Susana and the Scot (26 page)

She was, indeed, a perfect woman.

He knew she was close to release. He could see it in the taut lines of her face, feel it in the shivers of her flesh. He was close, too. A raging fire whipped though his veins, a scalding need burned in his soul. His thrusts became shorter, faster, harder. More desperate, more demanding. More savage.

And then she stiffened. She arched her back and closed on him with a heinous fist. Sensation screamed through him and his tightly leashed control snapped. He came. Erupted. Filled her.

Glory.

And glorious.

He threaded his fingers through her wild hair and pulled her up for a kiss, melding his mouth with hers as he reveled in the lingering lick of bliss. Then he eased from her body.

When he released her she collapsed on the table. “I needed that,” she said.

He couldn't help lapping at her sweat-beaded brow. “So did I.”

He turned his attention to refastening his breeks, but she lay there, staring at the ceiling with a small smile playing on her lips, reveling in the moment. Once his warrior was safely tucked away, he resettled her skirt, which was pooled about her waist. It wouldn't do for one of their men to wander in and find her splayed so, though he quite enjoyed the view.

She sat up and edged off the table. She smiled teasingly and stroked him, inciting his interest again, but just then, someone jiggled the door.

“Susana?” Keir's voice drifted through the wood. “Are you in there? Is everything all right?”

She shot the offending door a dark look, but forced a cheery tone. “Aye. Everything is fine.” When she passed him to open the door, Andrew caught her arm.

“Will Isobel be sleeping with you again tonight?”

Her lashes flickered. “I doona know.” She caught his frown and responded with a wicked grin. “Doona fash yerself, Andrew. We'll work something out.”

Well, thank God. Because even though he'd just had her, his ardor was rising once more. He didn't think he could bear another night without her.

Her grin became even more wicked. “Perhaps we can meet in the kennels.”

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Susana opened the door to Keir and he entered. His nostrils flared. Hopefully he couldn't smell what had just happened here.

But likely he could. His brow furrowed.

“I thought you would like to know,” he said in a clipped tone. “You have a visitor.”

Susana stepped farther away from Andrew, though there was clearly no need to try to hide what they'd been doing. Keir's gaze flicked from one to the other and his jaw clenched.

Her body still trembled from the force of their passion; bliss still bubbled through her. She smoothed down her skirts and surreptitiously checked that her bodice was in place. “Who is it?”

“Laird Scrabster, my lady.”

Her head shot up. Her stomach heaved. Her face formed an automatic grimace, the reaction she always had to that name. “What the bluidy hell does he want?”

Keir lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps to offer for you again?”

Aye, that was usually why he made the day-long journey to Dounreay. He always left unfulfilled. He always would.

Andrew stiffened. A tiny growl emanated from him. “I doona think I like this man,” he muttered.

Her glance was a tad derisive. “Just wait till you meet him,” she whispered.

As they made their way down to the parlor, Keir didn't say a word. But then, his glares spoke for him. Susana knew it was because he worried about Andrew and his men; he was convinced the traitor was in
their
midst, but Susana wasn't so sure.

She didn't know how to reassure Keir that the men from Dunnet hadn't been the ones who had betrayed Dounreay, but they would need to have that conversation. She didn't like having the two men at odds like this. It was not productive.

That the traitor was probably one of his men would be difficult for Keir to swallow, because he had hired every man in their forces. It meant one of
his
men had turned against them. Once they had dealt with Scrabster, she would meet with Andrew and Keir, and together they would devise a plan to flush out the traitor. And they needed to do so at once.

Her impatience to deal with this pressing issue made Scrabster's visit even more annoying, which was surprising. His visits were, in and of themselves, annoying enough. He tended to be long-winded and pompous and overstay his welcome.

She and Andrew entered the parlor, though Keir remained at the door. Scrabster was seated with Papa and he had a whisky in his hand, though Papa's expression made clear that sharing his whisky with Scrabster—no matter what propriety demanded—was a burden.

Andrew wandered over to lean against the mantel, her silent supporter, but Scrabster ignored him, as he ignored Keir. He ignored almost everyone. Except her. He set his tumbler on the side table and leaped to his feet as he saw her. He was a smallish man, reedy and thin, with an unpleasant arrangement of features. His nose was long and hooked and his eyes had a birdlike glint. It was his fingers that repulsed her the most, bony and knobby. That and the whine in his voice. “Susana, my dear,” he said, coming across the room to take her hands in his.

She winced and detangled as quickly as she could. His skin was clammy and his grip far too avaricious. He leaned in to kiss her cheek and she whirled away.

Though she normally didn't partake of whisky—especially in the afternoon—she felt the need for a dram now. She poured herself a drink and motioned to Andrew to do the same. He declined with an almost imperceptible wave of his hand. Though he appeared to be relaxed, his muscles were taut; he hummed with tension.

Surely it couldn't be jealousy. Anyone with eyes in their head could see that Scrabster was no threat to his claim on her.

Not that he had one.

Not that he wanted one.

This was a blissful fling for him. Of this she had no doubt.

It was a blissful fling for her as well.

She ripped her focus from the man who seemed to capture every ort of her interest and turned to their visitor. “To what do we owe this … honor?”

Scrabster retook his seat and pinned her with a beady stare. “Susana, my dearest.” She shuddered. “I'm so sorry. I came as soon as I heard that you've been having troubles.”

She sat on the divan and glanced at her father. Surely
he
had not notified Scrabster of their recent problems. With a shake of his head he confirmed it.

“I'm sure I doona know what you are talking about.”

Scrabster
tsk
ed. His lip curled. It was almost a smile. He drummed his bony fingers on his knee. “The raids? The burned-out crofts? Why, I heard the brigands even tried to kidnap your daughter.”

Susana almost bit her tongue, she clamped her teeth so hard. “Where did you hear that?” It had happened
yesterday
, for Christ's sake.

Scrabster's eyes flickered about the room. He cleared his throat. “I, ah, have my sources.”

Her skin prickled. If Scrabster had “his sources,” that meant only one thing. The traitor in their midst was working with him. Andrew had realized the same. His features tautened. A muscle ticked in his cheek.

“Regardless of where I heard this distressing news, it is verra clear, your people, your family, your
daughter
are not safe. And I have come to save you,” he announced in a benevolent tone.

“Save me?”

“Offer you my … protection.” That he said this in a lurid hiss didn't calm the churning in her gut.

“That is verra generous of you—”

His stubby lashes flickered. His smile was smug. “I know—”

“But we doona need your help.”

Scrabster blinked.

“Dunnet has sent men.”

Scrabster blew out a dismissive snort. “Bah. Dunnet. You canna count on him in the long term.”

Susana bristled. She noticed Andrew did as well. “Of course I can count on him. He's family. He's married to my sister.”

“Aye. But rumor has it, he will not be laird much longer.”

She didn't like the glimmer in his eye, or the glee with which he imparted such news. “What do you mean?”

“Rumor has it, he has run afoul of the Duke of Caithness and will soon lose his barony.”

“You hear a lot of rumors,” Andrew said.

Scrabster's attention swung to him. His long nose twisted. “And who the bluidy hell are you?”

Andrew straightened, drawing himself up to his full height. “Dunnet's brother.”

It was gratifying to see Scrabster pale. His Adam's apple made the long journey up and down his skinny neck.

Papa grinned, clearly pleased with Scrabster's discomfort and willing to incite more. “This is Andrew Lochlannach. He is leading the defenses at Dounreay.” He leaned in and grinned. “A damn fine warrior.”

“And mark my words,” Andrew said in a cold clear voice, “we willna show mercy to the enemies of Dounreay.”

Oooh.
She liked the way he said that.

Scrabster did not. His face puddled up as though he'd just eaten something sour. “I am not an enemy of Dounreay.” That he felt the need to make the statement bespoke his guilt.

“I certainly hope not.” Susana shivered at the menace in Andrew's tone, even though it wasn't directed at her; it certainly took Scrabster aback. His eyes widened and his nostrils quivered. He tore his gaze from Andrew's fierce visage and focused on her.

“Susana. I must speak to you … alone.”

A ripple ran over her skin. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with him. “There is no need for privacy. Anything you have to say to me can be said before my father and my … and Andrew.”

Scrabster frowned. His gaze flicked from one man to the other. Andrew responded with a narrowing of his eyes, and Papa with a wide grin; he took a slurp of his drink. “But this is a delicate matter,” Scrabster said in a wheedling tone.

Susana deplored wheedling tones. She crossed her arms and glowered at him. “What is it?”

His lips worked. He adjusted his waistcoat. Cleared his throat. “Susana, you know I hold you in the highest esteem.”

Oh, bluidy hell. Not this again.

“I ask that you reconsider my suit.”

“I have told you countless times, I willna marry you.”

“But we're so well matched.”

Where on earth had he gotten that idea? “Are we?” She glanced at Andrew. She didn't know why. Surely it wasn't to compare the two men, to consider, perhaps, how well matched she was with one of them.

“Our lands share a border.”

“These are not my lands.”

He flushed. “No, of course not. I meant to say, we share common interests. Common people.”

“Those are hardly good reasons for a marriage.” Aside from which, she didn't want him and she never would. She didn't even
like
him.

Scrabster forced a smile. It was a patronizing smile. Another thing she hated. “You have to marry sometime.”

“Do I?”

His eyes narrowed. “Of course you do. You're a woman.”

How that signified, she didn't know. But it certainly made clear his opinion of the fairer sex. They were nothing, worthless without a man, in his opinion. If she had ever been interested in him—and she had not—that alone would have soured her.

She stood and brushed out her skirts in a very deliberate manner. “I believe this interview is over.”

“Nonsense. We have much to discuss. Recent events have proven that Dunnet cannot protect you.” He fixed Andrew with a disdainful glare. “You need a man to keep you and your family safe. If you marry me, I will keep you safe.”

“Where is my bow?”

Scrabster's nostrils flared. It was no secret she'd sent more than one suitor packing with an arrow in his hindquarters. Scrabster might not be so fortunate. She was vexed enough to aim for far more tender territory.

“I believe you left it in the foyer,” Andrew said. His lips twitched. “Would you like me to fetch it for you?”

“Yes, please.”

“I can shoot him,” a small voice piped up. Susana whirled to see Isobel at the door next to Keir with her bow in hand.

A wave of satisfaction and delight and, perhaps, a tinge of pride wafted through her. “If you'd like, darling.”

Isobel lifted her bow and narrowed her eyes. “I haven't shot anything yet today.”

Scrabster scuttled to his feet. He glared at her and then he glared at Papa and Andrew and then Isobel in turn. “There is no need for violence. I was simply coming to visit a neighbor. To offer my assistance in these difficult times.”

“Ah.” Susana crossed her arms. “Is that why you have men massing at our borders?”

His eyes narrowed, but he forced a smile. “Men to come to your rescue, my dear.”

Why did she not believe him?

Andrew bristled. “If those men so much as step a toe across that border, we will consider it an act of aggression and will deal with it summarily.”

Scrabster pulled himself up to his full height, which wasn't much. He barely reached Andrew's chin. “There is no need to be rude.”

“Is it rude to state the truth?” Andrew said through clenched teeth. “And it is the truth. Any threat to Dounreay will be answered with lethal force.” Andrew fingered the hilt of his sword.

Scrabster's narrow eyes flared. He stepped back and back again, until he found himself at the door.

It was heartwarming that Isobel's arrow tracked his every move. When he noticed, he flinched. His lip curled then and he stepped closer to Isobel, running his fingers through her hair. Susana's stomach heaved. “Such a pretty girl,” he said. He affected an oily smile. “It would be a pity if anything should happen to her because you rejected my offer to protect you.”

Even as rage flooded her, Isobel hauled off and kicked him in the shins; Scrabster grabbed his leg and howled an invective at her, his eyes snapping with anger.