Page 25 of Devil Black

Meg’s expression became tight with fury or pain. “I hate him. I cannot wait to see him get what he deserves.”

“What does he deserve? And why—”

Meg laughed harshly. “Believe it or not, we were close once, as children. We had a wild raising, just the two of us running these hills like pups, after our mother died. He was everything to me then. I thought his schemes clever and his escapades brave. I did not see his selfishness. But be warned, Mistress Isobel—my brother is utterly selfish. He sees only his own welfare, thinks only of his own hide.”

“I am wed to him now,” Isobel said as steadily as she could. “Surely I can expect some consideration?”

Meg’s lips twisted. Abandoning her role of confidante, she got to her feet. “Be warned—those about whom he is supposed to care, he treats the worst of all. I will tell you, woman to woman: whatever you do, do not fall in love with him. ’Tis a fate that I would not wish upon my worst enemy.”

Chapter Twelve

“I bade you wait for me.”

Cold to the bones, wet and unaccustomedly anxious, Dougal MacRae slipped into his wife’s bedchamber. For hours without end, with a small band of men at his back, he had played at searching the roadways, hills, and braes for a woman he knew to be elsewhere, while his body ached for her. And his mind had dealt sorely with him, imagining just this moment over and over again: himself reaching the place where she waited, to find her clothed only in her hair and in one of the glorious positions to which he had introduced her last night, either on or off the bed.

Instead he found her sitting sedately by the fire, fully clothed—sewing, by all appearances.

She gave him a cool look and lifted an eyebrow. He felt his pulse leap. One of the things—the many things—that attracted him to her was her self composure.

“I am waiting,” she said.

He approached her, shedding clothing as he came—his sopping cloak came off first, then the clammy tunic beneath. Leaving a trail of clothing from the door to the welcome heat of the fire, he ended before the flames, clad only in his kilt.

“And did you find the young lady for whom you searched?” she inquired.

He shot her an appreciative look. “You speak of Catherine Maitland? We did not. I fear some dire fate has befallen her. To be sure, though, she is not here. The only woman in this chamber is the Mistress Isobel MacRae.”

His wife made no answer to that, but continued to ply her needle, her bosom rising a bit faster than was called for by the activity.

“Has the search been called off, the night?”

He grinned. “Called for darkness. MacNab is beside himself with fury and suspicion. He would like to accuse me of something. He would also like to keep searching, but the weather is vile—snow, mixed with sleet and rain. All his helpers withdrew from him.”

“I see.”

She laid her sewing aside at last, and Dougal felt her looking at him, her gaze a virtual touch on his bare torso, arms, and the sopping hair down his back.

“You will be chilled, Husband, and hungry for your supper. Shall I ask for it to be brought here?”

Dougal allowed his desire to show. “I confess to being hungry, Wife, but not for food.” He saw the color flood her cheek. “Did I not,” he repeated himself, “tell you to wait for me?”

“And have I not?” Her eyes challenged him. “Would you have me wait naked on the bed?”

“Aye. Oh, aye!” Without thought, he unfastened his kilt and let it join the rest of his clothing on the floor. “Come, Wife, and only let me show you.”

****

Some time deep in the night, while the wind still gusted about the stones of the keep and the sleet drove hard, Dougal MacRae found himself spent—or nearly so. He lay in the big bed with his wife naked in his arms and his hand splayed on her breast. She breathed softly, and he thought she slept, though he could not be sure. His own mind felt wonderfully empty of thought or conflict—for once he knew no anger, spite or desire for revenge. This woman had successfully relieved him of everything but satisfaction.

Aye, and she proved clever and well adept, for a virtually untried, half-English woman, presumably gently raised. Curiosity prodded his mind as he wondered how, and in what circumstances, she had lost her virginity. He wondered, but it did not really matter. She proved passionate, open to try whatever challenge he set her between the sheets. And she tasted better than the sweetest honey wine.

Curse it, just the thought made him want her again. He opened his eyes and caught her watching him.

Surprised, he touched the hair clustered on her neck. “Wife, I thought you slept.”

Unexpectedly, she said, “Your sister, Meg, warned me about you, today.”

“Did she, so? Interfering bitch!”