

  “I’m not twitching.” Catriona smoothed the folds in her skirts.

  Maili’s eyes lit with laughter. “If you say…”

  “I do.”

  “But you wouldn’t mind a meeting with James… I mean, his sister?”

  “I—” Catriona bit off her protest. She did want to see James again, and she would like to meet Isobel, but she didn’t care for Maili’s amusement.

  Unfortunately, she could still feel James’s hands on her. The memory made her breathless. And she couldn’t stop hearing his rich, deep voice threatening her with kisses. She shivered, grudgingly aware that he not only filled her with excitement and longing, but also stirred her in ways that mattered more than Maili’s teasing.

  She inhaled slowly. “It might be good to see them.” Something close to a smile tugged at her lips before she could catch herself. “Times of strife do require us to make sacrifices.”

  “To be sure.” Maili pulled a tasseled cushion onto her lap. “And when the day comes”—she leaned forward, her face lighting with the charm that won so many manly hearts—“it won’t hurt to flutter your eyelashes and thrust your bosom beneath James Cameron’s nose.”

  “Maili!” Catriona flushed. “The devil will take you for such wickedness.”

  “I wish he would, my lady.” Maili sighed and leaned back against the wall. “Trouble is I’m quite sure he has his eye on you.”

  Days later, James stood at the arched window of his bedchamber and stared out at the rain-drenched night. Thick clouds blotted the stars, and there was no moon to edge the hills in silver. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled, low and ominous. And the wind blew steadily, racing in from the west and bringing the faint tang of the sea. He listened to the keening, appreciative.

  He wouldn’t have minded a howling gale.

  He did crack the shutters, welcoming the hiss of rain on stone and the bracing chill of cold, damp air.

  Clan tongue-waggers claimed he’d drawn his first breath on such a night. A black e’en of roaring wind and darkness, the glen cloaked in gloom. He couldn’t remember, but those who had cause to know swore that it’d been so cold that the hearth fires froze and icy rain hammered the tower with such ferocity that some feared that Castle Haven wouldn’t be standing in the morning.

  But it was, of course.

  And to this day, such raw, untamed weather quickened his blood. This night was no different. He just wished he could also rejoice in the words that kept ringing in his ears. Or feign indifference as he was presently ignoring the gnawing hunger in his belly.

  A pity he could do neither.

  And although he knew fine why his stomach rumbled—he had hardly eaten in two days—he couldn’t make sense of Gorm’s prophecy.

  Innocents paying the price of blood.

  Gold covering the glen.

  Frowning, he splayed his hands against the icy stone of the window splay. The Makers of Dreams and their truths weren’t the only thing plaguing him. He couldn’t put Catriona from his mind, either. And that vexed him even more than his inability to decipher Gorm’s words.

  It was maddening.

  Each time he tried not to think of her, his desire for her only flamed hotter. She was worse than a pebble in his shoe. She was prickly, proud, and utterly infuriating. A proper pest, the likes of which he’d never encountered. He didn’t need her slipping into his thoughts, banishing his logic and every whit of his sense.

  Yet even now he could feel the awareness crackling in the air between them. Inside him, heat stirred and simmered, sharp and intense. She made him feel like a caged animal, straining for release. Just the whisper of her name sent jolts of lust spearing through him, straight to his loins. And that was an annoyance that frayed his temper and put a sour taste in his mouth.

  He couldn’t believe he’d threatened to kiss her.

  Cold, bitter fury swept him, minding him of his folly.

  She’d accepted his challenge. He’d seen that in her eyes, even if she hadn’t said as much in words. He didn’t know how she’d do it, but he was sure she meant to tempt him beyond restraint.

  Catriona was capable of robbing a man of reason. If ever he took her, he’d be lost in her spell.

  His sudden urge to slam his fist into the wall said he already was.

  And that annoyed him more than anything.

  She was a MacDonald, by God.

  Before a few more suns could rise, he might prove to be the man who’d end her brother’s life. And if the gods were kind to Camerons, his steel would cut down a goodly number of their kinsmen along with Alasdair.

  Why that notion suddenly felt like a score of iron-shod fists beating down on his head and pummeling his chest was beyond him. It was a mystery that put a cold, hard knot in the pit of his belly.

  Especially when he knew Alasdair would run him through with his own blade, given the chance.

  The bastard had said as much.

  Even so, James dragged a hand through his hair, furious.

  He should be pacing around the room—he thought better when moving—but each time he started stomping about, Hector struggled to his feet and came to trail after him. The old dog only retreated to his pallet by the fire when James stopped to stand before the window.

  If he didn’t move, Hector allowed himself to rest.

  He
glanced at the dog, relieved to see he was now sleeping soundly.

  He hadn’t slept in days.

  Not well, anyway.

  But—at last—a plan was forming in his mind. Hadn’t Gorm said that “while a destiny might be writ in stone, a man could decide how he wished to meet it”?

  And he wished for Clan Cameron to be victorious.

  So it was with a mounting sense of hope that he carefully latched the shutters. He listened for Hector to stir, but the dog’s snores proved that the sound hadn’t disturbed him. Relieved, James crossed the room to a large chest at the foot of his bed.

  A sturdy iron-banded coffer of heavy, age-blackened oak, the chest held something that just might be the answer to his problems.

  Hoping he was right, he slid another look at Hector and then knelt to retrieve a key from beneath his bed’s mattress. After slipping the key into the lock, he undid the strongbox’s rusty hasps and opened the lid.

  Puffs of dust swirled up to tickle his nose, the musty smell of time and ancient glories almost making him sneeze. But he stifled the urge and was just reaching into the coffer to lift out his treasure when the door opened behind him and a blaze of torchlight flooded the room.

  “James…” His sister’s voice rose above a rustle of movement.

  “Ho, cousin!” Colin’s greeting boomed. “Praying, are you, what?”

  “Sakes!” James jumped up, whirling to find Isobel and Colin in the doorway. He glared at them, ignoring his cousin’s fool query. The lout held a torch flaming bright enough to rival a balefire, and his sister clutched a tray of food, the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat and hot, fresh-baked bread making his mouth water.

  The delicious food smells filled the air, almost overwhelming.

  James’s stomach gurgled loudly.

  Across the room, Hector’s eyes popped opened. With the fierce determination of a dog hoping for a tidbit, he pushed to his feet and shuffled across the floor rushes, plopping onto his haunches before the door. He lifted his head, fixing Isobel with an unblinking stare, his great bulk blocking entry to the bedchamber.

  “We brought this for you.” Looking poised as always, Isobel lifted the tray higher, out of Hector’s reach. “As you refuse to join us in the hall, we thought you might as well dine here again.