Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  With a soft cry of dismay, she bumped down the stone to fall on her behind with a thud and a muffled grunt. The rain, fickle at best, let up just as suddenly as it had accelerated. Shona glared at the inky sky, grimaced at the pain in her scraped fingers, and swore with verve. But her situation had not improved; thus she still had the climbing to do, and the sooner the better, before the rain began in earnest again.

  Rising to her feet, Shona gritted her teeth and resolutely tucked her hem more firmly into her garter. But when she reached for the stone a second time, a small snicker of sound disturbed her.

  She swiveled quickly about. There, standing not fifteen feet from the wall was a man. Grasping her torn bodice, she hugged it to her chest and peered through the darkness at the intruder.

  The lightning that illuminated the man’s face did nothing to improve her mood. It was Dugald the Dolt.

  Shona swore again, but silently this time. Damn this man for being a pest and a regular pain in the arse.

  “What are ye doing here?” she asked. It wasn’t a very ladylike thing to say, but she wasn’t feeling particularly ladylike just now, what with her gown tucked up in her belt and her body bruised like a fallen apple.

  “I was just enjoying the weather,” he said.

  Even in the dark, she could tell he was smiling, because his teeth shone in the feeble light. She hated him more for that knowing smile and for the fact that her legs were half bare and her gown indecent—again.

  “Tis raining,” she said. She tried to remain civil. After all, she was supposed to decide on a husband during this little soiree, and if she kept maiming men, her options would be sorely depleted.

  “Why don’t ye go enjoy the weather in the hall?”

  “In truth, I prefer the view out here.”

  In half a second she thought of a dozen retorts to his statement, but she bit them all back and donned her sweetest smile, making certain her dimples showed and her voice was dulcet. “I dunna believe I know ye,” she lied, ‘ ‘but I hope I can impose on your chivalrous nature. Ye see I’ve had a wee bit of an accident and I dunna wish for my guests to see me in such disarray. I would greatly appreciate it if ye would leave me in peace and not tell another soul about this.”

  “You’ve had an accident?” His tone soundly sincerely concerned as he stepped toward her.

  Mayhap she had misjudged him. Mayhap he was constantly watching her because he was hopelessly infatuated with her. In truth, he would not be the first. She could not blame him for that or for the fact that he was probably from a foreign country where they would not consider his overt attentions rude.

  “Aye. I am such a goose sometimes. I fell and…” She supposed it would be worthless to try to conjure up a blush, since he wouldn’t be able to appreciate it in the darkness. “I tore my gown.”

  “And such a lovely gown it is, lass.”

  “Well, it was.”

  “Anything would look lovely on such a bonny damsel as yourself.”

  “Damsel”—the word held an old fashioned kind of appeal. And the flattery didn’t hurt either.

  The night had taken a decided turn for the better.

  “I fear ye overrate me.” He didn’t, of course, but it was the right thing to say.

  “Nay. I’ve been watching you from afar. In truth, you are unsurpassed in both beauty and elegance.”

  Elegance! She breathed a sigh of relief. That was proof positive that he hadn’t recognized her as the woman in the burn. For no one who had witnessed such a scene would call her elegant.

  “I fear we haven’t been properly introduced,” she said.

  “Tis true. My name is Dugald, of the Clan Kinnaird.” He stepped forward, bowed smoothly, and reached for her hand.

  She was in a rather compromising position, and if she were wise, she would probably retreat, but she didn’t. Continuing to hold her bodice in place, she offered her opposite hand.

  “Ye may call me—”

  He kissed her knuckles. A shiver, fine as gossamer, tickled up her arm and onto her neck, seeming to burn beneath Dragonheart’s chain.

  “I know who you are,” Dugald murmured.

  “Oh?” The word sounded a bit more breathless than she had intended.

  “Aye.” Turning her hand over, he gently kissed her scathed palm. The burn branched out, turning into a blaze that ended beneath Dragonheart’s warm weight. “You’re the damsel who likes to climb towers in the rain.”

  She smiled a little, but forced herself to pull her hand away and step back a pace. “In truth, that is not my favored activity,” she explained. “But as I said, twould be quite embarrassing for me to traipse through the hall in this condition. I was merely attempting to reach my chamber unnoticed.”

  He glanced quickly upward as if determining the distance to the window. “Mayhap I could give you a leg up the wall.” He said the words very evenly, as if he were deadly serious. So Shona considered his proposition for a moment. But the mental image that came to mind made her quickly discard such a suggestion, for if he gave her a leg up, he would be looking directly up her skirts.

  “I fear I’ll have to conjure up another plan,” she said.

  “There is only one alternative: I must lend you my plaid,” he countered, and suddenly he was loosening his belt. She backed up a pace, but in an instant he’d partially unwound the woolen from his waist and stepped toward her.

  “That is quite unnecessary,” she said, but he slipped the end of the woolen behind her back and to his opposite hand, drawing her closer. She could feel the warmth of his body. The light mist that fell only seemed to intensify his heat. She should draw back and flee, but something kept her where she was, though she found it difficult to breathe.

  “This is truly beyond the demands of chivalry,” she murmured.

  “On the contrary. Tis naught but the gentlemanly thing to do,” he countered.

  Their lips were inches apart. He smelled of fine wine and leather, and his voice, when he spoke, seemed to rasp against her nerve endings, like the lick of a tongue against her earlobe. What would it be like to kiss this man? Of course, she shouldn’t, Shona thought. Her father wouldn’t approve. But then, the Rogue had gone through a great deal of planning and expense to find her a suitable husband. And a suitable husband was one she could be happy with. And surely she couldn’t be happy with someone she didn’t enjoy kissing. So what better way to decide on a spouse than by kissing him? After all, this was the sixteenth century, a new era. It was practically her duty to kiss him.

  Father would probably thank her.

  Shona parted her lips, ready for the caress. One harmless kiss, stolen in the dark. He moved nearer, pulling her closer with his plaid.

  His lips grazed her cheek. A shiver ran through her; against her breast, Dragonheart felt inordinately heavy. Dugald’s breath was warm on her skin, and when his gaze slipped to the high, exposed portion of her breasts, she could feel his heat with tangible intensity.

  She waited for their lips to meet, but instead, he lifted one hand and trailed his finger, feather soft, along her collarbone to the hollow at the base of her throat. Once there, he pressed two fingers to her pulse and caught her gaze. The blood beat slowly against his fingertips, and her lungs felt strangely heavy as every nerve waited for their kiss.

  He leaned closer still. His arm brushed her breast, and she held her breath in silent anticipation.

  “Lass,” he murmured, his lips mere inches from hers. “You should be more careful who you accompany to the stable. Such beauty as yours might turn any man to lunacy.”

  For a moment Shona was caught in the sensual rasp of his voice, the lingering caress of his fingers, but suddenly his words penetrated her fuzzy thinking. Her stomach pitched, and her toes curled in her velvet slippers. She jerked sharply back, stretching the woolen between them. “Ye were there!” she gasped. “Ye saw the whole thing.”

  The left corner of his lips lifted the slightest fraction of an inch. “Tis not true,” he cou
ntered.

  “Twas dark and I did not have a very favorable position hidden as I was between the stalls. Though I must admit your dialogue kept me quite well apprised as to your goings on.”

  “Ye were spying on me!” Righteous anger steamed up in her like an onerous volcano. Yanking the plaid from his hands, she scrunched it up in front of her. “Ye heard it all and ye didna come to my rescue!”

  “Your rescue?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “And why would I be doing that, lass? As I see it, twas poor Halwart who needed the rescuing. After all, twas he who ended up with his pride bruised and his jewels jammed up between his shoulder blades.”

  “Ye are a knave!” she exclaimed.

  “And a moment ago I was beyond chivalrous. Tis the thanks I get for baring my own nether parts—offering you my own plaid to cover—”

  She ground her teeth and tossed the woolen at him. “I wouldn’t wear your plaid if it was the last scrap of cloth in all of—”

  Footfalls from behind startled her. She hesitated a fraction of a second, then leapt forward, snatched the plaid from Dugald’s hands, and whipped it about her shoulders.

  “Lady Shona?” A man stepped out of the darkness.

  “Stanford!” she said. She’d only met this man yesterday, but he was young, wealthy, and from a good family. Not the sort she wanted to alienate, not when the alternative was someone like this Dugald knave. “What are ye doing here?”

  “I saw you leave the hall and I worried for your safety. What with the lightning and the rain, I thought I’d best see to your well-being.”

  Shona tried to smooth her tone into something akin to normalcy. But her heart was still pounding with anger, and her hands were shaking. “Tis very thoughtful of ye. What a gentle man ye are,” she said, and glared momentarily at Dugald.

  “May I see you safely inside?” Stanford asked, beaming as he offered his arm.

  Shona reached for it then remembered she had to keep her blanket in place and pulled her arm back. Stepping forward, she hoped against hope that Dugald would stay hidden in the shadows. But hope and Dugald were not of one mind. He stepped forward. Even so, she saw that his identity was not discernible.

  “Will you be needing my services any further this evening, Lady?” he asked.

  She felt a blush burn her cheeks. Once again he had somehow managed to make his words sound distinctly suggestive. But she refused to acknowledge that fact, and fervently hoped Stanford couldn’t tell that the cad was standing there in nothing more than a dark tunic and a maddening grin.

  “Nay. That will be all…Farley,” she said. “Thank ye for reporting that loose stone to me.” She turned haughtily away.

  From the darkness she could hear his chuckle. ‘ ‘Twas my pleasure,” he said.

  Stanford turned back for an instant before leaning solicitously closer to Shona. “He was not giving you any trouble, I hope?”

  Yes. As a matter of fact, he was giving her nothing but trouble. Why didn’t the brave Stanford go back and box his ears? Shona thought, but she was not such a fool as to give Dugald the opportunity to tell what he knew of her evening activities. So she smiled brightly and said, “Nay, of course not. Twas but a defective stone in the wall. Our manservant felt it was something that should be seen to immediately. I fear I became chilled in the rain. Farley was kind enough to fetch me a blanket.”

  “I would have been honored to perform that service for you,” Stanford said.

  “Ye are too kind,” Shona demurred. Behind her, Dugald chuckled again. Damn him!

  “What became of Laird Halwart?” Stanford asked. His brown eyes looked wide and kind even in the darkness.

  “Laird Halwart?” Shona stalled as she thought frantically. The hall seemed unearthly bright as they stepped through the doorway. “I, uhh…fear he had to return home rather suddenly.”

  “At this hour?”

  “He felt a sharp need to do so immediately.”

  The noise from the hall seemed offensively loud now, for she wanted nothing more than to escape to the solitude of her room. But first she must safely maneuver the boisterous crowds.

  Skirting a group of young men, Shona glided past her mother, ignored a fat lord who was motioning toward her, and carefully refrained from galloping toward the stairs.

  She was almost there. Nearly….

  “Daughter,” her father called, turning from a pair of men dressed in hose and brightly colored doublets. “Come hither. There is someone here I’d like ye to see.”

  Shona ground her teeth in silent frustration. She’d had quite enough of men for one evening. She felt about as glamorous as a treed ferret, and if Father noticed her torn gown, there’d be hell to pay.

  But he was intent on parading her before every eligible man in Scotland. And if she didn’t answer his summons, he would certainly know something was amiss.

  “I am really quite fatigued, Father,” she began, still holding the tartan against her bosom as she approached him. But he reached out his arm, wrapped it about her shoulders, and steered her away from his companions. Stanford followed along behind as Shona raised a bemused expression to her father. But just then a golden-haired woman turned toward her.

  “Sara!” Shona cried, and launching from her father’s embrace, threw herself into her cousin’s arms. “When did ye arrive? Why wasn’t I told immediately? Did Rachel come with ye? And what of Boden and Maggie? How is sweet Thomas? Have ye heard from Liam?” she rambled.

  “She is really quite fatigued just now. Nearly beyond speech, as ye can see,” Roderic said. But Lord Stanford did not comment, for he was now the one momentarily beyond speech.

  With an effort he found his voice. “Is she…is she another of your daughter’s, my Laird?”

  “Sara?” Roderic sighed. “Nay. I was blessed with only one wee lass,” he said, putting his arm about the younger man’s shoulders. “Tis said the good Lord willna give ye more trouble than ye can handle.”

  “Not a sister?” Stanford said, refusing for a moment to be drawn away. “But—”

  “Aye, they look much alike. My own twin’s daughter is Sara, but there’s no point in gangling about now, lad, for ye’ll get no attention from either of them until they’ve talked things through.”

  “But I…couldn’t I just…watch them?”

  Roderic laughed out loud at the wistful tone, then tightened his grip and steered the younger man away. “Twould serve ye well to try not to act too pathetic, lad,” he advised. “I know tis difficult, but…”

  His voice trailed away.

  “Sara,” Shona crooned, pushing her to arm’s length. “Ye look glorious. Shining…” She shook her head, trying to ascertain what had changed. “But…ye look different somehow.”

  Sara laughed then lowered her gaze to where Shona’s plaid parted. “And ye look somewhat…changed, too,” she said. Reaching out, she tugged the ends of the woolen back together.

  “So I think we’d best get ye to the privacy of your chambers before the Rogue decides to geld one of your suitors.”

  “Oh!” Shona said, remembering her dishevelment and glancing nervously about to make certain no one had noticed her shameful state. “Aye, let us retire to my quarters.”

  They hurried up the winding stone stairs, chattering about everything and nothing until they had entered Shona’s narrow chamber.

  “Your quarters have shrunk,” Sara said, closing the arched iron-bound door behind them.

  Shona laughed. “Better that than to room with a bevy of giggly women who snore and swoon at unpredictable intervals.”

  She removed the plaid from her shoulders. Sara raised her fair brows as she was granted a better view of the gown’s long-suffering state.

  “So tell me, lass, is the perpetrator still alive?”

  Shona dropped to her knees to lift the lid of a large, nearby trunk. “I suspect it would do little good to tell ye I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Sara laughed. “No good atall. Who was it thi
s time?”

  Grasping a white nightgown from the pile of clothing in the trunk, Shona rose to face her. “It was not my fault.”

  “I didna say it—Shona!” Sara said, reaching for the amulet that dangled into sight as her cousin leaned forward in an attempt to untie her laces. “Ye have Dragonheart.”

  “Aye.” Shona beamed as she straightened. “I found him in the waters of Burn Gael some months ago.”

  “But…” Reaching out, Sara smoothed her fingers over the ruby that gleamed from the center of the dragon’s broad chest. “That canna be, for it was lost in the Burn Creag when Warwick snatched it from my neck three years ago.”

  Even through the tattered cloth of her gown, the dragon felt warmer suddenly, as if Sara’s presence moved it somehow. Shona shrugged. “I canna explain it. It seems our Dragonheart survived though the evil wizard perished. Twas a thrill to find the amulet unscathed. But if ye want it back…”

  “Nay,” Sara said and smiled nostalgically. “I’m glad ye have it, what with your ties to the king and the turmoil there.”

  “What do ye mean?”

  Sara shrugged. “I worry for ye, and the amulet made me feel safe somehow when I wore it.

  Even when Warwick was near.” She said the words softly, as if the name itself might conjure up evil.

  “Even when he tried to cast his wicked spells on our minds, we were safe.” She ran her thumb gently over the ruby, and gave a fleeting smile. Beneath her caress, it seemed almost to vibrate. “So our dragon is a male,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “Dragonheart,” she explained with a laugh. “It seems he, like all the males in Scotland, couldna bear to be away from his red-headed lassie.” Dropping the amulet, she stroked Shona’s hair.

  “Oh, aye!” Shona snorted. “I called the dragon to me like the mythical sirens of yore. It could not resist.” She turned, presenting her back and glancing over her shoulder at Sara. “But I fear I’ve cured Laird Halwart of his infatuation with me.”

  “Ahh,” Sara said, stepping forward to undo her cousin’s wet laces. “So he was the one I saw fleeing Dun Ard when I arrived.”