Sins of the Highlander Page 3

  “Ye were fortunate,” she said. “The bolt grazed ye and went through clean.”

  “Drummond’s a tetchy bastard. Shooting off crossbows when his bride is in the line of fire,” Rob said with a black frown. “It might have just as easily been ye who caught the business end of a bolt.”

  She narrowed her gaze at him as she gave his arm a thorough scrubbing. The same thought had occurred to her. She’d already decided Lachlan must not have been thinking clearly when he gave the order to shoot, but she didn’t appreciate this man pointing out her betrothed’s error. She enjoyed Mad Rob’s yelp when she poured whisky on the wound.

  He grabbed the flask from her and took a swig, muttering about wasteful females.

  “If ye’re so concerned for my safety, perhaps ye might have thought of that before ye dragged me from the altar,” she said. He was the villain, not Lachlan. “I’ll thank ye not to disparage the man who will be my husband.”

  “Why is that, by the bye?” He cocked a brow at her. “Did wee Lachlan court ye sweet?”

  “That’s none of your affair,” she said brusquely. There’d been no courtship at all, sweet or otherwise. ”And why do ye name him small? He’s as tall as ye.”

  He snorted. “Men are measured in all kinds of ways.”

  “Aye, in kindness and courage,” she said with conviction.

  “And in other ways,” he said with a smirk. “Granted, I’ve no sure knowledge, but men like your intended, who are small of spirit, are often deficient in other things as well. But perhaps as a maid, ye’re ignorant of such details.”

  Innocence and ignorance didn’t always hold hands. Elspeth had heard some of the other ladies-in-waiting tittering behind their fans over who among the queen’s courtiers was naturally well endowed and who padded their codpieces with rolled-up stockings. Only Highlanders didn’t follow fashion and wore nothing beneath their kilts but what God gave them. Her gaze flicked to Rob’s lap.

  A hot blush crept up her neck. Where had that come from? She wasn’t the sort to ogle a man’s groin.

  At least, she hadn’t been.

  “Kindly remember, sir, I am holding a needle with intent to use it.”

  “Duly noted,” he said with a smile in his voice. He reached over with his right hand to stroke her arm.

  Even though her chemise and a detachable silk sleeve separated them, she felt the heat of his palm on her skin. All the small hairs on her arm pricked to attention, and her flesh shivered with expectancy.

  “Are ye cold, Elspeth?”

  “Aye, but I dinna expect ye to care.” She jabbed the needle through his skin with more force than necessary.

  He didn’t so much as twitch, though his hand squeezed her arm slightly and his lips tightened in a grimace.

  “This will hurt ye more than it does me,” she said as she pulled the thread through his skin.

  “Nay, lass, you’re but tickling me,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. His thumb rubbed back and forth over her forearm.

  “What are ye doing?” she demanded.

  “Hmm?” He blinked, all innocence.

  She looked pointedly down at his hand. His thumb stopped.

  “I was just distracting myself a bit from the pain,” he said. “Ye’re fair soft.”

  “Ye’re accustomed to scratchy wool. That’s just the silk ye feel.”

  “No, I can imagine ye beneath your clothes,” he said. “I’m thinking your skin puts silk to shame.”

  “Aye?” She jabbed him again.

  He groaned. “Aye. Your father may let ye tend him, lass, but ye must admit, ye’ve no’ got a healer’s touch.”

  “And what’s a healer’s touch like?” she asked, working quickly to push the needle through and tie off another knot, closing his wound with each stitch.

  “Light as a feather. Like this.”

  He moved his hand from her arm to her breast. His fingertips brushed the bared skin above her bodice in teasing strokes. She held herself still, beguiled by the sensation. She’d never have guessed her body would react so to a man. She should be afraid, she knew, but her only fear was that he’d stop.

  His touch moved down, between the stiff boning of her bodice and the soft, thin chemise, circling her nipple slowly through the cloth of her undergarment.

  Oh, how he made her ache. He tormented that needy skin with his nearness. She fought the urge to squirm into his touch. When he finally flicked a nail over it, a jolt of wickedness shot from her breast to her womb.

  Warning bells jangled in her head.

  “Stop.” She covered her breast with her own hand. “That’s no’ a healer’s touch.”

  His smile was sin incarnate. “Ye’ve the right of it there, lass. That’s a lover’s touch. And ye’ve had only the smallest bit of the pleasure, only a taste of what I would give ye an’ ye allow it.”

  “No.” She scrambled to her feet to put some distance between them. “An’ ye try to take me, I’ll scratch yer eyes out, Rob MacLaren.”

  “I’d not take ye. Not a step further than ye wish. I ken ye’re a virgin and wanting to stay that way,” he said earnestly. “But there’s great delight for a man in the giving of pleasure, ye see. And ways around a maidenhead that’ll leave ye still pure when we’re done.”

  She’d forgotten to breathe as he spoke. Now she sucked in a quick breath.

  “Shall I pleasure ye, Elspeth?”

  Chapter 3

  She blinked at him, like a small brown squirrel caught in the gaze of an adder. Then she gave herself a shake.

  “No, of course not!” she said, backing away from him again. “Ye’ve stolen me away from my own wedding! How could I suffer ye to touch me so?”

  “It didna seem to me that ye were suffering.” Rob never claimed to know much about women, but he recognized waking passion when he saw it.

  “I hardly know ye.”

  “Ach.” He nodded. “Then I take it ye must know Lachlan Drummond well.”

  With a few quick steps, she managed to put the spring between them. “We met at the altar, if ye must know. He was my parents’ choice.”

  “Well, that’s a point in your favor, lass. Otherwise, I’d mistrust your judgment.” Rob liked the way her cheeks flamed with color. “But still ye intended to bed him this night, did ye no’?”

  Her brows drew together in distress. “He’d be my husband. I’d have to.”

  “So enthusiastic,” he said, his tone laced with sarcasm. “And here I thought ye were a besotted bride.”

  “I never said I was besotted.”

  “If your heart’s no’ engaged in your marriage, then ye shouldna be averse to a wee bit of lust outside of it,” he said, advancing around to her. She made him feel pleasurably male again. He decided to listen to his groin and not stifle the urge.

  Lust wasn’t the same as love. Surely it wouldn’t be a betrayal of Fiona if he used his body to wreak vengeance on his enemy. Especially not if he convinced Lachlan’s bride to succumb willingly.

  “Ye interrupted the ceremony before the vows were complete. I’m no’ even officially a wife, I dinna suppose,” she said, still circling the spring to keep her distance from him.

  Her nipples stood out beneath her bodice, whether from cold or the memory of his touch, he didn’t much care. They were a fine sight in any case. He ached to suckle them.

  “I’m a maiden, which means I need to refrain from lust of any kind.”

  “Ye dinna strike me as doing especially well with restraint,” he said, switching directions and gaining on her by doing so. “I’ve kissed ye, lass, and ye seem prone to passion. I felt the way your body responded to my touch. Ye wanted me, if ye dinna mind my saying so.”

  “Would it matter to ye if I do mind?”

  “No’ in the slightest.
Truth must be spoken or ’twill burst out of us, lass.”

  She caught a toe in her broad skirts and went down on the rocky cave floor. Rob ran around and knelt over her. “Are ye hurt?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes enormous. He noticed they were hazel, the sort that picked up whatever hue was near. Now they were the same shade of green as the moss ringing the cavern. She shook her head at him. “The only thing that can hurt me here is you.”

  She balled her fingers into fists but kept them clenched on her lap. He sensed she wanted to strike him but wisely contained herself.

  “Why are ye doing this to me?” she demanded with a hint of a suppressed sob.

  “That should be obvious. Your intended husband owes me a debt he canna repay.”

  “So I’m to suffer for it?”

  “No, I intend that he should suffer the loss of you.”

  “Then…” Her voice tremored, and she swallowed hard. “Ye do intend to kill me still.”

  He sat down beside her. Tears trembled on her lower lashes.

  Deliver me, O Lord, from a woman’s weeping.

  “No, ’tis no’ in me to do ye harm,” he said softly. “Though wee Lachlan couldn’t have known that. I threatened to kill ye if he followed, and yet he came after us. If I were ye, I’d think twice over giving your loyalty to a man who puts so little thought to your safety.”

  She chuckled mirthlessly, pulling her knees to her chest and hugging them to her. “As if ye care for my safety.”

  He gazed into her eyes. There were little flecks of gold ringing her pupils.

  Now that she wasn’t running from him or terrified by him, he realized Elspeth Stewart was really quite a beauty. Her lips were full and lush. By some trick of musculature under her smooth skin, the corners of them turned up naturally in a beguiling half smile, as if she were hugging a delicious secret to herself. There were soft hollows beneath her rosy cheeks, a sign of the bone-deep loveliness that only ripens with age.

  “Lachlan Drummond is a lucky bastard,” Rob said with conviction.

  “I dinna imagine he’d agree with you.” She picked absently at her frayed hem. “He did lose his bride at the altar remember.”

  “Aye, so he did.” Rob leaned closer. She smelled faintly of heather and evergreen boughs. Scent was an extravagance. He wondered where she dabbed the fragrant oil. The thin skin of her wrists? The pulse point at her white throat? Or maybe in the sweet hollow between her breasts?

  Thinking about all those soft, forbidden places made him feel rampantly, throbbingly male. He wanted to search out those tender spots, bury his nose in them, and lave them with his tongue.

  She scooted away from him, but he closed the distance between them so he was still sitting beside her.

  “Then what do ye intend to do with me?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Most men in my position would take your maidenhead and be done with it.” If he listened to his swollen cock, he’d be on her in a heartbeat. She might fight him at first, but she’d melted under his kisses before. She would again.

  “If you intend to ravish me, you’ll have to gag me.” Her chin lifted in defiance. “Because I’ll scream my bloody head off.”

  “Will ye now?” He lifted a hand and ran his fingertip across the lace at her bodice. He’d been no monk prior to his marriage, but losing Fiona had made him realize it was possible for a man to forswear women. Since he lost her, he’d not been tempted by a single lass.

  Except this Stewart maiden.

  But this was a special case. It didn’t count as a betrayal if his heart wasn’t engaged, did it?

  “As I recall,” he said as his fingertip skimmed the tops of her breasts, “I enjoy the sounds a woman makes when I pleasure her.”

  “Ye’d not enjoy these sounds.” She slapped his hand away. “And if ye take me, there’d be no pleasure.”

  “As a maid, ye canna know that,” he said, lifting one of the long locks of her chestnut hair to his lips and inhaling her scent. “And I dinna think ye’ll scream, not in the way ye mean, in any case.”

  “Ye’d have to tie me up and force yourself on me, because I’d fight ye, tooth and claw,” she said with assurance.

  “Now there’s a thought,” he said. “I’ve heard some lassies enjoy being tied up.”

  He could picture her in his mind, bound tight, her breasts bared, her legs splayed with her soft core wet and ready. She’d be helpless before him. He’d make her beg for release. He stood and walked to his horse to retrieve a length of rope.

  “Shall we give it a try?”

  “No!” she said, scrabbling away. “Please, no.”

  “Dinna fret, Elspeth. I’ll no’ force ye,” he crooned softly, as if she were a frightened mare. He settled beside her. “That’s no’ my way.”

  The image of her bound form faded only slightly in his mind, but not in his groin. If only he were a little more mad, it definitely could be his way. He shook off the lurid fancy and focused on the matter at hand.

  “But I do intend to tie ye to me,” he said. “We’ll travel by night, so we need to get some sleep now. And I’ll no’ find rest if I’m worried ye may be trying to hie yourself off to your betrothed.”

  He looped the rope around her waist before she could protest.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

  “To my home, to Caisteal Dubh, o’ course. Though we canna take a direct route. Ye’ll be safe enough there.”

  “The Dark Castle?” she said with a shudder. “The name doesna bring me comfort. Is it haunted?”

  “No,” he said curtly. Not unless he counted the way Fiona haunted his dreams. “’Tis named for the black stone it’s made of.”

  “Not for its black-hearted laird?”

  He frowned at her. “If ye dinna make a fuss, I’ll spread my cloak for ye. Twill be more comfortable than the cave floor. Will ye be good now?”

  She nodded with obvious reluctance. “And ye’ll not…?”

  “No, lass. I’ve never taken a woman unwilling, and I’ll no’ start with ye. I give ye my word.” He grinned wickedly at her. “O’ course, there’s them who says the word of a madman isna worth shite.”

  She seemed to ponder that for a moment. “Are ye truly mad, then?”

  “D’ye think a madman would know?” he said, trying to make light of her question. He rose and fetched his cloak and warm plaid to make a pallet for them. In his mind, he still struggled to close the door on the image of her trussed up and bound, awaiting his pleasure. He’d never imagined the like before, and it made him wonder about himself. “Sometimes, aye, I think I am mad.”

  That deepened her frown.

  He slammed that door in his mind so hard the hinges rattled. Could there be any pleasure between them if she continued to stare at him so warily, as if he had two heads?

  “A man is judged by his action, so by those lights, aye, I expect I am mad. In some ways,” he admitted. “But no’ completely, ye ken. If I promise ye something, I’ll deliver. Lie down, Elspeth.”

  She stretched out on the cloak, stiff limbed and watching him as a mouse eyes a cat.

  “Turn on your side.”

  She bit her lip, but she did as he bid. Rob knotted the other end of the rope around his own waist and lay down behind her.

  “Lift your head.”

  When she did, he slid his arm under her neck.

  “There ye are, lass, as fine as ye could wish. A pillow for your head and all.”

  “Aye, never let it be said the MacLaren didna care for the comfort of his captives,” she said tetchily.

  “Ye’ve the right of it now. We’ll deal together well, ye and I.” He pulled her close and spooned his body around hers. Then he covered them both with the end of his thick plaid. She wouldn’t be able to t
witch a muscle without his knowledge, so he could catch the sleep he’d need for the coming night without fear of her escaping.

  She lay stiffly, every muscle clenched. But Rob kept his breathing even, and she relaxed by finger-widths until he heard a very soft, very ladylike snore.

  Poor lass. She probably didna sleep much last night with thoughts of the wedding dancing in her head.

  Rob settled a hand on her hip, and she didn’t stir.

  However, he did. His body roused to hers again. His cock swelled, and his ballocks tensed, but he held himself perfectly still. He’d made a promise, after all.

  As he sought sleep, it occurred to him that the best revenge on Lachlan Drummond wouldn’t be to kill his betrothed. Or to rape her. Or even tie her up and torment her into surrender, pleasurable as that might be.

  If Rob could seduce Elspeth Stewart into giving herself to him willingly, his enemy would be thoroughly shamed. The name of Lachlan Drummond would become a byword, held up for ridicule by all as the cuckolded bridegroom. Bards would compose songs about it, and folk would laugh at him over many a winter fire.

  Drummond would be so furious, he’d respond to Rob’s challenge of single combat at last.

  And then Rob would send him straight to hell. Even if he had to go through the flaming gate with him.

  ***

  One good thing about Mad Rob MacLaren, Elspeth thought when she woke. He throws off more heat than a roaring fire.

  She pulled the plaid up till it covered her nose. A few moments earlier, her disorientation in the darkness was so complete, she might as well have been blind.

  She became aware of the hard male body curved around her back. And the thick ridge of him pressed against her buttocks. His breathing was deep and even and fluttered the small hairs on her nape in its warm breeze.

  She supposed she should be grateful. Many men would have taken her maidenhead without a moment’s qualm.

  And without his heat, she’d have passed a miserably uncomfortable night.

  But she didn’t want to feel any gratitude toward this man. Even if she were rescued now, the damage was done. Her reputation was in tatters.