Highlander in Love

by Julia London

  “What history?” he scoffed. “Are ye referring to the time ye beat me with yer fists when I was only ten years of age, and ye six? Or the time ye bit me when I tried to kiss ye? Or perhaps ye mean to recount the ceilidh when ye openly cut me before all the Highlands and then had the gall to laugh?”

  “I mean to recount the many offenses yer family has committed against mine. Douglas has fought against Lockhart since the beginning of time, have ye forgotten?”

  “Because yer bloody Lockharts have always been on the side of foolish pride.”

  “Yer heathen ancestors burned Talla Dileas,” she smartly reminded him.

  “Because yer traitorous ancestors betrayed the Highlanders, and besides, there was no’ much to call Talla Dileas then. And have ye forgotten that yer thieving ancestors slaughtered a herd of Douglas coos?”

  “Because half were stolen from Lockharts by yer thieving ancestors! And lo how the mighty generous and fair Laird Douglas hanged two good Lockhart men on the word of a mere lad!”

  “Aye…but he didna manage to hang the bloody rotten bounders before they stole a Douglas lass and had their way with her, did he, now?”

  Mared clucked and waved a hand at him. “All hearsay. What of the duel between our great-grandfathers?”

  “The Lockhart started it by cuckolding the Douglas.”

  Mared gasped indignantly. “How dare ye impugn my great-grandfather!”

  “Impugn him, my rosy red arse! He was the worst scoundrel the lochs have ever seen. And what of the duel between our grandfathers?”

  A burst of gay laughter escaped her. “A Douglas started that duel over a silly game of cards! Yet ye can hardly call it a duel, for our grandfathers were so far in their cups that yer Douglas shot our Lockhart in the bum!” She laughed roundly at the tale.

  Her laughter was infectious and Payton laughed, too. “There, then, Mared, do ye see how ridiculous it all is?”

  “Foolish man,” she said with a warm smile. “A Douglas and a Lockhart were never meant to marry. Did ye learn nothing from yer forebearers, then? Our blood is like oil and water—we were no’ meant to mix.” She laughed again as if his foolishness amused her.

  But Payton was not so amused and touched her arm with his crop. “So ye’d give me a lass whose blood will mix with mine, is that it? A lass to take yer place? Where is yer shadow, then, Mared? I thought she accompanied ye everywhere…or is it only in the kirk and Eilean Ros and the confectioner’s and walkabouts of Aberfoyle?”

  Mared’s smile instantly brightened. “Do ye miss her, then, Douglas? Shall I bring her round to ye again?”

  “How happy Miss Crowley must be,” he said, impertinently sliding the tip of the crop up her arm, “to have such a champion in ye. Whatever did she do to deserve it?”

  She ignored the question and his crop. “Ye find her quite bonny! Go on—admit it!”

  With a derisive chuckle, Payton flipped the crop onto her shoulder. “Diah, but ye are as bold as a man! Aye, she’s bonny, yer shadow…but I’ve no particular regard for her.”

  “Oh? Do ye no,’ milord?” she asked, her eyes suddenly flashing. She rose up on her toes, leaned slightly toward him and said, “Ye certainly kissed her well enough for a man who has no particular regard for her,” she said softly, and with a triumphant look, settled back on her heels.

  “Kissed her?” he asked, far more interested in tracing the tip of the crop along her perfect chin and up, to push her silly hat back from her face.

  “Kissed her!” she shot back, slapping his crop away as her shapely dark brows dipped into a vee. “Donna deny it, ye bloody hound! Ye willna treat Miss Crowley as another of yer conquests! She’s far too good for that!”

  “As usual, ye make no sense whatsoever.” He touched the tip of his crop to her nose and leaned forward as she had done, so that he was only inches away from her. “I didna kiss her—”

  “Ye did!” she cried, wide-eyed now, her hands on her hips. “I saw it with my own two eyes when ye escorted her about yer ridiculously overgrown garden!”

  “Have a care with yer tongue, lass,” he warned her, falling back on his heels. “The garden is no’ overgrown! ‘Tis the finest example of a manor garden in all of Scotland! And I didna kiss yer Miss Crowley there, but I will admit I was tempted, for she is indeed a bonny lass with a bonny disposition, and that, Mared Lockhart, is quite rare in this long glen!”

  “So ye will deny that ye kissed her?” she demanded, clearly outraged.

  “Ach!” Payton cried, casting his arms out wide in frustration. “On my honor, ye are the most vexing woman a man might ever hope to know! One moment I believe ye want me to find her bonny for all the times ye’ve put her in my path and extolled her virtues, and in the next moment, ye act as if ye are jealous that I paid her any heed at all!”

  “Jealous?” she cried, and threw back her head and gave a shout of laughter that echoed in the little glen. “Ye think me jealous? Ye’ve lost yer fool mind!” she said with a grandly dismissive flick of her wrist. “Miss Crowley is a dear friend, and I only thought to inquire for her benefit and no other reason!”

  But her cheeks were quite flushed, weren’t they? Damn her, she was jealous! This impossible woman, who’d given him every indication she’d just as soon see him bound up and shipped off to Australia was jealous!

  And Payton could not possibly have been more pleased. He grinned, slapped his crop playfully against her hip. “Ye’re jealous, Mared Lockhart. Ye want a kiss for yerself.”

  “Donna be ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “I am hardly jealous.”

  “Ye are!” he said, delighted, and touched his crop to her shoulder as his gaze wandered over her lovely body. “Ye thought to bring Miss Crowley round for yer little scheme, but when ye thought I kissed her, ye wanted that for yerself. Ye want me to kiss ye now. Ye want the kiss of a Douglas.”

  She took a quick step back. “Ye’ve been dipping in that grog ye call whiskey, for ye’d be mad to believe I want anything from ye, especially a bloody kiss.”

  Payton grinned as he stepped forward and slid the crop down her shoulder and over her bosom. “Ye do,” he insisted. “Look at how ye blush now. I’d wager a woman of yer years, a woman who has never known the touch of man, has lain awake more than one night thinking about a kiss—”

  “Aaiie! Ye insult me!” she cried, her face now crimson.

  “Ye’ve lain there,” he cheerfully continued, “thinking of my mouth on yer sweet lips,” he said, and lifted the crop from her breast to touch her lips with the tip of it. Mared slapped his crop away.

  “Ye’ve wondered if my lips are soft or hard,” Payton continued, enjoying the high color in her face, the furious glint in her eyes. “If they are warm and wet…”

  She made a strange sound and punched him in the shoulder. Payton grabbed her wrist and pulled her into him, and with a laugh, he kissed her hard for a long moment, then lifted his head, smiling.

  He’d meant it as a jest, only to tease her, but when he saw those green eyes and heard her tiny little gasp through lips pursed in surprise and wonder, male instinct suddenly took hold of him. He dropped his crop and slid his arm around her waist to hold her to him, put his hand against her warm cheek, smoothed her hair back from her temple, then forced her chin up, so that she could see him.

  Her eyes were glittering with anger; she put her hands between them and pushed. “Ye flatter yerself, as always. It may come as quite a shock to ye, but I donna lie awake at night thinking of ye at all! I leave that for the poor, unfortunate Miss Crowley.”

  “Uist,” he softly commanded her. “Be still, lass, for I see the bloody truth in yer eyes—ye have indeed wondered about that kiss, and perhaps even more. A beautiful, bonny lass cursed from ever knowing a man. How she must wonder what it is to lie naked with him, to feel him inside—”

  “Ye’re incredibly vain!” she cried, pushing against him.

  “I’ll no’ deny it,” he said with a lazy grin, “but ye’re as much a liar i
f ye say ye’ve no’ wondered.” With both hands he cupped her face, holding her still as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  She seemed surprised, as if she hadn’t believed he would do it, gasping into his mouth, her body stiffening as he gently pressed his lips to hers, shaped them around hers, sucking her plump flesh between his lips.

  His arousal was instant and scorching; he felt a tide of burning pleasure rise in him, and he meant to let her go before he did something foolish; but then Mared was suddenly kissing him—awkwardly at first, but earnestly. Her hat fell away and Payton touched the corner of her mouth, her cheek, tried to gentle her, to slow her, and as he did so, he could feel the tension slipping out of her body, until she tilted her head back to better receive his kiss.

  When the tip of her tongue touched the seam of Payton’s lips, every ounce of proper courting decorum melted away as he met her tongue and eagerly delved into the sweet recess of her mouth, his breath mingling with the sweet taste of berries, her scent arousing every masculine inch of him, her body spreading fire through his veins.

  He deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue farther inside her mouth, slipping over teeth, around the soft skin of her mouth, tangling with her tongue.

  Mared pressed against him, her body arching into his. He tightened his hold around her waist, pushed his thigh between her legs. She made a little mewl in her throat, and she squirmed against him, her hands sliding up his chest to his head, her fingers grasping at his shoulder and his hair while her tongue darted around his, her lips pressed against his, her hips pressing back against his hardness.

  A long and wild sliver of her hair caught between their mouths, but Payton didn’t care—he cared for nothing but the erotic pleasure of her kiss, the scent of her body, the taste of berries on her breath. He dropped his hand to her waist, then spanned her ribs, and pressed up, to her breast, to the soft mound of flesh that filled his palm and spilled out of it. His fingers dipped into the bodice of her gown, grazing her soft breasts, sliding into the warmth of her cleavage.

  He boldly tweaked a nipple with his fingers, then dragged his lips from hers, dipped down, so that he could kiss the swell of her breast. With his hand, he pulled one breast free, took it in his mouth.

  “Oh!” she whispered above him. She rose up and arched her back a little, pushing her breast into his mouth. He teased her rigid nipple with his tongue and his teeth, sucking and nipping at her as he let his hands slide down her body, around to her hips, squeezing and pushing her against him.

  With each nip of his teeth, Mared would gasp and arch her back again, until she was scarcely breathing at all. Payton rose up, his lips sliding up her bosom, to her neck, and then to her mouth again. He pulled her tightly to him, pressed her hips against him, her bared breast against his chest.

  But his desire had grown to an ache to be inside her, and he felt only moments away from it. His heart forced his body to stop, for as much as he wanted her, he would not take her there on a sheep trail on the south side of Ben Cluaran.

  He dragged his lips from hers, carefully pushed her breast inside her bodice as Mared’s head lolled helplessly on his shoulder, then buried his face in her neck and begged her. “Come home with me, Mared, come now, and let me give ye pleasure, lass,” he whispered thickly as his hand stroked the top her head, the silk of her hair, the curve of her waist into her hip. “Let me give ye the pleasure ye’ve dreamed of.”

  His voice must have roused her, because Mared suddenly gasped and wrenched away, stumbling a little as she gaped at him, her hand on her ravaged breast. He could almost see her rise out of the fog of her own desire to stare at him in horror.

  He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth as he watched her fumble with her plaid and dip down to retrieve her hat and basket and his crop. “Diah,” she muttered as she straightened. Her gaze, swimming with lust and confusion, roamed the length of him, pausing at the sight of the bulge in his buckskins before rising to his face once more.

  He held out his hand to her, palm up, silently offering himself to her.

  Mared stared at his hand, at his silent offer, and her eyes, the most arrestingly beautiful eyes in all of Scotland, suddenly welled with tears. “Diah,” she whispered again.

  “No, no, donna cry, lass…ye know I’ve long adored ye,” he said softly. “Carson a tha eagal ort?”

  “I am no’ afraid!” she snapped in response, and slapped the crop into his open palm. “But I’ll never fall into yer trap!” she said angrily, and turned on her heel and walked away from him down the glen, her dogs eagerly taking up the walk with her.

  Payton stood there, watching her march away, her hair floating behind her, her hat firmly on her head, the basket bumping mercilessly against her hip. He stood there until he could no longer see her, long after his body had ceased to ache.

  It wasn’t until Cailean whimpered at him that he moved.

  Four

  A fter that blistering kiss, Mared walked down the sheep trail in a daze, her body and her mind unable or unwilling to move past the sensation of Payton’s mouth on her bare breast.

  Oh aye, he’d kissed her, hadn’t he? It was the sort of kiss she’d believed she’d never know, deep and long and…and if it hadn’t been for his iron grip on her, she would have melted into a warm little puddle and drowned in happy delirium.

  It was as extraordinary as it was unexpected, and had sent a stream of hot desire through her, climaxing in a raw longing that scorched her from the inside out. Her heart had thrashed about in her chest and she hadn’t been able to breathe, gasping for air like a drowning woman into his mouth, bringing his breath deep into her lungs.

  The memory of it made her shudder violently, and impetuously she turned and looked up the trail. He was standing exactly where she’d left him; his legs braced apart, his crop hanging upside down in his hand.

  Mared quickly turned around again, lest he see how he still made her skin burn, even from this distance—but her conscience squeaked a faint protest.

  She crushed whatever protest her conscience thought to make, for that was Payton Douglas standing on the trail above her, a man who had almost single-handedly ruined her family by introducing sheep to the hills around the lochs. The same man whose ancestors had tormented hers, whose family had betrayed the Lockharts in more ways than could be recalled, and who would force her into a marriage for a mere three thousand pounds, denying her the chance to live her life on her own terms.

  To her, that meant away from here and the curse.

  It hardly mattered that the sight of him made her heart pound like a bloody drum and her knees tremble with a weakness that infuriated her. Or that when he smiled, when he gave her nothing more than a smile, her blood seemed to simmer in her veins.

  He was a man who could easily snare a woman in his web, and it angered her to know how quickly and easily she had surrendered to him, and how his provocative words stirred her so deeply that she trembled when she thought of them. Let me give ye the pleasure ye’ve dreamed of….

  She thought of those words often in the following days. In her chamber one dreary, rainy afternoon, Mared recalled the entire experience with a delicious shiver as she studied the phial Donalda had given her.

  The very same morning of that blistering kiss, she’d climbed up to the tiny little vale deep in the hills to the little thatched hut surrounded by pink moss campion and white butterworts, in a desperate effort to avoid a betrothal that loomed ever closer like a silent, invading army.

  The thatched hut had looked the same as it had when Mared was a child, when she and her brothers would sneak up to spy on the old woman, playing a child’s guessing game at where the stool carved from a fallen tree had come from, or what the several wooden buckets stacked outside her door might have held. Liam had told her the smaller ones were for mushrooms, and the larger ones for the newts and toads and fairies that Donalda caught in the woods at night. “She’s the henwife,” he’d whisper to Mared, attempting to scare her with the lore fro
m a child’s tale of horror.

  But as Mared had grown up, she’d learned that Donalda was merely an old widow whose husband had died and left her penniless. Donalda was quick witted, and something of a seer, for she always knew when someone had come into her little vale. And indeed, that morning, she’d come out of the tiny cottage before Mared had entered the clearing, wiping her crooked hands on her soiled apron. “Aye, lass, I knew ye’d come,” she said, squinting at Mared, and beckoned her inside.

  The little one-room cottage was dark; the only light came from a low fire, over which a kettle hung. Two cats lounged amid bottles and bowls scattered atop a long wooden table. The only other furniture in the room was a single wooden chair and a mattress on the floor near the hearth.

  Donalda went to the kettle and lifted the lid; the smell of peat filled the room. She replaced the kettle lid, wiped her hands on her apron, then moved to a shelf high on the wall.

  The old woman went up on her tiptoes, and with her hand, she felt around the high shelf until her fingers closed around something. She lowered her hand, turned toward Mared, and opened her palm to show her a small phial.

  “Keep it close to yer heart,” she said, gesturing for Mared to open her hand. She put the phial in it and closed Mared’s fingers over it. “And as the eve of yer betrothal draws nigh, drink this by the light of the full moon.”

  “What is it?” Mared had asked uncertainly.

  Donalda’s eyes had glittered, and she had leaned close to Mared and said, “It will open the eyes to the truth,” she’d said enigmatically.

  “The Douglas, ye mean?”

  “I mean whoever must see the truth.”

  Now Mared stared at the little phial and wondered what potion could open anyone’s eyes to the truth about her when she could hardly see it herself.

  All right, then, there was one small, niggling truth that she’d never admit—never!—But he was right. She had lain awake many sleepless nights, her body aching. She had not known the touch of a man, as he so indelicately put it, not like his touch. She knew chaste kisses, holding hands. But not a man’s hand on her body, not the sort of touch that made her ache and cause her to toss and turn with dreams filled of earthy, bawdy images of Payton Douglas.