Delight (18 page)

"Which would explain why you do not look much like Matthew either,
"
Rowena said, turning to study him. "Except around the eyes. I do see a resemblance there.
"

His gaze was merciless. "And have you spent many hours staring into my brother
'
s eyes?
"
he asked coldly.

Color crept into her cheeks. "Actually, I haven
'
t.
"

"I suppose that was the purpose of the tryst, to stare into each other
'
s eyes."

"The tryst?
"
Rowena looked offended.
"
The word has a romantic connotation.
"

Douglas searched her face. "You did not come here to seek a clandestine romance?
"
he said in disbelief.

Her fingers tangled in the lace at her throat.
"
Not with Matthew,
"
she said irritably.

"
You are not in love with my brother?
"
he demanded.

Rowena giggled.
"
You have such a silly look on your face, my lord.
"

She turned back to the portrait. And Douglas did not move, he could not move, wondering what the confounded woman was trying to tell him.

I outrank Matthew,
he realized suddenly.
Me, the bastard, rogue, and raider, and now I am going to steal his woman because he
'
s stuck in Sweden with a broken leg.
He grinned to himself. All in all, it was not looking like such a bad situation.

He frowned as he returned in thought to his previous realization. Rowena was not attracted to who he was but to what she thought he had been. The false romance of piracy had turned many a fair head.

The Dragon was dead. Douglas didn
'
t think he could resurrect the wretched beast if he tried. He had become more like the man he masqueraded than his legend. Quite possibly he had become too high-principled for a princess whose mind was set on raising royal hell.

H
e was spared from further displaying his ignorance of Dunmoral
'
s family history by Gemma
'
s timely arrival. The girl hurried toward them, red splotches of color on her face. She forgot to curtsy, intent on delivering her message.

"There you are, Douglas, Your Highness.
There
'
s been a little trouble in the village. You might want to ride down there right away."

"What manner of trouble?
"
Rowena asked in concern. "The wolves again?
"

Gemma glanced up at Douglas. "The wind has brought a few of the old cots dow
n. There…
there was a fire. We should have been better prepared for the winter.
"

"Are the men ready to ride?
"
Douglas said grimly, knowing full well that "a little trouble
"
meant the reivers had struck again.

"Aidan has already gone with Shandy and Phelps,
"
Gemma said quietly.

"Perhaps I could be of help,
"
Rowena said. "I know how to—"

"No.
"
The vehemence in Douglas
'
s voice clearly startled her, but he didn
'
t care. "You will stay here with my sister,
"
he said sternly. "The storm is breaking, and I will not have the worry of you both on my mind.
"

Rowena scowled. "As you wish.
"

He strode away without another word. A blue streak of lightning behind the window threw his harsh countenance into shadow before he disappeared.

He took the wooden stairs to the hall at a run, hearing Dainty
'
s gruff voice growling out orders. The former galley slave had gathered the men together, fully armed and eagerly anticipating a fierce battle.

He strapped on his bandoleer over the padded velvet waistcoat, cursing the fashionable breeches and ruffled shirt that would hamper him in the rain. Someone shoved a pair of pistols at him across the table. Gemma threw his brogues down from the gallery. Baldwin brought him his good-luck Spanish broadsword. He gripped the dragon-embossed hilt and felt blood surging through his veins, empowering him.

"I thought I ordered Martin and Roy to guard the village,
"
Douglas said. "They are capable men.
"

Dainty hadn
'
t taken the time to shave. He wore a black leather jerkin over his bare chest. With his bald head and giant
'
s build, he looked every inch as menacing as the first time he had bullwhipped Douglas senseless in the galley hold.

"
They were on guard, sir. But the raiders set fire to a hut where a grandmother watched over five youngsters. The men had a choice of saving lives or taking them.
"

Douglas cursed.
"
How long ago did they attack?"

"They hit only an hour ago, in broad daylight,
"
Dainty said. "T
he bastards have no fear of any
thing."

Douglas pulled on a pair of black leather gloves. "Then let us teach them what the fear of hell feels like.
"

18

T
he raiders had ridden roughshod over the
humble preparations for the harvest festival. Shattered crockery and broken trenches lay strewn over the turf. A long trestle table had been cleaved in two by a battle ax. Geese scavenged the tom bags of precious oats and barley. A goat butted its head to be free of its byre, frightened by the confusion.

The heather-thatched roof of one stone hut had been set afire but hastily extinguished. Stinging rain fell on the smoke. No one had been hurt, but quiet terror bruised the faces of the Highlanders huddled at the base of the hill, waiting for their laird.

He walked through the wreckage in grim silence, startled when a child ran up to grasp his large hand for comfort.

His
hand.

A half-crippled elderly man, sifting through the debris for his cane, straightened painfully to give him a nod.
"
Thank God,
y
e
'
re here.
"

And like a chorus the words carried across the ravished glen.
"
He
'
s here. The laird is here. Did I not tell ye he would come?
"
And he could feel their relief, their hope, their anxiety abating just because he stood in their midst.

A freebooter who had never done an admirable thing in his life. A stormy man who had left carnage in his wake without a backward glance.

And they were his reward, these people and their troubles, granted on the whim of the king known as the Merry Monarch.

He hefted the girl into his powerful arms.
"
Are you frightened, lassie?
"

"
Aye, I was.
"
She buried her face in his long black hair. Her chin rested on the strong column of his throat.
"
But not now."

Henry broke from the huddle to walk with him.
"
They were full of wickedness, my lord. I canna believe no one is dead.
"

Douglas gently set the child to the ground. The acrid tang of dying smoke stung his eyes as he glanced around.
"
What stopped them?
"

"
Old Bruce the Blind Seer stumbled up to the top of the hill in his nightshirt and pointed his scrawny finger straight at Neacail. The old man looked like a banshee with the wind blowing his gray hair. Gave Neacail the Evil Eye.
"

Douglas stared through the wisps of smoke and I rain, imagining the scene. "I will send more men to stand guard. If there is any sign of trouble, have Gunther mo
ve the entire village into the
castle."

"
They
'
ll be back.
"
Henry scrubbed his hand
over his soot-blackened cheek. "They promised they'll be back.
"

D
ainty plucked a wreath of dried broom and gorse from the wreckage. The villagers watched him in awe, a monster of a man in an armle
ss
jerkin who did not seem to feel the icy rain. They did not fear him, the laird trusted him, and that was enough.

"We'll need better horses to ride them down, sir,
"
Dainty said as
he settled the wreath on the
little girl
'
s head.
"
Swift retaliation is the only way to stop this sort of intimidation.
"

Aidan stepped out from behind an overturned cart, a sack of shriveled apples in his arm.
"
The three of us will go alone,
"
he said.

Douglas looked around at the devastation.
"
No. Aidan, you stay here to patrol the glen. Dainty, go back to the castle and watch the women. I
'
ll find Neacail.
"

They didn
'
t argue. They
'
d watched Douglas pull off too many im
possible raids and rescues to
doubt e
ither his instinct or ability.
He wanted to bring down his nem
esis by him
self. If he found satisfaction or even death in this, then so be it.

Douglas would do as he pleased anyway, and they would not interfere with what another man needed to do.

D
ouglas
'
s ride across the storm-swept moor aroused an unexpected reaction. In a strange way it felt like he was back on the Main, chasing some coveted treasure with a single-minded resolve that bordered on obsession.

Except that instead of muggy swamp, he struggled through bracken underbrush and peat bog that slowed his mount
'
s progress. At least an alligator or Spanish soldier in a steel helmet wouldn
'
t appear out of the shadows to attack him. A Scottish outlaw with a deadly grudge and claymore would. The huge fang-toothed rocks that protruded from the hills could shelter a deadly enemy.

The rain fell now in a gossamer film that clung to his lashes and chilled his skin. Sunlight could blind a man. Mist could deceive him.

Neacail might hold the advantage of knowing the land, but Douglas learned fast, memorizing every boulder and fox den that he passed. He would study the moods of the moors and mist as he had the wind and sea.

A tawny owl hooted from the womb of a pine wood that bordered the moor.

Douglas stiffened and slid from his horse. He
lowered his hand to his sword. Unmoving, he listened. Pewter shadows of gloaming gave way to evening.

The woods were alive with the stirring of nocturnal predators. A wildcat stalking a blue hare. A vole shuffled through a tangle of conifers and fallen needles. Water rushed over the smooth brown stones of a bu
rn
. He studied the rhythm.

A footfall. So stealthy, so controlled he might have imagined it. A human predator lying in wait. He exhaled in measured breaths.

He unsheathed his sword. The beveled blade shone like silver against the mist. He melted through the trees, his spine rigid with anticipation. Then he was backing toward the bu
rn
, his brogues brushing wet clumps of bog myrtle.

"I've been watching you,
"
the man before him said.

Dying wisps of light outlined the male figure in a filthy tartan who stood alone on the footbridge. Neacail of Glengalda, his shaggy ashen hair framing a face that some women would find intriguing. Broken nose. Cruel mouth. Nordic features. He was a head shorter than Douglas but bulkier with the mean strength that comes from surviving on the land. His right arm was bandaged with what looked like a woman
'
s stocking.

Douglas felt a surge of gratitude for the bone- numbing mornings of swimming in the loch and the hair-raising races he and Dainty had taken
across the moor on horseback. He hadn't lost his killing edge.

His blood quickened with battle instincts.

He glanced around, assessing the field.
"
No huts afire, Neacail?
"

Neacail hurled a stream of spittle at his feet.
"
The village is mine. No Sassenach king has a right to deny a blood claim.
"

Douglas stepped into the warped footbridge. The ropes sagged beneath his weight.
"
Why would a man destroy what he fights to gain?
"

"I
'
ll kill them one by one if I like,
"
Neacail said with a sneer.
"
I
'
ll saw off their heads and serve them to my hounds on a silver platter if it pleases
me.
"

"
It doesn
'
t please me,
"
Douglas said.
"
Do you know who I am?
"

"
The jackadandy lord who stole my birthright.
"
The man wiped his mouth on his forearm.
"
Do you think yer titles will help ye now?
"

"
The jackadandy lord.
"
Douglas raised his sword, his smile chilling.
"
To the death then.
"

Neacail sprang into motion like a statue awakening from a spell. He swung a battle ax over his head, and a sword in his left hand. Sweat carved runnels in the creases of his face. His brown eyes narrowed into slits, taunting, like a maddened boar.

Douglas raised his sword arm; strange thoughts ran through his mind. Was his own face a merciless mask of inhumanity? Had he looked like that to his enemies? A man without a soul. Steal, plunder, roar in vict
ory. If he killed him, did he
kill that kindred hatred in himself or resurrect it? Dear God, did he
enjoy
hurting others?

Why should Rowena feel safe with such a man?

His body met Neacail
'
s challenge, detached from the moral conflicts of his mind. Reflex took over. Conscience fled. He slashed upward with his broadsword and sent the other man's battle ax flying over the footbridge.

Before Neacail could react, Douglas smashed the flat of his blade against the other man
'
s arm. Neacail groaned. Aidan had taught Douglas how to fence with finesse. Dainty had taught him how to break a Barbary horse. Growing up in poverty had taught him how to fight dirty.

They fell together, unbalanced, off the
footbridge into the burn
. The laced brogues Douglas wore enabled him to gain his footing on the grassy stones. They clashed. Separated.

Neacail charged him like a centaur. Douglas kicked him in the groin. Then a dirk flashed in the man
'
s hand, and Douglas wasn
'
t fighting for ideals or salvation, or even to avenge an attack on his
people. He fought for his life
.
He danced back, slick black hair dripping down his back;
he reached for
the short knife in his belt.
And froze as a familiar figure bolted across the bridge above.

"
Jesus, no,
"
he said in a breath as Rowena reached the bank of the bu
rn
, her face coming
into focus. She carried a basket of food and wore a black silk mantle. She flaunted perfumed gloves and pearls as if she were sneaking out on a midnight picnic instead of witnessing a lethal fight. Fear for her near immobilized him.

"Go,
"
he said between his teeth.
"
Go—
go!
Get the hell out of here!
"

She gathered up her skirts, confused by his tone of voice. Then her face registered shock, as if she'd only just realized what she had interrupted.

"
Douglas—
"
She gestured behind him, her eyes wide with horror.
"
Douglas
—watch out!"

He pivoted a split second before Neacail could stab him in the throat. The dirk sliced down his shoulder. The man had intended to sever his jugular vein. Instead, he tore a jagged trail into the thick biceps of Douglas
'
s right arm.

Douglas ignored the shock of burning pain. He was staring in disbelief at the pistol that had suddenly appeared in Rowena
'
s hands.

"Give it to me, Rowena.
Now.
"

She wavered, starting to obey. Then, panicked, she aimed the pistol at Neacail as he scrambled up the bank toward her.

She stood in his path, a sentinel of defiance. Douglas saw Neacail stare at her for a second in hesitation before shoving her aside. A princess in pearls was probably the last thing a Highland outlaw expected to encounter. She fell back into the tangled cattails, the pistol sliding into the water.

Douglas let out an unholy roar that was borne more of frustration than pain. His left hand clamped to his shoulder, he bolted up t
he bank
and ran after Neacail before the loss of blood made him too lightheaded to continue.

Rowena
'
s horse had already climbed halfway up the hill. Neacail paused to make an obscene gesture before he vaulted onto the saddle and galloped away.

"He
'
s gone, my lord.
"
Rowena slid down the brae into the bu
rn
, dipping her mantle into the water. "You need help."

He wheeled, his mouth a flat line of fury and pain. "Woman,
"
he shouted at her.
"
Are you daft? You could have been kidnapped or killed!
"