Highlander's Sweet Promises

by Tarah Scott

  “Aye, but aren’t ye a wee canny vixen!” he murmured softly.

  Closing his hand over her mouth, he pulled her away from the highlanders’ curious eyes, and once out of the firelight’s glow, caught her by the waist again to pin her against a tree.

  His intention was just to speak with her, but the moment he felt her soft curves and the thump of her heart beating against his chest, he wanted only to ravish her lips once more with his.

  “We’ve a wee quandary now, lass,” he all but growled.

  Aye, and more than one.

  He should be concentrating on matters concerning Le Marin, but her soft beckoning lips were far more fascinating. Aye, he’d been thinking of nothing else from the moment he’d placed her on his horse in Channelkirk.

  “Let me go!” she demanded breathlessly. “You have no choice but to do as I say now! Else I will expose you!” She lifted her chin with an air of smug satisfaction.

  “Aye, so ye think to spread tales of Le Marin?” He cocked an eyebrow, his attention momentarily diverted from her delicious curves. “Do ye trust the Scottish court will believe such wild tales of Lord Julian Gray, once they discover those tales come from the lips of a Vindictam assassin?”

  She gave in at once. There was not even a moment’s hesitation. “As you wish then, my lord. I will say nothing.”

  Intrigued by the speed of her concession, he leaned close and asked with a low, intimate chuckle, “Why do I feel that I’ve just made a pact with the devil?”

  A hint of a laugh escaped her lips, and he could feel her breath upon his cheek as she replied, “Il Diàvolo, your devil, is more forgiving than the Vindictam, Lord Gray.”

  It was a warning.

  So why was he smiling like a daft fool?

  Her lips were perilously close, lips that could drive him to the brink of madness should he let them. And her eyes were like pools of liquid fire, filled with passion and with life. Eyes he could drown in.

  “What should I do with ye, lass? I canna leave ye wandering about, can I?” he mused aloud. Aye, not when he wanted to bury his face in her hair and taste her pouting lips from dawn till dusk. Shaking his head to clear it, he forced himself to say, “I should send ye back to Venice forthwith! Aye, the only place for ye is far from here.”

  Or perhaps … she might remain under his protection.

  The unbidden thought startled him, and he drew back sharply.

  He was a hot-blooded and passionate man, accustomed to dabbling with his fancies and blithely moving on with only a prickle of conscience where women were concerned. ‘Twas much simpler to leave afore either he or they grew too attached. But the mere thought of sending this one away already weighed too heavily upon his heart to ignore.

  She wasn’t easy to walk away from.

  And that was dangerous, particularly with this lass—one with blood ties to the Vindictam. With such ties he shouldn’t be walking, he should be running!

  “You have no power to send me away,” she was saying.

  But he ignored her words. Lifting his hand, he gently traced her bottom lip with his thumb. “Aye, but ye must be a siren,” he murmured, his heart beating an unsteady pulse.

  And then his lips brushed hers in the merest whisper of a kiss, and as she arched her back into him, he was undone.

  Hooking his hand behind her neck, he pulled her against him and sealed his mouth hungrily over hers, and as her lips opened to his in a tantalizing invitation, he caught his breath.

  A hot current of desire surged through him. Never had a mere kiss inflamed him so.

  And then her palms slid up his chest and he shivered. Mayhap the lass was the devil after all. Her touch held an unholy power.

  Mesmerized, he stood there as she wrapped her arms around his neck and lightly nipped his bottom lip. And then succumbing to the pleasure lancing through him, he slid his hands down over her waist and hips, and groaned, devouring her lips in a ravenous and greedy claiming.

  For several endless moments, they shared a mind-reeling passion, and then with a primal moan, he tore his mouth away and gasped, “No!”

  She pulled back, breathing hard.

  A shaft of moonlight fell upon them, illuminating her face and allowing him to see what he knew was mirrored upon his own.

  Passion. Attraction. Desire.

  And pure madness.

  He had to send her back to Venice. “Nay, I must send ye back to Venice!” he swore, brushing his forearm over his face.

  Grimly, he caught up the gray cord from where he’d dropped it, and quickly looped it around her wrists.

  She didn’t resist.

  Staring at her kiss-swollen lips, he could scarcely recall how to tie any kind of knot. He could think of nothing more than the want to claim every inch of her as his own.

  But finally, the deed was done, or so he hoped.

  Patting the knot, he peered down at her and whispered, “What spell have ye cast over me?” He caught her chin in his hand and forced her eyes to meet his.

  She didn’t answer him. She seemed equally disturbed in her own right.

  And then taking a deep breath, he turned away to collect his scattered thoughts.

  He had no choice. He must send her away. He’d not even be able to focus should he let her stay. And he needed his every wit about him if he were to outfox Pascal and Orazio in order to protect Dolfin. Aye, he had to send the lass away. When she was near, he could think of little else than her maddening lips.

  “Aye, I’ll see ye gone from here,” he said with a heavy heart. “I’ve no choice on the matter.”

  Silence met this statement.

  Suddenly suspicious, he whirled to face her.

  And then he swore.

  She was gone. And in a neat little heap by the tree lay the cord that he’d used to bind her wrists, severed by a sharp blade.

  “Liselle!” he roared even as he eyed the cord.

  It was a razor-sharp cut.

  Why hadn’t he thought to search her for weapons? And why did he find that such a thrillingly seductive thought?

  Dashing back into the circle of highlanders, he called her name again.

  Taking one look at his face, the highlanders arose to the man.

  “What is it?” their strong voices cried, accompanied by the rasping sound of steel as they drew their swords.

  Julian grimaced. “The lass,” he said. “She’s gone.”

  Aye, mayhap the wee imp had been playing him all along, and he should count himself fortunate that he hadn’t found her blade betwixt his ribs. But even as he thought it, he didn’t believe it. Assassin or no, the passion on her face had been as real as his own.

  “We’ll search for the lady at once!” Ewan announced crisply, sheathing his blade.

  Julian merely shook his head. “She’s more akin to a viper than a lady. I’d say beware, and watch your horses—” he cut himself short as a new thought suddenly popped into his head.

  Swearing profusely, he sprinted to where he’d tied his gray mare next to Ewan’s black charger.

  And then he swore even louder, uttering increasingly pointed epitaphs with each breath.

  Once again, she’d stolen his gray mare. But this time, she was clearly prepared. Whistling produced nothing.

  As the highlanders galloped in all directions, one of them brought Julian a saddled roan. He was at the point of telling the man there was little reason to pursue the minx. He only didn’t because he wanted to ride, to escape the frustration mounting up within him.

  Had she been toying with him all along? Surely, the passion in her kiss had been real?

  The wind was picking up by the time he reached the crest of the hill. Pulling rein, he peered in all directions. The moon shone bright, casting an eerie glow over the heath and the rolling hills spread out before him.

  Nothing moved. Liselle had disappeared like a wraith in the night.

  Knowing it was futile, he cupped his mouth anyway and let out another whistle, but it was a half
-hearted one.

  Aye, Liselle was bold, brash, and meddlesome. But if she were riding across the heath in the darkness of the night, he’d want her on no other horse than his sure-footed gray mare.

  “Sweet Mary!” he swore, striking the pommel of his saddle in aggravation. How could he still only want to protect her? Why was he worried only over her safety? Throwing his head back, he shouted, “Why? Why? Why?”

  As his cries echoed through the night, hooves pounded from behind, and he turned to see Ewan easing his horse up to him.

  “Don’t come near me!” Julian thundered as his young kinsman drew near.

  “Hold tight, cousin,” Ewan greeted him in a mild tone, ignoring his demand. “We’ll find her.”

  “Not if she doesna wish to be found,” Julian replied grimly. He closed his eyes, but her fiery kiss and the passion in her eyes filled his mind. Ach, was there no escaping the lass?

  “They say no herb can cure it, cousin,” Ewan said in a quiet voice.

  Julian gritted his teeth. He was hardly in the mood to chatter. Still, he cared for the brawny lad at his side, and so he forced his lips to reply, “Cure what, Ewan?”

  “Love,” Ewan said knowingly. “Ye love the lass, Julian.”

  Julian’s eyes flew open. “Nay, this canna be love!” His voice came out raw and hoarse. “Nay! Never love. ‘Tis more akin to hate or the result of some unholy spell! Ye dinna know the lass, Ewan!” Love? Pah! He was dedicated to the pursuit of women. He didn’t stay long enough to love them.

  “Aye, I’m told love is a cunning beastie,” Ewan continued with a mischievous twist of his lip.

  “I’ll never be so daft as to fall in love, Ewan!” Julian objected strongly, but his objection rang false even to his own ears. “I’m not a man to be captivated by a single lass! I’ll never make that foolish mistake!”

  And then he clamped his mouth shut, knowing full well that the more he protested, the more he sounded like a drowning fool.

  Ewan politely cleared his throat.

  Clenching his jaw, Julian wheeled his horse around. “Aye, I’ve no concern for the lass. Call your men. We’ll not find her, she’s gone. ‘Tis time to return to Edinburgh. Cameron needs us both.”

  And with a grim nod, he headed back to the camp.

  Aye, his gray mare would see Liselle safe. He had faith in the animal. She’d never failed him. And Liselle, no doubt, had some skill of her own.

  Aye, the lass would be safe.

  Halfway down the hill, Ewan caught up with him to say, “Ye’ve changed, cousin!”

  “Have I?” Julian replied. He’d always played the light-hearted fool in the lad’s presence. Bitterly, he shook his head and muttered, “Mayhap ‘tis time to reveal the many faces lurking behind the mask.” He wasn’t even sure to whom the words were addressed.

  And then urging his roan to a fierce gallop, he thundered back towards the camp.

  No one spoke as he settled in front of the fire and rolled into his plaid.

  He’d find the lass. Or more likely, she’d appear in Edinburgh herself.

  But he knew he’d see her again soon. Le Marin wasn’t finished with her yet. He wasn’t finished with her yet.

  Sleep was long in coming.

  * * *

  Julian awoke to hear Cameron’s deep voice calling his name as the bed curtains in his Edinburgh chamber were abruptly yanked aside.

  “Up, lad!” Cameron smiled down at him. “‘Tis time to ride.”

  Raising himself on his elbow, Julian glanced out the window to note the early morning sun. He’d arrived at Edinburgh with Ewan and his men just the day before, exhausted and worried about Liselle, though refusing to admit it to anyone, even to himself.

  Ewan had dispatched several of his men to search for her, but it was too early yet to expect word.

  “Julian?” Cameron’s long fingers snapped in front of his face.

  “Aye.” Julian grunted, swiftly refocusing his thoughts. Cocking a brow at the rolled parchment in Cameron’s hand, he asked, “And what’s this?”

  “The rotting stench of bribery and corruption.” Cameron crooked a cunning smile as he tossed the scroll onto the bed. “’Tis a trap.”

  Julian swung his feet out of the bed and caught the plaid Cameron threw at him. “A trap?” he asked.

  “’Tis written in my own hand, begging Albany to come to Edinburgh as our king,” Cameron answered smoothly. “He will abandon all other plans once he reads it.”

  Julian paused. “Aye, he’ll come at a run if he thinks that now even ye want him as king.”

  “Precisely,” Cameron stated calmly. “I’ll start with that as bait. I’ve only to bring Albany here and we’ve won. Gloucester doesna have siege weapons that can take Edinburgh.”

  “But Albany’s anger will be unmatched when he discovers your treachery,” Julian warned, sliding his feet into his boots.

  Cameron didn’t seem concerned. “The man loves Scotland and his brother more than even he knows himself, lad. I might yet talk sense into his thick skull,” he replied with an elegant shrug. “And if I canna then I’ll simply imprison him.”

  “Just imprison him and his brother and have done,” Julian growled.

  “Aye!” Cameron’s eyes lit with laughter, and then he turned serious. “But if it comes to war, I’ll have the clans support. Nigh on fifty thousand men have come to my call. Already, they are gathering at Burgh Muir.”

  Julian let out a long, low whistle of relief and chuckled aloud. “How could I have ever doubted ye, Cameron! Gloucester is doomed.”

  “We’ll fight, if it comes to that,” Cameron said, moving to peer out of the castle window. “But mayhap Douglas and Albany are men who can still be swayed. They hate the English more than most. Ach, they raided the borderlands for years! I dinna wish the blood of even one loyal Scot to be spilt over this, Julian. We’ve only to protect this land long enough for our young Prince James to become king, nothing more.”

  “Aye,” Julian agreed. “Then I’ll leave at once and see that Albany reads this on the morrow.” He felt strangely restless. ‘Twould do him good to be on the back of horse.

  With Cameron’s farewells ringing in his ears, he saddled Ewan’s black charger—at his cousin’s insistence—and galloped out of Edinburgh. And taking the same road that he’d taken just a few days before, he pounded across the blooming heather and rolling hills.

  At Channelkirk, he paused at the inn, entering to the boisterous sounds of singing. Apparently, those who hadn’t fled eagerly anticipated the impending battle with the English. The men were helpful, but none had seen any sign of Liselle or his mare.

  Evidently, she hadn’t returned to Channelkirk.

  Resuming his journey, he continued south down the King’s Road until the wide spreading oaks of the royal burgh of Lauder rose before him. And then turning his horse’s head, he changed his course to the east.

  As the sun rose in the sky, smoke began to drift toward him, casting a grim pall over the day, and as he crested a small rise, its pungent fumes assaulted his nostrils. Shading his eyes, he spied the distant flames and smoke of a burning village.

  Cursing loudly, he reined the black charger in with a sharp jerk and pounded his fist on the pommel of the saddle.

  He’d found Albany.

  Was he even now watching the flames consume the thatched roofs and blacken the cottage stones of the homes of goodly Scottish folk? The very people he expected to cheer him as their new king?

  Albany was even worse than his brother, James! Aye, the only Stewart worthy of the crown was Cameron, but he would never rise to take it.

  Overhead, the sky threatened rain, but it would be too late to stop the burning. And by the time Julian rode through the thick black clouds of cloying smoke to arrive at the outskirts of the burning village, there were no folk left, English or otherwise.

  The army’s trail was easy enough to follow, but the going was rough.

  Sometime later, Julian had just desce
nded into marshlands when his horse began to favor a foot. Stopping at once, he grimly inspected the animal’s hoof and dislodged a sharp stone. The fetlock was slightly swollen. Slapping at the cloud of midges surrounding him, he glanced up at the darkening sky. He’d have to find shelter and let the horse rest if he wished to make good time on the morrow.

  Leaving the boggy ground behind him, he made camp at the edge of an ancient forest as a light drizzle began to fall. And using his saddle as a pillow, too weary and disheartened to think, he settled back to listen to the raindrops echoing like tiny drums on the thick canopy of leaves above his head.

  The night passed quickly, and the dawn found the horse recovered. Still, it was early afternoon before he reached the border stronghold of Edrington with its castle occupying the summit of the steep hill above Whiteadder Water.

  Thick black smoke hung heavy in the air, and the mill and the village lay in ruin. Appalled, Julian skirted the destruction. Aye, by the time he finally did find Albany, he knew that he’d be sorely pressed not to strangle the man.

  The bridge had been destroyed, and Julian was forced to ford the river. Clambering onto the far shore, he stood there a moment, surveying the damage before turning his horse’s head east towards Castle Berwick. He then galloped along the banks of the deep churning river twisting its way through the valley.

  Finally, he burst from the dense forest to see Castle Berwick rising against a sky streaked with black columns of smoke.

  The siege of the castle had already begun.

  Men on horses and on foot swarmed over the hillside like flies. Some were manning the siege weapons, while others burned outlying buildings.

  A cluster of tents stood at the bottom of the hill with Gloucester’s massive pavilion rising in the center, proudly flying a magnificent Yorkist banner. Albany’s tent—half the size of the English duke’s—was relegated to the outer edge.

  Julian clenched his jaw.

  The man was a disgrace to Clan Stewart!

  Julian cocked a calculating brow at the sky. Already, the sun hung low over the trees. It would be easier to deliver the missive under the cover of darkness. Dismounting, he tied the black charger out to graze and settled back against a tree to wait.