Devil's Highlander

Her voice trailed off, and Marjorie followed the girl's line of sight. A window that'd been destroyed by cannon fire had caught her eye.

She felt a pang of sympathy, wondering what Bridget's life was like, just seventeen and shut away in this dreary castle, probably never knowing when her brothers would breeze in or out. Bridget had only been three when her mother died and seven when her sister Anya was married off, leaving no other women about. And that had been before they'd even moved into the castle — aside from kitchen help, Bridget had always been the only female at Dunnottar.

With Bridget's outgoing manner, Marjorie was certain she had friends. But still, did the girl have true intimates with whom she could share her innermost secrets? At seventeen, she'd be interested in men. Who would guide her? Certainly not her brothers, who'd probably sooner kill a man as see him woo their youngest sister.

When they reached the top of the stairs, she stopped Bridget with a hand on her shoulder. “Soon you'll be wanting to find yourself a husband.”

Bridget gaped, and Marjorie wasn't sure if she'd offended or simply surprised the girl. But she thought of surly Cormac, staring into his mug as though willing life to pass, and her confidence redoubled.

Despite Bridget's cheerful assertions, Dunnottar was a dismal place. Especially when compared to Marjorie's life in Aberdeen. But if the MacAlpins had no known family, Bridget had no place else to go.

“You know you're always welcome to stay with Uncle and me in Aberdeen,” she said impulsively. “Learned men come the world over to study at the university. There's polite society, and gentlemen galore—”

“Bridge has no need for city life.”

Marjorie startled. Placing a hand on her heart, she turned. Cormac stood right behind her, silent as a wraith.

He'd followed them.

“I think I'm able to speak for myself.” Bridget rolled her eyes, transformed to her old self again. “I'm loathe to admit it, Marj, but—”

“Marjorie,” Marjorie murmured apologetically.

“Marjorie,” Bridget continued with an easy smile, “but I fear my brother has the right of it. I'm not ready for a husband just yet. And I don't wish to leave Dunnottar. If the crash of waves doesn't wake me, it's the sound of the lads' sparring that does, and I'm afraid I'd be lost without either one.” Marjorie canted her head, considering. Surely the villagers wouldn't let the MacAlpins stay in the abandoned castle forever. Folk might muster sympathy for a family of orphans, but she imagined they'd be hard-pressed to allow a spinster to live out her dotage there. Dunnottar might be in near ruin, but someday some wealthy clans-man would appear to set it to rights.

Could the girl not even want a husband? Marjorie could certainly understand it. She'd given the cold shoulder to many a suitor, and despite the fact that she was perilously close to spinsterhood, she couldn't imagine ever wanting to encourage a single one. To her, city men were fops and dandies all.

There'd always been only one man for her.

She shook her head to erase the thought, but it clung to the back of her mind. That the man in question currently hovered at her back did nothing to help matters.

“Come on, come on.” Bridget grabbed her arm.

Furrowing her brow, Marjorie followed willingly, thinking there was more to Bridget than met the eye. Though the MacAlpins had been nicknamed Dunn's Devils, with her black hair and mischievous dark eyes sparkling like the night sky, it was Bridget who might turn out to be the most devilish of them all.

Bridget resumed her brisk pace, towing Marjorie alongside. “I'll show you where you'll be sleeping.” The thought made her blush. She heard Cormac following behind them; now that she knew he was there, he was all she was aware of. Would he see where she slept?

Suddenly, she needed to know. Did he sleep nearby? “I don't want to put anyone out. Where does everyone else slee—”

“Och, you're putting nobody out. We're giving you Anya's room.”

They were making their way down a narrow gallery. Squares of watery light pierced the windows. A shadowy cluster of rooms spoked out from the end of the corridor.

The bedrooms. There appeared to be four of them. Which one was Cormac's?

She tallied the MacAlpins in her head. Youngest to oldest: Bridget, Declan, Cormac, Gregor, Anya. Five siblings, four bedrooms. Who sleeps where?

“You keep a room for Anya?” Marjorie asked, her voice hoarse.

“You've seen the place. I'd say we've rooms to spare.”

Cormac was still behind them. She felt the heat of his body radiating at her back. Marjorie struggled to make conversation. “And how is your sister?”

“Her?” Bridget shrugged. “Anya abides.”

“And whatever is that supposed to mean?”

Bridget shook her head, stifling an impish grin. “Our Anya… She seems to bear her life in silence, aye? Except when she was married off.” She beamed admiringly. “Oh, but the fit she pitched when Father sent her all the way down to Argyll! But she seems to have accustomed to married life. Her husband, Donald, he was injured you know, in the wars. Terrible thing. But she has her wee Duncan. Though he's not so very wee anymore. He's… “ She looked over Marjorie's shoulder. “How old is he now?”

“Nine.” Cormac bit out the word as though pained.

She felt a little flutter of optimism. What was he doing, following and listening? It didn't seem like something a man would do if he wanted to rid himself of you. Perhaps she could convince him to help her find Davie after all.

Marjorie cleared her throat. “Do you sleep up here, too?”

Though she'd hoped Cormac would answer, of course it was Bridget who replied, “Well, of course I do. And where else? Mine's just here.” She pointed to the neighboring door before swooping into the room on the end.

Bridget began to bustle around at once, running a finger along a dusty side table, slapping at the bedclothes.

She waved a hand before her face at the cloud of dust that swirled to life. “We'll need to air it a bit. But a broom… a candle and a washbowl, and it's easily put to rights.”

Marjorie couldn't help but cut her eyes to Cormac. He was rigid as a post and eyeing her bed as though it was on fire and he'd been forbidden to put it out.

The bed was big, but not big enough for one so tall as Cormac. What would it be to share a bed with such a man?

He'd sit at the edge of it. Gather her onto his lap. He'd kiss her. It would be her first.

She coughed, but it did nothing to slow the shallow racing of her heartbeat. Where had such thoughts come from?

He was staring at her bed. How big would his bed be? She fought to breathe. Cormac's bed. Where was his room?

Did he sleep close by? She had to know. “Where-?”

“I don't know why we even keep it for her. It's not as though Anya ever comes to visit. Her hands are full, nursing that crabbit old numpty she married.”

“Mind yourself, sister dear,” a voice boomed from behind them, “or I'll marry you off like Father did Anya.”

“Gregor!” Marjorie brightened in surprise at the sight of the eldest MacAlpin brother striding toward them.

Though it was Cormac who had her heart, his dashing brother never failed to make it skip a beat. Gregor MacAlpin was light and easy, and he maneuvered women as smoothly as a drover his flock.

He went straight for her, taking her hands in his. “Marjie, love!”

“Marjorie,” Cormac growled under his breath.

Cormac's voice reverberated up her spine. His gaze caught hers, and for a thrilling instant she glimpsed a familiar flash in his eyes. One that she hadn't seen since he was a boy. What would he be thinking to have such a look?

“Here's the true devil of Dunnottar.” Bridget nodded her chin toward Gregor.

“Aye, you'd best watch me, Marj.” Gregor leaned down to plant a lingering kiss on her knuckles.

“Watch you, Gregor?” She pulled her hands away to study him. He was tall, with the lighter coloring of the MacAlpins' mother, and his blue eyes crinkled as he smiled. Gregor was handsome and gallant, and yet he'd never made her tremble as only Cormac could. “Last I heard, you returned from the wars a noble and conquering hero. As I understand it, maidens have naught to fear from chivalrous knights like you.” Gregor's laugh boomed in the small stone chamber. “Oh, Marjorie, Marjorie,” he said, shaking his head. “Just look at you.” His eyes swept her up and down, lingering on the cut of her bodice.

Somehow, suddenly, Cormac stood closer among them.

She stole a glimpse. She'd feared he hated her, but it certainly didn't appear the case. If anything, in that moment, it was Gregor who seemed to be the object of Cormac's contempt.

So, he didn't seem to hate her, and that was a good sign. The Cormac she'd known was in there somewhere. But there was something different there, too, and she was unable to read it. Would she be able to convince him to help her find Davie?

“I'm humbled by how beautiful you've grown,” Gregor continued. “You don't bless us with your presence nearly enough.”

“I… I live in Aberdeen, with Uncle.” This put her in mind of something she'd meant to ask. “As for Aberdeen, I was under the impression that you—”

“Pray tell, love,” Gregor interrupted, “but I must know. Whatever brings you to our wee pile of rubble?” He cocked a brow. “And how can we keep you?”

Bridget beamed. “Oh, we're keeping her.”

“No, we are not,” Cormac muttered.

Bridget put her hands on her hips. “Don't you be ungracious.”

Marjorie ignored them. If only they weren't all standing in her bedchamber. “I've come… “ She glanced at Cormac's stoic profile and girded herself. “To ask for Cormac's help.”

“He'll provide it, of course,” Bridget said briskly. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">