Sins of a Highland Devil

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  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’s legs until he felt as if a thousand tiny, sharp-headed needles were pricking his skin. The discomfort chased away 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 shared their true purpose only 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’s goings-on almost as much as some of James’s 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’s 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 Bane 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 fas
ter, 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 on a 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.

  He blinked, but she didn’t go away.

  He wasn’t dreaming now.

  The brazen minx was real, and he’d know her anywhere, even through the mist. No other female would stride so boldly through the chill darkness of the wood. True to her nature, she had a fierce glint in her eye and held her chin tilted with a dash of defiance. Her hair might have been neatly braided when she’d left her own castle walls, but somewhere along the way, the shining tresses had spilled free and now tumbled in wild abandon about her face.

  She was magnificent.

  And she was definitely Catriona MacDonald.

  No doubt making her way to the viewing platforms to blast the Lowlanders with her wicked-eyed stare. She did so every morning, though James was sure he’d never spotted her about quite this early.

  That she was here now—at a time when an unknown, dark-cloaked man had been in the wood—proved a damnable complication.

  MacDonald or no, she was a woman.

  James frowned, his fury rising when he couldn’t help but admire the pert sway of her hips as she marched through the trees.

  “Damnation.” He shoved a hand through his hair, glaring at her retreating back.

  She was moving fast.

  And he had no choice but to step in and keep her from possible harm.

  He started forward before annoyance could override his damnable honor. He had better things to do with his morning than chase after the one female who rode his nerves like a bee beneath his collar. But if she fell to peril and he hadn’t stepped in, he’d feel worse. So he quickened his step, not caring if he startled her.

  The closer he came to her, the more the air felt oddly charged. He could almost hear the mist crackling around him. For two pins, he’d swear he wasn’t cutting through the cold morning, but that he’d plunged into a sea of invisible fire. Each swirl of mist sizzled against his skin, almost searing him. His blood heated, roaring through his veins and pounding in his ears.

  And still the vixen hurried on, her raised skirts nearly drawn to her knees. Now he not only had a splendid view of her trim ankles, but also her finely formed calves. When she hopped over a log, lifting those skirts even higher, he saw a great deal more. Enough to darken his mood and send him sprinting forward before she could come across another impediment and taunt him again.

  He’d already seen more than was wise of those long, sleek legs.

  So he closed the last few paces between them and reached to grab her shoulder. “Catriona Mac—”

  “Don’t think to touch me!” She whirled around with a wild toss of hair and skirt, snarling like a she-wolf. He’d never seen a woman move so quickly. The bright flash of steel sheathed at her inner thigh stunned him, as did her quickness to retrieve it. Before he could jump back, she lunged at him, her eyes burning hotly.

  Precise as any man, she sliced his outstretched hand. Scalding heat and pain and oozing blood filled his palm. Her blade held high, she danced nimbly just beyond his reach, her furious gaze pinned on him. “Come a step closer and I’ll cut you where it hurts most.”

  She shot a glance at the place she meant. “Doubt me at your own peril.”

  “Dinnae flatter yourself.” Angered beyond measure, James outmaneuvered her. Catching her wrist, he squeezed hard so the dirk slipped from her fingers. “I’d sooner roll naked in stinging nettles than lay a hand on you.”

  “You already are.” She jerked her arm, trying to break free.

  “So I am.” He let her struggle. “But you needn’t fear for your virtue. Prickly lasses such as you are no’ to my liking.”

  “That’s as well.” She couldn’t have sounded more contemptuous. “Swell-headed, vaunting scoundrels aren’t to mine.”

  She continued to fight him, and he countered the jab of her elbows, the kick of her feet. He lost all patience when her knee slammed his thigh. Hauling her roughly against his chest, he scowled at her, taking some small satisfaction in seeing his blood trickling down her arm, staining her skin with her fool deed.

  She followed his gaze, her brows snapping together when she saw the blood. “I shall scour myself every night for a fortnight to remove your taint.”

  James felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. “To think I thought to save you from folly. Now”—he released her, stepping back to wipe his bloodied palm on his plaid—“I wish I’d let you to your own sorry fate.”

  “What happens to me is none of your concern.” She brushed at her skirts, righting them with quick, jerky motions. “You—a Cameron.”

  “Aye.” James inclined his head, proudly. “I am the Cameron. And you, lass, needn’t straighten your clothes. The time for modesty has passed. Why conceal what I’ve already seen?”

  “Oh!” She glared at him, furious color flashing across her face. “How dare you—”

  “I dare much.” James placed a deliberate foot on her fallen dagger. “Truth be told, there are many who would say we are now bound, whatever. You’ve drawn first blood, my lady. Or”—he lifted his hand, casually examining the deep red cut across his palm—“were you no’ aware of the consequences of such a brazen act?

  “Have you ne’er heard that oaths are sworn on blood?” He met her eyes again, challenging. “Sacred vows so irreversible that doom awaits those who break them?”

  “Pah!” She flushed brighter, almost trembling in her anger. “You must think I’m witless. Thon cut has naught to do with such pacts. Nothing binds us except years of feuding and the scorn every MacDonald has for Camerons. Though”—she raised her chin, defiant—“I’ll own that if I’d known it was you, I would not have drawn my lady’s dirk.”

  “Indeed?” James lifted a brow. “I’m honored.”

  “You shouldn’t be.” She put back her shoulders, ever proud. “
I wouldn’t have sullied good MacDonald steel with the taint of Cameron blood.”

  “And if it’d been your blood spilled?” James could hardly speak for fury. He bent to snatch up her dagger, thrusting it beneath his belt. “What then, eh? Did you not think that someone else might have shown less mercy to a knife-wielding she-cat?”

  “Mercy?” She fisted her hands on her hips, a hot-eyed Valkyrie in the swirling gray mist. “I neither ask for nor need your mercy. As you saw”—her gaze flicked to his hand—“I can look after myself.”

  “And pigs roost in trees.” James stepped closer, towering over her. He pinned her with his fiercest stare, taking full advantage of his formidable height and size. “You have me, and me alone, to thank that naught worse than hurt pride has befallen you.”

  She gave him a haughty look. “You are the one bearing a wound.”

  James set his mouth in a thin, hard line. She was beyond exasperating. Did he not want to risk having to notice—again—how sweet her lush curves felt against him, he’d pull her into his arms and kiss her until she couldn’t deny the precarious situation she’d put herself in by marching alone through a dark and danger-filled wood.

  He did curl his hands around his sword belt and glower at her.

  That, he could do.

  “The cut on my hand is a wee scratch.” He leaned toward her, so close he caught the gillyflower scent of her wildly tumbling hair. “What could have happened to you would have been a much more grievous injury.”

  She gave a little shrug, defiant still. “I walk these hills each morn.”

  “The new day has no’ yet broken.” James felt an annoying surge of responsibility for her. She was, after all, on Cameron land. Vulnerable and defenseless, despite her ridiculous and headstrong airs.

  He glanced at the sky, so dark and with the moon only now beginning to dip beneath the tops of the inky-black pines. The air was brittle and cold, and the chill mist swirled everywhere, drifting through the trees and curling along the frost-hardened ground.

  Catriona didn’t seem to notice.

  James frowned.