A Highlander's Temptation
Page 14
“The Thunder Rod is said to make a man irresistible to women and”—he couldn’t believe her was telling her—“grant him untold powers in bed.”
“Oh.” Now her face did turn scarlet.
Darroc felt like the world’s greatest arse.
Praise God he didn’t mention that in order to gain such prowess, a man must handle the rod as he would himself. Or worse, if a woman caressed the rod, she would become insatiable, burning with a fiery need that could only be quenched by the first man to cross her path after she’d touched the rod.
Even so, he’d said too much.
Arabella of Kintail was scandalized.
And—he couldn’t believe his ears—she was convulsing with laughter.
“Pray forgive me.” She dashed tears from her cheeks. Her beautiful eyes were streaming. “But I have never heard anything so silly. Or”—another great bout of mirth shook her—“have you tested the rod’s—”
“I—Sakes!” Darroc glanced at the ceiling. How he wished the smoke-blackened rafters would crash down and bury him. Instead, one of the shutters flew open and a blast of rain-laden wind swept into the room, causing the bed curtains to swirl wildly.
Swirl, dance, and tangle around himself and the Valkyrie until they were both wrapped snugly inside the dusty, cloying swaths.
“Agggh!” He tried to fling off the heavy material, but he couldn’t move his arms. Worst of all, his borrowed plaid seemed to have slipped down her shoulders. He was certain the firm roundness of her naked breasts pressed against him. Until she thrust a hand between them and yanked it up again.
“O-o-oh!” He thought he heard her gasp.
He knew her lips hovered but a breath from his.
Darroc groaned.
She sighed contentedly.
At least, he thought she did.
The pleased-sounding little cry hadn’t seemed as close as it should, considering. Indeed, it’d sounded most distant, almost tinny.
Either way, it was more encouragement than he needed. He wanted Arabella MacKenzie. His entire body went still and he tried to squash the overwhelming urge to kiss her.
Tried, and failed.
A low moan—surely he hadn’t made it—came from deep in his throat and he lowered his head, seizing her lips in a hot and furious kiss. She stiffened and arched her back, but then she clutched at him, her fingers digging into his flesh as he opened his mouth over hers, kissing her hard.
Until he deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and—devil’s toenails—discovering she’d never been kissed before.
The peaks of her hardened nipples brushed his chest, their heat scorching him even through the folds of his plaid. Just as the silky soft melding of her breath with his and the greedily naive slide of her tongue against his own minded him that he was playing with fire.
He had no business desiring a MacKenzie. And even less to taste the sweetness of her lips, no matter how hot, moist, and wondrously smooth.
Arabella of Kintail was an untried virgin.
And he’d just paved his way to hell.
“Damnation!” He jerked away from her, yanking down the bed curtains.
Not that there was any need, for as soon as he cried out, breaking their kiss, the heavy curtaining fell around them, pooling onto the floor in a dusty, muddled heap.
“Oh, my.” Arabella pressed a hand to her plaid-covered breast. “You kissed me.”
Darroc stared at her, horrified.
Words—any apologies he could have offered—lodged in his throat. His heart thundered in his chest and his blood roared in his ears.
All he knew was that he was doomed.
With one kiss, he’d ruined everything.
The die was cast.
Chapter Nine
You kissed me.”
Arabella repeated the words, not sure the MacConacher heard her the first time. He was staring at her, clearly displeased. Indeed, if the horror on his face was any indication, she’d somehow transformed herself into some kind of fiend.
He’d paled visibly.
And he was looking at her as if her eyes blazed red and her nails flashed like flesh-ripping talons. As if her hair no longer tumbled around her shoulders but wriggled with life, a hideous tangle of writhing, shiny-scaled snakes.
Most damning of all, when he’d leapt off the bed he’d nearly tripped over the fallen drapery in his haste to get away from her. Even so, he’d quickly regained his dignity and crossed the room with long strides to take up a stern, warrior stance near the hearth.
Arabella’s brow knit. He may well have been standing on the far side of a yawning abyss.
Not that it mattered.
She could still feel his mouth slanting over hers, the incredible thrill of when he’d slid his tongue between her parted lips. The way her breath hitched and her heart slammed to a sudden stunned stop and then started again, beating wildly. How a mad rush of delicious, whirling pleasure whipped through her, making her tingle clear to her toes.
She touched wondering fingers to her lips, reliving the magic.
Never would she have believed kissing could be so tantalizing.
So wondrous.
She narrowed her eyes at him, willing him to remember. She could hardly think of anything else. He had to have felt the same giddy excitement.
But his face remained cold.
“Aye, I kissed you.” He made it sound as if the admission soured his tongue. “For truth, I do not know what I was thinking.”
Arabella’s heart dipped.
He swept his plaid over his shoulder, reminding her so much of the braw warrior she’d imagined in Dunakin’s tower window. Now, as then, her breath caught at his magnificence. He could have been that man. Gelis would swear it was so. But then he glanced at the heap of tumbled bed curtains and she was sure he shuddered.
A man come to claim a maid’s heart wouldn’t cringe because he’d kissed her.
Arabella’s face crimsoned.
Shameful heat swelled in her throat and she struggled against the urge to twist her fingers in the bed covers. Unfortunately, although she managed to keep her hands still, she couldn’t stop something inside her from spinning into a cold, hard knot.
She feared it was the tiny flicker of joy that had blazed so brightly when he’d kissed her.
Now…
She tried to pretend his rejection didn’t sting like jabs of tiny, white-hot fire needles. She also ignored the awful hollowness spreading through her. Striving to appear composed, she smoothed the bed coverlet with deliberate exactness. MacKenzies didn’t share their humiliations and disappointments, however lancing.
Blood tells, her father always said.
Still, the look on the MacConacher’s face cut to her soul.
But then some of his fury seemed to ebb and he took a step toward her, one hand extended. “Ach, lass….”
He let the words tail off and lowered his hand. His frown returned. “See you, I ne’er meant to touch you. No’ in such a way.”
“I know you didn’t.” Arabella held his stare, her mien calm and her chin firm.
“Nae, you do not know.” He shook his head. “Our kiss—”
“It was nothing.” The lie sounded ridiculous, even to her. “A simple—”
“It was—” He clamped his mouth shut, ran both hands through his hair. “Something that will not happen again, I assure you.”
“You needn’t bother.” She tried to sound worldly. “I’ve quite forgotten already.”
His brows snapped together. “Lying is beneath you, my lady.”
“Then”—she kept her voice firm—“I shall put it another way. You’ve made it clear that I needn’t fear a repetition of your manly attentions.”
“My what?” His eyes rounded as if she’d spoken in a foreign language. “Lass, if I’d—”
He broke off and stomped to the window. “You’ve spent too many long winter nights listening to bards spin tales of unrequited love and burning pas
sion.” His voice was husky, almost too low to be heard. “Such foolery had nothing to do with me kissing you.”
Arabella eyed him, not believing a word. Passion had everything to do with it. He’d wakened hers—for him—and she doubted she’d ever take another breath without wanting more of his kisses.
She’d think about the love part later.
When she was alone and he wasn’t standing so straight he looked as if he’d swallowed a broomstick. Or when he hadn’t thrown back his shoulders with such stiff-necked male pride, she was sure he’d be wracked by muscle cramps for at least a sennight.
Men were fools.
And if she weren’t so perturbed, she’d laugh. How dare he call her a liar?
He was no better.
She started to say so, but just then one of the peats in the hearth popped loudly, sending up a swirl of blue-orange sparks. They settled quickly, falling back onto the grate where they glimmered brightly before vanishing in a puff of sweetly scented smoke.
It was a dusky heathery scent, almost like a woman’s perfume.
Nearby, Frang sighed heavily.
Or so she thought until she realized the shaggy beast’s hearthrug was empty.
A chill slid down her spine—she was sure she’d heard a sigh—and she glanced back at Darroc, knowing he hadn’t made the noise.
He had moved to the window arch where he stood with his hands braced on the broad stone splay. For a moment, he looked as if he was about to hang his head. Instead, he gave himself a shake as if to clear his thoughts and reached for the shutters, flinging them wide.
Outside, the wild weather had moved on, but a wet mist lingered. Dripping rain plopped onto the window ledge, the droplets sparkling in the glow of a nearby wall torch. The chill damp swept in, quickly filling the room and making Arabella shiver again.
She rubbed her arms, not surprised to see them covered with gooseflesh.
Darroc didn’t seem fazed.
Nor did he appear to have noticed the waft of heathery fragrance or the sigh. He certainly didn’t look cold. If anything, blazing heat rolled off him and even with his back to her, Arabella knew his face was stained with a dark and angry flush.
A flush noted by someone other than Arabella. Near the hearth fire, Asa Long-Legs shimmered and fumed with an annoyance all her own.
Were all MacConacher men so thrawn?
She knew well that she’d fallen for a bad one. Her MacConacher had been an ill-limmer famed for much worse than sheer knuckle-headedness. Asa peered into the peat fire, seeing again his strong, firm jaw and hearing his booming laugh. He’d been a bonny man, for all his treachery. And she’d been so certain this chieftain had all of Rhun’s charm but none of his flaws.
Drifting closer to Darroc now, she peered beyond him to the blackness of the night, the thick sea-mist sliding past the window.
He didn’t seem to notice her.
But then he shivered and rubbed the back of his neck.
Asa smiled.
Her heart skittered and she resisted the urge to clap her hands in glee. She didn’t want to draw attention. Having spent her long centuries as she was now at Castle Bane and nowhere else, she wasn’t accomplished in such dabbling. It wouldn’t do if she broke some unknown charter of spirit behavior and ruined everything.
Yet there was hope if he sensed her, however faintly.
Encouraged, she reached to smooth his hair with a feather-light touch, knowing he’d think her caress was only a very cold draught of air.
Indeed, he shivered again.
Asa bit back a delighted cry.
He glanced around, his dark eyes alert. Almost as if he knew she was there. It would please her so much if he could see her. But for now, it was enough to have felt the frustration spinning inside him.
Frustration was good.
He wanted the raven-haired beauty.
Asa’s heart sang with the glory of it. She twirled in a sparkly circle, wishing the young chieftain and his lady could see her rapture. Soon there’d be no need for caudle cups that sailed through the air and falling bed curtains.
No glittery showers of peat sparks to deflect words that shouldn’t be spoken. Asa tinkled a laugh as silvery as the night mist. The popping peat had been particularly clever.
And such fun!
But enough was enough.
The young chieftain was looking her way again and even the maid had cast her several thoughtful glances. It wouldn’t do if they learned of her trickery, much as she wished to share in their burgeoning happiness.
So she sighed and hitched up her shimmering white skirts, not that she really needed to as—floating as she did—her feet never touched the floor.
But just as she’d once made her daily notches and now examined her legs each day, gathering up her skirts when she prepared to leave a room was tradition.
It helped her feel real.
So she tightened her fingers in the glistening folds of her gown and began twirling again, spinning faster and faster until nothing remained of her presence but a ripple in the air and a few fast-fading sparkles of her excitement, each one luminous as a star.
Across the room, Arabella blinked.
Tiny speckles of light danced at the edge of her vision and she rubbed her eyes, certain there’d been another burst of peat sparks.
But a glance at the hearth proved her wrong.
Nothing stirred there.
Nor at the window arch where Darroc still stood with his back to her, looking so tense against the dark night. He’d fisted his hands on the window splay and from the stubborn set of his shoulders it wouldn’t surprise her if he remained there till morning.
Something told her he was capable of doing so.
Arabella bit her lip.
All her life she’d prided herself on mastering every situation. Regardless of what might befall her, she always knew what to do. Even some of the clan elders were wont to seek her advice. More than one called her the MacKenzie peace-keeper, a smoother of waters when times grew turbulent. Now for the first time ever, she found herself at a loss.
Until she caught the glimmer of a star just above Darroc’s left shoulder. Thin drifts of clouds, gray and wind-torn, stretched across the sky, blotting the other stars, but this one refused to stay hidden. It twinkled brightly, its brilliant blue-white light almost defiant.
Arabella released the breath she’d been holding.
Then she smiled.
It was time for drastic measures.
She inhaled deep, ready. But cold fear rose inside her and the blazing ache in her leg flared in protest. She winced. The hot throbbing pierced to the marrow. She might be the Black Stag’s daughter, but she wasn’t made of granite. Even so, she clenched her teeth against the pain and forced herself to ignore her dread.
At best, only her pride would be dinted if she fell to her knees.
At worst, her stitches would come undone.
If all went well…
Her heart swelled.
Steeling herself, she drew on all the courage of her race and threw back the covers. Quickly, before pain or fearing demons could seize her, she eased her legs off the bed and slid to her feet.
The sudden burst of agony in her leg nearly blinded her. Once again she saw stars, but this time they were numberless and wheeled crazily before her eyes. Her knees trembled and almost buckled, but she grabbed the bedpost, clutching tight. She held on until the stars spun away and the sharp pain lessened to a dull throbbing.
Tension beaded her forehead and her palms slickened.
She had to do this.
Her fingers tightened on the smooth wood of the bedpost. She breathed deeply, summoning strength. At last she let go of the bed and took a step forward. Then another and another until she’d crossed the room to where Darroc still stood looking out the window.
Cold wind rushed at her, chilling the damp on her brow, the tiny rivulets that trickled between her breasts.
The MacConacher hadn’t moved.
A powerful connection pulled between them, making her heart pound.
It also made her bold.
“So-o-o!” Her voice rang clear, without a single tremor. “If it wasn’t passion that made you kiss me, I would know what did?”
Darroc near jumped out of his skin.
Heart in his throat, he whirled around. Arabella of Kintail stood right behind him. Tall, erect, and looking prouder than sin.
“Saints, Maria, and Joseph!” He roared the curse, more angry that she’d left the comfort of his bed than because she’d startled him out of his wits. “You shouldn’t be on your feet. Have you run mad?”
“Yes, I think I might have.” A smile spread across her beautiful face. Her ebony hair spilled around her shoulders, a skein of satiny temptation, riffled by the wind and gleaming in the candlelight.
“Caught a touch of madness, that is.” Her smile dimpled just a bit.
Darroc suppressed a snort.
“You don’t look crazed to me.” He hoped she couldn’t tell how she did look to him.
She was pure seduction.
And—he knew—the devil was on the loose and he was the prey.
He frowned.
Her sapphire eyes lit with merriment. “Crazed or nae, I fear I might be hearing things.”
“What things?” Darroc’s eyes narrowed.
He flashed a glance at the bedside table and the three empty wooden cups there. It would seem Mad Moraig’s wine caudle hadn’t just infused her with unnatural hardiness. The concoction must’ve also muddled her mind.
“That curse.” Her words made no sense, proving it. “‘Saints, Maria, and Joseph’ is my father’s favorite oath.”
Darroc felt himself blanch. “Your father?”
She nodded. “He says it all the time.” The pride on her face knifed him. “Saints, Maria, and Joseph. I’ve never heard anyone else use it.”