Chapter Thirteen
“Husband—Husband, you had best come awake!”
Dougal opened his eyes to weak, morning light and a staggering rush of emotion he identified, with some surprise, as contentment. For an instant he savored it, along with the warmth of the bed and his delectable awareness of the woman who lay, utterly naked, within his reach.
He could not remember the last time he had experienced anything besides anger, bitterness, or the desire to strike out, to hurt and maim.
Surely this strange, soft emotion came of being utterly spent on a sexual level—he had lost count of the number of times they had coupled last night.
For he knew naught of happiness, did not deserve it, and certainly did not hope for it.
Yet for this brief instant, it seemed his.
The sleet had, at last, stopped dashing against the stones of the keep, and the wind had died. His wife summoned him from sleep.
He turned his head on the pillow and looked at her.
A vision, a queen from a wild, ancient tale, with her auburn hair tangled about her naked shoulders, her lips—and her nipples—swollen from his kisses, and a fathomless look in her eyes.
She looked like the war goddess who came to sleep with warriors and to bless them. Yet surely he was beyond blessings?
He smiled at her and felt desire rush through him. Damn, if he did not want her again. He reached for her, and she planted both palms against his chest.
“They call for you,” she informed him. “Someone waits, outside the door.”
“Let them wait.”
A dull pounding erupted at the door, and Dougal heard the voice of his man, Dermott.
“My Laird? The search party waits without. Laird Randal’s men—”
Dougal groaned as reality returned in a dark wave. Aye, he had a ruse to play. He must go and search for his neighbor’s, his enemy’s, missing bride—the woman who lay beside him. His bride, now, and truly tried. Had he not, these two nights past, had her every way a man could have a woman?
Aye, and he wanted her all over again.
He bellowed to Dermott, “I will be right there.” And then he kissed his wife, even as he heard Dermott’s steps trail away.
“I suppose you must go,” she said with regret.
“I must play at this game a little while.”
“Eventually MacNab will discover I am here—and your wife. What will happen then? Can he not complain of you to the King?”
Dougal sat up in the bed and shrugged his hair back over his shoulders. “What, again? The King will be tired of hearing about me. And ’twas the King who bade me wed.”
“But he did not bid you capture and marry your neighbor’s intended bride.”
“I have not, in actual fact, wed his bride, as he was contracted to your sister, Catherine Maitland. ’Tis she for whom we search, to be accurate about it. She whom he believes was in the wrecked coach.”
“A fine enough point.” Isobel—his Isobel—looked worried. Could she truly be concerned for him? His heart, which he thought had solidified to stone, gave a twinge at the prospect.
And that, in turn, was enough to get him up and into his still-damp clothing. He might enjoy bedding her and relish defying MacNab, but he had no room for soft emotions such as concern.
“Let me worry about my own affairs, Wife,” he said shortly.
She sat up in the bed, her hair swirling around her, not even bothering to cover her naked breasts. The sight of her, so, caught at him and stole his breath away.
“You cannot expect to keep me hidden forever,” she pointed out.
“Nor do I so intend. Your presence in my household will be revealed at the most strategic moment.”
Her chin tipped up. “So, I am nothing to you but a weapon?”
And he answered carelessly, “A hidden weapon, at present. Aye, Wife, what more could you be?”
****
That day proved interminable. Though the sleet had ceased to fall, the weather remained sharp and cold, the roads sodden and mucky, and Dougal quickly tired of his private deception. Lachlan, bored and unconcerned as always, rode at his side, armed with a continuous stream of barbed conversation.
They rode in company with Randal MacNab himself. The erstwhile bridegroom, Bertram, headed yet another search party. Randal trusted Dougal not at all and had decided the best place for him was under MacNab’s own eye.
But the old man was clearly half distracted with worry and desperate to find his charge. His hands shook on the reins, and he pushed on through the day and the vile weather like a man possessed.
At one point, Dougal heard him say to one of his companions, “I will need to send word to her father concerning what has occurred. He entrusted his daughter’s care and welfare to me, and he is an old friend.”
Dougal smiled to himself in satisfaction. How does it feel, old man? How, to see someone stolen away and moved beyond your best efforts to protect her?
“It is no use, MacNab,” he told Randal when night once more began to draw down. “You might as well call off the search—you will no’ find her.”
Laird Randal glared at him, the hate visible in his eyes. “I will search as long as I choose, MacRae, and take no advice from the likes of you!”
“Aye so, but I withdraw then, from the search. ’Tis a lost cause.”
“Do as you will,” MacNab spat at him. “But if I find you had a hand in this, MacRae, the King himself will hear of it!”
“I?” Dougal gave him his best smile. “Have I not been out here helping to search for this Catherine Maitland, like any worthy neighbor?”
“I trust not your protestations of blamelessness, MacRae. This is a tender, young, innocent maid for whom we search—shame to any who takes advantage of that.”
The words made Dougal’s face—and heart—darken. MacNab dared speak to him about the protection of tender innocence? Aye, and the man deserved to be flayed for his hypocrisy.
Riding home with Lachlan at his side, Dougal was silent.
“So,” said Lachy at last, obviously enjoying himself as always, “when will the ruse end?”
“Eh?”
“When will you reveal the existence of your new wife, along with her identity?”
The same question Isobel had asked.
“Soon.” He wanted to flaunt her in MacNab’s face, wanted MacNab to know this meant partial settlement of that old debt. And he wanted MacNab to see that his wife wanted to be with him. Even if it meant war.
Lachlan gave him a sharp look. “You do realize it will bring a load of trouble?”
“I am eager for trouble, Lachy. I have longed these years for a good, fair battle. The devil can bring justice, you ken, and I mean to bring it to MacNab.”
“Aye. But Randal has the King in his pocket, do not forget.”
“Oh, I will not forget.” Dougal rubbed the scar on his cheek. “His power served him well once, but I was a young man then, and too impetuous for my own good.”
“You are still too impetuous. Will you invite me to dinner this night, so I might make your wife’s acquaintance?”
“You have made her acquaintance—out on the road, and at our wedding, as well.”
“Aye, but I want a chance to speak with her. I am curious about the woman who agreed to take you on.”
Dougal glared at his friend. “You will treat her respectfully, mind. None of your insolent tricks.”
“Tricks? Me?” Lachy widened his eyes. “I know not of what you speak.”
Dougal returned the look in full. “You have a talent for charming the ladies.”
“Are you worried, my Laird, about retaining your wife’s affections? And does that not smack of a budding attachment?”
“I have no illusions, Lachy, about my wife’s affections. She has thrown in her lot wi’ me—to her own benefit, did she but know it. I would not wish to see even a half-Englishwoman in MacNab’s hands.”
“No.” Lachlan abruptly sobered. “Half English?”
“She tells me her mother was Scots.”
“And how goes she between the sheets? Sweetly?”
“We will not speak of that.”
“Aye, but, Dougal, you are the Devil Black—your exploits round the district are well recounted. Besides, do I not tell you about the ladies I entertain?”
“Aye, often, in nauseating detail. This is different. She is my wife.”
“Aye, so?” Lachlan lifted his brows. “And can you imagine I would so much as look at another woman, with your sister in the same room?”
“Just behave yourself.”
Miraculously, Lachlan did. The ensuing dinner, so Dougal later thought, proved among the more ordinary he could ever recall taking place beneath that roof.
Meg, dressed for the occasion, looked bonny enough to strike Lachlan silent for the first half of the meal.
Meg and Isobel made conversation, and O’Rourke, still in residence, enlivened the proceedings by becoming richly drunk.
Both his brogue and his wit thickened, which Lachlan, predictably, found amusing.
Not until the end of the meal, when Meg and Lachlan began arguing over some nonsense O’Rourke introduced, did Isobel lean toward Dougal and say, “Well, Husband—you are very silent. How went the search for Catherine Maitland?”
Dougal raised moody eyes to her face. “Not well. ’Twas a long, cold trail, and no trace to be seen of that particular lady.”
Isobel’s eyes glinted blue fire. She had piled her russet hair into a knot atop her head, and managed to look both dignified and fetching. The hair, too heavy to stay up, now slid down the back of her neck and made Dougal’s fingers itch. He wanted to touch her, so badly it hurt.
“I do not doubt,” she murmured, “the lady in question is miles away from here and will never be found.”
“And what of any sister of hers who might be in the district? Do you think she would want rescue from her present predicament?”
“I am sure not. I warrant she is enjoying her present predicament immensely.”
“Oh, aye?” Dougal paused, a cup of whisky halfway to his lips, in order to eye her. Was she saying what he thought? His eyes lingered on her lips before dropping to the neck of her gown, where he could see her pulse throbbing. “Enjoying it? Is that so?”
“There is so much of interest to occupy a lively mind.”
“Is it your mind needs occupying?”
“Among other things. Only look—” She nodded toward where Meg and Lachlan still squabbled. “Is that not a fascinating display of emotion?”
Dougal nearly choked on his whisky. “Lachlan pants after my sister like a dog, but she has no interest in him.”
“You think not? And I supposed you a clever man.”
“So I am.”
“Well, but you cannot read women. She bothers to argue with him because he attracts her.”
“I fear you are wrong, Wife. She bears no soft feeling for him, nor any man.”
“A lack of soft feeling does not argue indifference. Do you, my Laird, ever wager?”
“A bet, you mean?”
“I bet she will have him in her bed before month’s end.”
Dougal struggled to conceal his surprise. What manner of woman was this, who discussed such exploits and wagered like a man?
“Meg would eat him alive,” he said dismissively.
“Perhaps, but she will do so in her bed.”
“Wicked!”
“Sir, are you afraid to bet?”
He raked her with his gaze. “Hardly, given you are wrong. But what is the wager? Have you jewels, or gold?”
“I have not, but perhaps something better. The loser shall—” She leaned close and whispered in his ear, words that sent a rush of heat through him and caused all the blood in his body to pool between his legs.
He could not keep from shooting her another incredulous look. “You are not in earnest!”
“Am I not? Do you consider the prize unworthy?”
“I do not.” His honesty made him add, “Indeed, you will have me hoping to lose that bet.”
She laughed, and the sound further enflamed him. He glanced at the big case clock in the corner. Barely eight of the evening, and too soon to retire, he supposed. But by the devil’s own flail, she made him eager for it.
Her eyes met his and, almost as if she could read his mind, she said, “You have had a long and wearisome day, Husband. Do you think our guests would mind if we withdraw soon?”
“The devil take what they mind,” Dougal replied, and meant it.