When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (6 page)

A deep groan rose in his throat as he leaned in to her body. Soft flesh met his hard grind, and it was enough to send his blood searing through his veins in a glorious burn of desire. After all the hours she’d spent in his arms on the long journey to Dunstoras, there was a sense of familiarity—of rightness—that came over him as he gathered her close.

She responded by tipping her head to accept his kisses.

And as swiftly as that, all resentment toward her died. What her brother had done to him was not Isabail’s doing. She might be a tad arrogant and finer than an Englishwoman in her linen smallclothes, but she was also intelligent, persevering, and loyal. Despite all the challenges he’d
thrown her way, she’d proven herself a stalwart champion of her maid, her brother, and even herself. She was incredible.

He deepened the kiss, burying his fingers in the silken strands of her blond hair and taking all that she had to offer.

For the moment, the lady was his.

H
is kisses were neither sweet nor gentle. They were a fierce attack on Isabail’s senses. Every press of his body against hers sent a thousand tiny tremors racing through her. The fear she’d felt only moments ago was gone—banished by the knowledge that he would stop if she but commanded. In its place lay excitement. And anticipation. And delightful ripples of pleasure.

His hands, which she had once envisioned as brutal, began to wander the curves of her body with the experience of a man born to sin. Kneading, mapping, caressing. Her mind was not so easily won as her body, and for a moment, two images of him warred within her thoughts—one, the dark warrior who had attacked her caravan, brimming with wrath and vengeance; the other, the purposeful leader, warming her toes against his bared chest and greeting his kin with subdued but obvious joy.

Which was the real MacCurran?

She let her eyes drift shut, and immediately one image triumphed over the other.

A shiver of delight ripped through her body as his hand found her breast and squeezed. At this moment she wasn’t sure it mattered. Her body craved his touch, wanton traitor that it was. Four years of loneliness. Four years without a husband to warm her bed. Until this moment, she had not seen those years as hardship—but now she ached for an intimate touch.
His
intimate touch.

Isabail’s hands, one of which had been clutching the blanket around her shoulders, suddenly found themselves roaming the steely expanse of his chest. The blanket slid to the floor at their feet, leaving only the thin barrier of her chemise between his hands and her skin—and even that felt like too much. The fine linen rasped against her eager flesh.

His hands stilled for a moment.

Isabail shuddered under the loss of sweet friction, torn between the urge to recover the blanket and her modesty, or to press herself wantonly against his hands in an effort to recapture the heavenly sensations of moments before.

He took the decision away from her.

A low growl escaped his lips.

Cupping both hands beneath her buttocks, he lifted her up his body, slammed her against the stone wall, and stole her breath away.

Despite the roughness of his actions, there was no fear in Isabail’s heart. There was too much restraint and too little brutality in his assault. Aye, it
was fierce—but there was also the barest suggestion of a tremble in his arms. The tremble of a muscle primed with raw need but couched by reason.

MacCurran was doing his best to be gentle.

As gentle as a large, sensual marauder could be.

His lips crushed hers, his tongue demanding entry to her mouth. Aware that it was as much a symbolic gesture as one born of need, Isabail gave in to the heated promise and opened herself to him.

Their tongues tangled in a sensual duel.

“Oh!” Muirne’s voice came from the door.

MacCurran broke off the kiss and gently lowered her to the floor. Both of them were breathing hard, their eyes now open. The reality of Isabail’s surroundings slowly sank in.

“Shall I return in a wee moment, my lady?” Muirne asked carefully.

MacCurran’s arms dropped. He stepped back, scooped up her blanket, and handed it to her, all the while keeping her shielded from Muirne’s view. The look in his eyes was unreadable. Was he as disappointed as she? Or relieved by the interruption?

“Nay.” Isabail wrapped the blanket about her shoulders, her cheeks flushed. “Were you able to get the stains from my gown?”

“Not all.” Muirne laid the wet dress on the bed and smoothed out the worst of the wrinkles. “But most.”

Isabail knew she would face Muirne’s curious
questions later, but she was grateful that for the moment her maid ignored the scene she had just witnessed.

MacCurran cupped Isabail’s chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “Take up needlecraft or something equally innocuous. Cease your interference in my affairs.”

Then he dropped his hand and departed.

* * *

Aiden was ten feet beyond Isabail’s door before he realized that he’d completely forgotten his reason for visiting her in the first place—the names of her guests. He tipped his head to the moon visible beneath a thin layer of cloud and released a frustrated howl. By the Holy Maker, the woman drove him completely senseless.

Another day had passed—a day he could ill afford to lose. His inability to put name to the man in black was a risk to his clan—if MacPherson discovered the hill fort, all his efforts to recoup his good name would be for naught. His kin would be rounded up and tossed in Dunstoras’s very cramped dungeons. Men, women, and children. MacPherson had shown no leniency thus far, so it would be foolish to hope for any. Only the tunnels below the ancient ruin would save them if the wretch found his way up the rocky slope to the broch. Aiden’s people kept minimal belongings on the surface to ensure they could quickly hide—but even that last resort was dependent on the ability of the Black Warriors to give them notice.

Aiden descended the narrow stairs to the tunnels and made his way to the storeroom.

Behind a short stack of flour sacks was a very old but still useable winch. Verifying that it had already been wound and locked open, he left the storeroom and traveled deeper into the tunnel. Some twenty paces past the storeroom, he reached a dead end—a flat wall of rock decorated with a half dozen Pictish symbols similar to those carved on the stones scattered all over northern Scotland. Aiden placed the flat of his hand on the symbol of a boar with bristles along its back and pushed . . . hard.

The stone mechanism was an amazing feat—a huge granite slab that pivoted on a small round rock at the base. It required only a determined push to move it. It hadn’t always been so easy to move—a hundred years of wear and tear on the pivot had once made it nearly impossible to open. Aiden’s father had tasked an elderly but talented stonemason with repairing the door a number of years ago.

The slab slid sideways, creating a gap wide enough for a single man to pass through. Aiden entered the narrow chasm and then carefully pivoted the slab back into place. Familiar with the dark confines, he stood for a moment and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness. An enticing light flickered beyond a curve in the passageway ahead, but he knew better than to rush forward. His second step was a large, exaggerated pace, calculated
to avoid the stone tile inset in the floor—a trap intended for an unsuspecting thief.

Around the curve, he found a small room lit by a single torch. The room had only one major feature—a great basalt tomb built upon a raised dais. His brother, Niall, stood before the tomb, staring into the silk-lined display box that fronted it, with his head bowed.

“Sometimes I wonder if doing our duty is the best thing for Scotland,” Niall said softly.

Aiden understood the sentiment, but disagreed with it. “King Alexander has his own history. He has no need to wear the crown of the last king of the Picts to make his claim on the throne of Scotland.”

“But should these not be part of the royal jewels?” Niall said, pointing to the items in the display. “They were hidden away when our history was turbulent, when it was less clear who the true king of Scotland should be. But King Alexander is a strong monarch, and the threat of an English king claiming the land has faded.”

Aiden joined Niall in front of the tomb.

The long silk-lined rectangular box served as a bed for a double-edged, silver-hilted broadsword, a tall willow staff topped with a silver boar head, and a simple crown crafted from a flat band of silver and set with a brilliant blue sapphire.

“There are always men who would make false claim to the throne had they the means within their grasp,” Aiden said. “We’ve sworn an oath to protect this treasure, so protect it we shall. Do you have the necklace?”

Niall handed Aiden a velvet drawstring bag.

Aiden opened it and peered inside. A glint of gold and red winked back at him, and unbidden, the burn of anger seared his veins. This necklace had cost him everything. Such a small thing to carry such power over his existence . . . and the future of his clan. How could the king—whom his father had served with unlimited loyalty and devotion—believe he would throw everything away simply to acquire a jewel?

“We’ll hold this wretched thing until we have our proof, then return it to the king.” He lifted the purple silk at one end of the display box and dropped the bag into a shallow hole that had once held a banner pole. “I can only pray that Grant’s sister gives me the information I seek.”

“Still no luck?”

Aiden shook his head.

“There must be something you can do to encourage her.”

A sharp memory of kissing her in her chamber popped into Aiden’s mind. It still amazed him that she’d permitted such liberties. “My best option is to seduce the information from her lips.”

“What?”

Aiden met his brother’s gaze. “She’s a widow. She’s already known a man. I’ll not be despoiling her.”

“She’s also a
noblewoman
. Cousin to the bloody earl of Lochurkie.”

Aiden shrugged. “The earl already believes me guilty of murder and treachery. Let him add one
more sin to the list. The only time she isn’t cowering in fear of me is when I’m kissing her.”

“You’ve already kissed her?”

Aiden ignored the thunderous expression on Niall’s face. “This isn’t a case of ransom. I do not need to return her in the same state I found her. I just need those names.”

Niall was silent for a moment, his lips tight. “You are a better man than this.”

Aiden frowned. “You dare to judge me? You, the man who coerced a woman into helping him enter Duthes Castle and steal a ruby necklace from a baron?”

“I never forced myself upon the lass.”

Aiden grabbed the torch from its bracket and made his way back to the granite slab entrance. “I do what I must to protect my clan.”

Niall put a hand on his shoulder, halting his progress. “Just be careful. We’ve lost everything but our honor. Do not sacrifice that in your attempt to regain what’s gone. It’s not worth it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

* * *

Having gone without supper on the MacCurran’s instructions, Isabail’s belly growled repeatedly over the course of the evening. Hungry and at a loss for something to do, she decided to seek an early sleep. She and Muirne had just settled themselves on the lumpy straw mattress and shut their eyes when Beathag entered the room with a torch.

“You’re to come with me,” the MacCurran woman said.

As Muirne rolled off the pallet and stood, Beathag shook her head. “Not you; just the lady.”

Isabail pushed to her feet. “And where are we going?”

“The chief has given you quarters more suited to your station,” Beathag said, studying the floor with odd intensity.

“Then surely my maid should accompany me.”

“Nay. Now, come along.”

Muirne opened her mouth to argue, but Isabail waved her hand. “Rest your ankle. I’m sure all will be well. Seek me out in the morning.”

Still unhappy, Muirne nodded. “If you insist.”

Isabail followed Beathag across the inner close, stars winking at her from the indigo sky above. The clouds had drifted away, leaving a crisp, cold night. Beathag stopped before a roundhouse hung with a wooden door instead of the standard fur pelts. A very simple door with no fancy pulls or hinges. She knocked.

“Come.”

Isabail’s heart stumbled. The voice that beckoned her inside belonged to MacCurran. She took a step back. “Why am I here?”

Beathag shrugged. “The chief demanded your presence.” She pushed the door open. “Ask your questions of him.”

Light poured out of the roundhouse, bathing Isabail’s cold feet in a golden glow. Given the kiss they had recently shared, she was not at all certain she wanted to be alone with the MacCurran. He had a rather taxing effect on her willpower. But
more than light reached her from the chief’s room. Her stomach growled at the savory scents of venison broth and fresh bread.

He had refused her supper . . . but perhaps he’d changed his mind?

“In,” Beathag prodded.

Still uncertain, Isabail caught Beathag’s eyes and arched a questioning brow. The other woman’s initial request had been for her to sleep elsewhere for the night. Surely she didn’t mean here.

Beathag returned her stare for a moment, then looked away. “Ask your questions of the chief,” she repeated. Then she gave Isabail a light push.

Despite the prompting, Isabail was seriously contemplating running back to Muirne. Even the promise of a warm meal was not enough to coax her into MacCurran’s chamber. But the man himself stole her choice away. He appeared at the door, latched a big hand onto her arm, and dragged her into the room.

Then he shut the door with a decisive snap.

Isabail’s mouth went dry.

His size never failed to make her heart pound. He towered over her, his broad shoulders blocking her view of everything. Everything, that is, except the tawny skin visible at the neck of his tunic and the barest suggestion of hair.

“This is an inappropriate time to seek an audience,” she said weakly.

“You think a man willing to kidnap you concerns himself with what others think appropriate?” His hold on her arm gentled, his thumb brushing
over her chemise-clad skin in a manner that set all of Isabail’s senses atingle.

It was a dangerous feeling—because rather than pulling away, Isabail swayed on her feet, tempted to lean in to his touch. “I must return to my chamber. Whatever you wished to discuss can wait until morning.”

“No.”

She swallowed thickly. “I will not stay.”

“Aye, you will.” He tugged her sharply, and she fell against his chest. That solid, divinely warm chest that blotted out the room. “You will because I say you will.”

Isabail’s head swam, intoxicated by the masculine scent of his skin and the feel of his ropy muscles beneath her hands. It seemed impossible that such a frightening wall of man could spark desire within her—but the proof was in her heartbeat and her unsteady breath. True, she had admired his handsomeness when she’d first spotted him in the orchard at Lochurkie several days ago—had even asked the captain of her guard, the unfortunate Sir Robert, if he was acquainted with him. But that was before he attacked her carriage—and before she’d stood next to him. The only man she’d ever met of a similar stature had been her father. Andrew, her late husband, had been a mere four inches taller than she.