by Emma Prince
She’d seen the older lads and lasses kissing that way, melding their mouths together and letting their tongues spar. She had wanted to be ready for the next Beltane, when she was sure a handsome boy would want to kiss her after she’d danced around the Maypole.
The Ferguson lad had reluctantly agreed, despite grumbling that lasses were vile and kissing them seemed rather disgusting. They’d slipped behind a tree and both stuck out their tongues tentatively.
When their tongues had met, they’d both withdrawn with a yelp, scrubbing their mouths on their sleeves. Ailsa remembered thinking the boy’s tongue had felt like a slug, all slimy and squishy.
This kiss was naught like that one so many years ago. This kiss was all silken heat and barely-controlled need.
As she opened to Domnall, his tongue swept against hers in a molten caress. They tangled together, him leading her through an intimate dance as he took her mouth even more completely.
As he teased and stroked her tongue, the hand that encircled her wrist slowly slid up the length of her arm. When he reached her shoulder, he slid his palm down her back until it rested just above the flare of her backside. Though she was already flush against him, he pressed her impossibly closer.
Suddenly she became aware of the heavy column of his manhood. It was just as hard as every other inch of him. Though she’d lived the sheltered life of a nobleman’s daughter, she knew what it meant.
A coil of desire knotted deep in the pit of her stomach. A faint mewling sound rose from her chest and vibrated between their interlocked mouths. The hand in her hair tightened almost painfully. She hovered on that edge, sensation storming over her skin.
An ache was beginning to build within her, a tugging need for even more touch, even more intensity. She squirmed in his hold, hungry for the contact.
Abruptly, he ripped his mouth away from hers on a harsh curse. She was brusquely set back so that two feet of space now separated them. The cold air that replaced his scalding body had the effect of ice water being splashed on her face.
“Bloody hell,” he hissed, his eyes wide on her. He bent and snatched up his discarded trews.
Face blazing with humiliation, Ailsa yanked her gaze away and stared at the calm loch waters off to his right. When she saw out of the corner of her eye that he’d pulled on his tunic, she dared a glance at him.
He’d managed to regain control of his face, which was now set in stony lines. He seized the dagger from the ground and carefully slid it back into place in his boot.
When he straightened to his full height, he fixed her with an unflinching stare.
“That wasnae wise.”
“Which?” she breathed before she could stop herself. “That I tried to kill you, or that I kissed you?”
Some unreadable reaction flickered across his face. He quickly schooled his features, but his eyes still burned with fierce hunger.
“Ye think that killing me will save yer brother, is that it?”
It seemed he was going to ignore that blazing kiss, then—her first, not counting the one with the Ferguson lad. Mortification quickly doused the last flickering embers of desire within her.
For the second time, she wondered why she had been so bold, so reckless, so…wanton. And he, her enemy! The craving for his touch was pure madness. Like a moth to a flame, she’d been hypnotized, drawn to him even as the heat of their embrace had left her burning.
“Could ye kill for him?” he demanded harshly. “Can ye truly be so ignorant of his nature, lass?”
Ailsa fought the urge to tuck her chin. She forced herself to hold his gaze. “Mayhap you are the ignorant one,” she countered.
His voice dropped to a low growl. “I ken far more than ye would ever wish to hear, my lady.”
The way he said her title turned it into an insult. Those two little words held all his scorn for her naïveté, and her status as the daughter of a Lowland nobleman.
She stood there mutely, her hands balled at her sides and her chest heaving with each scalding breath.
She’d failed. It had been absurd to think, even briefly, that she could overpower Domnall with his own dagger. And even if she’d managed to catch him with his guard down, she was no killer. Nay, this reckless plan never would have worked.
What was worse, she’d made a complete fool of herself. In kissing him, she’d revealed a vulnerability, a weakness toward him, whereas he apparently only felt disdain for her.
It seemed they were at an impasse. Domnall must have sensed it too, for he scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering a weary-sounding oath.
“Ye need to understand,” he murmured. “Ye need to see it for yerself. Else ye’ll never stop fighting me.”
“What does that mean?” she asked warily.
“I dinnae ken how much ye have gathered about yer brother, but ye seem a trusting sort. Honest. I cannae imagine that ye would still defend him if ye saw the truth.”
Domnall exhaled slowly, as if deciding something.
“I was planning on returning to Tullibardine the way I came,” he said. “I asked after Murray at several towns and villages along the way. His name was well-known everywhere I went—and reviled.”
She felt her brows knit. “What?”
“I meant to revisit those alehouses and taverns where he is wanted for outstanding debts, and tell them of my plans,” he continued. “If he shows his face at any of them again, he’ll learn that ye are in my keeping.”
The gears in Ailsa’s mind ground slowly. “Wait—what debts?”
But Domnall didn’t explain more. Instead, he said, “I havenae been sure of what to do with ye while I went back to those establishments, given that ye have now tried both to escape and to kill me. It seems I must take ye with me. Then mayhap ye’ll get a glimpse of what sort of man ye are willing to kill for.”
She stood there staring at him, completely befuddled by what he was saying. Her brother bore debts? At common alehouses across Scotland? And Domnall meant to take her to one, to—what? Prove some point about Andrew?
She opened her mouth to refute all he’d claimed about her brother, but the words wouldn’t come out. In truth, a dark uncertainty lurked within her. Aye, she was too trusting, and gullible, but she could detect not a single hint of deception in Domnall’s claims. Indeed, he spoke with a weary conviction that she found disconcerting.
Nay, she wasn’t willing to accept Domnall’s tales about Andrew just yet, but nor did she have enough information—even about her own brother—to repudiate them.
Exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed her. Her head swam with confusion and her body ached from her attempted attack and the subsequent crushing kiss they’d shared.
She let a breath go, closing her eyes for a moment. She gripped her skirts—which she belatedly realized were damp from being pressed against Domnall’s bare, dripping body—and attempted to sweep past him and back to the fire. But her throbbing ankle turned what she’d intended to be a dignified departure into a slow, hobbling exit.
As she came even with him, he frowned disapprovingly at her. Before she could blink, he scooped her off her feet and into his arms. A gasp left her, but she was too tired to protest. Without a word, he strode back to the fire with her in his hold.
He deposited her gently on the ground where she’d woken not long ago. She stared at him in stunned silence as he settled across the embers from her, wrapping himself in his plaid and giving her his back.
Why had he extended even the small mercy of saving her the painful walk back to camp? Try as she might, she couldn’t uncover any cruel motive for the simple kindness. The act must have sprung from some part of his nature that she didn’t understand.
Mayhap the same part that had kissed her back like a man possessed.
Chapter Twelve
They departed the loch by midmorning the next day. Ailsa was quiet on their ride, for which Domnall was grateful. He wasn’t sure how he would answer for himself if she brought up the kiss they’d shared.
&n
bsp; Of course, he had plenty of time to mull it over as they rode eastward—with the lass snugly tucked into his lap all the while.
There was no explaining his reaction. Aye, she was obviously a bonny woman, so beautiful and beguiling that she could lure a man to madness if she wished. But Domnall was not some weakling or green lad to follow his base impulses.
He had never lost control like that before. And this whole bloody mission was predicated on the idea that he could not only control himself, but also Ailsa and Murray, too. He could not succumb to desire again—else everything he was working toward came crumbling apart.
They arrived at the edge of Tyndrum, a small hamlet nestled in the foothills of several towering mountains, just as dusk was falling. Domnall guided his horse toward the alehouse he’d stopped at on his way to Stalcaire Tower.
The alehouse was buzzing with activity, which spilled out its open wooden door, along with firelight and the chatter of several dozen men. Domnall dismounted a stone’s throw away and tied his horse to a post, then helped Ailsa down.
He held onto her waist a moment longer than necessary.
“Dinnae try aught, ye ken?” he said, pinning her with a serious look. “This is a rough place, filled with rough people.”
As if to prove his words, two drunk men stumbled out of the alehouse. One shouted at the other, but his words were so slurred with ale that Domnall only caught the words “cheating shitehead.” The other man took a swing at the first, and an all-out brawl erupted.
More men staggered out of the alehouse to watch and cheer on the fighters, but it was over quickly. One landed a solid punch, and the other slumped to the ground, out cold.
Domnall waited for the men to pick up their unconscious compatriot and filter back inside before returning his gaze to Ailsa. Her dark eyes were rounded and she looked suitably apprehensive, so he began leading her toward the alehouse.
But even before they’d gone two paces, her step faltered. He turned to her, concerned that her ankle was paining her again, only to find her attention snagged on something.
A lad huddled under the eaves a few feet to the side of the alehouse’s door. His age was hard to discern, for his face was smudged with dirt and he crouched in ragged clothes that were far too big for him, but Domnall guessed he was around six or seven years old.
Ailsa was staring at the boy. Her doe eyes were full of pain, as if she ached with his obvious hunger herself, and felt the sharpness of the air that no doubt cut through his thin garments.
Given the fact that she was a lady, she’d probably been sheltered from seeing such misery up close. Yet she didn’t gawp at the lad like he was some sort of aberration, nor did she turn her nose up in disgust. Nay, she simply looked at him—truly looked, and saw his suffering.
His gut pinched, both for the lad’s misfortune and for Ailsa’s kind heart. Suddenly, he was grateful he’d sold the sword he’d taken when he and the others had escaped Balliol’s noose.
Even before he’d reached Tullibardine a month past, he’d had the foresight to pawn off the weapon in exchange for coin. Though he hadn’t had much need for the money yet, he found the idea of wielding the sword of a Balliol supporter repugnant. Besides, he had Murray’s dagger. He liked the idea of using the man’s own blade against him when the time came.
So he’d sold the sword to a blacksmith who valued the metal. He’d nearly pawned the bloody horse, too, but he had to admit that the animal was a powerful, energetic steed, even if he had a foul temperament.
Domnall moved around to the horse’s saddlebags, careful that he didn’t give the blasted beast an opportunity to stomp on his foot. He fished out two coins from the bag, tucking them into his palm. Then he took hold of Ailsa’s hand and continued on toward the alehouse door.
“Ye lad,” he said as they approached.
The boy flinched back as if he expected a sharp word to move along, or worse, a swift kick.
Instead, Domnall flicked one of the two coins toward him. The lad’s eyes rounded as they tracked the arc of the coin through the air. His hands shot up to catch it.
Once it was in his hold, he dared a peek at the coin up close, and impossibly, his eyes went even bigger. He clamped his hands around it once more, holding it tight to his chest.
“Keep an eye on my horse,” Domnall said, tilting his head back toward where he’d left the animal tied. “There’s another coin to match the first if he is still there when I come back.”
“Aye, milord. I will, milord,” the lad said, the words tumbling over one another.
Domnall gave the lad a nod and turned back toward the alehouse’s door.
“Do you truly fear your horse will be stolen?” Ailsa murmured as his hand closed around the handle.
He snorted. “Nay, though mayhap it would be better if he was. Then I’d be rid of the cursed hell-beast.”
At the worried noise Ailsa made, he sobered. “Horse stealing is a hanging offense,” he said quietly. “I doubt even these drunk ruffians would try it.”
He knew what her next question would be.
Why? Why had he helped the poor boy when he could have simply turned his gaze away and continued on about his business?
She didn’t speak, but he felt her gaze on him like a caress. He refused to look at her for fear she would perceive the softness of heart that had guided his actions, if she hadn’t already. He’d revealed far too much gentleness in her presence as it was.
Instead, he drew the door open and stepped inside the alehouse, bringing her along with him.
Though he still had her hand locked within his, he pulled her close to avoid being separated in the crush of warm, odorous bodies.
In one corner, a raucous game of dice was unfolding. Elsewhere, men crammed around tables or stood at the high bar top with frothy, sloshing mugs of ale. A handful of barmaids squeezed through the crowd with trays balancing more mugs. They didn’t even slow or flinch as the drunken patrons pinched what they pleased as they passed.
When they reached the dice players, Domnall cleared his throat and raised his voice above the racket.
“I’m looking for Andrew Murray.”
The ruckus suddenly dropped away. Several men turned to stare at Domnall. For a moment, a pin drop could have been heard before the noise returned to a lower buzz. Several men at tables nearby leaned in to hear what Domnall was about to say.
“Ye wouldnae be the only one,” muttered one of the men playing dice.
Domnall stole a quick glance at Ailsa to gauge her reaction. Her golden brows were lifted in disbelief. Not only was her brother’s name known in such a coarse establishment, but he was spoken ill of here.
Just then, a barmaid wedged her way into the circle of dice players. Her gaze caught on Domnall.
“Ye again,” she said, planting a hand on her ample hip and giving him an appreciative once-over.
It was the same server who’d mentioned that the Murray family had another holding, Stalcaire Tower, when Domnall had passed through earlier.
“Thank ye for yer help before,” Domnall said.
“Did ye find what ye were looking for?” The woman’s speculative gaze slid to Ailsa.
“No’ exactly. I’m still searching for Murray. Has he returned?”
“No’ since ye asked last time.”
“What do ye want with the bastard?” another one of the dice players butted in. “Does he owe ye money, too?”
“If he does, the newcomer can get in line. I mean to make Murray settle with me first,” another said darkly.
“He owes me twenty marks!” someone shouted from the back.
“He owes me fifty,” another grumbled, “and a milking cow, besides.”
“When he lost at hazard last time he came through, he dashed out so quick I couldnae make him pay,” a new man muttered. “When I get my hands on that shite-eating bastard—”
“The debt Murray owes me is far greater than any of yers,” Domnall interjected, his voice a low rasp. “No amou
nt of coin can repay it.”
He could feel Ailsa’s gaze on him almost as surely as a touch. He turned to find her studying him, her brown eyes filled with a combination of intrigue and apprehension.
“What do ye want with him, then?” the first dice player demanded. Judging by the way his thick features were pinched into a frown, he was none too pleased to have their game interrupted.
“I intend to settle my score with Murray in eight days’ time,” Domnall replied, shifting his gaze slowly over those listening. “If ye see him before then, resolve yer petty debts with him if ye like. But his head is mine.”
“And who are ye?” the man snapped.
“No’ a man to be trifled with,” Domnall answered simply.
“Oh? Then why are ye wasting our time, friend?”
Domnall skewered the man with a hard stare. “I’d like yer help in spreading the word. I have his sister. If he cares to see her again, he’ll meet me at Tullibardine.”
Every set of eyes within earshot suddenly shifted to Ailsa. She shrank into Domnall’s side as if to hide from their stares, her face turning rosy.
“That is rather…bold,” the impatient dice player admitted grudgingly.
Another was glaring at Ailsa in a way Domnall didn’t like.
“His sister, eh?” the ruffian said, rubbing his jaw. “She’s a bonny wee thing, isnae she?”
Mutters of agreement followed.
“I’m sure she could pay what Murray owes…one way or another,” the man continued. “What is to stop us from extracting our dues from the lass ourselves?”
“Me.” Domnall’s shift in front of Ailsa was subtle, but it communicated volumes. Several men dropped their stares in deference to Domnall’s clear challenge.
But for those bold few who continued to glower at her with calculating interest, he added, “Any man who wishes to claim the lass will have to go through me first.”
A laden quiet hung thick in the warm air for a long moment. Domnall’s whole body pulled taut, readying for some drunken fool’s attack. His gaze shot over the men, silently daring each of them to test his word.
