Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides) (3 page)

Snapping from her trance, Shona clapped her attention to the front of her shirt. Wet as a sponge, it clung to her like a peel on an apple. Her nipples stood out in sharp relief, even showing their darker hue through the fabric.

"Heaven's wrath!" she hissed, and slapped her arms across her torso.

From the rocky shore the intruder grinned crookedly. Even through her mess of hair, she could see that his teeth were ungodly white against his dark skin. "You'd best come out and check for eel,"

he said. He spoke the Gaelic, but a kind of lilting old world dialect. "They can be decidedly unappreciative of a thing of beauty, but have a taste for tender flesh."

Shona searched wildly for an appropriate response, then finally scraped the hair out of her eyes a scant inch and sputtered, "Who are ye?" The tone was much higher pitched than she would have liked, but the cold had settled into her bones. And if the truth be told, despite her...well, fairly extensive mishaps of the past, she wasn't accustomed to being caught in the middle of a frigid burn dressed in nothing but a man's saturated tunic and the meager shreds of her own tattered pride.

"They call me Dugald."

Dark Stranger, she translated roughly then cleared a bit more hair from her eyes, hoping against hope that this Dugald was merely some traveler she would never have to face again.

To judge by his clothing and his accent, he was not a Highlander, for he did not wear the traditional plaid. Instead he was dressed in snug black hose and a slashed and puffed doublet that was undoubtedly padded at the shoulders. The costume had a decidedly Italian appearance. A
rich
Italian appearance. And he wore it like a prince, with his hair perfectly groomed and arrogance seeping out of every pore. Still, that didn't necessarily mean he was anyone important. Once she had met a man dressed like a jester. He'd turned out to be the duke of Argyll and hadn't been amused by her assumption.

"Just...Dugald?" she asked, hoping against hope that he was no one she would ever meet again.

A bit more grin showed against his dark skin. "In truth, I have many names. Some call me Dugald the Deft," he said. "Lady Fontagne called me Dugald the Dazzling, but most call me Dugald the Dragon."

"The Dragon?" Shona murmured. Against her chest, Dragonheart felt warm.

"Aye. Did you not know that dragons are very clever and wise...and powerfully alluring." He grinned. "In fact, twas the Queen of Calmar who first gave me the name after my short acquaintance with—"

"The queen?" she whispered frantically.

"Aye." He peered at her from the ledge as if wondering whether she might be some lunatic newly escaped from an asylum. His eyes were a strange, icy blue that tilted up ever so slightly. "I heard there was a flame-haired vixen ripe for marriage at Dun Ard. I've come to win myself a wealthy bride. And who might you be, lass?"

Dear God, he was a nobleman, an early guest bent on meeting
her,
and here she was up to her knees in mud. He would think her a wild-haired wanton for exchanging niceties as if she were decked out in her Michaelmas finery.

Heaven's wrath, her father was going to kill her. But...wait a moment, this Dugald had no way of knowing if she was a milk maid or a marquess, and if she had even the wits of a turnip, she would keep it that way.

"Your name?" he asked again, as if she might have forgotten it.

She paused for an instant, worrying about her speech, which was damnably refined after her months at court. But after a moment, she came up with a suitably rustic accent and said, ' 'Me name be of little account to a man such as yer noble self."

"I've rarely been accused of being noble," he said. "But why not come out anyway? I could assist you in ridding yourself of any more unwanted fishes."

"I assure ye, I dunna need your help."

"Forgive me for saying so, but I beg to differ. I've seen more efficient techniques for fishing.

Although none more interesting." His smile slashed across his face again, ungodly white and as roguish as a satyr's. "Come out, damsel. I'll help you warm up."

When fish flew, she thought, assessing her possible means of escape.

"There is no need to be shy, I assure you. I'm quite harmless."

Shy. Now
there
was a characteristic she hadn't been accused of. But neither was she naive, and if this fellow was harmless, she was a brown thrush, complete with beak and pinfeathers.

Her hesitation seemed to amuse him. He chuckled softly. The sound was deep and rippled strangely through her innards. She must be hungry.

"Come on up, lassie," he said, his tone softer now as he looked down at her from his rocky ledge. "I'll give you a ride home."

Turning her attention to her left, she eyed his horses with some misgivings. One carried a large pack, the other, his saddle. Neither would carry her, she vowed.

"There's no need to fret," he said, reaching out his hand. "I assure you, Eagle has no more wish to harm you than I do."

Eagle. Twas a strangely grandiose name for his stallion, Shona thought. For though the steed stood seventeen hands at the withers and had canon bones the size of cabers, he was, without a doubt, the ugliest animal she had ever seen. Half his right ear was missing. He was the color of trampled dust, and his nose, large as a battering ram, bowed dramatically forward in the center. He seemed, in fact, strangely incongruous with his master's careful refinement.

She brought herself back to the conversation with a start. "I know naught of horses, but he looks quite frightening," she said, realizing she'd been quiet too long.

"You've no need to worry. Eagle has a weakness for damsels in distress. Come on, then. He'll not even notice your delicate weight on his back."

"Oh, nay, I couldna. I'll find me own way home."

"You live close by, then?"

She didn't answer and hoped her reticence made it seem as if she were too overwhelmed by his manly and noble presence to respond.

"Mayhap you are a serving maid at yonder castle?"

She shook her head rapidly, letting her hair fall back over her eyes.

"Where, then?"

"I mustna tell," she murmured, trying to sound feeble. "Me da wouldna like it."

"You're not wed?"

She shook her head and remained silent. Her voice was rather deep for a woman's and quite distinctive; she had no wish to help him identify her later, should they meet again.

"I'm certain your father would be more displeased if you were to catch your death before returning home. Come hither."

She didn't.

"I've a blanket in my saddle pack. I could wrap you in it." That smile again, disarming, yet decadent, somehow, as if he'd made a thousand such offers in similar circumstances. "Twould be no hardship to keep you warm until you reached your father's hearth."

And give him an opportunity to see her face—and much more. Not likely. "Please, good sir,"

she said, with all due meekness. "Could ye na simply leave me in peace. I have no wish to shame myself further."

It took him a moment to answer, then, "I've seen nothing as of yet for which you should be ashamed, lass," he said. She noticed his voice sounded somewhat husky now. "Come out. I'll not hurt you. You have my word on that."

The word of a scoundrel. If he were any kind of a gentleman, he would go away and leave her alone. Or better yet, he would have pretended he had never seen her splashing about in the burn like a banshee gone mad.

It was bad enough that she'd taken a dousing. She would not return to Dun Ard perched in front of this scoundrel with her tunic stuck to her chest like fresh butter on a scone and her legs bare as a bairn's bottom. If her father heard of it, he was likely to marry her off to the first hairy lout who could master the pronunciation of his own name.

She glanced rapidly about. Where the devil had Teine wandered off to? The mare would come if she whistled. But it hardly mattered, she realized, for she couldn't allow this man to know she had come here on her own horse. That would certainly give him a clue to her identity.

Neither could she stand here like a dunce, waiting for wrinkles to form in her knees. She cleared her throat and said a quick prayer to Dympna, the patron saint of raving lunatics.

"If I was to come out...would ya promise na to..." She hunched her shoulders, hoping she looked small and uncertain. "Ta take advantage of me person?"

He tried to look wounded. He managed, rather, to look a bit like the devil on a binge. "Do I seem that sort to you?"

Absolutely, she thought, but didn't say as much.

He laughed nevertheless, as though he could read her mind. "You're a clever lass," he said.

"But you have my word. I'll do nothing that you don't beg for with your own lips."

Heaven's wrath, this man was nothing but a running string of indecent innuendos, every one of which suggested a ridiculously elevated opinion of himself. Nevertheless, it would do her little good to set him in his place just now. Instead, she bit her lower lip and blinked innocently.

"Very well, then," she said, and splashed through the water, still hugging her breasts, painfully aware of every bit of thigh that showed as she drew closer to the stony ledge beneath his feet.

Finally they were only a few inches apart, though he stood a good foot and a half taller. He squatted, offering his hand and a clearer view of his face.

She could refuse his hand and hop up on shore herself, but the effort would take some scrambling and thus give him a view of things better left unseen. Or she could accept his assistance— in which case she would have to remove her arms from her breasts, which would also give him a view of things better left unseen. Damn!

His smile brightened as if he was thinking the very same thoughts, and in that moment she made a decision. Unbending her arms, she offered him her hand.

For a moment he remained as he was, frozen in place with his attention focused on her chest.

"No eels," he said quietly, and reached out to grasp her fingers.

Their gazes met.

"But something far better," he added huskily.

She made no attempt to stop her blush, but even as the hot color raced across her cheeks, she braced her feet against the rocky ledge and yanked with all her might.

Not if she lived to be a hundred would she forget the look on his face. For a moment it was all smug satisfaction, and then, as if he'd been struck by lightning, his silvery eyes widened. He teetered momentarily on the edge, tried hopelessly to correct his balance, and finally careened past her to splash head first into the water.

Shona couldn't help but laugh. But in an instant his hand brushed her arm. She shrieked, jumped toward shore, and heaved herself onto the rocks. All but naked, she was quick and light.

Still weighed down as he was with his fashionably ponderous clothing, he was slower. But even so, his fingers scraped her ankle. She jerked her leg away and leapt frantically to dry land. One glance behind told her she would not beat him in a footrace.

She had no options, she assured herself. Leaping forward, she grabbed the stallion's trailing reins, yanked herself into the saddle, and wheeled the steed away.

Shona heard Dugald's sharp expletive only inches behind her but dared not wait around to discuss the sin of blasphemy. Kicking the stallion's sides, she pushed him into the woods and away, whistling as she went.

Trees skimmed past. From her right, Teine sped toward them, racing along with her head bent low and her reins flapping.

A few minutes later Shona pulled the stallion to a halt. Dismounting, she caught the mare and set the stallion free. He refused to go. She scowled at him and tried to shoo him off. He merely rested his oversized head on her shoulder and blew hot air into her ear.

Finally, frustrated and impatient, Shona looped one of his reins loosely over a branch, fed him a few choice stems of fodder, and hurried off.

Dugald the Dolt would find his mount soon enough. Until then he could enjoy the knowledge that she had outsmarted him. She allowed herself a tiny smile.

It was then that she realized she'd forgotten her breeches.

The hall was filled with revelers. Guests had been arriving for days and now occupied every available seat as they shared trenchers and goblets. Every maiden was dressed in her finest, every lord groomed to perfection.

Upon the dark wood of the wall above the huge stone fireplace, the MacGowan crest was centered between two pair of crossed spears. It was a symbol of power and tradition, but tonight power was forgotten as pleasure was sought.

Roderic the Rogue skimmed the faces of the men present and quickly classified each one—too old, too weak, too callous, too cocky. He ticked off their shortcomings silently in his mind. How would he ever find someone for Shona? Or rather, how would any man ever survive marriage with the Flame's only daughter?

His attention hurried along, then returned to a young man who sat with his back to the wall. Why Roderic's attention was caught, he wasn't sure. The man wasn't particularly impressive in either height or bulk. He was dark of skin and hair, wore a black tunic, and was staring at Shona. A typical Scotsman. Yet there was
something
different about him. Noticing Roderic's attention, the stranger shifted his gaze to the Rogue's, nodded once, then turned his eyes smoothly back to Shona.

"Daughter," Roderic said.

Beside him she jumped at the sound of his voice. "What?"

He raised his brows at her. "Is something amiss?"

"Nay, everything is grand," she said. "Whyever do ye ask?"

He scowled. What the devil was wrong with her? True, twas wise to hold a gathering at Dun Ard at this time of political unrest, but his main objective was painfully obvious, both to the world at large and to Shona, he feared. He had gathered all the most likely suitors here to find her a husband.

And that was not going to be a simple task, for despite her bonny figure and her angelic good looks, she was trouble. And the more innocent her expression, the more trouble was sure to follow.

God help him. He took a deep breath and prayed for the safety of his clan and Scotland at large.