Thunder growled in the distance. A gust of wind raced across the courtyard. A few of the soldiers backstepped in alarm.
“It’s only another one of those blasted Highland storms,” Major Darling said impatiently. “There’s no reason—”
Whatever else he’d meant to say was lost as a bolt of lightning struck the ground between him and Marsali. A white-blue flash illuminated the grin of victory that spread across her face. Owen and Lachlan began hopping up and down like a pair of gleeful rabbits. Major Darling’s mouth clacked open and shut in astonishment.
“You let us go now,” Marsali told the major with arrogant dignity. “I made that lightning and I can make it happen again on your fat Sassenach head.”
“Then do it,” he said quietly.
Her smile faded. She couldn’t “do it” again, at least not that fast. “Give me a minute,” she said, casting a nervous glance back at her companions, who were huddled back together in a frightened ball.
She took a deep breath. She voiced a silent prayer. She turned back to the major, slowly raising her arms. Nothing happened. She tried again.
His smile stopped her cold.
“Arrest them,” he said simply.
Duncan stared across the clutter of military maps and sketches on the major’s desk and prayed he would wake up to find this was all a nightmare. His dukedom and cabinet position were going up in smoke before his eyes. His worst fear had been realized.
The major’s voice, tinged with a frustration he could not suppress, droned on: “…arrested thirteen Scottish traitors in all, which included nine men, two extremely belligerent women, and two”—he glanced up at Duncan—“pigs, a male and female.”
Duncan leaned across the desk, his face so fierce that Major Darling swallowed involuntarily. “I want them released.”
“Released, my lord? But that’s impossible. They were caught red-handed trying to torch the fortress. The punishment for—”
Duncan rose from his chair, his broad shoulders blocking out the light of the single wall sconce. “I assume you value your position, Major,” he said without inflection. “But they weren’t trying to torch the fort. They were rescuing pigs.” Major Darling rose to his feet, uncertain which would kill him first: his heartburn or the intimidating Scotsman whose courage on the battlefield was said to border on insanity. He wished he could go back to bed and pretend the whole preposterous incident had never happened.
“I will pay personally for any damages incurred by my clansmen,” Duncan said in a tired voice as he turned toward the door. “You have my word this will not happen again.”
“I’ll have to make a report.”
Duncan pivoted, the lines of his face tightening in displeasure.
“I… I’ll have to,” Major Darling said defensively, pride demanding he at least win this point.
“You’ll report that a handful of unarmed Highlanders slipped past your guard, Major? That the garrison under your guard was besieged by a pair of pigs?”
Major Darling sagged back against his desk. “Dear God.” An unwilling laugh erupted from his chest. “I’ll look like a bloody fool.”
Duncan smiled reluctantly. “So will I.”
“No one would believe it anyway.”
“Probably not.”
The major sobered. “Except that they destroyed the sovereign’s property.”
“The property will be replaced.”
“There has been a strange ship sighted off the cove, my lord. French spies, perhaps.”
Duncan frowned. Jamie’s ship? Well, Jamie was a staunch Jacobite and a troublemaker to boot. That was all he needed to lead his clan into more danger. “If there is a ship, then investigate it. It had nothing to do with my clan.”
“I ought to write that report.”
Duncan’s heart stopped. “Please—a personal favor.” The two men stared at each other across the desk, and Thomas Darling marveled that MacElgin could be reduced to pleading when in reality he held the major’s future in his very palm.
“It won’t happen again.” Duncan put on his black cockaded hat, his face suddenly cold. “I’ll take care of her. You have my word.”
Chapter
27
Duncan slammed the bedchamber door so hard that an ivory cherubim candlestick bounced off the nightstand. As it hit the stone floor, he dumped Marsali at his feet with a grunt of grim satisfaction.
She darted around him, pretending to investigate the damage. She was grateful for any distraction from his horrible temper, which had been preceded by his horrible silence during the endless ride back to the castle.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “You’ve broken the angel’s wing right off.”
He stared down fiercely at her gracefully formed body, outlined by the damp muslin skirts that clung to her every curve. A downpour on the ride home had drenched them both to the teeth. Duncan had been so disgusted with her that he couldn’t even shout.
At least not until they reached the castle courtyard, and she had the incredible brass to tell him, proudly, “I caused that rainstorm, you know. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky until I made it happen.”
He’d shouted at her then. And he’d dragged her by the waist across the courtyard and into the castle. Several clansmen had covered their ears to block out the shouting, especially when Marsali started to give as good as she was getting. But no one had dared intervene. Word of the crushing defeat at the fortress had broken the clan’s feeble spirit. Even Cook couldn’t bring herself to hit anyone until late that morning, and then it was only a half-hearted swipe with a slotted spoon.
“Take your clothes off, Marsali.”
“Why?” She straightened, shivering, and lifted her hand to unbutton her bodice. She was hoping that all their shouting in the courtyard had taken the edge off his beastly temper. “Are we going to lie down together without our clothes on like we did in my uncle’s cabin?”
Duncan closed his eyes, praying for control. By some aberration of human nature, her absurd innocence had managed to bypass his anger and arouse him, invoking flagrantly sexual images of fantasies he had tried all summer to suppress. And he definitely needed a woman. Self-denial might be a necessity during battle, but it wasn’t a practice he enjoyed.
She tiptoed up behind him. “You’re angry at me, aren’t you?”
His shoulders stiffened when he spoke. “You risked your life and my name. Should I be angry at you?”
“Somebody had to stop them from pulling down our homes.”
He was silent. He did not move. He did not trust himself to look at her.
“I’m naked, my lord,” she announced. “What are we going to do now?”
Against his better judgment Duncan turned to regard her, swallowing a groan. She stood nude before him in a puddle of rain-splattered muslin without an ounce of inhibition. Her lithe body blushed a becoming pink from the morning’s excitement. Her small breasts peeked out from behind her waist-length tangle of dark red hair. Tiny, tantalizing, infuriating.
His mind turned to stone while the rest of his body literally pulsed with the most primitive of life’s urges. “Dear God.” He drew a breath. He calculated the distance to the bed. He was a bastard. He had always been a bastard.
“Come here, lass,” he said quietly.
She did, like a lamb led to the slaughter.
He watched her, and hated himself,
“What…” she began, but the rest of the words fled her mind as he dragged her into his arms, inhaling her scent, capturing her in an inescapable vise.
She buckled at the knees. He caught her, easily supporting her weight. His mouth brushed her wet tangled hair. His warm breath was a whisper of sensation against her earlobe. Then he tipped her head back and kissed her with a soul-deep hunger that no other woman in the world could satisfy. He kissed her and damned the darkness in himself for doing so.
Marsali did not move. Her head swam. She had wanted this. She had waited for it all summer. His strength excited
her. She grasped great handfuls of his damp linen shirt. His mouth devoured hers, tasting of passion and anguish. She drew a breath and stood on tiptoe to kiss him back with all the love and desire she had hidden in her heart. She kissed him with the irresistible power of innocence.
“God,” he said in a broken voice, as if she had wounded him.
He thrust against her until he had backed her into the bedpost. He unbuttoned his shirt with an impatient tug and gathered her against his bare chest. A groan of bliss escaped him at the forbidden flesh-to-flesh contact. He pressed his forehead to hers and felt his body shake in a shock of anticipation.
“Marsali.”
She stared into his eyes, drawn into the depths of dark inscrutable emotion. The barriers between them had fallen, and she was suddenly frightened at the power of their attraction to each other, feelings unfettered and given rein.
Her body felt swollen, aroused. She was aware of the sheer size of him, the hard shaft that pressed against her belly. He kissed her breasts. She gasped at the sweet, raw sensation. He traced his tongue across the sensitive tips until she closed her eyes and gripped his forearms, until her back arched and her hair fell in a tangle across her face.
“I wish I had never met you,” he whispered roughly, running his large hands down the length of her spine. Then in the next tormented breath: “They could have killed you, lass, and I’d have lost my mind.”
He dropped to his knees before her, his hands cradling her hips. Through the haze of black-red desire that clouded his mind, he prayed she would resist. But she was no match for his experience, and he could feel her responding, the telltale tremors that rocked her delicate frame as he traced his tongue across her belly. With a shudder of sexual arousal, he inhaled the private musk that rose like perfume from her skin. He could take her in a heartbeat.
“Make me stop.” He raised his dark face to hers.
She shook her head. She touched her hand to his cheek, the black stubble that shadowed the hard contours of his jaw. “But I love you,” she said, as if no other explanation were necessary. “Why should I want you to stop?”
He swallowed the warning that rose in his throat. His gaze hooded, his breathing uneven, he brought his hand down the back of her thigh, around to the delta of her womanhood. His fingers caressed the damp tangle of curls and brushed the distended tissue beneath.
“How lovely you are.” His voice broke on a hoarse exhalation of breath. “Sweet,” he said, closing his eyes to fight the surge of sexual excitement in his system.
Master. Conquer. Dominate. On the floor, in the bed, against the wall. Images of raw male aggression and female surrender flashed across his mind. Soft white skin yielding to his. Her delicate body sheathing him in its depths.
She was so small, every feature sculptured in fragile perfection, every curve a dainty enticement. He had never been as aware of his own size, his own power, before. He had never held a fairy in his hands.
She folded down onto her knees before him, placing her palm on his chest, feeling his heart hammering at her touch. “Duncan.”
He opened his eyes, summoning the self-control of a lifetime to reject the melting sweetness she was ready to lay at his feet.
“No. Don’t,” he said, almost angrily, pushing her hand away. “Don’t touch me. Get off the floor. I’ll hurt you if this doesn’t stop. You don’t understand anything, Marsali. You’re willful and unworldly, and if you’d been shot down with those other imbeciles last night it would have been your own damned fault.”
Her eyes blazed with emotion, puzzled and resentful. “At least I made an attempt to protect those homes. Which is more than I can say for our chieftain.”
He gripped her wrists in his hand, his mouth tightening into a cynical line. “Those homes were not going to be touched, my dear. I had Major Darling’s word on it, which won’t be worth spit now.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered, her face waxen in its frame of unruly curls.
“Because I talked to him only yesterday afternoon, and I never dreamed you’d do something so incredibly outlandish as attack a fortress. Do you realize the risk you took? This could well be the end of my reputation.”
“Duncan, I’m sorry,” she said in a raw whisper.
He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry too. For everything that’s happened this summer. And for what I have to do.” He released her hands. “I could have handled things more wisely. I let my feelings for your father interfere. Get up.”
“Duncan.”
He went rigid at the appeal in her voice.
He made to rise, but she caught his sleeve, holding him with all her strength. “I don’t like the sound of that. What are you going to do?”
“Let go of my sleeve.” He turned his face away. He couldn’t bear to look at her, knowing she would never forgive him. “Put on some dry clothes, for God’s sake, or we won’t ever leave this room.”
She stared at him, twining her fingers in his sleeve, baffled and hurt. “I love you, Duncan.”
“Don’t.” Shadows stirred in the depths of his eyes. “Don’t love me. I’m a born murderer, Marsali. You were right when you said that making war was my world. The others before you were right about me too.”
She refused to accept the finality in his voice. He was hers. Her wounded warrior. She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his battle-scarred knuckles. “I don’t care. Whatever you did happened years ago. I don’t care what anyone has said about you.”
Her unconditional acceptance should have been a balm to Duncan’s heart; instead it stung like vinegar on unhealed hurts. She was naive. How could she possibly love him when he could not love himself?
“You should care what people say. You should listen well.” His voice was fierce. He jerked his hand from hers, her gentle touch arousing needs that could never be fulfilled.
Her gaze met his, and he felt a stab of anguish at the unspoken question in her eyes. Had he murdered his parents? Was it possible? Could the darkest rumor be a reality?
“No,” she said. She swallowed. She rocked back onto her bare heels. “No.”
He stared down at his hands. “Yes,” he said in a low emotionless voice.
She didn’t move, searching his face in stunned silence. Then slowly she rose to her knees and awkwardly put her arms around his shoulders, trying to comfort him. His muscles stiffened in protest even as his heart ached with the human need to be held, forgiven, understood. He lifted his hand to touch her, seeking surcease from his pain, then stopped the impulse.
“I stabbed my father to death after I watched him kill my mother. They were fighting because she had fed me the last of the meat pie during supper. He always hated me. He always knew I wasn’t his.”
His voice was quiet. It was the first time since that night that he had admitted aloud what had happened. The memories flashed across his mind with sickening clarity. Staring up at the sooty ceiling to block out the ugly scene between Fergus and his mother, his sister huddled next to him in the loft, cringing at the sound of raised voices below. Then the hitting, the punches, the kicking, and finally a silence that was the most ominous sound of all.
He’d jumped to the uneven earthen floor and flung himself at Fergus; Duncan had been tall and strong for a boy his age. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed his mother lying across the hearth. Pale, unmoving, a knife wedged between her ribs. As delicate and helpless in death as she had been in life.
Duncan lost control. All the fear and helpless anger of his young lifetime erupted. He rammed his head into Fergus’s chest, forcing him back against the ladder. He barely felt the wooden staff that struck his own face and shoulders, Fergus fighting back with drunken fury. He barely realized when the blows stopped, when Fergus fell forward and his own dirk protruded from Fergus’s throat.
He stared into Marsali’s stricken eyes.
“You’re the only person besides my sister and your father to know the truth. Andrew never questioned me again after that fir
st night. He believed me.” Duncan's voice dropped to a raw whisper. “He never judged me. He believed me.”
Tears misted Marsali’s vision. “I believe you.”
He averted his face. “Get up, Marsali. I have to pack. Get up before I convince even myself that I haven’t a shred of decency in my soul.”
“But I love you,” she said in bewilderment. “No matter what you’ve done.”
He rose without looking down, leaving her naked and as still as a glass figurine on the floor. Fragile. As if she would break if he touched her again. His chest tightened as he bent to lift the brass-bound chest at the foot of the bed into his arms. Ruining her would not be added to his long list of sins.
Marsali frowned, slowly rising to her feet.
His face unreadable, he took the chest to the wardrobe and began to methodically fill it with every last article of her clothing.
“Where are your things?” She glanced up from the chest with a suspicious frown. “Have you already packed? And where are you going, anyway?”
He leaned his shoulder against the wardrobe door, turning slowly to answer her. “The Isle of Inverothes. My sister’s convent is located there.”
“No.” She stared, her face shocked and angry, as the words finally penetrated her mind. “To bloody hell with you, Duncan MacElgin. I’d rather go to gaol for treason.”
A low cynical laugh escaped him. “You don’t go to gaol for treason, little girl. First you’re hanged, then cut down while you struggle to breathe so that the executioners can disembowel you. If they’ve done their job properly, you’ll still be alive to experience the agony of having them roast your entrails—and chop you into little pieces to put on public display.”
Her throat thickened with unshed tears of betrayal; she backed away from him, catching her heel in her own wet clothes.
“I’m not going,” she said.
“You will go, lass. I’m taking you myself.”
“Then I won’t stay. Are you going to watch over me night and day? Do you really think a handful of nuns will be able to keep me there?”
Fairy Tale Page 27
