But not like this. Not so near as to share sweat while they slept. Not so bonded as to have a connection, to share regular conversation and push for secrets.
Discontent fluttered in her chest in erratic, frenzied beats, like a moth had been trapped in place of her heart.
Ian had wanted more from her when they had last coupled. His touch was tender and gentle, as if he’d wanted to make it last through the night. She’d rushed him, the same as she had the first time. Where she had wanted her lust slaked, he had tried to draw out the seduction.
Things would be easier when they arrived at Kindrochit. When he saw Percy’s beauty, he would no longer find interest in Sylvi. And when Isabel tempted him, as she did all men, he would not resist.
Sylvi would be glad to be free of the burden of his attention. He wanted more than she would ever be willing to give.
She looked to where he slept alone in the bed, clutching a pillow to him. The fear thrumming through her ebbed.
He was a man like any other. Laird’s son or no, she would not allow herself to be swayed from who she was or her true purpose.
But it wasn’t his being a laird’s son that tugged at her. It was the desire to have him again.
The memory scorched through her mind of how he’d held her upright while he pleased her, balanced on the sheer strength of his body. Prickles of desire swept over her skin and pooled low in her stomach.
A far cry better than her first time, indeed. She pulled the dagger from her bag. A beam of moonlight shone bright on the blade. It was not the best weapon she owned by any stretch, but it had been the costliest.
The blacksmith set the dagger on the anvil with a plinking sound and latched the door with his meaty fist. “Ye’ve no’ been touched before, aye?”
Sylvi’s pulse went jagged with dread, and it was all she could do to stand her ground, to keep from backing away. “I am a maid, I said.”
The man’s hand moved under his thick leather apron. A grin spread over his face.
She kept her eyes open, but she scrunched her mind shut and thought only of her family: her strong father, her kind mother, her two sisters, and baby Einar.
And she thought of those she would kill with that very dagger.
A shudder wracked through her at the memory.
She tucked the dagger in her bag with the care one might enlist when putting a child to bed and pulled a léine free from the pack. The cloth fell over her body like a drape, large and concealing. Exactly what she wanted.
She strode over to where Ian slept and tried to pry her pillow free.
Ian gave an aggravated snort, his arms as locked on the pillow as they had been around her.
He was naked still, and his strength glowed in the silver light. She wanted to run her hand over his flesh, to reassure herself such raw power was indeed real.
She did not, of course. Not when doing so might wake him. The last thing she needed was hurt questions as to why she didn’t want to sleep with him.
Instead, she pulled out the plaid they used while traveling and spread it on the ground. The upturn of her forearm folded beneath her head was pillow enough.
She lay there on the hard floorboards and was just beginning to let herself be swept into the caress of sleep when something thunked down behind her.
She jerked awake and rolled over, her arm braced for a strike.
Ian gave her a lopsided grin. “It is a verra soft bed. This feels much better.” He lay on his back on the ground beside her and wriggled his bottom on the floor. “It’s only hard enough to leave half of me frozen with pain tomorrow.”
The tension left Sylvi’s body, and she let her raised hand fall away. If any beatings would ensue, they would only be for bad jests.
“Will ye come back to bed with me?” Ian sat up and held his hand out to her.
Sylvi looked at his open palm. Was he always so ridiculously trusting? “I don’t want to go to bed.”
His brow furrowed in concern. “Is it yer nightmare?”
“What?”
He held up his hands. “It’s cold enough in here without ye trying to turn me to ice with yer stare.”
“I don’t have nightmares.” If he thought her stare was cold, her voice came out even frostier.
He waggled his head. “Well, that’s no’ exactly true.”
Sylvi opened her mouth to protest.
“That’s where I heard minmore.” He said it softly, but it still hit her heart like a dagger.
Min mor.
My mother.
Her wounded heart crushed in her chest. The pain was nearly overwhelming. It sucked the air from her lungs and left her breathless.
“Sylvi?” Ian asked. He took her hand in the warmth of his own. “Ye can talk to me.”
“Why do you need to know?” She snatched her hand free and leapt to her feet. “Are you working for them?”
She knew the claim was most likely unwarranted, but anger was a far easier emotion to handle than the weight of sorrow.
He caught her hand again. “That isna fair.”
She tried to pull away, but he held fast. “Isn’t it? What do you know about Reginald and his men that you aren’t telling me?”
He pulled her onto the floor, his tug firm but not painful. She fell on her knees in front of him. Desire immediately warmed to an eager pulse between her legs.
“Maybe I’ve told ye everything already.” His eyes raked over her face, and he pulled the léine over her head.
The cool air of the room kissed her naked skin and brought a wave of chills prickling over her skin.
“And maybe you haven’t.”
He tilted her head back and his mouth slanted over hers, hungry and possessive. A kiss she answered back with the force of her rage.
She would not ignore their shared lust, not in this short time they had to enjoy it, but she would not sleep with him. Especially when she understood now exactly how very much the night and the darkness of her memories left her vulnerable.
Chapter 8
The additional day and a half of travel to Kindrochit Castle passed in a blend of eagerness and anticipation, a bittersweet combination.
Sylvi looked forward to Ian’s misplaced affection being redirected at women deserving of such doting. A woman who could return the warmth Ian so generously bestowed upon her, a woman both lovely and sweet.
And yet she could not help the heady rush whenever they slowed their horses for a break. Expectation would nip at her control and leave her near shaking with desire. They would fly from their steeds and soar into one another’s arms. Clothes were shoved aside rather than waste time spent removing them properly, and passions were lit with explosions that left them both reeling and panting.
Sylvi had enjoyed it, enough to have taken an extra stop that morning. One last bit of sport before they arrived at Kindrochit and Ian realized the error of his wayward flirtation.
She led the way over the aging bridge without speaking. There had been no warning of the miserable state of Kindrochit, where she and the girls trained and lived. The king had long since given up on trying to maintain the castle and then later eagerly relinquished it to the care of Connor Grant to save his own royal neck.
She hadn’t advised him of Percy, Liv, or Isabel, nor of the manner of their true state of being within Kindrochit. Now, as the hollow clatter of hoof beats echoed around her, she wondered if she’d made a mistake.
Perhaps she ought to have told him more. Perhaps she ought not to have brought him at all. She looked back at him.
He glanced up and gave her the same crooked grin that left his gaze so tender, it dragged a smile to her lips. She turned from him lest he see it.
The portcullis began to lift with a savage groan of protest, coming from the other side of the castle wall. As Sylvi had expected, the other women had seen her and prepared for her arrival.
A gray and white cat darted from between the gates and danced in d
aring scampers between the hooves of Sylvi’s horse. Sylvi slid down from her horse and scooped the feline from the ground. “That’s a fine way to get yourself trampled, Fianna.”
The cat gazed up at her with wide blue eyes. Her nose had gone extraordinarily pink in the cool weather, but her body was warm beneath the pelt of soft fur.
“You know how curious she is.” Liv took the horse’s reins from Sylvi and cast a glance back at Ian. “Isn’t he supposed to be dead?” She asked it in a lowered voice, but the snap of Ian’s attention indicated he’d had no trouble overhearing the question.
Or perhaps it was the woman who had spoken that stole Ian’s attention.
Sylvi regarded Liv as Ian might. Liv wore her black training outfit, her long shapely legs encased in black leather trews. Her waist was cinched into a corset. Cat-like gray eyes sparkled out from a fair face flushed with rosy cheeks and full pink lips, all framed with gleaming copper-colored waves.
Liv was a perfect blend of beauty and power.
“He has information I need,” Sylvi muttered.
“Won’t the marauders be displeased?” Liv was the only woman at Kindrochit who was brave enough to voice her concerns and questions. Sylvi had always respected her for it, even if now the questioning of her decision rankled her.
“They think he’s dead,” she replied. “I was unable to maintain cover and killed two. One survivor remained.”
“They will come for you.”
“That is what I am counting on.” Sylvi paused and met Liv’s eyes before she continued. “They are led by the man with half an ear.”
“I’m Ian Campbell.” Ian appeared at Sylvi’s side and bowed low to Liv. “It’s fine to meet ye, lass.”
Liv continued to stare at Sylvi, her eyes wide, before she finally allowed her gaze to fall on Ian. Her slight nod bordered on civility, but by no means crossed the line into anything polite. “Liv.”
“Ah yes.” Ian clapped his hands once and held them clasped together. “Sylvi had a lot to say about ye.”
Liv’s brow furrowed. “She did?” She shot a questioning glance at Sylvi.
Ian laughed. “No, of course no’.” When neither woman laughed, he rotated his forefingers around one another. “It was a jest—she doesna really talk at all, does she?” Neither woman replied or laughed. His brows lifted. “That’s why it was funny.”
Liv eyed him as if he’d lost his mind and held out her hand. “Give me your horse. I’ll see them both cared for while you go inside and get comfortable.”
Ian handed his reins over with a shrug, and Sylvi had to tamp down the smile before it hinted its presence on her lips. His humor had gotten under her skin so often, it was beginning to take root there.
Sylvi marched her way across the courtyard with Ian trailing behind her and saw the castle exposed in a new light, the way he might see it. The high walls had been beaten at by time, leaving bits of pale stone exposed beneath a time-blackened facade like wide, gaping wounds. Training and the constant repetition of battle had flattened whatever might be left of the meager grass.
Sylvi and Ian pushed inside the massive doors together and let them bang shut. Darkness swallowed them and emphasized a beam of sunlight glimmering from a high window. Motes danced an excited frenzy in the ray.
“Sylvi.” The soft, feminine voice was so familiar.
Sylvi squinted up into the light as Percy descended the stairs. Her golden hair glowed around her head like a halo and shone around her perfect figure.
The smile on her face reached her blue eyes with such genuine happiness, one could not help but smile likewise. Her step faltered, and Sylvi realized Percy must have seen Ian.
Percy dipped her head forward and obscured most of her beautiful face behind a curtain of gilded curls. “I was unaware you wouldn’t be alone.” She stepped onto the landing and kept her head lowered.
Despite her attempts to not be seen, Sylvi knew it would have been impossible for Ian to not have noticed the woman coming down the stairs. Even less possible for him to not have noticed her beauty.
“This is Percy.” Sylvi kept a discreet stare fixed on Ian, waiting for his gaze to skim down the other woman’s body, or nestle in her full bosom, or even fix on her lovely face.
Ian bowed low, as he had done with Liv, his face hidden by the action. “It’s nice to meet ye, lass. Ian Campbell.”
“Um, thank you.” Percy stared miserably at her feet. The poor girl was an easy target for leering. And still Ian did not stare at her any more than he would a fishmonger’s wife or a priest.
“She’s the one who makes the belt you seek,” Sylvi said.
Ian’s eyes lit up. “Ach, that’s the finest belt I’ve ever seen. Of course, anything Sylvi wears looks bonny.” He tossed one of his easy grins in her direction.
Sylvi’s face went warm at the compliment in spite of herself. Percy tilted her head. “You liked the belt?”
“Aye—I only agreed to let Sylvi kill me if I could get one for myself.” He shrugged. “Well, that and obviously her promise to bring me back to life so I could enjoy it.”
“Percy created the potion and antidote as well.” Sylvi wanted to pull her gaze from staring at Ian, to stop watching him so possessively. He was not hers. He would never be hers. He couldn’t.
Why the hell wasn’t he gaping at Percy? Couldn’t he see how beautiful she was? Was he daft?
“You used the antidote?” Percy’s head came up now, her beautiful blue gaze drifting between Sylvi and Ian.
“Worked like a witch’s charm.” He spread his arms wide. “I’m alive.”
Percy studied him for a long moment. “Fascinating.”
The word had been whispered, but Sylvi still heard it and startled to realize she had been more confident of the antidote than Percy had been.
Percy ducked her head suddenly. “You’ve traveled a long way. I’m keeping you from resting.” She bit her lip and inclined her head politely. “Um … it was nice to meet you.” Her fingers twisted against one another.
“You’ll see him at supper,” Sylvi said.
When they strode away, heading up the stairs—it was not Ian who watched Percy with interest, but Percy who watched him.
•••
Ian made his way through the battered halls of Kindrochit, encouraged by the briny scent of roasting meat and freshly baked bread.
For all the excitement Ian had expected at Kindrochit, his day had been dull. He did not see much of Sylvi, as her preparations for an attack on Kindrochit by Reginald consumed her day. Nor did he meet anyone else who lived there aside from Percy and Liv. Both of whom had been polite enough, Percy in a sweetly shy manner and Liv with cool civility.
The castle was well worn, and Sylvi was a woman fond of discretion. Perhaps she had no more than the two women living there with her.
He entered the large room of the great hall to find one table set near a roaring hearth. Like the rest of the castle, the room might have been grand once were it not for the scoring of time upon its cracking walls.
Sylvi and Liv sat at the table already. They both looked up at him, and the quiet conversation humming between them fell into a flat and abrupt silence.
Were he a less confident man, he might be intimidated by such a welcome. Lucky for him, he was not.
“Two bonny lasses to accompany me at supper.” His voice echoed in the otherwise empty great hall, and he plunked down on the hard bench opposite them.
“Liv.” He nodded in the direction of the redhead, who narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him and returned his gesture. “My angel.” He winked at Sylvi.
Her face went pink. The daggers coming from her gaze may have pierced his heart, but he knew well enough her fondness for him. Very well, in fact. “I trust ye were saying no’ but good things about me when I walked in, aye?”
“Is he always this arrogant?” Liv turned to Sylvi.
“Indeed.” Sylvi sipped from the metal
goblet in front of her, but not before Ian saw a smile flinch at the corners of her mouth.
Aye. She couldn’t resist him.
Sylvi set the cup down and glanced up at the doorway, the mirth slipping free of her face.
“Who is this?” A woman’s voice, tinged with an exotic accent so her i’s sounded like e’s, echoed from across the room. “Are you keeping more secrets from me?”
Ian turned in his seat toward the sulky tone and found a woman with vivid red hair sauntering toward him. Her dress—if one could call it that—had been sliced to reveal flashes of her fair, shapely legs beneath with each step. The firelight caught the brilliant red of her hair and made it appear as though it were part of the roaring flames. Kohl lined her eyes, and her vibrantly red lips curled into a lush smile.
“I don’t think we’ve met.” She extended her hand, and a slash in her sleeve fell open to reveal the creamy, smooth skin of her arm beneath. “I’m Isabel.” Her name came out like a purr, a whispered seduction.
He took her hand and brushed a kiss over her small knuckles. The spice of her perfume was as exotically foreign as her appearance. And as overly applied.
A row of gems twinkled across her large bosom, winking at him with every movement she made.
“Ian Campbell.” He released her hand, and she slinked into the seat beside him.
The warmth of her thigh brushed against his. Her interest was noted.
And unwanted.
He shifted in the opposite direction to avoid her touch. She leaned into him, covering the space he attempted to put between them. Sylvi’s stare fixed on them with an unreadable intensity. It made him want to scramble away from the painted woman and the fog of her perfume.
“We’ve never had a man in the castle before.” Isabel stared up at him, her eyes wistful beneath the smearing of kohl.
“Connor was here before you even were,” Liv countered.
“We needn’t speak of Connor.” Sylvi’s abrupt tone put an end to the conversation before it could continue.
Both girls shifted their gazes away and fell silent. Ian, of course, immediately wanted to ask about Connor, but decided to do so later when he was alone with Sylvi.
Highland Wrath Page 7
