Tempted Page 8

  The hallful of hard-bitten Douglas men looked very sheepish indeed as Ram read the riot act. “Christ’s holy wounds, to be outfoxed and duped by a bairn!” His brothers hung on to their tankards, knowing his fondness for sweeping them from the table in his rage. “Did ye lend him a horse and pack him a bag of oat cakes for his ride home?”

  “Logan’s bad wounded,” Gavin said. “He was a vicious wee bastard.”

  “Ye didna even strip him tae see if he had a knife concealed,” he said with contempt. “The Boozer here wouldha made a damned sight better guard. Ye make me spew!” He ordered a servitor. “Ye can take food tae my chamber— enough for two.” He looked at Colin. “Where’s the girl?”

  “Overwhelmed by Douglas hospitality, she fled while her virtue was still intact,” he said sarcastically.

  Gavin shrugged helplessly and tried for a light note. “She must ha’ come tae her senses and bolted when she realized she was in the evil clutches o’ Douglas.”

  Cameron ventured, “Let me pour ye a dram o’ whisky.”

  “Stay back,” Ram warned, picking up a jug of whisky from the table and taking it with him. “Tonight I dinna trust myself!”

  He threw off his leather jack and poured whisky into the first thing that came to hand—a silver goblet wrought with Celtic patterns. He tossed off the liquor in one mouthful. Its heat warmed his throat and blossomed in his chest. He braced his arms on the mantel, then pressed his forehead against them and gazed down into the flames. It was a few minutes before he realized how good it felt.

  The wolfhound sat beside him and leaned into his leg. Absently he reached down to ruffle the dog’s shaggy head. The minute his hand stopped, the Boozer lifted his paw and prodded him, a tiny wheedling whine emitting from the animal’s throat.

  “Oh, all right, for Christ’s sake! Don’t cry about it.” He unbuttoned his fine linen shirt and threw it on a chair. As if that were a signal, the wolfhound stood on his hind legs and placed his front paws on Ram’s shoulders. As they stood eye to eye, a low growl gathered in their throats, and then they were rolling together on the floor, each trying to pin the other down, ferocious as a pair of wild beasts, pitting their strength and wits against each other.

  Ram grabbed two great handfuls of hair and had his opponent on his back for about three seconds, but the flailing legs and sharp, nipping teeth soon reversed their positions. The minute the Boozer had Ram on his back, his great tongue came out to wash his master’s face. Ram doubled over with laughter, and the dog lay down beside him, paws in the air, belly shamelessly exposed, knowing Ram would scratch it for him until he was in ecstasy.

  When the servant brought the food, he knew enough to knock. “Enter,” called Ram with an amused eye on Boozer. The dog was immediately on his legs, hackles raised, body rigid with warning. He knew better than to play the puppy when any but Ram was about.

  Ram Douglas sighed with regret as he saw the tray set for two. He put the second plate on the floor for the wolfhound. “To lowest hell wi’ all women,” he said, “especially redheads.” Then he gave his full attention to his meat and his whisky. Two hours later, as he watched the play of the firelight on the wolfhound’s silvery pewter coat, his eyes closed and the silver goblet rolled from his nerveless fingers.

  He descended into sleep and began to dream. He was astride a tireless garron, facing into the wind. He’d been in the saddle twelve hours on border patrol, and Castle Douglas just beyond the River Dee called to him to come home. He wasn’t tired, he was alive with anticipation. As the massive fortalice shadowed by moonlight rose before him, he suddenly knew what drew him so irresistibly. It was the woman. At sight of him, her face was filled with joy. Her flaming hair tumbled about her in a fiery mass. His heart overflowed with happiness because he knew she would always be there to welcome him, day or night.

  He vaulted from the horse and ran up the stone steps to lift her against his heart. She laughed up into his face, clinging to him, inviting his touch, inviting his kisses, inviting his body to claim hers. Then suddenly he was naked, carrying her to his wide bed. He was fully aroused and taut and could not think beyond her body. He knew if he did not soon see and touch the blazing red curls between her legs and burn himself in her fire, he would die of need.

  She wore the most erotic garment he’d ever seen. It was pale lavender, embroidered with flower petals that cupped her breasts. The centers of the flowers, however, were her nipples that burst through slits in the sheer material. Filmy panels floated from the navel down, and each time his hand lifted one of the silken panels to reveal her treasure, there was another to impede and frustrate him. His callused hand ripped the garment from her body with one brutal tear, and he buried his face against her fragrant satin skin. “I know who ye are,” he whispered huskily.

  “Who?” she begged

  “Ye are my woman,” he shouted exultantly, ready to plunge in and drown in her. Suddenly the chamber door was flung open, and the handsomest man he’d ever seen challenged, “She was mine first.” He sprang from the bed to face the Gypsy, who was as swarthy and naked as himself They faced each other with knives, eager for the fight that would give the victor the undisputed prize. Through his teeth he snarled, “Ye may have been first, but I shall be last” He plunged in the knife, and blood covered his hand, wet and sticky. His eyes flew open, and he realized it was just his hound licking his hand. He arose and went to bed, laughing at himself ruefully. Perhaps if he fell asleep again he could call her back in his dreams. As he drifted off he distinctly heard her voice: “Well, at least you have a sense of humor.”

  The next day, however, his sense of humor deserted him completely. He usually had a hard head for liquor, but this morning it felt like a cord was knotted about his temples and being slowly tightened. One thing, however, was glaringly clear: The escape of the youth and the visit of the beautiful vixen were directly linked. Had her vivid beauty blinded him—addled his brains? He was astounded that he had not guessed her purpose the moment he discovered her lying in his path. She had made fools of them all! The rest of the Douglas men had been as obtuse as himself. Anger at the youth who had stabbed one of his men and anger at himself put him in a savage mood The knowledge that he had been bested by a woman poured oil on his fiery temper. The face of the Gypsy rose up from his dream Ram’s mouth hardened and set in grim lines. Of one thing he was sure. Deadly sure. Before the sun set, he would know her name.

  Chapter 7

  When Donal arrived back at Doon, he was in high good humor. Castle Kennedy was partially stocked now, and his mind was busy with plans for the future He would talk his father into giving the peel tower and lands at the mouth of the River Dee to Duncan in exchange for sole ownership of Castle Kennedy at Wigtown. The castle would be more fitting for a bride, especially a Campbell bride and daughter of the powerful Argyll. He’d finish stocking it with milky herds of cattle and curly-horned sheep, supplemented by what he could lift in another raid, perhaps from the massive Castle Douglas itself next time. Then he’d propose to Meggie and carry her off to Wigtown with Argyll’s blessing. The buxom wench who’d warmed his bed at Kirkcudbright last night played only a small role in his decision. ‘Twould only be politic to keep his whore separate from his wife.

  Just as dawn began to pinken the sky, Ram Douglas led his favorite mount, Ruffian, down to the river. He removed the bridle and left the choice to the horse. Ram, however, stripped and plunged into the frigid, fast-flowing waters without hesitation to clear his head and keep an icy edge upon his temper. He knew it would be late in the day before he extracted the information he needed, and he didn’t want to vent his spleen in an explosion with his family.

  He’d take no moss-troopers with him this time. He would extract a personal revenge. Ruffian enjoyed his bath, blowing the water from his nostrils, then dashing up the riverbank to roll ecstatically in the sweet green grass of spring.

  Ram banked the fires of his fury and went about his day with slow deliberation. At the noon meal h
is brothers and Colin eyed him with speculation. They knew him for a man of action. Quick anger followed by swift retribution was ever his way; he had not earned the sobriquet Hotspur for his sweet temper.

  In the early afternoon he took one of his favorite swords down from the wall, cleaned and oiled it lovingly, then polished its silver sheath. It was a flat, broad, double-edged claymore with a heavy, blunt handle, worn smooth over years of use, that fitted his palm to perfection. Then he did the same with his favorite dagger, whose hilt was a heavy silver ram’s head with curled horns. He stood naked before his mirror contemplating what he would wear. His arms, legs, and chest were furred with black hair. He usually favored black from head to toe, for with his swarthy face and long black hair it had an intimidating effect.

  Today, however, he took up his Douglas plaid. The short kilt rode on his hipbones, exposing muscular thighs. He eschewed a shirt and instead draped the plaid across one massive bare shoulder and fastened it with a brooch boasting the clan’s ancient device, the Bleeding Heart of Douglas. He fastened his sword about his hips and stuck the dagger into his wide leather belt. From only a short distance the dark greens and blues of the Douglas plaid appeared black.

  As he observed his reflection, his were not the only eyes that looked upon him. The spirit of Alexander Douglas was restless and alert. The very air of the chamber was charged with raw animal power, barely held in check by the Black Ram. With his long black hair falling to his wide shoulders, he looked exactly as his wild ancestors had looked, and Alexander knew that only an extremely thin layer of veneer covered a savage, primitive nature. He was as uncivilized as the first Douglas had been centuries ago. Alexander was filled with dread, for he feared that Ramsay was tainted by the fatal Scot weakness—a preference for fighting each other rather than a common foe This very castle harbored evil and hatred for Douglas against Douglas. There had been enough bloodshed and sorrow in Castle Dangerous, in every Douglas castle for that matter, to stain the stones throughout eternity. The Douglas reputation for ruthlessness was legend. Mothers threatened their bairns with punishment by the Black Douglas only as a last resort. The fact that Ram was nephew to the all-powerful Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, only added to the dread in which he was held. Angus’s favorite pastime was hanging felons. He was rumored to have a degenerate capacity for cruelty, and when he rode forth with his escort of one hundred clansmen at his heels, all obeyed the order, “Make way for a Douglas!”

  Hotspur needed no saddle. Ruffian’s glossy black coat reflected the last rays of the afternoon sun before it sank behind the mountains. Ram Douglas knew exactly the picture he created astride the stallion, which stood an impossible nineteen hands high. He held the reins lightly, guiding the animal with his bare knees.

  When Zara saw the Black Ram gallop into the Gypsy camp, her heart leaped inside her breast. Was his need for her so great that he came before the last twilight of late afternoon deepened into dusk? She ran to him before he had time to dismount, her dark eyes greedily running over his bare thighs, lingering upon his wide, furred chest, then up to the dark face whose intensity made her shudder.

  Her teeth flashed, and her eyes could not conceal her pleasure. “My lord, I am flattered that you came before dark of night.”

  “You have something I need. I have come for it,” he said simply.

  Prideful as a cat, she led him through the camp toward her caravan. Zara threw pitiful glances toward the other Gypsy women who were starting cooking fires for the evening meal. In truth, she felt more triumphant than the night she had managed to snare James Stewart, King of Scots.

  Ram Douglas halted as he saw a Gypsy man leading a string of horses from the river. He did not need to examine the animals to see that they were prime quality. At the moment, it was the male who received his piercing scrutiny. The two men faced each other, their thoughts hidden behind careful masks, but the challenge of their stances revealed the raw animosity they felt toward each other. Ramsay tasted bloodlust on his tongue. He would have relished pressing his knifepoint into the Gypsy’s throat to make him utter the name he needed to know, but he knew he would be able to extract that from Zara. Tonight he could not spend his fury on the Gypsy; he was saving it, holding it in check for a deadlier enemy. He promised himself, however, that at its appointed time the smoldering emotions each provoked in the other would burst into violence and probably climax in death.

  Ram took a firmer hold upon Ruffian’s bridle as he felt the stallion respond to the string of mares. The two men disengaged their eyes, and Ram passed through the camp to Zara’s painted wagon. He fastened Ruffian securely where the animal could graze upon the clover-rich grass and climbed the three steps that took him up inside the caravan.

  Most of the room was taken up by her bed, and as Ram’s eyes adjusted to the darkened interior, he saw that already Zara lay back upon the covers.

  “Light the lanterns for me,” she begged, her ragged voice revealing her need to see the magnificent male torso the dimness hid.

  The red glass chimney of the lantern illuminated the caravan with an erotic glow, and Zara’s eyes dilated with pleasure as the light played across the planes of the strong face, wide shoulders, and bared thighs of her unequaled lover. Her nimble fingers tore off her top to display her small, round breasts, as hard and deliciously tempting as apples from the tree in the Garden of Eden.

  She spread her knees wide apart, then her quick brown fingers went to the hem of her scarlet skirt and she inched it slowly up her bare legs until she was naked to the waist. The corners of her mouth went up with delight when she saw Ram’s erection lift the folds of the dark Douglas tartan. She quickly lifted off her skirt over her head and caught her breath in wonder as he slowly removed his plaid.

  She worshipped him with her eyes, knowing that when he joined his body with hers, she would be filled with his strength, his power, his force. Damn him, he seemed in no hurry in spite of the evidence of his readiness for her. He stood still, looking down at her, making no move whatsoever to join her on the bed or reach for her.

  She gazed up at him almost mesmerized. The sheer brawn of his thews and sinewed muscles caused a painful ache from the pit of her belly all the way down between her legs. Her need for him built inside her until it erupted into her throat and she wanted to scream. She came up onto her knees and crawled to him as he towered there at the foot of the bed. Her eyes became fixed upon his male center with its thick, rigid shaft and proud vermilion head. The tip of her tongue circled her red mouth, and she moved close enough for him to feel her warm breath as she blew upon him lightly to tease, to tempt, to lure, to stimulate the virile, lusty border lord to expend his brute force upon her. Her lips opened to take him.

  When she was only a fraction of an inch away, she asked, “Is this what you want from me, my lord?”

  “No,” he said, lifting her to stand before him on the bed.

  She threaded her fingers through the crisp dark pelt of his chest and clung to him seductively. He peeled her body from his and held her off momentarily; then very deliberately he reached down to unfasten the golden circle from her mons. She moaned as his hands came into contact with her sensitive female cleft, and the backs of his fingers brushed her tiny curls aside to unhook the golden wire that pierced her female flesh.

  He fastened it into her ear and lifted her so that she could clasp her legs about his waist. The tip of his tongue traced the outline of her lips, and she closed her eyes as she felt his intimate gesture arouse her further. The head of his shaft brushed her bare buttocks rhythmically as his massive ribcage moved her up and down with every breath he took.

  His fingers stroked her breasts, encircling over and over the hardening nipples until they stood at attention, making her ache above as she did below. Then his hard mouth finally took hers, and she opened her lips eagerly, needing the thrust of his tongue inside her as much as she needed the thrust of his shaft.

  She tasted the texture of him and caught the scent of his spec
ial maleness. Her fingers tangled in the black night of his hair, and she felt she would scream if he aroused her further or die if he did not soon give her release. He lifted his mouth from hers and his hands lightly caressed her back “Is the Gypsy your brother?”

  Every sense was filled with Ram Douglas, so it took a moment for her thoughts to organize themselves. “No, Heath is not my brother.”

  “This Heath—is he your sometime lover?”

  She puzzled over the questions, not wanting to talk. “No, no. He has no desire for me, no claim upon me at all. Do not worry, my lord.”

  “He prefers redheads,” said Ram Douglas.

  Suddenly she knew. Zara knew exactly what he wanted —precisely how he would go about getting it—and yet she did not care. She wanted something from him, and if she could, she would make him pay the price in full She untangled her slim brown legs from his body and stood upon the bed. “I told you, my lord,” she said playfully, “I do not know her name.”

  Ram Douglas smiled inwardly. By her denial, she had just told him she knew the girl’s name as well as she knew her own. It would be child’s play to coax it from her. He could be a most persuasive man when he put half a mind to it. He spread himself across her bed and pulled her down on top of him. He slid his hard shaft into her hot, wet cleft and rubbed it back and forth in a most seductive and tantalizing manner.

  Zara reached down between their bodies and tried to guide him up inside her. Ram’s hand slid down to cup her and form a barrier. Holding her whole mons in his warm, strong hand, he squeezed and massaged her expertly. “I really don’t know her name,” she gasped stubbornly.

  His hand came up to grasp her chin, and as his mouth lifted to take hers, he growled, “Hush” His kisses were like heaven. His mouth was so firm and so demanding, she gave herself up to him totally. He rolled her onto her back and held her captive between his muscular thighs. He was torturing her, and he knew it—damn him to hellfire!