Devil in a Kilt (14 page)

His
gaze flew to the bed and the lustrous flame-colored tresses spilling over the
edge of the coverlets. Duncan pressed his lips together. There could be no
doubt as to whose quarters he'd awakened in.

Thanks
be to the powers above, his new wife yet slumbered.

He
wasn't in any mood to bid her a good morn.

Not
naked as he was, clad only in the belt fastened about his hips.

A
further glance about the chamber showed his plaid lying in a heap beside the
bed, whilst his sword and dagger rested atop a table next the door.

A
door that stood ajar.

Slowly,
realization filtered through the throbbing pain clouding his senses. Little by
little, the events of the day before—
his wedding day
—came back to him.

He'd
wanted naught but to have done with the feasting, mayhap address his bride
about Robbie again, then escape to the solitude of his solar.

But
it wasn't meant to be.

Instead
of the docility he would've preferred, his new wife had flaunted her position
by bringing the child to his table even though someone in his household had
surely warned her he'd given strict orders the boy was to be kept from his
sight.

Aye,
she had to have been told.

Yet
she'd defied him.

And
so had his men.

The
faithless bastards had blatantly disregarded his wishes. They'd culled him into
performing the marriage stone ceremony, then later, boldly carted both him and
his bride to bed in the hopes of cajoling him into performing an act they knew
fair well he'd expressly stated would not take place.

Not
yestereve and not in the future. Not with this woman.

Duncan
squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples.
He should never have brought the wench here, ne'er done such a fool thing as
wed her.

She
hadn't been under his roof but a scant few hours and already she'd wrought
havoc and caused him grief.

A
muscle twitched in his jaw, its jerking making him uncomfortably aware of the
tension coursing through him. The woman had gone too far, overstepped her
bounds, on her first day as lady of Eilean Creag.

Of
her first
night,
he remembered precious little beyond being lugged up
the stairs and stripped.

And
that which he
did
recall, he wished to forget, for the fleeting images
flashing through his mind were unsettling.

Disturbing
in a manner he didn't care to examine.

Even
now, with his head feeling as if it'd been split in two, his traitorous loins
quickened at the memory of her standing before him in all her naked glory, her
red-gold hair swirling about her like a sea siren straight out of a lovestruck
bard's silly tale of unquenched love and desire.

Recollections
of barred doors and screams in the night came back to him, too, chasing away
the unwanted lust his too-fetching bride aroused within him.

He
didn't want to desire her.

Didn't
want to need her.

‘Twas
far easier—safer—to slake his need for a woman's velvety warmth and softness
with a village bawd.

For
a few pieces of coin, they'd barter their wares, let him partake of their
well-worn charms. But even such whores couldn't keep the revulsion, the fear,
from their eyes as he mounted them.

Their
expressions e'er bespoke the words they'd never dare voice to his face. They,
too, believed he'd pushed Cassandra to her death.

Thought
him a murderer.

Duncan
swore. In death as in life, his beautiful first wife had the power to make him
miserable. In truth, she'd killed him with her treachery.

Not
that he'd cared aught about her infidelity.

At
least not after the first few years of their marriage. The saints knew, he'd
stopped loving her long before he'd discovered her indiscretions. ‘Twas only
when she'd taunted him about Robbie's true parentage that she'd stolen his
heart, his very soul.

That,
and her part in the death of his sister, Arabella.

Duncan
dragged a hand over his face, then pinched the bridge of his nose. Might God
forgive him if his suspicions were unfounded, but not few were those under his
roof who, like him, wondered if the witch-woman had also had a hand in the
mysterious death of his lady mother as well.

Proven
or nay, the deeds were done, irreversible. His beloved sister, cold in the
ground, his sweet mother resting not far from her daughter's side.

As for
Robbie being Kenneth's son, deep inside Duncan knew the truth of the spiteful
words Cassandra had flung at him on the last day of her life. What pained him
was the tiny shimmer of hope he'd never been able to extinguish.

A
desperate wish to discover she'd lied ... a notion only a fool would cling to.

Duncan's
hands clenched to fists, and he drew a ragged breath. Cassandra had taken his
life as surely as she'd lost her own by tripping on the hem of her gown and
plunging from the battlements as he'd looked on, unable to stop her fall.

In
her grave, she'd found peace, freedom from whatever madness had made her so
wicked, but he could not run from his demons.

His
torture was a living death.

Ne'er
would another woman cause him such pain again.

Not
in a thousand lives.

Even
if protecting himself caused his new bride anguish. It couldn't be helped. He
wanted only peace. She would have to seek other ways to fill her heart and
days.

Her
nights
mattered less; they were no concern of his.

Duncan
glanced across the room at her. She slept soundly, blessedly unaware of the
turmoil her very presence had wrought upon him. A tiny twinge of guilt made a
slight chink in the wall around his heart, but that only made him all the more
determined to keep away from her.

Using
great care lest he jar his aching head, or make a noise and awaken his bride,
Duncan pushed himself to his feet. ‘Twas time he sought answers, but not yet
from his wife.

‘Twould
take a stronger man than he to face her down and question her whilst she still
had the vulnerable look of a sleeping angel about her.

He'd
press her about Robbie later.

When
he had his wits full about him ... and his manhood safely ensconced within his
braies.

Although
not in his best form, he wasn't befuddled enough not to ken his bride wasn't
the only one who owed him explanations.

She
hadn't
barred the bedchamber door from the outside yestereve.

Nor
could she have opened it from the inside come the morn.

He
didn't need a sage to know a certain one-eyed, ugly-faced Sassunach was the
culprit. ‘Twould be just like Strongbow to have concocted such a scheme. Duncan
bit back an oath. What a fine and ignoble bit of trickery it'd been . . .
locking him naked in a chamber with an equally bare-bottomed wife!

The
English lout had undoubtedly thought they'd give in to their baser instincts
and spend the night in wedded bliss, locked in a fevered embrace.

Against
his better judgment, Duncan shot another glance at his new lady. Faith and
hypocrisy, it didn't help his mood any to know how close he'd come to doing
just that.

How
much he'd
wanted
to.

On
his life, only his iron resolve had kept him from making Linnet truly his.

He
shook his head, heedless of the pain the slight motion caused him. Sir
Marmaduke's uncanny knack for knowing his innermost thoughts was positively
frightening at times.

Annoying
in the extreme.

He
must have words with him.

Stern
words.

Eager
to challenge the Sassunach he loved like a brother, truth be told, Duncan
cautiously retrieved, then donned his plaid. As quietly as he could, he
snatched up his weapons and hastened from the chamber.

It
wasn't till he'd bounded halfway down the stairs that he realized he'd used his
bride's given name.

Linnet
awoke to a bright morn, much relieved to find herself alone in her bed. The
saints must've smiled upon her, for she doubted she'd been able to face her
husband so soon after the queersome happenings of the night.

Later,
aye.

After
she'd had time to compose herself.

But
not yet.

‘Twas
a relief, too, to see the door stood open a crack and some goodly soul
had unlocked the strongbox containing her new clothes so she'd be able to
dress. Even her
arisaid
had been returned, its soft woolen length
carefully folded and draped over a chair.

With
great haste spurred by the chill morning air, Linnet made use of a ewer of
scented water to bathe, hurriedly pulled on the first gown she withdrew
from the chest, and slipped from the chamber.

Yet even properly dressed, she shivered as she hurried
down the spiral stairs. Although no longer murky and dim, the curving stairwell
was clammy and damp, heavily permeated with wet sea smells from the night's
storm.

Indeed,
she feared it would take more than a new day's sun to banish the
blackness lying so heavily over Eilean Creag.

And
neither woolen blankets nor a blazing hearth fire would e'er ease
its cold.

Not
so long as its master carried darkness in his heart.

Lifting
her chin, Linnet hastened down the remaining stone steps. If only for Robbie's
sake alone, she meant to bring light and warmth to this grim island fortress.

‘Twas
a feat she meant to accomplish, no matter the cost.

But her determination faltered when she neared the
hall and she saw what looked very much like her undertunic being brandished
about like a trophy of war.

Even
the servants, painstakingly collecting refuse from the floor or sweeping ashes
from the hearths, were all atwitter, boasting along with her husband's clansmen
about the blood-smeared state of her undergown!

Lingering
in the shadows of the hall's arched entry, she peered hard at the displayed
garment. It was indeed hers. The very one Elspeth had fair wrested off her the
night before.

Linnet
pressed her hand against her breast while her heart hammered with
embarrassment. But confusion warred with logic: the garment
couldn't
have
been bloodied.

It
wasn't her woman's time and Duncan MacKenzie had been asleep long before
Elspeth had left the chamber with Linnet's clothes.

Someone
had to have purposely stained the tunic after it had been taken from her room.

Would
Elspeth do such a thing?

And
if so ... why?

Or
had she merely imagined Elspeth had near forced her to remove the undergarment,
then departed with it? Sometimes, with the onset of her spells, her mind went
fuzzy. Afterward, too. There were times she'd lost hours because of the toll
her visions exacted from her.

And
she
had
been visited by a most powerful one yestereve, that she couldn't
deny.

She
blew out a shaky breath. Truth was, she could well have confused the events of
her wedding night.

But
even if Elspeth hadn't taken the tunic, it couldn't be stained with her
maidensblood. To her best recall, her husband had slept most of the night.
First on the other side of his improvised tapestry barrier, then in a chair by
the hearth.

‘Twas
true her vision had disrupted his slumber, and he'd confronted her but hadn't
laid a hand on her.

Or
had he?

A
hazy
recollection of him naked and aroused played through her mind. Vaguely, she
remembered watching his manhood swell, the whole of it growing thicker and
longer beneath her gaze, but the titillating image was too elusive to grasp.

As
if the devil himself meant to taunt her, she couldn't remember aught else.

Not
for sure.

Could
her husband have ravished her during her vision? Or after? When her mind had
still been too fogged for her to take proper heed of what might have happened
between them? The image on the bed
had
reached for her, demanded she
'return his heart.' Had Duncan MacKenzie taken in the flesh that which his
vision-likeness couldn't claim?

Was
it possible to be bedded by a man and not have any recollection of the act?

A
shudder passed from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. She didn't
know the answer but knew who would. Determined, she took several deep breaths
to calm her still-racing pulse, then pushed away from the wall. Drawing back
her shoulders, she entered the hall with as much grace as she could muster.

Thomas,
a strapping lad who couldn't speak, spotted her first. The youth blushed to the
roots of his unkempt hair and nodded to her as she passed.