He stopped short after only a few steps.
Lady Mirabelle stood near his favorite spot, her lovely face turned to the wind, her red-gold hair tumbling loose about her shoulders.
“By all that’s holy,” Sorley swore, glaring at her as the pain in his head returned with a vengeance.
“You!” She spun about at once, her eyes flying wide. “What are you doing here so early of a morn?”
“I might ask the same of you.” Sorley strolled over to her, retreat no longer an option. “Myself, I greet each new day up here. The brisk, clean air and the view”—he swung out an arm, indicating the broad spread of rich farmland, misty hills, and the distant peaks of the Highlands—“is one of the few pleasures I allow myself.”
Her cheeks colored most becomingly on the word pleasures.
Selfishly pleased to have unsettled her, Sorley stepped around her and braced his hands on a merlon. He fixed his gaze on the winding path of the river, knowing she’d join him.
When she did, he glanced at her. “Truth is, sweetness, I’ve been visiting this viewpoint nearly every morn since I was all of six years. How is it that you, a visitor to the castle, would seek such an out-of-the-way spot?” He held her gaze, hoping to see a flash of guilt.
Hadn’t he once offered to bring her here?
All those long years ago when she’d come to Stirling with her father and her uncle?
If she remembered, she showed no sign.
Her forgetfulness added a sharp jab of annoyance to the ills already plaguing him that morning.
“I always miss the hills when I’m away.” She turned her gaze back to the far-off mountains that were just beginning to glow with hints of the coming dawn. “Most of all, I yearn for my home, Knocking Tower. Someone at the high table yestere’en mentioned one can see clear to the Highlands from up here. I wanted to look.”
“The view is exceptional this morn.” Sorley put just enough suggestiveness into his tone to rattle her. He also slanted her a glance that left no doubt to his meaning.
When her blush deepened, he almost regretted the taunt, but it bothered him more than it should that she had no recollection of their youthful encounter.
She brought out the worst in him.
So much so that he straightened, turning away from the wall to glance boldly down the length of her body and back up again. He took special delight in allowing his gaze to linger where she clutched her cloak together over the swell of her luscious breasts.
Not dressed as splendidly as the night before, she wore a simple mantle of deep blue, its edges fluttering in the wind to reveal a plain gown of the same hue beneath. Her hair shone, silky and lustrous in the pale morning sun. The shining strands minded him of richly hued autumn leaves. And weren’t her great blue eyes bright, the high color on her cheekbones flattering, and—something inside him twisted with annoyance—her ripe lips as red as rowan berries? He was certain no fairer maid walked the land.
Despite all reason, he wanted to devour her whole.
Her chin came up as if she knew. “You are not looking at the view.”
“Aye, I am.” He gave her a slow, lazy smile. “I’ve ne’er seen aught finer.”
A slight lifting of her brow indicated she knew exactly what he meant. “If that is so, are you now willing to help me?”
“You’ll have my answer this e’en in the chapel, as we agreed.” He cupped her cheek in one hand, unable to resist. “As yet, I’m undecided.”
It was a bald-faced lie.
Regrettably, the hammering in his head and her ability to scatter his wits drove him to share his misery. He couldn’t tamp down the powerful urge to unsettle her as much as she did him.
“Then I shall hope you decide in my favor.” She looked up at him, speaking as calmly as if she’d commented on the weather and not something as scandalous as her wish for him to deflower her.
He almost told her the truth; that he’d enjoy nothing more, taking great pleasure in the deed. Sakes, even with the cold morning wind racing over the battlements, he could almost feel the heat of her as if she were already in his arms.
Somehow his fingers went to her hair, touching glossy strands as if the devil himself wouldn’t allow him to lower this hand. In truth, the fiend had nothing to do with his lack of willpower. It was her. She was simply breathtaking in the soft morning light.
He frowned, not wanting her to guess how fetching he found her. “Lady, I’d have thought a good night’s sleep would put such nonsense from your mind.”
“To me, the matter is most serious.” Annoyance flickered over her face. “Will you not even consider it?”
He’d thought of nothing else since he’d wakened to find her in his bedchamber.
A truth he was not about to share with her.
“I make no promises.” His tone was harsher than he’d have wished, but she rode him like a sharp-clawed, ring-tailed she-devil.
Nae, a vixen of the very kind he sought to avoid at all costs.
She was a cunning and devious minx, brazen, provocative, and entirely too alluring. She was also a lady of good breeding, her lineage beyond question, her virginity equally so.
He stepped away from her at last, leaning against the wall with all the casualness he could muster. He crossed his arms, his mind racing for a way to be rid of her. A look, a phrase, anything he could avail himself of that would send her fleeing from the ramparts, away from his special place. Above all, out of his sight.
“So-o-o, sweetness…” He looked at her with hooded eyes, putting just enough arrogance into his tone to rile her. “Did you hope to catch a glimpse of the pink lady up here? Or were you truly only after gazing toward your distant homeland? If you’re pining so fiercely for the hills, surely you can persuade your father to take you back to Knocking Tower?”
“Where are you heading this fine morn?” Ignoring his questions, she glanced pointedly at the bulky leather pouch he’d left beside the stair tower door. When she looked at him again, she angled her head, her gaze challenging. “Can it be you’re off to visit ladies, pink or otherwise?”
“I’m on my way to the Red Lion.” He spoke true, just not mentioning that he intended to pay a call at the popular tavern not this morning, but much later, after he’d met with her in the chapel. He meant to slake his need for her with the comeliest, most wanton joy woman tending her trade at the Red Lion that night.
Only so, by thoroughly taking the edge off his raging desire for Lady Mirabelle, could he keep to the offer he intended to make her.
She glanced again at his travel pouch. “You must have a most expensive lady in mind if you need such a large bag to carry her payment.”
“I ne’er have need of coin for such delights.” He pushed away from the wall, guilt pinching him when his words put a deep flush on her face.
A pity his irritation weighed more than shame for speaking so plainly. “If you’d hear the right of it, many are the bonnie lasses who come freely to my bed. Others, such as your own lovely self, offer recompense for my attentions.
“No’ that I accept such boons.” He hooked his thumbs in his sword-belt, well aware he’d gone too far but unable to curb his tongue.
She annoyed him that greatly.
So he leaned in, giving her a wink. “The ladies’ favor is payment enough.”
Her eyes rounded. “You, sir, are insufferable.”
“So many say.” He flashed his most roguish smile. “But you err in calling me sir. Surely you’ve not forgotten my nameless birth?”
“I’ve forgotten nothing.” Her temper flaring, she narrowed her gaze at him.
Sorley shrugged, feigning indifference.
In truth, she made him damned uncomfortable.
What a shame that even now, aware of her perfidy as he was, just standing so close to her hit him like a punch to the gut. She made him feel four and ten summers again, young and vulnerable. He didn’t like the feeling. Yet for some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t summon the will to t
urn and leave her standing alone, to stroll away with just enough swagger to put another maidenly flush on her face. He did brace a hand on the rampart wall, careful to keep his gaze on the distant hills.
“If you’ve forgotten nothing, fair lady,”—he spoke without looking at her—“you’ll remember from last night that I am no’ a man to be taken off guard. If you thought to sway my decision by waiting for me up here—”
“I did not come here to meet with you.” The truth in her denial was vexing.
“So you did hope to see the pink lady?” Sorley glanced at her, cocking a brow. “No’ wish to corner a lowly court bastard, use your womanly wiles to persuade him to do your biding?” He reached to trace a finger along the softness of her cheek. “And here I thought—”
“You thought wrong.” She captured his wrist, lowering his hand before he could comb his fingers through her hair as he’d been about to do.
Instead, he set his jaw, struggled to keep his arms at his sides. He should be glad for her prickliness. Touching her silken tresses would’ve distracted him, provoking him beyond measure.
Mirabelle’s heart hammered. His caress fuzzed her mind, chasing her wits and sending the most distracting tingles all through her. She couldn’t think with his hands on her. His proximity was trying enough, his brazen masculinity and air of roguishness appealing to her in ways she shouldn’t allow.
He was much too good-looking, his gaze too hot and knowing. Even the way he moved revealed how powerfully virile he was, how strong and able. In his arms, a woman would melt, losing all control, and gladly so. He was that intense—also wicked she was sure. No, he was predacious and surely sparked a thrill of desire in every woman he met.
Heaven help her if he did agree to her wishes.
She’d be spoiled for all men.
And not in the manner she intended.
How could she ever want another man after lying in his arms, letting him initiate her to carnal acts, enjoying the passion she knew would blaze so hotly between them?
She felt that fire now, the heightened awareness prickling in her veins. Feminine anticipation that pooled deep, it was a soft, slow melting low in her belly, exciting sensations that were entirely new to her and much more enjoyable than she would have believed.
Not wanting him to guess, she stood as straight as she could. Pride kept her from pushing the wind-whipped hair from her face. Trying to ignore how much he intrigued and disquieted her, she took pleasure in the morn’s chilly rawness, a delight she doubted he’d understand. Highlanders appreciated wild weather.
Sorley the Hawk was only interested in wild women.
And—she drew an annoyed breath—he found amusement in her belief in ghosts.
Mirabelle stiffened, knowing well that bogles existed.
“You asked if I wished to glimpse the pink lady, sir.” She emphasized the courtesy title. She wasn’t about to comment on his bastardy. He’d reminded her simply to provoke her, she knew. Spirits were a safer topic. “It’s a shame you cannot accept the possibilities of ghosts. We of the Highlands know they are real.”
“I would not know, my lady.” The brusqueness of his tone surprised her.
She’d expected him to quirk a smile, making fun of her.
Instead his face closed, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Equally telling, he stiffened, his hands even fisting before he caught himself and once again tucked his thumbs in his sword-belt.
Bogles were clearly a sore point with him.
Mirabelle felt her brow pleating. She also couldn’t help but defend her beliefs. So she stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his arm. “If you were a Highlander, you’d feel differently.”
He looked at her, his expression even darker than before. “I have better things to do than consider such nonsense.”
“I could tell you tales…” Mirabelle let her voice tail off, knowing he’d only scoff at her stories.
Still, she slid her fingers down his arm, touching his hand lightly before she turned back to the wall and the magnificent view beyond.
Steep and craggy, nearly the whole range of the Highlands stretched along the horizon, every fissure and corrie standing out in the low morning light, a scarf of cloud veiling the summits. Just gazing at the scudding mists and ageless rock caused the sweetest warmth to bloom in her breast, a sensation entirely different from the feelings Sorley stirred in her. Not quite ready to meet his dark, intent eyes, she let her own light briefly on the sparkling bend of the river, so much nearer than her beloved hills.
“Would you hear of my home?” She didn’t look at him as she spoke.
And she took his silence for a yes.
Pleased to have won even a small battle, she breathed deeply of the cold morning air, wonder already filling her to think of her clan’s proud ancestral seat.
“Knocking Tower was named to appease the long-dead souls who made a racket when my ancestors built the stronghold.” She cast a sideling glance at Sorley, immediately wishing she hadn’t.
He wasn’t listening.
He’d fixed his gaze on the hills, his back straight and his jaw hard-set.
Even so, Mirabelle continued. “Clan legend claims stones for the castle were taken from the remains of a nearby fortress. A sacred place that belonged to the Old Ones who lived in times so dim only the tumbled and lichened rocks of their ruined homes remember them.”
She paused, expecting him to say something. When he didn’t, she bit back a sigh. “It’s not surprising they objected to seeing the weathered stones so violated. They played mischief with the builders, causing thorn bushes to grow over newly laid walkways and foundations, even tearing down just-started walls at night when the men slept.
“Once the stronghold stood, they made their displeasure known in other ways.” Her heart gave a lurch, sympathy for the spirits of her home beating fiercely inside her. “They took up hammers of their own, pounding on the walls and wailing through the stair towers so that my ancestors couldn’t enjoy a single night’s rest.
“And then”—her voice caught, her favorite part of the tale misting her eyes—“the lady of the castle, my great-great-great-grandmother and then some, declared that we should do the ghosts honor and keep a long table in the hall always set for them, allowing no one to sit there so the spirits would know the place was theirs and they were welcome. That we revered them and the ancient stone they allowed us to use.
“This great lady insisted the ghosts’ nightly ruckus was their way of showing approval and goodwill.” Mirabelle dabbed discreetly at her cheek. “It was she who decided the new stronghold should be called Knocking so they’d aye know we understood.”
“Did they?” Sorley’s voice was gruff, so low she scarce heard him.
“Our storytellers say they did, because the noises stopped.” She paused, her breath hitching. “An air of peace and contentment descended, and it remains so to this day, felt and appreciated by us all.”
“It is a touching tale, my lady.” He still didn’t look at her. “I am sure your hills abound with such fables.”
“There is truth behind every legend.” Mirabelle flicked at her sleeve, speaking lightly. “Of this tale, I believe every word.”
“I am sure you do.”
“You do not?”
“I believe that you believe.” He turned to her, his expression unreadable. “I can also understand why Stirling’s pink lady fascinates you.”
“She does.” Mirabelle’s heart started racing again, and for reasons that had nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do with the man standing so near. “I hope to see her someday. But I did not come up here searching for her. It will be some days before my father’s transcribing work for the King is finished. He is helping the royal scribes decipher an ancient Gaelic book on medicine and healing.
“Such work is tedious and takes time.” She touched a hand to her breast, drank deep of the brisk morning air. “And so”—she glanced again at the breathtaking vista before them—“I felt a
need to gaze in the direction of my home. As I told you, that’s the reason I came up here.”
“You miss your hills so much?” His voice carried an edge.
“Any Highlander would.” Mirabelle wished he wasn’t standing so near. He truly was imposing. Wind tossed his thick, dark hair, the ends dancing across his broad shoulders. Thanks to the same wind, his warm, sandalwood scent drifted over her, its headiness proving a great distraction. The fierce look on his face disturbed her even more.
Could it be he disliked the Highlands?
Turning back to the view, she lifted her chin, sure that wasn’t possible.
He simply didn’t care for her.
She placed her hands on the same merlon he’d leaned against moments ago, taking strength from the stone’s cold, damp solidity.
“A Highlander is aye deeply attached to the land.” She kept her gaze on the River Forth rather than her beloved hills. She didn’t want emotion to thicken her voice and that would happen if she spoke such truths while looking on her home when separated by miles from its embrace. “Our hearts shrivel, our souls withering when we must be away. The yearning to return is a terrible ache inside us.”
“Indeed?” He came to stand beside her, his voice even harder than before. “I would not know.”
Mirabelle glanced at him. “Have you never been there then? If you had, you’d understand.”
“Stirling is my home. I’ve ne’er journeyed so far north as your hills. I—” he broke off when two guardsmen rounded a corner, striding past them on their morning circuit of the battlements.
As if the patrol’s arrival heralded the true beginning of the day, the sound of garrison men practicing arms reached them from the training ground then, the burst of noise quickly followed by the laughter of kitchen women at the castle well. Somewhere a cart rumbled over cobbles and a horn blast signaled that visitors had been spotted nearing the gates. Before the flourish faded away, a woman’s angry voice rose, scolding someone about a spilled barrel of oats. Soon, Mirabelle knew, the cacophony would worsen.
To Love a Highlander Page 5
