by Tarah Scott
He’d desired no more than any other.
Perhaps he’d hoped to find a measure of happiness.
Instead…
He’d ridden into a nest of vermin.
His temper flaring, he set his jaw so fiercely he wondered his teeth didn’t crack. Gall rose in his throat, so hot and thick he nearly choked.
“Did you know she is immortalizing two of the worst jackals in all her benighted clan’s history?” he ground out, keeping his stare on the rocks. “I’ve seen the design for the memorial tablet, heard the workmen speak the names in wonder and awe.”
He drew a tight breath, kicked a pebble over the cliff edge. “Ignorant fools.”
“Aye, right,” Hardwick crooned as if he hadn’t heard a word. “Show me your back so I cannae see your desire for the lass. Scowl out to sea and pretend you haven’t met your match. Tell me you are no’ aflame to possess her.”
Alex clamped his lips together. There was nothing he could say.
His friend knew him too well.
“Your silence speaks loudly,” the knave said, proving it. “I shall leave you now. Our old companion-in-arms, Bran of Barra, has invited me for feasting. You’ll be spared my presence for a while, at least.”
“The ancients be praised,” Alex breathed, still not looking at him. “I’m weary of your clattering tongue.”
Hardwick stepped round in front of him, blocking his view. “You could join me,” he suggested, catching Alex’s arm. “Bran’s table is aye heavily laden, his ale the best in the Isles, and his wine flows freely. Not to mention the women...”
“Bran of Barra’s hall is a breeding ground for the pox.” Alex jerked free. “I’d rather be gelded than touch one of the whores he procures for his guests.”
“Gelded?” Hardwick laughed. “Why bother? You haven’t dipped your wick in centuries. Unless you’ve been lying to me?”
Alex turned back to the sea. “Matters of greater importance have occupied me.”
“Aye, your accursed bed.” Hardwick’s levity vanished. “For the sake of old times, do me the favor of looking after the lass after I go. If you listen to your heart, you’ll make haste to aid her.”
Alex made a noncommittal grunt. Truth was, he wasn’t sure he had a heart.
Not since a long ago day he chose to forget.
“Perhaps you’ll stop being so stubborn once I’m away,” Hardwick suggested, stepping back from him. “One parting word before I leave: if you dinnae assist her, sooner or later, one of those whelps will.”
Then Hardwick was gone.
This time none of his usual laughter lingered behind.
Only a hint of friendly recrimination and Alex’s own maddening desire.
The bluidy wench was entirely too comely.
She had hair of burnished flame, smooth, silky-looking skin, luscious curves, and her tongue was surely capable of driving a man mad, in the best possible way.
And wouldn’t he enjoy setting his tongue on her!
Furious that was so, Alex scowled and rammed a hand through his hair. She could perch on her unmoving steed until the sun froze. He wasn’t going to turn around.
Not that there was any need. Her image was already emblazoned on his soul.
Such as it was.
And that only made matters worse.
Were he a flesh and blood man, perhaps she would be the female to mend the wounds inflicted on him by her ancestors. And certain other pressing matters he suspected she could heal. He’d surely seen enough of her to know she was made for passion.
His passion.
Since he’d seen her in his bed, clad in naught but two tiny bits of black lace, he’d suffered a raging need so fierce such as never before. He just knew she’d be good in his arms, wild and uninhibited. She consumed him as no lass he’d ever known.
More annoying still, her affection for the cross-grained auld seneschal bothered him. Not in the way he resented the two overgrown stable lads, but because the knobby-kneed steward minded him of his father.
A great champion in his day, but bent and muddle-minded in later years, he’d welcomed Alex with open arms, always treating him with the same love he’d shown his legitimate sons.
At times even more.
His fool eyes burning, Alex let out a deep breath and stared at the sea. “She’s a MacDougall,” he growled, his mood darkening.
She’d likely stab him in his sleep with his own dirk if ever he did risk bedding her.
Pacing now, he unfastened a flask from his belt and tossed down a healthy swig. Fiery uisge-beatha. Fine Highland spirits guaranteed to banish painful memories and any dangerous softenings toward Mara MacDougall.
Whether she seemed fond of grizzled old men or not.
Enough wickedness could be told about her dastardly blood to keep the most prolific bards occupied for eternity.
Even so, he quaffed one more generous gulp of uisge-beatha, then swung round.
As he’d suspected, she still sat astride the balky mare. Her hands clenched the reins in a white-knuckled grip that showed her just as stubborn as the horse she couldn’t control, and frustration or anger flamed in her cheeks.
Of especial interest, the early morning chill had done wondrous things to the tips of her breasts.
Alex swallowed. Damn but she had luscious nipples!
Would that he’d caused them to peak in such a provocative manner. Better yet, he’d love to rip away her clingy black top and bury his face in the fullness of her creamy breasts, drink in the bewitching scent of her. The tempting siren he’d feasted his eyes on but hadn’t yet dared to touch.
A lacking he meant to remedy.
The corners of his mouth twitched with the beginnings of a wicked smile and he started forward. He couldn’t stand by and let her struggle with Pagan’s descendant all morning.
Liking the idea better by the moment, he summoned the energy to materialize.
After all, helping her was the only thing he could do. As a knight of the Scottish realm, he was honor-bound to rescue damsels in distress.
It had nothing to do with the prospect of the strapping, young stable lackeys coming to her aid if he did not.
Nothing to do with it at all.
Chapter Eight
Mara gripped the reins and let her breath out slowly. She also straightened her back and did her best to look unafraid. Cool, calm, and collected. Totally in charge. She supposed a horse that wouldn’t budge was better than one in an out of control gallop. That wouldn’t do at all, so high up the cliff path, gulls soaring everywhere, the rocks below looking so sharp and jagged. A stalled steed was definitely the lesser evil. Even so, feigning dignity wasn’t easy with chills running up and down her spine. Worse, some of them swept round to tease across her breasts, causing a surge of sensation.
Her blood raced as her body responded. She’d almost swear someone was touching her.
No, caressing her.
And in delicious, intimate ways that made her tremble. She also had a good idea whose hands could give a woman such a deliberate and concentrated pleasuring. No earthly lover she’d ever known had affected her so powerfully. And no wind, not even in the magical Scottish Highlands, could feel quite like this. Something else was at play.
She could feel the air around her charging, turning electric. She was also sure that sea green eyes were fixed on her, capturing her with a gaze, even if she couldn’t see it.
She did sense his boldness.
There was only one man so self-assured, living or otherwise. He was also the sort who could be ruthless when he wanted something. And didn’t he hope to chase her from Ravenscraig?
Too bad she didn’t want to go.
So she summoned her fiercest Cairn Avenue bravura and lifted her chin, pretending the cold air swirling so intimately against her was no different from the sea wind. But it was, and when her wretched mare quit chomping grass and began to prance and quiver, she accepted what she’d known all along.
She had company.
A glance to the side confirmed it.
Sir Alexander was striding toward her. And coming from the edge of the cliffs - an area that had been empty just moments before.
Mara stared at him, Cairn Avenue forgotten. No man should be so gorgeous. Tall, well-built, and with his rich chestnut hair spilling to his shoulders, he was devastatingly attractive. And just as solid and real as anyone. She still heard the sea crashing against the rocks below them, but a strange buzzing also filled her ears. The rushing of her blood as her pulse kicked up and excitement beat through her. And on he came, his powerful male body and the intensity of his gaze making her heart pound.
Mercy, he’d appeared out of thin air.
“Not possible.” She shifted in her saddle, aware of the foolishness of her denial. “You’re not there,” she added all the same. “I’m having a bad dream.”
“Lass, I am your dream,” he asserted, almost upon her. “You shouldn’t wear your soul in your eyes if you didnae want me to know.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She did, and it sent heat sweeping up her neck.
“I say you do.” His mouth curved with just the trace of a smile. “For truth, you should be glad I’m here. Did you no’ ken that the boulders hereabouts are far more dangerous than that wee clump of granite you stubbed your toe against in the yew grove?”
Mara gasped. “I knew you were there!”
His smile turned devilish. “I can be where’er it pleases me, sweetness.”
“I am not your ‘sweetness.’”
“You should also no’ be here.”
“I have every right to be at Ravenscraig. If you haven’t heard, it’s now mine.”
“Be that as it may, where’er you see boulders clustered together along these cliffs, there’s often deep holes in between.” He waved a hand at the innocent-looking boulders dotting the cliff-top. “Or bottomless fissures hidden by the bonnie patches of heather I’ve seen you admiring. Even worse-”
“I am not some greenhorn who’s never seen a hill or wood.” Mara bristled, not about to admit this was the first time she’d been on such a wild, windswept cliff.
“Adders teem in the heather,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “They love summer and slither onto large, flat rocks to bask in the sun. They’re also fond of spooking the horses of unskilled riders.”
He paused, letting his gaze glide over her, from head to toe and back again. “You’re an Ameri-cain, no’ used to the dangers of our Highland hills,” he observed, his Scottish accent deepening. “Dark mists roll in from the sea or slide down the braes. They thicken quickly and then swirl everywhere, swallowing up foolish lassies before they ken they’re lost.”
Mara looked at him, wanting to frown but not quite able.
His silky-smooth burr was getting to her.
And something else.
Maybe the slight furrow that touched his brow when he spoke of the perils, as if he truly cared if she’d happened across such a calamity.
Crazier still, she found herself believing he did.
After all the hazards he’d rattled off, she was rather glad he’d appeared.
She wasn’t about to admit it, but were he real, she’d even be thrilled. She pushed that thought from her mind. Too many misgivings tempered her appreciation. It wasn’t every day a girl held a conversation with a man she might or might not be imagining.
At least this time he wasn’t decked out like the tin man.
Now he looked halfway modern, had on the same reddish-brown outfit he’d worn when she’d first seen him in Dimbleby’s Antique and Curio Shoppe.
Medieval hose and tunic, she recognized now. But a sinfully revealing get-up that suited his strapping hotness and glorified his long, manly legs. His well-muscled calves. Mara bit her lip, her pulse quickening again.
She’d always had a thing for sexy calves on a man.
But the jeweled dagger he’d used to skewer her nightgown was tucked beneath a wide leather belt slung low around his hips, and he made the mistake of allowing himself an amused smile when he saw her recognize it.
“There was nothing funny about that.” She leveled a hard stare at him. “For a knight, certainly nothing honorable.”
His full-of-himself smile vanished. “Och, lass, did you no’ ken Highlanders have a sense of mischief?”
“I haven’t known that many,” Mara admitted, glancing aside. “I might be of Scottish descent, but I’m from Philadelphia. I was raised at One Cairn Avenue. A place as far away from Highland Scotland as the moon.”
He tilted his head, clucked his tongue sadly. “Och, lass, if you haven’t known a Highlander, you haven’t lived.”
Mara’s breath caught at the implication, something sharp and hot pinching her heart because the first man to ever tease and tempt her so deliciously, had to be not only the most gorgeous, but also one she couldn’t have.
Ever.
Not unless she wanted to join him in whatever realm he dwelt in when he wasn’t following her around. Something she did not want to do.
Her life might not always have been grand, but it was hers.
And she liked living.
She especially liked Ravenscraig. Not just the castle, for the yew wood also enchanted her, eerie as it was in places. Now the sea views along the coastal path she’d been following; the great cliffs that fell straight down to the water. It was a world hewn of sea, land, and sky, and the beauty of it called to her.
Not just the wonder she saw with her eyes, but how it made her feel inside.
Almost as if a part of her had always been here, drawing her back, bringing her home.
She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay here, even high on this rugged cliff top, and perched on a belligerent horse who clearly despised her. She didn’t want to board a plane and go back to her old life, the real world that now felt so distant.
So unpalatable.
Mara blinked against the sudden heat pricking her eyes.
She didn’t do tears.
Yet…
“Ah, well,” Sir Alexander was saying, his tone making her think he was teasing again. “I’d thought to rescue you. For the second time, I might add. But if you prefer to gaze out at the firth, I shall leave.”
Mara swiveled back around. “You’re a ghost.”
“Aye, that I am,” he agreed.
He gave a short laugh, clearly misreading the stricken look she knew must be all over her.
“Come, lass, it isnae so bad as that,” he said, his burr thickening, its rich deepness melting her.
He stepped closer. “Or are you afraid I’m here to escort you to the netherworld? If so, then cast aside your doubts, for I’ve no idea where such a place is and have no wish to go looking. My only desire is to guard my bed.”
She blinked. “Then what are you doing here?”
***
Lusting after you and telling lies.
The silent truth hurled at her, Alex bit back a snort. “I told you,” he said, his voice more harsh than he would have wished, “I thought to come to your aid. Or would you be stranded on these cliffs until darkness?”
“No, though I’m sure the gloaming here is a sight to behold.” She angled her head to gaze again at the sea, and the slanting sun reflected in her hair, making the fiery strands shimmer like molten flame. When she turned back to him, the light fell across her face, showing him the doubt lingering there.
And with good reason for he’d told a falsehood.
His goals had changed.
He no longer cared about chasing her out of his bed. Now his only desire was getting her in it. Preferably naked. That, and wishing he were still flesh and bone, wondering why he felt absolutely no urge to frighten her.
Only to calm and soothe her, then claim her for his own.
The gods knew he was already hard for her. Again. This time simply from standing so near to her and breathing in her scent.
He clenched his fists, tried not to noti
ce how beautifully her breasts strained against her top. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched a woman’s breasts, but he sure ached to feel hers beneath his fingers, burned to know how they would taste if he licked and suckled them.
Grazed them with his teeth, then drew one rosy crest deep into his mouth, drawing hard and steady, as he slid a hand into the soft, damp curls between her thighs. He’d rouse her well, letting his fingers explore and pleasure her.
Alex groaned, and turned away. He shoved a hand through his hair, fury churning inside him.
He had to have her.
She consumed him like a fever, and soon he wouldn’t even be able to breathe if he couldn’t clutch her to him, sink himself into the tightness of her sleek, female heat.
The depth of his need stunned him. More alarming, it wasn’t just her lush curves and sultry kiss-me-all-over eyes, but the way those eyes could light a room when she smiled. How her laughter warmed even the coldest corners of his dark and lonely world.
The wonder that spread across her face when she lost herself in romantic musings about his real world.
The long-ago one that no longer existed except in tumbled stones, rusted relics, and leather-bound chronicles filled with lies.
Alex shuddered, hid his misery behind a cough.
Most mortals he’d encountered no longer appreciated the age that had been his. That Mara MacDougall seemed to care, even in an overly fanciful way, stirred him with a fierceness he couldn’t control.
Not anymore.
Truth was, he needed her.
If he still possessed even a shred of valor, he’d vanish and never show himself to her again. Or at least continue with his original plan and frighten her away.
By rights, Ravenscraig should have been his, now in the deserving hands of his descendents.
Had he lived on to sire them!
Instead, she slept in his bed.
But she also desired him. He could scent the arousal on her.
He had but to glance at her breasts or the sweet curve of her lower lip and the stimulating musk of her need streamed off her, an erotic tide to flood his senses.
