Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  A woman with something to hide.

  He hurried past the cell to the next right turn, stopping at the sudden dead end. Squatting, Marcus lowered the sconce and slowly edged the light forward in order to examine the stone floor and discerned a single set of boot prints beneath the thin layer of dust. His heart pounded against his chest. He jerked the sconce up, searching the wall for the hairline crack recognizable only to one who knew it existed. He found the seam and depressed the spot. The panel sprang open with a squeal.

  Marcus rose and stepped inside the passageway. Sconce low, he proceeded slowly, inspecting the packed dirt floor until he reached the end of the passageway. He faced left where lay the concealed door which opened to the outside and pushed against the door. The stone slid noiselessly open and he stepped into the night.

  Ten minutes later, Marcus entered the kitchen again. "Elise is not to be found." He stopped before Winnie.

  "Surely ye aren't worried," she said, but Marcus had caught the flicker of surprise in her expression.

  "Who took the meal to them?"

  "Bartholomew."

  He started for the door.

  "By now he's on duty at the wall," she called as he disappeared into the darkness.

  Moments later, Marcus mounted the battlement stairs and found Bartholomew standing guard on the west corner of the wall. The guard straightened at his approach.

  "You delivered the food to the women in Winnie's cottage?" Marcus demanded.

  "Aye, laird."

  "Were the women in the cottage when you arrived?"

  Bartholomew shook his head.

  Marcus narrowed his eyes. "And you thought nothing of it?"

  He swallowed. "I didn't know I should."

  Marcus hesitated, then turned and hurried along the battlements and down the stairs. He returned to Winnie's cottage but found nothing changed.

  This time, when he entered the kitchen, Winnie halted the task of pulling scones from their baking pan and watched his approach.

  He stopped beside the table. "They weren't in the cottage when Bartholomew delivered the meal."

  Her gaze moved past him.

  "What's wrong?" came Elise's voice at his back.

  He pivoted to face her. Nell stood alongside her. "Where the blazes have you been?"

  Elise's brow snapped into a frown.

  "Well?"

  "We were on the hill, near the storehouse," she replied.

  Marcus looked at Nell.

  "Aye, laird, we—" she looked at Elise.

  "What is it?" he demanded.

  "We were star gazing," Elise said in a reprimand.

  He glanced at her, then looked back at Nell. "You two have been together all evening?"

  "Aye," she said, obviously confused.

  "By God," he muttered, and advanced toward them. Elise blinked and Nell retreated a pace, but he continued forward. When within reach of them, he grabbed Elise's wrist and started toward the great hall. Several men stared from the doorway.

  "Be about your business," he ordered.

  The men scattered in a hurried scuffle as he pulled Elise through the doorway and into the noisy hall. The din quieted slightly, men parting as he strode to the stairway.

  "Marcus, what—"

  "Hush," he commanded without looking back at her.

  She didn't balk until they reached the door to her bedchamber. There, she yanked her hand free of his grasp.

  He whirled on her. "Where were you?"

  "I told you."

  "I searched all of Brahan Seer."

  "Clearly not all, or you would have found us. Ridiculous," she added in a mutter. "You act as if we need worry while inside the keep."

  "Worry?" he repeated. "The Campbells meant harm, Elise. Did you think I would let them touch you?"

  Her brow furrowed. He discerned the quick lift and fall of her breasts, the surprise—uncertainty perhaps? His body tightened. He realized the desire to take her with quick and hard actions.

  "No," she replied.

  He jarred from the erotic picture of her against the wall, him pressed between her legs. "Seeing you"—she faltered—"seeing them…" She shook her head, ending with a quiet, "It was strange."

  "The Highlands are far more violent than Boston," he shot back.

  She hesitated and his blood chilled when he realized it wasn't the violence of the Highlands that had startled her, but the violence in him. He felt anew the cut of his sword through Campbell flesh. He tensed, this time in fury.

  "God damn bastards," he whispered, "they knew exactly what they were doing."

  "What do you mean?"

  He watched her carefully. "They knew when to attack—were aware of our weakness."

  "Weakness?"

  "Their attack coincided with the change of guard."

  A tiny pause, then she said, "But that would mean—" She gasped. "That's not possible."

  "Aye, 'tis not only possible, but true."

  She shook her head vehemently. "I don't believe it."

  The swirl of her hair, the tight-lipped determination, cut Marcus to the quick and he suddenly wished for nothing more than to hold her, to feel her heart beat against his chest as she slept in his arms. She fastened her gaze on him and he registered the lines of strain around her eyes.

  "To bed," he said, and opened her bedchamber door. "And don't leave your room again this night."

  She started to protest, but he shoved her inside and closed the door behind her. Marcus still gripped the handle. God damn it, he'd allowed his father's suspicions to poison his thoughts. Elise had been with Nell all evening. She wasn't the traitor… unless she had made those boot prints in the dungeon some time before tonight.

  * * * *

  The following afternoon, Marcus entered his library to find Elise sitting in the chair before a low burning fire, looking just as he prayed he'd find her the night before. She jumped, the book she was clearly not reading sliding from her lap to the carpet.

  He closed the door behind him. "You are the most unpredictable creature."

  She bent to retrieve the book. "What have I done now?" She placed the book beside her on the chair.

  Marcus walked to her and squatted beside the chair. He ran a finger down her arm. "Nothing, love. I'm preparing to leave for London and my mind is elsewhere." He smiled slightly. "It is my own shortcomings that plague me today. Not you."

  Elise frowned. "Your shortcomings?"

  He rose and strode to the sideboard "Never mind." He poured a drink. "It doesn't concern you."

  A pause followed, then she said, "I think it does."

  At her clipped tone, he looked over his shoulder. Her lips were pursed. Despite his mood, he smiled ruefully.

  "I am no fool, Marcus MacGregor," she said.

  He raised a brow.

  "What shortcomings?" she demanded.

  Marcus remained silent.

  She shrugged. "I can easily find out."

  He turned, leaving his drink untouched, and leaned against the sideboard. "How do you propose to do that?"

  Elise slid him a sidelong glance. "Milord, do you think you are the only one with powers of persuasion?"

  The sensual lift of her mouth startled him. He couldn't believe it. Was the little minx threatening to use her charms against him? A thrill reverberated deep within him. Lounging against the chair, she tipped her head back. His excitement grew as, closing her eyes, she reached back to tousle her hair. The locks cascaded in silken layers about her shoulders. Her fingers slid from her hair and along her throat. His body tightened when her fingertips skimmed the valley between her breasts. Her palms flattened across her belly, smoothing her dress, and finally came to rest in her lap. She toyed with him—but he wanted her. He commanded his gaze to break from the sultry picture, but his mind refused to comply.

  Elise patted the tiny space on the seat beside her. "Come sit with me, milord."

  Her use of "milord" tantalized him, despite the knowledge she used the title only when
angry or mocking him. "Nay, lass. I think not."

  "Afraid?" She gave a low laugh.

  Confound the woman! She hadn't even bothered to open her eyes when addressing him.

  "Not afraid, love," he replied. "Cautious."

  "Ah, I see."

  Aye, he was sure she did.

  She stretched her legs in one fluid motion. She opened her eyes and, leaning forward, shook out her skirt, a flash of white chemise showing before the fabric settled about her. She rose and glided over to him.

  "If you're not in the mood," she tugged the collar on his shirt, "we can discuss this later."

  She smoothed his shirt with the same maddening slowness she had used when straightening her dress. When her fingers tucked his shirt into the waistband of his kilt, he yanked her to him.

  "You're playing with fire," he said.

  She gazed up at him. "Am I?"

  He bent to kiss her, but she dodged his mouth. He lifted a questioning brow and she met his gaze.

  "You won't sit with me yet have no qualms about accosting me? Are you not tired?' she asked abruptly.

  "Nay."

  "Good. Then we shall talk."

  Extricating herself from his hold, she wrapped a hand around his forearm and led him to the couch. Elise directed him down onto a cushion, then knelt on the cushion beside him.

  "You are much too tense." She turned his back toward her.

  With great care, she massaged the hard muscle of his shoulder. Marcus felt himself relax. He closed his eyes, contemplating ways to entice her hands lower. He became aware of her breath on his neck. He throbbed, anticipating her quick intake of breath when her gaze fell upon the noticeable lift of his kilt. She shifted and her breath came hot in his ear. Marcus shuddered as her lips brushed his ear.

  "It wasn't your fault, you know."

  His eyes flashed open and he twisted to face her. "I will not discuss this with you."

  She shrugged, then nearly bounced into a sitting position beside him. "That doesn't change the fact I'm right."

  "You know nothing of it," he snapped.

  "I know enough."

  Marcus faced her. Words poured from his mouth even as he blushed at defending his actions to a woman—especially this woman. "It is my responsibility to see that no harm comes to any here. I nearly failed."

  "But you didn't."

  The flat response brought him up short.

  She shook her head as if speaking to a child. "You found a flaw in your defenses. Do you think it's the only one?"

  Fear rushed through him. He hadn't considered there could be a single flaw, much less two, three or…

  Elise took his hand in hers. "You aren't God. Close, perhaps," she gave a faint smile, "but still human. I understand how difficult this is, but you must accept the fact that, like most mortals, you are flawed." She paused. "Those attackers will never harm another person, and you learned a valuable lesson. Most would count themselves fortunate. Don't look so sullen. I am sure you will find a way to assuage your anger."

  Marcus blinked, then grasped her shoulders and tugged her across his thighs. He pressed his lips to her ear and murmured, "What am I to do with you?"

  Elise lifted a brow, saying, "Certainly not what you think," and gingerly shifted in his lap.

  * * * *

  Marcus looked past his father and the other people crowding the courtyard until his gaze fixed upon Elise. She stood with a group of women, rifling through a basket of provisions they were distributing to the men who were to accompany him to London.

  Cameron clasped his shoulder. "All will be well." He glanced meaningfully at Elise, his hand dropping back to his side.

  Marcus focused on his father. "She isn't to leave Brahan Seer while I am away."

  "Aye."

  "If Loudoun doesn't agree to intervene with his clansmen, I will seek an audience with King George."

  Cameron nodded. "The earl willna' relish the possibility of losing his property to one of our attacks. Castle Kalchurn is his pride and joy."

  "I plan on using that fact," Marcus replied. He nodded toward Elise. "I had better say my good-byes."

  Marcus strode to Elise. The warrior she handed a small cloth package to grasped it and murmured thanks before joining his nearby comrades. She turned, taking a surprised step back when she nearly collided with Marcus.

  "You will honor your promise?" he asked.

  "I won't leave Brahan Seer."

  She couldn't leave. He had seen to that. The passageway had been boarded shut and the guards had orders not to let her pass. Marcus drew her to him. His heart pounded with every halting step closer she allowed until he could wrap his arm around her. Marcus cupped her neck in his free hand. Her gaze flitted to the side, but he cared nothing for the crowd. He kissed her. The familiar hunger lashed out. Had she any understanding of his need for her? She had called it lust. By God, he did lust after her.

  Marcus took a long draught of her. When he returned, he would have set in motion what he should have done a month ago: discover her identity. He released her and motioned to the man who stood near the gate holding his horse's reins. The man pushed through the crowd and stopped beside him, reins extended. Marcus mounted, then paused, locking gazes with Elise.

  "Elise."

  She waited.

  "I will return."

  It seemed she didn't breathe.

  "Be ready when I do."

  * * * *

  Three days away from Brahan Seer—from Elise—had taken a toll. Marcus looked up from the letter he was reading to the grandfather clock in the far corner of the study in his London home. He curbed a growing irritation. He'd been forced to follow the Earl of Loudoun to London, and now that Marcus awaited his arrival, the fool had the temerity to be late. Marcus finished the drink sitting before him, then returned his attention to the note sent to him by Margaret's father, Lord Ross.

  Marcus, the note began, I was unexpectedly called to London and have just learned of your arrival two days ago. He gave a low laugh. "You hate London nearly as much as I do. What story did Margaret concoct to coerce you into accompanying her?" Marcus continued reading the note. Lady Ross is giving a ball tomorrow evening. I trust you will have time to attend. Marcus tossed the invitation aside. "You trust wrong, Ferris. I have no interest in seeing your daughter."

  Marcus looked up from reading the Sunday Times when a knock sounded on the door nearly an hour later. The door opened and his butler entered.

  "The Earl of Loudoun to see you, Lord Ashlund."

  Marcus glanced at the clock. An hour and a half late. "Show him in, Bower." Marcus refolded the paper and laid it on the desk as Loudoun entered.

  He bowed. "Lord Ashlund, it has been some time."

  Marcus indicated the chair in front of his desk. "It has," he said, noting Loudoun hadn't had the good grace to acknowledge his tardiness. It was impossible to civilize a cur.

  The earl seated himself. "I understand you wish to see me on a matter of some importance." Bored amusement shone in his green eyes.

  "Have you seen your Hastings clansmen lately?" Marcus asked without preamble.

  Surprise flitted across Loudoun's features, but he replied, the boredom reaching his voice, "Haven't been to Scotland in an age. Why?"

  "They attacked a group of women at Brahan Seer."

  Surprise resurfaced. Then… satisfaction in the guise of disbelief. "Come now," he drawled. "Surely, you are mistaken."

  "I was there."

  "I suppose one cannot question the word of the Marquess of Ashlund. Was your father, the duke, there as well?"

  "Nay. You know anything of the attack?"

  "Me?" The earl laughed. "I never involve myself in the petty squabbles on that side of the family." He studied Marcus. "Attacked your women, did they?"

  Marcus nodded.

  Loudoun shrugged. "Probably just wanted a bit of sport. Why bother yourself? If someone had been hurt or if it had been cattle—"

  "Do not try my temper," Marcus c
ut in. "You know nothing of it?"

  "As I said, I have little to do with those barbarians."

  "In that you may be wise. I assume you still exercise some authority over them?"

  "I suppose so. Can't say I've ever cared to try. Their actions are their own, so long as they don't interfere with my life."

  "Spoken like a true Campbell," Marcus muttered.

  Loudoun's eyes flickered, and there was a biting edge in his cultured voice when he said, "Unlike you, Ashlund, I am far removed from those people. I don't live in the wilds of Scotland, yearning for the days of old."

  "It isn't the days of old I yearn for, but, like any civilized man, simple peace. Yet, it is your clansmen who make that impossible."

  "Mayhap you should appeal to our king. He is in a better position than I to help."

  "Mayhap," Marcus agreed. "Unfortunately, he's not in England. I should warn you, if trouble arises before he returns, you may find your clansmen intruding upon your life. Castle Kalchurn is between Brahan Seer and Assipattle, if I recall."

  The earl's face tightened. "You have no cause to threaten me, MacGregor. I've done nothing. I am not involved in this matter, I tell you."

  "Ah, but you are. Despite your complacent attitude, you would not be saddened to hear of my demise or the demise of any MacGregor, for that matter—man or woman—which makes you as guilty as your kinsmen. Now," Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his desk, "if there's a possibility you can get to the bottom of this before it turns into something we will all regret, you would find me most appreciative."

  "Just what the devil does that mean?" Loudoun demanded.

  "It means, my dear Earl, that I might refrain from running a sword through your black heart."

  * * * *

  Marcus found Kiernan at his favorite club. Pausing to observe his son as he lounged in one of the plush chairs, pride filled his heart at the man the boy was becoming. Kiernan's brow furrowed in response to something he read in the paper spread across the arm of his chair, and a tenderness stirred in Marcus at recalling where Kiernan had learned that look. It amazed him how much the boy resembled Jenna.

  The old sadness revived in Marcus. There had been no great love between him and Jenna. The marriage could have been better. She hadn't been happy. Despite his noble blood, he was a Highlander—a clan leader—and Jenna couldn't comprehend the archaic way of life. Marcus hadn't been able to find it in his heart to blame her. She was of Scottish blood, not Highland. Never the twain shall meet, she had once said.