He downed a mug with his friend before another need came to mind.
“You know, before we are overrun by women targeting that manhood it might be wise for me to soothe it. It’s never a good thing to enter the fray already needy. I’ve learned that the hard way,” the laird said thoughtfully, with navy fire beginning to kindle in his gaze.
"By all means, lets pick a winner of tonight's bed the laird contest. Once we do that, I get my pick of the losers. A second rate lay for the second place guy," Calum said, adding quickly, "But I'm only joking, of course. How about Mairi? You’ve had her several times lately. She must be talented.”
“No. She won’t do. The last time we were together, she said something about tearing out Ila’s hair if she touched me again. That smacks of possession. I’m done with her.”
“Sorcha,” Nial said, suddenly inspired. “How about Sorcha? She’s dubh gray-eyed, petite and blessed in all the right places. I wouldn’t mind exploring those curves.”
“She's attractive enough, but I find her downright strange. I always thought she took her husband’s death entirely too well anyway. What brought her to mind?”
“The other day, I was hunting and met her in the forest. She said she was enjoying nature, but she was pretty far out for a stroll. Anyway, she let me know she would welcome a visit.” His navy eyes began to heat with remembered passion. “I’d have taken her up on her invitation right then, but the rest of the hunting party rode up a bit too quickly.”
“It’s strange that none of the women like her, Nial. The other day, I heard several of them saying that her character was as black as her hair.”
“That’s okay - it’s not her character I’m interested in,” he said with an exaggerated leer.
As both walked out of the study, Calum warned, “Watch your back. I still say I would tread carefully with that one.”
It was advice he should have heeded, for as the men spoke, Sorcha stood in the back of her cottage finishing a special potion. She'd gathered some of the ingredients from far-flung nooks and crannies of the forest. She would slip it in his drink when he came tonight, as her dark mentor assured her he would. The potent passion the brew would weave just before the interloper arrived would convince the laird that love would soon follow. If he believed that, he would never heed the elders’ urgings to wed the plain lass.
A love potion would guarantee success but those were much harder and required greater skill. She would make do with stirring his baser urges, but she'd make the potion double strength. Passion was a potent force in the life of the sensual laird. He just confined it to women he considered safe. So she'd transformed herself into one of those women. Luring Tomas to marry her had been child’s play. She only suffered his touch for a few weeks before she cast the spell to throw off his balance. He died from the fall and gave her the status that the arrogant laird deemed safe. The fool should have realized long ago that widows also come in the black variety.
She would succeed where the others failed. Once they wed, and she had Kilcuillin and the faerie flag, she could cease brewing the potion. Marriage would bind him and she would no longer have to suffer any man’s pawing. Once she got her hands on that faerie flag, the power that she desired above all else would be hers.
She finished just as the knock sounded at the door. She glanced down at the gossamer gown she wore and deemed it sufficient. She arranged herself before the fire, aware that in its light the sheer fabric would cast wicked red highlights, enhancing rather than obscuring the curve of her breasts.
“Thig a stigh,” come in, she called.
“Beannachid de,” hello, said the man who stood at the door, unaware that he was a fly, being lured to a carefully constructed web.
The sight of her bounty, enhanced by the gossamer kindled his gaze as soon as he entered. He couldn’t tear his attention from the breasts that peaked as his eyes caressed them.
“They won’t help you close the door.”
“What?” He reddened as he realized he had left the portal wide open.
“Hello, Laird Maclee.” She approached carrying the goblets she had filled moments earlier. “Would you join me in a glass of wine?”
He glanced at the two full goblets. Had he been expected? He had given her no warning that he would seek her out tonight. Normal caution would have had him turn down the brew, but she stood a step away clad only in a sparkling red shadow, looking hotter than the fire. Her attention fixed voraciously on his tenting kilt. Thrown off balance, he took the beverage and began to drink.
“Please, have a seat. Tell me, did you come in pursuit of livelier game before you are cornered by the little mouse?” She sat down slowly in a black chair across from him and casually threw a leg over each arm of the chair, spreading her furry black mons for his eager inspection.
“You know about the party, and Heather?” Her pointed comment surprised him and inspired another of those strange urges to defend the lass. As much to keep his mouth shut as anything, he gulped the rest of the brew.
She got up to refill his goblet. “Everyone but you knew. If the elders could, they would wrap you and,” she reached between his thighs to tweak his erection, “tie this up in a pretty little bow and feed it to the mouse.”
She released his member, trailing long nails down the length of it through the kilt, before she returned to her chair.
“Shall you let them?” She asked.
“Ahh, what?” He'd lost all grasp of the conversation. His eyes were glued to her breasts, so she got up and walked near him to top off his goblet again. He didn’t want more wine, but he wanted those breasts closer. Like a green lad he could only stare at her erect nipples. One long black lock brushed his forearm as she poured and he quivered slightly and pressed his thighs together.
He reached for her when she turned to go back to her chair. “Would you like to spend the evening talking about another woman, or could we move on to more stimulating activities?”
She smiled and crooked a finger as she moved toward the bed. He followed, unsure why he felt he had to obey the unspoken command. He didn’t ponder long because his little head ruled his body right now and thinking was not that head’s preference. It invariably sought a more physical game.
She spread herself like a feast for his ravenous appetite. When he would have joined her on the bed, however, she shook her head no. “I’m not the only one who likes a good view, laird. You’ve been looking a lot since you arrived.”
He flushed, because he knew he’d been leering like a lad about to take his first woman. Oddly, he started removing his kilt before he questioned why he was doing it. He never obeyed orders from women, even if they coincided with his own desire at the moment. He refused out of sheer ingrained contrariness. He intended to refuse now, but she'd started to toy with her turgid nipples through the gossamer and he found himself entranced. His hands tore his kilt away before he could stop himself.
“You’ve been a good boy. Now you get a prize,” she said, and he leapt into the bed. He had taken far prettier women but for some reason, he wanted this one. He wanted this one a lot.
She smiled and trailed teasing fingernails down the length of the staff that most of the women who panted after him would only grasp in their dreams.
“Now it begins,” she murmured, as her skilled talons teased his tormented need, keeping him at the edge of the precipice, knowing the anticipation would make the pleasure all the more intense when she finally allowed it. His answer was a deep groan, but it was all the response she sought. He thrust and moaned in a haze of chemically enhanced lust, nearly helpless in a world where only the need in his loins was real.
Early morning arrived before he could tear himself away. He opened the door of his room, acknowledging that he was exhausted. Unfortunately, his bed was already occupied. He didn’t know who the young woman was, but she was blonde and beautiful and naked. Following his normal pattern, he left the door open and stood in the doorway as he called for his squire, instructin
g him to get the woman out of there. He had learned that it was better not to cross the threshold at all.
He was too spent to endure the trauma of another eviction, so he went to Calum’s room, where he had bedded down in the past when he had been too tired to await the always dramatic retreat of a thwarted schemer. His entry disturbed the other man.
“Another wench in your bed?”
“Yeah.”
“Who was it this time?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
Calum sniffed and chuckled groggily. “I can tell why you weren’t interested. Don’t know who you’ve been with tonight but she must be good. You reek of sex. Who was it?”
“Sorcha. Yes, she was good. Exceptional in fact.”
He had invited her to attend the festivities. The elders would scream and complain which might be why he did it, he wasn’t sure. He had been so turned on that his brain wasn’t working well, if at all. He didn’t know what he’d been feeling, but it seemed like claws of passion. Was this the one? Virginity was prized in his family, and all of the other faerie fated loves had been virginal. It seemed odd that he would vary from that pattern, and his heart felt strangely intact. His loins were surely involved, but not his heart.
Still he was happy. This was the first time he had felt anything like those claws so he would wait and see if the rest would follow. He rolled over, and went to sleep as the morning sun crept into the room.
Several hours later, Heather vibrated with excitement. The coach drew within site of the castle that rose from atop a rocky outcropping to loom majestically over a world of water. The front entry showcased manicured hedges, but the side garden was like the Highlands, wild and free. Surrounded by a loch and rising over the Sea of the Hebrides, the castle took its name from the mountains. The magical atmosphere of the Isle had its source at Kilcuillin, the castle held by the clan with the blood of the Shining Folk running through their veins.
The elders awaited the family. They made no comment upon her appearance, opting instead for diplomacy. “We will show you to your chamber, lass so you can change and be prepared to greet the laird.”
Hints that that hurt seldom found their mark, but this prick was particularly sharp. “Many have that wish but none more so than Mother. I am who I am and how I am, I fear, sir.”
One of the elders wrinkled his brow, shrugged slightly and then called a servant to help her upstairs. She didn’t linger in the room long. What did one of her dresses matter rather than another? She could never change enough to be prepared to greet Nial. After prowling for a few minutes, she gave up and went back downstairs.
“Surely you had something else to put on,” Bonnie nearly growled when she walked into the room filling with beautiful women, each wearing a gown more sensational, and more low cut than the next. It was quite plain what sort of interest they planned to inspire.
“No, Mother. Everything I have is pretty much the same. If you will excuse me, I will go and blend quietly into the woodwork,” she smirked, and her mother sighed in exasperation.
It was about a half-hour before the laird arrived. Nial bearded the lion in his den by joining Seamus, one of the most avid proponents of the match from hell. "I see Laird and Lady MacIver but I do not see the chit you most wish me to. Where is she?"
Seamus pointed to the girl standing in front of a window, with her face pressed against the panel.
"I looked right over her twice," Nial said caustically, "But that's hardly surprising, is it. She is so very easy to overlook."
"Make an effort, laird," Seamus gritted between his teeth.
"Since I apparently can't put this off forever, let's get this over with and I shall pray that soonest started is indeed, soonest ended."
The elder called her name, which was rare enough to startle her. Then he insisted she walk over to greet Nial. For an instant, she looked at him, her panic as plain in her posture as it was in her soul. She remained frozen. Seamus had to get her and walk her over to the laird. She had spoken to him only once, that time at the fair. How did you greet a highland laird who wanted you the same way he wanted pestilence and famine?
His natural charm took over to sooth her. “Lady Heather, what a pleasure to meet you at last. It was remiss of me not to visit and extend my apologies to you personally after that horrid incident at the fair.”
She smiled, and he took her hand to kiss it in greeting. As his lips grazed her fingers, she humiliated herself by moaning. She promptly tried to snatch her hand away.
“I believe I shall keep it for now,” he said, surprised to find that he meant it. What was the jolt he felt when his lips met her fingers? He’d never felt anything like it before. Well, he amended, only once before and that involved her too.
“It is a pleasure to see you again. I was about to say that I doubt women generally moan in greeting, but perhaps to you,” she said brightly, “they do.”
“Well, usually they just try to grab me somewhere.” He winked, saying, “On the whole, I believe I prefer the moan.”
His words were polite, but inside, he was horrified. Surely the elders could not think him capable of vowing fidelity to this lass. She wore a long sleeved gray dress made of enough fabric to clothe every female servant in his household. It bore not a bit of lace or trim and looked like a sack. Certainly, it had all the appeal of a sack. Her hair was stuffed into a bonnet and she looked like a granny. He must have been drunker than he thought at that fair.
Soon other arrivals drew him away. He played host and greeted several families, each with one or more daughters in tow. Invariably, those daughters batted their eyelashes – reminding him of spiders caught in a gale. Several propositioned him and one made a grab for his crotch right in the foyer. He was, as always, ready with the Maclee swipe. After that, he turned away in disgust, deciding he had greeted more than enough people. As he turned, he spotted the girl heading upstairs.
He called to her, “Not tired of the party already are you?”
She shrugged. “I'm going upstairs to read for a bit.”
“A dime novel?” He teased, approaching her so that he could say it softly. “One of those passionate tales of lust and eternal love?”
“I’m sure that would make a better impression. I really should lie and say it was, but actually it’s a new text on medicinal herbs.”
“Indeed?” He was surprised, for most of the women he met cared about nothing except their appearance, their current surroundings, the weather or catty gossip about the other women present.
At his interest, her face lit up and she nodded. He moved a bit closer to hear her words, and she went on to say, “I have a great interest in learning more about the healing powers of herbs.”
“Do you use your knowledge or simply store it away?” Admittedly, he was challenging her a bit with that one, and he fully expected a diatribe about the fact that knowledge is never wasted. Perfectly true, but not the point at present. Maybe, he just wanted to see how brightly those eyes could sparkle – if he could see them under the wretched bonnet.
Instead of the heated response he expected, she smiled and tilted her chin up. “Improper as it may be to admit it, such small knowledge that I have I do use. If there is something I can do to help, why then I am obliged to do it. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He was leaning towards her as she stood a step above him on the stairs. He hadn’t even realized that he was holding her hand as they spoke. But just as she tossed the challenging question at him, and his eyes sparkled at the prospect of having an intelligent debate with a woman, he heard challenging laughter behind him. He turned to find Sorcha glaring at Heather’s hand pointedly, prompting the girl to jerk away from his grasp. The black-haired woman put her hand on his arm as she spoke in a voice designed to carry to the ladies grouped at the foot of the stairs and the older matrons just starting to make their way down.
“Tell me you didn’t just confess to exposing yourself to all manner of improper sights, germs and vermin to treat some
servant or tenant farmer or one of the many bairns they sprout like weeds?” She laughed and glanced around at her audience, “Hardly the actions of a lady, my dear. Certainly not acts of which Laird Nial would ever approve.” Sorcha finished her speech with a burst of laughter, and those nearby joined her.
A couple of male voices raised, saying, “Here, here!”
Heather didn’t bother to wait for a response from Nial, since he was apt to agree with the sentiments voiced by the beautiful black-haired witch who rested her hand on his arm so casually. Fighting back tears, she sprinted upstairs, to laughter that grew louder as she ran.
Nial noticed a maid a couple of stairs away sweeping up some shattered glass. He saw her eyes narrow as she raised her broom and turned around quickly, striking the glass in Sorcha's hand. It tilted and red wine cascaded over the front of his shirt and pants. He bit his lip to keep from raising his own voice in a cheer for the maid. He made a mental note to raise her pay instead.
The widow whirled and spied the servant who brimmed with false apologies. Sorcha shouted, “You little bitch!” She raised her hand to strike as the girl flinched away.
Nial caught Sorcha's hand, preventing the blow. His expression was as cold as his voice. “We do not strike our servants.”
She stammered that she had simply been carried away by concern for his comfort.
He cut off her words, not interested in hearing more at the moment. “If you will all excuse me,” he said with a courtly bow to their audience, “I must go upstairs and change. By all means, you should continue to enjoy the party without me.”
He mounted the stairs, fighting an impulse to go after Heather and be sure she was all right. To tell her that he had not agreed with Sorcha’s sentiments. And perhaps even to touch her again to find out why he had the strange sense of being cast adrift when she snatched away her hand.
A Faerie Fated Forever Page 3
