Sue-Ellen Welfonder - MacKenzie 07 (16 page)

Darroc glared down at her, not missing how she'd whipped the Thunder Rod behind her back. "Do what you will with the rod." He released her elbow and folded his arms. "I didn't come after you to fetch the wretched thing."

Mad Moraig's expression turned mulish. "Then why make such a stir?"

Darroc drew a steadying breath. Behind Mad Moraig, angry storm clouds raced past an arrow slit in the turn-pike stair and - at the moment - he wouldn't have been surprised if the black roiling masses poured their teeming rain right down onto his head.

"You'll be keeping the lass from her healing with your dark looks and bluster."

Mad Moraig's bristly chin jutted. "Dinna think she doesn't see how you glare and fume at her. She - "

"She is a MacKenzie." The ache in Darroc's head became a fierce pounding.

"MacKenzie, I said. Though" - he unfolded his arms and jammed his hands on his hips - "I'm certain you've already heard."

Mad Moraig compressed her lips.

Her silence spoke volumes.

"You do not care?" Darroc hands clenched. He couldn't help it. "Her father is the Black Stag of Kintail. He - "

"I ken well enough who he be." Moraig's voice sharpened with disapproval. "But"

- her face softened - "the lassie now, she be her own self."

"She's bespelled you." Darroc looked at her. "Is that no' the way of it? She - "

"She calls me Moraig. Only Moraig, just!" The old woman met his stare, her eyes defiant. "I am no' so daft-headed that I'm no' aware o' what the others whisper behind my back, calling me mad and worse."

She wagged a finger. "If I do think too much on darker days, there be naught wrong with my ears."

Darroc nodded. "I see."

And he did.

He was doomed.

Geordie Dhu. Mad Moraig. Soon his entire clan would be enchanted. To a man, they'd fall prey to Lady Arabella's charms. They'd make mooney eyes at her like Frang and eat out of her slender, aristocratic hands.

Hands he'd love to feel sliding around his neck or perhaps sweeping down his naked back only to then dip lower and glide around to grasp...

He frowned.

Somewhere in the shadows of the landing he again thought he heard a woman's silvery laugh. But when he glanced back at the open bedchamber door, it loomed quiet. Though he did imagine he caught a fleeting glimpse of a tall, voluptuous woman in a clinging white gown.

He blinked.

Outside the tower, thunder cracked and boomed. Then - praise God - a bright flash of lightning explained his folly. He shoved a hand through his hair, more frustrated than ever. Floating maidens in white, indeed! Soon he'd be as befuddled as Mad Moraig.

He cleared his throat. "Lady Arabella does not need you to champion her."

That, at least, was true.

He'd never seen a stronger maid.

Mad Moraig tilted her head. "You will treat her kindly?"

"I would hear how she bewitched Geordie Dhu." He posed his own question, refusing to answer hers.

"Well?" He waited.

Mad Moraig once again assumed her look of studied innocence. "Could be" - she couldn't quite keep the smugness out of her voice - "that someone told Geordie Dhu the lassie saw him in the hall when you carried her in."

"Geordie Dhu was in his kitchens at the time."

"Be that as it may - "

"What did you tell him?" Darroc's frown returned.

The hen wife's eyes danced with mischief. "Only what would please him most."

"And what was that?" Darroc was sure he didn't want to know.

Mad Moraig chuckled. "Could be I told him the lady admired his beard, claiming there wasn't a man in all Kintail able to grow one so fine."

"I don't believe you." Darroc eyed her suspiciously.

"'Tis true as I'm standing here." Mad Moraig hitched up her skirts again, turning back to the downward-winding stairs. "Geordie Dhu struts about like a crowing cock, always boasting there isn't a woman living who can resist his beard. He forgot all about the lassie's name when he heard she was soft on him."

"Pah!" Darroc waved a hand. "Geordie Dhu might be fond of his beard, but he hates MacKenzies. He'd have the lass chained in the pit below his kitchens before he'd serve up delicacies for her."

"Say you." Mad Moraig winked, looking mightily pleased. "Could be someone also told him I'd no' be making any more healing ointment for his toenail what's growing wrongly lest he treat the maid goodly."

"So that was the way of it." Darroc looked at the old woman, surprised by her wit.

"Could be...." She started down the stairs, stepping sprightly. "Now I'll just be for seeing if the black-bearded cockerel has made his meaty pottage to go with the fine wheaten bread I be smelling!"

Darroc watched her go, certain of two things.

Men must be wary of women, regardless of age.

And Mad Moraig wasn't mad.

Though he might well be for returning to the bedchamber when he could have fled. The penetrating sapphire gaze his foe's daughter pinned on him the instant he crossed the threshold made him feel mad indeed.

"Why was Moraig so fashed to see your thunder rod?" She sat up, the movement causing the plaid to dip dangerously. "What did she mean by saying its story is not for gentle ears?"

"The relic's past is tragic." Darroc crossed the room and poured himself a measure of uisge beatha, downing the fiery spirits in one quick gulp. "Moraig spoke true.

You are too refined to know of such things."

Arabella bristled. "You have seen that I am not faint of heart." She rested a deliberate hand on her injured leg. "Do you think ladies know naught of sadness and hardship?"

"I would that ladies were spared the like." His eyes darkened on the words.

Arabella squelched the urge to squirm.

More than that, the ominous note in his tone made her all the more determined to find out the mystery behind his thunder rod.

So she sat up straighter against the pillows and eyed him with her best daughter-of-a-thousand-chieftains stare. It was a look she'd learned from her father though she was sure he called it by another name. Perhaps his I-am-the-mightiest-chieftain-in-the-Highlands stare. Heed me or regret it.

Either way, the look didn't seem to work well on Darroc MacConacher.

Far from telling her what she wanted, he came forward and reached to frame her face with two hands. "Calamity, heartache, and other unpleasantness should no'

touch innocents," he said, his voice tight, almost bitter.

But some of the hardness left his face and he smoothed back her hair, his stroking fingers sending strings of golden warmth spooling through her. Then almost as quickly as the beautiful sensations began, he stepped back as if touching her had scorched him. Turning away, he went to an open window and stared out at the rain-swept night.

"See you, Arabella of Kintail, as leader of my people I am all too aware that ladies know tragedy." He glanced at her as if the statement should mean something to her. "MacConacher women have borne more than their share of sorrows. Moraig more than most."

The words hung between them, almost a burden.

Arabella's brow knitted. She didn't know how he did it, but she felt somehow chastened.

What she wanted to feel was him touching her again.

Even now - and despite the return of his stony-faced expression - her skin tingled where he'd caressed her. She could still feel his fingers sliding through her hair, the delicious intimacy of his touch. A strange and wondrous excitement pulsed inside her, making everything else seem unimportant.

Except the twinge of pity that nipped her when he spoke of Moraig.

Her gaze darted to the empty doorway. "You say the thunder rod is dangerous. I do not believe a piece of wood, however beautiful, can be... anything. But I know others who hold to such tales."

The MacConacher stiffened. "Then you are surely wise enough to stay away from the relic."

Arabella watched him closely, not liking how his hands fisted on the stone of the window splay. Nor did she think she was particularly wise.

She was nosy.

"Is Moraig afraid of the rod?" She needed to know. "Does she fear it will harm her?"

Darroc almost choked.

"The Thunder Rod doesn't harm anyone. What it does" - he whirled around, the back of his neck flaming - "is..."

He let the words tail off and started pacing. How could he tell her of the rod's powers?

He couldn't and wouldn't.

But then one of Moraig's wooden caudle cups sailed off the table and thumped across the rushes, rolling to a stop near Frang's chiefly pallet. Mina yipped and leapt to her feet, tearing for the door. Frang rose with more dignity, but even he couldn't keep his hackles from rising.

Nor was he above loping out of the bedchamber in Mina's wake.

Darroc stared after them. Then he bent to retrieve the caudle cup. If the strong burst of wind that blew the cup off the table frightened the dogs, the gust proved a blessing for him.

He now knew what he could tell Arabella about the Thunder Rod.

Crossing the room, he closed the shutters and - before he realized he'd done so -

sat on the edge of the bed. Perilously near to her.

So close, in fact, that he could feel the heat of her warming him.

He shifted, highly uncomfortable. She merely peered at him, her lovely face serene and the slow rise and fall of her breasts tantalizing him.

He was a greater fool than Geordie Dhu, swayed by beard praise and the ache of a sore toe.

"Moraig surely told you that her special wine caudle is a strengthening concoction." He blurted the words, his fingers tight on the wooden cup. "That - "

"What does her caudle have to do with your thunder rod?" She blinked innocently.

He felt a burning urge to shock her.

"The Thunder Rod" - he watched her closely - "is much like Moraig's caudle.

Those who trust in its powers say it strengthens men."

"Strengthens men?" Her eyes rounded but not a tinge of pink stained her cheeks.

Darroc's own flushed hotly.

Surely she knew what he meant.

"You mean for battle?" Her words proved she didn't.

"Some might put it that way, aye."

He set the caudle cup on the bedside table and placed both hands on her shoulders. Something drove him to touch her, to twine his fingers in the silken strands of her hair, and - saints help him - but he simply wasn't able to resist her.

"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.

"You kissed me."