Sins of a Highland Devil

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Catriona went to one of the tall window arches, where cold morning sun was just beginning to stream inside. The light danced on the brilliant colors of the wall murals—all fanciful Celtic beasts and pagan deities—and slanted across the sheep-and-deerskin-covered floor, spreading pools of pale, shimmering gold.

  Keeping her back to the room, she gazed out at the loch and the wispy haze curling across the glassy black water.

  Alasdair was a fool.

  Even if she didn’t use the causeway to reach the shore, a wean could snatch one of the small, two-oared coracles from the castle’s narrow strand and slip silently away before anyone noticed.

  She knew how to row such a cockleshell better than most men.

  She could swim, too.

  More than once, she’d stripped bare and left her clothes on a rock by the shore, then spent afternoons cleaving the loch’s chill waters. Those were hours when she felt as one with the glen’s beauty and all that the land meant to her. Naked and with nothing separating her from the past, she liked to imagine she was swimming through the beginning of time or—a little shiver sped down her spine, remembering—perhaps even the distant future. Wherever she fancied herself, the loch always embraced her, as did the enclosing hills, looking on gently. Or so it would seem until her brother’s outraged shouts ruined her pleasure.

  Those trusted waters would help her now.

  Alasdair couldn’t hold her captive.

  “Put the notion from your head.” He appeared at her elbow, proving as so often that he had the power to peer into her thoughts. “You may walk the strand, dinnae fret. But”—his voice hardened—“you’ll refrain from taking a boat or trying to swim to land.”

  She glanced at him. “And why should I?”

  He held her gaze. “You will because you’re too fond of our kinsmen to be the cause of a single one of them seeking his bed hungry.”

  “What do you mean?” She flushed, already guessing.

  Alasdair rested a hand on the edge of the window arch, his gaze on the loch. “Only that any guard who neglects his duty now knows that his oversight will see him spending time in the dungeon, where he’ll sup on such fare as soured ale and moldy bread crusts.

  “I think you’ll find”—he paused—“that an empty stomach motivates a man even more than the promise of a tumble with a willing laundress.”

  Catriona’s eyes rounded. Her heart sank.

  Alasdair was right. She’d sooner eat dust motes and sip dew off the grass than be responsible for the hardship of a kinsman. The very thought made her stomach knot, taking away all her bluster. She loved her clan—and the glen—more than anything else. Misery was the last thing she’d wish for anyone at Blackshore.

  Maili told you. Catriona couldn’t believe it. She’d bought the girl’s silence with a length of the finest ribbon. She also liked and trusted her.

  “The lass didn’t betray you.” Alasdair answered as if she’d spoken aloud. “She just had the misfortune of entertaining your guard in an antechamber where one of her more ardent admirers chose to spread his pallet. When the man walked in on them, a fight erupted. Their bellowing and crashing about woke the entire stronghold.”

  Catriona was silent.

  Maili was comely and known for being generous with her charms. A tussle such as Alasdair described could easily have happened without Catriona’s interference.

  “I don’t understand.” She frowned. “If Maili didn’t tell you, then how—”

  The truth hit her when she heard the clack of James setting down his ale cup. Three long strides brought him across the room, and then he was looming beside Alasdair, his broad shoulders blocking out the brightly painted solar. He stood before her, pinning her with a look that blurred everything else, making her feel as if they were alone.

  She swallowed. The room suddenly felt overly warm, much hotter than could be credited to the cheery fire, however well-burning.

  James and her brother exchanged a meaningful glance. She didn’t need to see more. Especially when the Cameron turned to her, his raven-black hair gleaming in the fire glow and one brow raised appraisingly. His dark gaze held hers, making her shiver and—she was quite sure—even setting the tops of her ears to heating.

  “It was you.” Her temper came rushing back. “You told Alasdair how I slipped away.”

  He didn’t deny it. “I did naught that he would no’ have done for me or”—his deep voice was steady, certain in the truth of his claim—“any other chief with a sister prone to placing herself in harm’s way.”

  Flames shot up Catriona’s neck, burning her cheeks.

  He hadn’t said errant sister, but the slur crackled between them, blistering the air.

  Alasdair slid a glance at her, his expression showing that he wasn’t on her side. Ignoring him, she squared her shoulders and kept her gaze on James.

  “You dare much, sir.” She used her chilliest tone.

  “I thought we’d already established that, my lady?” His words held the faintest trace of amusement. “If you require further proof…” He let the words tail off and glanced at Alasdair, who was making a business of smoothing the folds of his plaid.

  “Perhaps”—James regarded her levelly—“you’ll be less grieved to know that I would have escorted any female out of that wood. My intent was to see you safely returned to your brother’s care. No more or no less, I assure you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “I see.” Catriona brushed at her skirts.

  His declaration, surely meant to placate, only vexed her more.

  She drew herself up, preparing to say something particularly peppered. It would cut him down a notch to see that he couldn’t get the better of her. But then she realized why his words annoyed her so much, and her heart slammed to a halt in her breast.

  He didn’t remember the last time he’d caught her on Cameron land.

  She’d never forgotten.

  How she wished she could. Instead, she ignored the fury that always came with the memory. She also damned his dark good looks. Years ago when their paths had first crossed, he’d been a brawny lad, brash and swaggering. Now, as a man, every inch of him offended her. His height and the wide set of his shoulders were an insult.

  His words made her blood boil.

  “I am pleased, sir, that you champion every hapless female who oh-so regrettably sets foot in your wood. Why”—she met his eye, hoping to make him uncomfortable—“you are all chivalry and honor.”

  Far from looking affronted, his dark eyes crinkled at the corners. “You humble me, my lady.”

  “I doubt that’s possible!” Catriona felt as if her entire body were on fire. She couldn’t believe it, but he was actually smiling at her.

  Her brother looked livid. “Cat—”

  Snatching up her skirts, she swept from the room before he could scold her. Half certain that Alasdair and James would pursue her, she ran along the darkened corridor and raced down the tower stair, taking the tight, winding steps as quickly as she dared. She dashed through the hall, her chin raised against the stares of her kinsmen. Indignation gave her the strength to yank open the heavy hall door as if it weighed nothing. Outside, she flew across the bailey, not stopping until she’d darted past the seaward gate and stood, breathless, on the sliver of shingled strand beneath Blackshore’s walls.

  She flashed a glance at the top of those walls, not surprised to see her brother’s most trusted guardsmen already crowding the battlements. They loomed there like a row of carrion crows, ready to swoop down on her if she so much as sneezed.

  Her anger swelled again and she returned their stares, brows arched.

  In truth, she couldn’t fault them.

  They were only following her brother’s orders.

  So she went to stand at the water’s edge. She could still sense the guardsmen’s eyes boring into her, but she did her best to blot them from her mind. She needed to watch where she stepped as frost glittered on the st
ones, making them slippery. The morning was cold, and a sharp wind blew along the loch. She lifted a hand to touch her amber necklace, nestled as always against her skin.

  Too bad the ambers offered no solace.

  Legend told that the necklace warned of imminent peril.

  She stilled her fingers on the stones, waiting for them to warm or quicken. If James Cameron wasn’t a danger, she was a barking trout.

  But nothing happened.

  The ambers remained cool beneath her touch, the polished rounds still as glass. Even so, she didn’t doubt that the ambers lived. Their romantic past made it impossible not to trust in their magic.

  If the tales were true, the gemstones came from a treasure presented to the clan when a long-ago chieftain returned a land-trapped selkie ancestress to the sea. Manannan Mac Lir, god of sea and wind, was said to have ridden his great steed, Embarr of the Flowing Mane, to Blackshore’s gate, allowing no other to deliver the gift.

  Some claimed the gemstones were part of a stash of Viking plunder. Prized ambers stolen from distant Jutland in the north, where the golden stones were said to litter the coast. Those clansmen who supported this tale swore that Norse raiders buried the amber on MacDonald shores, where, in the fullness of time, a lucky forebear stumbled across the hoard while gathering winkles at low tide.

  Catriona preferred the Manannan legend.

  Whatever she believed, the stones weren’t speaking to her now. Frowning, she let the beads run through her fingers, but their glide across her wrist reminded her of James’s hands on her and how her entire body had tingled with startling female awareness.

  That same prickling, steal-her-breath sensation had seized her years ago, the first time he’d grabbed her so rudely. Even if he’d forgotten, the memory was forever branded on her mind. She’d only wanted to sneak a glimpse at Grizel and Gorm, the half-mythic ancients everyone knew dwelled on the high moors above the Cameron stronghold. The pair were said to have a magical white stag, Laoigh Feigh Ban, that they called Rannoch. She’d hoped to see the creature. But James had intercepted her, thwarting her chances.

  Then, as this morn, she’d been sure he’d meant to kiss her. And each time, she’d almost wished he would. There was something wickedly exciting about his devilish handsomeness and those dark, flashing eyes. Yet in the wood earlier—and during their tangle years before—he’d only held her fast and pinned her with a mocking glare.

  Most galling, she was sure he’d also laughed at her.

  She hadn’t missed how his lips had twitched in Alasdair’s solar when she’d fixed him with her own stare, declaring he was full of chivalry and honor.

  He’d howled with laughter the other time, up on the high moorland.

  But it wasn’t the memory of his youthful mirth that stayed with her, haunting her all these years. It was—and she hated him for this—how his dashing looks and boldness made every other lad who’d paid court to her seem pale and lifeless beside him.

  That long-ago day, she’d let her eyes blaze at him, determined to prove her own bravery and daring.

  The years fell away, and she recalled their meeting. It might have been long ago, but it felt like yesterday. Confronted by a young James Cameron, she’d flipped back her hair, her gaze one of challenge.

  He only cocked a brow, unimpressed.

  “Fire in your eye will serve you naught in these parts, lassie.” His strong grip on her arms felt dangerous, making her believe him. “This is Cameron land, and you”—his dark gaze flicked over her, then locked with her own—“as a MacDonald are no’ welcome here.”

  “I know that.” She met his stare, hotly. “It’s not you that I came to see. I wanted—”

  “You wished to see the Makers of Dreams, I know.” He was already shepherding her down through the heather, away from the high moors where she’d been heading. “I have ears, see you? I heard well what you told me. But I’m here to tell you, it was a mistake to come here.

  “Grizel and Gorm speak only with Camerons.” He flashed a grin at her. It was full of malice. “They stay hidden to everyone else. But if you did find them, be warned that they turn anyone in our disfavor into toads. All it takes is a word cast to the wind and your fate would be sealed. You could then spend eternity in Cameron territory, hopping about on four slimy, wart-covered legs.”

  “Pah! I do not believe a word.” Catriona tried to jerk free, but her efforts only made him grip her arm more tightly. “You’re just trying to scare me.”

  He stopped, swinging her around to face him. “Aye, well. If you’re no’ bothered about being spelled into a toad, perhaps you’ll think deeper on what might happen if one of the dreagans gets you?” His gaze slid meaningfully to the bottom of the hill where thick mist filled the heart of the glen. It was there, she knew, where strange rock formations were said to be sleeping dragons.

  She followed his gaze but clamped her lips, not deigning him an answer.

  But his mention of the dreagans did send shivers along her nerves. More than a few of the MacDonald elders claimed the beasts were real.

  James gave her a very direct look, his face bitter earnest. “I cannae say for sure, but I’ve heard thon dreagans relish fiery-haired maids. Belike someone also said they’re especially fond of MacDonalds.

  “Word is”—he leaned close, so near that his warm breath brushed her cheek—“they eat a body whole, cracking the bones with glee and lapping up the blood for sauce.”

  “Fie on you for telling such lies. Why, you’re…” She glared at him, temper taking her breath.

  “I’m much worse than a dreagan.” He sounded proud of his claim. “You’ll have to take your chances with the fire-breathing beasties. But if e’er I catch you on Cameron ground again, you’ll wish yourself in their clutches and no’ in mine, that I say you!”

  “Oh?” She felt herself flushing. “What would you do, other than spout tall tales?”

  “I’m thinking I’d best no’ tell you.” He released her then and tossed his plaid over shoulders that already hinted at how broad they’d be in manhood.

  “And I’m thinking I don’t care to know.” Catriona brushed at her skirts, vigorously.

  “Then be off with you, Catriona MacDonald, before I do tell you.” He stepped close again and gave her a look that squeezed her chest tighter than his hands had gripped her arms. It was a hot, entirely unpleasant sensation that made it hard to breathe and filled her with such a floodtide of fizzy prickles that her knees wobbled.

  “Better yet, perhaps I should show you…” He reached for her then, his dark eyes glinting, but she whirled and ran from him.

  She tore through the glen on winged feet, not risking a backward glance until Blackshore’s walls rose before her. Only then did she stop hearing the echo of his laughter in her ears. It was as she’d leaned, panting, against the curtain wall, that she’d realized why she’d run so hard.

  It hadn’t been because of his foolish talk of Old Ones who would transform her into a toad or even his warning about the dreagans and their appetite for MacDonalds.

  It was the wave of giddiness that swept her when he’d stepped so close and threatened to kiss her.

  That was what he’d meant.

  She’d known it with a certainty beyond her years.

  Just as she’d known she’d thrill to his embrace. He’d stirred irresistible desires and longings in her, initiating her in a woman’s passion. And considering he was who he was, that was a terrible thing.

  For the sad truth was, she’d run from her family’s wrath, not James Cameron’s kisses.

  She’d wanted those.

  But she didn’t want them now.

  Far from it, she blinked away the memory.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t stop her pulse from racing with annoyance as she stared across the loch. Morning sun struggled through the clouds, making the water dance and shimmer. Her necklace also shimmied. Or rather, she fancied she’d felt a slight trembling deep inside the stones. She frowned and reached
up to clasp them between her fingers, running her thumb across each stone.

  They weren’t humming.

  But she did hear the crunch of footsteps on stone. The sound came from behind her, near the seaward gate. Her breath caught, and she knew even as she turned around that James would be there.

  And he was.

  He’d taken a few steps onto the strand and stood in all his vaunting glory, the wind tugging at his plaid and riffling his hair. He was looking right at her, an unmistakable glint of amusement in his dark gaze. Something else was there, too. An indefinable something that made her feel slightly faint, even breathless. Not wanting him to guess, she narrowed her eyes, giving him her own coldest stare. In response, he flashed just the kind of smile that reminded her why he was so powerfully attractive. He made no attempt to come closer, but that didn’t matter.

  He could be on the moon and she’d still feel as if he were right before her, banishing the world around them and making her heart hammer wildly.

  She resented how his tall, broad-shouldered presence seemed to claim the little boat strand, almost as if he owned the very air around them. He did cause a flurry of shivers to ripple through her, and she straightened her back, hoping he couldn’t tell.

  “Lady Catriona.” His smile deepened, turning devilish.

  “You…” She took several steps closer to him, then stopped when she realized she’d moved. “You shouldn’t be here with me—” She started to tell him to leave but broke off when he raised a hand.

  “I am no’ with you, regrettably.” His meaning brought a flush to her face. “If I were”—he gave her a look that made her feel naked—“rest assured you’d no’ be spluttering like an angry hen. You’d be purring in sweet female contentment. As things are—”