Devil's Highlander

His tongue took her mouth, exploring her, owning her, and she thought her heart might explode in her chest. She opened herself, trembling from the sheer bliss of it.



She'd never kissed a man before. She'd always known it could be only Cormac. But she hadn't dared hope. She barely dared believe it now.



She stroked her hands along his arms, more mindful now, needing to feel him, to convince herself this could really be true. He wore only his linen shirt and his plaid, and the fabric clung to him, wet under her fingertips.



His muscles were solid, as though his entire body was clenched for her, fighting either against his desire or for it.



Her fingers curled into those hard muscles, and he pulled her closer still. His hand tightened in her hair, cradling her head as he pulled his mouth from hers, only to come down hungrily on her neck, her throat, her jaw. He rained kisses over her face, tender kisses, hard kisses. Both angry and loving, and she wondered what demons he fought. Did Cormac's kisses overcome them, or was this his submission?



He clutched her tighdy to him, and the feel of his strong arm braced along her back, the broad span of his hand on her waist, made her feel tiny, insubstantial. She was no longer a woman plodding through the world but had become instead some other, more transcendent creature, the sum of her now simply the fluttering of her heart in her breast and this tremendous need vibrating through her veins.



His hand roved her, along her side, over her breast, up to cup her cheek, and then back down again. She sank into Cormac, her legs molten, held upright only by the muscular arm at her back.



A crash and hiss, louder and closer than before, burst through to them, and frigid seawater broke and swirled over their feet.



He pulled away, staring at her, their faces a breath apart. His eyes were half-lidded, his dark brow furrowed almost as though in pain. In that moment, she found Cormac unbearably beautiful. He bore such secrets, such hidden depths. She wanted to understand them all.



She saw something else on his face: a wanting, raw and potent.



His intent, for her.



Could it be possible? Battered hope sprang to life in her heart. She blinked the rain from her eyes, fighting to breathe.



He was silent, and fear speared her through. Would he feel regret? Was this kiss to be her first and her last?



“Cormac?” she asked, her voice tremulous. Cold rain spilled down her cheeks, and she felt chilled for want of him.



“Ree,” he said simply. “You. It's always been you.”



Slowly he eased closer, ever so slowly his mouth came back to hover just over hers. She felt his breath on her lips, and she knew such a rush of pleasure, of completion, it was like her soul expanding from her body.



He gently wiped wet strands of hair from her face, their gazes locked.



Could this mean he was to make her his? That he'd include her in his life? “Does this mean you'll include me in your… plans?”



Shaking his head, Cormac let out a low laugh. “Does it mean you'll not let that swine Archie touch you again?”



“Never. Never will any man touch me. Any overman,” she amended with a smile.



She'd spoken lightly, but he grew grave. He gave her a tight nod, the look on his face inscrutable.



“So?” She reached up and cupped his cheek, giddy with the freedom of it, the intimacy. The faint scrape of stubble was rough in her palm. He'd never be so shining and clean-shaven as one like Archie, and it made the heat in her belly rage anew. Cormac was rough and raw and all man. Her next words came breathily. “Can I stay with you?”



“Aye, Ree. You'll stay with me.” He kissed the top of her head with a husky laugh. “Woman, I ken you, and if I don't keep an eye on you, you'll be back in those trews and trolling the docks by yourself.” She'd tasted his jealousy and found it irresistible, and so she couldn't resist jibing him. “I always had Archie to help me.”



“The devil I may be, and I'll be damned twice over if I let that ninny help you.”



“Archie's not a ninny. He's merely—”



“I know. A physician surgeon.” He gave her a mock glare, and she giggled despite herself.



“No lass, I've had enough of this Archie. Knowing the bailie,” he muttered under his breath. “As though that's of any use.” He inhaled, touching his forehead to hers. “It's not child's play we've ahead of us, Ree. Do you swear to mind me? There'll be danger, and you'll need to trust that I know how best to protect us.” Ahead of us. She nodded. Us. She swelled at the thought.



“You'll need to take a different name,” he went on. “It's too dangerous. I'll not let you be recognized.”



“Of course.” The excitement stole all other thoughts from her head. She and Cormac would work together. They would find Davie. Together.



Cormac cared for her, wanted her even. Did it mean he forgave her everything? She pushed away the thought, unwilling to let it pierce her joy.



Because he would help her, they'd find Davie; she knew it. How could they not? Such a joining felt too perfect for failure.



Cormac turned his head to look out at the waves. She watched him deep in thought, waiting patiently, trusting him.



“Your uncle will be safer if this doesn't lead to him.” He looked back at her, and resolution had smoothed his brow. “You'll need to tell Humphrey, and tell that meddling maid of yours, too, that my sister has invited you for a prolonged visit to Dunnottar. I'll not have you compromised. We can't be discovered off alone together; the scandal would be too great. Tell them you need to go away for a time.”



“Go away where?”



“With me, lass.” He placed his finger gendy beneath her chin. “Away with me.” Chapter 13



Fiona stood on the threshold of Westhall Manse, meticulously dusting and straightening her skirts. It was strange, Marjorie's request that she deliver news to Archie. But it meant Fiona could see Archie once more and on her own, so she'd leapt at the chance.



She was to inform Archie that Marjorie was going away for an extended visit to Dunnottar. Only on the walk over did it strike her what an odd turn of events it was. Why was Marjorie leaving now?



And why didn't her mistress tell him herself? Was it to distract Fiona from something? Or did Marjorie simply suspect the fancy she harbored for Archie?



Fiona couldn't imagine why any woman wouldn't be fascinated by the young physician surgeon. Archie was proper and kind, and though he was beyond the reach of a mere maid like her, she relished every chance she got to see him.



Marjorie could have a man like him in an instant, and it baffled Fiona that she'd chosen not to.



“Just knock, chit,” she scolded herself, her heart thudding in her chest. She grew light-headed trying to catch her breath, and that made her even more anxious.



But then again, if she fainted, Archie might be the one to resuscitate her. Quickly, she fingered the pleats in the front of her skirts one last time. She knocked hard, before she had a chance to think twice. “He's a physician, and I'm a fool.”



The rectory housekeeper ushered Fiona into a tiny receiving area off the main entrance. Fiona's eyes widened as she entered. The Keith family had bigger closets than this.



“We've no showy solars or sitting rooms here,” the old woman told her. “Lord Murray puts every space to some use.”



Lord Murray. The woman had meant



Archie. Fiona gulped. Because of his close association with Marjorie, he'd always insisted Fiona call him by his given name. But she was a mere maid. Just like this housekeeper.



Had she overstepped all this time? She felt a rush of heat to her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said as primly as possible.



Though she'd visited Saint Machar before, it'd always been with Marjorie, and the instant the housekeeper bustled out, Fiona looked around eagerly. The room was narrow, furnished only with a padded bench and side table. A cross hung on the wall. Distant bustle echoed from the rear of the building, and she peered back out the door, wondering if it was the next meal's preparations she heard.



She met with Archie's chest as he strode around the corner, and she pulled back with a start. “Oh! Losh, I… my apologies… I had no notion… “



Archie caught her arms to steady her. “Oh no, no. I'll not hear of it, Fiona. You must accept my apology.” He put her at her ease, as he always did, and she gazed up at him. So tall and chivalrous, just what she imagined a lord should be. Lean, well-spoken, and neat as a pin — not rough like Cormac. His hands lingered longer on her arms than was strictly proper.



“I have news, Lord Murray.” She made herself say his correct tide, and self-consciousness inflamed her cheeks.



He gave her a scolding look. “Archie. I've told you. You must call me Archie.”



“Archie, then.” She gave him an adoring smile that she thought might split her face in two. “I've news from my mistress, Archie.”



He swallowed hard, seeming unsettled. He was pleased to see her, but he looked a little nervous, too. The thrill of it swelled in her breast.



Slipping his hand around her elbow, he guided her to sit next to him on the bench. “First, we must see to your wound.”



“But that was so long ago.” Weeks back, she'd cut herself badly with a kitchen knife. As luck had it, Archie had been visiting Humphrey's house at the time. It had hurt something fierce, but it'd been worth it to experience his tender ministrations.



“Aye,” he said, taking her finger, “but I'd like to see how it healed.” His hand was cool cradling hers. He nestled his thumb in her palm, tilting her finger to the light. She thought her heart might fly from her chest.



“Perfect,” he said, his voice husky.



She had to clear her throat to reply. “I've you to thank for it.”



“It was truly my pleasure.” He brought her hand down but didn't let go. “And now what can I do for you, my dear Fiona?”



“So… “ It took all she had not to sputter. She cursed her hot blood, feeling a flush rise from her breasts all the way to the tips of her ears. Her eyes met his. The silence hung between them, and finally she shook herself.