Furious that she stirred him even now, he tore his gaze from her and frowned at the long rows of colorful awnings, the triumphal pennons snapping in the wind. The festive display shot seething anger through his veins. Truth be told, if one of the King’s worthies appeared on the battlements, he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself.
Apparently feeling the same, Colin stepped back a few paces and whipped out his sword, thrusting it high. “Forget the MacDonald wench and her jackal blood. We could” – he made a flourish with the blade – “have done with yon mummery in the old way! Cut down the Lowland bastards and toss them into a loch. We then block every entry into the glen, keep silent, and no one need know they even reached us.”
He grinned wickedly, sliced a ringing arc in the cold afternoon air.
James strode forward and grabbed his wrist, stopping his foolery. “The old way ne’er included murdering innocents. The workmen” – he jerked a glance at them – “are naught but lackeys. Their blood on our hands would forever stain our honor. Sir Walter’s blood, much as I’d love to spill it, would bring a King’s army into the glen. No matter what we did, they’d come. Even if every clan in the Highlands rose with us against them, their number alone would defeat us.
“And” – he released Colin’s arm, nodding grimly when his cousin sheathed the blade – “King Robert would then do more than scatter us. He’d put us to the horn, outlawing us so that we’d lose no’ just our land but our very name. A fire and sword edict passed quicker than you can blink. That, he would do!”
Colin scowled, flushing red. “Damnation!”
“Aye,” James agreed, his own face flaming. “We are damned whate’er. So we do what is left to us. We keep our pride and honor and prove what hard fighters we are. With God’s good grace, we shall be victorious.”
Colin’s chin came up, his eyes glinting. “Perhaps He will bless us now.” He flashed a wicked grin and strode for the door arch. “I’m off to the hall to see if God in his greatness might cause Sir Walter to choke on a fish bone. I shall pray on the way.”
James’ lips twitched. On another day, he would have thrown back his head and laughed. As it was, he watched Colin hasten into the stair tower without another word. Only when his young cousin’s footsteps faded did he glance at the heavens and mutter a prayer of his own.
Then he whipped around to toss another glower at Lady Catriona, even though she couldn’t see him.
He snorted when he saw her.
She’d edged even closer to one of the viewing platforms, her glare pinned on the workmen. James shuddered just looking at her. He almost felt sorry for the men flamed by her scorching stare. Deepest blue yet piercing as the sun, her eyes could burn holes in a man if he didn’t take care.
James knew it well, much to his annoyance.
Fortunately, their paths didn’t cross often, but each time they’d had the displeasure, he’d regretted it for days.
Just now, with the wind blowing her skirts and her hair whipping about her face, he almost felt an odd kinship with her. There was something about the challenging tilt of her chin and the blaze in her eyes that – for one crazy mad moment – made her not a MacDonald but every Highland woman who’d ever walked the hills.
Almost, he was proud of her.
But almost was just that – something that hovered just short of being.
He let his gaze sweep over her one last time, glad that it was so. Catriona MacDonald was the last woman he wished to admire.
Blotting her from his mind, he strode to another part of the battlements, choosing a corner where the sight of her wouldn’t spoil his view. Then he braced himself and stared past the fighting ground to the hills beyond, deep blue and silent against the sky. Directly across from him, a sparkling rock-strewn cataract plunged down a narrow gorge cut deep into one of the hills. It was the same vista he enjoyed from his bedchamber window. The sight – as always – took his breath and made his heart squeeze. This day, the falls’ beauty also quenched any last shred of sympathy he might have felt for the MacDonald she-wolf.
In Cameron hands since distant times, the glen was his birthright and his joy. Cloud shadows drifted across its length, the gentle play of light and dark bleeding his soul. His eyes misted at the well-loved scene, his throat thickening. He’d always believed his children would one day love the glen with equal fierceness. That they’d carry on tradition, bound to the land and appreciating their heritage, teaching their own offspring to do the same.
Now….
He wrenched his gaze from the glen, fury whipping through him like a flame to tinder. He should’ve known better than to come up here. But Colin had wanted to see the workmen’s progress. And, truth be told, brisk winds always blew across the ramparts and he’d relished a few moments in the cold, clean air before courtesy demanded he join Sir Walter and his ravenous friends in the hall.
The man’s lofty airs and barely-veiled insults were more than any man should have to tolerate within his own walls. And watching Lindsay and his henchmen eat their way through Castle Haven’s larders – with neither the MacDonalds nor the Mackintoshes helping with the costs – was as galling as it was enlightening.
No matter how the trial of combat ended, the other two clans of the glen would never change their colors.
Most especially the MacDonalds.
The she-wolf’s presence on the field vouched for their obstinacy. Just as her flay-a-man stares proved they had a touch of the devil in them.
It was a taint that might serve them well when they soon found themselves in hell.
James’ pulse quickened imagining them there.
It was a fine thought.
A well met fate that sent a surge of satisfaction shooting through him. He could see them landing on Hades’ hottest hob or in a deep, icy pit where they could languish for eons, pondering their treacheries.
They deserved no better.
Pity was so many Camerons would be joining them.
Chapter 2
James tossed in his sleep, lost in one of the most heated dreams he’d enjoyed in years. Tantalizing images seared him, scalding his blood with a stirring swirl of lascivious delights. Tempting glimpses of a certain flame-haired siren’s lush nakedness as she rode boldly astride him. She held his gaze, her sapphire eyes alight with desire. His own lust sharpened, his pulse quickening to see her need. He reached for her, smoothing his hands along her sleek, fulsome curves, when he became aware of a heavy, cumbersome weight shifting across his lower legs. It was a hot, unyielding burden that had nothing to do with the lithe-limbed beauty whose sinuous movements were so rousing his heart raced even now.
He came awake at once, glaring into the darkness.
His dog, Hector, shifted again, this time resting his head on James’ knee. Ignoring the aged beast, James continued to frown.
Anger suited him.
Had anyone but Hector shattered his pleasure, he’d do more than glower.
Not that his scowls brought back the stormy-eyed MacDonald vixen whose voluptuous enticements so enchanted him. She’d vanished like mist before the sun and the room’s emptiness hit him like a physical blow. Quiet lay in the air and the smell of cold ash pervaded, reminding him that the temptress of his dreams had been no more substantial than the silvery moonlight slipping through the shutter slats.
He blinked, grateful to feel his desire subsiding.
Even so, he felt a strong urge to drive his fist into the pillows. He did allow himself a shudder. Lusting after Catriona MacDonald not only left a sour taste in his mouth, but brought him perilously close to a dark pit of desires that could easily consume him.
Already, he could smell the brimstone. Even taste the sulfurous mist wafting around him. Each curl of drifting foulness reminded him of the folly – and dangers – that awaited chieftains who succumbed to the wiles of temptresses from feuding clans.
The Highlands abounded with tales of the horrors unleashed by ill-fated passions.
Wanting no part
of such miseries, he drew a tight, annoyed breath. Then he set his jaw, pushing all thought of his prickly, large-bosomed nemesis from his mind.
Hector gave a grunt of pleasure, blissfully unaware of the turmoil he’d stirred. Clearly content, he settled back to his canine slumber. But the dog’s weight increased, causing a welter of fiery, tingly heat to dance up and down James’ legs until he felt as if a thousand tiny, sharp-headed needles were pricking his skin. The discomfort chased any last vestiges of sleep and worsened his mood.
As did the image of Catriona MacDonald when she rose up to vex him anew, whirling – naked and glorious - across his mind’s eye as if he hadn’t just banished her.
Vibrant as in his dream, she twirled and swayed, her shining red-gold hair tumbling past her shoulders, swinging about her hips.
Her breasts….
“Damnation!” He pushed up on his elbows, his furious gaze snapping to Hector.
The dog opened one eye and met his stare, his canine expression annoyingly innocent.
James peered back, unmoved. He started to scold the dog for climbing into the bed – after all, Hector had his own comfortable blanket before the hearth – but he closed his mouth and simply narrowed his eyes.
Hector was old.
And the chill in the room revealed that the fire had died hours ago.
Hector appreciated the warmth of the bed as much as James did. When the dog rolled onto his side with a long, fluting sigh, giving every indication of returning to the blissful realm of sleep, James almost envied him. He wouldn’t mind nestling beneath the covers and finding his way back into his shattered dream.
He’d just paint a different face on a certain flame-haired seductress.
Instead, his night’s rest was ruined.
So he extracted his legs from beneath Hector’s bulk and climbed from the bed. As it was, he’d planned to rise early. Although he’d intended to do so closer to sunrise and not at this ungodly hour when the moon hadn’t even set and the castle was so still.
He’d hoped to slip away in the midst of the morning bustle when no one would bat an eye as he strode through the waking hall.
His kinsmen didn’t need to know he meant to visit the Makers of Dreams. Most of his people knew the ancients as Grizel and Gorm, simple herders of sheep and deer. They were famed for making delicious cheese and always offered weary travelers a dipperful of thick, creamy milk. They also lived by the old ways and tended a mysterious cave hidden in a tumbled outcrop of stone.
As Makers of Dreams, the half-mythic couple only shared their true purpose with Cameron clan chiefs, trusting them above all other men. Proud of this privilege, James respected the old pair greatly and was hesitant to prod knowledge from them. For in addition to crafting dreams each night and sending them to those deserving, Grizel and Gorm were also adept givers of prophecies.
But he did feel a need to question them about the trial of combat.
He hoped they’d confirm a Cameron victory.
Now….
He scowled at the silence, sure that every man sleeping below would snap to nosy wakefulness the instant he unlatched his bedchamber door. His footfalls would echo through the dark passage beyond. The sound would swell, filling the stair tower even if he crept along as lightly as a mouse.
It was that quiet.
The shutters were closed against the cold autumn night, but even from across the room he could hear the wind in the pines and the distant rush of the waterfall that spilled down a deep gorge across from his windows.
He also heard Hector shifting on the bed. The ancient beast was a restless sleeper and enjoyed shoving his muzzle in James’ goings-on almost as much some of as James’ two-legged friends and kinsmen. If a single floorboard creaked, Hector would be scrambling off the bed. He’d then limp across the room to sit before the door, head cocked and eyes hopeful, as he craftily blocked James’ exit.
It was a trick that usually worked.
But the way to the high moors where Grizel and Gorm dwelled was too steep and treacherous for an aged dog with hinky hips and unsteady back legs.
So James stepped with caution to the jug and basin on a table near his bed. He poured handfuls of icy water and splashed his face. Then he shoved a quick hand through his hair and dressed even faster, pulling on his plaid as he crossed the room. He slipped away before Hector could protest and he crept down the stairs, refusing to consider the wisdom of seeking an answer he might prefer not to know.
The Makers of Dreams never lied.
And James didn’t get far before his nape began to prickle. He froze where he was, just paces inside the night-darkened hall. The cold, smoke-hazed air felt thick with the sense of an unseen presence. Sure of it, he glanced about as he picked his way forward through the rows of trestle tables. He went slowly, taking care not to disturb the slumbering men sprawled on their pallets.
Nothing moved.
Yet he was certain someone else was awake.
His warrior instinct felt the throb of a heartbeat, stirring the air. There was movement in the hall’s shadows, an uncanny sort of shifting. James rubbed his neck, hoping he wasn’t sensing the Makers of Dreams. They were said to be everywhere when darkness fell.
They saw everything.
Or so many men believed.
Some even claimed they could see the wind. Or that they knew when the tiniest fish swam across the bottom of the sea. James felt his stomach knot. If the ancients were responsible for the chills nipping at him just now, he only prayed they hadn’t also been around during his sensual dream of Catriona MacDonald.
There were some things a man kept to himself.
So he put back his shoulders and crossed the hall, not stopping until he’d opened the door and stepped out into the silver-washed bailey.
The moonlight was brighter than he’d expected and the courtyard proved as empty as the hall had been packed with sleeping men. Frost glittered on the cobbles and crackled beneath his feet, the noise making him wince. But nothing stirred in the cold brittle air except the clouds of his own breath.
Even so, he scanned the deeper shadows as he hastened to the postern gate, preferring that little used door in the curtain wall to the well-guarded main gateway. The half moon already rode low above the hills. Despite the blue-white light shining down into the bailey, it would soon be morning.
He wasn’t going to be the one to break whatever remained of the night’s peace.
Or so he thought until he passed through the postern’s narrow opening and spotted a dark shape slip around the far corner of the castle. Clearly a man, the hooded figure crept across the sward, keeping close to the long black line of scaffolding where the Lowlanders were building their viewing platforms.
James stared, his eyes narrowing.
Whoever the man was, he wasn’t up to any good.
It was a daily annoyance at Castle Haven that Sir Walter kept his henchmen patrolling the stronghold’s perimeters and the edges of the soon-to-be-fighting ground. But if this flat-footed craven was one of Sir Walter’s guards, he’d be too arrogant to keep to the shadows.
“You – hold there!” James sprinted after the man, one hand gripping his sword hilt as he ran. “Halt, you! You’ve been seen!”
If the man heard him, he gave no sign.
Castle Haven’s guards appeared equally oblivious.
James tossed a glance behind him, but no one burst through the postern door. At this hour, the men on duty would be hunkered around a coal brazier in the gatehouse, keeping warm and awaiting sunrise. Even if they were on the walls, they’d be watching the approach to the main gate on the other side of the castle.
No one could hear his pounding footsteps, or even his shouts.
Furious, he kept running. But the man disappeared into the trees just as James reached the half-built viewing stands.
“Wait!” He ran faster, racing now. But the woods’ darkness soon closed around him, making pursuit a folly. Scowling, he took a deep breath of the frosty,
pine-scented air. He glanced around, but couldn’t see anything. Thick mist clung to the trees, shifting around the trunks and curtaining the low-hanging branches. Wishing he could see better, he pressed deeper into the gloom, but the farther he went, the more mist swirled around him.
The dark-cloaked stranger was gone.
“Odin’s balls.” James loosened his grip on his sword. His pride scalded him. If he’d been two paces quicker or perhaps not yelled a warning-
His heart jumped when a branch snapped somewhere to his right, the sound quickly followed by a light skitter of rolling pebbles.
He swung round, whipping out his sword, and then feeling foolish when nothing but the dark trees and drifting fog stared back at him. Even so, the sensation that he wasn’t alone returned. Worse, he now felt as if the woods were creeping in on him.
It was as if the trees had sprung legs and were sneaking closer behind his back, then quickly freezing in place when he glanced at them. Even the mist seemed hell-born, much colder and almost glowing.
He set his jaw, ignoring the strangeness.
He hadn’t slept well, after all.
And he’d lived too long in the Glen of Many Legends not to know that, even well rested, a man could chance upon many odd things in these hills he loved so dearly. Trees that stalked men and icy, cloying mist were nothing to some of the tales told late of cold winter’s night at Castle Haven’s hearth fire.
He would concern himself with the man who’d slipped away from him.
But first he had other business to attend.
So he made for the hill path to the Makers of Dreams. But before he’d gone three paces, he caught a flash of red in the trees to his right. He turned, his eyes rounding when he found himself staring at the hurrying form of a beautiful flame-haired woman.
And she wasn’t just any woman.
Irritation tightened James’s chest. He let his gaze sweep her entire fetching length, from her gleaming, red-gold hair to the sweet, well-turned ankles that were displayed because she held her skirts hitched high. Ripped straight from his dream, she made the blood roar in his ears.
Sins of a Highland Devil: Highland Warriors Book 1 Page 3
