The Craving (Rogues of Scotland #1) (3 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Meg stared in silent wonder at the man standing before the window, soaking in the sun as if he had never felt its heat before.

His hair was long, falling just past his shoulders, and the color was a deep brown bordering on black.  Even from his profile she could see the hard line of his jaw. Her eyes drifted lower and her heart slammed into her ribcage. The man wore no shirt with his kilt, displaying an abundance of thick, corded muscles.

Meg pulled her eyes away, but in an instant she was back to staring. His arms hung casually at his sides, but there was nothing cavalier about the man. He was a warrior, a man who went after whatever he wanted – and got it.

She saw the scars covering his torso, proving he had seen his share of battles. Yet they did nothing to detract from his allure. In fact, his prowess inflamed her blood.

Meg didn’t recognize the woman responding so...flagrantly to the stranger. No man had ever made her stomach flutter or her skin dew just thinking about him. Her blood was pounding in her ears, her heart beating fast and furious as her hands itched to run over his body and learn every contour.  

Suddenly the man’s eyes opened. For several heartbeats he stared out the window. Then, slowly, he turned his head to her.

Meg’s breath locked in her lungs and her knees threatened to buckle. If she thought the stranger was appealing before, she was wholly unprepared for when he faced her.

He was Adonis, so blindingly handsome that she couldn’t fathom what he was doing in her tower. He was the kind of man women fought over – and killed over. He was the kind of man who looked at anyone but Meg.

And yet, his beautiful pale green eyes were focused directly on her. The dark brown eyebrows slashed fiercely over his eyes, and his nose was slightly crooked from having been broken a time or two. His square jaw and chin only heightened his sexiness. However, it was his wide lips - with the bottom fuller than the top - that made her blood race in her veins.

He embodied virility and masculinity, almost as if he had created the two simply by being born.

“Hello, lass.”

The sound of such a smooth, deep voice did something strange and glorious to Meg. Was there nothing about the man she didn’t like? 

“Who are you?” she managed to ask around her thumping heart.

The stranger gave a slight bow of his head, his gaze never leaving hers. “Ronan Galt, at your service. And you are?”

And she was what? It took a moment for Meg to realize he was asking her name. Could she make a bigger fool of herself? “I’m Meg. Meg Alpin.”

“Meg.” He said her name slowly, letting it fall from his lips as if a prayer.

At this rate, she would be a puddle of nothing. God help her if he came toward her.

Ronan couldn’t take his eyes off the fetching Meg. It could have been because he spent so much time alone in his dark prison, but he found her...refreshing. Her auburn hair, having come loose of its pins, was falling about her face in tempting waves.

He wanted to know how long her hair was. And he wanted to feel it slide through his fingers. As much as her hair tempted him, the woman was simply luscious. She had curves to make a saint’s mouth water with desire.

Full breasts, a small waist, and flared hips begged for his touch. Her large, expressive gray eyes watched him like an eagle. With her pert nose, wide forehead, and gently arching auburn brows, she would be an invitation for any man.

But it was her high cheekbones and plump, kissable lips that truly made her a temptation no man could pass up.

Meg. The name suited her. Part imp, part seductress. She could have a man on his knees in a matter of moments if she so wanted. But did she know her power?

By the wariness that stole over her gaze, Ronan realized she didn’t. That was fortunate for him. 

“How did you get in here?” she asked nervously.

He could listen to her soft lilt all day. She was temptation in the most beautiful package, and the constant, aching need he’d had for so long was difficult to control.

All Ronan wanted to do was push her against the wall and kiss her inviting lips while removing her gown so he could look his fill at her womanly curves.

“I’m no’ sure you’d believe me if I told you.”

She raised an auburn brow, anxiety replaced with strength. “Try me.”

Ronan glanced at the hated mirror. Everything hinged on getting this beguiling, beautiful woman to believe him and let him remain in her world. If he couldn’t, he would be forced back into the hated mirror once more. He had to gain his freedom.

He slowly released a deep breath and motioned to the mirror with his hand. “From there.”

The disbelief on Meg’s face was just what he expected. “From the mirror?”

“Did you no’ pull the sheet down, lass? There was naught to see, was there? Just blackness, a void that stretched endlessly.”

She took a step back, fear and confusion mixing on her lovely face. “I don’t understand.”

“I didna either for a long time.” He’d never had a chance to explain himself before, and he worried he would say the wrong thing. So much had never ridden on so little. “The first Alpin woman who released me sent me back into my prison before I could tell her anything. The second gave me a little more time, but no’ much. This is just my third time.”

“Alpin?” she asked with a small frown marring her forehead as she looked from him to the mirror and back to him. “My ancestors? That’s not possible.”

“There is much that is possible with magic.”

“Magic?” she repeated, as if testing the word on her lips. For long moments she stared at him as if trying to decide if he was daft or not.

Ronan bit back the words that wanted to tumble from his mouth. He was prepared to fall upon his knees and beg her for at least a full day so he could see the sun and the moon, taste food and ale, and perhaps ease the ache of his cock. Instead, he stood staring at her, silently willing her to give him a chance.

Relief poured through him as she said, “I’m not saying I believe you, but how long have you been in the mirror?”

“What year is it?” he asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“1609.”

Disappointment speared Ronan. It was as he feared. He hadn’t just spent decades in that awful mirror.  He had spent centuries.

“Ronan?” 

He met her gaze, surprised to find pity in her stormy depths. “Nearly two hundred years it seems.”

Silence filled the room as their gazes locked – hers unsure, his accepting. Ronan didn’t know if she was attempting to believe him, but it didn’t matter. He was taken aback at the fact that his friends, the men he considered brothers, were long dead. He would never see them again, never share a keg of whisky, never ride into battle together.

The sadness that fell over him was debilitating, devastating. Unbearable.

What was he going to do now?

Meg bit her lip as she studied Ronan’s face. He was visibly shaken by the realization that two centuries had passed. She wanted to toss him out on his arse for the liar that he was, but the more she watched him, the more she began to believe him.

No one could fake such alarm. As difficult as that was to watch, it was the sorrow, the grief that filled his light green eyes that broke her heart.

“Did you leave a wife behind?” she asked hesitantly.

Ronan shook his head as he turned to stare out the window once more. “Nay. It’s my friends I mourn. We were brothers in every sense of the word.”

The desolation in his voice made her throat close up with emotion. What did one say in response? She couldn’t think of anything that would help.

Meg looked around, her gaze going to the mirror. It had been nothing but blackness when she looked into it before. If...magic...had been used, and he had been stuck in that awful thing for two centuries, she couldn’t imagine how he was feeling.

She bit back a snort. Nor could she comprehend that she was even considering his words as truth. He might very well be jesting with her, but the simple fact was that one moment he hadn’t been there, and then the next he had.

Magic or not, trickery or not, he was a man who was deep in torment. “Are you hungry?”

A small grin flitted over his lips. “I’ve no’ eaten in so long I no longer remember the taste of food.”

“That I can remedy,” Meg said with a nod. She had a purpose now. To feed Ronan. That she could do easily enough.

She turned and hurried out of the rooms to the stairway. Halfway down she realized she hadn’t asked him to stay put. But then again, where would he go? Back into the mirror?

Meg ordered a tray of food to be brought up to the tower and dashed back up as quickly as she could. She was out of breath by the time she walked into the room.

Her gaze immediately went to the window, but Ronan was nowhere to be found. A quick scan showed nothing. Had he really gone back in the mirror?

Just as she was walking to the object in question, Ronan came out from behind the mirror, his attention focused entirely on the large piece.

“How long has this been in your family?”

Meg shrugged and came to a stop when she realized how close to him she had gotten. Seeing him from a distance was difficult enough, but up close he robbed her of her will. “This isn’t my home. It’s my great-aunt’s. I’m staying for a bit.”

At her words, Ronan’s green gaze shifted to her. “Why are you no’ married? I’d have expected some man to have stolen your heart already.”

Meg swallowed and turned to the doorway as memories threatened. “The food will be up soon. As a matter of fact, I think I hear Mary on the stairs.”

She fled, like the coward she was, from Ronan and his questions. For a little while, she had forgotten what had sent her to Ravensclyde. Those precious few moments had been amazing.

“Put it here, Mary,” Meg directed the maid to a small table more suited for teacups than a large tray filled to the brim with food.

“You barely ate your luncheon, milady,” Mary said eyeing the tray. 

Meg smiled. “Exactly. I’ve found my appetite.”

“That’s good to hear,” Mary said with a sigh. “We were most worried about you. You need more meat on that thin frame of yours, milady.”

With those words, Mary was gone, leaving Meg alone with Ronan. Meg wasn’t sure why she didn’t want anyone else to know about Ronan. Maybe because he could just be a figment of her imagination. 

Or it could be that she didn’t want to explain how he arrived.

Mostly, she realized it was because she didn’t want to share him yet.

“Why are they worried over you, sweet Meg?”

His words, spoken so near her, made her stomach flutter. Meg shifted to the side a couple of steps so she could see him. “I was ill.”

“Ill? And they let you up here to sort through these rooms alone?” he asked suspiciously, almost angrily.

Meg pulled up a stool that looked capable of holding Ronan and pointed to the tray. “Please. Eat.”

Thankfully his attention was diverted to the food. He inhaled deeply, a smile on his face as he sat. He looked at each item in turn before he reached for the mug of ale. In short order he polished off the entire tray. Meg sat and watched him savor each bite as if he would never eat again.

Once he had finished the last chicken leg, she asked, “How did you get in the mirror?”

There was the slightest pause in his movements as he wiped his hands and mouth. “I’m no’ sure it’s a story you want to know.”

“I assure you it is. The more I know, the better I can make my decision.”

“And what will you do with me if you doona believe me, sweet Meg?” he asked softly, those stunning eyes of his pinning her to the chair. “Will you send me back just to see if you can?”

“I’m not that cruel.”

He looked her over and shook his head. “Nay, I doona believe you are.”

“It’s all just so hard to believe.”

At this he snorted. “Hard to believe there’s magic? In Scotland? Lass, you should know the mountains are full of it.”

“I’ve never seen magic,” she admitted, hating the tremor in her voice.

His head cocked to the side. “Did you look in my mirror today?”

“Aye.”

“Did you see your reflection?”

“I did not.”

“That is because magic was used to give you a glimpse into my prison.”

“That place scares me.”

He sighed and reached for the ale. Just before he brought the mug to his lips he said, “It’s good at doing that.”

CHAPTER THREE

Ronan no more wanted to talk about what had happened that fateful night – two hundred years ago – than he wanted to think about it. But if he was going to be free from the damned mirror, he had to convince Meg never to send him back.

He could try to lie to her, but he had a feeling the woman would know immediately. That only left the truth – as hard as it was to acknowledge.

“I was with my friends, Daman, Morcant, and Stefan,” he said. “Though we were all from different clans, we were together more than we were apart. If one of us needed something, the other three would be there.”

Meg’s lips turned up in a small smile. “That sounds nice. I’ve never had anything like that.”

“I took it for granted, just as I did everything else.” Damn. Those words were more truth than he had ever acknowledged, even to himself. “I loved to have fun, and took advantage of every opportunity that presented itself. When a band of gypsies came to the land of Daman’s clan, I was the first to visit.”

“Why?” Meg asked, her brow knitted in confusion. “Did you want your fortune told?”

Ronan drained the last of the ale from the goblet and gently set it down. “A woman caught my eye. With her black hair and eyes, her dark skin, and the vibrant colors she wore, she was stunning.”

“Ah. I see.”