Devil's Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

His mouth took hers fiercely, and she opened to him, twining her tongue with his, all eager innocence. Her hair had gotten trapped under his hand, and he laced his fingers through the long, silky waves. The scent of her filled his senses, and his body responded, quickening, straining against her. The press of her belly against his hardness taunted him, and he grabbed her bottom with his other hand, holding her tighter, closer.

She moaned in response, melting into him as if there were nobody and nothing else in the world, and the glory of it broke the last of his resolve. His hand roved to her breast, and she was soft and full in his palm, just as he'd always imagined she'd be.

What he'd never imagined was just how fiery, how desperate, her response would be. She writhed for him, swiveling her hips, rubbing into him, her nipple stiff and eager in his hand.

He stroked and pinched her, and her breath caught faster. Her heart hammered furiously against his chest. And the closeness felt right. She felt right.

It was right.

She was so soft and so sweet.

And she was his.

He knew in that moment that it had always been that way. Ree had been his when they were children. And now that he was a man, she belonged to him more than she ever had.

After years of numbness, she made him feel such violent emotions. More than that, Marjorie made him feel.

There was a commotion outside — shouts bantered across the alley, followed by a clattering.

Reluctantly they parted. She whimpered a protest, but Cormac forced himself to focus. He needed to remain on alert.

He went to the window, sensing her following even before she touched him. For a moment, he held his breath, savoring only the heat of her at his back.

A pale and tender hand stroked up and under his arm. And another, from the other side. Gently, Marjorie wrapped her arms around his stomach, and standing behind him, she rested her head on the side of his arm. “The sweepers.” A handful of raggedly clad men were clearing offal and refuse from the alley below. Left unsaid was the distant memory of gazing out a different window, at a different brand of sweepers. “Aye, just the street sweeps.”

“Would that the city could sweep the docks clear of all its horrors,” she said.

“Aye. Would that.” Cormac brought one of her hands to his lips, kissed her palm, and replaced it at his belly.

She'd only just begun to lose her innocence, and it pained him.

In the meantime, there was much work to do to prepare for their next meeting with the bailie. “It seems we've a dinner to attend tomorrow.”

She deflated. “We need to think up names for my imaginary sister and her husband.”

“Don't fret on account of that. 'Twill be easy enough. New money and enterprising new faces abound in the Indies. We've simply to choose a common enough name and then bandy it about with all the confidence of a preacher on Sunday.”

“Is that a skill you learned in the wars? How to deceive?”

He thought for a moment she was speaking facetiously, but Marjorie waited attentively, still hugging him from behind.

Deception. She had no idea the treachery he was capable of. It was a gulf that would be forever between them.

Sometimes it felt like a gulf that lay between him and the rest of the world.

“I don't know that I'd call it a skill so much as a curse, but aye, deception is some of what I learned at war.” He reached around to pull Marjorie by his side. He'd bridge that gulf as best he could. Only for her.

Tucking her under his arm, he kissed her lighdy on the crown of her head. After a while, he chuckled. “Now, what I didn't learn was birds. It looks as though I need to brush up on my mallard facts before tomorrow evening.”

“I know. I'm sorry.” She turned her head into him, hiding her face for a moment. “But, you know, a man can never know too much about the world around him.”

He laughed outright, and it felt strange and good. “I see.”

“And besides, if women will be there, mayhap there will be dancing, too.” She reached up to pat his cheek. “I do fancy a good reel.”

Possessiveness coursed to life in his veins. “You're only allowed to dance with me.”

“Oh really?” She shook her head, but there was humor in her voice. “Cormac MacAlpin, is there any man in this world whose company you do accept? You detest Archie, and you seemed ready to throttle the bailie.” Anger flared, recalling both of those fools. “Forbes smiled too much. It wasn't right. He struck me as overfamiliar. They both do. So, no, lass. I'm afraid there's not a man in the world I'd let you dance with. But I'll not be accused of small-mindedness.” He paused for a moment, letting himself truly think on it. “Fine, I suppose you could dance with my brother Declan. In a pinch. If you must.”

“Not Gregor?” She practically purred the question, and envy clenched his chest. Women adored his older brother, for whom life, love, and many a reel came easily.

“Och, never Gregor. You stay away from Gregor. The man's a rakehell.”

“I see.” She grew reserved. Just when Cormac feared his response had been overly vehement, she asked, “But you?

Will you dance with me, then?” Her voice was deceptively mild, and he imagined he heard some uncertainty there.

The bold and lovely Ree, insecure? He couldn't credit it.

He'd not danced in years, but in that moment, he thought he could put aside their troubles, could forget the despair of his years and the certain suffering of this world, to dance with her till the end of time.

“Aye, lass, I suppose someone has to keep you from dancing with the bailie.” Chapter 18

The moment they stepped into the hall, Marjorie was captivated. Malcolm Forbes hailed from a well-to-do family, which his surroundings made no pretense to deny. The great hall had been transformed into a grand dance floor, with torches, candelabra, and a giant fireplace all illuminating the scene with warm, amber light. Musicians played in the corner, and knots of dancers whirled and laughed before her. It was like glimpsing a fairy tale.

Momentary panic clenched her chest. Their plan was to gather as much information as possible, which might make them conspicuous. She'd had occasion to meet folk who moved in Aberdeen's finer circles —

would anyone here

recognize her?

But, looking around the room, she eased. More than unfamiliar, these lords and ladies struck her as utterly foreign. The men dressed in waistcoats more luxurious than Aberdeen fashion typically allowed. And the women were downright flamboyant, with jeweled gowns and elaborate plumage sprouting from their heads.

She bit her lip not to smirk. Hopefully none of the ladies would have occasion to discuss said plumage with her allegedly bird-loving Hughie.

“The look on your face would frighten a lesser man.” She felt Cormac's hand come to rest at her back. Marjorie glanced up at him and wondered at the strange light that danced in his eyes. Perhaps it was the exotic setting, but his guard seemed temporarily down.

“Remember, Ree, I'll ask the questions. Don't say it,” he added quickly, obviously seeing temper furrow her

brow. “I know you are capable of more, but tonight you have only to look your bonny self.”

“Yes, we went over the plan.” She sighed. She'd reluctantly agreed that, while she should stand by Cormac, gleaning as much as possible, the moment would likely come when he'd go off with the men. He'd use the opportunity to learn as much as he could.

Davie. They were so close now. It was only a matter of finding out how to penetrate the Oliphant, and they'd find Davie. And so her own inaction was fine with her.

Just this once.

She pulled her shoulders back, adopting the mien of a wealthy lady set to embark to the Indies.

“That look again,” Cormac muttered. He brought his lips to her ear. “What wickedness are you devising now, Gormelia?”

Wickedness. The notion had her looking away, studying the dance floor with feigned intent. She blushed to think it, but she'd been devising all manner of wickedness since they'd shared their first kiss.

He'd slept on the floor, but she'd get him up and off that deuced pallet yet. Her pulse leapt at the thought.

“I'm imagining the fresh torments with which I can assail you.”

Cormac didn't immediately respond, and so she looked back up at him, expecting to be met by his glower. But instead, he was watching her with hooded eyes.

“Torment me?” he asked, his voice husky. He had leaned close, and she felt his breath along her neck. The pleasure of it shivered across her skin.

Awareness of him shimmered to life. As if a veil had lifted from between them, she became keenly aware of the heat of him, the scent of him, the rhythm of his breath and heart.

She generally felt in control of situations, but this repartee had her scrambling. Feigning nonchalance, she scanned the room, taking in the swirl of strangers in shimmering skirts and velvet coats. “Aye, you. I intend on persecuting you mercilessly—”

“How I tremble.” His hand snaked down to her lower back, scandalously close to the swell of her bottom.

She would not let him gain the upper hand. Setting her shoulders, she continued, “Until either you concede my superior intelligence, or… “

“Or?” His voice was bemused.

Curse him, she could be just as casual. She forced her voice to steadiness. “Or you agree to a dance.”

“When will you learn, Ree?” He chuckled low. “You're no match for me.” She gasped as he took her hand and led her to the dance floor. As far as she knew, Cormac's feet hadn't seen a dance floor since he was a boy. And yet his movements were commanding, his hand on hers calm and assured. It was exhilarating.

“I challenge you to do your worst,” he whispered, finding them a place near the center of the floor.

She darted a quick glance around. Surrounded by all these oudandish strangers, she felt as though the two of them had become a single unit circumnavigating some strange new world. The other men cut fine forms on the dance floor, and yet they seemed to define the term popinjay, all grand birds in their jewel-toned velvet coats. They struck her as far inferior compared to Cormac. He wore only a plain brown waistcoat, a simple shirt, and muted tartan trews, and yet he made all these men in their peacocks' clothing appear weak and simply… less.