The Ravenscraig Legacy Collection: A World of Magical Highland Romance

by Allie Mackay

  Drink, women, and carousing were the reasons men flocked to Bran’s keep.

  As always, the hall door stood wide, the milling throng already jostling for entry. Many of the revelers were scantily clad women, lovelies procured for the pleasure of Bran’s guests. Skirling female laughter and bawdy song filled the hall’s smoky, torch-lit depths where visitors celebrated a raucous feast already well in progress.

  A feast some might call an orgy.

  A dark smile curved Alex’s lips. He’d say many orgies.

  Debauchery at its finest.

  And exactly what he needed. So he squelched any remaining doubts about participating in such depravity, closed his eyes, and willed himself to manifest in Bran’s bailey.

  At once, the mists rushed him, the impact almost squeezing the breath from his lungs as the air contracted and spun around him. A whirling vortex spiraling him ever downward until the din of Bran’s hall was no longer faint but a deafening cacophony.

  Alex squeezed his eyes tighter, clenching his fists and concentrating.

  Then he was there, solid ground beneath his feet, his ears assailed by the lusty cries of several women deep in the throes of ecstasy.

  “Aye, right,” he agreed, smiling as his loins clenched in appreciation, his shaft swelling and lengthening even before he opened his eyes.

  He wasted no time, striding right into the fray, his eyes peeled for a pleasing wench. Preferably half-naked, big-breasted and with fine plump thighs ready to spread wide.

  A lusty bawd, well versed in every manner of lasciviousness.

  Above all, skilled enough to wipe Mara MacDougall from his mind.

  Once and for all time.

  Chapter Ten

  A piquant blend of aromas hit Alex full force the moment he materialized in the middle of Bran of Barra’s bailey. Drying seaweed and dead fish, fresh and steaming animal dung, and the unmistakable ripeness of too many hairy, unwashed bodies – the smells assailed him from all sides, taking his breath and instantly deflating his reason for being there.

  He stood frozen, trying not to inhale.

  Sakes alive, even his eyes stung.

  He blinked and started toward the keep, taking care where he stepped.

  In all fairness, he shouldn’t mind. A good hundred years before Bran’s time, his own world had reeked just as powerfully. Truth be told, some baileys in his day had smelled far worse than Bran’s.

  Besides, he hadn’t come here to be kind to his nose.

  His purpose was to tend certain other matters, as a sudden burst of female laughter reminded him. Glancing round, he spied the source, a cluster of bonnie serving wenches filling water jugs at the castle well.

  One had an exceptionally comely bosom, its creamy fullness spilling from her low-cut bodice. Whether deliberate or not, the top crests of her nipples could be plainly seen. Another enticed with a dimpled smile and well-rounded hips, her lush curves and fine, plump bottom guaranteeing she’d prove an ideal bed-warmer.

  “Lasses,” Alex greeted them, glad he’d dressed in his finest Highland trappings.

  “Sir,” they purred in unison, their saucy looks definitely affecting him.

  “We have more in need of filling than these ewers,” the large-bosomed maid teased, eyeing him suggestively as she raised her jug in his direction. “Mayhap you’d care to be of service to us?”

  Alex flashed her a grin. “Perhaps later, sweetness. Just now I’m for speaking to your laird and a friend, Sir Hardwin de Studley.”

  “Bran’s feasting in the hall,” another of the lasses supplied. “Hardwick’s in… well, you’ll see when you find him!”

  “To be sure,” Alex agreed, not missing her meaning.

  Nor the pleasing heat her bold words sent spilling into his loins. Already, he was stirring again. Not with the raging hardness that had driven him here, but with a nice tingling heaviness that was making his shaft twitch in an enjoyable manner.

  He sighed deeply. Aye, most pleasurable.

  There was much to be said for a semi-aroused state. Prolonged desire led to the most satisfying releases. And a cock only somewhat hardened and swinging free between a man’s legs could prove a delicious torment.

  Especially if he happened to be wearing a great plaid with naught but his saffron shirt and Highland pride beneath.

  Savoring that bliss now, Alex glanced again at the lass with the welling bosom.

  “Aye, Hardwick will be deeply into whate’er he’s found to please him,” he said, the suggestiveness of his own words making his shaft stiffen a bit more. “Mayhap after I’ve seen him, I’ll come back to you? Perhaps help fill your ewer?”

  “I’m Maili, should you look for me,” she purred, letting her gaze roam over him. “I am e’er in need of suchlike assistance.”

  She winked, then ran her tongue over her lower lip.

  Aiming to heighten her appeal, she set down her water jug and lifted her hands to her unbound hair, the movement causing her breasts to strain against her low-cut bodice.

  Alex drew a tight breath. His cock swelled and stretched even more. “Lass, you take my breath.” He took a step toward her, his wish to announce himself to Bran before he partook of the Islesman’s hospitality fast losing consequence.

  As he neared the maid, the sun slipped out of the clouds, its slanting light falling across her magnificent breasts, shining on her hair. A glorious mane vaguely the same color as Mara MacDougall’s.

  Glossy tresses tumbling freely over her shoulders in a cascade of gleaming bronze, each bright strand suddenly seeming to glare accusingly at him.

  Alex stopped short, his need receding again.

  He stifled a frown. Nothing was going as he’d planned.

  Misinterpreting his hesitation, the lass began fumbling with the laces of her bodice, untying them until the material gaped wide and her breasts sprang free. “Look well on what will be waiting for you,” she called, plumping them. “And remember my name is Maili. Dinnae you let Lord Bran offer you another!”

  Then she smiled – a crooked, yellow-toothed smile.

  Indeed, her teeth verged on green.

  Alex hoped she couldn’t tell he’d noticed. But he had, and the lingering heat in his groin chilled.

  He swallowed, forcing himself to give her a friendly nod. Feeling guilty, he plucked a clutch of wild flowers out of the air, offering them to her with all the knightly aplomb he could muster.

  “You would be any man’s undoing,” he said, knowing she’d understand the words in a way that would please her.

  Then he turned away and strode off in the direction of the keep. He suspected he’d even seen lice crawling in her hair. How could he have thought, even for a moment, that the lass at the well resembled Mara?

  His stomach turned upside down that he’d even considered the comparison. Frowning, he quickened his pace, skirting a huge pile of black-glistening winkle shells, only to trip over a length of crumpled and twisted plaid.

  MacDougall plaid, and with the lady herself draped across it!

  “Odin’s balls!” Alex’s heart slammed against his ribs. He stared down at her, his eyes seeing her, his mind screaming that he couldn’t be.

  Unless she was dream-walking – sleeping soundly in her bed and dreaming so deeply that the power of her thoughts allowed them to materialize.

  Which meant she was dreaming of him.

  He swallowed, his heart thundering so loudly, he could scarce hear himself think. Nor could he move. Not with her sprawled beneath him again.

  Only this time they weren’t up on the cliffs, and she was nearly naked, wearing only that wee bit of see-through black lace she favored. Even worse, she was lying on her back.

  She was also staring up at him, her gaze riveted on that dangling part of him that the folds of his great plaid did nothing to hide.

  She could see all of him.

  “Sweet lass, if you keep looking at me that way, I willnae be responsible for what I do,” he warned, knowing she couldn’
t hear him.

  But taunt him she could, dream-spun illusion or no. She writhed on the plaid and made soft little mewling noises, her every sinuous move giving him brief, tantalizing glimpses of her charms. The rise and fall of her passion-flushed breasts, a quick flash of nipple. Then, the gods help him, thanks to a lift of her hips, the dark triangle of her feminine curls, a maddening temptation almost too sweet to gaze upon.

  He did, though, and his entire body tightened in fierce, urgent need. She shifted her legs, her back arcing, showing him even more. The narrow strip of black lace covering her hid nothing. Flimsy and sheer, it only revealed her darkest secrets and the dampness gathered there. Worse, the rich musk of her arousal drifted up to intoxicate him.

  “Mara.” He looked down at her, his heart falling wide on the sweetness of her name. His control shattered, the whole, hard length of him demanding release. “I must have you – now, this moment,” he vowed, almost spilling when she reached for him, curled her fingers around his hot, aching shaft and began stroking.

  She closed her eyes in ecstasy, arching her back as the softest sigh escaped her lips. Her straining breasts flushed a deeper red and her fingers clenched tighter, gliding up and down, furiously milking him, and he could not feel a thing.

  “Nae!” he roared, damning the veil of her dream that cheated him of her touch. “I cannae bear it,” he snarled through his teeth, hot anguish sweeping him.

  Then she was gone, leaving only a length of ragged and soiled tartan. MacNeil of Barra tartan, and quickly snatched up by a harried-looking laundress as she hastened past, a bundle of linens and plaids clutched to her breast.

  “My pardon,” she called over her shoulder as she scurried away, the mud-stained tartan trailing behind her.

  Alex stared after her, too stunned to move. Gradually, his heart stopped racing and he dragged a hand down over his face, heaving a great sigh. Never had a lass so consumed him. Had she not been a dream figment, he would’ve taken her on the cold and muddied cobbles.

  More than once No matter who might’ve looked on.

  Only she mattered.

  She’d worked her witchy magic on him in other ways, too. He pinched the bridge of his nose, amazement making his head pound. Had he really thought of her as dreaming in her bed?

  Not his, but hers?

  Aye, he had. And he supposed that, come the night, the moon would now fall from the sky.

  But he hadn’t come this far not to escape her, and he would.

  Even if it meant bedding every wench Bran had to offer.

  To that end, he marched long-strided across the bailey, making for a tall stone building with a high sloping roof. Bran’s keep. Within its stout walls nestled the Hebridean chieftain’s far-famed hall-of-all-pleasures.

  The sun glinted off the keep’s narrow round-topped windows and Alex stepped faster, shouldering aside a few lurching ale-heads as he crossed the drawbridge, then mounted the steep stone ramp to a door set high into the thickness of the wall.

  Massive and iron-studded, the door stood wide, allowing entry into Bran’s private realm unchallenged. Alex paused on the threshold, adjusting his plaid. Then he drew back his shoulders and stepped inside.

  A familiar chaos greeted him.

  The cavernous smoke-hazed hall thronged with revelers, servants bustled about with brimming ale jugs and platters of roasted meats. Torches and tapers cast shadows on the weapon-hung walls and the high, beamed ceiling, and dogs raced everywhere, barking and hoping for scraps. The din was deafening. Laughing, jostling men crowded the trestle tables and milled in the aisles. A full score of blowsy, bare-breasted women preened near the huge open hearth, some singing bawdy songs, others airing their skirts – much to the delight of their bearded, ale-swilling audience.

  Cheers and encouragement filled the air, and with the desired result.

  A muscle twitched in Alex’s jaw. And elsewhere. Such bold displays of naked female flesh were more than entertaining. But just as when he’d made himself visible in the bailey, unsavory smells rushed him from all sides.

  He steeled himself, tried not to rumple his nose. Offending his host was the last thing he wanted to do.

  But the floor rushes were matted and soiled and obviously hadn’t been changed in more centuries than he cared to guess. Worse, the hall’s thick haze of smoke almost choked him. The fresh, clean air of his Mara’s world flashed through his mind and he swallowed a curse, disguising it behind a cough. Already heads were swiveling, curious glances flying his way.

  Not that he cared who stared at him.

  Nor did it matter if he did, for it was too late to leave.

  He’d been seen.

  His host was sitting in one of the window embrasures, a half-clad wanton on his knee. “Lo! Do my own eyes deceive me?” Bran of Barra boomed his astonishment, springing to his feet. “Is that yourself? Alex Douglas? Come to grace my hall?”

  Narrowing his eyes at Alex, he snatched an ale from a passing reveler, drained it, and then tossed the empty tankard onto the floor rushes. “Thor’s knees, it is you!” he shouted, slapping his thigh. “On my soul – this is a right surprise!”

  Then he was hurrying forward, all laughter and charm, his bushy-bearded face splitting in a grin. “Welcome, Welcome!” He grabbed Alex’s shoulders, shaking him. “My house is yours. And anything in it that might catch your fancy!”

  He released Alex, and gave him a hearty cuff on the arm. “So many of my fancies as you desire.”

  “And one for you.” Alex reached inside his plaid, producing a quickly fashioned shoulder belt of finest leather, magnificently tooled. “For your fine welcome.”

  Bran of Barra grinned. “Leave it to a Douglas to come bearing gifts worthy of a king,” he praised, unrolling the belt with obvious delight. “I say thank you!”

  Alex started to deny his reason for being there, but before he could, Mara’s face rose up out of nowhere, her amber eyes staring at him from the shadows.

  Staring coldly. Angrily.

  Heat shot around Alex’s chest, clamping like a vise.

  He swallowed, feeling like a wee laddie caught doing what he ought not. “You are as generous as I remember,” he said to Bran, forcing the expected response. “The splendor of your hospitality is staggering-”

  “Always, for my friends!” Bran cut him off, set his hands on his hips. “So you have come to join in our merrymaking? Say it is so!” He rocked back on his heels, looking pleased. “Does this mean you’ve finally chased the last MacDougall from that accursed bed of yours?”

  Alex glanced in a certain direction, relieved that his lady’s image was gone.

  “That bed and the MacDougalls still plague me. Mightily of late.” He opted for the truth, if not the whole of it. “So I came to seek diversion, aye.”

  Bran cocked a brow. “The sort such as yon Hardwick favors?” he teased, jerking his head toward the hall’s raised dais.

  Alex followed his gaze, knowing what he’d see.

  Hardwick lay sprawled the length of a cushioned trestle bench meant for honored guests. A well-made lass with flowing hair the color of midnight sat astride him, the rhythmic rocking of her hips leaving no doubts as to the type of entertainment she was bestowing.

  Alex’s loins quickened at the sight, the wench’s lusty cries sending heat all through him. His cock swelled at once, its hard length tenting his plaid.

  But it was her he needed.

  Mara bluidy MacDougall. Herself, with her hot temper and affection for old dogs and bandy-legged graybeards. She alone sent lust surging through him, heating his blood and setting him like granite. He wanted her beneath him, on top of him, in his arms, any way he could have and savor her.

  Not some Hebridean light-skirt whose face he’d forget before he pulled out of her.

  Something inside him caught fire, a burning, ripping pain deep inside his chest. He suspected it was the nagging awareness that he was so obsessed by her that no other female interested him. And that was a compli
cation he chose to ignore, focusing only on the throbbing at his groin.

  “No need to answer, my friend.” Bran threw an arm around Alex’s shoulders. “It’s plain to see you came for the same reason Hardwick fair lives here!”

  Beaming, he propelled Alex deeper into the hall. “I have the just the wench for you - Galiana. She’ll see to your wants and satisfy your every wish, even fetch you a fresh maid after you’re done with her if you so desire.”

  Alex nodded, his throat suddenly as tight as his man-parts.

  Now that the time to break his centuries-long abstinence was finally upon him, he couldn’t shake the gnawing suspicion that no other female but Mara would suit him.

  Unthinkable if he ended up like Hardwick – sporting a ragingly hard lance yet unable to find release.

  He pushed the thought aside, refusing to consider it. He could thrust his sword wherever he chose and he’d take great satisfaction in the task! He’d always been a well-lusted man, leastways in his earth life.

  After he’d recovered from Galiana, he’d work his way through a whole score of Bran’s fancies, enjoying them all until every last drop of desire drained from his sated body.

  Only then would he risk returning to Ravenscraig and facing Mara MacDougall. See her banished in earnest.

  Before either of them tore an even greater hole in their hearts.

  “Well?” Bran’s deep voice rang out beside him. “Is she no’ all I promised?”

  Alex started. He hadn’t realized they’d reached the dais.

  But they had, and Bran stood grinning at him, his hand on the shoulder of a voluptuous woman draped in scarlet and gold. The Islesman lifted her heavy flaxen braid, bringing to his lips for a smacking kiss.

  “Behold Galiana!” He smiled at her, his barrel chest swelling. “She carries the blood of Norse kings, is unequalled in her skill. I would no’ offer her to just anyone.”

  Alex swallowed, unable to speak. The woman was desirable, and tempting.