"Crikey, nay." Ailsa shook her head. "There might be a few dirks in the hall, along with the other medieval weaponry on display, but none of them are jeweled. Even if they were, they wouldn't be in this room."
"Are you sure?" Mara could feel her heart beating madly, her face growing hot. "Maybe someone accidentally brought one up here? One you've never seen before?"
"That's not possible. I dust in the hall every day. I'd know if there was a jeweled dirk about." The girl lowered her voice, cast a glance over her shoulder. "Murdoch would have our hides if we so much as moved one of those old relics. He even stands watch when we polish them."
"I see." Mara stiffened.
She saw indeed.
The hottie Scottie
had
been in her bedchamber. And the lout had purposely tried to frighten her. "One more thing," she added, keeping her voice level. "Is there another way in or out of this room besides that door over there?"
Ailsa smiled. "Oh, aye, through the windows. One of them is a door that opens onto the battlements. Didn't Murdoch show you?" She shot a look in that direction. "There's even a way from there straight down the cliff. The steps are cut right into the rock. They lead to the sea dungeon."
Mara swallowed. "Sea dungeon?"
She shivered and rubbed her arms. Heavens,
sea dungeon
sounded like something out of a Scottish medieval romance novel!
But Ailsa was bobbing her head. "Och, well, it's actually a sea cave, but it used to be a torture chamber." She paused, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "I've ne'er been down there, but the older folks hereabouts are e'er saying a crack in the cave floor opens into a lower chamber. Supposedly that was the dungeon. See you, when the tide comes in, anyone caught down there would drown."
"How gruesome."
"It's only a legend." Ailsa shrugged. "Besides, even if the stories are true, it hasn't been in use for centuries. I doubt anyone has even climbed down the cliff in years. The steps are too slippery and steep to be safe. No one would dare use them."
Hah
! Mara almost snorted.
She knew exactly who'd use those steps, and had.
She waited until Ailsa left before she sat down to eat her breakfast. Although the hearty-looking feast had grown a bit cold, she'd clean her plate. Her morning plans had changed, and she'd need the extra fortification to see them through.
Instead of exploring the interior of Ravenscraig Castle as she'd intended, she'd acquaint herself with its dungeon.
She let out a deep breath. Something told her that's where she'd find last night's uninvited visitor. When she did, she'd show him two could play his game. Feeling better already, she poured herself a cup of lukewarm tea.
This time it would be hunky's turn to be caught off guard.
And she meant to enjoy his misery.
Bracing his hands against the crenellated wall of Ravenscraig's battlements, Alex leaned forward and watched the MacDougall wench's tedious progress down the jagged cliffside. She picked her way carefully, seeming aware that one falsely placed foot could send her slip-sliding down the damp-slicked steps. Plunging to certain death on the razor-sharp rocks below, making a watery grave with naught but seabirds and drifting mist wraiths to mourn her.
He certainly wouldn't.
And with good reason. So he narrowed his gaze on her, feeling nary a shred of pity.
Indeed, he almost hooted with derision.
Only a MacDougall could be so foolhardy as to descend treacherous stone steps wearing such ridiculous footgear.
If such flimsy black bits of nothing could even be called footgear.
"Devil take her," he fumed, scowling at her back.
Even her dog had more sense.
The wretched beast, Ben, Alex thought his name was, had refused to follow her through the opening in the parapet walling. But neither had the dog left the wall walk. Instead, he planted himself in front of one of the crenel notches and stared after the she-witch.
Nay, the dog was
mooning
after her.
Worse, he'd cast a few moon-eyed glances at Alex, too, even once wagging his plumy tail—until Alex glared back at him.
Truth be told, the dog was staring at him now. But Alex ignored him, setting his jaw and keeping his attention on the beast's mistress. Once, in another life, he'd loved dogs. Even had a special one, Rory, who'd followed him into every battle and even given his life protecting Alex's own.
But now he avoided dogs.
It hurt too much when their short lives ended and his lingered on.
Nor was it easy to bear how many dogs now feared him. That a MacDougall dog should prove one of the few in centuries to show an interest in him galled to the bone.
Even so, the old dog had something of Rory about him, and whate'er it was pinched Alex's heart more than was good for him.
"You bide there," he warned when Ben started toward him. "I want naught to do with you."
Or your hell-spawn mistress.
That last he left unsaid, the dog's trusting brown eyes making it impossible for him to speak ill of the wench within the beast's hearing.
"Curse Colin MacDougall, and for all the days of yonder," he growled, wondering why such dastards seemed e'er blessed with the devil's own luck.
And of all the MacDougalls he'd encountered,
she
was the worst of the lot. The flame-haired lass possessed the face of an angel, the mouth of a fishwife, and the body of a siren.
And her soul was surely blacker than a witch's bottom!
Equally irksome, the exquisitely formed lassie knew he was watching her. Now, this very moment. Why else would she twitch her hips in such an indecent manner lest she meant to unnerve him?
Make him run as hard as granite with the need to possess her? Sink deep inside her, plunging in and out of her succulent female heat until he'd quenched every last one of her most lascivious wants and desires.
Not to mention his own.
"Damn a woman's slippery heat and the tight, velvety lure of her…
charms
." Alex hissed the words, pressed his hands against the cold, grainy stone of the merlon. His frown turned darker than the lowering clouds gathering on the horizon. "I-do-not-desire-the-MacDougall-she-wolf."
"So you say," a familiar voice crooned behind him, "but mayhap you've forgotten the simplest codes of chivalry? Or do you not care if the maid loses her footing and plummets to her death?"
Alex whirled around. Hardwin de Studley stood not two paces away, a look of mock distress on his handsome face.
"
Maid
?" Alex near choked. His brows shot upward. "I vow the wench doesna ken the meaning of the word."
"Say you?" Hardwick clucked his tongue. "Some would claim you condemn her too strongly, my friend."
"Harrumph." Alex narrowed a glare on his friend. He wouldn't demean himself by commenting on such a ludicrous notion.
A disgusted grunt sufficed.
His gaze flicked to his friend's
problem
. Though it was truly lamentable, Hardwick no doubt suffered a softening of his brain due to his nightly escapades.
Alex, however, possessed a much sturdier constitution.
And restraint.
He would not be influenced by the tilt and sway of a plump, well-curved bottom. The teasing bounce of lush round breasts. Full, hard-nippled MacDougall teats and sure to be filled with poison—if e'er he was foolish enough to suckle them!
Hardwick looked ready to sample her nipples and more. "Ahhh, to bathe in such tresses," the blighter declared on an appreciative sigh. "To sink to the—"
"You are worse than a rutting stag." A hot spark of anger flared inside Alex. "Nay, a full score of the lecherous beasts," he added, following his friend's stare.
A folly he immediately regretted.
The wench stood in profile halfway down the cliff-side steps. She'd unclasped her hair, allowing it to tumble in burnished copper waves around her shoulders. More vexing still, she was running her hands through the gleaming tresses, letting the silken-looking strands spill from her fingers like pure molten gold.
Then, as if aware of her audience, she refastened her hairclip with a slowness surely meant to seduce. And she did her work well. Each careful movement of her fingers caused her skimpy, sheathlike top to ride upward, freeing glimpses of taut, creamy-looking skin. Saints, even the dimpled indentation of her navel popped into bold, wanton view!
Alex groaned.
Then he swore beneath his breath.
Her clinging garments left little to the imagination. The thin black material of her top clung indecently to her breasts, clearly displaying their ripeness, while her skin-hugging hose drew attention to the sensuous curve of hips, her round and well-made bottom.
The sweetest he'd e'er seen.
At once, he recalled his quick peek at the luxuriant red curls between her thighs, how she'd inched her foot up her leg, giving him an ever-better view. Alex's heart began a slow beat and his mouth went dry, his entire body tightening.
A condition he refused to acknowledge.
He'd sooner suffer a second death than admit the MacDougall bawd enflamed his desire.
Blessedly, a hearty chuckle cooled his ardor.
"Hah, Douglas—you letch!" Hardwick thwacked him on the shoulder. "Your need is writ all o'er you. Mayhap now you'll answer my question?"
Ignoring him, Alex peered over the edge of the parapet, watched the lass reach the bottom of the steps. He waited until she disappeared behind a bend in the cliff before he turned to face his friend.
So soon as he did, he folded his arms and summoned his fiercest scowl. He knew exactly what question Hardwick had in mind and he wasn't about to answer it.
Not even to himself.
"Do not think your silence fools me." Hardwick looked amused. "Too many are the lasses we've shared. Yet ne'er have you begrudged me the pleasure of gazing on the bared bosom of a comely wench."
Alex stiffened. "So?"
Hardwick's face lit with mirth. "Indeed, 'tis more than naked breasts we've feasted upon together."
Alex pressed his lips in a hard, tight line.
His friend howled with laughter.
"You have turned into a jester," Alex flashed. "And your tongue runs more than an old woman's."
Ignoring the barbs, Hardwick hitched his hip on a merlon. "Do not fear I'll pluck your sweet bloom e'er you admit to wanting her," he said, studying his knuckles. " 'Tis raven-haired wenches I find that I fancy these days. Even so, a tumble with—"
"The only tumble you shall take is from your perch on that wall if you do not stop spouting such foolish prattle."
"Prattle?" Hardwick stood, brushed at his snug-fitting hose. "Since you are in such a foul temper, I shall take my leave."
Alex nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
" 'Tis good that you watch the sea, my friend." Hardwick clapped a hand on Alex's shoulder, all merriment gone. "Do not let the chit linger too long along the shore. The tides here are treacherous. Especially if she's caught unaware."
Alex could feel his color heightening, the neck opening of his collar growing tight. "It would simplify my task if the waves did carry her away."
"And which task might that be?" Jollity once more tinged Hardwick's words. "Keeping her from your precious bed… or getting her into it?"
In the split second it took Alex to think of a scathing reply, his friend vanished. Where a moment before, Hardwick's firm grasp had warmed his shoulder, he now felt only the chill caress of a brisk sea wind.
But Hardwick's taunts echoed in his mind as he glared at the jagged rocks far below, watched the long, white-topped rollers crashing against them. He shuddered, rammed a hand through his wind-tangled hair.
Was it his imagination, or Hardwick's warning, or did the seaweed-strewn band of rocks along the cliff base appear much narrower than moments before?
And why didn't the MacDougall temptress come back up? Did she not know how dangerous it was down there once the tide came in? Where had she gone anyway? Even her dog was whimpering now, pacing the battlements in agitation. Worse, the beast kept glancing his way. Piercing him with worried-looking, beseeching stares.
Pretending not to see him, Alex adjusted his plaid against the tearing wind and scanned the tiny strip of shoreline, but caught no sight of the lass.
She'd disappeared as soundly as Hardwick.
Alex swore, then heaved a great sigh.
What was it to him if she'd vanished?
It would serve her right and solve his own problems if she'd indeed been swept out to sea.
Met that watery grave he'd been envisioning for her.
So why did the possibility not please him? And why did the ever-increasing roar of the waves make him want to charge down the steep stone steps and rescue her?
Why did he even care?
Because he was the biggest fool in all the Highlands, he answered himself as he bounded down the steps, taking them two at a time.
Mara stood a few paces inside the sea cave and decided she'd never seen so much wet, black rock. Or slime. Green slime, some of it shimmering eerily in shallow puddles of water, but the most of it covering the cavern walls. She blew out a low whistle and looked round, her eyes wide. The cave had to be the creepiest place she'd ever seen.
Dank and cold, it reached deep into the cliff, a dark and shadowy world filled with smells of the sea. Stinky smells, for unlike the brisk tang she usually associated with the ocean, Ravenscraig's sea dungeon reeked of rotting seaweed and dead fish.
Wrinkling her nose, she shuddered and hoped it really was only dead fish giving off such a stench. After all, a scary-looking array of rusted brackets and chains hung from the cavern's green-glistening walls.
Thankfully, countless barnacles grew on the nasty remnants of medieval torture, each tiny crustacean a welcome reassurance that it'd been centuries since her ancestors had used the sea cave for its original purpose.
Nor did it look like anyone had been here in years.
She frowned and nudged at a rusted chain, half buried in the wet sand.