by Tarah Scott
Mara looked aside, astonishing herself even more because her eyes were misting. She rarely got emotional, prided herself on keeping her feet firmly on the ground and making sure her only hopes and dreams were attainable ones.
But neither had she ever run from a challenge.
In fact, she thrived on them.
“Miss McDougall?” Percival Combe’s voice came edged with encouragement, as if he sensed her capitulation.
And she was surrendering, her determination to succeed mounting with each indrawn breath.
“You can be assured I will help you in every way I can.” He spoke again, the possibilities behind his words wooing her. “Anything you-”
“Anything?” Mara’s heart gave a lurch, a wild notion beginning to spin inside her.
Percival Combe smiled. “The smallest detail.”
“Well,” she began, “there is something.”
“No need to be hesitant, my dear.”
Mara felt a smile coming. “It’s about a bed…”
***
Much later, in the small hours of the same night but on the other side of London, Sir Alexander Douglas suppressed a yawn with all the noble dignity he possessed. Seldom had he been so weary. Or more resentful of not being allowed to succumb to the long sleep of centuries.
Instead, he’d spent his evening striding about her bedchamber, hoping in vain that his spurred footsteps would clank loudly enough to wake her. Unfortunately, the poxy inn she’d chosen kept tapestries on the floor.
Alex scowled.
Never had he seen the like. That a MacDougall enjoyed such a luxury didn’t sit well with him.
Not at all.
He glared at the offensive flooring, sure it must’ve cost a king’s ransom. A company of caparisoned destriers could thunder across such thickly woven cloth and make nary a sound. He’d certainly done his best to disturb the lass.
Yet she slept on, unaware.
His ire rising, he stopped his pacing and wished her scent didn’t pervade the room. Regrettably it did, plaguing him from all corners of the chamber no matter where he went to escape it. The perfume hung in the air, wafting about like a misguided spring breeze, fresh, light, and beguiling.
Alex’s frown deepened.
His shoulders went back. A MacDougall should smell of muck, or at least, onions or garlic. Sadly, this one didn’t. Her scent was lovely and feminine, bewitching him on each inhalation. So to fuel his gall, he turned in a slow circle, again surveying her lavishly outfitted sleeping quarters.
The Buxton Arms, the establishment’s sign post proclaimed, the Englishness of the name darkening his mood. As did the room’s trappings. And not just the arras-laid floor. That particular affront was but a small portion of the decadency. Sakes, the wee chamber brimmed with more luxury than Robert Bruce’s entire royal court.
A fine cushioned chair, infinitely sumptuous, earned his especial wrath. The piece stood near the foot of the bed, and, och, but it beckoned. Alex folded his arms, determined not to succumb. He’d sooner stand naked in a patch of stinging nettles than sink into a MacDougall chair.
Aching limbs or no.
He glanced at his reflection in the looking glass, scowling not at his own formidable appearance but at the smooth perfection of the mirrored glass.
The MacDougalls’ fortunes clearly hadn’t lessened over the centuries if a member of their dastardly number could afford to lodge in such splendor.
“Tapestried floors!” he huffed, turning away.
Silence and shadows greeted him, the drip-drip of rain and the sighing of the night wind increasing his weariness. Not to mention the weight of his mailed shirt and other knightly accoutrements, all donned expressly to strike terror into the lass should she waken and glimpse him looming over her.
But alas, that didn’t seem likely.
He risked another glance at the chair, considered continuing his watch from its well-padded depths. After all, no one would know. Surely it wasn’t beneath his dignity to allow himself a wee respite?
The MacDougall wench hadn’t stirred in hours.
Besides, he was a seasoned warrior, greatly respected in his time. He had no need to prove his prowess or stamina. Such a small indulgence as whiling a few moments in comfort was the least the MacDougalls owed him.
His decision made, he lowered himself into the chair, almost letting out a sigh of pleasure. Instead, he unsheathed his sword and rested it across his knees.
For effect and good purpose.
A battle-clad knight with a gleaming brand at the ready made a more intimidating appearance than a bone-weary wretch sagged into a chair.
But as soon as he struck a comfortable and sufficiently daunting pose, the chit moved.
And she did so in a way that instantly banished his exhaustion. Indeed, his every nerve leapt to high alert as she twisted and rolled beneath the bed coverings. Sensual, abandoned movements surely made with an aim to make a man admire her wantonness, even ache with the urge to possess her.
“Bluidy hell!” Alex clenched his fists against the heat that flashed through him.
For a beat, he imagined spreading her wide and feasting his eyes, devouring every inch of her. Sinking deep inside her until her writhings and moans were caused by his rhythmic in-and-out glides and not the vagaries of sleep.
He glowered at her, determined not to run hard no matter how provocatively she tossed and stretched beneath the coverlet. As if she sensed his ill ease, she stilled then, appearing to have turned onto her side. He couldn’t tell for certain because she’d pulled the blankets to her chin.
Only her hair marked her as the MacDougall spawn eager to claim his bed. And what hair it was. Temptress hair, all flame-bright curls and tousled waves. The kind of wild mane that made a man ache to bury his face in its richness and just inhale until he drowned in the swirling, silken strands.
MacDougall or no, she did have glorious hair.
Great, glossy skeins of red-gold streamed across her pillow in a blaze of color. For one crazy-mad moment, he wondered whether such bounty would feel as silky as it looked. Especially how such lusciousness might feel sliding across the bared skin of his chest or certain other sensitive places.
Not that suchlike should interest him.
The passing of so many centuries must’ve pickled his brain. No lass of her ilk should fire his need, awakening long dormant urges. But then she moved again, the slight shifting emphasizing the ripe fullness of her body, and even worse thoughts assailed him.
Not that he could help it, for she’d rolled onto her back and stretched her arms above her head in a lascivious pose surely designed to take unfair advantage. As if she knew he’d suffered centuries of agonizing abstemiousness.
Feeling bedeviled, Alex tensed, his annoyance mounting when the coverings slipped to reveal the creamiest, most perfect breasts he’d ever seen. Full, round, and luscious they were, and topped with deep rose-colored crests that puckered under his stare.
And the wench wasn’t finished with her trickery.
Surely aware that she had a captive audience, she began inching her right foot up the calf of her left leg, her raised knee lifting the bedding just enough to reveal a part of her that no red-blooded man could resist gazing upon.
Alex leaned forward, close as he dared.
Near enough to see quite plainly that not the barest slip of modesty shielded her secrets from view. Clamping his jaw lest he disgrace himself by groaning, he stared at the triangular thatch of red-gold curls.
Stared, and used every shred of his willpower to ignore the pounding at his loins.
Blessedly, she soon lowered her knee again and with it, the covers. So he returned his attention to her breasts, not surprised to discover them still fully bared, their peaks puckered and thrusting.
Fierce lust gripping him, he cursed the tautness in his vitals and concentrated on stifling all thought of what it might be like to graze those hardened peaks with his teeth. Nip, lick, and draw on them until
she arched her back and cried out her desire for deeper, more intimate ministrations.
Dark, earthy pleasures he had no business thinking about.
Certainly not involving a MacDougall!
Outraged, he swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. If she meant to seduce or shock him with her wanton display, it wouldn’t do to have her catch him with sweat dampening his brow.
“‘Tis not sitting and scowling I’d be doing in the face of such temptation,” came a deep voice from the shadows.
“What are you doing here?” Alex whirled around, the shock of his friend’s untimely arrival making his heart plunge. “Have you naught better to do than spy on me, you varlet?”
“Something better to do?” Hardwin de Studley of Seagrave lounged against the doorjamb, a look of high amusement on his aristocratic face. “Nae, my friend, I cannot say that I do.”
“So I see,” Alex shot back, anything but pleased.
He should have known the womanizing scoundrel would make an appearance.
Warring companions and friends in life, they were now assured a continuing relationship through an odd twist of fate. Like Alex, Hardwick, as the dark-visaged knight was commonly known, had also fallen victim of an enchantment.
Or a curse, depending on how one looked at it.
A notorious wencher, Hardwick was bound by a traveling minstrel’s spell to spend eternity pleasing women yet nevermore to attain his own release. For the minor slight of refusing a night’s lodging to the wandering bard, the sennachie reversed their roles, binding Alex’s friend to roam the earth, doomed to satisfy a different woman every night for all eternity.
Alex’s lips twitched and his vexation began to ebb. At least he need only guard his bed, keeping it free of MacDougalls. Even MacDougalls who roused unwanted urgings in him and stirred his deepest desires. An existence such as his friend must endure did not bear contemplation.
“Be that the latest MacDougall?” Hardwick changed the subject, his glance on the sleeping lass.
“So it would seem,” Alex confirmed, careful not to let his gaze dip to the thrusting evidence of Hardwick’s affliction. “And a pricklier female ne’er walked the earth.”
Hardwick’s eyes glinted with interest. “Shall I soften her disposition for you? The task would be a pleasure.”
“No doubt.” Alex frowned, his mood worsening upon following the other’s gaze.
Gods, he’d forgotten the wench’s exposed bosom!
A lush feast for manly eyes, her breasts rose and fell with the rhythm of her sleep, their rounded swells, beckoning.
“Leave her be, Seagrave. She deserves no such attention.”
Hardwick took a step toward the bed. “Ah, but her loveliness begs to be-”
“Ignored!” Alex shot to his feet and used the tip of his sword to flick the coverlet into place.
But not before Hardwick burst out in raucous laughter.
“So that’s the way of it!” He grinned, scarce containing himself.
Refusing to be baited, Alex returned to the chair. “Nae, that is no’ the way of it,” he denied, slapping his blade back across his knees. “Beshrew me for caring, but I only meant to shield you. I strongly suspect-”
“Shield me?” Hardwick’s jaw dropped. “From such a sweetmeat?”
“I suspect she is of the fey,” Alex finished with a glare.
Truth be told, he was certain.
But his friend only folded his arms. “Your sour countenance doesn’t fool me.”
“Be that as it may,” Alex said, returning his stare to the slumbering wench, “you would be wise to think for once with your head rather than your-”
“My tarse?” Hardwick laughed. “If my poor, accursed condition makes you uncomfortable, then I shall leave you to seek my pleasure elsewhere. One question before I go: why did you cover the maid’s breasts?”
Alex flashed an angry glance at him, but the lout was already gone. Melted into the air before Alex’s irritation could scorch him. Only his laughter remained, echoing in the darkness until the last of Hardwick’s chuckles faded and Alex was alone once more.
Alone with the MacDougall witch-woman.
A spell-casting enchantress whose siren tricks sent shivers clear through his marrow.
So why had he covered her breasts?
And why did he sit here still? He’d learned what he’d wanted to know almost as soon as he’d sifted himself into her quarters. She was a proper pest, but not a threat to his bed. She might have enough coin to secure fine lodgings, but she didn’t strike him as deep-pursed enough to pay the huge sum Donald Dimbleby had set on the four-poster.
Of that, he was certain.
There was no need for him to remain here, torturing himself, when he could return to the relative peace of the antique shop’s back room. The reason he stayed came in one last disembodied chuckle, floating to him from the shadows near the door.
An answer so unappealing, he’d almost rather change curses with his mirth-filled friend.
As things stood…
He’d simply have to do everything in his power to ensure he never had to make such a choice.
Chapter Three
Oban.
The long train journey from London behind her, Mara stood in the middle of the waterfront promenade of the West Highland capital and took a deep breath of Scotland, and then another and another. Clean, cold air, rain-fresh and brisk, smelling slightly of the sea and proving everything her father had ever said about even the air of Scotland being different.
Special.
He’d sworn it would be so and now that she was here, a scant month after her fateful dinner with Percival Combe at London’s posh Wig and Pen Club, she surprised herself by having to admit there really was something almost intoxicating about inhaling so much good, clean air.
Good, clean Highland air, the increased thumping of her heart reminded her. And with enough of a jolt to make her straighten her back and square her shoulders against the unexpected swell of emotion Hugh McDougall would insist came from setting foot on Scottish soil.
The earth of home.
Mara supposed it was,– for her long-dead ancestor, John the Immigrant. Him, and the countless Diaspora Scots like her father whose throats thicken at the first skirl of pipes and flash of kilted plaid.
She had a cooler head on her shoulders, recognized the tightness in her chest for exactly what it was: simple regret that her father’s health had kept him from sharing this moment with her.
“But you’re here, aren’t you, Ben?” She reached down to stroke the aged border collie’s head, found comfort in his dark, heart-melting gaze.
An accepting gaze, laced perhaps with a touch of gratitude, for Ben was Lady Warfield’s living legacy and the gentle old dog seemed to know that his new mistress’s great affection for canines had spared him spending his twilight years in some loveless London dogs’ home.
Eager to see her new home, Mara scanned the crescent-shaped promenade, searched the bustling throng for Malcolm, the driver Percival Combe had assured would meet her. A young man she’d supposedly recognize not only for his great height and fiery red hair, but also for his engaging smile.
A meaner feat than she would have believed, for Oban seemed filled with tall, reddish-haired men. And each one her gaze happened to fall upon, grinned back at her. There were the two standing outside a fish-and-chip shop, happily munching their lunch, and the really cute one who’d winked at her before disappearing into a butcher’s shop.
Even Oban Bay, with its stunning views of the Inner Hebridean skyline, teemed with them, for she spied a red-haired fisherman industriously working on his boat, and others stood at the rail of the large Caledonian MacBrayne ferry just maneuvering into place at the pier.
Her heart beginning to flutter with nerves and a mounting sense of hilarity, Mara blew her own coppery-red bangs off her brow. How, in a maze of smiling, redheaded men was she supposed to find just one?
Half afraid they
might all be Malcolms as well, she tightened her grip on Ben’s leash and started down the pavement. Before she could decide where to search for her Malcolm, someone plucked her carry-on bag off her shoulder.
“Hey!” She swung around, ready to give chase, but stopped short when she saw the culprit.
He stood not a pace away, six foot four inches of beaming exuberance, not a day past twenty, and with a shock of the brightest red hair she’d ever seen.
Her Malcolm.
Mara smiled, extended her hand. “You must be-”
“Malcolm.” His smile deepened to reveal a dimple in his left cheek. “That’s myself, true as I’m here.”
He reached to take her hand, but before he could, Ben shuffled forward and thrust his head between them to nose the young man’s pockets.
“Ben! Sto-”
“Ach, never you mind, Mara McDougall.” Malcolm laughed and reached down to scratch behind the collie’s ears. “He’ll only be smelling the mackerel I had in the car boot,” he explained in a buttery-smooth burr. “Had ‘em in just this morning and brought ‘em along for selling at one or two of the hotels.”
“Mackerel?” Mara blinked, not sure she’d heard him correctly.
But apparently she had for his dimpled smile spread into a full-fledged grin. “Fetched a fine price they did,” he told her, glowing with satisfaction. “My mum’s fresh-made butter, too.”
Mara looked at him in amazement, his soft, musical voice reminding her of another deep Scottish accent she’d heard not so long ago. One that, unlike this young man’s, had not flowed with friendly Highland charm but thrummed with barely restrained animosity.
Still…
Mackerel and fresh-made butter?
Mara glanced aside, at the busy little bay with its sun shadows and silver-flecked water, the young man’s words and his gently lilting voice painting funny images in her head and making her heart do silly little flip-flops.
For one crazy moment she imagined a small white croft house, low and thatched, with a plume of peat smoke rising from its single squat chimney. A rosy-cheeked woman sitting beside the hearth, a butter churn gripped between her knees as she furiously worked the plunger up and down.
