“Mad, brutal, and cruel? No,” she answered without hesitation.
A wry smile touched his lips, lips she knew tasted like wild passion and heat. “Then I’m sorry to say, Grace Ellington, I don’t believe your instincts.”
He didn’t move, yet his rigid posture softened, the firelight behind him making the details of his expression difficult to read in the shadow. “Ye must sleep,” he said.
Grace’s skin tingled at his nearness. She wet her lips and watched as his gaze dropped to them.
“I…” she started and swallowed. “Yes, we must sleep, in order to work together to find this fiend.”
He looked away. “Lie back. I will watch the night.”
“God’s teeth, Keir. The night will watch itself.” She pinched her lips tight to give him a glare. “The door is barred, and if anyone tries to enter, you will no doubt jump directly out of sleep to slice them to bits and claim their heads to decorate your hall for next Christmastide.”
His rigid jaw relaxed enough to allow a thin smile. “Ye have a way with words, lass.”
He’d said the same thing over her passion-evoked rambling in the cabin. Grace felt her cheeks warm but kept his gaze. “Words are powerful,” she said. “Spoken with passion and truth, they can bend hearts and persuade others to act.”
Keir pulled the covers up slightly and pressed against her shoulder until she tumbled over, her head meeting the pillow. “I’m speaking with truth when I say ye must sleep,” he said.
She snorted and pulled his arm until he followed her to lie between her back and the wall. She yawned. “If I wake to find you up and black-eyed from exhaustion, you’ll hear some powerful, loud words from me.”
“I am warned,” he said.
Her back facing him, she could still feel his heat. It seemed to radiate out from him, warming her, inviting the heaviness of peace that was necessary for sleep. She tried not to move, knowing that if she shifted her backside she’d likely brush against him. The thought made her restless, but exhaustion won out over smothered, ignored lust, and Grace fell asleep. The lust, however, followed her into her dreams.
Keir’s hands stroked down over her breasts, making Grace’s gown fade away like magic, exposing her to his sight. He smiled, holding her close but not kissing her. Waiting. The magic word that would spur him into action, gloriously erotic and tantalizing action, sat on her tongue. Grace opened her lips to say “more” but nothing came out. She breathed out a huff, pinching her lips together to make the M sound, but only a whisper released, too quiet to hear despite her screaming the full word in her head. She tried again, and a whimper escaped.
Keir’s mouth hardened as he stared at her, his brows coming down until he glared. His mouth opened in a grimace, showing his teeth. “Nay,” he yelled.
Keir’s voice jerked Grace out of her dream, and she bolted upright, the word finally breaking free. “More,” she said on an exhale and looked around. Where am I? Blinking in the darkness, the gray tones of dawn filtering through the window’s glass panes, the details of her circumstances rushed back to her. Wolves, snowstorm, Keir, a kiss, the cabin, Keir in the cabin, Brodie, the journey to Skye, heads on spikes…poison.
“Nay,” Keir rasped behind her, making her twist to see him. He lay on his back, his fists held tight on the pallet. He mumbled words in Gaelic, his head turning side to side.
“Keir,” Grace whispered. Was he ill? She reached to touch his forehead and gasped as his hand shot up, encircling her throat.
Chapter Fifteen
Keir stood before the man who had been his father, Aonghus Mackinnon. The old warrior’s face was exceedingly red, looking almost purple with his fury. “Let go, Keir,” he said, spittle shooting out through his clenched teeth as Keir held his bulging neck.
“Nay, ye can’t do this,” Keir said, his other fist locked around the hilt of his sword.
“I must, since ye are too much of a coward to do your duty. I thought ye were ready to be the Devil of Dunakin, delivering justice to traitors. I’ve already done half your job. Now finish it.”
Keir wouldn’t turn to look, knowing what lay behind him. “Ye are mad,” Keir said, feeling his hatred for the man surface like vomit up his throat. He released him, and Aonghus rubbed his neck.
“Ye are weak,” Aonghus said. “I am your chief first and the father who raised ye second, and both of me have ordered your obedience.” He reached for his own sword. “Ye do your duty, or you’re no son of mine.”
When Keir didn’t move, Aonghus cursed. “Bastard. I will finish it.”
“Nay!” Keir grabbed his father’s wrist.
“Keir?” A woman’s voice came from the lump on the floor behind him, a voice that couldn’t be. “Keir,” she said again, beckoning him, but if he turned he’d be forced to see…
“Move aside, coward,” Aonghus shoved Keir, raising his sword.
“Nay!” Keir yelled, and in one swift motion that he’d practiced for hours daily, he stepped back, swinging his claymore with muscle and power, the finely sharpened blade whistling through the air until it struck. Aonghus Mackinnon’s head thudded to the floorboards, spattering blood across the wood grain.
Keir’s eyes opened, the fogged mist of the nightmare crisping to reveal an angel’s face. Grace, her hands up around her neck and unguarded fear in her face.
“Keir?” she whispered. “You were dreaming.”
“Grace. Did I… What did I do?”
She shook her head. “Nothing really. I startled you, I think. You reached for my throat but let go as soon as you touched me.”
He flexed his gripped fingers. “Good God, I am sorry,” he said. “’Twas a bad dream.”
“Horrific dream, from the way you looked,” Grace said, lowering her hands. Her throat looked slightly red but not bruised, not like the broken, mottled throat in his memory. Relief hit him hard, and he closed his eyes, his palm covering his nose and forehead.
“Were you in battle?” she asked.
He pulled his knees up to sit, running hands over his face. If only he could sponge away memories as easily as sweat and grime. “Aye, it was a battle.” With one man, a madman drunk with power and bitter rage and determined to spill blood.
Grace touched his shoulder, running a light hand down his arm. “Did you win?”
He turned his face to meet her searching gaze. “I don’t know.”
A gentle knocking pulled their attention to the door. Keir expanded out of his seat, ignoring the aches of sleeping on the lumpy mattress. His eyes rested on the shallow inhale and exhale of Lachlan before he finished walking to the door, where he raised the bar, swinging it open.
His seanmhair stood there in the dark hall, holding a bowl. “I brought the broth Grace mentioned would be good for Lachlan.”
Keir stepped aside to let her in, watching as she set it down and began inspecting the boy. Grace stood to help, taking the boy’s pulse. She looked to Fiona. “Still weak,” she said.
Fiona nodded. “Let us try to get some broth into him.”
Keir put himself between his seanmhair and nephew. “Try the soup first,” he said. “I wouldn’t want it to be too hot and burn the boy.”
Fiona looked confused. “’Tis fine.”
“I see steam rising from the surface,” Grace said. “Please try it.”
Fiona shrugged, tipping the bowl to her lips. A heartbeat before she drank, Grace let out a gasp as she tripped before her, hitting the bowl out of the woman’s hands to splash on the floor, the bowl clattering.
“Clumsy girl,” Seanmhair said, frowning viciously at Grace.
“Goodness,” Grace said, bending to pick up the bowl and place a square of linen over the mess. “I’m certainly not living up to my name this morn.”
Seanmhair mumbled unkind words in Gaelic, but the knot in Keir’s gut, at the thought of her guilt, relaxed. She wouldn’t have nearly tasted the broth if she’d put arsenic in it. Would she?
He glanced at Grace. Even with bi
ts of her hair sticking out from the quick braid she’d fashioned last night and the light imprint of her pillow crease on her cheek, she was lovely, especially now when she smiled despite Seanmhair’s rebuke. This evidence backed up her instincts about her being innocent.
Seanmhair propped her hands on her hips. “Ye can go fetch some more for him.”
“I am sorry,” Grace said. “I will get more and some bread for us.” She nodded to Keir as she grabbed the bowl.
“I will remain here,” Keir said and crossed his arms.
“Don’t ye have discipline to hand out?” Fiona asked. “I hear there’s a lad who stole some bread. He’s in the stocks outside the bailey.”
“I’ll see to it soon,” he murmured. Could no one deliver justice when he was gone? It was as if the town hungered to see the Devil of Dunakin in brutal action. And why was one of Dunakin’s lads stealing bread in the first place? The harvest had been plentiful.
He ground his teeth. It didn’t matter if the boy had stolen the bread or not. If Rab had passed judgment, Keir had a duty to uphold. Like every Devil of Dunakin in the history of the clan, his duty was to strike fear into everyone and anyone who didn’t adhere to the strict dictates of Mackinnon law. No exceptions.
…
Grace followed the steps downward until they opened into the great hall. Would Ava ever believe she was walking the dark halls of a strange castle alone, a castle surrounded by bloody heads on spikes? “Damnation,” she whispered, the curse strengthening her courage. If Keir didn’t take her home, how could she ever hope to escape if she was too frightened to find the kitchens on her own?
The low light from the yet-to-be revived fire cast shadows, and just enough illumination for her to see an archway at the back. The kitchens were usually housed in a separate building with the risk of fire and, since the arch seemed the only other exit, she swallowed past her fear and walked briskly toward it. Grace followed a back corridor that was barely lit by tallow candles in sconces, most of them flickering out at the end of their wicks. Slippered feet moving briskly, she kept her ears alert. She took a deep breath of the damp, dark air to steady her pounding pulse. “Courage,” she whispered and rounded a corner, gasping as she smacked, face first, into a wall.
“Ballocks,” she said, her hands flying up, and she realized it wasn’t a wall but a man. A large man, hidden in the shadows.
She jumped back. “Oh sir, excuse me.”
He said something in Gaelic and held his rush light before him. He had a full beard, closely cropped light-colored hair, and a puckered scar slanted across his forehead to continue down his cheek. Dark circles surrounded each of his eyes, indicating a recently broken nose. Was this Dara’s suitor?
His gaze slid down her body, and she remembered she wasn’t properly dressed in her robe over Keir’s long shirt. “Lo, lass, who are ye?” His rough voice and perusal sent a shiver down Grace’s spine, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.
Grace’s fear screamed so loud in her head, that she could hardly remember her name. She was alone in a pitch-black corridor with an unknown warrior of questionable honor. If he was Dara’s suitor, his leer indicated he wouldn’t be very loyal to her.
Grace’s mouth opened as her mind churned. “I…I am Keir Mackinnon’s…woman.” The words popped out of her mouth before she could truly think them through, for Brodie’s advice about it being safer to belong to a man in the wilds of Scotland seemed valid at that moment.
The look on the man’s face slowly turned from lecherous to lethal. Damn Brodie and his bloody bad advice. “Where is that bastard?” the man asked.
Grace pointed behind her. “Right back that way. He’ll be along any moment.”
The man narrowed his gaze at her. “Ye speak with the tongue of a Sassenach.”
“Oh, yes, I am originally from England, but have since changed my loyalties to all Scottish causes.” She smiled confidently. Could the man see her lips quiver with the effort? He didn’t say anything, just stared, making her mouth open again. She shrugged. “All the good bloody causes that kill English, I support them.” She must stop talking. “If you’ll excuse me, I was on my way to the kitchens for the Devil Keir, who’s right behind me, and very hungry.”
He rubbed his jaw, his tongue pushing out the side of his cheek. Grace stepped to the side when he didn’t move and walked on.
“Devil’s woman,” he called, making Grace’s heart thump.
Stopping, her muscles tensed, and her hands grabbed her robe, lifting it slightly for an easier escape. She looked back over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Tell Keir I’m looking forward to working with him after I marry his sister.”
“I…I will,” Grace said and hurried forward. She didn’t even know the man’s name, but Keir would. Dara must be the bravest woman alive to wed a warrior like that, bravest or most foolish. Grace’s instincts told her that Dara’s groom didn’t own an ounce of compassion or kindness.
She reached the end of the dark hallway and pushed through the door out into the dawn. The freezing air bit against her hot cheeks, refreshing her. She took a moment to lean back against the wall and peered up into the gray sky. Snowflakes floated down, adding to the few inches of snow covering what she supposed was the kitchen garden enclosed by a tall wall. Several stone benches were placed along what she imagined was a pathway when not draped in white, icy crystals.
Inhaling, Grace continued down the covered cobblestone path to another building. The aroma flagged it as the bakehouse. Tangy, yeasty, and mouth-watering, the smell was a welcome balm to her frayed nerves. She stepped inside to find three maids working along a wooden table, while one portly woman withdrew buns from a fire-lit kiln.
“Good morning,” Grace said, and the three women, who didn’t appear old enough to be called women, looked up, curious. One of them was Peigi. Grace smiled at her, and she nodded, eyes growing wide. “I’m searching for more warm broth.”
The portly woman frowned and slaked a condemning expression over her. “What be an English lass doing at Dunakin?”
Grace forced her annoyance into a sweet smile. “I was brought by Keir Mackinnon to help his nephew. I am Grace Ellington, currently of Aros Castle on the Isle of Mull. He sent me to fetch young Lachlan some more broth and some bread and ale for our breakfast.”
Peigi whispered into the ear of the girl next to her, and they both stared at Grace with a look that could only be described as aghast. The portly woman came closer, her face softening. “Och, lass.” Her gaze scanned Grace. “Ye look none the worse for wear.”
“Wear? Oh, the journey was…difficult, but I’ve had some sleep. I should be right again with some food and proper clothing.”
The baker studied her. “He didn’t bruise ye?” she asked and lifted Grace’s arm, studying her wrists. The woman tsked. “I have a poultice for bruises. Any cuts or burns?”
Grace’s smile soured. “Keir would not harm an innocent woman.” She turned at the whispering behind her and saw that all three girls had their heads together.
The woman murmured something in Gaelic, which brought Grace’s gaze back to her.
“I am Nora MacDonald,” the woman said. “The head cook here at Dunakin.”
MacDonald? Good Lord, did the woman know any of the MacDonalds stuck to the torches along the edge of the moor? Grace dipped in a shallow curtsy.
“Aros, ye say?” Nora asked, tipping her head to the side. “Do ye happen to know Alyce? She’s my sister and the head cook at Aros.”
Whereas Alyce’s face was usually tight with a jolly smile, Nora seemed to be the opposite. “Oh yes,” Grace said. “I’ve been working with her in the kitchens at Aros. She’s taught me to make tarts.”
A chuckle broke from Nora’s tight lips, making her cheeks swell like rosy apples, and Grace could finally see the resemblance. “Alyce can’t resist a sweet,” Nora said. “She’s been perfecting her tarts since she was a wee lass.”
“I’m very fortunate t
hat she’s taught me, though I will never have her skill.”
The woman wiped her sweaty forehead with the corner of her apron. “I miss her. She married and moved with her man’s family down there. She doesn’t come home.”
Grace swallowed a bubble of dark laughter. The bloody heads of possible kin surrounding “home” might be the reason. She looked around at the neat kitchen. “Perhaps I could help here when I’m not tending to Lachlan.”
“Aye, if Alyce welcomes ye around her tarts, ye’re welcome here.”
Grace held her smile. “Thank you.” She glanced at the three girls. “Do you have more people in your kitchens to help?”
“Nay, only us four.” She frowned. “And they spend most of their time whispering.”
Grace walked toward the blackened pot over the fire. “Could I dish out some more broth for Lachlan? I spilled the first bowl.”
The woman’s face paled. “In front of the Devil?”
“Uh, yes, though I don’t call him Devil.”
“Did he beat ye?” Nora ducked before Grace’s face, grabbing her chin to tip it toward the bright light of the fire as if a bruise could have been hiding before.
“No. Of course not.” She twisted her face until the woman released her. “May I ladle out another portion for him?”
“Aye,” Nora said and shook her head as if confused by Keir’s benevolence. Did everyone here think Keir was a monster? What did Brodie tell them? That he ate kittens and raped every woman he came across?
Nora pointed a flour-encrusted finger toward several stacks of wooden bowls. “Take one belonging to the lad. It has his initials carved in the side.”
Grace walked over. “He has his own bowls?”
“Aye, they were made for him. The far stack. Plates and bowls from the finest oak. Beautiful workmanship.”
“Are the other stacks for anyone else?” she asked, picking up one of the smooth bowls to examine.
“The middle stack is for the chief, and the third one is for anyone.”
Grace peered at the smooth wood grain where there seemed to be a fine dusting in the very bottom. Running a finger to pick some up, she sniffed it, careful not to touch it to her nose or lips. Odorless. “Did someone give them the bowls?”
The Devil of Dunakin Castle (Highland Isles) Page 13
