Devil in a Kilt (13 page)

The
words that burst forth from his lips curdled Linnet's blood.

"Give
back my heart!"

Linnet
jumped back and released the cry she could hold back no longer.

‘Twas
an earsplitting shriek that echoed through the castle and was surely heard all
the way to the farthest shores of the loch.

A
bloodcurdling scream rent the night's quiet, instantly banishing the sweet
oblivion of Duncan MacKenzie's deep slumber. With a curse, he sprang from the
bed, his hands reaching for his sword.

Sweet
Mother of God, they were under attack!

"Man
the walls!" he roared. "We're under siege!"

Frantically,
he searched for his arms. Naught was where it should be. Thunder of heaven,
where was his blade? In his haste, his bare foot collided with a misplaced
chest, shooting a red-hot arrow of pain up his leg.

"By
Lucifer's knees, who rearranged my chamber?" he cursed, limping toward his
sword. It was propped against a wall near the door, with his dagger and belt on
the floor nearby.

As
if they'd been carelessly flung there.

Puzzlement
drew his brows together. Ne'er would he have cast aside his arms so clumsily.
‘Twas his way to lay his weapons atop his carefully folded plaid each night.

Within
easy reach.

His
confusion grew.

Where
was
his plaid?

Something
foul was afoot and if the castle women would cease shrieking and his head
didn't ache as if it'd been cleaved in twain, mayhap he'd get to the bottom of
the matter.

But
first he had to see to the safety of his clan.

Unclothed,
if need be.

Fastening
his belt around his bare hips, Duncan thrust his dagger beneath the wide
leather band, then made ready to dash from the room, anxious to join the fray.

But
the door wouldn't open.

‘Twas
locked from the outside!

Unease
seized him at the same moment a shrill cry sounded behind him—he hadn't heard
the castle wenches screaming, the cries came from within the chamber!
Brandishing his sword, he whirled around only to ... freeze.

A
banshee stood before the hearth!

Her
flame-colored hair wild about her shoulders, blood dribbling down her chin, her
vacant eyes staring at him from a face pale as a week-old corpse, the
bean
shith's
wail turned his very bones to water.

And,
saints preserve him, she wore his plaid!

"Dinna
come closer!" the banshee cried.

As
if
she
feared
him,
she threw up her arms in a defensive gesture,
letting loose of the plaid as she did so. It fell to the floor, pooling around
her ankles.

Realization
hit him with the force of a wind straight from hell, stealing his breath. His
heart skipped a beat, and his jaw dropped.

Eilean
Creag wasn't under attack, nor had a
bean shith
penetrated its thick
walls.

The
banshee was his wife!

And
she stood before him in
her
chamber, not his.

"By
the lance of God, what goes on here?" Duncan thundered, his heart
hammering in his chest. "Saints alive, woman, you've blood dribbling down
your chin!"

Visibly
shaken, his bride lifted a hand to her lips. Her trembling fingers came away
smeared with red. "I did not intend to disturb your sleep, my lord,"
she said, examining her bloodied fingertips rather than look at him. "I am
not oft visited by such alarming manifestations."

"The
blood ..." Duncan let his question hang in the chill air between them. For
the love of St. Mungo, he still felt as if he was teetering on the threshold to
hell's antechamber.

"I
bit my lip, ‘tis all, sir. You've no need fetch the leech."

Duncan's
alarm eased upon the realization she'd been in the throes of a vision. But
blessed knowledge didn't slow the blood racing through his veins. He blew out a
ragged breath. Every muscle in his body screamed with tension.

Including
ones he hadn't known he possessed.

Needing
to do something . .. anything ... he set his weapons aside and strode to the
bed. He ripped a strip of cloth from the bedcurtains, closing his fingers
around the makeshift bandage with the same fierceness a certain question
squeezed his innards.

"Did
you see what I must know?" he asked, still facing the bed. "Is the
boy mine?"

Silence
answered him.

Duncan
curled his hands to fists. Was he ne'er to be granted surcease from his doubts?
Not even now after binding himself to a lass whose abilities were sung
throughout the Highlands?

A
lass who, though gifted with the sight, seemed to have lost her tongue.
Duncan's ire grew. A speech-deprived seeress served him naught.

"I
canna tell you if Robbie is yours," came her reply at last. "The
vision had naught to do with what you want to know."

Want
to know?
Duncan glanced heavenward and swallowed an oath that
would've curled the devil's own tail.

Did
she not realize he
needed
to know?

His
impatience got the better of him, and Duncan spun around, the strip of cloth
dangling from the fingers of his outstretched hand. "For your chin,"
he said, but the sharp-toned words died on his tongue as a very different type
of need assailed him.

Throat
of Christ, was he growing as blind as a cloudy-eyed graybeard? How had he
missed noticing the maid stood before him wearing naught but a blush?

A
blush that deepened as she snatched the cloth from his fingers and pressed it
against her lower lip. "Thank you," she said, but Duncan scarce
noticed. Blood surged to his loins, intense desire, hard and swift, causing his
too-long-neglected arousal to lengthen and swell.

He
let his gaze roam over her, drinking in the sight of her freely displayed
bounty, inch by intoxicating inch. Doing so was torture in its most exquisite
form, but so pleasurable, he couldn't deny himself.

The
soft glow of the dying embers in the hearth illuminated her unclothed body in
all its naked glory, taunting him with the fullness of her breasts and the
gentle curve of her hip, whilst a lush tangle of curls beckoned to him from
betwixt her thighs.

Curls
the same color and every bit as alluring as the luxuriant red-gold tresses
cascading to well below her waist.

A
man less skilled in the arts of love would've spilled his seed just looking
upon her!

His
shaft now fully engorged and aching, Duncan nearly joined the ranks of such
depraved and ignoble souls when he glanced at her face and caught her peering
intently at his swollen sex. His maleness bucked under her innocent perusal,
filling and lengthening even more beneath her gaze.

Saints,
but she fired his blood!

"I
thought you had no desire to bed me, milord?"

The
confusion in her voice banished the haze of Duncan's desire, deflating his
passion and stealing the rampant lust she'd stirred in him. Ne'er had it been
his intent to confuse or hurt her, yet he'd behaved like a stag in rut and done
just what he'd vowed he wouldn't.

"You
have seen I desire you," he replied, unable to keep the thickness from his
voice. "But naught has changed. It would not be wise and was never my
intent to take my ease with you."

"I
see," she said in the same tone of voice she'd used in his solar when they'd
first discussed what was to be expected of her.

Duncan
scowled at the memory of that illfated meeting.

He
did not want to desire her. Ne'er had he expected her to stoke flames he'd
thought were long extinguished, flames powerful enough to do more damage than
merely supply his neglected tarse with its ease.

The
most lackluster-brained dolt would see the danger of slaking one's lust upon
his lady's bountiful offerings. A man who dared would lose more than his seed
on her . .. he'd lose his soul.

And
Duncan didn't have one to give.

A
pestilence on his men for convincing him to fetch her. He'd wanted an
ill-favored bride, not one whose charms would tempt a monk!

With
an oath, he raked both hands through his hair. Using one hand to shield his
arousal as best he could, he snatched his plaid off the floor with the other,
then tossed it at her.

"Cover
yourself," he ordered, his tone harsher than he'd intended. Turning his
back to her, he added, "It is not wise for me to look upon you."

He
waited until the soft rustling of wool ceased before he spoke again. "Be
you covered?"

"Aye,"
came her shaky reply.

He
wheeled back to face her, but focused his gaze on the wall, just to the left of
her head. "Return to your bed, I shall not disturb you. The chair will
serve me well for the remainder of the night."

For
once she didn't contradict him, but fairly flew across the room, his plaid
clutched tightly to her breast. The stricken look on her face twisted the knife
in his gut, making him despise himself for the heartless bastard he'd become.

But
if he'd had to gaze upon her another moment, he'd have lost control and tossed
her upon the rushes, not even bothering to carry her the few steps to the bed.

Splendor
of Heaven, she'd looked like a mythical water nymph risen from the depths of
the loch, all wild and lush and tempting.

Too
tempting.

Duncan
waited until all grew still beneath the bedcovers, then lowered himself into
the high-backed chair beside the hearth, stretching his legs out before him.

The
long-dead fire left not a pretense of warmth but he was too drained to start
another.

Nor
did he relish passing the long hours till morn sitting naked, cold, and
uncomfortable, in his wife's bedchamber.

He
scarce recalled his men half-carrying, half-dragging him up the stairs, then
stripping him of his clothes and tossing him upon her bed, but he'd think on
the matter of their boldness later—when his head hurt less.

Scowling,
he looked about for something with which to cover himself.

Anything
capable of providing even a semblance of warmth.

But
the room was scant furnished and held none of the elaborate trappings his first
wife had kept about her chamber.

Naught
but his new wife's worn leather herb satchel caught his eye. It rested on the
floor, close to his chair. Duncan regarded the pouch with bitter irony.

How
fitting for him to contemplate using the soft leather satchel to warm himself
when his bride slept, chaste and alone, not four paces away.

She
might as well be four leagues away for all the comfort she spent him!

With
a muttered oath, he snatched up the pouch and settled it across his loins. The
butter-soft leather would keep his tender parts warm if naught else.

Not
that he need concern himself with keeping
himself warm.

Truth
be told, he could share his bed with
ten
wenches, pile sheepskins high
atop the lot of them, and
still
freeze.

Inside.

Aye,
the room's chill mattered little.

‘Twas
a paltry discomfort compared to the cold he carried within.

Some
bold whoreson sought to put out his eyes with red-hot needles! Duncan shot to
his feet, ready to fend off the foolhardy knave who'd dare attempt such a foul
deed, only to slump back into the chair he'd spent half the night in. The quick
motion nigh caused his head to burst asunder.

Leaning
back, he let out an agonized groan. The pain was great, but at least he'd not
been set upon by a needle-wielding assailant.

Nay,
‘twas merely the bright morning light slanting through the cracks in the
shutters what made his eyes smart as though they'd been set afire.

By
his blessed mother's grave, what had befallen him? He hadn't partaken of
that
much spiced wine yestereve.

Or
had he?

By
the saints, he'd never felt more wretched.

And
why had he awakened in a chair and not his bed?

With
a ragged moan, he lowered the arm he'd flung across his aching eyes. Squinting
against the sun's infernal glare, he peered about the chamber, looking for his
first squire, Lachlan.

The
lad usually slept on a pallet before the fire, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Nor
was his pallet.

And
the hearth Duncan eyed was not his own!

By
the Rood, he'd awakened in a strange bedchamber.

Nay,
not quite, for, with dawning comprehension, he recognized his surroundings.