To Desire a Highlander (41 page)

“So it does,” the laird agreed, still grinning. Then he
lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck as if a chill had prickled his skin. “So it does, indeed.”

And then they were gone, the three of them talking excitedly as they headed back toward the cliff stair. Hamish didn’t linger at the opening of his little sea cave.

He didn’t want to watch them disappear.

He didn’t like being alone. Worse, something was wrong with his hiding place and much as he tried to think, he couldn’t decide what he’d done to cause the difference.

The blue was gone.

He knew the bright blue light that often hovered around him frightened many living men, but he’d grown used to shining. And sometimes, when he was lonely and feeling sad, he’d watch the walls of his wee cave shimmer and shine, the dancing light and sparkles keeping him company.

Now his little hiding place was only cold and dark, the cave’s walls black and damp, no different than the rocky cliffs just outside on the beach.

I can’t bear it, I tell you.

A woman’s voice floated to him from the shore, soft and sweet, hauntingly familiar.
We must go in there and fetch him. It has been too long, we have waited enough.

He can only leave with us if he comes out hisself,
a man countered, his voice just as known—and dear—to Hamish as the woman’s.
I dinnae mind if you sift his wriggly new puppy here to draw him out, but we’re no’ going in there.

If we do, he’ll be lost to us.

Hamish’s eyes rounded. His heart started knocking so fast his entire body shook and quivered.

His parents were outside his hidden place!

And not just them—the blue light was out there, too. He could see its shine through the small cave opening. It was beautiful, dazzling, and a much prettier shade than he’d ever seen, the shine of it brighter than the stars and sun.

One more heartbeat,
his mother warned his father, her eagerness to see Hamish making his eyes leak.
At the least, I shall count the waves, and when the ninth one rolls ashore, I will go in there and—

“Mother!” Hamish ran from his cave, glad that he knew the rocky beach so well, because his tears almost blinded him. “Father!” he called, his wee legs moving faster than they ever had. “I am here! See me, I am here, with you now!”

And then he was, their shining arms reaching for him, hauling him hard against them in a hug so tight he again wondered if he might burst. He’d also never felt as much love as now rushed through him, filling him with so much warmth he doubted he’d ever be cold again. Not now, with his parents come to collect him.

That they were here to take him away, he knew.

Ghosts were smart, he’d learned long ago.

Some things were just clear to them.

Yet…

He drew back from the embrace, his gaze lifting to Roag’s Tower. Lights blazed in the windows and the sounds of pipes and fiddles, and merry laughter, drifted on the wind. The good folk who dwelled there were celebrating, it was clear.

Hamish knew why, and for a moment, he wished he could join them.

“They need you nae more, lad.” His father followed his gaze, approval on his face. “You did us proud these years, my boy,” he added, his voice roughening as he ruffled Hamish’s hair. “But it is time for you to come home.”

“We have missed you so!” His mother dropped to her knees, pulled him into her arms again, raining kisses on his face, his brow, and his hair.

“I missed you, too,” Hamish admitted, again blinking back tears.

But they were happy ones. And when his mother at last released him, straightening, he gladly let them take him by the hands and lead him down the shore. Not toward the cliff and its steep stair carved of stone, but toward a beautiful moored galley that shone a brilliant blue and glittered as if all the stars in heaven had swept down to grace its hull and sail, to light the way.

“Are we truly going home?” Hamish looked up at his parents as they reached the surf’s edge and started sifting across the water, drawing near to his father’s ship.

“We are, laddie, aye.” His father smiled down at him.

And this time Hamish’s heart did burst.

At least, he thought so. But it was with happiness and there was nothing frightening about it. Then, as was the way with those of other realms, the three of them were aboard the blue-shining galley and in a blink, they were away.

Hamish cast one last look at Laddie’s Isle, dashed a hand across his cheek.

He was ready to leave.

His work there was done.

To keep from marrying her odious suitor, Lady Mirabelle MacLaren must turn to his sworn enemy, the one they call “Hawk.” But as they set about the task of ruining her reputation, Hawk and Mirabelle soon learn that rebellion never tasted so sweet.

Please see the next page for an excerpt from

To Love a Highlander

Stirling Castle

Summer 1399

S
orley the Hawk slept naked.

His bare-bottomed state was glaringly apparent, even to Lady Mirabelle MacLaren’s innocent eyes. She should have known that a man with such an inordinate fondness for pleasures of the flesh would take to his bed unclothed. Still, it was a possibility she should’ve considered before sneaking into his privy quarters. She hadn’t expected him to be in his room so early of an e’en. She’d hoped to catch him unawares, surprising him when he strode inside.

Now she was trapped.

She stood frozen, her heart racing as she glanced around his bedchamber. Even in the dimness, she could tell his quarters were boldly masculine and entirely too sumptuous for an ordinary court bastard. Exquisitely embroidered and richly colored tapestries hung from the walls and the floor was immaculate, the rushes fresh and
scented with aromatic herbs. A heavily carved and polished trestle table held the remains of what had surely been a superb repast. Several iron-banded coffers drew her curiosity, making her wonder what treasures they contained. Above all, her eye was drawn to the large curtained bed at the far end of the room.

There, atop the massive four-poster, Sorley was stretched out on his back, one arm folded behind his head.

That he was nude stood without question.

What astonished her was her reaction to seeing him in such an intimate state.

Her mouth had gone dry and her heart beat too rapidly for comfort. She couldn’t deny that she found herself strongly attracted to him. Yet to accomplish what she must, she required her wits.

Unfortunately, she also needed Sorley.

Sir John Sinclair, an oily-mannered noble she couldn’t abide, was showing interest in her. Worse, he was wooing her father, a man who believed the best in others and didn’t always catch the nuances that revealed their true nature. Castle tongue-waggers whispered that Sinclair desired a chaste bride, requiring a suitable wife to appease the King’s wish that he live more quietly than was his wont. Mirabelle suspected he’d chosen her as his future consort.

She knew Sorley loathed Sinclair.

And that the bad blood was mutual.

No one was better suited to help her repel Sinclair’s advances than Sorley the Hawk.

Time was also of the essence. Mirabelle’s father’s work at court wouldn’t take much longer. As a scholar and herbalist, he’d tirelessly seen to his duties, assisting
the royal scribes in deciphering Gaelic texts on healing. Soon, the MacLaren party would return home to the Highlands.

Mirabelle didn’t want to remain behind as Sir John’s betrothed. For that reason, she summoned all the strength she possessed to remain where she stood. It cost her great effort not to back from the room, disappearing whence she’d come. Harder still was not edging closer to the bed, then angling her head to better see Sorley.

He was magnificent.

Blessedly, the sheet reached to his waist, hiding a certain part of him. The rest of his big, strapping body was shockingly uncovered. Mirabelle’s face heated to see the dusting of dark hair on his hard-muscled chest. She felt an irresistible urge to touch him. Well aware that she daren’t, she did let her gaze drift over him. Light from an almost-guttered night candle flickered across his skin, revealing a few scars. His thick, shoulder-length hair was as inky-black as she remembered, the glossy strands gleaming in the dimness. Even asleep, he possessed a bold arrogance. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the shadows, she could see from the bulge outlined beneath the bedcovers that his masculinity was equally proud.

The observation made her belly flutter.

Unable to help herself, she let her gaze linger on his slumbering perfection. His darkly handsome face and oh-so-sensual mouth that, if all went well, would soon play expertly over hers, claiming her in passion.

The only problem was she’d rather make her proposition when he was fully clothed.

Confronting him now would only compound her troubles.

So she pressed a hand to her breast and retraced her steps to the door. It stood ajar, the passage beyond beckoning, urging escape. Scarce daring to breathe, she peered from one end of the corridor to the other. Nothing stirred except a cat scurrying along in the darkness and a poorly burning wall sconce that hissed and spit.

Or so she thought until two chattering laundresses sailed around a corner, their arms loaded with bed linens. A small lad followed in their wake, carrying a wicker basket brimming with candles.

They were heading her way.

“Botheration!” She felt a jolt of panic.

Nipping back into Sorley’s bedchamber, she closed the door.

It fell into place with a distinct
knick.

Before she could catch her breath, Sorley was behind her, gripping her shoulders with firm, strong fingers. He lowered his head, nuzzling her neck, his mouth brushing over her skin. She bit her lip as he slid his hands down her arms, pulling her back against him.

He was still naked.

She could feel the hot, hard length of him pressing into her.

Almost as bad, he was now rubbing his face in her hair, nipping her ear. His warm breath sent shivers rippling through her.

She gasped, her heart thundering.

“Sweet minx, I didnae expect a visitor this night.” He chuckled and closed his hands more firmly around her wrists. “Followed me from the Red Lion, did you?”

“To be sure, I didn’t!” Mirabelle found her tongue at his mention of the notorious tavern, an ill-famed place
frequented by rogues and light-skirts. She jerked free, whirling to face him. “Nor am I a minx. I’m—”

“You are Lady Mirabelle.” His voice chilled, his eyes narrowing as he looked her up and down. He stepped back, folding his arms.

He made no move to cover his nakedness.

“I’d heard you were at court.” His gaze held hers, his face an unreadable mask. “Indeed, I’ve seen you in the hall a time or two. I didn’t think to find you here, in my bedchamber.”

“Neither did I.” Her chin came up. “I lost my way.”

“You’re also a terrible liar.” He angled his head, studying her. “You wouldn’t be here without a reason. My quarters are no place for a lady.” A corner of his mouth hitched up in a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “So tell me, to what do I owe the honor?”

Mirabelle drew a tight breath, the words lodging in her throat. The explanation, her carefully crafted plea for help, had slipped her mind. Vanishing as if she hadn’t spent hours, even days and nights, practicing everything she’d meant to say to him.

“Sir, you’re unclothed.” Those words came easily. They also caused her cheeks to flame.

“So I am.” He glanced down, seemingly unconcerned. Turning, he took a plaid and a shirt off a peg on the wall, donning both with a slow, lazy grace that embarrassed her almost as much as his nakedness.

“Now that I’m decent”—he placed himself between her and the door, crossing his arms again—“I’d know why you’re here.”