Sins of a Highland Devil: Highland Warriors Book 1

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  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 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 all 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.

  His desire to simply hold her, nuzzle her neck, and breathe in her gillyflower scent, his wish to know her safe, told him truths he didn’t want to know.

  And that annoyed him more than anything.

  She was a MacDonald, by God.

  Before a few more suns could rise, he may 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’ stomach gurgled loudly.

  Across the room, Hector’s eyes popped opened. With the fierce determination of a dog hoping for a tidbit, he push
ed 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.

  “But” – she flashed at look at Colin – “we’ll wait while you eat this time.” She narrowed her gaze as she spoke, her fierce look of disapproval making clear that she knew he’d give more than half the food to Hector if she didn’t keep her hawk eyes on him.

  That was, after all, what he’d done with every other meal that’d been left outside his door since he’d returned from the Makers of Dreams.

  “See here, James.” Colin set his torch in an iron ring on the wall and stepped around Hector. “You cannae go on no’ eating. Word is that the King’s entourage is less than a day’s ride from the glen. The trial by combat will begin when he arrives. You’ll need your strength-”

  “Think you I’ve lost it?” James snatched the food tray from Isobel with lightning speed and plunked the victuals down before Hector. “If so, you err.”

  He grinned, triumphantly. “Or” - he stepped back, dusting his hands – “will you say otherwise?”

  “I say tossing meat to a dog is a far cry from crossing swords with MacDonalds and Mackintoshes.” Colin gave him a look as dark as Isobel’s. “I’ll no’ be denying Hector his due” – he glanced at the dog, who was enthusiastically devouring a choice beef rib – “but I’ll see you filling your belly if I must force the food down your throat. You’ve been hiding up here for nigh onto three days and-”

  “I’ve been thinking.” James matched his cousin’s stare, belligerent.

  “No, you’ve been brooding.” Isobel set her hands on her hips and gave him a look so fierce that his head started to pound.

  “Have a care, lass. I’m no’ in a mood to be pestered.” He turned an equally fearsome stare on her, but she didn’t flinch. He wouldn’t have believed it, but he could almost see steel gleaming in her spine.

  As if she knew – and was pleased he’d noticed – she inclined her head, infinitesimally. He was sure she’d done so to annoy him. So he swatted at a fold of his plaid, pretending he hadn’t seen.

  Not to be deterred, she gave him her most disarming smile. “I’m here because I do care.”

  “Humph.” James clenched his jaw.

  Had he truly thought of her as biddable? A mild-spoken, acquiescent sister he could soon offer to a well-suited, allied laird as a fine conformable wife?

  At the moment, she struck him as bold and brazen as Catriona.

  Worse, in the blaze of light cast by Colin’s damty torch, she minded him so much of Scandia that he was sure he’d splutter if he dared to argue with her. She stood tall and held herself erect, pride and willfulness shining all over her like a flaming beacon.

  She lifted her chin then and her braided hair slid over one shoulder, the strands shimmering like a ribbon of blue-black silk. James blinked, feeling whisked back to the mist-hung moor and a certain burn side, hemmed by a cluster of red-berried rowan trees.

  Isobel truly did look like their beautiful spectral ancestress.

  James scowled at her, wishing he hadn’t noticed.

  “Brooding,” she said again, sailing past him to claim one of the chairs before the fire. She sat very straight and folded her hands in her lap. “That’s what you’ve been about and we all know-”

  “God be good!” He wasn’t fooled by her demure attitude. “What you know is that I’ve been up here and” – he narrowed his eyes – “that I wished to be left alone. To think, not brood, on the weal and honor of the clan.

  “That is what has occupied me, whatever.” He spoke with all the lairdly authority in him.

  Colin snorted. “So you say.”

  “I just did, aye.” James wasn’t giving an inch.

  Especially when he knew his cousin and his sister were right.

  His thoughts had slipped to other concerns. But now he’d caught himself, pushing the matter of Catriona firmly from his mind. Although….

  Isobel’s delicately arched brow and the faint, quizzical smile playing about her lips didn’t help him pretend that his life wasn’t being overrun by a pack of scheming, bolder-than-brass Valkyries.

  Even ghostly females were after him, it seemed.

  And he was having none of it.

  He did shoot an angry look at Colin who who’d gone to stand beside the bedside table – James’ bedside table – and was presently pouring himself a generous measure of finest Gascon wine. The lout had also imbibed the last few sugared almonds and honey-stuffed dates that had been left on a tray for James’ own delectation.

  He had a sweet tooth, as did many Highlanders. The treats were all he’d been allowing himself to enjoy these last few hungering days.

  Now his cousin had eaten them.

  James fisted his hands. His rising hopes of moments before were spiraling away before his nose, dwindling rapidly to a mean rumbling somewhere in his empty stomach.

  He cleared his throat, his gaze on Colin, the sweet-thief. “If you must know, you sticky-fingered buzzard, my time up here hasn’t been wasted. Solitude is good for the soul.” He clasped his hands behind him, began walking slowly toward his cousin. “Wits are as crucial to winning a battle as broadswords and cold steel.

  “This e’en” – he lunged to snatch the wine jug from Colin’s hand, returning it to the table before the loon could refill his cup – “we rally the clan. I have something that will stir-”

  “They’re roused already, though no’ in a way that’ll please you.” Colin grabbed the ewer and splashed wine into his cup, tipping back the contents before James could object. “Some of the men are angry, now that the King and his entourage are so near.”

  He dragged a hand over his mouth, leaning close. “They’re riled, James. They say we’ve waited too long, and wrongly. They’re growling that we should’ve seen to the Lowlanders in the old way.”

  “Then they’re fools.” James spoke in a low, hard voice. “They know what happens if a Highlander even looks cross-eyed at the King. To openly defy him, ignoring his writ and having done with his men….” He let the words tail off, shaking his head. “I say you, our men know better.”

  Colin held up his hands. “I only repeat the grumbles in the hall.”

  James looked at him, a ghastly notion prickling his nape. “Then some flat-footed troublemaker has slipped into their ranks, spreading doubts and lies.”

  Something golden caught his eye then. A drop of honey on the table, all that remained of his special stuffed dates. At once, the image of Alasdair MacDonald’s magnificent sword rose before him, the amber pommel stone shining brightly, just as it’d done in the bailey at Blackshore.

  The speck of honey glistened in the firelight, almost winking at him.

  His mind raced, whirling with possibilities.

  If Alasdair had sent someone, perhaps in a guise, to mingle with James’ men, dropping a poisoned hint here, a goading word there….

  But the thought vanished as quickly as it’d come.

  Alasdair would challenge him openly, he was sure.

  Much as it irked him to credit the bastard with even a smidgen of honor. Worse, the lout’s penchant for valor left James little choice but to show him equal gallantry. Anything else would shame him as chief and discredit the good Cameron name.

  Yet he had a terrible suspicion that when he next came face to face with the loon’s delectable sister, honor and all its attendant qualities would be the last thing on his mind.

  The silken swells of her breasts and her sweetly rounded hips would bring out the devil in him. His need to get his hands on her, to taste her ripe, dusky nipples, would see him pulling her into his arms and dragging her straight into hell’s most wicked fires.

  And no power on ea
rth would stop him.

  Her brother be damned.

  Chapter 7

  Before James’ head could begin to pound, he pushed all thought of Catriona from his mind. He especially tried not to dwell on the curve of her breasts or the darker delights hidden beneath her skirts. Here in his own privy quarters, it was so easy to imagine carrying her to his bed and divesting her of those meddlesome skirts and everything else that kept her beauty from view. For such a pestiferous plague of a female, she possessed more feminine charms than any woman he’d ever known. Her wiles were boundless. And if he meant to think clearly, he needed to stop lusting after her. Doing so only made him the more furious.

  His inability to stop worrying about her riled him in a worse way.

  She might be her brother’s responsibility, but somehow he doubted Alasdair recognized how much trouble she could stir with her passionate headstrong ways. And much as he resented his fool urge to protect her, his fingers still itched to shake sense into her.

  Even more vexing was that he admired her spirit.

  And it was that admiration that sent heat crawling up his neck and twisted his innards to knots.

  He frowned, not wishing to examine the feeling too closely. He did pull a hand down over his chin and tried again to blot her from his thoughts.

  Forgetting her brother proved easier, but other irritations still nagged at him.

  And he wouldn’t have any peace until he voiced them.

  Angry, he glared again at the drop of honey on the table, evidence of how swiftly his cousin had devoured his special stuffed dates.

  There were others – men not near as close to him as Colin, or as noble as Alasdair – who’d take more from him than his favorite sweetmeats.

  Sure of it, he reached to swipe away the honey-dollop with his thumb. “Tell me” – he turned to face Colin - “Have any Mackintoshes been seen skulking about in these parts?”

  Those sniveling, mealy-mouthed cravens, he could see stooping to such trickery. The cloaked figure in the wood could’ve been one of their ilk and not, as he’d guessed, a Lowlander.

  The chills creeping up and down his spine told him anything was possible.