“Exactly . . . how?”
The swift glance from Rory should’ve alerted him if Iain had control over his body anymore. Or could gain it. Or find one bone in his body that wasn’t hungering.
“His Grace has an aversion to sunlight.”
“He does?”
“He canna’ abide its rays. ’Tis a family trait. Passed down. Sunlight brings on a massive rash, like near to death.”
“He has a-a-a weakness?”
Weakness? Only to her. In any other context, he’d take a man’s head for saying such. Anger filtered through the fog surrounding Iain, sending control where he hadn’t any. If he thought long enough, he’d be thanking Rory, rather than the opposite. Iain lifted his head from contemplation of the lass in his arms, focused on a large fireplace, and worked at finding a voice to stop his Honor Guardsman from saying more. Only these men knew Iain’s secret and the curse that followed him. As had their sires before them. They all took it to the grave.
“Never!” Rory’s voice sounded scandalized.
“I spoke wrong, then. I shouldn’t have called it that. I meant . . . he has a flaw.”
Flaw. Was that better?
“His Grace has nae flaws!” Rory was getting loud. Iain noted others starting to move closer in order to hear.
“Are all Scots this bristly? Quick to take offense? I merely mean . . . he isn’t perfect.”
“His Grace is more! He’s—”
“You’d best cease defending me, Rory, while you still have limbs.”
“Your Grace.” The man tipped his head in a nod.
“See to Grant and Lenn. They need to be relieved and the women still require escort and entertainment.”
“Both of them?” Rory made a face clearly showing his disgust of the assignment.
“Take Ulrich. Send the twins to the punch bowl. As diversion.”
The lass waited for him to move his attention to her. She had her lips pursed into a sweet shape resembling a kiss. Iain moved his glance the moment he saw it.
“Diversion?” she asked.
“My Honor Guardsmen are special chosen. From all other clansmen.”
“What would you have them do?”
“Stand about. Flirt with the ladies. Escort a few onto the dance floor. Engender interest and speculation.”
“Not start a fight?”
“What would give you that idea?”
“The more I’m around you, Iain MacAvee, the more I wonder.”
“About what?”
“You . . . and civility.”
There was that word again. Grant had been right. The lass craved civility. But being attired in English-tailored clothing and squiring her to a ball wasn’t it?
“It takes more than cloth to make a gentleman,” Tira told him.
She read his mind. Iain’s eyes went wide as he stared down at her. His heart thumped once and then stopped. And then started up again with a harder thump. He was afraid she’d notice it.
“Ah, lass. The more I’m around you, the more I thank the saints, the Father, the gods, and any and every other being responsible for the fate that brought you to me.”
“You just threatened your man with losing his limbs.”
“ ’Twas an empty one. Na’ in use since afore the last wars. He kens it.”
“What of this family . . . trait you suffer. Is that why you don’t want children?”
“I never said I dinna’ wish bairns. ’Twas your assumption.”
“You do want children, then?”
“Should the fates grant such.”
“Are you saying you can’t have children? Is this another family trait?”
He dipped his chin, clenched his teeth, and looked away. “I doona’ ken.”
“Oh . . . Iain.”
And with those two words, spoken with a hint of tears, she took his heart completely.
Chapter Eight
She’d invited him. He went early.
Lady Higginswale had a house resembling her: plump, with no sense of balance or structure. She even had material adorning her walls that was padded between the tacks that fastened it. Iain brushed a finger along the fabric of her bedchamber. The striped silk gave a hushed sound like a whisper. It made him yearn for thick stout castle walls built of stone and, where they’d divided the rooms, hard wood. Those walls had lines and permanency and structure. They weren’t padded with fabric. They were draped with tapestries woven by skilled hands over the centuries: stout, impregnable, harsh.
He approached the bed to look down at the white perfection of Higginswale’s neck and upper bosom, just glimpsed over the top of her lace-bedecked nightwear. Her veins called to him, exuding thick fluid with every beat of her heart. He could sense it, already taste it in his mouth . . . healthy, untainted by cheap gin and cheaper ales. Blood this thick and nourishing would be a welcome change from the sot-soaked vermin of the docks. Iain went to a knee and slid an arm beneath her shoulders, lifting her toward him, ignoring the snores that touched his forehead and nose. His lips opened, allowing space for his canines to lengthen, tipped with a sharpness that wouldn’t even wake her. Or if they did, she’d find it ecstasy.
Exactly as he’d been invited to provide.
Iain held her limp body in position, the veins pulsing and dark against the skin of her throat, calling him, begging him . . . taunting him. It was ever the same with women, regardless of their station in life, their nationality, or their age. Every woman held a perfection of taste to her blood. When he’d first changed and noted the difference, he’d been a slave to it. That’s all he wanted and it made him harsher than necessary with the male providers, leaving more than one at death’s door. And then even that got old.
Iain spent his second century wandering the land and waxing philosophical. Women were a bane as much as his immortality was. They were put here to torment a man. Make him hard and lustful and in a state of pure longing even in the afterlife. So they could deny. It wasn’t until a ship wrecked on his coastline, bringing a slate full of men and women into his care that he got the opportunity for study. And tasting. And experimenting. That’s when he ascertained the true reason behind it.
Women held a touch of immortality in their very core. They were the bringers of life . . . and he was wasting time. He had Lady Higginswale in position, limp and prepared and ready, her skin touched with the slightest rash of gooseflesh where he watched.
Iain licked the center of his top lip, between his two spikes, and lowered his head, felt the reaction through his entire frame as everything male on him responded, his rod growing large, heavy, taut. As if in preparation for its own feast. His loins throbbed beneath his kilt, craving its own rapture from a woman. . . .
And then something changed.
Iain stopped at the moment of piercing, his teeth scraping flesh and his entire body feeling primed and angered at the denial. The total recollection and then sensation of Tira flashed before him and then went right into him, making his arms tremble with the jolt of reaction. The intensity of it stunned him, lighting the interior of Lady Higginswale’s bedchamber like it was full daylight and not the hour before dawn. Iain settled the woman back onto her sheets before he dropped her and stood, backed from her, put both hands to his temples, and panted with the all-consuming vibration of need, want, and desire. For Tira . . . and her alone. It was overwhelming. A new curse. Everything about her assaulted him: her beauty, her scent, her warmth, her wits; her lifeblood.
Iain bolted for the chamber window, sailed the two-story drop to the cobblestones with a bound, before starting a run that churned his legs and ate up streets. Back to the docks and far from any other woman, the entire time realizing the extent of his Tira’s power. She’d ruined him for any other woman. Ever.
And he was ecstatic.
No day had ever loomed as lengthy nor passed as slowly. The morning fog wasn’t even on her side, sliding away into a weak watery daylight that dissolved any rain to a mist-laden consistency. Tira watched it
from her chamber window between watching the hands on her clock and waiting. Her three trunks had been packed and picked up already by MacAvee Honor Guardsmen. She hadn’t recognized all of them, although Rory was easy with his quick wit and winks. Even Christa blushed. She knew it wouldn’t be Grant or Lenn assisting with the transport of her belongings to the duke’s yacht. It appeared they’d been given the dubious pleasure of entertaining her aunt and sister. Tira smiled. Iain was thorough. She had to give him that, even if he was leaving her alone.
At least she knew why now and sent another glance at the streets outside. The day wasn’t dark enough. It had to be the same reason his father chose a woman from an impoverished English family as Iain’s bride. The MacAvee family had a secret flaw, a weakness . . . an infirmity. Iain had no idea how it endeared him to her! No wonder he was so odd and secretive. From what she’d been taught of Scotland and its people, they lived in a harsh clime ruled by harsh decrees with deadly consequences. Weakness and frailty weren’t tolerated. It had to be immeasurably worse in their chieftain. He’d have to hide it behind eccentric behavior. Furtive movements. Excuses. And here she’d been a termagant over his absences.
Her afternoon tea tray sat undisturbed on the table, the dress she’d chosen for the ceremony hanging beside it. Christa was below in the kitchen overseeing the heating and transporting of water for Tira’s bath. The hip bath was already in place before her fireplace. They’d even lit a small blaze in the event the rain-filled day chilled her. All of it in preparation for her wedding in the Earl of Coombs chambers. Tonight. Tira glanced at the clock again and frowned. The hands didn’t appear to have even moved.
Would evening never get here?
She should sleep. Iain probably kept night hours. If she wanted to be at his side, she’d have to keep the same. But her bed already looked rumpled and tossed about from her last effort at it. Lying prone with her eyes closed started the most delicious shivers ; and those just led to urges and tortuous cravings she didn’t understand. And that just ended with her tossing about until she gave up.
It was exactly the same as when she’d first gone to bed, three hours past midnight, once Iain brought her home and aroused all of the sensations with the lightest brush of his lips on her wrist. She could’ve sworn he’d touched her with his tongue! There was the slightest hint of a scratch on her skin where he’d touched, and the area continually throbbed without reason. It was quite possible he’d known what would happen and done it on purpose as punishment for making him wait another night.
Foolish. That’s how she felt. What else had he called her? Young? Naïve? Untried? All of them true. Which made this waiting her fault. And that got her to wondering if he suffered anything like this.
“Look what’s been brought, miss! From that dress shop on Turpin Street. We visited it the other day. You recollect? Oh my . . .”
Tira turned her head at the door opening to see Christa, her arms held high to keep a shrouded garment from touching the floor. Behind her were three footmen, all burdened with buckets. Without a word, they tipped their burdens and left, the hot water sending a warm, steamy aroma into the room. That’s when Christa hung her garment right beside the other, unwrapped it, and gasped.
It was the seafoam green silk, fashioned into a dress like nothing she’d ever seen. Where the empire waist was in fashion topped with a square neckline and cap sleeves, this design was cut completely different. There was a long crossed bodice, creating a well of draping to frame the bosom. Long sleeves tapered from gathered shoulders to an elbow length, while the skirt had been cut in the bias, looking like a swirl of foam-flecked water rose from the hem.
And everywhere it sparkled with diamante, catching what light the fireplace sent.
“Oh my . . .” Tira breathed it.
“You ever see the like?” Christa asked.
Tira shook her head and approached, mentally inventorying what undergarments she hadn’t already sent, and discarding them, one after the other. Her chemise had too much stitching on it. Guessing at the close fit of this gown, ridges of stitchery would show. Her crinoline would never fit beneath that skirt and would spoil the design of it. It was a losing exercise and she barely kept the disappointment from showing.
“Those ladies will be eating away inside with jealousy over this. You mark my words.”
“I can’t wear it.”
“What? After that man went to the expense and genius of having such a thing crafted? You’ll be ready for him promptly at sunset, or I’ll resign my position.”
“I’ve no undergarments.” Tira blushed. Set aside the instant thought of wearing none, and then she reached the dress, lightly brushing the silk just as she had at the shop.
“Not to fear, miss. He had that seen to as well.”
“He didn’t!”
She should be scandalized as Christa went back to the door. She wasn’t. There wasn’t room for anything other than pleasure. And warmth she insisted came from a steam-imbued room and not from any blush.
“I should wear the tam. Grant?”
“We’ll be indoors, Your Grace. Nae man needs a hat.”
“She wishes this civility you speak of. She even told me so.”
“Tie your hair back. That’ll suffice. Gives a better view of your face as well. She’ll like that.”
“How do you ken?”
Iain glanced over at Rory, who was cracking nutshells with his hand ax, making more than a few of them inedible bits from the hit.
“She’s well aware of your handsome face, my laird. Fain wanted to scratch a few eyes out last night, she did.”
“How do you ken that as well?”
“I saw it.”
“You watched her?”
Iain had Empirical pulled from the scabbard in the same movement he swiveled. Rory stopped in the motion of hitting a nut.
“I never said I watched her. I said I saw her.”
“This is not civil behavior, Iain.”
Grant again. Iain supposed only his second-in-command had the courage. Iain twisted the hilt until the chain design embossed onto it felt melded into his palm. He sheathed his blade and regarded them one at a time before ending at Rory.
“Verra well. You may explain.”
“The lass finds you handsome. Virile. Verra pleasing to the eye.”
“And how can you see all that?”
“ ’Twas obvious to the others about you. And obvious to me.”
“I asked you to explain, na’ quibble.” Iain toyed with the skeans along his belt next, flattening two that had rolled with the quick way he’d moved. He used the time to temper the instant emotion he wasn’t labeling rage but had no other definition that fit.
“The lass canna’ take her eyes from you. The lone time she does is when another woman eyes you. And then you should see the looks your Tira gives them. Fair hot enough to scorch.”
“She does?”
“Help me out here, lads,” Rory said.
“What the whelp says is true.”
“You’ve been watching, too, Sean? You?”
“You’ll na’ take my head for saying it, will you?” the leanest clansman asked, crossing his arms and moving a step closer to where Grant stood.
Iain regarded him for long moments before returning to fussing with his apparel. He was clad in MacAvee chieftain raiment: a feile-breacan, finely woven muslin shirt worn without sleeves, a lace placket buttoned onto the front holding a diamond stud, silver armbands at both wrists, and the same metal glinting off the hilts of his skeans and the sporran at his hip.
“Nae,” he finally replied.
“Good thing. I’ve only watched the lass because I was tasked to it. Her safety. Her protection. Her well-being. As you required.”
Iain nodded.
“Then trust this. She finds you verra pleasing to look upon. ’Tis nae surprise. All women find you thus.”
“They do?”
“ ’Tis a full-time occupation, keeping them from you. According
to my learning, it always was.”
“Truly?”
“Your turn, Lenn.” Sean motioned to the man at Iain’s left.
“Sean is na’ saying anything false, Your Grace.”
“What times, Lenn?”
“Well . . . there was that ship that foundered a decade ago. You remember? ’Twas filled with captives all bound for sale in some eastern port. Probably destined for a potentate’s harem. They were all begging for rescue until spying you.”
“I dinna’ touch a one of them. Much,” Iain countered. He hadn’t, either . . . other than a slight bit of life fluid while they slept.
“You dinna’ have to. All a woman has to do is get a look at you and they’re smitten. I doona’ ken why, either.”
“You dinna’ pay much attention to His Grace in trousers then, Rory.”
“Verra funny.”
“You do recollect our difficulty with getting those lasses back on a ship bound for London?”
“They were a mite forward, weren’t they?” Ulrich spoke up.
“A mite?” Rory inserted. “I have scars from the nail raking one of them gave me as I hauled her off.”
“Perhaps you should speak sweeter words.”
“And what of the French comtesse who arrived, seeking an escape from the guillotine? According to my grandfather, she was still screaming when he drove off with her, tied into the carriage for good measure.”
“So that’s where she went,” Iain mused.
“And you recollect the shipwreck in ’82?”
“Barely,” Iain replied.
“According to the tale, every lass aboard went from weeping survivor to lovelorn wretch. In a matter of days. Just from your appearance.”
“My appearance?” Iain put a hand over his shoulder and grabbed the hilt of Empirical again. Lenn backed a step as it happened.
“My brother misspeaks, my laird. ’Tis actually said how your great-great-grandsire set their hearts aflutter. ’Tis a family trait, this . . . handsomeness. Passed down from son to son, as normal.”
Iain looked from Grant to his twin, released the sword, and felt powerfully sheepish. “Oh.”
Highland Hunger Page 15
