Devil in a Kilt (19 page)

"I
do, sir."

"Then
come to me when you wish to ride out again, no matter where or for what reason.
I shall see you are accompanied by my best guardsmen." Wheeling around,
Duncan stalked to the door lest he abandon his control totally and ravish her
upon the bare rushes as he was sorely wont to do.

But
before he left the chamber, he had one more issue to settle with her. ‘Twas
only a small thing, but of a sudden it mattered a great deal.

"Linnet?"
he called, his voice husky despite his best effort to keep it neutral.

"Yes,
milord?"

"My
name is Duncan. Not 'milord' or 'sir,' but
Duncan.
Please use it."

Then
he left her alone before the foulness of his mood caused him to say more, to
reveal feelings he hadn't known he still possessed and certainly didn't care to
set free. The anguish he carried within was painful enough. Letting loose its
poison upon his innocent bride, pepper-tongued or nay, would be a grievous act
beyond pardon.

A
burden he had no right to place upon her shoulders, regardless of her status
as his wife. Besides, he was nowise certain she would e'er be willing to care
for a man said to be so unblessed as he, much less endeavor to help him past
the ache in his soul.

Much
later, Duncan stood upon the battlements and scowled down at Loch Duich's
silent waters. After leaving his wife's chamber, he'd paced the wall walk for
hours, glaring holes into the dark night, seeking answers but finding none.

Save
one.

He'd
remembered something his king had once told him. A great secret he could use
oft and well if he so desired, the Bruce had promised.

Women
go weak in the knees at the sight of a battle-stained warrior.

Such
was the most plausible reason his wife had appeared to want a kiss after her
sweet lips had slid so temptingly over his palm.

At
that moment, she'd indeed looked upon him with favor, albeit for a very
fleeting instant. She'd gazed at him with the same moon-eyed adoration he'd
seen upon the faces of young, and not so young, noblewomen at the tournaments
he'd competed in years ago in France.

And
he'd been too bewitched by the unexpected softening of her features to realize
her look of veneration was not for him as a
man,
but for his warlike
appearance and bloodied plaid.

He'd
deceived himself, seeing naught but what he'd wanted to see.

But
fool that he was, he'd harbored hope.

Hope
that the unexpectedly enchanting lass he'd wed—sometimes defiant, sometimes
proud, and definitely more desirable than he'd imagined a woman could e'er
be—could come to care for him, could teach
him
to care again.

Heaven
help him, he'd wanted to believe that she possessed enough bravery to not only
face down his half brother but to stand against the demons that ravaged his
soul and feasted on the remnants of his heart.

Hope
she'd assure him Robbie was his true son, convince him his doubts had been for
naught.

And,
even if he admitted it only to himself, hope she'd somehow make him whole
again.

But
for now, he wanted nothing more than to retire to his bedchamber, alone, and
lose himself in the deceptive oblivion of sleep.

Every
fiber of his being longed to return to her chamber, seek her bed, and lose
himself deep inside her heated softness. A near-overpowering urge to have her
force him to admit his feelings consumed him, but Duncan crushed the unwanted
sentiments as easily as if they were of no more substance than eggshells.

Pushing
away from the stone merlon he'd been leaning against, he crossed the wall walk
and let himself back inside the tower.

Then,
as soundlessly as he could, he headed in the opposite direction from her
quarters, making for his own chamber and the empty bed awaiting him there.

A
naked man slept in his bed!

Duncan
squeezed his eyes shut and ground his fists against his eyelids, certain the
unclothed ox reposing upon his bed was a figment of his imagination, brought on
by his extreme weariness. Or the shock of the icy water he'd just sluiced over
his head.

But
when he looked again, the lout was still there.

Appearing
more comfortable than a man had a right to be, Sir Marmaduke lolled on his back
atop the covers, limbs akimbo, his misformed mouth slack and emitting loud
snores.

"Damnation!"
Duncan thundered. "Awaken and explain yourself, lest I haul your arse
onto the floor!"

Just
as he reached the bed Marmaduke pushed himself up on his elbows and yawned.
Duncan leaned forward, his anger barely contained. "Be you too drunken to
know where you've laid yourself to rest, or do you seek to deliberately rile
me?"

Marmaduke
yawned once more and peered groggily at Duncan with his good eye. "Rile
you?
‘Tis
not I bursting into another man's bedchamber and stealing his
sleep."

"Have
a care, Englishman, for I tire of the riddles you speak of late," Duncan
countered tersely. " ‘Tis
my
chamber and
my
bed in which you
find yourself."

"Indeed?"
Marmaduke drawled, no longer drowsy-looking, but alert, his one intact brow
arching upward. "Mayhap ‘tis you who's partaken of too much wine?"

"Dinna
speak to me of spirits, you bold whoreson, for I have not yet forgotten how you
persisted in replenishing my hippocras at the wedding feast." Duncan
planted his hands on his hips. "I've had not a drop of ale or wine this
eve though I now regret it. A befuddled state would have eased the offending
sight of your nakedness sprawled across my bed."

"Think
you I find your appearance any more pleasing? Here I seek naught but a
well-deserved night's rest and awaken to find a wild-eyed, raving hulk, clothed
in a bloodied plaid and torn braies, charging my bedside." Marmaduke drew
himself into a sitting position and slung the bedcovers over his lower body.
"Nay, ‘Twas not a pleasant sight, my friend."

Duncan
raked his fingers through his damp hair. "Has the world gone mad? I came
to my chamber desiring scarce more than to wash the grime from my body, then
sleep in my own bed. Yet I find it occupied by you." He paused to glare at
the Sassunach. "And you dare to spout nonsense rather than hie yourself
out of here."

"I
beseech you to cease bellowing. When you have, I shall gladly remind you of
that which today's turmoil has apparently caused you to forget."

Duncan
folded his arms. "Pray speak."

"The
explanation is simple." Marmaduke spoke as if placating the village idiot.
"During the feast, you generously granted me use of your chamber now that
you are gainfully and blissfully rewed. Do you not remember?"

"Nay,
I do not!" Duncan stormed. "Further, ‘tis not wed I feel...
gainfully, blissfully, or otherwise."

"Then
perhaps you should seek your lady wife's bed and attempt to address that...
er... failing?"

"By
the Rood!" Duncan grabbed Marmaduke's arm and yanked him to his feet.
"The only failing I have is suffering the madness that's overtaken this
household since the MacDonnell wench set foot in it!"

"Tsk,
tsk," Marmaduke chided, shaking his head. "You should have taken
better heed of the way Robert Bruce charms the womenfolk. You'll never win your
lady's favor if you think of her thusly, milord."

"Plague
take her favor, I do not want it," Duncan raged, his temper close to
boiling. "I want my bed and now! Take yourself to your own good chamber
afore I toss you over my shoulder and carry you there myself."

"You
know I've not slept there since Arabella's death. From that day forth, the
chamber only houses my arms and, on occasion, serves as a training room for
your so—... er... the lad, Robbie's, instruction in handling a sword.
Otherwise, I strive to avoid setting foot there." He paused, a look of
feigned perplexity on his scarred face. "Have you forgotten that as well?"

"I've
forgotten naught except why I call you my most trusted friend," Duncan
exploded, his throat becoming painfully hoarse from hollering. "Be you
wise, I sorely suggest you join the men sleeping on the floor rushes below, as
we both ken you're usually wont to do, because you are not staying here."
His patience at an end, Duncan propelled Marmaduke toward the door.
"Better still, steel your backbone against the ghosts what haunt you and
reclaim your old quarters. ‘Tis a fine chamber and shouldn't be empty."

"I
cannot do that."

"Why
not?"

"I
offered the chamber to Fergus."

"What?"
Duncan let go of Marmaduke's arm in his surprise. "You and Fergus
are ever at each other's throats."

Marmaduke
shrugged. "For all his bluster, the old goat is getting on in years. He
shouldn't sleep on a bench in the hall each night." Rubbing his arm where
Duncan had gripped it, and avoiding Duncan's eyes as if suddenly
self-conscious, Marmaduke went on, "I thought mayhap giving him the
chamber would smooth the waters between us."

"‘Tis
noble of you, then, but I still canna let you have this chamber, for it is
mine. Nor will I share it with you." Duncan crossed his arms. "And
even if I wanted to, I do not see how you can desire to sleep here, with
her
gazing down at you."

Marmaduke's
one-eyed gaze latched onto the image of a beautiful raven-haired woman smiling
serenely at them from above the hearth. Beautiful beyond words, blessed with an
ethereal loveliness even the angels would envy, Duncan's first wife Cassandra's
elegant grace was captured forever on the smooth panels of painted wood.

‘Twas
an exquisite piece of art, its rendering wrought by a famed Irish illuminator
who had come years before to paint saints upon the chapel walls. But rather
than holy figures, he'd immortalized a she-devil.

Bile
rose in Duncan's throat at the memory of the way she'd thrown herself upon the
artist. None within miles of Eilean Creag had doubted the methods she'd used to
persuade the man to paint her likeness.

"Your
brain is addled," Duncan said, convinced he spoke the truth. "The
sight of her will rob your sleep."

"Nay,
my friend, you err," Marmaduke's tone was colder than the deep waters of
Loch Duich, black and silent beyond the chamber's arch-topped windows. "
‘Tis because of her, I welcomed your generosity in granting me these
quarters."

"How
so?" Duncan asked, fearing he'd just lost the battle whether he recalled
giving away his bedchamber or not.

"Similar
to your own reasons for keeping the likeness, her presence shall keep me
steadfast in my quest for vengeance." Marmaduke ran the tip of his middle
finger down the puckered scar marring his once-handsome face. "But unlike
you, I have not sworn to forsake all women because of the wickedness of
one."

Marmaduke
drew back his mighty shoulders, then walked over to the hearth and stared up at
the painted beauty. "With your new marriage, ‘tis forgetfulness you must
master. You must put the pains of the past behind you and look forward. But I
have yet to avenge Arabella's death. If the face of her murderer is the last
thing I see at night and the first I see upon awakening, I shall never slacken
in my attempts to see justice done... to send Kenneth to join his lewd ladyship
in the pits of hell."

Duncan
stared at Marmaduke's broad back, saw the well-developed muscles bunch with
tension. When his friend's shoulders sagged, Duncan knew he'd lost the battle.

And
his bed.

"‘Tis
a master of words you are, Strongbow. How can I deny you the chamber after such
a silver-tongued speech?"

"I
but spoke my heart," Marmaduke said, turning around. " ‘Twould be
wise if you would do the same."

"I
dinna have one, or hasn't the news reached your English ears?" Duncan
couldn't stop the bitter retort. " ‘Tis the devil himself they call
me."

"And
you've a very fine angel sleeping in a cold bed on the other side of this
castle. I vow she'd gladly banish your demons if you'd but let her,"
Marmaduke said. "Or would you be called a fool as well as the devil?"

His
aim perfect as always, Marmaduke's sagely spoken words slipped through the chinks
in Duncan's armor to skewer the heart he wasn't supposed to have.

"Tongue-waggers'
prattle matters naught to me," Duncan groused, knowing his friend knew
better.

"Then
cultivate her favor simply for yourself. I vow were such a treasure mine, she
would not sleep alone."

At
the Sassunach's admonishment, a parade of his lady's enticements marched
through Duncan's mind. Her lips, warm and pliant beneath his when he'd kissed
her during the marriage stone ceremony. Candleglow casting a gleam upon the
smooth gloss of her hair, and not just the glorious tresses springing from her
fair head! Nay, the luxuriant wealth of fiery curls at the tops of her thighs
caught the light well, too.