Tempted (10 page)

Tension filled the air as all eyes swung to Gavin Douglas, but before he could take up the challenge, the beautiful young Gypsy girl held up her hands, laughing prettily, but refusing to be the target for the handsome young Scot. Gavin grinned good-naturedly, extremely relieved that the
challenge was over. Jenna touched his shoulder. “I’ll be your target, Gavin,” she offered bravely.

He looked down into her clear green eyes and wondered what in the name of God he’d found attractive about the young Gypsy girl. “Sweetheart, I canna let ye do that, but I’ve other weapons I wouldna mind testing.” As Gavin slipped his arm about Jenna, he cast Heath a look of triumph, feeling he had definitely taken the prize even though he’d lost the contest.

Ramsay Douglas stepped forward to take up the challenge. His pewter eyes glittered coldly as they fixed upon Heath’s darkly handsome face. “I’ll use your knives since they’re perfectly balanced,” his deep voice said decisively.

Heath’s warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he accepted the challenge. He gestured toward the fine silver-handled weapons. “Be my guest, if you can find anyone brave enough to be your human target.”

“There’s someone here with enough courage,” Ram said calmly.

“Who?” Heath asked with a smile, as no one stepped forward. “You,” Ram said simply.

The smile left Heath’s face as the men took each other’s measure like two dogs with their hackles raised. Heath was aware of Black Ram Douglas’s other nickname, Hotspur, that sprang from his volatile temper and low boiling point. In these parts he enjoyed a larger-than-life reputation for breaking women’s hearts and men’s jaws, but Heath looked beneath the surface, realizing this man was intense, complex, and intelligent as well as strong and poised for an eruption. Apart from this, there was an unknown quality about him. Gypsies were hot-blooded and admitted it freely; Heath wondered if Ram Douglas was the same, or if he was cold-blooded. He was about to find out.

With a nonchalant bravado he did not quite feel, he handed over the knives and stepped in front of the wooden target. Douglas picked up the first knife and fixed the
Gypsy with a piercing look. The weapon was an age in coming, and Heath realized it would be a battle of nerves. Douglas was testing him to try to learn his breaking point. Heath was puzzled. He knew this level of rivalry between two men was only ever about a woman, yet he was almost sure that woman was not Zara. Douglas had too fine an intelligence and was too blood-proud to be jealous of a Gypsy harlot.

Heath did not flinch as the first two knives thunked into the wood beside his ears; he knew Douglas had enough confidence in his own ability to stretch the game to its limits. Heath realized it would be the last two daggers he must worry about, but he was relieved to find he still had all his fingers after the second pair was thrown.

The third set of daggers came so close to his body, they nicked his shirt at the beltline. It was a clear reminder that Douglas had him at his mercy. Heath’s mouth went dry as he thought about the next knife. This hostility between them was definitely a cock-and-balls thing. Heath prayed that Ram Douglas’s pride was stronger than his acrimony. How easy it would be to emasculate him, then claim it was accidental—but then, all would think his prowess with a knife somewhat inferior.

Heath wanted to flash him an insolent devil-may-care sneer, but his lips seemed to stick to his teeth. It was Ram’s mouth that curved into a wolf’s grin as the dagger left his fingers and embedded itself snugly against Heath’s balls, bruising them deliberately.

So far, Douglas had won and both men knew it. But they were more alike than either knew. Built into both were seeds of self-destruction. The whole point of the challenge came down to the last knife, yet the conclusion was far from inevitable At that moment it was as if they stood alone—no other beings existed in the entire universe. Each man had a decision he must make regarding his enemy.

Heath asked himself if Ram would aim for the heart or throw the knife above his head. Ram asked himself if the
Gypsy would drop the top half of his body or defy him by remaining erect.

Their eyes locked together for endless minutes as each man made his fatal choice. Heath found suddenly that he could smile As he did so, his head lifted with pride. At the last split second the Black Ram knew the Gypsy would not move a muscle. The dagger parted the Gypsy’s hair, cutting off a lock and pinning it to the wood behind him.

A great roar of approval went up from the clan and the moss-troopers, showing that they believed Douglas the clear victor. But Ram and the Gypsy male knew otherwise. Both knew who had given way at the last moment. And yet it was a moral victory for Ram Douglas. He alone knew he had not given in to the bloodlust that would have branded him a coward in his own eyes.

As the night progressed, the noise level increased. The music came louder and faster. The shrieking laughter, stamping feet, and barking dogs made it necessary to shout every word. The amount of food and drink consumed would have fed an army for a week, and the entire castle rang with the unrestrained mirth of men and women who knew how to abandon themselves to the moment.

The spirit of Damaris was extremely restless. At first she kept to her chamber, but the laughter and the Gypsy music finally lured her to the hall. As she surveyed the celebration, she reflected how shocked she would have been at such abandoned behavior when she first came to Douglas, but after roaming the castle for fifteen years, she understood and accepted that they had a hungry zest for life. She sighed. ‘Twas what had attracted her to Alexander in the first place. Ramsay had a love for music and a passion for heroic literature that he kept hidden. He was so like her dead husband, it frightened her. They were both so dour, grave and curt on the surface, but underneath they loved colorful spectacle and had a distinct flair for extremes. She watched one or two Gypsy women laying out tarot cards
and listened as they told fortunes. Damaris smiled sadly. All that the young girls seemed interested in was snaring a man. Had she been like that? Once she had laid eyes on Alex Douglas, she admitted, he was all she had ever thought about. She had grown up amongst a clan of redheads and garnered a lot of attention because she had silken blond hair and not a freckle in sight. Alexander Douglas had been the darkest man she’d ever seen. So dark, it gave her shivers just picturing him. He had seemed just as wildly attracted to her paleness. How ridiculous to choose a lifetime mate on the basis of coloring! And yet when you thought about it, vivid coloring was what made certain individuals stand out from the crowd. It was the first thing you noticed about them. There were millions of ordinary drab people, and then nature would produce someone so darkly beautiful, they looked sinful. Someone with the opposite coloring like herself, with milk-white skin and silvery-gilt hair, looked pure and angelic. Then there were vivid creatures like her niece Valentina, with startling golden eyes and a mass of molten, flaming hair at which a man wanted to warm his hands. She and Alexander had been fatally attracted, and the day Tina came to Douglas, she had feared the same thing would happen between her and Ram. Fortunately, sparks of hatred had been kindled, so she need never worry on that score.

The specter of Alexander watched her from the shadows of a deep window embrasure. How ethereal she looked! His heart ached with longing as he remembered the first night they had shared a bed. Her limbs, so exquisitely pale, contrasted shockingly against his swarthy black-haired legs and chest. It had seemed a desecration to join their bodies, to mate, almost like a devil ravishing an angel, and yet their wild attraction for each other had aroused them to such need, such peaks of desire, he knew he must wed her so they could share a bed every night for the rest of their lives.

Alexander could not help himself. He drew near to his love. “Damaris,” he breathed.

Her apparition began to fade, then was gone.

“Damaris!” he called urgently, but he knew it was quite pointless. She would never acknowledge his presence.

Old Meg the Gypsy, however, said, “Who is there? What do you want?”

“I’m Alexander Douglas! Can ye see me? Can ye hear me?” he demanded.

The old woman stood up and put out a gnarled hand, feeling the texture of the air about her.

“Ye canna see or hear me, but ye can sense me, can’t you? God, if only I could communicate with ye. Damaris is ma wife. I didna kill her! Come with me—I’ll show ye her portrait.”

Old Meg’s eyes swept around the hall searching for something. She did not quite know what she sought. She closed her eyes and let her other senses, including her sixth sense, have full rein. She circled the hall slowly, her shrewd eyes missing very little. She paused beside Mad Malcolm. He brandished his stick. “Filthy Gypsy—away wi’ ye!”

Old Meg recoiled, not at his words but at the evil she felt surrounding him. Something from the long-dead past stirred in her memory. She’d had an unwitting hand in a poisoning here at Douglas. At the time she had put it from her mind—she had no reason to waste her pity on a Kennedy. She had a nodding acquaintance with evil. She’d been exchanging poison for obscene amounts of silver for years. She lived by the Gypsy code of “no guilt.”

Colin Douglas refilled Malcolm’s drinking horn and cast Meg a helpless apologetic look, then he tapped his fingers to his temple in the age-old sign that conveyed madness. Meg stalked off. She was in a mood to prowl about a bit. Alexander stood at her shoulder at the bottom of the staircase. He tried to “will” her up the steps but learned that her willpower was every bit as strong as his own. Discouraged, he withdrew up the staircase. Old Meg followed

Alexander halted outside his wife’s chamber. Ever since his death, he had never entered, never violated her sanctuary. Meg, it seemed, had no such scruples. Her gnarled hand turned the doorknob, and she went inside and stood transfixed before the painting of Damaris.

Alexander said, “The portrait-limner did a credible job, but she was beautiful on the inside as well.”

“Get out!”

Alexander whirled about, joy radiating from him like the rays of the sun. “Damaris—ye
can
see me. Fifteen years ye’ve looked through me, but I never gave up!”

“Fifteen years should have conveyed how I feel, you pigheaded spawn of the Devil!”

His eyes shone with happiness. “Yer angry wi’ me.”

“Angry? There’s the understatement of the century! I hate you, I loathe you, I detest you, I abhor you!”

“I love ye, Damaris,” he declared.

“I curse you!” she vowed, then vanished.

Old Meg reached up her fingers to touch the girl in the portrait. She could feel the very air in this chamber was charged with emotions, all conflicting. The memory came back clearly now. So this was the Kennedy girl who had wed a Douglas—an explosive, deadly combination. Both clans were insufferably blood-proud.

“Don’t touch that portrait, or all hell will break loose,” ordered a deep voice of authority.

Old Meg turned to see an angry Ram Douglas. Zara hovered in the corridor, assuming Meg had been caught stealing.

“A double murder will leave its imprint until justice prevails,” Meg said.

“‘Twas a murder-suicide. They got justice. The bitch was unfaithful. Alex Douglas killed himself before the Kennedys could get their vengeful hands on him. Get downstairs before I hang ye fer theft.”

Her lip curled with contempt. As if it were yesterday, she recalled selling the poison to this man who stood before her so arrogantly. He had been a wild and willful youth of
only about sixteen, but shortly thereafter Lord Alexander Douglas lay dead and the Black Ram was the new lord and master. “Have a care for yourself, Ramsay Douglas. Visitants from the other side have such power, they could strike you down for the lies you perpetrate.”

Ram laughed derisively. “Go on, call up the dead—command them to materialize. Yer supernatural powers underwhelm me, old woman!”

“I claim no supernatural power, but I do have the second sight.” Her eyes flickered beyond the door toward Zara. “Debauch yourself while there’s darkness left. ‘Tis the last time you’ll be permitted to waste your seed.”

Her implication was marriage or death, and he wasn’t sure he didn’t prefer the latter “If yer hinting at my being leg shackled, yer second sight is playing tricks on ye, old woman. ‘Tis yer own shackles ye can see when I lock ye up. Begone from this place, while ye’ve breath left in yer body.”

Meg’s eyelids covered the windows of her soul. It was not politic to threaten this man. He would not cavil at one more murder.

Ram Douglas could not close his eyes even long after he’d sated himself. Zara slept beside him, curled into a ball like a sleek cat replete with a fortnight’s ration of cream inside her. He smiled grimly into the darkness. The mere hint of a suggestion of marriage had robbed him of sleep. Deny it as much as he
liked, the truth was he was a coward with no guts for marriage.

Wedding bells were the death knell for love Love was a myth in itself, perpetrated by females and poets. He’d never seen a happy union in his life. Lord Alexander Douglas and Lady Damaris Kennedy had had everything going for them. Their union had joined two of Scotland’s greatest clans. Not only that, but both of their great-grandfathers had married daughters of King Robert III, so their marriage linked them with the royal house. How long had it lasted—twelve days? A fortnight?

His mind strayed to his mother and father. There was a union made in hell They’d lived at the top of their lungs, not caring if the whole world knew of their savage exchanges How many nights had he comforted Gavin and Cameron as they crawled into his bed shaking? His mother was a Ramsay, giving as good as she got Threats, fights, recriminations, betrayals, beatings. He had been ten when she left. She’d taught him the hypocrisy of the sanctity of marriage.

His relentless mind moved on. The biggest sham in Scotland was their king’s marriage. James IV had a weakness for women, and Scotland thanked God for it. His father had been a raving homosexual who had failed to keep his minions in his bedchamber but allowed them in the council chamber. His ruling chiefs could not stomach such a thing; sodomy was not a Scots vice. Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, had led the men who had dragged the king’s catamites out and hanged them. Ram’s thoughts shied away from examining his uncle too closely and returned to the king’s marriage. James had avoided the matrimonial trap until he was thirty, then for the weal of the realm and to beget heirs, he’d been persuaded to wed fourteen-year-old Margaret Tudor, Princess of England.

Their marriage was a nightmare. The princess had a flat, pudgy face like a lump of dough and a stodgy body to match, yet she was highly sexed. James himself had once
confided to Ram that he feared impotence when he had to bed her. Though they’d now been wed over eight years, every pregnancy had ended in a dead child. The queen had just produced another puny bairn, so there still might be no heirs to the throne. Even a sanctified marriage was no guarantee of heirs. Marriage in fact was a guarantee of naught save misery!

Ram reflected that he was past thirty, and he knew it was his duty to produce strong Douglas sons to inherit the land, titles, and wealth and to keep the clan powerful. One of these days he’d have to hold his nose and take the plunge. When the time came, he’d yield to expediency. He’d listen to his head and choose the wife who would bring him the most wealth and power. He could listen to his blood when he chose his mistresses, and if worse came to worst, there were ways of ridding yourself of an unwanted woman.

Valentina Kennedy’s day began splendidly. Ada brought her a breakfast tray with the most divine-smelling, freshly baked French bread. The first strawberries of the season sat in a compote of clotted cream. Mr. Burque had followed Lord Kennedy’s orders to serve everyone at Doon with porridge, but he had provided a jug of sweet golden syrup to make the oatmeal palatable. Tina picked up the fruit but pushed away the fluffy eggs surrounded by thick cured ham.

“I’ll join you,” Ada said, picking up the plate. “If I have to suffer your brothers’ company through one more meal, the back of my skull will fall in. Their tempers are ready to explode.”

“Isn’t it wonderful that for once trouble has passed me by?”

Ada laughed, but at the same time she felt sorry for the lads. “Poor buggers, how the hell are they to hide two hundred shaggy Highland cattle amongst our own herds of red and white Ayrshires?”

“That’s their problem,” Tina said, throwing back the covers.

Ada gave a little gasp as a man climbed in at the open casement. “Heath! God’s nails, you scared me.”

“Liar.” He grinned, spanning her waist with his strong brown hands and lifting the woman for a kiss. “There isn’t a man breathing scares you!”

He occupied the spot Tina had just vacated and pulled the breakfast tray toward him. “‘Tis a bonnie day for a ride,” he told Tina, his rogue’s eyes sparkling.

“Heath, you didn’t!” she squealed with excitement. “Close your eyes while I put on a riding dress.”

The moment he’d denuded the tray of every last morsel, he swung his leg across the sill. Tina prepared to follow him. “Use the stairs, Firebrand—you’re a lady, not a Gypsy,” he said.

“Praise God one of you remembers,” Ada said, rolling her eyes.

Heath had the mare tethered down by the river, away from the castle. As she approached, Tina thought she’d never beheld such a memorable picture in her life. Above, thrushes and yellow hammers flitted in the hazels. She walked across a carpet of moss and ladyferns and slowly held out her hand to the graceful mare. The animal pricked its ears forward, staring at her intently; then catching her scent and accepting her, she lowered her head, blew through her nostrils, and allowed Tina’s hand to rest upon her velvet nose. “Oh, her lines are superb, her color indescribable!” Tina exclaimed with awe. “Wherever did you manage to find her?”

“At the horse fair in Paisley,” he said with a straight face. He took a paper from his shirt. “Listen to me, Tina. It’s important that you have this bill of sale to prove ownership—she’s had one or two owners recently.”

She glanced at him knowingly and took the paper. “Her name must reflect her color. Her coat is the hue of damsons or aubergines—let’s see, Heliotrope doesn’t sound
right. I know, I’ll call her Indigo!” She took a few steps back to observe the animal’s lines. Behind Indigo, the water cascaded over the rocks into a deep pool surrounded by bog-myrtle and marsh marigolds The morning sun filtered through the trees, making a nimbus of light about the purple equine, turning it into some mythical, magical creature from the Arabian nights. She looked at the paper again. “Did you really pay this much for her?”

His teeth flashed. “I won her in a knife-throwing contest.”

“I believe you; thousands wouldn’t.”

He lifted her to the mare’s back. “I know you are far too impatient to take her to the stables to be saddled. Just be careful,” he admonished, “and don’t lose that paper.”

Valentina discovered Indigo had a sensitive mouth and responded beautifully to the slightest pull on the bit, but when given her head she could run as fast as the wind. They rode along the banks of the River Doon all the way into the seaport of Ayr. Tina wanted to see how the animal reacted on the streets of a busy town.

Something was causing a stir down at the quay. Curious, she rode through the crowd that had gathered. Suddenly her heart, which had been so high, plummeted to her feet and her spirits sank to the pit of her stomach. The
Thistle Doon
rode at anchor badly damaged. She now boasted only half a mast, and her taffrails had been blown away by what must have been cannon fire.

Tina dismounted hastily as she saw her mother being helped into a litter. “Mother, whatever happened?” she cried.

“Tina, thank God!” thundered Rob Kennedy, taking a firm grasp of her arm and propelling her some distance from the litter. “The bloody woman will drive me tae violence if ye dinna get her outa ma sight.” His face was purple with choler.

“What happened?”

“The bloody English is what happened! They attacked
ma ship, stole ma precious wool, almost sank us. I’ve been limpin’ home fer days, an’ all the bloody woman has done is cry!” He cast a scornful look down the quay. “I tell ye, lass, nothin’ good ever came up from England. Deliver me, there’s a good lass.”

“I’ll take her home and see to her needs,” Tina said, and for once her heart went out to the gentlewoman’s plight.

“‘Tis a curse tae be wed tae a woman who expects ye tae dance attendance on her. I’ve dispatched a rider tae fetch Archibald Kennedy, and I see Arran is here. I’ve a complaint or two fer the bloody admiral. The king must be informed that the English are attackin’ our ships, and all the pathetic woman can do is weep an’ wail an’ gnash her teeth!”

Tina thought she would scream at the slow progress of the litter, but she firmly squelched her impulse to ride hell for leather into Doon to tell her poor beleaguered brothers that not only was Lord Kennedy home, they could expect the chief of Clan Kennedy to descend upon them shortly.

She patiently listened to her mother’s tale of woe, gently helped her from the litter, summoned Duncan to carry her up to her chamber, ignoring his look of desperation, and began to feel positively virtuous for the sacrifice she was making. She ordered the servants to plenish the room, and she bathed her mother’s pale face with rosewater, removed her shoes, and asked softly, “What can I get you?”

“You can get me Beth,” Elizabeth said in tragic tones. “Valentina, you are not the most restful person for an invalid. Just looking at all that flaming hair and vulgar vitality is exacting a toll upon what little strength I have left”

“I’m sorry,” Tina whispered, quickly lowering her dark lashes to mask her hurt. “I’ll get Beth and ask Mr. Burque to make you some chamomile tea.”

“Yes,” her mother said rather petulantly, “but have Ada bring it to me, if you please.”

When Lord Kennedy arrived home, his mind was so preoccupied, he saw naught amiss at Doon. His three sons
met him at the door rather than waiting to be summoned. They did not want to further exacerbate Rob Kennedy’s temper.

When Tina joined them in the hall, her father was alternately describing the harrowing sea venture and raining curses upon the English. His Scots was so thick, she could hardly comprehend his words until he said all too clearly, “Arran an’ Archibald Kennedy will be here the nicht. Tina, direct yon peste Mr. Burque tae prepare somethin’ fittin’ fer two earls o’ the realm.”

She saw her brothers exchange trapped looks.

“Tell Elizabeth tae prepare guest chambers. Davie, see there’s room in the stables—they’ll both ha’ their men wi’ em”

David slunk out like a rat deserting a sinking ship. Donal cleared his throat as if he were about to make a clean breast of things. Tina shot him a warning glance and said, “Mother’s in bed.”

“God damn an’ flay the woman! What use is she tae a mon?” he choked.

Tina said, “I’ll give the servants their orders. Everything will be ready for them. Mr. Burque is ever prepared, no matter how many descend upon us.”

“There’s ma lass,” he said, thankful that one of his offspring could be counted upon. “I want ye at the table the nicht, sittin’ smack atween James Hamilton an’ Archibald Kennedy. Ye can cozen them intae givin’ me their full support when I take ma complaints tae the king. Neither o’ them can resist the blandishment o’ a beautiful lass.”

She glanced at Donal, now feeling just as trapped as he. “It must be catching,” she muttered to herself.

Though he had farther to come, Archibald Kennedy, Earl of Cassillis, was the first to arrive. He had twenty of his men at his heels, all armed to the teeth. David had the presence of mind to keep them out of the stables by having a dozen grooms and stableboys on hand to receive their horses in the bailey as soon as they dismounted.

Valentina took a deep breath and came forward with ale on knees that felt like butter. Archibald Kennedy was so coarse in appearance, he made her father look refined. He had once been barrel-chested, but with age all had slipped into a heavy paunch. It seemed a miracle his short bowlegs supported his girth. He seemed to have no neck—his wide florid face, marred by broken veins, sat directly upon his shoulders.

His men drank off their ale, but he grabbed the goblet from Tina, sniffed it loudly, then flung its contents to the back of the fire. “Wheest, lass, what’s this muck?” he demanded, fixing her with a small beady eye. Rob came forward with the whisky, and Tina thought, well, so much for being unable to resist me!

“There’s no need tae tell me—ye’ve been raided. Yer no’ the only one, Rabbie. Every Kennedy has been systematically raped, frae Newark tae Portpatrick. When we find the culprits, there’ll be the biggest reivers’ battle ever fought. We’ll gibbet the lot! The whoresons lifted all ma prime horseflesh, an’ one in especial was earmarked fer the king!”

Rob looked up sharply at Donal. “We’ve no’ been raided? Weesucks, we’re overrun wi’ horses an’ cattle.”

Archibald’s beady eye became instantly suspicious. “Is that a fact? I’d best ha’ a look aboot Doon. Yer meadows did seem uncommon full o’ beasties when we rode in!”

Rob Kennedy’s face turned purple with choler, but Donal’s ruddiness vanished completely.

“Are ye accusin’ me, Rob Kennedy, Lord o’ Galloway, o’ liftin’ cattle frae ma ain kith an’ kin?” he demanded.

“We’ll see!” said Archibald, snatching up his riding whip and gauntlets from where he’d flung them on the oak table. The two Kennedy lords elbowed each other as they exited the castle, but wide as the doorway was, it could not accommodate two such broad individuals at the same time. Tina noticed it was Archibald who took precedence. She
heard Donal mutter to Duncan, “I’ll lay ye ten tae one they’re the earl’s horses.”