“Wasn’t there a lass in Edinburgh you visited when last we were there?” Duncan asked.
Galan glowered. “Doona try to finagle a match for me, little brother. I’m fine.”
Duncan lifted a brow. How often had Galan assured him that he was fine, and Duncan had gone about his merry way, leaving him alone? Bewildered by his new insight, he uneasily filed the subject away for future consideration. His brother needed a woman, but not in the way Duncan needed a woman; Galan needed a wife.
“Think you they will have children?” Duncan changed the subject, noting Galan relax visibly when he did so.
“Bah! If they haven’t already conceived one. I hear they have taken over one of your favored tupping spots.”
“My bothy?” Duncan exclaimed indignantly. “A man can’t have any privacy.”
Neither brother spoke for a time, each absorbed in his own thoughts. The musicians commenced a slow, haunting ballad and the dancers moved into more intimate embraces.
Suddenly Galan said, “Och, by Dagda—look yonder, Duncan. Who is that stunning lass?” He pointed across the hall. “Too lovely for me, that’s for certain.”
Duncan glanced swiftly where Galan pointed, his body tightening with anticipation. Too lovely for me was the slap of an irresistible gauntlet to Duncan. He adored such words, his innate maleness rose to them aggressively; he’d long been restless and ready for something different.
“Where? I see no one of note.” Duncan craned his neck to peer through the crowd. When the dancers parted for a moment, he glimpsed a mane of shimmering red hair. He sucked in a breath. “The redhead. Is she the one you meant? You know what they say—fire on top, fiery tup.”
Galan punched him in the arm. “Is that all you ever think about? There she is again.” The dancers moved apart again, and this time the woman was turned slightly toward them.
Duncan’s brows lifted as heat lanced through his groin. She was exquisite. Masses of red hair, streaked with blond and honey, spilled over her shoulders. Her face was delicate, pointed at the chin with high cheekbones and dark eyes. Her lips were full. Ridiculously full. Erotically full. Come suck me full, he thought irritably. No woman should have lips so lush and plump. Her skin was flawlessly translucent, her lips a perfect rose. And full.
Composed and graceful, she exuded confidence that he would soon shatter with his seductive charm. “Untouchable” might have been branded on her forehead, and been more subtle than the way she carried herself. But he was man enough for such a dare; he would penetrate her reserve, gain entrance where he suspected few men had ever gone, and be satisfied only when she became a wanton she-animal in his bed. His gaze swept the length of her. Clad in a simple white gown beneath a green surcoat, her body in it was the only adornment necessary.
“Well?” Galan demanded. “What are you waiting for? Doona you need to tup to conquer?”
“Och, and aye,” Duncan said, melting into the crowd.
Galan shook his head, and if his smile was a bit melancholy, he’d learned not to feel it.
* * *
Duncan surfaced behind her. He held his breath as his gaze played admiringly over her sensual mane. Soft, silky, and of a dozen flame hues, he longed to wrap his fists in it. He harbored a special passion for redheads. He longed to tug her head back and take her throat with his lips. He ached to spread her hair across his pillow. She, he would claim in a bed. Her fine body would require the soft mattresses beneath her, to handle his intensity.
“Shall we dance?” he murmured in her ear.
She pivoted so quickly it startled him, and he fell back a step. Her lips were even more luscious up close, and when she moistened them with her tongue, he nearly groaned aloud.
Her eyes narrowed, and her lips parted around a knowing laugh. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Pardon?” He was taken aback. “Do we know each other, lass?” He was quite certain they didn’t; he could never have forgotten this woman. The enticing manner in which her lips were currently pursed would have been seared into his memory.
“The answer is no. I don’t know you. But every other woman in this room does. Duncan Douglas, isn’t it?” she said dryly.
Duncan studied her face. Although she was young—perhaps no more than twenty—she had a regal bearing beyond her years. “I do have some reputation with the lasses,” he conceded, downplaying his prowess, confident of her impending maidenly swoon.
The look she gave him was far from admiring.
He did a double take when he realized her gaze was downright disparaging.
“Not something I care for in a man,” she said coolly. “Thank you for your offer, but I’d sooner dance with last week’s rushes. They would be less used. Who wants what everyone else has already had?” The words were delivered in a cool, modulated tone, shaped by an odd accent he couldn’t place. Quite finished with him, she presented her back and resumed talking to her companion.
Duncan was immobilized by shock.
Who wants what everyone else has already had? She made it sound as if he were all used up. Indeed! He certainly had much more to spare, and she would soon learn it. His hand closed upon the fine bones of her shoulder, and he spun her around. “That means I have all the more experience with which to pleasure you. And pleasure you I will,” he promised. He waited for her to melt. The women he’d seduced in the past had shivered at his possessive promises. He’d learned to offer them with a husky note in his voice, learned precisely what to say to affect a lass most.
“It means,” she corrected with a mocking smile, “that you are a lothario. It means that you can’t keep your tartan about your knees. It means that I am no different than anyone else, and that you hold no special regard for a cherished act of intimacy. I am not intrigued. I care naught for leftovers.”
The infuriating woman gave him her back again.
He eyed the supple arch of her back, the lovely hips, the longs legs moving in restless tempo to the music beneath her soft white gown. She tossed her head and laughed at something her companion said.
Abashed, he studied her companion. A foot taller than she, the man was lean and well muscled. They obviously shared a close relationship, leaning their heads close and laughing. Duncan’s hands fisted at his sides.
What did a man say to that? Yes, but now that I’ve seen you, I doona wish anyone else? All that was merely practice, preparing me for you? He doubted that would be effective with this woman. She’d only laugh at him again.
Seething, he tapped her companion on the shoulder. “Pardon me, but are you her lover?”
“Who the hell are you?”
The redhead placed a soothing hand on her companion’s arm, ignoring the look of fury Duncan directed at her fingers. “This is Duncan Douglas, Tally.”
“Ah.” Her companion smirked. “And as any blackguard worth his salt, confronted with the insurmountable challenge of your beauty, he must conquer you, eh, Beth?”
They shared an intimate glance. “I’m afraid so.”
“Who are the two of you?” Duncan demanded. Never had he been so mocked, never had he felt so … so … insignificant. Unimportant.
“We are friends of Renaud de Vichiers, one of your Templars,” she replied easily. “We were on our way to Edinburgh when we heard Renaud was at Castle Brodie. I am Elizabeth … MacBreide.” She gestured with an elegant, slim hand. “And this is my brother, Tally.”
“MacBreide of Shallotan?”
“Near there,” Tally replied evasively.
“Your brother,” Duncan observed aloud, as the significance of their relationship sunk in. He was not her lover. He wouldn’t have to kill him.
“And protector,” Tally added dryly. “Do not think to attempt to seduce my sister, Duncan Douglas. We heard of your exploits shortly after arriving, and Beth said she saw you dallying with one of the maids.”
Duncan cringed inwardly. He had indeed tupped less than privately early this morn. So, she had noticed him—and how long had she watched?
<
br /> “Chasing her about in the bailey, then up onto the parapet,” Elizabeth added, without the slightest blush. “The maids here cannot say enough about you. Even as far as the taverns in Inverness we’d heard of the wild and irreverent Douglas brother. They say there isn’t a fair maid you haven’t tumbled.”
Words that would have made him preen with masculine pleasure on any other tongue made him wince, coming from her absurdly full lips. It was all too obvious what she thought of him. There was nothing he could say in his own defense; she plainly did not care for casual tupping, and he’d never concealed the fact that he relished it. There were certain rooms he’d entered in his life that had held a dozen different women he’d tupped. Never before had that fact bothered him.
Retreat and reform into a fresh attack, he advised himself, then charge again when she least expects it. By God, this was battle, and if the front line couldn’t be breached, he would find a way to circumvent her outlying guards and penetrate her flank. That he’d blown the first attack didn’t mean he’d lost the war.
He raised her hand and kissed the air above it. “Elizabeth, Tally, welcome to Brodie,” he said coolly before turning away.
As he moved off into the crowd, he walked tall, concealing the uncomfortable sensation of slinking away from a resounding set-down. As he wove through the dancers, Duncan muttered darkly to himself. How dare she criticize him for being a good lover, an enthusiastic man? He was considerate with his wenches, he was patient, always ensuring their pleasure. How dare she belittle him for his … frequency. Leftovers, indeed!
Scowling, he headed for the courtyard, the glorious night now fractured by her disdain.
* * *
Armand watched the lord and lady with growing frustration. He’d been impatiently following her for days now, and not once had he been able to catch her alone. The laird was at her side constantly.
He must capture her tonight, or he would never make it to the arranged meeting place with James Comyn on time. He’d completed searching the castle, all but the laird’s chambers, into which there was no entrance without the key. He’d even climbed to the roof, only to encounter a dozen forbidding guards, at which point he’d pretended to have sought the gloaming to meditate closer to God. There would be no scaling the wall to the laird’s room, for the castle was too carefully observed. But surely she had a key, and once he snared her, he would spare time to search their private bedchambers before leaving. He needed those weapons.
He gritted his teeth, watching Circenn toss back more wine. The man had consumed such quantities that any other man would have sought the garderobe long before now. His eyes narrowed as he watched Lisa whisper something in Circenn’s ear. He noted that she briefly pressed her hand to her abdomen.
Ah, although he might hold his drink well, she did not. Armand slipped through the crowd, maintaining an innocuous distance, ready to sprint to her side the moment she left the protective arms of the forbidding laird of Brodie.
* * *
Lisa was dazzled by her first medieval feast. She’d never forgotten the night she’d first arrived at Castle Brodie and gazed up at the towering structure, thinking how incredible it would be to belong within its walls, to be part of a laughing, warm group of clansmen. To belong.
And now she did.
Circenn had proudly introduced her to his people, and although she’d noticed he stumbled over many of their names, that didn’t worry her overmuch. She could change that. She would help him get reacquainted with his clan and draw him into the joy of their lives.
“Why do you smile, lass?”
Lisa tipped back her head. Happiness radiated from him, increasing hers tenfold. Clad in full clan regalia, he looked like a savage Scot warlord, but she knew what kind of man he really was. Intense and deeply emotional. Mercilessly sexual. Gentle. A dizzying wave of feeling grew and spread inside her. “So this is what it feels like,” she whispered. She gazed up at him, her eyes wide with discovery.
“What what feels like?”
“Circenn.” A wealth of emotion infused his name.
He watched her, unblinking.
“I love you.”
Circenn drew a sudden, deep breath. There it was. There was no coyness about her, no games, no attempt to hide the truth or manipulate him into making such a declaration first. Boldly she gave her heart. Why would he have expected anything less?
He swept her into his arms and closed his eyes, absorbing the feelings ebbing and flowing between them.
“Does this mean you are not adverse to the fact that I’ve lost my heart to you?” she teased.
“Could a man be adverse to the sunshine warming his skin? A spring rain quenching his thirst or a night such as this one, when any wonder seems possible? Thank you.” His smile was devastating. “I’d begun to fear you might never give me those words.”
“And?” she encouraged. He said nothing, but suddenly a shiver of pleasure danced beneath her skin. It penetrated her thoroughly, leaving her breathless. “What was that!”
“I’ve been practicing trying to say it without words. Did it work?”
She blew out a calming breath. “Oh yes,” she said. “I want you to do that tonight when we’re … you know.”
“Aye, aye, mistress,” he teased. “And how about this one?”
Lisa’s nipples stiffened as a wave of dark eroticism washed over her. “Oh, God. That was truly amazing.”
“This bond can be wonderful, can it not?”
Smiling her agreement, Lisa stood on tiptoe and kissed him. When he moved to deepen the kiss, she pulled back. He looked startled, so she hastened to reassure him. “I’ve drunk too much wine, Circenn. I’m afraid I must find one of those dratted chamber pots.” She sighed morosely. “There are some things I really miss about my century.”
“A chamber pot? Why not use the garderobe?”
“The what?”
“The garderobe.”
“You have garderobes here?” she said stiffly.
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Not that I wish to pry, lass, but where have you been going?”
“Chamber pots,” she muttered.
“And what have you been doing … er …”
“Dumping them out the window,” she said, prickly as a porcupine. So much for demure privacy. If there was a garderobe, why on earth had Eirren told her to use the chamber pot? Then she realized how mischievous the lad could be. It was just like Eirren to be prankish. “Was there a garderobe at Dunnottar, too?”
“It is you who has been dumping them out the windows? I have been blaming it on my men, making them wash down the stones. Aye, there was one at Dunnottar. I had garderobes put in every keep I own or visit.”
“You never told me.”
“You never asked. How was I to know? When you first arrived here, I wasn’t about to address such private issues. I assumed you had found our garderobe on your own.”
Lisa snorted. Eirren had truly bamboozled her, and her pride had kept her tidily trapped in his jest. “I can’t believe all this time I’ve … Oh! Where is the blasted garderobe?”
He told her, biting his lip to keep from smiling. He watched her hips sway gently in her emerald gown as she climbed the stairs. She’d said she loved him. That was promising.
Perhaps it was nearly time to talk to her about loving him forever.
LISA SHOOK HER HEAD AS SHE EXITED THE GARDEROBE. Very civilized. Now that she knew where it was, she couldn’t believe she’d bypassed it while she’d searched the castle for the flask, but the entrance gave the impression of a servant’s door, so she’d not given it a second thought. The garderobe was not what she had expected; it was larger than most modern bathrooms, and spotless. It was obvious that the laird of Brodie prided himself on tidy garderobes. Fresh herbs and dried petals were scattered amid the hay piled inside the chamber—medieval toilet paper.
She resolved not only to bathe Eirren the next time she saw him but to dunk him a time or two as well for all
those miserable chamber-pot moments.
Slipping from the small room, she was surprised to encounter Armand Berard loitering in the corridor.
“Milady, are you enjoying the festivities?”
“Yes, I am.” Her feet were still tapping from the cheery music and she was eager to return and perfect her steps. But she hadn’t seen Armand for over a month and had rather missed the opportunity to get to know a real live Knight Templar. She frowned, eyeing his somber attire. Circenn had told her the Templars would stay in their garrison and not join the revelry. “I thought your Order did not hold with feasting such as this.”
He shrugged. “Some of my brothers are more rigid than others. A few of us have accepted that the Order is destroyed, bitter though it is to admit that you have pledged your life to something that no longer exists.”
“I’m sorry,” Lisa said, feeling awkward. Before her stood one of the legendary Knights Templars and she couldn’t think of one thing to say to make him feel better. “Are your men hunted, even here in Scotland?” she rushed on. She was intensely curious about the Templars, their legendary powers and myths.
“It depends on who encounters us. If it’s an Englishman, he might try to take us across the border. A Scot is far less inclined to do so. Most of your people care little for the edicts of France, England, or even the Pope.” He uttered a harsh laugh. “Your own king was excommunicated by the Pope for the murder of the Red Comyn in the church at Dumfries. Your land is a wild one. When a country is fighting merely for the right to survive, they are less inclined to be judgmental. Come.”
He offered his arm, and she looped hers through it. Within moments, she was so engrossed in their conversation that she paid no heed to where he was leading her.
She listened, fascinated, while he spoke of the Order, of their residence outside Paris, of their lifelong commitment to their vows. His expression grew bitter as he recounted how the papal bull Pastoralis praeeminentiae, issued on November 22, 1307, had ordered all monarchs of Christendom to arrest the Templars and sequester their lands in the name of the papacy. He skimmed over the persecution, the interrogations, and the torture, unwilling to give such detail to a woman, for which she was grateful. There were some limits to even her curiosity.
The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 83
