For the Highlander's Pleasure (5 page)

The tightness in his chest eased. The drunkard father was not a madman after all. The plan made sense, since Violet needed a strong protector. And the assurance of having her legally cleared the way for what Finn wanted from her right now. Right here.

“That’s me,” he reminded her, knowing now that Fate had sent him to her this day. For all that a tragedy had led him to Caladan, he could be grateful that this woman waited for him on the other end of the journey. “I am the champion of Caladan and if there is a fiend lurking in these woods, I will find him.”

His reward would be better than mere vengeance. Violet might not realize it yet, but she was more than ready to give him the sweetest prize of all.

* * *

“Tell me more of this potion you used,” Finn demanded as he studied her in the firelight.

Outside, the rain still battered the roof of the old mill while the rising river splashed the foundations. Violet had never brought another living soul to this place. Now she shared it with a man she’d only just met, yet he was a man who knew her all too intimately.

Her heart fluttered fast at the sight of his strong profile in the glow from the small hearth, his stern jaw a decided contrast to the soft fullness of a mouth that had brought her unexpected pleasure.

“I hoped the potion would soften my heart,” she admitted, trusting him more since Morag had encouraged her to look past his warrior ways to the man beneath. The man who had not taken advantage of her in the dark corridor earlier when he could easily have despoiled her. “Instead, it stirred my—” flustered, she gestured helplessly to her body “—desire.”

“Are you still suffering the effects?” The concern in his expression surprised her.

“Morag said the symptoms I described were too intense to be attributed to the herbs.” Shrugging, she wondered if her skin would ever return to normal again. Even the simple act of lifting her shoulder made her breasts brush against the inside of her dress in a way that felt decadent. Sweetly sinful. “I do not understand this heightened sensitivity.”

“She did not suggest an answer?” He tilted his head, regarding her curiously. His thick dark hair brushed his shoulder as he turned and she recalled the lush, silky feel of it in her fingers.

“No. But I left in a rush because of the storm.” She’d wanted to tell Morag about Finn’s arrival more than she wanted to complain about the herbs. But she’d seen the way Morag had reacted to the news of Violet’s suffering. “I don’t think she was surprised, though. She seemed more…amused. Which is unlike her, because normally when she mixes herbs without success she is distressed about it.”

A wolfish grin spread across Finn’s features, his teeth shiny white in the darkness.

“That is because she understood your condition for what it was.” He lifted a lock of her hair from where it lay on her shoulder and twined the dark curl around one finger. “It is a circumstance that every man and woman should be so fortunate to experience once in a lifetime.”

Without the fabric twined about her neck, Finn’s hand hovered close to the bare patch of skin at the base of her throat. Her flesh practically vibrated with awareness of him as she remembered what it had felt like for him to touch her there.

“You speak of lust?” She should not know of such things, perhaps, but with her mother long gone she’d been raised in close proximity to a keep full of her father’s retainers and she understood what drove the men to the maids’ pallets.

“Nay.” Relinquishing the curl, he allowed it to settle along her exposed skin in a teasing caress that called up the hot hunger she’d been running from all day. “Much better than that. ’Tis the body’s recognition of its one true mate. A desire so strong it will not be denied.”

Like a gauntlet tossed, Finn’s words challenged her. Would she prove him right by going to him now? Or defy the edgy urgings of her body that wanted his with a fierceness she could not understand?

His fingers went to the laces of his tunic and unfastened them. Golden skin sprinkled with dark hair appeared in the gap as he loosened the garment, then pulled it over his head. His bare chest was sculpted with impossible strength, his arms roped with muscle and his shoulders as broad as hammered armor.

Her breath came in short, rapid bursts. Flames flickered all over her skin. The wantonness she’d experienced earlier came roaring back with new force and urgent demand.

“You speak madness,” she accused softly, though her body already hovered closer to him.

“Yesterday I would have agreed.” He drew her into his arms slowly, giving her time to protest.

But she could not. A roar in her ears told her to touch him. Take whatever he offered. Take
him
.

When his mouth met hers, her lips melted beneath his. Like liquid, she conformed to the hard planes of his body as if they had already become one. She traced the strong sinew of his back with greedy fingers, wanting nothing between them. While he might speak madness, it was a heady lunacy that she wanted to drown in. How could his touch be so gentle, his restraint so great, when he possessed enough power in his hands to take from her anything he wanted? Yet he’d held himself back in the hall earlier, allowing her to free herself when her fears overwhelmed her.

His kindness touched her, since her father had always been more likely to respond with a backhand than a kind word.

Now, determined to lose herself in this tenderness, she savored the path Finn’s hands traveled. He worked the laces of her kirtle, freeing the tight constraints. With a nudge of his thigh, he lifted her onto his lap and then lifted her up to the heather tick she kept in one corner of the room, dragging the woolen blanket with him. Lightning streaked through the high arrow slits, illuminating his strong form over her, letting her see the restraint he used as he settled her on the blanket. He was so strong, yet he handled her with exquisite care, dragging her garments up and off until she lay before him utterly naked.

His gaze raked over her with a thoroughness she could only hope his hands would soon imitate. He stretched out over her, his powerful arms keeping his weight from her. Tenderly, he kissed her breasts, reminding her how quickly he could make her skin tingle with pleasure..

In no time, he’d parted her thighs with his hands and settled himself between her legs. He held her hips still as he shifted his braies and freed the hard shaft of his manhood. She twisted against him, hungry for the feel of him and shy with maidenly innocence at the same time.

But he caught her chin and tipped her face toward his.

“Nay, Violet. I would look in your eyes when I take you and know that you are mine.”

And she was. Even before she gave him her virginity, she knew she belonged with him. Whether by Fate or chance or an answer to her prayers when she asked the heavens for a man she could accept into her heart, Finn Mac Néill was her destiny.

As their gazes held, locked, he stroked her most sensitive flesh. Now, as he aligned his body with hers, she understood its purpose. The slickness between her thighs welcomed the impossible breadth of his shaft, easing his way.

Still, she scored his back with her nails, unable to stop herself. But his restraint never wavered, his slow claiming a sensual revelation. The tearing within did not come as a surprise, but the pleasure that followed as he began to move inside her was…extraordinary.

“Finn,” she breathed, her heartbeat galloping hard as if she raced toward some invisible finish. “It’s like standing at the edge of a great precipice—”

Everything stilled and gathered inside her. Waiting. Holding. Finn’s eyes never left her face, but he reached between them to stroke the tender place between her legs with one molten caress.

Pleasure blinded her like a lightning strike. Waves of bliss cascaded over her, drowning her. Her body was not her own, undulating in the throes of passion fulfilled. A high, keening cry filled the chamber and somewhere between the sweet convulsions and the drive to catch her breath, she realized the sound came from her throat.

Finn growled in her ear as his hips pumped harder. Faster. She could feel his body arch and tighten the way hers had and knew he must have found the same release. She clung to him, savoring the moment and the knowledge that he had wanted her with the same intensity that she’d hungered for him. Whatever had passed between them, it was as binding as any vow.

At least, it was for her. She could not say what Finn might think in the aftermath of her lost virginity, but she hoped he had been moved in the same way she had. Uneasiness crept through her as he kissed her forehead and turned to pull on his braies.

She edged herself up to a sitting position, not ready to lose the warmth of the connection between them. As she tugged on her tunic, she felt a twinge inside, a soreness she should have expected.

“Let me,” Finn insisted, smoothing the linen garment over her hips with gentle hands.

A blush bloomed over her despite what they’d just done. Strange that dressing could be even more intimate than undressing. She wanted to ask him what would happen. Would he simply accept her virginity as payment for the service he planned to render her father? Or could there be…more?

Licking her lips, she gathered her courage.

“Finn—”

A shuffling sound below stairs cut her off. The creak of a step. Someone else was in the mill with them.

Her gaze darted to Finn, but he was already throwing her kirtle into her lap and retrieving his sword.

“Stay here,” he hissed, his back to the wall as he descended the stairs to face the intruder.

Chapter Five

Finn eased down the stairs slowly, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness as he moved away from the firelight. His ears strained for any hint of sound, but the rainfall outside masked small noises, even muffling his footsteps as he descended.

He gripped the hilt of his sword, keeping the weapon close. Cold wind whistled past him as he reached the lower level. The breeze would be the only thing to get by him. With Violet upstairs, he would make certain of it.

Peering around the main floor of the abandoned mill, Finn could discern no movement. No dark shapes hiding in the corners. The door had blown open, banging on its hinges as another gust of wind barreled through the archway.

Was that all they’d heard?

He moved toward the door, ready to close it, when another shuffling noise in the corner caught his attention.

A shadow took the form of a man rising from the floor. Nay, ascending a set of steps.

“Don’t move.” Finn touched the tip of his sword to the figure’s chest before he could climb to the final tread into the main chamber.

The trespasser was a young man, humbly dressed in dark clothes. Bent to one side, he favored one leg as if he’d sustained an old injury. He did not flinch when Finn’s blade bit into his cloak.

“I don’t want trouble,” the shadow said, lifting his arms slightly so that Finn could see them. “I just came for water.”

Finn caught sight of the cups in his raised hands, one palm higher than the other because of his awkward build.

“With a river and a downpour outside?” Finn pressed the blade more firmly against the intruder’s hauberk.

In the darkness, it was difficult to gauge his age or his social status. A man at arms? A common thief? It seemed likely he was an outcast. Though he appeared young and healthy, his limp meant he would not fare well with either a peasant’s labor or a knight’s training.

“It is not fit for man or beast out there.” The stranger did not wear a sword, but there was a short blade at his waist. His clothes were shabby, Finn could now tell. “I sought shelter for my drink.”

Was this one of the forest dwellers that Violet worried about? She had feared Finn would drive out anything and everything he found in the woods around Caladan. And although he would not be so callous, neither would he let a killer walk hidden among the poor and downtrodden.

“Finn?” From above, Violet’s voice drifted down the stairs.

No doubt she’d been worried, but he would have preferred the interloper remain ignorant of her presence. Finn did not answer her yet. Instead, he studied the stranger’s face to search for his reaction to Violet’s call. Had the man known she was above stairs? Was he as familiar with her hideaway upstairs as he was with the water source below?

“Who are you?” he pressed, sword never wavering.

“John Miller. My grandfather ran this mill before the water wheel broke.” The man looked to his raised hands where he still carried the water. “Would you mind if I set down the cups?”

“Finn?” Violet called again.

Had she come closer? She would not be in immediate danger with his sword and his body between her and the intruder, but she would be safest hidden away from him. Protectiveness surged, an instinct as keen as his thirst for vengeance had once been. He realized he wanted to keep Violet of Caladan safe from harm even more than he wanted to avenge his brother. He would do both. But if he had to choose, he would guard Violet first.

“’Tis a stranger come for a drink. John Miller.” Unwilling to allow the man any unchecked movement, he took the vessels from Miller’s hands, setting them on a warped chest nearby.

Violet’s feet sounded on the stairs. He knew she descended. Knew she would not appreciate him holding one of her forest dwellers hostage. He cursed himself for not ensuring she remained locked safely in the keep this night.

“I have seen him in the forest before.” She rounded the final corner of the stairs and hurried into view in her saffron gown. Spying Finn’s sword, she stopped a few feet behind him. “He is but a harmless exile.”

Finn could smell the rose scent of her, a faint reminder of her delicate nature as a woman. He’d been entrusted with so much to watch over her.

Soon he would install her in his best keep and serve her from his fingers. He hated that she’d been so ill-treated by her father that she’d made a second home for herself in the woods. A home that put her in contact with thieves and cutthroats. Possibly killers.

“He says his grandfather ran the mill.” Finn would not harass anyone who had lived in these woods for a long time. His brother had been stabbed at harvest time in the Highlands, so if John Miller had been here longer than that, he was not likely the killer. “Is this true?”

“I am too young to remember when this mill operated. But I have heard others say as much.” She seemed to relax now that she could see the other man, perhaps reassured the intruder was not anyone she considered harmful. “He has drawn water for my friend Morag many times these last weeks.”

But where was John Miller before that?

“Stand back,” Finn cautioned, keeping his sword pointed at Miller.

But John Miller did not move a muscle. He was such a compliant hostage, in fact, that Finn guessed he wasn’t guilty of anything more than homelessness. Outcasts went to the forests to scratch out a living when they were banished. Still, he couldn’t be too careful. He would take the man back to Caladan to find out who could vouch for him. He eased the sword back into his belt, and withdrew the short blade at his waist. That would be more than enough weaponry to hold the man.

Finn turned to Violet to explain his plan. She watched him with worried eyes. She was incomparably lovely, gracious and strong at the same time. He’d never met a woman daring enough to slip past the watchtower guards and yet clever enough to protect her hiding places by spreading rumors of ghosts.

But as she stood beside the warped chest where he’d set the cups of water that Miller had drawn, a peculiar feeling came over him. Cold, like dread. He looked back to his hostage, sensing danger somehow. Yet John Miller made no move. He merely watched Violet as she raised one of the vessels to her lips.

Taking a harmless drink?

Visions of his brother’s pale corpse assailed him.

“No!” Finn launched himself at her, swiping her arm. The cup flew. Water spilled. “It’s tainted.”

Stunned, she stared at him with wide eyes. John Miller shoved past him to reach the door.

Finn didn’t hesitate. He threw his knife end over end, pinning Miller to the wall through the shoulder of his cloak. The man tugged against the fabric, but it held fast.

“What are you doing?” Violet cried, her cheeks pale. From worry?

Or from some foul brew? He didn’t know how he recognized it. An instinct. A result of being cynical and suspicious.

“The drink may contain poison.” He blotted her lips with his sleeve, drying them. “The water could be contaminated with something he added. My brother died by some kind of unnatural concoction and that must be how the other victim died.”

“Why?” Violet shook her head, brows furrowed. She turned to Miller, whose struggles had slowed, possibly because Finn lurked closer. “Why would you do that?”

“Your father banished my family when we could not afford to run the mill. He did not care that my father’s only son was not strong enough to make repairs.” Moving slowly, Miller removed a pouch from his belt and held it up for them to see a dirty bag full of dried herbs. “I was not strong enough to take revenge the way a knight would. But as I traveled the Highlands with my family in search of a new lord, I learned about the various properties of plants in the wild. Soon I had another idea for vengeance. One I’ve been perfecting ever since…”

His eyes drifted shut. Only then did Finn realize he must have nicked the man’s flesh. A small red stain appeared on his cloak. Violet clutched Finn’s arm and when he turned to look at her, she was frighteningly pale.

“You must find Morag.” Her eyelashes fluttered and she wavered on her feet.

Fear caused his stomach to sink like a stone. His gaze never strayed from her as the menace pinned to the wall gave an eerie cackle. All his focus remained on Violet.

“Did you drink some of that foul brew?” He thought he’d caught her in time. Memories of his brother’s quick decline gripped him.

What if she’d consumed some of Miller’s “perfected” poison?

“Maybe a bit,” she admitted softly, swaying into him as if she felt faint. “You recall the way to her cabin?”

She peered up at him with worried eyes.

Hauling her up into his arms, he hurried out into the night. John Miller was the least of his concerns.

“We’re almost there,” he promised, tearing through the woods as if her life depended on it.