Kilts and Daggers Page 6

  Even though he spoke the truth, Grace wasn’t daft enough to admit it. Girding herself with resolve, she kept her voice firm and final. “My sister is only fifteen. Why would she need to shackle anyone? Besides, she is beautiful and smart. She can have any man she desires. Why would she want someone like Laird Munro when there are plenty of English lords for her choosing?”

  “I donna know, lass. ’Tis why I asked ye.”

  Grace straightened herself with dignity and smoothed her skirts. “Understand this… Elizabeth is a Walsingham, and we Walsinghams chase no man.”

  “Aye, well, I’ll be sure to tell that to Torquil the next time I see him.”

  “We should return before the sun sets.” Grace stepped around the wall that was Fagan. She started to walk back to the horses without him when a hand snaked around her waist. Suddenly, she found herself facing a very broad chest.

  “The sun will nae set for another hour.”

  “What is it you want from me, and why do you insist on plaguing me at every turn?”

  He boldly met her eyes. “Why is it ye always walk away from me when ye donna like what I have to say?”

  She lifted a brow. “Pardon?”

  “Donna be coy with me. Ye understand my words.”

  She huffed. “I don’t like you, Mister Murray.”

  “So ye’ve said many times before, bhana-phrionnsa.”

  She gave him a hostile glare and clenched her teeth. “Will you quit calling me that?”

  “Why? What are ye going to do? Punch me in the face again?” His expression was tight with strain, and he stood so close that she could feel his breath on her face.

  “You are nothing but an arrogant, beastly excuse for a man and—”

  Her last words were smothered because Fagan’s mouth covered hers with a savage intensity that startled her. The punishment of his lips on hers made her knees tremble. Her emotions whirled and skidded. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. Her wild-beating heart was the only sound audible.

  Oh, bloody hell.

  Grace couldn’t miss the musky smell of him as he pulled her closer. His hands locked against her ribs like steel bindings. She tried not to think about how hard and warm his body was against hers. When she felt blood surge from her fingertips the whole way to her toes, she knew this had to be a sin to feel so good.

  His mouth did not become softer as he kissed her. His kiss was punishing, angry. He forced her lips open with his thrusting tongue, and she’d never felt more alive. She lifted her arms around his neck, and his long hair brushed her cheek. She could swear she felt the fierce pounding of his heart against hers, and she suddenly became deeply conscious of the heavy rise and fall of her chest against his.

  God help her. She willingly complied. She knew she should deter his advances, but the passion between them consumed all thought. She returned his kiss with growing confidence, matching the thrust and parry of his tongue. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t get enough. She succumbed all right, and she didn’t do it in half measure but with fervor.

  For some odd reason, she had no desire to back out of his embrace. She knew she should. This wasn’t right. The kiss had to be so wrong. As if reality slowly crept back in, she arched her body against him, seeking to get free.

  She pulled back and her mouth burned with fire. She panted between slightly parted lips. “How. Dare. You. Kiss. Me.” Then, in one forward motion, she grasped his jaw and reclaimed his lips with hers.

  He crushed her against him, kissing her with no mercy. Without warning, he lifted his head and they parted by mere inches. “I. Donna. Like. English. Women.” His voice was low and rough, as if he were in pain. With a primal growl, he lowered his lips to hers again, and she was made to endure the cruel ravishment of Fagan’s mouth.

  Her wild frenzy only seemed to increase his. He caressed her lips with demanding mastery. The harder and deeper he kissed her, the more she wanted. Grace had never dreamed a kiss from any man would feel like this.

  Her hands explored the breadth of his shoulders and his powerful muscled chest. He was raw, primitive. He was a Highlander in every sense of the word and form. When an innocent moan escaped her, he pulled back.

  There was a heavy silence.

  Fagan disturbed her in every way. She knew an attraction to him would be perilous, but the idea sent her spirits soaring. As his gaze traveled over her face, she glanced down, pulling herself away from her ridiculous preoccupation with his emerald eyes. He lifted her chin gently with his finger, and his breathing was heavy.

  “’Tis foolish for an English lass to fall in love with a Highlander. I donna want to see Elizabeth hurt.”

  Grace detected a thawing in his tone. She nodded, almost forgetting he was speaking of Elizabeth. “I thought the same.”

  “There could ne’er be anything between them.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  He dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “Good. Now that that’s settled, I’ll get the mounts.”

  * * *

  Fagan was mindless with lust. It had taken all of his strength to pull away from Grace. He wasn’t sure where he came up with the brilliant idea to kiss her, when all he had really wanted was for her to hold her tongue. He was tired of her and her raging ire toward him. When he had enough sense to stop kissing her, he felt humbled just looking at her. She’d given him the greatest of gifts.

  Grace had been completely honest in her response to him.

  He grabbed the reins to the mounts before he lost all sense of reason. She slowly approached him, and he didn’t ask for permission before he had lifted her onto her horse. In that uncomfortable moment, she couldn’t look him in the eye, and he wasn’t sure what he would’ve said to her if she had.

  They rode back to the castle without a spoken word between them. The sun had started to set, and before long, light would be lost. Fagan hoped it would be dark enough soon to mask the troubled expression that he knew crossed his brow, because he’d begun to wonder just what he wanted from Grace. When he quickly stole a glance, a look of tired sadness passed over her face. Her glowing, youthful happiness had faded. He knew he was the cause and that unsettled him.

  They rode into the bailey, and as soon as the stable hand took away their mounts, Grace approached Fagan. Uncertainty crept into her expression, and for a brief moment he was surprised she didn’t flee.

  “Thank you for taking me with you. Ruairi’s lands are beautiful.”

  “As are ye, Grace.” He wasn’t sure why he said the words, but he wanted to see her smile return. He needed to bring her bright eyes back to the way they were before he snuffed out the light.

  She looked up at him with an effort. Her voice was low, soft. “I don’t understand what happened. What was that between us?”

  Fagan paused. “I donna know, but we know it cannae happen again. ’Tis more than likely best nae to discuss it.”

  She waved him off. “Of course. I don’t know what I was thinking. The kiss meant nothing.” She choked on her words and spun on her heel as he reached out to stay her.

  “Grace…”

  He was too late. She was gone, and he was an idiot.

  Fagan took his sorry self into the great hall where Ruairi and Torquil sat at a table. Only a few clan members remained, most of them having taken their leave for the eve. Ruairi looked up and greeted Fagan with a brief nod.

  “How far did ye go?”

  Fagan stared, speechless.

  “How far did ye ride? I thought I’d have to send the men out to find ye.”

  He sat beside Ruairi on the bench. “We rode to the border.”

  “And blood wasnae shed?”

  “Nay.”

  “And Lady Grace is still alive and whole?”

  Fagan rolled his eyes. “Aye. We are both verra much hale.”

  “I
’m glad to hear it. There may be some hope for the both of ye yet.”

  “What are ye and Torquil doing? I thought ye’d be with your lady wife.”

  Ruairi folded his arms and leaned on the table. “Torquil is drawing a picture of the beach for Lady Katherine. I think all his studies with Ravenna in the library have uncovered a hidden talent. Who knew we had an artist in the Sutherland clan?”

  “’Tis verra good, Torquil.” Fagan gave Ruairi a brotherly punch in the arm. “But I would think twice before ye tell his secret to the women. Before ye know it, they’ll have your tapestries down and replaced with Torquil’s drawings.”

  “My tapestries? Why? What’s wrong with them?”

  Torquil looked up from his project. “The lasses donna like the scenes of war and battle. They say there’s too much blood and death on your walls. They want flowers or something of the like.”

  “Flowers? And how do ye know that?” asked Ruairi.

  “They donna think I listen, but I do. Ravenna and Grace talk about the wall hangings all the time.” For a brief moment, the boy looked deep in thought. “Well, mostly Grace talks and Ravenna listens.” When he resumed his purpose, Ruairi and Fagan chuckled.

  “I’ll leave ye two to your task then.”

  Fagan stood and made his way to his chamber. He wanted to be alone to forget every single detail of Grace’s face, and he needed time so that his blood no longer rushed from unbidden memories of holding her, touching her. And if that didn’t work, he’d stay confined within the walls of his chamber until he could figure out what the hell was wrong with him.

  * * *

  Grace moaned when she heard the knock on her door. “Kat, you and Elizabeth were placed in a separate chamber for a reason.”

  The door opened and Ravenna walked in. “It’s only me.” She closed the door behind her and sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re already in bed?”

  “For being a spy for the king, you’re not very observant. Tell me. What gave me away?”

  “You’re certainly in a foul mood. Is everything all right? Did Fagan return with you, or did you leave him out there somewhere in an unmarked grave?”

  Grace tried to suppress a sigh. “Everything was all right. Are the girls in bed too?”

  “Kat was falling asleep at the table. She’s in her chamber now, and Elizabeth’s in the library.”

  “I thought you’d be with Ruairi.”

  Her sister’s eyes lit up at the mention of her husband’s name. “He and Torquil are doing something in the great hall. Are you sure you’re all right? You look flushed.”

  Grace punched the lumps out of her pillow and tried not to picture Fagan’s face. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m fine. Do you think we can set up a few targets on the morrow? I’d like you to teach me to throw my blade so that I can actually hit something for a change.”

  “Why do you want to practice throwing your dagger?”

  “You know how to throw a blade proficiently, and I need to be able to defend myself when I work for the king.”

  Ravenna’s face clouded with uneasiness. “Yes, but if I recall correctly, you seemed to do very well with your fist when you rammed it into Fagan’s eye. Besides, I value my life. I’ve seen you throw your dagger, remember?”

  “You’re very amusing, Sister.”

  “We’ll see. I’ll leave you alone to get some sleep.” Ravenna rose.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The door closed, and Grace nestled deeper into the blankets. She felt empty. She knew she and Fagan had gone too far, but that did not stop her from feeling a dull ache at the thought of him. Her face burned as she remembered his mouth on hers. His face still haunted her, smiling, serious, wanting nothing more than she was able to give.

  For heaven’s sake, she was betrothed. What kind of woman had she become to give in so easily to wanton desires? Fagan was a Scot, everything she was born to despise. And what about Daniel? If Fagan opened his bloody mouth, Daniel would never wed her and her chances of becoming Lady Grace Casterbrook would be null. She didn’t understand how she had come so close to ruining her entire life in one heated moment.

  She tried to dismiss the mocking voice inside that wondered why she had done something so terrible. Fagan hated the English, and now she’d given him reason to believe that she could act like a harlot. For a brief moment, she wondered how she compared to his other conquests—then chided herself.

  Why was she having such thoughts? She shouldn’t be. She. Was. Betrothed. She needed to remember that. Her last thought before she drifted to sleep was that Fagan was nothing more than a rogue, another arrogant Highlander who thought he was so much better than the English.

  When Grace rose in the morning, she welcomed a new day. She washed her face, donned her day dress, and combed her hair, determined not to let her momentary lapse in judgment interfere with her sanity. She walked through the halls and studied the portraits, shook her head at the tapestries, and then descended the stairs to the great hall. She needed to keep herself busy.

  Everyone was already seated on the dais, and Fagan didn’t bother to look up from his trencher. She sat down next to Elizabeth and pasted a bright smile on her face.

  “How are you this morning, Elizabeth?”

  “I’m well, and you?” Her sister finished what was left of her biscuit.

  “Ravenna and I are going to set up targets this morn. Perhaps you’d like to come along. She’s going to show me how to perfect my aim with my blade.” Grace leaned forward, gazing down at the other end of the table. “Mister Murray, I’d like to try my luck with some moving targets. Would you like to stand in?”

  The conversation at the table fell silent, and Grace heard Ravenna sigh.

  Six

  Fagan didn’t say a word. He had known of the fiery passion that lay within Grace from the first time he’d met her, but now, any desire she’d felt for him was snuffed out like a candle in the rain. And in no time at all, she’d managed to fill that void with her disapproval of him again. Not that he blamed her. He would’ve expected the type of behavior he’d shown from one of those English curs she so blatantly admired, but not from him. He continued to chide himself for his poor judgment.

  When everyone had left the table except for Ruairi, his friend cleared his throat. “What the hell is the matter with ye? Ye look like a whipped dog.”

  Fagan lifted a brow and ran his finger along the rim of his tankard. “Aye, well, I did something I’m nae verra proud of and I’m trying to think of a way to mend it.”

  Ruairi sat back in the chair and studied Fagan intently. “What did ye say to Grace now? Ye do realize that everything ye do or say to the lass will be told to my wife. Ravenna will continue to hound me if she doesnae approve, and I will ne’er hear the end of it. Now is the time that I’m supposed to be enjoying my wife in my bed. How can I do that if all the lass wants to do is speak of ye and what ye did or said to her sister?”

  There was no way Fagan was daft enough to open his mouth to his friend, and he couldn’t overlook the fact that Ruairi was his liege. Fagan was aware he’d have to pray long and hard that Grace wouldn’t mention their little indiscretion to Ravenna because God only knew what the English spy would do to him once she found out. More to the point, he didn’t think Ruairi would be in a very forgiving mood either.

  “I might’ve said something about Grace placing her English arse in the saddle.”

  Ruairi chuckled and then hastily tried to mask his expression with a frown. “Fagan…”

  “What can I say to that? The lass seems to know exactly how to fire my…ire.” He was about to say “blood” and caught himself at the last possible moment.

  “Be that as it may, she will only be here for a few more weeks. Can ye nae keep the peace until then?”

  Fagan rolled his head from side to side. “If I must.”
<
br />   “Come. Let us practice swordplay with the men.”

  Ruairi and Fagan walked into the bailey. The sun’s rays managed to make an occasional appearance between the gray clouds, but at least it was not raining. About a score of men had already started to gather against the northern wall. Perhaps this was just what Fagan needed to banish Princess Grace from his mind. And if that didn’t work, he’d let Ruairi beat the foolishness out of him.

  Fagan unsheathed his sword and stood at the edge of the circle of men. He watched Ruairi best two of his guards with minimal effort. When the last man stepped out of the circle defeated, Fagan entered. He twisted his sword arm, cutting through the air in front of him.

  “Think ye can best me, my liege?”

  Ruairi shrugged with indifference and walked up to Fagan with a grin of amusement. “It wouldnae be the first time, nor will it be the last.”

  When the men chuckled in response, Fagan lifted his sword casually and studied the edge of the blade. “Mmm… I thought mayhap ye’d grown soft since ye said your vows. I know ye’ve been practicing your swordplay, my liege, but I donna think that particular sword will do ye any good here.”

  “Arse.”

  “Aye.”

  Fagan easily deflected Ruairi’s blow as the sound of clashing metal rang throughout the bailey. When his heart raced, his blood pumped, and his senses came into full awareness, Fagan smiled easily. He took a deep breath and let the air fill his lungs. There were no women in sight, only men who beat each other senseless in the bailey. This was going to be a good day after all.

  * * *

  When her sister conveniently disappeared after the meal, Grace was perfectly aware of what Ravenna was doing. And she didn’t need to be a spy of the Crown to figure that one out on her own. After several unsuccessful attempts to thwart Grace from mastering spy craft, Ravenna had turned to avoiding her. But if Ravenna believed for one moment that she’d be able to deter Grace from wanting to follow in her father and her sister’s footsteps, she was a fool. All Grace really wanted to do right now was keep busy. And if that meant throwing a sharp blade at the targets as she pictured Fagan’s face, so be it.