Sins of a Highland Devil: Highland Warriors Book 1

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  She looked at James and wondered what he’d do. He had yet to wrench his gaze from the young woman. He’d clearly forgotten everything else around him. He stood frozen, his jaw clenched and his handsome face flushed as he gripped the clan banner like a shield.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” He whirled to Colin and Isobel, looking so angry that Scandia felt his shock as powerfully as if it were her own.

  His sister spoke first. “We did mean to warn you. That’s why we brought your dinner ourselves, rather than send one of the kitchen lads. We-”

  But he was already pushing past them, elbowing his way through the crowd, his strides long and purposeful. Men leapt out of his way and dogs scurried beneath tables. He looked that fierce, his face dark as thunder, a deep furrow digging into his brow.

  “Ho, James – wait!” Colin shot after him. Isobel sped hard on his heels, hitching her skirts as she ran. “I swear we were going to tell you, but-” the rest was lost in the din, the shouts and raised voices.

  Not that it mattered.

  At least it didn’t to the Doom of the Camerons. She’d learned long ago that words could be so hollow. Her lessons had been bitter, but through them, she’d grown wise.

  What counted was what was.

  And watching James march up to the high table – and the proud young woman who sat there, her sapphire gaze locked with his – Scandia knew much more than Colin’s blundering cries could have told her.

  Young James burned to do one of two things: wring the lovely Lady Catriona’s neck or haul her into his arms and kiss her, soundly.

  Scandia pressed a hand to her heart, certain she knew what his choice would be.

  She understood passion, after all.

  Even if there were some who thought otherwise.

  Chapter 8

  “MacDonald! I welcome you.” James strode onto the dais, his gaze on Alasdair. The lout’s sister tilted her cheek as if she expected him to lean across the high table and greet her with a kiss. When he didn’t, she gave a light shrug he was sure no one else saw and began running the tip of one finger around the edge of her wine cup.

  James tried to ignore the provocation.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t.

  “Lady Catriona.” He inclined his head. Then, before she could make another taunting circle around the cup’s rim, he narrowed his eyes at her and seized her hand, kissing her fingers.

  He nipped the edge of her thumb, regretting his boldness at once because she tasted fresh as rain. Her skin proved cool, smooth and silken, minding him of soft spring meadows, shimmering beneath a morning sun.

  He released her at once, the blood pounding in his ears.

  “My lord.” She met his gaze directly.

  “Lady” – James’ heart drummed against his ribs – “you do me honor.”

  She’d bring in to his knees, was her plan.

  He knew that as sure as the sun would rise on the morrow.

  Above all, he hoped she couldn’t tell that the whole of his body tensed from having savored the taste of her. He wanted more and now may never be rid of his lust for her. His teeth even hurt from how hard he’d clamped his jaw, but he suppressed the discomfort as best he could and determined to keep his attention on Alasdair.

  Turning to him, James pretended the air wasn’t laced with the scent of gillyflowers.

  “MacDonald - this is a surprise.” He couldn’t believe his voice wasn’t choked. His pulse raced and he’d swear the feel of Catriona’s delicate flesh was branded on his tongue. “I didn’t think to greet you in my hall so soon.”

  Alasdair set down his meat knife. “I am no less amazed, whatever.”

  “Did you come to discuss the King’s challenge?” James spoke so that everyone in the hall could hear. “If so” – he flashed a glance to Sir Walter and his henchmen – “I’ll say you the same as I did at Blackshore. I’d sooner see the glen dunged by Lowland blood than yours. As is-”

  “You’ll cut me to pieces before I can think where to make my first slice into you?” Alasdair arched a convivial brow. “It’ll be a good, hard fight, I warn you.”

  James watched the annoying bugger help himself to an oatcake. “I didn’t ask your counsel. What I’d know is why you’re here?”

  He didn’t need to know how Catriona’s shawl mysteriously slipped down one shoulder to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of her creamy, well-rounded bosom.

  That was obvious.

  The she-demon meant to taunt him and he could already feel her talons sinking into him.

  He wrenched his gaze from her before she maddened him into showing her what happened to innocent maids who marched onto such thin ice. The coldest pit of hell awaited and he burned to teach her not to tempt the devil.

  Instead, he drew a tight breath and flicked a glance over the sumptuous spread of victuals that had been provided for his unexpected guests. Platters of roasted meats, cold sliced capon, and wedges of cheese showed that Camerons never stint. Oatcakes, fresh-churned butter, and a jar of heather honey rounded up the offerings. A tray piled high with Cook’s cream-filled pasties and a dish of sugared almonds ensured that all comforts had been met.

  Even the MacDonald escort, a small number of men eating with gusto at a nearby long table, appeared to have no reason for complaint. Far from it, they’d been presented a repast worthy of kings.

  Cook had done the clan proud.

  “We’ve been treated well, as you see.” Alasdair gestured to the savories, as if he’d read James’ mind. “Though, like you, I ne’er thought” – his voice took on a tone of lairdly commiseration – “to find myself supping at your table this e’en. But-”

  “We had to call here.” Catriona raised her wine cup to her lips, sipping determinedly.

  “Say you?” James eyed her sharply.

  She didn’t turn a hair. “My dog went missing and we thought he might’ve come this way.”

  “Your dog?” James blinked.

  She nodded. “A wee brown and white male.” She spread her hands to indicate the dog’s size. “He’s young and must be lost.”

  James didn’t believe a word.

  She’d come to return the gauntlet he’d tossed at her. And she was brazen enough to know he’d be only too happy to make good on his threat to ravish her. She might be a maid – he didn’t doubt her purity – but she understood how to use her desirability to dazzle him.

  Proving his suspicions, she lifted a hand to her amber necklace. The bit of frippery rested much too near the lush swells of her breasts and seeing her trace her fingers so lightly along the gleaming gemstones pushed him close to his manly limits.

  Especially when she flicked one of her glossy red braids over her shoulder. A siren’s trick designed to send her shawl dipping a tad deeper, offering him an even better view of her low-cut bodice.

  Worse, the glow from a candelabrum set near her trencher revealed the top crescents of her nipples just peeking above the silk of her gown. It was only the slightest hint of taut, dusky-rose flesh, but enough to tighten his chest and send whorls of heat pouring into his loins.

  She smiled and took a deep breath, her inhale revealing just a bit more. James stared, cold sweat breaking on his brow as the lusciously crinkled rims winked at him, then slipped back inside her bodice as she exhaled.

  He swallowed, hoping no one else had seen.

  His brother, Hugh, clan bard and general fool, did notice. Gawping at her from the end of the high table, the oversized lummox looked as if his brows would soon vanish into his hairline.

  “Hugh’s besotted.” Colin bumped against James, leaning in to speak low, as he and Isobel arrived on the dais. “Word is” – he sounded amused – “he even slipped into the kitchens and raided your supply of honey-stuffed dates, giving her a dishful in welcome.”

  “He speaks true, I was there.” Isobel smiled as she sailed past, heading for her place at the high table. “She thanked Hugh profusely, calling him a gallant.”

  Hector clatter
ed up then, slinking past him to duck beneath the table and flop down – it could only be assumed – very near to the MacDonalds’ feet.

  James frowned. It wouldn’t surprise him if the disloyal beast licked Lady Catriona’s ankles.

  He would and the knowledge scalded him.

  Furious, he tightened his grip on the Banner of the Wind. Never had a maid turned him inside out with such ease. He’d only flicked her thumb with his tongue and caught the merest hint of her nipples and he ached to drown in the feel, taste, and scent of her. She’d stirred such a fever in him that he didn’t trust himself to speak.

  Alasdair showed no such reticence. “My regrets, Cameron, that we’ve disrupted your peace. We’ll be on our way in the morning. My sister told you why we came. She thought she saw one of our younger hounds trail after you when you left us. It would seem she erred.” He shot a glance at his sister. “The dog isn’t here.”

  “I could’ve told you that.” James tried not to show his irritation when Hector’s tail began to wag beneath the table.

  “The whelp is a favorite of Catriona’s. We spent days searching around Blackshore, but couldn’t find him. So we thought-”

  “He followed me?” James knew better.

  “It was a hope, aye.” Alasdair nodded, clearly duped.

  Catriona sipped her wine, all innocence.

  James wondered what spells she’d worked to trick Alasdair again. “No such animal trailed me. Though I’ll suggest you make a more thorough search on your return to Blackshore. If the dog is young” - he suspected there wasn’t a lost dog at all – “he might have taken a fright to something and hied himself beneath a bed.”

  That was the closest he’d come to bursting Catriona’s ploy.

  He did fix her with an I-know-what-you’re-about stare.

  Looking at her crossly was safer than letting her guess that her campaign to see him again filled him with ridiculous pleasure. It was a giddy, unwanted elation that flared in some dark, unnamed place deep inside him. And – the worrisome feeling warmed and spread – it was a sensation entirely different than his urge to see more of her nipples.

  He hoped it wasn’t his heart.

  “You could be right.” She was watching him over her wine cup’s rim. “Perhaps we’ll find Beadle in my-”

  “Beadle?” Alasdair’s eyes widened. “I thought we were searching for Birkie?”

  “Did I say Beadle?” Catriona didn’t blink. “I did mean Birkie.”

  Isobel hid a smile behind a cough. Colin leaned forward to peer at them, watching James much too closely. And – this could mean no good – the rest of the hall fell silent. Even Sir Walter and his men had stopped eating to crane their necks towards the dais.

  “I’m good with dogs.” Hugh half-stood from his chair. “If anyone can find Birkie, I-”

  “You’re needed in your turret, taking up your quill to record the trials we’re facing these days.” James glared at Hugh until he lowered his big, thick-set body into his seat. “There are others who can be of service to Lady Catriona.”

  Hugh glowered back at him, looking mutinous.

  James tucked the Banner of the Wind more securely beneath his arm and stalked to the hearth at the rear of the dais. Someone had tossed several fat logs onto the fire, causing it to blaze. No doubt some loon who felt that the softly smoldering peats they usually burned wouldn’t keep Catriona sufficiently warm.

  Peats glow, after all.

  Cut wood….

  He scowled at the roaring fire. The dancing flames offended him. Log fires were for Lowland Scots and the English. All those too thin-skinned to suffer the cold, black nights of Highland winter.

  He preferred peat.

  “Damnation!” He jigged when one of the fire logs popped, sending out a spray of orange-red sparks. Holding the Banner of the Wind aloft with one hand, he used the other to swat at the swirling cinders.

  A chorus of hoots came from the hall. But when he whipped around and swept the fools with a glare, their chortles died away. Satisfied, he placed the banner on a coffer, and then marched over to the ewer and basin on the ledge of a window embrasure. He splashed water into the bowl and washed the soot from his hands.

  He ignored the ash on his legs.

  He’d bathe later.

  Now he needed to figure out how to rouse his men with Alasdair present. He’d meant to use the clan’s long-standing feud with MacDonalds and Mackintoshes to fire their blood. But so long as MacDonalds whiled beneath his roof, courtesy demanded he not slur their name.

  As did his honor.

  Frustrated, he snatched a length of folded linen off the embrasure’s stone ledge and wiped his hands. Moonlight slanted through the alcove’s window slit, spilling across the bowl of water. Its surface glistened like smooth, dark glass. Or – his nape prickled - like his sister’s and Scandia’s shining raven tresses.

  Two women who both, in their own time, loved the glen fiercely.

  Catriona shared that passion. She carried her love for the glen inside her as a burning, living flame. It plagued him to admit it, but he knew she stood in as much awe of their hills and moors as he did. This wild and beautiful place meant everything to her. She’d cling to the last rock in the glen, gripping so tight her fingers bled, before she’d let anyone, even a king, tear her away.

  He sensed that devotion in her, blazing bright with every beat of her heart. He also felt her looking at him. It was like a physical touch. And he didn’t need to turn around to know her gaze was sweeping over him, moving from his hair to his shoulders and lower.

  She lingered around his hips, his buttocks. Praise God, he wasn’t facing her. Even so, the assessment in her stare made heat pulse inside him.

  He took a deep breath, squeezing his hands to fists.

  Behind him, the hall was silent. His men would have recognized Ottar’s banner by now. They’d be staring at its glory, the silken folds gleaming so proudly on the coffer by the wall. Stone laid by the Fire-worshipper’s own hands. Or so the legend-tellers claimed, boasting that the mighty half-Viking war-leader had taken pride in toiling alongside his men as they’d raised the stronghold.

  James drew another tight breath, willing himself to think of Ottar and his banner rather than the enemy vixen sitting at his high table, making him burn to feel her skin against his. How he was consumed by an agonizing desire to plunder her mouth with his tongue, to kiss her for hours, and everywhere.

  Steeling himself against her, he stepped deeper into the embrasure, welcoming the cold, damp air until the ancient pride surged through him, gripping him more powerfully than if an iron fist squeezed his heart. Outside, the night wind whistled and moaned, rushing through the trees and sending dead leaves rattling across the bailey. To a fanciful mind, the skitter of leaves could almost be the metallic clink of mail, the clanking of long-ago swords, as Ottar and his men ran through the glen, chasing their wind-blown banner, their hearts bursting with exultation when the standard’s pole plunged into rich, peaty earth.

  He could almost feel their glee, hear their triumphant whoops.

  They were that real, that close….

  Then, somewhere in the depth of the hall, someone shouted for more ale. Other cries followed, breaking the strange silence. Chaos returned. And Ottar the Fire-worshipper and his mail-draped, pagan followers vanished into the cold, darkness whence they’d come.

  But rain still battered the tower’s thick, stone walls and drummed on the roof. The wind wailed louder than ever. And beneath the storm’s fury, came the familiar roar of the cataracts that plunged down the gorge in the hillside nearest Castle Haven’s curtain wall.

  It was a night like every other.

  A night of sounds – Highland sounds – that might be similar on the distant Isle of Lewis. But that couldn’t ever fill him with the same love, pride, and sense of oneness that beat through him now.

  He closed his eyes, his heart thundering.

  Ottar the Fire-worshipper might be gone, but he w
as here.

  Something inside him cracked and split, flooding him with a white-hot determination such as he’d never known. Highlanders and their land were inseparable. His bond with these hills was deep, powerful, and impossible to sever. The Glen of Many Legends was more than just his home.

  It was his soul.

  And he’d face down the Dark One himself before he’d allow even a single kinsmen – or a MacDonald or Mackintosh – to do anything that might give the King reason to enforce his threat to transport them.

  Not that any of them would go.

  They’d sooner fall on their swords and spare themselves the agony.

  He meant to see that such a tragedy never happened.

  So he retrieved the Banner of the Wind, taking the relic to the edge of the dais where he unfurled the precious red and yellow standard with a flourish.

  He flashed a glance at Catriona. She looked like a Valkyrie with the torchlight shining on her garnet-red hair and casting shadows across her proud face and magnificent breasts. Her gaze met and locked with his, and she raised her chin, challenging him.

  Then a smile lifted the corner of her mouth and in that moment, she was no longer the enemy. She was a woman of the glen, showing support. But it was a tenuous bond that could only be fleeting.

  So James turned back to the hall, not wanting to see the passion fade from her eyes or the prideful smile slip from her lips.

  “Camerons! Kinsmen, friends, and guests – hear me!” He held the banner high, half of the rippling silk slipping down his arm. “Behold our Banner of the Wind! The clan’s most ancient and worthy relic, carried by our great forebear, Ottar the Fire-worshipper, when he-”

  “Ottar! Ottar!” Loud cheers interrupted him, voices rising as the din grew deafening.

  Everywhere men pounded fists on tables and stomped their feet. Some leapt onto the trestle benches, whipping out their swords and waving them above their heads. The shouts echoed to the rafters, calls for Lowland blood mixed in with the repeated Cameron slogan.

  “Chlanna nan con thigibh a so’s gheibh sibh feoil!”