To Love a Highlander (2 page)

The King’s son and heir, John, had issued the charter, allowing the visiting clansmen to host the night’s feasting and entertainments.

It was a reason Sorley wore his new cast-off plaid with such pride this e’en.

He felt drawn to Highlanders.

There was much to be said for men famed to be as fierce,
wild, and rugged as the soaring, mist-drenched hills of their homeland; women prized for their strength and beauty, the fiery passion known to heat a man’s blood even on cold, dark nights when chill winds raced through the glens. Sorley had never been to the Highlands, but he’d heard the tales, seen the wonder, and envy, in the eyes of those who had. All claimed no land was more awe-inspiring, no people more proud.

Secretly, he believed his nameless sire was a great Highland chieftain. A man who’d allowed the splendor of his home and the glory of his deeds to swell his head so much that he didn’t want the taint of a bastard son to besmirch the grandness of his name.

Sorley glanced toward the dais end of the hall, caught a glimpse of colorful plaid and bold, bearded faces. Men who sat at the high table, laughing loudly as they chinked wine cups with the King’s sons.

His father would be such a man.

Someday…

He drew a breath, pushing aside such thoughts. Mirabelle’s sparkling eyes, the gleam of her hair, and her light, flowery perfume made it hard to think of anything but her. Especially as she still held his hands, looking pleased to partner him in a dance.

“I have heard men speak of you. They say you are good with a bow. That you won yesterday’s competition.” Her lilting voice chased the last darkness from his mind. “You are Sorley.” She spoke his name as if he were a prince, her praise doing strange things to his insides.

She lifted her chin toward the dancers, just starting a fast and furious Highland reel. “Can you dance to our hill music?”

“Better than anyone here.” Sorley flashed his most confident smile and kept it in place when she took his arm, pulling him into the dance.

He’d never reeled in all his days.

But he’d dance a naked jig on a balefire for Mirabelle MacLaren.

Besides, so many revelers crowded the dancing space it was hard to even breathe, much less leap and whirl in a wild Highland reel.

No one would notice his lack of skill.

He saw only Mirabelle.

The scream of the pipes and the thunder of stamping feet made it difficult to talk, but speech wasn’t needed for him to know that she liked him. Her sparkling eyes stayed on his and a fine blush colored her high, delicate cheekbones. Her braids swung about her shoulders, the brilliant strands golden in the firelight.

Slender as a wisp, she moved with fluid grace. Her braids began to unravel, her hair spilling loose and lustrous to her waist. Sorley’s breath caught, her disarray giving him bold, wicked thoughts. His body heated, and not just from the dance. She laughed as if she knew, her merriment encouraging him. When she spun closer, her pert young breasts brushing his arm, he was sure of it.

“You can dance our reel.” She twirled and her hip bumped his, sending a rush of pleasure through him.

His heart swelled. “I can do more.”

This night he’d believe he could do anything. Uproot trees singlehandedly, move whole mountains, and swim the deepest, wildest seas. All he
wanted
to do was spend a few moments alone with Mirabelle.

He hoped to kiss her.

But he didn’t trust himself to say so.

He did lift his chin toward the shadows of the tower stair. “Have you been up on the eastern battlements?”

“Nae, should I have been?” She followed his gaze. “I’ve not seen much of the castle except this hall and the ladies’ bower.”

“Then you’ve missed something grand.” Sorley’s smile widened. He raised his voice above the music, secretly proud that he wasn’t short of breath. “The best view in the land is to be had from up there. Even your Highland peaks can be seen in the distance.

“Perhaps I can show you?” He’d love nothing more.

“I’d enjoy that.” She glanced toward the dais as if she was about to say something else and then thought better of it. Turning back to him, she reached to touch the plaid he’d slung so proudly over his shoulder. “You dance our reel like a true Highlander.”

Sorley grinned and swirled her in a circle.

He
was
dancing well. The reel’s mad pace came natural to him, the wail of the pipes firing his blood. Something inside him split and cracked wide, freeing a surge of happiness such as he’d never known.

Somewhere in the hall, a Highlander began to sing. His voice was deep and strong, the song full of longing for the heathery hills of his homeland. Sorley took the man’s words for a portent. A never-before sense of belonging rose inside him. He could almost see the great hills and wild, cloud-chased skies, smell the peat and broom. Truly moved, he drew Mirabelle close as the other dancers whirled past them. Her light, flowery perfume teased him and her silky hair slid against his arm. The ring of torches flamed bright, casting a reddish glow on the eddying throng. Above them, the hall’s smoke-blackened rafters glistened, gleaming like the star-studded heavens. And Sorley danced with the fairest of maids.

He could believe an ancient magic was upon them.

It was a night like no other.

Until the crowd parted and a stern-faced matron sailed over to them, her mouth set in a tight, unsmiling line. A giant, bull-necked Highlander towered behind her, the MacLaren plaid swept boldly across his broad chest and
shoulders. A deep scar scored his face, but it was his cold, expressionless stare that chilled Sorley’s blood.

“Mirabelle!” The woman grasped Mirabelle’s wrist. “So this is where you’ve been.” She gave Sorley a sharp look, her lips compressing even more. “Your father will be livid. To think you—”

“She danced, no more.” Sorley put back his shoulders, met the woman’s gaze. He’d learned early on to stand against such disapproval, casting off slurs as a dog shakes rain from his fur. “She—”

“She is Lady Mirabelle to you.” The woman’s voice was like ice. She glanced at the guard, her look significant. “A well-born young lady doesn’t—”

“Smile and laugh, my lady?” Sorley angled his head, challengingly. “Enjoy a quick turn at your own Highland reel?”

“You’re a bonnie lad.” The giant spoke then, coming forward to clamp his hand on Sorley’s shoulder. “You’ll no’ be wanting your face ruined afore you’re a man, eh?”

“And you’ll be wishing to stay one?” Sorley bent, pulling the dirk from his boot, but the Highlander was faster, grabbing his arm in an iron grip.

Sorley’s blade clattered to the floor.

The giant kicked the dirk aside and then released him. He dusted his hands demonstratively. “Think well, lad, before you’re next so ambitious.” He slid a telling look at Mirabelle. “No good comes o’ those who dinnae ken their place.”

Sorley bristled, felt heat surging into his cheeks. Even so, he couldn’t let Mirabelle see him humiliated. Not twice in one night.

She liked him, he was sure.

Perhaps he’d see her again before the MacLaren party left Stirling. Hoping so, he turned to her, but her expression froze the words on his tongue. All the warmth was gone
from her eyes. Her face was as cold and stony as the woman’s, her stance rigid as the hulking giant beside her.

She looked at him as she would a stranger, a ragged beggar in the street.

“A good e’en,” she offered him, speaking with stiff courtesy.

“That it was not.” The old woman sniffed. “I’ll hear the meaning of this.”

“I wished to dance, that is all.” Mirabelle shrugged, flicked at her sleeve. “It is over and done, forgotten.”

“And so it shall remain.” The old woman jerked her away, pulling her into the crowd, toward the dais where pipers were again strutting, blowing their vigorous tunes as if nothing had happened.

In truth, nothing had.

Except that everything she’d stirred in Sorley withered and died.

He stared after her, a strange buzzing in his ears.

Anger and resentment welled in his chest, chasing the pride and pleasure, and the magic he’d believed had spilled into the hall, casting an enchantment.

How could he have been so foolish?

He wouldn’t ever again.

So he assumed his best look of defiance and strode from the dancing space, his shoulders straight, his head held high. He crossed the hall with purpose, winding his way through the crowd until he reached the stair tower. He felt a deep need to visit his special corner of the battlements, so he took the circular steps two at a time, frowning only when he pulled open the door at the top.

A surge of cold air and a swirl of mist greeted him, the night’s fog-drenched grayness suiting his mood. He went straight to the battlements’ eastern wall, where he braced his hands on the chill, damp stone. This late in summer, the night sky should’ve gleamed like silvered glass, offering
him sweeping views of the broad plain beneath the castle, the winding band of the river, and—he clenched his fists against the uncaring stone of the wall—the distant peaks of the Highlands.

Instead, thick mist spoiled the view, drifting in sheets across the land, blowing in shimmering curtains past the battlements.

Not that he cared.

The Highlands were there, waiting for him, even if he couldn’t see them.

They called to him more fiercely than ever.

Because now he knew beyond doubt that he
was
a Highlander.

Weren’t they said to never forget a grievance? Knowing it was so, he leaned against the wall, narrowing his eyes to peer through the whirling gray. He fancied he could see the faint outline of hills. He knew they marked the start of a different world, a wondrous place unlike any other, where deep glens beckoned with quiet and cold, clean air. Granite mountains so stark, lonely, and beautiful, it was a physical pain to look upon them.

All that he’d known since he’d first glimpsed them from this, his special corner of the ramparts, a viewing place he had sought again and again, ever since he’d heard a visiting storyteller sing of his misty, heathered home in the hills.

The bard’s song had spoken to him. Noticing his awe, the man hauled Sorley onto his broad, plaid-draped shoulders and carried him up to the battlements to see such wonders for himself, if only from afar. Sorley had been all of six, but he’d never forgotten.

Someday he’d find the Highland chieftain who’d sired him.

He’d claim the birthright he’d been denied.

He’d prove his Highland blood by avenging the wrongs done him. Vengeance would be his and it’d be as cold and
gray as the mist swirling around him. He’d live for the day and he’d be ready when it came.

Nothing would stop him.

It was more than a matter of reckoning.

It was a point of pride.

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.”

“I told you—”

“You told me a falsehood. I’d hear the truth.”

Mirabelle wanted to sink into the floor. Unfortunately, such an escape wasn’t possible, and as she prided herself on being of a practical nature, she kept her head raised and flicked a speck of lint from her sleeve. Her mind raced, seeking a plausible explanation. It came to her when the wind whistled past the long windows, the sound almost like the keening cry of a woman.

“I thought to see the castle’s pink lady.” She didn’t turn a hair mentioning the ghost. Everyone knew she existed. Believed the wife of a man killed when England’s Edward I captured the castle nearly a hundred years before, the poor woman was rumored to be beautiful, her luminous gown a lovely shade of rose.

Mirabelle had quite forgotten about her until now.

But she did believe in bogles.

Her own home, Knocking Tower, abounded with spirits. She’d even encountered a few. Not a one of them had disquieted her as much as the man now standing before her, his arms still folded and the most annoying look on his darkly rugged face.

He was entirely too virile.

He also had proved a much greater threat than any ghost.

“The pink lady walks the courtyard, last I heard.” Sorley spoke with the masculine triumph of a man sure he knew better than the gullible female before him. His tone left no doubt that he didn’t believe in the bogle. “You would not have met her in my privy chambers.

“Come, I’ll show you where folk claim she prowls.” He wrapped his hand around her wrist and led her across the room to one of the tall, arch-topped windows. “Look down into the bailey. Tell me if you see her.”

“I won’t. See her, I mean.” Mirabelle tried to ignore how her skin tingled beneath his touch. “She’s elusive. She doesn’t appear simply because one peers out a window.”

“Even so, I’d hear what you see.” He stepped closer, so near the air around her filled with his scent.

Mirabelle set her lips in a tight, irritated line, doing her best not to notice how delicious he smelled. It was a bold, provocative mix of wool and leather, pure man and something exotic, perhaps sandalwood, the whole laced with a trace of peat smoke. Entirely too beguiling, the heady blend made her pulse race.

Furious that was so, she straightened her back, determined to focus on anything but him.

She failed miserably.

Awareness of him sped through her; a cascade of warm, tingly sensations that weakened her knees and warmed unmentionable places. His near-naked proximity also made it impossible to think. Never had she been in such a compromisingly intimate situation. She certainly hadn’t experienced the like with a man so brazen, so devilishly attractive.

As if he knew she was uncomfortable, he placed his hand at the small of her back, urging her closer to the broad stone ledge of the window. “I’d have your answer, Lady Mirabelle. I am no’ a patient man.”

“Very well.” Mirabelle leaned forward, pretending to
study the darkened courtyard below. A hard rain was falling and the bailey stood empty, the cobbles gleaming wetly. Torches burned in the sheltered arcade circling the large, open space. A few guards, spearmen, huddled in a corner where a small brazier cast a red glow against the wall of a pillared walkway. Nothing else stirred.

She drew a tight breath, wishing she hadn’t mentioned the ghost.

She turned to face her tormentor. “The pink lady is not down there.”

“I didnae expect she would be, prowling—”

“I’m sure she drifts or hovers.” Mirabelle held his gaze. “She’s had her heart torn and is searching for her husband. Such a soul wouldn’t—”

“She wouldn’t drift, hover, or prowl, because she isn’t real.” He came closer, gripping her chin and tilting her face upward. “The pink lady’s existence is as unlikely as a flesh-and-blood lady letting herself into my bedchamber. Even women who are not of gentle birth only enter this room at my invitation.” He looked at her, his gaze steady and penetrating. “I do not recall extending such an offer to you.

“So I’ll ask again.” He slid his thumb over the corner of her mouth, then along the curve of her bottom lip. “Why are you here?”

Mirabelle shivered. She didn’t know if it was because of the way he was looking at her or if her body was simply reacting to his touch.

Without question, he was the most dangerously handsome man at court.

She suspected in all the land.

He was also the man most suited to aid her.

So she stepped back, summoning all her courage. “You know women well,” she owned, her heartbeat quickening. “I do have a reason for this visit. It has nothing to do with the castle ghost.”

“So we near the truth at last.” He sounded amused. “I’ll admit I am curious.”

“I have a business arrangement for you.” She couldn’t believe the steadiness of her voice.

He arched a brow. “Now I am even more intrigued.”

“You shouldn’t be.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand, taking in his room in all its opulence. “You are known as a man of many skills, greatly favored at court. I am in need of one of your talents.”

“Indeed?” He narrowed his eyes, no longer bemused. “And what might that be?”

“I require your amatory skills.” Mirabelle kept her chin raised. “I want you to ruin me.”

“Lady, I surely didn’t hear you clearly.” Sorley held her gaze, hoping his cold tone and steady stare would unnerve her into retracting her ridiculous request. “You wish me to despoil you?”

“Take my virtue, yes.” She didn’t turn a hair. Far from looking embarrassed, her lovely lavender-blue eyes sparked with challenge and determination. “I shall pay you well for your trouble.”

Sorley almost choked.

He did his best to keep his jaw off the floor. It wasn’t easy, so he went to the door, crossing his bedchamber in long, swift strides. He didn’t want her to see his shock. Worse, how tempted he was to accept her offer. Not that he’d take coin for such pleasure. A shame he’d have to decline. Even one such as he had honor, his own brand of it, anyway.

Still, he was stunned. Her suggestion was the last thing he’d expected.

It was outrageous.

He could find no words.