Devil in a Kilt (20 page)

Too
well.

Enough
to make him burn to drop to his knees before her and press a thousand kisses
against their lush softness
and
the fragrant sweetmeat hidden beneath!

Hellfire
and damnation! Duncan roared the silent curse, letting it swell and expand in
his mind until every last vestige of beckoning bronze nether curls was vanquished.

'Listen
to his heart' Marmaduke had advised. Ha! Only one malediction plagued him at
present and it had naught to do with his heart. Hoping Marmaduke's all-seeing
eye for once didn't see
everything,
Duncan adjusted a fold of his great
plaid to hang a bit more conveniently.

His
lustful cravings thus disguised, another image flashed across Duncan's mind,
and this one was even more alarming because it had the power to stir more than
his physical arousal.

‘Twas
the fleeting look of adoration and desire he'd glimpsed in her gold-flecked
eyes earlier on, when her expression had gone all soft and she'd looked as if
she ached for him to kiss her.

By
Saint Peter's holy tomb, if he heeded Marmaduke's sentimental advice, he
wouldn't care if an entire garrison of men-at-arms took possession of his
bedchamber. They could have it, and all his holdings, if only he could inspire
his lady wife to gaze upon him thusly—and genuinely mean it.

But,
alas, ‘twas well he knew it had merely been a woman's weakness for a battle-weary
warrior that had made her momentarily forget her dislike of him and naught
more.

He
also knew his own masculine pride had made him believe, for a brief moment,
that she would shower him with such attention, would welcome his devotion and
love in turn.

Thankfully,
he'd caught himself in time, remembered loving a woman was a dangerous
endeavor fraught with more peril than a lusty dip betwixt their thighs was
worth.

Nay,
he'd let Sir Marmaduke woo the women if he was wont to do so.
He
wouldn't
be persuaded—or seduced—into forgetting himself again.

Scowling
once more, Duncan snatched one of the bedcovers and tossed it over his arm.
"Dinna attempt to advise me on matters of the heart, English. ‘Tis a wise
man who doesna wear his feelings on his sleeve. I'm athinking you've buried
your nose in too many French romances and spent too many nights listening to
lovesick bards croon their insipid ballads to all who'll toss them a
coin."

Duncan
jerked his head toward his squire who, amazingly, slept soundly on his pallet
before the fire. "Save your romanticism for young lads like Lachlan, but
spare me such nonsense. ‘Tis a grown man I am, and I know from experience what
comes on the heels of losing one's heart."

"You
know naught, my friend," Marmaduke said, sadly shaking his head. "A
man
gives
his heart, and gladly. Never does he lose it, for in the
giving, he gains a wealth of love in return. But, you are right, ‘tis a grown
man you are, and one too weary, and accustomed to his comfort, to stalk into
the night with naught but a thin length of wool to warm your bones. If you will
not seek the Lady Linnet's bed, take your own. I can join Lachlan on the
floor."

Duncan
hesitated, tempted to accept Marmaduke's capitulation, but the memory of his
friend's shoulders sagging as he'd gazed at the painted image above the hearth
soured Duncan's small victory.

He
shot a glance at the perfection of his dead wife's face, and his gut twisted
with revulsion. Mayhap the likeness had served its purpose as far as he was
concerned and would now better serve Marmaduke. He didn't need to stare at the
infernal painting to be reminded of Cassandra's perfidy.

Indeed,
had Marmaduke not expressed a desire to keep the whoring beauty's accursed
likeness, he'd wrest it from the wall this moment and cast it out the window,
letting it sink into the cold, dark waters of the loch.

Naught
would please him more than to know Cassandra's likeness rested in the muck at
the bottom of Loch Duich. Preferably facedown so her loveliness would be
forever ground into the mud.

‘Twould
be a fitting revenge for the way she'd stomped his heart and soul into the
dirt.

Duncan
didn't acknowledge Marmaduke's offer until he reached the door. Turning, he
gave his friend a tired smile. "Nay, you keep the bed and the chamber—
though I still deny granting them to you."

An
expression very much like guilt washed over Marmaduke's face, but it was hard
to tell given the sad extent of his disformity. He opened his mouth to speak,
but Duncan stayed him by raising his hand.

"Dinna
say it. The saints alone know what you and the others conspire to achieve with
your intrusions into my affairs, but I do not believe your motives are corrupt."
He paused to open the door. "I think your intentions are well-meant and
good, albeit misguided."

"Hold
a moment, wait," Marmaduke protested, coming forward. "For the
love—"

For
the love.
The three words propelled Duncan through the door and
made him shut it tight behind him. He didn't want to hear whatever Marmaduke
had wanted to say. And he especially didn't want to discuss love.

Not
love of the saints or angels, not love of any kind, and definitely not love of
a man for his wife.

Nor
of a man for his son.

A
muscle in his jaw twitched at
that
thought, and he increased his pace
down the shadowy passageway. He wanted naught to do with love of any kind and
felt a pressing need to put a great distance between himself and his too-wise
Sassunach friend.

The
one-eyed Englishman had the uncanny knack of making him feel as if he could see
into his very soul at times. Faith, he should have married Marmaduke to discover
Robbie's true parentage! His new wife's failure to satisfy him in that regard
deepened the scowl he already wore.

At
the end of the corridor, just before the stairwell that led down to the hall,
Duncan stopped to lean against the cold and damp stone wall. His jaw twitched
and jerked almost uncontrollably, and frustration made him grind his teeth
together so brutally, he wouldn't have been surprised if he chipped one of
them.

He
shivered, too, for before he'd found Marmaduke in his bed, he'd doused himself
with chilled water in an attempt to wash the blood and grime from his aching
body.

And
he smelled, for the unsettling discovery had put a premature halt to his
much-needed ablutions.

Above
all, he was absolutely miserable. Even more than he'd been when he'd left the
battlements and headed for his chamber, desiring naught but to rest his weary
bones.

Uttering
a dark oath, he pushed himself away from the wall. With heavy steps, and a
heavier heart, he began the winding descent to the hall. He'd spend the
remainder of the night sleeping on a bench or make do with the rushes as did
most of his men. But halfway down the stairs, he halted.

The
perverse irony of his situation would have made him laugh in younger years ...
back when he'd still possessed a hearty sense of humor.

He
had
sought the hand of Linnet MacDonnell.
He
had brought her to Kintail in
the hopes she'd rid him of his doubts and prove herself a useful, if not
cherished, wife.

Instead,
she'd turned his world upside down, and utter chaos had ruled his household
from the moment she first passed through the castle gates. He was laird, yet
he
alone crept through the night-darkened keep, chilled to the bone and
reeking to the heavens, without a bed to claim his own.

She
slept
in one of the castle's finest chambers, the one that had belonged to his
parents, and their parents before them.
She
was likely lost in a dream
world of valiant knights, gracious ladies, and cherubic babes, while
he
skulked
about like an outcast in his own home.

The
injustice of it made his hands clench, while his lips formed a thin, tight
line.

From
below, the faint sounds of his men's snores carried up the circular stairwell,
along with the scurrying sounds of his hounds foraging for scraps of food
amongst the rushes. Fainter still, the crackling of the fires in the hall's
three great hearths and the ever-present sound of Loch Duich's waves, gentled
by the late hour, lapping against the castle walls.

An
ordinary night for all who called Eilean Creag home.

All
save its liege laird and master.

Duncan
flexed his fingers a few times, then balled them into tight fists once more. He
needed the slight pain of his nails digging into his palms, welcomed it, lest
he pound his hands to pulp against the wall.

Everyone
but himself had peace this night. Marmaduke rested well in Duncan's...
former
...
chamber, his men slumbered as always below, and old Fergus no doubt enjoyed the
luxury of finally having a bed to call his own in Marmaduke's relinquished
quarters.

He
didn't know where his wife's protective lady servant slept, but she, too, had
assuredly found more calm than he.

Feeling
much the fool, and angrier still, Duncan took two steps downward, then stopped.
He'd be a bigger dolt if he spent the night in the hall. Come the morn, his
men would make jests, speculate amongst themselves his reasons for abandoning
the warmth of his bride's bed.

Duncan
winced at the ramifications. Giving his men fodder for gossip would only
increase his misery. Without taking time to consider the consequences, Duncan
turned and headed back up the stairs.

‘Twas
true, his lady wife's chamber was on the opposite side of the keep, attainable
only by crossing the hall and climbing yet another set of spiral stairs, but he
was laird of this island stronghold and as such he knew its every stone ... and
secret.

Such
as the narrow passage cut within the castle walls.

An
escape route connecting a few of the castle's rooms before winding downward to
a hidden cave on the island's rocky shore.

A
slight tugging pulled at the corners of his mouth in what could've been the
beginnings of a smile—if he were wont to smile, which he wasn't. But it pleased
him greatly to have decided to take matters into his own hands.

He
was, after all, laird.

It
was beneath his dignity to scramble about in the middle of the night, seeking a
place to lay his head.

Nay,
he'd exercise his rights as the present MacKenzie of Kintail and reclaim the
chamber his father and all the clan chiefs before him had used as their own.

Including
the bed.

"My
faith, but you startled me!" Sitting bolt upright in her bed, his bride
clutched the covers to her breasts and stared at him, round-eyed and aghast as
if he'd risen up from the floor like a wraith or other such unwelcome creature
of the night. "I must not have heard your return."

Nay,
you wouldn't have for I did not arrive through the chamber door!

The
unspoken quip and the exhilaration of sneaking into her chamber through the
secret wall passage, something he hadn't done in years, brought a wolfish
smile to Duncan's lips.

‘Twas
the first genuine smile he'd allowed himself in the devil knew how many years,
and the feel of it was unexpectedly good.

His
wife tilted her head to the side as if she meant to take full measure of such
an odd phenomenon as the great MacKenzie of Kintail grinning. "Then why
did you?" she asked finally. "Return, I mean."

"Of
a certainty, not to joust words with you, my lady."

"Am
I needed below?" She peered sharply at him. "Has something befallen
Robbie? Or one of the Murchison survivors?"

Aye,
you are needed, lass. By me.

The
heart he didn't possess and Marmaduke would have him listen to, spoke.

Duncan
ignored it.

"The
boy is well and the Murchison party sleeps soundly, or so I've been
informed," he answered as laird, and continued to work the shoulder clasp
that held his plaid in place. He also continued to enjoy the view.

The
thin woolen coverlet his wife grasped so tightly did more to pleasingly frame
the fullness of her breasts, emphasize their lushness, than to hide them, as
was surely her intent.

"What
are you doing?" Apprehension stained her cheeks with a flattering wash of
color.

"Be
it not obvious?" The devilish smile almost returned, but this time he
resisted.

"You
appear to be readying yourself for bed, milord."

"Duncan."

"You
appear to be readying yourself for bed, Duncan, sir," she corrected, her
voice soft yet piercing the wall around his heart as expertly as if her words
were carried on the sharpest and most swift of arrows.

"And
so I am," he confirmed, more serious now, the rare moment of unanticipated
frivolity past, replaced by a sharpening of his senses caused by the fetching
way moonlight gilded the silken skein of her unbound hair. "I dinna
usually sleep fully clothed."