Текст книги "My brave highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Chapter Eleven

Leaning against the rock wall next to the stall, Dirk lowered his head and found Isobel's lips. Mmm. She was sweet, her lips soft and delicate like warm rose petals after a summer rain. Her delectable female flavor mixed with strawberry tart stole his reasoning ability. He had to taste her more. What an enchanting surprise when she opened to him. He explored her mouth, loving the shy flick of her tongue against his.

Her hands fisted in his hair, drawing his head down and pulling herself up to him, her body sliding along his. He groaned, his hands finding her derriere and dragging her tight against his hard shaft. Pleasure and need tore through him. Her round arse in his hands, he lifted her higher, devouring her mouth. He moaned before he realized the sound had escaped.

Damned if this wasn't paradise.

Her tentative kisses grew bolder and more frantic. Her lips moved over his, her tongue stroked against his and she moaned. "Mmm, Dirk," she whispered. "So good."

What the hell am I doing?

Drawing back, he set her away from him. "Iosa is Muire Mhàthair." Growling the Gaelic oath, he tried to catch his breath and think with some logic while he listened to her ragged breathing.

"I've never… well…" she whispered, supporting herself against the stone wall. "Now we know what you're good at."

"Damnation, Isobel. Go back inside." He ached for her. He'd craved her for days, but never like this.

"Now you get surly?" she demanded. "After that?"

"Especially after that. I can't…" Pacing away, he muttered more Gaelic curses, his frustration knowing no bounds. "We can't do that. You're betrothed."

"Very well." She straightened, sounding prim and proper of a sudden and beyond vexed. "Blame it on me then."

"I'm blaming no one. Just… stay away from me." Hell, that had been the wrong thing to say.

"Bastard," she snapped.

He sucked in a deep breath, trying to rein himself under control. Aye, let her think whatever she wanted about him, so long as she didn't touch him again. Or allow him to touch her. When he did, his body was no longer under his own command.

Clearly she was an experienced widow who knew how to seduce him easily. Her future husband might not know the difference, but Dirk would. He had more honor and sense than to lie with a woman who was almost married to someone else.

She paced away from him, then back. "I but wanted to be friends."

"Friends do not kiss each other like that," he muttered, wishing he could do it all over again. Never had a kiss been so astounding for him.

"I know."

"For God's sake, Isobel, go back inside." He knew his tone was near begging but he couldn't help it. He had to fight for self-control around her. His mind latched onto how much she'd enjoyed the kiss, how she'd responded, kissing him back like a love-starved wanton, rubbing up against him. If she touched him again now, he might have her pinned to the wall in a matter of seconds, their clothing pushed aside and…

Nay, don't think of that. He shook his head, trying to clear away the erotic images.

When she came closer, he drew in a deep breath, craving the smell of her, the taste of her. He stiffened, refusing to move.

"I just wanted to say… I enjoyed that more than…"

"What do you think I am?" he growled, arousal rampaging through him. "A saint? A eunuch?"

She shook her head, then strode regally from the stable out into the courtyard.

What had she meant to say? She'd enjoyed the kiss more than any other she'd received? Had neither her betrothed nor her late husband ever kissed her as if they could devour her? Well… that's how he'd felt. 'Haps he should be ashamed of that, but he wasn't. She was delicious and damned arousing. If she'd stayed, she'd find herself spread upon a pile of hay in one of the empty stalls, her skirts flung to her waist, while he gave her exactly what she'd been asking for.

***

Hand pressed against her burning lips, Isobel rushed across the frigid bailey, disturbing the thin layer of snow. Her lips tingled, and on her tongue she savored the lingering taste of Dirk—spicy male. His scrumptious mouth had near scorched hers in the cold air. She might be a widow, but she'd never been gifted with such a sinful kiss. She had not even known such kisses were possible.

She'd never wanted a man's mouth on hers anyway. Her late husband had always had perpetually bad breath. Neither had her betrothed, the MacLeod, kissed her. She barely knew the man. But Dirk's breath, and his mouth, had tasted like sweet spiced wine… cinnamon, cloves and honey added to an unmistakably appealing masculine flavor that made her want to bite him and lick him all over.

She'd felt his considerable erection pressed against her lower belly. That was something she'd never felt before, and she couldn't believe how hard it was.

What would he do if she turned and ran back to the stable? Not that she would. She wasn't witless. His angry rejection was obvious.

Of course, there was more to consider than simply what her body craved. She must think of the clans and the well-being of all the clansmen. What she, a mere woman, wanted was of no importance. No one cared about her dreams or desires.

She ran up the steps to the castle portal. A guard helped her open it from the inside and then she entered the warm great hall. Unable to withstand more of the music and dancing, she skirted the dance floor and slipped up the narrow turnpike stairwell.

In the chamber they'd assigned her, Beitris had maintained the cozy fire and was snoozing on a pallet in front of it.

After partially disrobing, Isobel crawled between the cool linen sheets, glad several woolen blankets were piled on top. She covered her head and thought of Dirk. Her chin still burned where his beard stubble had rasped against her. Her whole body was flushed and tingling from the way he'd kissed her, consuming her mouth as if starving for the taste of it… oh heavens! She craved him with the same hunger.

She didn't understand what he'd made her feel. Was it magic? Her heart had sped up as if under some sort of potent spell or witch's potion. And the flood of hot yearning… deep inside… between her legs. She would've done anything he'd asked at that moment. Anything he'd wanted, especially after he'd drawn her intimately against his aroused shaft.

Obviously, he'd wanted more, and she wished he'd taken more. The thought of his heated, naked skin sliding along hers near drove her mad. She wanted him to be the one to make her a woman in truth. At five-and-twenty she was well beyond the age when she should know what coupling felt like. With Dirk, she craved this strange and elusive connection as never before. 'Haps she had remained a virgin too long and her woman's body was rebelling, demanding a man's body for fulfillment and completion.

If he knew of her innocence, he would likely stay even further away from her. He must not find out.

***

"What the devil are you doing out here?"

Dirk jumped and turned from the horse's stall. Rebbie stood in the stable entrance. Why hadn't he heard his friend's approach? His thoughts of Isobel had distracted him.

"Naught. Examining the stables."

"Ha. Indeed?" Rebbie paced across the hay-strewn floor and glanced in at his own horse. "Seems more than sufficient."

"Aye."

"Did Isobel come out here?"

"Why? What did she tell you?"

"Naught. But when she returned, she raced across the great hall and disappeared up the steps as if the fires of hell licked at her heels."

"Hmph." Maybe Dirk had frightened her. He hadn't meant to, though he did have to warn her to stay away from him. If they had a tryst, the repercussions would be hellish indeed—clan wars.

"Did you say anything to upset her?" Rebbie asked.

"Nay." So that was a lie. Could not be helped.

"But she was here?" Rebbie asked.

"Aye."

"Something must have happened."

Dirk ground his teeth. Rebbie's prying combined with his earlier flirtation with Isobel truly grated on Dirk's patience. "'Tis none of your concern," he snapped.

"Ah… well." Rebbie drew back. "I see."

Did he see? Dirk didn't think so. He hated the torturous position he currently found himself in and Rebbie was not helping matters. He was but twisting the knife.

Rebbie chuckled softly.

"What?" Dirk growled.

"'Tis plain to see, man. She has you all riled up."

Dirk snorted, trying his best to hide his true feelings about the situation. Of a certainty, he'd felt desire before. Lust. But never with the burning intensity he experienced when Isobel was near. "You have vivid imaginings."

"I ken you want her. Admit it."

"No more than you want her," Dirk grumbled with a glare toward his friend. The memory of Rebbie and Isobel's conversation during supper, then the dancing, made Dirk's gut wrench.

"Aha! There's where you're wrong, my friend," Rebbie said. "I'm not dimwitted enough to chase after the skirts of an almost married woman."

"Nor am I. Do you think I want a feud with the MacLeods?"

"Nay. I see that's holding you back."

"It's enough." Aye, indeed, more than enough. He couldn't return to his clan only to lead them into a battle of his own making. He didn't kidnap MacLeod's bride; he rescued her.

"But if not for that?"

"It matters not, because she's betrothed. Naught will change that fact," Dirk said in a hard tone, as much to himself as to his friend. Wishes and fantasies were for silly, frivolous lasses and held no purpose. Dirk lived in the real world.

"And yet, true love always finds a way," Rebbie mused.

Love? Had Rebbie gone daft of a sudden? Love and lust were many miles apart.

"Hmph. What are you, a poet? A bard?" Dirk asked.

"'Haps I should be. The ladies would love it, I'm thinking."

"I'm certain," Dirk muttered dryly. Anything Rebbie did, the ladies loved.

"Except for Lady Isobel and Lady Jessie, Dunnakeil is near bereft of lovely ladies, though, is it not? 'Twould be nice to have a buxom lass to warm my bed at night."

Dirk frowned. "You're not thinking of seducing my sister," he said in a warning tone.

"Nay, strangely, she's too much like a female version of you. 'Tis a bit bizarre."

"She's not the least bit mannish."

"Nay, she's utterly feminine and beautiful, but the look in her eyes. 'Tis almost like looking at your eyes."

Dirk believed he understood what his friend meant. He and Jessie resembled each other a great deal, including having eyes like their father. Anyway, he was glad Rebbie wasn't attracted to her. One less thing to worry about. "And you're not thinking of seducing Isobel either." Dirk knew his words came out like an order, but he couldn't help it.

"Nay, not Isobel either. Obviously, she is spoken for twice over."

"Not because of me. Because of the MacLeods." Dirk knew it was a half lie, but the words should have been true. The real reason neither of them could touch Isobel was the MacLeods. But if Rebbie were to seduce her, that might be the one thing to destroy their friendship. Imagining that lashed him, as well. He and Rebbie had been friends for a decade. That a woman might threaten their friendship sent icy warning through his bloodstream.

What the hell was he thinking? Had he gone mad? He could not become attached to Isobel.

"Indeed, the MacLeods," Rebbie said in a doubtful tone.

"Aye. I'm taking her to her brother. He can deal with the MacLeods. I'm staying out of it."

"Won't be the same around here without her."

Dirk hadn't thought of it, but Rebbie was right. "Cannot be helped. She must go home sometime."

"But not now."

"After the weather breaks."

"That won't be until spring, I'm thinking, considering the north wind has been thrashing us since we arrived."

Dirk shrugged. "Whenever. The MacLeods don't know where she is, so she's safe."

"Aye, safe from them. But is she safe from you?" Rebbie asked in a teasing tone.

"I don't take advantage of women." He felt like belting his friend for even suggesting it.

"'Haps not. Come to think of it, I'm a wee bit worried she will take advantage of you."

"Ha. Now I ken it… you're mad enough for the asylum."

"We'll see." Rebbie wandered from the stable and into the courtyard.

Dirk frowned. Was Isobel planning to seduce him? And if so, why? To rescue her permanently from the MacLeods? Would she use him in that way? Hell, he could not allow himself to be dragged into this conflict between the MacLeods and the MacKenzies.

***

"This man you speak of cannot be Dirk MacKay. He is dead," Maighread Gordon, Lady MacKay said to Haldane. "This is an imposter!" She eyed her youngest son across the Turkish carpet of her sitting room in the manor house at Tongue. Haldane appeared to be speaking the truth.

"I know not if 'tis truly him or not. I don't remember Dirk that well."

"It cannot be." Dirk MacKay died twelve years ago. Surely he did. How could he have survived a fall from a three-hundred foot cliff? A moment of guilt speared her chest as it always did when she thought of the hateful, little red-headed bastard. He made her think of those fabled changelings. Since he was a small child, he'd watched her with those eerie, piercing pale eyes as if he knew what she was thinking… as if he hated her. She had certainly hated him with equal fervor.

But the brat's father, Griff MacKay, had loved her. He'd told her so every day, and he'd built this warm manor house for her where she'd wanted it near Kyle of Tongue. She couldn't tolerate the bleak and drafty Castle Dunnakeil on the shear face of that windy shore.

She would've had no reason to marry Griff MacKay two-and-twenty years ago if not to bear him an heir. She was the daughter of an earl and had expected to marry equally well. But that hadn't happened. Griff was only a baron and a chief. It had been enough, she supposed, given how much land came with the title. But she'd be damned if she let a little flame-haired hellion of a boy have that title when it could just as easily go to her oldest son.

"All the elders say 'tis him," Haldane said. "And Uncle Conall says Dirk's body was never found because he didn't die."

Conall? Was he in on this scheme? She'd never trusted her husband's youngest brother. "What does this Dirk look like?"

"A tall, hardened warrior. Ginger hair, blue eyes."

Maighread's eyes narrowed. The description fit to an extent.

"How tall?"

Haldane lifted his hand to about six inches over his own head. Six and a half feet? Could that scrawny lad have grown so much?

"What does Aiden say?" she asked.

"He believes the man truly is Dirk."

"In truth?" Her oldest son had been nine summers when Dirk died. Surely he would know whether the man was Dirk or not.

"Aye, but Aiden is easily fooled. He simply wants his brother back, no matter who is playing the part. He allowed him to move into the keep, bringing his friends and his whore."

"What an outrage. I must go see for myself. I'm certain he is an imposter. But if 'tis truly Dirk MacKay, something will have to be done about him. He'll not be robbing my sons of their birthright."

Haldane's eyes widened, then he smiled, his hand flexing on his sword hilt. "I'd like to do something about him."

"You'll refrain from doing anything stupid and rash. You'll get yourself killed. I need you and the clan needs you. If Aiden cannot lead the clan alone, you will help him."

"Help him?" Haldane glowered.

"Aye. You'll help him with the difficult decisions and lead the men during battles. 'Tis clear Aiden is not built for warfare, as you are. But Aiden has a keen intelligence. He kens well how to lead the clan, but physically he is a bit weaker."

Haldane crossed his arms over his chest and frowned, his face turning red. "Are you saying my intelligence is lacking, Mother?"

"Nay. But we both ken you struggled with your studies. You refused to pay attention to the tutor during all the years he was here."

"I was bored. Not daft!"

"Nevertheless, my two sons will lead this clan together. It's a perfect arrangement since you each have different strengths and weaknesses."

"Aye, except Aiden is the chief and the laird, and what am I? The helper? The servant?"

"Don't be so selfish! You both had best be worrying about this imposter who's come along. Clearly, he wishes to steal your birthright."

"A hearing is set for the day after tomorrow. 'Haps you would like to attend," Haldane said.

"Indeed I shall attend."

"Then we'd best be traveling. The weather is fierce between Tongue and Durness."

"I'm well aware of the weather, Haldane."

"We'd best hurry. We need to leave before daylight in the morn. The elders were making all haste about putting Dirk in. From what Aiden said, I think he's willing to step aside and let Dirk take his place."

"Over my dead body!" Maighread said.

***

The next day, Dirk stood on the shore overlooking Balnakeil Bay. Although the icy wind was not as severe as it had been the day before, it still stung his eyes. He tugged the wool mantle tighter about his shoulders. The wide golden-sand beach spread out before him, and six fine wooden galleys of different sizes were moored near the shore. He didn't want to contemplate putting Isobel on one of those and taking her south. The kiss they'd shared the night before in the stables made him even more hesitant. But he would have to take her to her brother at some point.

Beyond the galleys in the bay, the sand dunes, held in place by marram grass, extended as far as he could see toward Faraid Head, the cliffs beneath them jutting two miles out into the sea. As a child, he'd loved playing with his cousins among those dunes. He could almost hear the echoes of mock battles with wooden swords. They'd climb to the top of the dunes and slide or roll down.

But there was also a more sinister side to Faraid Head—the three-hundred foot cliffs where he'd almost lost his life.

Now, the salty air smelled just as it had back then. He could not believe so much time had passed.

He glanced back at the castle, perched upon its gigantic black rock. He'd needed to get outside. Although crowded, the castle felt empty without his father's loud, jovial laugh.

Griff MacKay had been a tall, broad-shouldered man with more presence than anyone else in the clan. When he spoke, people listened. When he went to battle, his enemies' faces blanched with fear.

Although Dirk had loved, admired and respected Da above anyone, he had to admit his father had been rather naïve, trusting his second wife over everyone. And now she would probably arrive here in a matter of a day or two. He didn't think the cold or the wind would keep her away. She'd lived here on the north coast for over twenty years and was used to the weather.

Although he was wary of Maighread, he didn't fear her. He expected her to start with her scheming and plotting. She would try to discount him and his claim. But she wouldn't be able to argue with his father's senachie and the other elders who had been members of the clan far longer than either of them. Men his father's age and older, men who'd known Dirk from birth. They had sharp wits and sound minds.

Since Maighread couldn't do anything legally to prevent him from becoming chief, she'd again sink to underhanded deeds, as was her habit. She would try to murder him again; he had no illusions about it. He'd already talked to Rebbie, Conall and Keegan about this and security around the castle.

Since Maighread and Isobel's mother had been good friends, he didn't think Maighread would try to hurt Isobel. The only way she would think to use the lass to get her way would be if Maighread realized Dirk was intensely attracted to Isobel. For her safety, he would have to hide his interest in her.

Still, he needed to warn her of possible dangers from Maighread or Haldane. Once Dirk was chief and knew who he could trust, he could assign personal bodyguards for Isobel, himself and anyone who might be in the line of Maighread's revenge. Because once Aiden was no longer chief, she would definitely want revenge against him. She might use his friends or family members, anyone he cared about, to exact that revenge.

Waves crashed upon the rocky beach to his left, the water sliding quickly down over the sand. Downwind, a piper played a hymn, in the village perhaps.

A lone figure walking on the beach in the distance caught his attention, the dark clothing standing out against the gray ocean and white breaking waves. He could not tell if the figure was male or female, but they didn't appear to be searching for shellfish. The beach was pleasant in summer, but this late into autumn the beach was too chilly and windy to be truly enjoyable.

Dirk turned to view the orange and gold sunset that hung over the grassy hills. He ran his gaze along the kirk wall. Behind it was the cemetery and the new church—his father's final accomplishment.

Leaving the shore, Dirk strode toward the wall, opened the gate and entered the cemetery where many of his ancestors were buried. Conall had told him that his father had been interred within the church walls.

Upon entering the building, he paused in the silence and cold still air. The place smelled of fresh mortar and rock dust. Of a sudden, he missed the ancient chapel that had been here before he'd left. It was several hundred years old, but in poor condition. Walking up the aisle, he saw they had reused the colorful stained glass window. It had not been too many years since the whole of Durness had converted from Catholicism to Protestantism, and he was glad to see they'd recognized the value of the window.

He found his father's tomb near the front but off to the side. The gentle light of sunset gleamed through the gold and red stained glass, highlighting Griff MacKay's name and the carving of his visage—a high proud forehead, a strong brow, a firm mouth that had issued many a stern order but also enjoyed a good laugh. It was a good likeness of him.

"I'm sorry I didn't return before you passed, Da," Dirk whispered.

If only he could've seen his father alive one last time. He had never regretted anything so much. Tracing his fingers over his father's face in the stone, he wondered what Da would've thought of him now. Would he have been glad to see he hadn't died twelve years ago? Would he be proud of the man Dirk had become during those absent years?

Aye, Dirk had to believe he would. He'd want a detailed recounting of all Dirk's adventures during his travels. He'd want to know about each of the battles he'd fought.

"You have returned, my chief."

His thoughts scattering, Dirk jerked around. The minister, black-clothed and gray-haired, stood behind him.

Chief? Not yet, but soon.

Dirk strode toward him. "'Tis good to see you again, Reverend."

"I'd heard you were back. I cannot believe how like Griff MacKay you look," Reverend MacMahon said, his mouth agape as he shook Dirk's hand.

"That's what I've been told." Dirk was proud that he resembled his father in some small way, even if they did differ in personality.

The minister turned serious. "A few weeks ago, your Uncle Conall told me what happened when you were a lad." He shook his head. "Such greed and evil I can hardly fathom."

"Indeed."

The minister's expression eased into what might be considered a faint grin for the stern man. "It appears we'll have to remove your memorial plaque."

"Memorial plaque?"

"Aye, 'tis outside on the kirk wall, with Faraid Head in the background. Your father wanted it there. Sometimes he would come here and stare at it for a long while. Or 'haps he was staring toward Faraid Head, hoping to see you returning from amongst the dunes."

Dirk frowned. Guilt cut through him when he imagined his father's grief at thinking he'd died. "I hate that I caused him pain, but it couldn't be helped."

"'Tis true. You did what you had to in order to survive. He sent search parties around the shoreline, looking for you. After many weeks, he gave up the hunt and accepted that you must have died. Then we had a memorial service for you. 'Twas lovely, I must say." Reverend MacMahon gave a wry grin.

"Well, I thank you for that, then." Uncomfortable with the subject at hand, Dirk scanned the walls and the lofty ceiling. "The new church is beautiful. Well built."

"Aye. Your father was determined to finish the project before he passed, and thanks be to God he did see it completed. He enjoyed coming here and watching while the craftsmen and stonemasons worked. We kept the original stone floor."

Dirk nodded, noticing another new tomb off to the side, but it contained no plaque. "Who is interred there?"

"No one yet, but it is reserved for Donald McMurdo. He donated a substantial amount of money for the rebuilding of the church."

Disbelief and outrage clawed through Dirk. "McMurdo? That murdering highwayman?"

A regretful expression crossed the reverend's face. "Aye. The very same."

"He has killed an untold number of innocent people."

"I have no doubt he has. And finally, it seems he has grown concerned about his immortal soul. That's why he donated so much."

"Blood money," Dirk muttered, feeling suddenly that the church was tainted.

"The good Lord is forgiving."

"And are you certain McMurdo has repented of all the murders and crimes he's committed?" Surely 'twas the same man who'd held Dirk and his party at gunpoint just before they'd reached Durness.

"God only knows, but he wanted to be buried within the church walls. I think he fears the MacKay clan and the people of Durness will desecrate his remains after he dies if he is not buried in a protected place. As far as I'm concerned, he bought a tomb, not his way into heaven. His fate is in God's hands."

"Indeed." But to have a murderer's future tomb so close to his father's and all his ancestors' grated on Dirk's already frayed nerves. If McMurdo tried any more deadly tricks he might find himself occupying his fancy tomb sooner rather than later.

"Aye, I definitely see your father in you." The minister gave another one of those near imperceptible grins. "You have his temper and his sense of right and wrong. He never could stand injustice. You will make a formidable chief. A brilliant leader. Your father would be proud." He gave a brief bow. "If there is anything I can do to assist you, let me know."

"I thank you, Reverend. There will be a hearing in two days at the castle. The clan will decide who the rightful chief is. If you would be willing to testify that you remember me and know me to be Dirk MacKay, eldest son of Griff MacKay, that would be a great help to me."

"I'll be glad to. I bid you good evening."

Dirk bowed, and the minister retreated out the side door, likely headed to his nearby cottage.

A memorial plaque? Dirk had to see this.

He gave the new chapel one final glance and left by the front door, still feeling disturbed that it was built with a murderer's money. Why would his father allow such a thing… unless the clan was having financial difficulty? Had Maighread and her fancy manor house bled them dry? He'd have to talk to the steward soon after he was installed as chief.

Outside, Dirk meandered between the grass-covered graves with their old tombstones. The sun, having dropped behind the hills, stained the sky orange, pink and violet. The whole of the north wall faced the bay and Faraid Head beyond, depending on where an onlooker might stand. Halfway along, he noticed a carved gray stone plaque set into the wall. It measured about a foot in height. He moved forward to stand before it.

To honor the memory of Dirk MacKay, brave and noble son of Chief Griffin MacKay. Born 1591. Died 1606 Faraid Head. We miss you.

Of a sudden, he felt the finality of his death just as his father and clan did. It could have so easily been true.

A few feet away stood the grave marker for his cousin who truly had died that day, William MacKay.

His stepmother was a murderer in truth.

Something thumped behind him and he whirled, hand on his sword hilt, alert and ready to lash out.

The dark-clothed figure from the beach stood ten feet away.