Page 4 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

“After how his brother Owen killed yer oldest sister, are ye no’ worried he’ll take advantage?”

Fury rattled to be set loose from its prison where Tormund kept it. This single lie was what had ruined everything. To this day, Tormund couldn’t figure out who was truly guilty for the crime against sweet Marjorie. But Owen had paid the price for the culprit’s sin, and Tormund had been decreed a warring outlander.

“Protect him, brother. Hide him. Damn the Peace.” Owen’s dying wish as Tormund had cradled the massive warrior on his knees—with dirks thrust through his ribs that would pour red the moment Tormund unsheathed them. “No one can ever make peace with MacDonald,” he’d croaked. “No one can ever ken what ye hide. He’s the best thing I’ve ever done. The best art I’ve ever made. Promise me. Devil MacDonald will never listen, will never understand.”

“I promise, Owe. Fok, but nay die…”

The Great Peace was forfeit. Then Tormund had had to return to Stornoway Castle, on the Isle of Lewis, to solemnly write the most important letter of his life to the Crown: Owen’s wee swaddled babe, orphaned and abandoned, that he’d promised Owen he’d protect, was dead.

Tormund shook away the memories. He lived every day within this darkness, but it would haunt him if he let it.

“At least here there’s a mandatory truce declared,” MacNicol said. “All have to swear on the white flag and surrender their swords.”

MacDonald harrumphed. “MacLeod wipes his arse with truce flags.”

Tormund’s mouth twitched. Aye, he also wiped his feet upon them. They made good tourniquets, too, when his enemies violated every truce they’d declared. And they looked pretty dyed blood-red. James sounded an awful lot like a cauldron calling out a kettle for being hot.

Tormund shoved away and circumvented the dancing as their conversation turned to other things. Stars twinkled overhead as he wedged between trestle tables where less boisterous folk played at draughts or chess. Flutes trilled Bodhráns beat. Tankards clinked. Singing and colorful skirts and patrons clad in masks ushered in the first night of the harvest festival as handfasts were made, truces declared—they’d be holding their breaths for a truce betwixt him and MacDonald. Roasted meat warmed the air with savory smells, and he had devised the perfect way to exact revenge—

A body slammed into his.

He whirled around, whipped out his sgian achlais beneath his armpit—a…lass?

Hell, nay a lass. An angel laughing the most melodic laugh. He sheathed the knife. A mask of white fringed her hidden face, bedecked in feathers and sparkling crystal beads. And her glossy hair, the color of honey aglow in a setting sun, hung loose past her rear in cornsilk waves.

She gripped his forearm, quelling her laugh but not her smile. “I’m sorry, man.”

Lavender, fresh and clean, assaulted his nose from her swaying hair.

Christ, but he hadn’t smelled such a scent in sixteen years, four months, and seventeen days. The scent was a past so far buried in the depths of time, he rarely pried the lid off the barrel of memories to think about it.

His hands, he realized, had braced her waist to steady her. Waves of tingling crashed over him at her delicate touch, at the feel of his fingers curling over her hips, eyes darting down to where she gripped his doublet sleeves, raking shivers up his limbs and straight to his cock. No lass ever willingly touched him so unless he was paying for it.

She held his gaze. Her white gown embroidered with crystal beads twinkled in the firelight, casting her in ethereal sparkles, her chin held high like a princess mingling with her commoners. She licked her lower lip with a nervous tongue. Like a hawk, he tracked it. She was exquisite, her kissable lips the color of berries he wanted to taste.

Tongues indeed. She was not the lass for such sport. There was a tavern full of wenches who could sate him if he turned around.

But like the cursed MacLeod that he was, he wanted what he shouldn’t. He dropped his hold on her waist—

“Dance with me, demon,” she challenged, her voice like a lute, her fingers finding his and weaving into them while her other reached up to touch his mask of a demon. Unlike with the wench, he let her toy with it. “This is my favorite part of Lughnasadh. And no man has dared to touch me.”

Not a single man? She was high ranking indeed, for someone must have put the fear of God in every eligible suitor here to keep their paws to themselves.

His gaze dropped to their laced fingers. No woman had offered him such a sweet embrace, and something foreign pinched in his chest. He was the last man on earth worthy of such sweetness. The women he usually sought ran their hands and mouths down his chest and beneath his belts when it suited him. If their mouths were full, it meant they didn’t have to talk to each other. He was sullying this porcelain creature just by breathing near her.

“Nay, angel. I wear targets aplenty on my back,” his deep voice raked. He didn’t miss the shiver that passed over her.

“Are ye so afeared, that ye have so many enemies?”

He hitched his chin in affirmative. “I’m nay a man to be trifled with.”

She bit her lip at his warning, and his gaze tracked that, too. Those eyes behind her mask loomed up at him. Were they soft blue? Or green? Sakes, she was sweet. Then she laughed her melodic laugh.

“Posh, demon. There’s no such thing as enemies at Lughnasadh.”

She dragged him into the fray, into the light from the shadows. Hell, he didn’t dance, and yet, was letting this blond goddess kill all his good sense. She twisted and spun through his hands, deft and confident, something familiar about the way she moved that intrigued him as she tipped her head back and closed her eyes to the heavens, arms outstretched, trusting in his hold, as if giving herself up as an offering to the midnight sky studded in celestial light. Her hair fanned around her like banners on the wind, and he was bewitched.

Around they went, him like a fool, unable to tell her no, and in truth, not wanting to. He hadn’t danced in ages, since before the fire, for life wasn’t rainbows and revelry. The motions felt foreign and clumsy on his limbs, but as long as she wished to be held by him, he’d do it. He pulled her close, feeling her soft curves against the planes of his chest, within his palms spanning her waist, when she suddenly snagged his wrist and dragged him out of the melee. He looked about for what might have spooked her. Nothing seemed amiss, other than MacDonald exiting the tavern awning, looking at the revelers. He reeled her to him, so that she fell against his chest in the shadows. She winced, plucking up the talon he wore about his neck to inspect it.