Seldom had he seen such perfection.
Her dark, thrusting nipples sent heat flashing through him, setting him like stone. His hands itched to reach for her, to plump and squeeze her full, lush bosom. He burned to touch her nipples, run his thumbs in circles around them, and then pluck them sweetly.
Truth was he wanted to devour her whole.
To that end, he bowed low, giving her his most practiced smile.
“One dance, fair lass.” He deepened the smile as he straightened, knew his dimples would flash, delighting her. He held out his hands, confident. “I shall be the most envied lad in the hall.”
“Think you?” She lifted a brow. Her tone was cold, her dark eyes chilling as she pulled up her gown, hiding her nakedness. “I say you are Sorley the bastard and greatly mistaken.”
She gave him a tight, icy smile. “Be glad the King is away or I’d have him punish you for your impertinence.
“I may yet.” She narrowed her eyes, looking at him as if he were a speck of mud on her shoe.
Sorley tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come. His throat had closed, his mouth gone dry. The maid tossed her head, shaking back her rippling, raven curls before she sailed away into the throng, leaving him to stare after her.
Mortification sluiced through him.
The hall grayed, blurring around him. A loud buzzing filled his ears and a terrible, flaming heat raced up his neck, branding his cheeks. From a great distance, or so it seemed, he caught a glimpse of Roag, Andrew, and Caelan, gaping at him. The pity on their faces made him want to sink into the floor.
He swallowed hard, his heart hammering in shame.
Never had he been so humiliated.
Worse, he still stood with his hands extended. He couldn’t lower his arms. They felt frozen, stiff and immoveable. Everything careened around him. The dancers and strutting pipers, the hurrying servants, and even the castle dogs, they all blended into a great whir, making him dizzy.
He blinked, certain he was about to die, when an angel appeared out of the spinning chaos and came forward to take his outstretched hands.
A hush fell over the hall, a stillness so loud it was deafening. Everyone turned to stare at Sorley and the startling beauty who gripped his hands so demonstratively. As fair and bright as the other lass had been dark, she was the most exquisite maid he’d ever seen. Her large blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. And her hair shone red-gold in the torchlight, her braids falling below her waist. Unquestionably of high birth, she wore amethyst silk and jewels, her delicate rose perfume scenting the air around her.
“I will dance with you.” She laced her fingers with his, squeezing lightly. “If it pleases you?”
Sorley nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She looked at him with her great blue eyes, holding his gaze as if partnering him in the dance was the most natural thing for her to do.
He was certain he’d never seen her before.
Her accent told him why.
She spoke with a soft and pleasing lilt, the musical sweetness of the Highlands flowing in her voice. He also noted that her eyes weren’t just blue, but lavender-blue. And despite the brightness of her hair and her fair, creamy skin, she was graced with exceptionally long, black eyelashes. Though still tender in years, likely close to his own age, she already possessed the power to hold any man’s heart in the palm of her hand.
His own heart beat wildly, the rest of the hall, the dancers and the bright ring of torches, fading away. Nothing existed except the racing of his pulse and the flame-haired lass with the beautiful eyes, her honeyed voice and dazzling smile.
She lit the hall as if a thousand suns had descended into their midst.
Sorley lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. He remembered too late that, because she was surely chaste, he should have touched his lips to the air above her knuckles, no more. Yet she didn’t pull away. The warmth in her eyes remained, her face even softening as if she’d enjoyed his attentions.
“I am Mirabelle.” Her sweet voice made his pulse leap. “My uncle is celebrating this e’en. He—”
“He’ll be Murd MacLaren. Your father is Munro, chief of that clan.” Sorley should’ve known. There’d been talk of the MacLaren’s fetching daughter. The Highlanders were here because the King had granted Mirabelle’s uncle a land charter and pension for his support and retinue service in last year’s Anglo-Scottish war.
Her father had claimed his reward the year before.
The King’s son and heir, John, had issued the charter, allowing the visiting clansmen to host the night’s feasting and entertainments.
It was a reason Sorley wore his new cast-off plaid with such pride this e’en.
He felt drawn to Highlanders.
There was much to be said for men famed to be as fierce, wild, and rugged as the soaring, mist-drenched hills of their homeland; women prized for their strength and beauty, the fiery passion known to heat a man’s blood even on cold, dark nights when chill winds raced through the glens. Sorley had never been to the Highlands, but he’d heard the tales, seen the wonder, and envy, in the eyes of those who had. All claimed no land was more awe-inspiring, no people more proud.
Secretly, he believed his nameless sire was a great Highland chieftain. A man who’d allowed the splendor of his home and the glory of his deeds to swell his head so much that he didn’t want the taint of a bastard son to besmirch the grandness of his name.
Sorley glanced toward the dais end of the hall, caught a glimpse of colorful plaid and bold, bearded faces. Men who sat at the high table, laughing loudly as they chinked wine cups with the King’s sons.
His father would be such a man.
Someday…
He drew a breath, pushing aside such thoughts. Mirabelle’s sparkling eyes, the gleam of her hair, and her light, flowery perfume made it hard to think of anything but her. Especially as she still held his hands, looking pleased to partner him in a dance.
“I have heard men speak of you. They say you are good with a bow. That you won yesterday’s competition.” Her lilting voice chased the last darkness from his mind. “You are Sorley.” She spoke his name as if he were a prince, her praise doing strange things to his insides.
She lifted her chin toward the dancers, just starting a fast and furious Highland reel. “Can you dance to our hill music?”
“Better than anyone here.” Sorley flashed his most confident smile and kept it in place when she took his arm, pulling him into the dance.
He’d never reeled in all his days.
But he’d dance a naked jig on a balefire for Mirabelle MacLaren.
Besides, so many revelers crowded the dancing space it was hard to even breathe, much less leap and whirl in a wild Highland reel.
No one would notice his lack of skill.
He saw only Mirabelle.
The scream of the pipes and the thunder of stamping feet made it difficult to talk, but speech wasn’t needed for him to know that she liked him. Her sparkling eyes stayed on his and a fine blush colored her high, delicate cheekbones. Her braids swung about her shoulders, the brilliant strands golden in the firelight.
Slender as a wisp, she moved with fluid grace. Her braids began to unravel, her hair spilling loose and lustrous to her waist. Sorley’s breath caught, her disarray giving him bold, wicked thoughts. His body heated, and not just from the dance. She laughed as if she knew, her merriment encouraging him. When she spun closer, her pert young breasts brushing his arm, he was sure of it.
“You can dance our reel.” She twirled and her hip bumped his, sending a rush of pleasure through him.
His heart swelled. “I can do more.”
This night he’d believe he could do anything. Uproot trees singlehandedly, move whole mountains, and swim the deepest, wildest seas. All he wanted to do was spend a few moments alone with Mirabelle.
He hoped to kiss her.
But he didn’t trust himself to say so.
He did lift his chin toward the shadows of th
e tower stair. “Have you been up on the eastern battlements?”
“Nae, should I have been?” She followed his gaze. “I’ve not seen much of the castle except this hall and the ladies’ bower.”
“Then you’ve missed something grand.” Sorley’s smile widened. He raised his voice above the music, secretly proud that he wasn’t short of breath. “The best view in the land is to be had from up there. Even your Highland peaks can be seen in the distance.
“Perhaps I can show you?” He’d love nothing more.
“I’d enjoy that.” She glanced toward the dais as if she was about to say something else and then thought better of it. Turning back to him, she reached to touch the plaid he’d slung so proudly over his shoulder. “You dance our reel like a true Highlander.”
Sorley grinned and swirled her in a circle.
He was dancing well. The reel’s mad pace came natural to him, the wail of the pipes firing his blood. Something inside him split and cracked wide, freeing a surge of happiness such as he’d never known.
Somewhere in the hall, a Highlander began to sing. His voice was deep and strong, the song full of longing for the heathery hills of his homeland. Sorley took the man’s words for a portent. A never-before sense of belonging rose inside him. He could almost see the great hills and wild, cloud-chased skies, smell the peat and broom. Truly moved, he drew Mirabelle close as the other dancers whirled past them. Her light, flowery perfume teased him and her silky hair slid against his arm. The ring of torches flamed bright, casting a reddish glow on the eddying throng. Above them, the hall’s smoke-blackened rafters glistened, gleaming like the star-studded heavens. And Sorley danced with the fairest of maids.
He could believe an ancient magic was upon them.
It was a night like no other.
Until the crowd parted and a stern-faced matron sailed over to them, her mouth set in a tight, unsmiling line. A giant, bull-necked Highlander towered behind her, the MacLaren plaid swept boldly across his broad chest and shoulders. A deep scar scored his face, but it was his cold, expressionless stare that chilled Sorley’s blood.
“Mirabelle!” The woman grasped Mirabelle’s wrist. “So this is where you’ve been.” She gave Sorley a sharp look, her lips compressing even more. “Your father will be livid. To think you—”
“She danced, no more.” Sorley put back his shoulders, met the woman’s gaze. He’d learned early on to stand against such disapproval, casting off slurs as a dog shakes rain from his fur. “She—”
“She is Lady Mirabelle to you.” The woman’s voice was like ice. She glanced at the guard, her look significant. “A well-born young lady doesn’t—”
“Smile and laugh, my lady?” Sorley angled his head, challengingly. “Enjoy a quick turn at your own Highland reel?”
“You’re a bonnie lad.” The giant spoke then, coming forward to clamp his hand on Sorley’s shoulder. “You’ll no’ be wanting your face ruined afore you’re a man, eh?”
“And you’ll be wishing to stay one?” Sorley bent, pulling the dirk from his boot, but the Highlander was faster, grabbing his arm in an iron grip.
Sorley’s blade clattered to the floor.
The giant kicked the dirk aside and then released him. He dusted his hands demonstratively. “Think well, lad, before you’re next so ambitious.” He slid a telling look at Mirabelle. “No good comes o’ those who dinnae ken their place.”
Sorley bristled, felt heat surging into his cheeks. Even so, he couldn’t let Mirabelle see him humiliated. Not twice in one night.
She liked him, he was sure.
Perhaps he’d see her again before the MacLaren party left Stirling. Hoping so, he turned to her, but her expression froze the words on his tongue. All the warmth was gone from her eyes. Her face was as cold and stony as the woman’s, her stance rigid as the hulking giant beside her.
She looked at him as she would a stranger, a ragged beggar in the street.
“A good e’en,” she offered him, speaking with stiff courtesy.
“That it was not.” The old woman sniffed. “I’ll hear the meaning of this.”
“I wished to dance, that is all.” Mirabelle shrugged, flicked at her sleeve. “It is over and done, forgotten.”
“And so it shall remain.” The old woman jerked her away, pulling her into the crowd, toward the dais where pipers were again strutting, blowing their vigorous tunes as if nothing had happened.
In truth, nothing had.
Except that everything she’d stirred in Sorley withered and died.
He stared after her, a strange buzzing in his ears.
Anger and resentment welled in his chest, chasing the pride and pleasure, and the magic he’d believed had spilled into the hall, casting an enchantment.
How could he have been so foolish?
He wouldn’t ever again.
So he assumed his best look of defiance and strode from the dancing space, his shoulders straight, his head held high. He crossed the hall with purpose, winding his way through the crowd until he reached the stair tower. He felt a deep need to visit his special corner of the battlements, so he took the circular steps two at a time, frowning only when he pulled open the door at the top.
A surge of cold air and a swirl of mist greeted him, the night’s fog-drenched grayness suiting his mood. He went straight to the battlements’ eastern wall, where he braced his hands on the chill, damp stone. This late in summer, the night sky should’ve gleamed like silvered glass, offering him sweeping views of the broad plain beneath the castle, the winding band of the river, and—he clenched his fists against the uncaring stone of the wall—the distant peaks of the Highlands.
Instead, thick mist spoiled the view, drifting in sheets across the land, blowing in shimmering curtains past the battlements.
Not that he cared.
The Highlands were there, waiting for him, even if he couldn’t see them.
They called to him more fiercely than ever.
Because now he knew beyond doubt that he was a Highlander.
Weren’t they said to never forget a grievance? Knowing it was so, he leaned against the wall, narrowing his eyes to peer through the whirling gray. He fancied he could see the faint outline of hills. He knew they marked the start of a different world, a wondrous place unlike any other, where deep glens beckoned with quiet and cold, clean air. Granite mountains so stark, lonely, and beautiful, it was a physical pain to look upon them.
All that he’d known since he’d first glimpsed them from this, his special corner of the ramparts, a viewing place he had sought again and again, ever since he’d heard a visiting storyteller sing of his misty, heathered home in the hills.
The bard’s song had spoken to him. Noticing his awe, the man hauled Sorley onto his broad, plaid-draped shoulders and carried him up to the battlements to see such wonders for himself, if only from afar. Sorley had been all of six, but he’d never forgotten.
Someday he’d find the Highland chieftain who’d sired him.
He’d claim the birthright he’d been denied.
He’d prove his Highland blood by avenging the wrongs done him. Vengeance would be his and it’d be as cold and gray as the mist swirling around him. He’d live for the day and he’d be ready when it came.
Nothing would stop him.
It was more than a matter of reckoning.
It was a point of pride.
Chapter One
Stirling Castle
Summer 1399
Sorley the Hawk slept naked.
His bare-bottomed state was glaringly apparent, even to Lady Mirabelle MacLaren’s innocent eyes. She should have known that a man with such an inordinate fondness for pleasures of the flesh would take to his bed unclothed. Still, it was a possibility she should’ve considered before sneaking into his privy quarters. She hadn’t expected him to be in his room so early of an e’en. She’d hoped to catch him unawares, surprising him when he strode inside.
Now she was trapped.
She stood frozen, her heart racing as she glanced around his bedchamber. Even in the dimness, she could tell his quarters were boldly masculine and entirely too sumptuous for an ordinary court bastard. Exquisitely embroidered and richly colored tapestries hung from the walls and the floor was immaculate, the rushes fresh and scented with aromatic herbs. A heavily carved and polished trestle table held the remains of what had surely been a superb repast. Several iron-banded coffers drew her curiosity, making her wonder what treasures they contained. Above all, her eye was drawn to the large curtained bed at the far end of the room.
There, atop the massive four-poster, Sorley was stretched out on his back, one arm folded behind his head.
That he was nude stood without question.
What astonished her was her reaction to seeing him in such an intimate state.
Her mouth had gone dry and her heart beat too rapidly for comfort. She couldn’t deny that she found herself strongly attracted to him. Yet to accomplish what she must, she required her wits.
Unfortunately, she also needed Sorley.
Sir John Sinclair, an oily-mannered noble she couldn’t abide, was showing interest in her. Worse, he was wooing her father, a man who believed the best in others and didn’t always catch the nuances that revealed their true nature. Castle tongue-waggers whispered that Sinclair desired a chaste bride, requiring a suitable wife to appease the King’s wish that he live more quietly than was his wont. Mirabelle suspected he’d chosen her as his future consort.
She knew Sorley loathed Sinclair.
And that the bad blood was mutual.
No one was better suited to help her repel Sinclair’s advances than Sorley the Hawk.
Time was also of the essence. Mirabelle’s father’s work at court wouldn’t take much longer. As a scholar and herbalist, he’d tirelessly seen to his duties, assisting the royal scribes in deciphering Gaelic texts on healing. Soon, the MacLaren party would return home to the Highlands.
Mirabelle didn’t want to remain behind as Sir John’s betrothed. For that reason, she summoned all the strength she possessed to remain where she stood. It cost her great effort not to back from the room, disappearing whence she’d come. Harder still was not edging closer to the bed, then angling her head to better see Sorley.
To Love a Highlander Page 2
