Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  He jerked back at the sound of her voice.

  “Behind ye!” she rasped.

  She saw the pale shadow of his face turn away. But in a moment he was staring at her again.

  Heaven’s wrath! Couldn’t he see the attacker? Couldn’t he feel the evil?

  She tried to struggle up to save them both from the man who had attacked her, but a hand on her shoulder held her down.

  “Stay!” he ordered, and turned away to disappear through the door.

  Strength seeped weakly back to Shona. She dragged herself to a sitting position with her back against the wall and tried to still her spinning world.

  Footsteps echoed on the floor and stopped. There was a sound like a knife slipping into its sheath. A spark flashed in the darkness, hurting her eyes. Instinctively, she covered her face and flinched away, but the spear of brightness only settled into a small flame, lighting a candle nearby.

  It illuminated dark features and set silvery eyes ablaze.

  “What the devil are ye doing in my room?” asked Dugald Kinnaird.

  Shona tried to find her equilibrium, or at least think up a good lie. But there was little hope of that, for her head pounded and her eyes throbbed in sockets that were suddenly too small.

  “Where is he?” she croaked. The words sounded fuzzy to her ears.

  “Who?”

  Who indeed. “The man,” she mumbled. Every inch of her battered body ached, while her jaw felt as if it had been attacked by a battering ram.

  “You came here to be with a man?”

  His voice sounded oddly sharp, unlike his usual seductive timbre. She tried to focus on him and found that she was marginally successful. Her hands were still shaking, but her lungs no longer felt as if they were being squeezed by a wine press, and her head felt as if it might, despite her first impressions, still be attached to her neck.

  “And what man did you hope to see?” he asked, drawing nearer. “What man could you wish to see dressed in naught but a nightrail, Damsel Shona?”

  All right, so she had been about to snoop through his private things. But that was hardly the issue here. She had been attacked! Could he be so dense that he didn’t realize that? What had happened to her assailant? How had he slipped away so quickly, so silently that this Dugald did not even realize he had been there? “Where is he?” she croaked again.

  “Who? Who did ye plan to meet here?”

  The truth seeped slowly into her battered mind. He thought she had planned a tryst here. Dear God, he was dumber than a rock!

  “Who?” he repeated, stepping forward.

  He seemed different somehow tonight, sharper, harder, not the handsome scoundrel sniffing out a rich bride, but something entirely different. Who was this man? she wondered, and realized suddenly that he was dressed in loose fitting breeches and a simple belted tunic, all of it the same shade as the night.

  “Tell me who you planned to meet here, lass, or I’ll have to tell your father you’ve been sleep walking where you shouldn’t.”

  The threat cleared her head better than Fiona’s bitter tonics.

  “Who did I plan to meet? Oh, I dunna know.” She tried to shrug and felt strangely disembodied.

  “Any man that would have me I suspect, Dugald the Daft.”

  “That’s Dugald the Deft,” he corrected through his teeth.

  “Oh!” She was really not in a mood for conversation. “And what makes ye think so?”

  “I did not take the name myself.”

  “Of course. I believe ye claimed it was the queen of Kalmar.”

  “Actually, I believe it was the Queen of Spain who mentioned it first.”

  “Was it after your ‘short acquaintance’ with her also?” She dared a fuzzy glance about the narrow room. It was empty but for the two of them. Why was she here? she wondered foggily.

  “Mayhap I saved her from a fate worse than death,” Dugald said.

  “Ye mean ye ceased bombarding her with inane questions?” she asked, settling her gaze on him.

  Dugald gritted a smile at her. “I…” he began, but stopped himself and pushed out a heavy breath.“Who slept here before I arrived?” he asked, settling himself on the pallet beside her. “Who were ye hoping to meet?”

  “Oh, I dunna know,” she said, and remembered suddenly that she had come to search his room.

  Hadn’t she? Lying carefully back, she twisted about to peak under the bed.

  “Your lover must be quite small,” Dugald said.

  She gave him a look.

  “To fit under the bed. He’s not there is he?”

  “Nay,” she said. “Just your saddle packs and a mouse. Might he be a friend of yours? Rodents are quite gregarious, ye know.”

  “Who did you come here to meet?”

  “It hardly matters I suppose.” She tried to leer at him, but she feared it came off rather like the twisted grin of a rabid wolf. “Now that I know tis your room, I’d best be leaving.” To her absolute amazement, she gained her feet.

  “Sit!” he ordered, and nabbing her sleeve, yanked her easily back down.

  Her head swam with the sudden movement. She fought back oblivion.

  “So I am not good enough for you?” he asked. “When another man would have been?”

  Shona considered his words for a moment. “Aye. That seems to sum it up well enough,” she said, and lurched to her feet.

  He snatched her sleeve again, but this time his fingers became tangled in her hair. It yanked against her wounded scalp. She whimpered at the stab of pain and toppled to the mattress.

  The room went absolutely silent.

  “You’re hurt?” His tone was cautious, as if he couldn’t quite believe his own words.

  There was any number of acceptable actions she might take with a dunce like him, Shona thought. At the very least she could give him a ladylike slap for his rude, and, she might add, lunatic assumptions. But it felt very good suddenly to just lie there.

  “You’re hurt,” he said again, but as a statement this time.

  “Truly?” she said. “I thought something seemed amiss. The walls dunna usually swim about like this.”

  “What happened?” His tone was stony.

  She drew a deep breath. “Well, ye see, I was lonely. So I thought to myself, I must find a companion to share the dark hours with. Thus I wandered down the passageways, across the hall, through the bailey, into the stable, and voila! Here I am. How was I to know it would be your room?”

  Silence again, then, “Tis little wonder your father is so desperate to see ye married off.”

  “He is not—” She sat up too suddenly. Her head spun. Her body screamed. She put her fingers to her head, making certain it was still there. “He is not desperate to marry me off,” she said, her tone peeved. “He is merely endeavoring to find me a suitable match.”

  “And the devil was unwilling?”

  “Indeed, Dugald the Dumbfounded, with your charm I canna imagine why ye yourself have not convinced some lovely heiress to be your bride.”

  He grinned at her, showing a bit of the silky charm she had come to expect from him. “Mayhap I have so many offers I cannot decide amongst them.”

  “And mayhap I am really an onion dressed in a nightrail, but I rather have my doubts.”

  He laughed. “Does your father know about your nocturnal wanderings?” he asked.

  “By that do ye mean to ask if your head would be forfeited if he found me here?”

  “Just so,” he commented wryly.

  It was her turn to smile, though the expression did her head little good. “Not to worry. Roderic the Rogue always encourages immorality in his children.”

  Dugald rested one hand on the pallet and raised a brow at her. “Does he, now?”

  “Ye think I would lie?”

  “I know you would lie. You’ve done little else since our first meeting.” Reaching up with his free hand, he touched the burgeoning bump on her skull.

  She jerked away. It was a bad
idea, for her brains threatened to spill out of her ears.

  Dugald drew his hand back with a scowl. He let out a slow, deliberate breath. “How did you get that knot?”

  “What knot?” she asked sweetly.

  “The turnip-sized lump on the side of your pate.”

  “Tis a family inheritance. Indeed, they used to call my grandsire, Auld Turnip Head.”

  “Tell me, Damsel, are you always so ornery in the wee hours of the morn?”

  She thought about it for a moment. “Tis an odd thing about me,” she said. “But whenever I’m…”

  The night’s events seemed to be getting foggier by the moment. She scowled at the realization.

  “Whenever I’m klonked on the head, then accused of… what shall I say, loose morals, I tend to become a bit peevish. Might I leave now?”

  The hint of a grin lifted his lips again. “What shall I think when I return to my room only to find you sprawled across my bed?”

  “Just what ye thought, of course. That I could no longer bear to be without ye. That I could not resist your allure. That regardless of everything I—”

  “You’ve a knack for dramatics,” he muttered, and rose irritably to his feet. In a moment he had fetched a wooden bowl from the top of a stool. Snatching a cloth from a leather bag beneath the bed, he dunked it into the water in the dish then settled back onto the mattress. “Would it be such an onerous task to tell the truth?” he asked, and wringing out the rag, touched it to her head.

  Pain jolted through her cranium. She jerked away. “Are ye calling me a liar again?”

  He snorted and settled the cloth back against her skull. “Nay. Not atall. You were lonely so you wandered aimlessly across a hall full of half-dressed men you do not know, ventured through the bailey into the stable, and just happened to land in my room.” Quiet settled in. “What really happened?”

  She scowled. “Someone attacked me…I think.”

  His dark brows lowered over quicksilver eyes. Twas strange, in the full light of day, those eyes looked alluring, true. And sometimes there was an element of mystery to them. But this night they looked altogether different. It was almost as if the veneer of civilization had been stripped away, showing the primitive edges underneath. But hardly did that description fit with what she knew of him. He was a preening coxcomb, a womanizer.

  “You think? You think someone attacked you? In my room?” he asked. “Which, by the by, was empty but for ye when I arrived here.”

  “You’re thinking mayhap I banged myself in the head just for sport?” They stared at each other.

  The cool rag felt soothing somehow against her scalp. Too soothing.

  “I must leave,” she said, and lurched to her feet.

  But suddenly he loomed over her. He was not a huge man, she knew. But now he seemed to be so much larger than herself with a strength far beyond hers.

  “I dunna think so,” he murmured, his hand gripping her arm. “Not yet.”

  Chapter 8

  Shona narrowed her eyes at him. Except for a few vague details, her mind was beginning to clear and questions of her own were beginning to echo in her head.

  “Where were ye?” she asked.

  “Your pardon?”

  “When I arrived here. Where were ye?”

  “Tis a bit unseemly for a lass in your position to be asking about my whereabouts,” Dugald said. His hand felt inordinately warm through the sheer fabric of her nightrail’s sleeve. “When in truth, you’ve given me no good answer to why you came here atall.”

  Why indeed? Her every move now seemed foolish. Shona tried to steady her thoughts, but Dugald stood so close she could smell the heat of his skin, strangely erotic, trickling through her system like fine wine.

  He stepped closer still. She leaned back. The world shifted shakily, and he slipped his hand about her waist as if to steady her.

  Instead, it did the opposite. His fingers, long and firm against her back, set up an odd tingling that coursed through her every nerve.

  “Tell me the truth,” he crooned. “Why did you come here?”

  “Why?” If she remembered that, mayhap she could chastise herself properly. But as it was, she was having difficulty thinking at all, for the bump to her head seemed only exacerbated by Dugald’s nearness. “Do ye want the truth,” she asked, “or a twisted but oh-so- interesting fabrication?”

  He moved his hand slowly up her side. “The truth would be interesting enough, I’m thinking.”

  She swallowed as his hand crossed her spine, drawing her closer. “I was sleeping,” she began.

  “Ahh, sleeping.” His left hand moved up her arm and skimmed beneath the weight of her hair.

  His fingers were feather soft as they caressed her flesh there. “And?”

  “And I heard something.”

  “Such as?” He slipped his splayed fingers carefully onto her scalp, massaging gently, and making her knees go weak with the gentle movement. “A bang, a crash, what?”

  “Twas more like a…” The tiny circles made by his fingers seemed to be drawing the pain right out of her skull like primitive magic. “More like a scratch.”

  “A scratch? Did it wake Kelvin and the other lads just down the hall?”

  She scowled. “How do ye know where Kelvin sleeps?”

  He delayed his answer for only a fraction of a moment. “Tis only logical that you would not allow the boy far from your side. You are well attached to the child,” Dugald said. “You would not wish him far away. He was not awakened by the noise?”

  She closed her eyes against the feelings his touch evoked. There was a strange, disconcerting sorcery to his touch. A sorcery she would flee from right now, if she had the good sense of a goose.

  “Nay.” No one else was. Indeed, now, in a lighted room, with Dugald’s magical fingers on her skin, she wasn’t at all sure there had been a noise at all. Perhaps it was only her oddly heightened senses playing tricks on her again.

  But something evil had happened in this room. She thought someone had attacked her. But Dugald had seen no one. No one but herself sprawled across his bed like a wanton doxy.

  “Where were ye?” she asked again.

  “I was but answering the call of nature. And what of you?” he asked.

  Shona scowled. Everything seemed bleary and uncertain now. “It just so happens, I… followed someone here.” It was almost the truth.

  “Who?”

  “I dunna know.”

  He paused for a moment, then, “You followed an unknown someone here in the dark, without the meanest weapon of any sort, and not a soul to protect you from the multitude of strangers that fill your home?”

  “When ye say it like that ye make it seem like less than sound reasoning.”

  He laughed as he settled his shoulder against the wall near the door. “Would you like to hear what I think?”

  “Nay,” she said, not pausing for a moment. “Not in the least.”

  “I think you cannot bear to have one man amongst the crush that is not wrapped around your delicate finger.”

  “Tis difficult to say, since that has never happened,” she countered haughtily.

  “It has happened now, for as tempting as it is to be wrapped around any part of you, I fear I cannot afford the cost of the trouble you would cause me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye.”

  “And here I thought ye were merely looking for a wealthy bride and would not concern yourself with how much trouble your money source caused ye. After all, Baroness de la Mire does not sound like a lambkin.”

  He was silent for a moment, his eyes absolutely steady on hers. But where she thought she might see anger, there was only the spark of humor. “I have not mentioned the baroness. You’ve been prying into my past, Damsel.” He leaned forward slightly. “Dare I hope it is because you care?”

  Shona silently berated herself. She had not meant to allow him to know that she had been asking questions about him. For surely that showed
an interest she did not harbor. “Nay,” she said quickly.

  “Ye may not.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Tell me, Dugald the Deaf, do ye always have such trouble hearing? I swear I told ye my reasoning before.”

  “Tis a strange thing about me,” he said. “When a person is attacked, I always expect there to be an attacker. Someone who is actually visible.”

  She gritted her teeth at him, angry with herself for feeling so vague and uncertain of the events just past. “Could it be that ye have as much trouble seeing as ye do hearing?”

  “I assure you, I have no trouble with any of my facilities.”

  “I am quite impressed. Shall I inform the heralds?”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “If someone attacked you, who was it and why would he wish you harm? Did he…” Dugald paused for a moment, his gaze sharp. “Did he perchance, have other thoughts in his head?”

  “Truly, I have no idea.”

  “Did he mean to rape you?”

  The words came out harsh. She drew in her breath. “I had better go,” she said and turned away.

  He caught her arm. “Tis good to know you learn from your mistakes.”

  “Which means?”

  “Are ye hoping to be attacked again on your way back? Or shall I escort you?”

  She smiled, then jabbed him sharply in the ribs with her free elbow. “I prefer to be attacked,”

  she said.

  “That was my suspicion.” He rubbed his ribs, looking irritable.

  She drew herself up. “So ye still think I came here for a midnight tryst?” she asked.

  He scowled. “In truth, I dunna know—”

  She jerked her arm out of his grasp and twisted about.

  “Nay,” he said, his tone harsh. “I do not believe you came here for a tryst. Instead, I think you are a spoiled little princess who has never had to learn the hard lesson of humility.”

  They were standing very close, nose to nose.

  “And ye think to teach me?” she asked.

  His grin was slow, his dark lashes thick as sable over his half closed eyes. “There are many things I’d gladly teach you, lass. Humility is not amongst them.”

  She leaned closer so that her nipples were pressed ever so lightly against his chest. “Do ye know what I think?” she asked, making certain her tone was husky, her eyes half-lidded.