Highlander in Her Bed (22 page)

And without thunder and lightning bolts. The offensive reek of sulfur.

Far from it, every need and wish a man could have was met on the Isle of Barra—and so often as desired.

There were reasons Hardwick spent so much time there.

And now Alex would visit Bran MacNeil as well. His decision made, he smiled. Even the hot throbbing in his loins no longer troubled him. Soon he would slake that fire, make himself whole again.

As whole as a ghost could be, he amended, his excitement mounting.

Eager to be on his way, he folded his arms across his chest and concentrated on garbing himself suitably for a visit to the wild isleman's notorious keep. As if by a wizard's hand, his finest Highland raiments replaced the simple hose and tunic he favored. Satisfied, he carefully adjusted the voluminous great plaid and gleaming mail he wore beneath, then went great-strided to where the billowy gray mists appeared less dense.

A slow smile curving his lips, he whipped out his sword with a flourish and brandished it in a wind-milling motion, slicing at the shifting curtains of fog until he'd cleared a gap large enough to peer through.

Sheathing his blade, he waited as the mists around the opening drew back even more and the formidable square keep and curtained walls of Bran MacNeil's isle-girt holding came into view.

Bran's banner flew from the highest tower, its bold colors whipping proudly in the wind. Not that Alex had expected the randy Hebridean chieftain to be elsewhere. Scores of galleys lay at anchor in the little bay that surrounded the formidable castle rock, their tall masts, slanting spars, and upthrusting prows piercing the sea mist and indicating that Hardwick was far from Bran's only guest.

Indeed, a closer look showed swarms of fierce-miened, plaid-wrapped islesmen moving about the bailey, each one a-glitter with flashy Celtic jewelry, a well-made, sultry-eyed woman of ease clinging to each arm. The bushy-bearded Hebrideans were also hung about with more steel than Alex had seen in centuries, but he knew, at Bran of Barra's, such displays were only for show.

Drink, women, and carousing were the reasons men flocked to Bran's keep.

As always, the hall door stood wide, the milling throng already jostling for entry. Many of the revelers were scantily clad women, each one procured for the pleasure of Bran's guests. Skirling female laughter and bawdy song filled the hall's smoky, torch-lit depths, where visitors celebrated a raucous feast already well in progress.

A feast some might call an orgy.

Alex snorted. He'd say
many orgies
.

Debauchery at its finest.

And exactly what he needed. So he squelched any remaining doubts about participating in such depravity, closed his eyes, and willed himself to manifest in Bran's bailey.

At once, the mists rushed him, the impact almost squeezing the breath from his lungs as the air contracted and spun around him. A whirling vortex spiraling him ever downward until the din of Bran's hall was no longer faint but a deafening cacophony.

Alex squeezed his eyes tighter, clenching his fists and concentrating.

Then he was there, solid ground beneath his feet, his ears immediately assailed by the lusty cries of several women deep in the throes of ecstasy.

"O-o-oh, aye," he breathed, smiling as his loins clenched in appreciation, his shaft swelling and lengthening even before he opened his eyes.

He wasted no time, striding right into the fray, his eyes peeled for a pleasing wench. Preferably half-naked, big-breasted and with fine plump thighs ready to spread wide.

A lusty bawd, well versed in every manner of lasciviousness.

Above all, skilled enough to wipe Mara MacDougall from his mind.

Once and for all time.

Chapter 10

A rank stench hit Alex full force the moment he materialized in the middle of Bran of Barra's bailey. Drying seaweed and dead fish, fresh and steaming animal dung, and the unmistakable ripeness of too many hairy, unwashed bodies—the smells assailed him from all sides, taking his breath and instantly deflating his reason for being there.

He stood frozen, trying not to inhale.

Saints alive, even his eyes stung.

He blinked and started toward the keep, taking great care where he stepped.

How could he have forgotten the foulness of the early fifteenth century? Or, were he honest, his own as well? A good hundred years before Bran's time, his world had reeked just as powerfully. Truth be told, some baileys in his day had smelled far worse than Bran's.

Besides, he hadn't come here to be kind to his nose!

His purpose was to tend certain other matters—as a sudden burst of high-pitched female laughter reminded him. Glancing round, he spied the source, a cluster of stout young serving wenches filling water jugs at the castle well.

One had an exceptionally comely bosom, its creamy fullness spilling from her low-cut bodice. Whether deliberate or not, the top crests of her nipples could be plainly seen. Better yet, the crinkly pink flesh puckered even more under his appreciative perusal.

"Lasses," he greeted them, glad he'd dressed in his finest Highland trappings.

"
Sir
," they purred in unison, their hot eyes and bold stares definitely affecting him.

"We have more in need of filling than these ewers," the large-bosomed lass cooed, eyeing him suggestively as she raised her jug in his direction. "Mayhap you'd care to be of service to us?"

Alex flashed her a grin, the bailey's stench no longer half so bothersome. "Perhaps later, sweetness. Just now I'm for speaking to your laird and a friend, Sir Hardwin de Studley."

"Bran's feasting in the hall," another of the wenches supplied, "and Hardwick's
in
… well, you'll see when you find him!"

"To be sure," Alex agreed, not missing her meaning.

Nor the pleasing heat her bold words sent spilling into his loins. Already, he was stirring again. Not with the raging granitelike hardness that had driven him here, but with a nice tingling heaviness that was making his shaft twitch in a most enjoyable manner.

He sighed deeply. Aye, most enjoyable.

There was much to be said for a semiaroused state. Prolonged pleasure led to the most satisfying releases. And a shaft only somewhat hardened and still swinging free between a man's legs could prove a delicious torment.

Especially if that man happened to be wearing a great plaid with naught but his saffron shirt and Highland pride beneath.

Savoring that bliss now, Alex let his gaze rest on the first maid's welling bosom. In particular, upon the pink crescents of her almost fully displayed nipples.

"Aye, Hardwick will be deeply into whate'er he's found to please him," he said, the suggestiveness of his own words making his shaft stiffen a bit more. "Mayhap after I've seen him, I'll come back to you? Perhaps help fill your…
ewer
?"

"Just ask for Maili if you canna find me," the lass purred, letting her gaze roam over him. "I am e'er in need of your kind of assistance."

Then, clearly wishing to heighten her appeal, she set down her water jug and lifted her hands to her unbound hair, the movement causing the hardened peaks of her nipples to pop into view. Large nipples, beautifully taut, and thrusting right at him, begging attention.

Alex groaned. His tarse swelled and stretched even more. "Lass, you take my breath away," he said, and took a step toward her, his wish to announce himself to Bran before he partook of the Islesman's
hospitality
fast losing consequence.

As he neared the maid, the sun slipped out of the clouds, its slanting light falling across her magnificent breasts, shining on her hair. A glorious mane vaguely the same color as Mara MacDougall's.

Curling tresses tumbling freely over her shoulders in a wild cascade of gleaming bronze, each bright strand suddenly seeming to glare accusingly at him.

Alex stopped short, his
need
receding again.

He stifled a frown. Nothing was going as he'd planned.

Clearly misinterpreting his hesitation, the lass began fumbling with the laces of her bodice, untying them until the material gaped wide and her large breasts sprang free. "Look well on what will be waiting for you," she called, plumping them. "And remember my name is Maili. Dinna you let Lord Bran offer you another!"

Then she smiled—a crooked, yellow-toothed smile.

Alex's own smile froze, the lingering heat in his groin chilling.

He swallowed, forcing himself to give the lass a friendly nod and a wink. Feeling guilty, he plucked a clutch of wild flowers out of the air, offering them to her with all the knightly aplomb he could muster.

"You would be any man's undoing," he said, knowing she'd understand the words in a way that would please her.

Then he turned away and strode off in the direction of the keep, hoping his revulsion didn't show on his face. Saints, he suspected he'd even seen lice crawling in her hair! How could he have thought, even for a moment, that the lass at the well resembled
her
?

His stomach turned upside down that he'd even considered the possibility. Frowning, he quickened his pace, skirting a huge pile of black-glistening winkle shells, empty and stinking, only to trip over a length of crumpled and twisted plaid.

MacDougall
plaid, and with the lady herself draped across it!

"A God's name!" Alex's heart slammed against his ribs. He stared down at her, his eyes seeing her, his mind screaming that he couldn't be.

Unless she was dream walking—sleeping soundly in her bed and dreaming so deeply that the power of her slumbering thoughts allowed them to materialize.

Which meant she was dreaming of him.

He swallowed, his heart thundering so loudly, he could scarce hear himself think. Nor could he move. Not with her sprawled beneath him again.

Only this time she was nearly naked, wearing only that wee bit of see-through black lace. Even worse, she was lying on her back.

Lying on her back and staring up at him, her gaze riveted on that dangling part of him that the folds of his great plaid did nothing whatsoever to hide.

"Sweet lass, if you keep looking up at me that way, I willna be responsible for what I do," he warned, knowing
she couldn't hear him
.

But taunt him she could, dream-spun illusion or no. She writhed on the plaid and made soft little mewling noises, her every sinuous move giving him brief, tantalizing glimpses of her charms. The rise and fall of her passion-flushed breasts, a quick flash of nipple. Then, saints help him, thanks to a lift of her hips, the dark triangle of her feminine curls, a maddening temptation almost too sweet to look upon.

He did, though, and his entire body tightened in fierce, urgent need. She shifted her legs, her body arcing, showing him even more. The narrow strip of black lace covering her hid nothing. Flimsy and sheer, it only revealed her darkest secrets and the dampness gathered there, let the rich musk of her arousal drift up to intoxicate him.

"
Mara
." He looked down at her, his heart falling wide on the sweetness of her name. His control shattered, the whole, hard length of him screaming for release. "I must have you—now, this moment," he vowed, almost exploding when she reached for him, curled her fingers around his hot, aching shaft and began stroking.