Devil's Highlander

“Aye, man is horrible.” He'd seen it firsthand. He'd done horrible things.



As if she'd read his thoughts, she reached for him. The touch of Marjorie's hand on his arm was light, but it was as though lightning cracked, splitting his heart wide open. Her touch shattered him, exposing the pale, bleak creature hidden at his core.



In that instant, he was vulnerable. Alone, and aching with yearning.



He looked at her fingers wrapped around his forearm, and a lifetime of want burst to the fore. His eyes rose to find her gaze on him. He'd loved her so. The sight of her reminded him of all he'd lost. Of all he was missing.



Cormac stiffened. He let his mind rove to a dangerous place, one where he eased Marjorie down to take her along the rocks, running his hands over her body, through her hair. She'd let him; he saw it in her eyes. He could bury himself in her, forget it all. She'd absolve him of his pain.



His



eyes clenched shut as he let that pain roil through him. He couldn't touch her. He wasn't the man she needed. He could never be good enough for one like Ree.



Cormac pulled away, turning to heave a basket of fish higher up the shore. “Forget the boy, Marjorie.” He set his haul down with force, his eyes shut in a grimace. He'd never used such a tone with her. He hadn't called her by her full name in he knew not how long. But he couldn't help that the world was a cruel place.



“Marjorie!” his youngest sister shouted from up the beach. He told himself he was grateful for the interruption, that the pang in his chest was relief.



Cormac busied himself with his nets. He heard a rustling as Bridget enthusiastically embraced her.



“Marjorie,” Bridget exclaimed, breathless. “It is you! I never thought we'd ever see you come calling. I sent you a letter just yesterday, planning my next visit to Aberdeen, but… Losh! Here you are. Are you well?” She added with feigned innocence, “Cormac was asking after you just last week.” He scowled, untangling and smoothing the twine webbing, even though the nets were already in impeccable shape.



If he could, he'd tan his sister's meddlesome hide.



Bridget trilled merrily on. Cormac could hear from the laughter in her voice that she knew she'd gotten under his skin. “Truly, Marjorie, it distresses me that it's taken you so long to visit. We've lived here nine years!



Imagine that. I do love the times I've gotten to see you in Aberdeen, but, och, what a stranger you've become.



You'll stay for a time with us, of course.”



Cormac winced. “She'll not want to bed down in our pile of rubble,” he said, not looking up from his work.



“Cormac MacAlpin!” Bridget leaned down to swat his shoulder. “It's not so grim as all that. Come” — she linked arms with Marjorie — “and be welcome at Dunnottar Castle.”



He rose slowly, meeting Marjorie's gaze. They locked eyes and, for a blessed instant, the rest of his world fell away. He lost himself, the past, his pain, drowned in vivid blue.



She blinked, and



something shifted in her gaze. Cormac swore he felt it shimmer like electricity across his skin. Marjorie narrowed her eyes, assuming a look, her look, the one she used to get before issuing one of her infamous dares. That glint aimed straight for him, and Cormac braced.



Marjorie patted his sister's hand, her gaze never leaving his. Thank you, Bridget. I look forward to my stay.” Chapter 3



“This was all from the wars?” Marjorie ogled a patch of severely damaged masonry. “Aren't you afraid the walls will tumble about your ears?”



Bridget laughed. “It's not as though we were here when it happened. 'Twas a Covenanter siege that left the castle in a wee bit of disrepair.”



“Wee bit?” she muttered, then shuffled to catch up to Bridget, who was leading her on a brisk tour of Dunnottar.



“And you wonder why folk call you the Devil's Own!”



Marjorie came to a breathless halt in the doorway of the dining hall. The sight of Cormac seated at the table scuttled her merriment. Intent on a mug of ale and some bread, he didn't look up. Why had she thought he'd help find Davie, when he couldn't even bring himself to look at her?



“Och, the villagers.” Bridget strode in and squatted before the hearth to stoke the fire to life. “Since Father died, they claim we've been a pack of devils.”



“It's Dunn's Devils,” Cormac muttered. “For Dunnottar. That's what they say.” Marjorie watched as he studiously dunked a heel of bread in his ale, just like he used to do when he was a boy.



She fought a sudden smile and marveled at the foreign sensation. Since Davie'd been taken, her pleasures had been rare. But Cormac, he'd always made her smile. He used to tease them from her relentlessly, until she couldn't hold back.



But that had been in the time before.



The warmth that had been spreading through her chest clenched, leaving Marjorie sadder than ever.



“Oh aye.” Bridget laughed. “A pack of Highland demons we are, for want of living parents.” Cormac remained focused on his bread. “Demons, just here in our wee slice of hell.” His sister shot him a hard look. “Dunnottar's been perfectly suitable since we patched the roof.”



“It's as drafty as a boat on the open sea.”



Marjorie felt his presence like a stitch in her side; she couldn't seem to breathe easily. She pulled her shoulders back



to stand taller. “It certainly is… massive.” She looked around, taking in the gargantuan dining hall.



“Aye, 'tis a great big sprawl of a place. There are stables, cellars for wine and beer, even barracks and a chapel… “ Bridget's voice grew distracted as



she stabbed angrily at the stubborn embers. “It's housed armies, kings.” She straightened and hung the poker back in its spot by the fireplace. “Och, this cursed fire.”



“And all these years, folk have simply let you… stay here? Nobody's tried to make you leave?”



“I challenge anyone to try,” Bridget proclaimed. “In any case, it's been nigh on nine years now. They're not going to drag us out now.”



Cormac slowly leaned back in his chair, and for the first time since they'd stood together on the beach, he met Marjorie's eyes.



The force of his gaze was a physical thing. She'd had something she was about to say, but it froze on her tongue. She tried desperately but couldn't seem to make her mind produce words.



“It was abandoned, after all.” Bridget's tone was breezy, and if she'd noticed anything pass between Marjorie and her brother, she didn't let it show.



Cormac cut his eyes down, the spell broken. “Abandoned? It's barely livable.”



“Och, 'tis a fine place.” Bridget clapped the ash from her hands. “Folk know we've no other home, and so they let us stay.”



Cormac sneered. “Or they're afraid of us.”



“Aye.” Bridget giggled. “That, too.” She turned to Marjorie, explaining only half-jokingly, “My brothers make a fearsome trio. You should've seen them when we lost our cottage.” Marjorie pasted a smile on her face. Trio. Because the fourth went missing thirteen years ago. The thought didn't seem to occur to Bridget. So pretty and carefree, she'd been only two years old when Aidan was taken.



“You mean when you lost your tenancy?”



“Aye, when Father was killed in battle.” Bridget sauntered to Cormac's chair, and Marjorie sensed him bristle.



“Oh Marj,” she said, patting her brother's shoulder, “these lads were glorious. And so young, too — Gregor was sixteen at the time, and Declan only ten! But they looked out for me even then. I worried the laird would resort to burning our old, wee cottage down in his attempts to remove my brothers from it.”



“I'd always just assumed… “ She'd always thought the MacAlpin siblings had simply made the odd choice to live there. It'd never struck her that they had no other recourse but to squat in an abandoned castle. “Have you no place to go then, no other family? Nowhere in all Scotland?”



Bridget shrugged. “Gregor made inquiries, after Father's death. But no distant relatives popped from the heather to deed us any sort of ancestral home.”



“Is Gregor here?” Marjorie brightened. Gregor was the eldest MacAlpin son, and he was a hard man not to like.



“Why would he not be?” Bridget asked.



“Oh, I suppose… “ Marjorie furrowed her brow. “I just assumed he was living in Aberdeen now.”



“Gregor doesn't live in Aberdeen,” Bridget said, as though Marjorie had just asserted that the sky was green.



“Well, sometimes he travels to Aberdeen, but he certainly doesn't live there.”



“Oh, I'm mistaken, of course.” Though she would've sworn she'd heard rumors that Gregor kept a home near Broadgate.



“Aye, and Declan's about, too.” Bridget shot one last look of disgust at the fire and strode toward the door.



“Come, we'll finish our tour, and perhaps we'll run into them.”



Marjorie stole a glance at Cormac. He was staring into his empty ale mug, his face blank. A dull ache crept across her chest, until breathing became a conscious effort. She nodded a mute good-bye, which he didn't acknowledge.



How would she ever get him to help her? She was as alone as she'd ever been. Was she deluding herself to think he'd ever come to her aid? She'd written her fate, a silly fool of a girl, with a dare thirteen years ago.



Marjorie left the room with a heavy heart but quickly came back to herself when she realized she'd lost sight of Bridget. Looking left and right, she spotted her down the hall, already bustling up a spiral staircase. Marjorie jogged after her, struggling to catch up while keeping a careful eye on her feet so as not to slip on the treacherously narrow stone steps.



“It's for the better, you know,” Bridget said when Marjorie reached her. “Dunnottar is more spacious. Though I know as well as any that it's a mite threadbare… “