There was already a stir in the hall.
Grumbles, mutterings, and dark looks the likes of which she hadn’t seen since her own day. And as those troubles had led to such disaster—her own sad demise—much depended on how James handled the brewing dissent.
That he’d fetched the Banner of the Wind said he meant action.
He was prepared.
But—she cast a glance into the crowded, smoke-hazed hall—certain unexpected matters would still surprise him.
Unfortunately, one problem wouldn’t catch him unawares. Sir Walter must have ears as sharp as Scandia’s own, because he stalked from the shadows the moment James and his entourage burst into view.
“Cameron! I greet you!” He planted himself in front of James, clearly bent on causing havoc. “We’ve wondered when you’d leave your bed. Indeed”—he surveyed James from cold, dark eyes—“I was almost of a mind to send someone to tell you there is no need to join us.”
He flicked a speck of lint off his sleeve. “If the snarling of your men is any indication, they’d rather toss your King and his Lowland rabble into a bog before they’ll take to the field in a fair trial by combat.
“And if they stoop to such villainy”—he met James’s gaze again, his own triumphant—“the lot of you will be packed off to the Isle of Lewis before—”
“Say you, Sir Walter. I say you err.” James spoke so resolutely, and his eyes glinted so dangerously, that Scandia shimmied almost uncontrollably.
She drifted closer to the two men, careful to keep one hand pressed to her breast to still the rapid beating of her heart. She’d taken measures to stay unseen, but there was always a risk someone might note a flurry in the air if she failed to contain her glee.
The dog, Hector, was already eyeing her curiously.
It wouldn’t do if the others noticed he’d seen something unusual and became distracted.
The young laird, especially, would need all his wits presently.
So Scandia took a deep breath and stood patiently, hovering as unobtrusively as she could. She also bit her lip, some of her elation dimming because this was—or once had been—her beloved home. It grieved her to float through its walls as something unusual.
But there could be no changing what she was, so she let her own Cameron pride sweep her and turned her attention back to young James.
“Truth to tell…” James now stood toe to toe with the Lowlander. “You mistake on two counts. One, Cameron men ne’er take to their beds lest they have a warm and comely reason for doing so.”
“That’s the way of it, by God!” Colin swaggered up to them, his tone daring Sir Walter to argue. “Though I’ll add we like those reasons well made and”—he sketched a shapely form in the air—“eager to please.”
The nobleman glowered at him, his mouth thinning. His narrow, hawkish face soured as if he’d smelled something unpleasant.
It was all Scandia could do not to giggle. But, she remembered with sorrow, it’d been so long since she’d laughed. She wasn’t sure she still knew how.
She did allow herself a quick twirl.
It did her heart good to see two braw Cameron warriors at their magnificent best. With their colorful plaids slung boldly over their shoulders, swords at their hips, and fire in their eyes they were simply glorious.
Indignation suited them.
Sir Walter’s pinch-faced umbrage only made him look like an irate vole. “A man’s prowess in bed says nothing of his valor in the field.” His sneer darkened the air, spoiling Scandia’s brief pleasure. Hector’s hackles rose as the dog took a step toward him, growling.
“There will be no room for beasts on board the King’s galleys.” Sir Walter spoke with relish, his voice ringing. “They shall be dealt with before you leave, each mangy cur banished like so much windblown smoke. The whelps, too, make no mistake.”
Hector showed yellow teeth, his snarls low in his throat now.
Sir Walter raised a hand, snapping his fingers. “So quickly, and they’re gone.”
James put back his shoulders, his eyes narrowing. “Have a care when you speak of our animals, Lindsay. Their lives are more dear to us than”—he paused, letting his gaze rake the Lowlander—“some who go on two feet.”
He cocked a meaningful brow then, all cordiality.
“No’ that you need trouble yourself.” His tone said the opposite. “Though…” He shifted the bundle of silk in his arms. “Perhaps you should hear our war cry. It is Chlanna nan con thigibh a so’s gheibh sibh feoil and means, ‘Sons of the hounds, come here and get flesh.’ ”
“That’s heathen babble.” Sir Walter didn’t bother to hide his scorn.
“Nae, good sir.” James’s voice hardened. “It is a warning to all who vex us that we feed the flesh of our enemies to our dogs.”
Scandia almost spun in a circle at his daring. She did shimmer brightly, ripples of pleasure tingling clear down to her toes.
Sir Walter clamped his jaw. His face took on a purplish hue.
Lady Isobel, who reminded Scandia so much of herself, turned quickly aside, touching her fingers to her lips to smother a smile.
“Further”—James placed a hand on Hector’s gray-tufted head when the dog came to lean against his legs—“the only souls, man or beast, that you’ll see leaving here will be your own. After we of this glen do what we must to meet our sovereign’s wishes. Highlandmen are aye loyal. We are so to our King and to our land.
“Be assured I speak as well for Alasdair MacDonald and Kendrew Mackintosh.” He sounded so certain, his words making Scandia glide nearer. “They, too, would sooner draw their last breath, dying here of a sword-drink, than face a life beyond these hills.”
Scandia shivered, for she knew he spoke true.
“And that, Sir Walter”—he paused, his dark eyes glittering fiercely in the dimness—“is what you and those like you e’er forget. To a Highlander, there is no life away from our home glen. There is only nothingness and sorrow that would kill us more surely and in a much more painful way than any bite of steel.”
“Then you’re all heroic fools.” Sir Walter was vehement. He slid a glance over his shoulder at the noisy hall. The trestle benches were crowded, the aisles thronged with milling clansmen and scrounging dogs. Everywhere heads swiveled and turned as men stared, many arguing. Some pounded the tables with balled fists, while others simply ate or quaffed their ale, grim-faced.
One sat apart at the high table, his expression even more stony than the others’.
And with good reason.
Scandia bit her lip, waiting.
Sir Walter turned back to James, looking annoyed. His ire set another whirl of icy air whipping around the great arched entry. And although no one else noticed, the frigid gust caught Scandia’s wispy form, casting her into the deeper shadows. When the wind settled, she shook out her filmy skirts and brushed at her sleeves. She also combed her fingers through her hair, trying to tidy the mussed strands.
Not that anyone could see her, but still…
Her composure regained, she turned again to James and his foe. Sir Walter had retreated and now stood on the far side of the entry, near to the hall. He’d curled his hands around his gem-encrusted sword belt and had swelled his chest to an unlikely degree. Looking much like a puffed-up peacock, he fixed James with an arrogant stare.
James glared back at him, his grip on the Banner of the Wind, white-knuckled.
“You’re all tartan-draped madmen.” Sir Walter spoke down his nose, the words edged with disdain. “Heathery hills, glens, and sword-drinks! Even the MacDonald speaks the same fiery nonsense. Though how the man”—he threw another significant look at the chaos behind him—“can sit at your table, eating your meat and drinking your wine, when the two of you—”
“Alasdair?” James stared at him, his brows arching. “He is here?”
“Him, and no other.” Sir Walter stepped aside with a flourish, giving James an unobstructed view of the torchlit hall. “Or is the f
lame-haired man at your high table an imposter?”
James scanned the hall, his eyes widening when he spotted the other chieftain. “It is him, by God! And he’ll have no good reason for being here.”
But even as he said the words, his gaze snapped away from Alasdair.
His entire focus belonged to the flame-haired woman sitting next to the rival chieftain. She inclined her head ever so slightly, a faint smile touching her lips. Something flickered in her eyes, almost a challenge. When her gaze met and held James’s, Scandia was sure tiny sparks ignited between them. Even across the vastness of the hall.
She felt them like tiny pinpricks of fire in the soft haze that always surrounded her.
The maid took James’s breath.
Scandia had never seen him make such moony eyes at any female.
Which, given the maid’s vibrant beauty, was more than understandable. Scandia eyed the girl critically, noting her charms. Torchlight fell across her face, calling attention to her creamy, flawless skin and burnishing her red-gold braids. Thick and glossy, the plaits fell to her hips. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires. And although she’d draped a tartan shawl around her shoulders, its folds only emphasized the fine swell of her breasts.
She was undoubtedly a lady, but one who knew her worth and was aware of how easily she could tempt a man with her high good looks and provocative glances.
In life—her real, earthly one—Scandia would have prickled with envy.
Poor James didn’t stand a chance.
Scandia fluttered nearer to him, concerned. Her sharp ghostly senses picked up the rush of his blood, the loud thundering of his heart.
Her own began to beat wildly, the excitement almost too much for her.
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 Eight
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’s heart drummed against his ribs—“you do me honor.”
She’d bring him 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 might 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 pastries 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’s 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 small 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 h
is 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 clattered up then, slinking past James 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.
Sins of a Highland Devil Page 11
