She was a complication he couldn’t allow.
Not as the King’s man, a Fenris Guard with no place in his life for a headstrong, all-too-inquisitive and clever nobly born female.
So he stepped closer again and took her by the elbow, leading her to the door. Unfortunately, when they reached it he couldn’t resist lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“I will look forward to the pleasure, my lady.” He let her go, stepping back into the shadows of the chapel as she strode away across the courtyard, quickly disappearing into the rainy darkness.
The moment the mists closed around her, he swore.
He should be glad to have riled her. There truly was no room in his life for Lady Mirabelle. To be sure, he didn’t fit into her world.
The problem was how much that bothered him.
Chapter Eight
Botheration!” Mirabelle heard the chapel door close behind her, the soft fall of the latch proving Sorley had chosen not to follow her. When he’d remained in the open doorway after she left, she’d thought he might do so.
Truth be told, she’d hoped he would.
Instead, he’d simply stood there and watched her walk off into the cold, wet night. She’d known because she’d felt his stare boring into her. She wasn’t about to whirl around to be sure. She could tell fine enough. And her resentment grew with each step she took.
She shouldn’t be surprised.
Everyone knew he was a rogue, rough-edged and brazen. He lived to please himself, barely accepting the strictures of a civilized society, and then only when it served him to adhere to such constraints.
Sadly, she couldn’t make such excuses for her own actions, or for the frustration and disappointment she was now feeling.
She paused to draw her cloak tighter against the wind. Not that she minded its buffeting. The wild wet night suited her mood. Mist and clouds swirled everywhere, great billowing swaths of gray that filled the courtyard and swooped down from the heavens to race across the ramparts. The rain was still little more than a drizzle. But the fog had thickened into a whirling, shimmering mass that cloaked the castle’s highest towers, hiding much of the keep from view. Torches did burn in the arcaded walkways around the courtyard, but their flames were mere smudges of yellow against the gloom.
That was fine with her.
Darkness meant chances were good no one had seen her leave the chapel.
Even so, she strove to keep her back straight, her head raised. She might be stepping a mite faster than she’d like, but she felt a powerful need to put distance between herself and the great folly she’d allowed to befall her when Sorley announced his conditions.
She hadn’t expected him to kiss her.
Not this night, anyway.
She’d thought to be more prepared when the inevitable kissing began. She knew enough about mating to be aware that kisses would be a prelude to the carnal act. She’d not wanted him to sense her attraction to him. He’d refuse her for sure, if he knew. So she’d meant to detach herself from her body and the natural physical urges that would surely arise. She’d turn her mind to other matters.
Her plan was good.
She’d pretend Sorley’s seduction wasn’t happening and conjure images of her father’s collection of lichens, moss, and sundry other healing goods on display in so many of Knocking’s rooms.
She could think of little better to dash sensual arousal than the dried heads of adders, twists of withered eel, and the claw-joints of newts, carefully preserved in full moon-infused sage oil.
She’d also neglected to tell Sorley about the wild-looking Highlander—Grim Mackintosh, by name—who’d called at the Red Lion Inn, asking of him.
And didn’t that prove how thoroughly Sorley scattered her wits?
Feeling honor-bound to let him know, she started to turn, thinking to go after him. Before she could, something stirred in the arcade. She blinked, staring at the patch of rose-colored luminosity gliding along the covered walkway, moving slowly and with grace.
Mirabelle’s eyes rounded, heart almost stilling.
She forgot the mysterious Highlander.
How could she not when the rose glow was taking on the shape of a woman? Mirabelle could see her luminous gown, delicate and fine, a whisper of flowing skirts. She wore a hooded robe or perhaps a shawl draped over her head. Mirabelle could even make out the fullness of her breasts, the feminine shoulders and gently rounded hips.
And even though the rose-hued raiment looked like silk and was molded to her curves, the arcade’s walling showed right through the shimmering form.
That could only mean…
She was staring at Stirling Castle’s pink lady.
Clasping a hand to her breast, Mirabelle watched as the ghost slid silently along the arcade. Her pink mantle glowed and her cowled head was bowed. The fine hairs on her nape lifting, Mirabelle took a cautious step forward, then another. Now that the famed spirit was so near, she had to get a better look. She’d tried too many times to catch a glimpse of her.
So she edged closer, painfully aware of her footsteps on the cobbles. The pink lady had drifted behind one of the stone pillars and hadn’t yet reappeared. Mirabelle bit her lip, willing the ghost to emerge. She crept nearer, trying to step quietly.
“Please…” She was almost at the arcade. “I know you’re there.”
“I am flattered, fair lady.” Sir John Sinclair stepped out of the darkness. He smiled, his teeth flashing white. “Looking for me, were you?”
“Sir John!” Mirabelle started, her heart now thundering for an entirely different reason. His smile didn’t waver and as always, something about it made her skin crawl. He wore a dark cloak, explaining why she hadn’t noticed him approach. Richly worked, even bearing costly jet along the edges, the mantle didn’t match the rumors that he was on the verge of losing his lands and titles. Neither did the gold flashing at his throat and on his fingers.
Dark, lean, and handsome in a smooth, polished way that didn’t at all appeal to her, he finally stopped smiling and let his hooded gaze glide over her. Somehow, even with a serious expression, he managed to appear amused.
Mirabelle stood straighter, bestowed her haughtiest gaze on him.
His eyes glinted. “If I’d known you desired my company, I’d have left the hall much earlier, Lady Mirabelle.”
“I wasn’t looking for you.” She hoped her voice sounded stronger than it did to her.
“Then perhaps you are pleased to have found me?”
“You surely know the answer to that, good sir,” she dared, irritation bubbling up inside her. It cost her entire will not to hitch her skirts, turn, and stride away. Instead, she kept her chin raised, her gaze steady on his.
“Indeed.” He nodded as if unfazed by her rudeness. If anything, the glimmer in his eyes turned unpleasantly appreciative.
She wished her heart would stop racing.
There were folk who aye knew when someone was ill at ease. She was sure Sir John possessed such skill. His hooded eyes said as much, as did the slight lift to one of his brows. He could see right through her. And he was well aware she couldn’t stand him, that he was the last person she would’ve wished to meet alone, on such a dark, dreich night.
“So you weren’t seeking my company?” His tone made her shiver, not pleasantly.
“I thought I saw one of the castle cats.” She glanced about as if searching for such a creature.
Nothing stirred.
Mist swirled everywhere, thick and cold. Hazy light spilled from the nearby hall’s door and windows, but did little to chase the shadows. Any other time she wouldn’t have minded. She would’ve found the night’s silvery cast beautiful, even magical in a wondrous, otherworldly way. She usually appreciated such evenings.
But Sir John was leaning in, reaching for her hand, surely to kiss…
Mirabelle backed away, bumping into a pillar. “What are you doing here?”
“I should ask the same of you, my la
dy.” He stepped closer, his sleek, oiled hair gleaming in the torchlight. Whatever grease he smoothed on his dark, carefully combed hair also glistened in his neatly trimmed beard. It smelled, too, the heavily spiced scent almost overpowering. “A lady shouldn’t be out on her own, in the dark.”
“Celtic women have more freedoms than others.” Mirabelle slipped her hands behind her back, clasping them, before he could seize one and lift it to his lips. “We go where we please, when we wish.”
“Then I am most intrigued.” If he noticed her hand-trick, he gave no indication. “I admire a woman with spirit. Temperament and courage are alluring in many ways. A woman unafraid to explore her passion is a female highly prized.” He caught her elbow, tugging her closer, a suggestive smile curving his lips. “When she accepts a man’s guidance, is willing to indulge—”
“I am sure the hall is filled with such ladies.” Mirabelle tried to break free, but his grip was like iron. “One of them will—”
“Court ladies bore me.” He drew her nearer still, his smile fading into a look of such intense deliberation Mirabelle’s blood chilled. Lifting his free hand, he undid the clasp of her mantle so that the edges fell free, revealing the low-cut bodice of her gown.
“That was not wise.” Mirabelle bristled. Snatching her brooch, she refastened it and gave Sinclair her iciest stare. “No man touches me.”
“So I have observed.” He had the audacity to look pleased. “Why do you think I’ve noticed you?”
“Then pray un-notice me.”
His gaze flicked over her, a corner of his lips lifting in a slow, measuring way. “That, sweeting, is as impossible as telling a river to change its course.”
Mirabelle narrowed her eyes at him, pride not letting her flinch.
The chill air tightened her breasts, raising gooseflesh and causing her nipples to thrust against the dipping fabric. Thinking of Sorley, she’d chosen one of her most daring gowns. The deep-plunging front verged on indecent, allowing the tops of her nipples to peek above the bodice edging.
Any moment they’d pop free.
She could feel the cold air puckering that sensitive flesh now, knew her agitated breathing already exposed even more of her than the gown’s scandalous design intended. One more too-deep, overly long inhalation and her nipples would wink pertly at Sinclair, a possibility he clearly anticipated, for he’d again let his gaze drift lower, latching on to the top swells of her bosom, the rims of the chill-puckered crests. Mirabelle felt his stare as surely as if he’d reached out and grasped her breasts with his long, beringed fingers.
She jerked again, trying to pull away. “Did you know Highland woman carry daggers?”
“I have heard it said.” He didn’t blink, his gaze riveted to her breasts.
He also didn’t release her.
If anything, his grip on her arm tightened.
“It should delight me to discover where you’ve hidden your ladies’ dirk.” He looked up then, triumph on his face. “Perhaps you will show me when I visit your father at Knocking Tower. We can take a walk across your heathered moors and—”
“My father would never—”
“Invite me to your home?” He released her at last, stepping back but bracing a hand on the arcade pillar, his outstretched arm blocking her escape. “Dear lady, you truly should spend more time in your sire’s company rather than flitting about alone in the cold, dark mist. Your father has asked me to come to Knocking.” His confident air rang true. “I told him I’ve traveled the Hebrides. And that, while there, I was fortunate enough to spend time at the homes of several clan chiefs who give patronage to the MacBeths, the learned order of Gaelic healers. Your father is most interested to hear about—”
“Lies?” Mirabelle didn’t believe a word.
Sir John shrugged. “Your father was impressed.”
“He will listen to me.” She knew he wouldn’t.
Not if he thought he could spend hours and days questioning Sinclair about the far-famed MacBeths.
“You will only irritate him.” He leaned in, his wine-tinged breath fanning her cheek. “It was his suggestion that I ride north with you when you leave here. And”—he let his gaze sweep her again—“why should I not when such delights await me? A walk in the heather with you, learning the secret place you hide your—”
“I’ll show you now!” Mirabelle thrust her hand through a slit in her skirts and whipped out the thin-bladed dirk she wore strapped to her thigh. Brandishing it before Sinclair’s nose, she narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make me use it. I’d rather not bloody the King’s courtyard cobbles.”
To her annoyance, Sir John laughed. “Your fire attracts me, lady. Now I shall truly look forward to my visit to your wild Highland hills. If all the ladies there are such vixens, then I shall—”
“You wouldn’t leave alive.” Mirabelle tossed back her hair and pressed her dirk beneath his chin. “No one would ever find your body, because we’d toss you in a bog. It’d be a shame if any Highland creature soured his stomach from gnawing on your rotten bones.”
“Just how would you kill me?” He seized her wrist in a lightning-quick move, snatching the dagger and flipping her skirts up to reveal the leather sheath strapped high on her right thigh. “Try such foolery again and it is you who will not waken to enjoy the morrow,” he hissed, shoving the blade back into its holder and letting her skirts drop. “Be warned and do not test my leniency.”
“Then do not expect to sleep well if ever you do come to the Highlands.” Mirabelle swatted at her skirts and yanked her cloak back together. “We are not above being sneaky if pressed to a wall, my lord.”
He looked amused. “I can well imagine you in such a position. A woman against a wall is a joy to savor.”
“A man sleeping is easy prey.” Furious, Mirabelle held his gaze. “More than one fool has left this world in the dead of night, his journey to hell hastened by a knife slipped between his ribs as he slumbered.”
“How good to see that converse with you will never be wearying.” He lifted a hand to pull on the pointed tip of his beard. “I vow your bed play—”
“Her what?”
A tall, plaid-draped man appeared before them, his shoulder-length auburn hair blowing in the wind, his proud, handsome face stern. “A good e’en, Sir John, Lady Mirabelle,” said Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and King Robert III’s wildest, most notorious brother. Hailed as the Wolf of Badenoch after the rugged Highland territory he called his own, he ruled his lands with an iron fist and a brand of leadership not for the faint of heart. The Wolf wasn’t a man to counter.
He looked furious.
“Can it be you are giving this maid a poor impression of my brother’s court?” His soft Highland voice held warning notes of steel. “My lady and I thought so.” He glanced at the beautiful, well-made woman beside him. “Isn’t that so, Mariota?”
“I must agree.” The woman stepped forward, placing a hand on Mirabelle’s arm. A waft of pleasantly earthy musk perfume came with her. She had a welter of lustrous, garnet-red hair that she wore loose and curling about her shoulders and eyes of deepest blue. A heavy gold torque adorned her neck and her dark green cloak flattered her vibrant Celtic coloring.
She looked at Mirabelle for a long moment and then shifted her gaze back to Sir John. “This young maid doesn’t appear pleased by your attentions.”
Mirabelle recognized her as Alexander Stewart’s longtime and much-loved mistress, Lady Mariota de Athyn, or Mackay when away from the Gaelic speakers of her native bounds in Scotland’s remote far north.
She lightly squeezed Mirabelle’s arm and gave her a reassuring smile. Graced with a full, lush form that made it easy to understand why the earl worshipped her as he was known to do, she also had the kind of smile that held so much warmth you felt embraced from the top of your head clear down to your toes.
“You heard the lady.” The Wolf looked away from his mistress, fixing a fierce stare on Sinclair. He also stepped closer, placin
g his hand demonstratively on his sword hilt. “I trust we erred?”
Sir John blanched, but he caught himself quickly, bending a deep leg to the earl. “Lord Alex, Lady Mariota. You misheard me. I jested that Lady Mirabelle’s eyes must be playing tricks on her.” He didn’t look at Mirabelle. “She said she came upon a kitten and tripped over the wee creature. I saw no such animal, but gladly offered her my arm, thinking to escort her back to the hall.”
The Wolf only arched a brow.
“You are a right gallant.” Lady Mariota spoke just as smoothly as Sinclair, her voice rich with the pleasing lilt of the hills.
Straightening to her full height, she pinned Sir John with a look that left no doubt of her opinion of him.
Mirabelle listened, a whirl of thoughts plunging her into momentary silence. The Wolf and his lady could be her greatest allies. Yet in her mind, she also saw Sorley’s hot, intense gaze locked on hers; her lips still tingled from the kiss he’d given her in the chapel.
If she begged Alex Stewart’s help, there’d be no need to tryst with Sorley.
Could she leave Stirling without seeing him again, spending time with him in the way he’d proposed? Perhaps enjoying even greater intimacies? Ones that—the saints preserve her for such wanton longings—she ached to experience and savor?
She stood straighter, put her shoulders back, the answer clear.
She held her tongue, glancing at Lady Mariota.
The older woman was looking at the Wolf. “I believe we shall accompany Lady Mirabelle to her father’s table in the hall. You, Sir John, may go where you please.”
“You are kind, my lady.” Mirabelle smiled at her.
Sinclair frowned, clearly not fond of being addressed so boldly by a woman. “See here, Lady Mariota—”
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