Devil's Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

Devil's Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1) Page 9

Cormac tucked the reins under his thigh and laced his fingers, stretching his arms before him. He flexed his wrists to the point of discomfort, but still, mastering his body was taking a conscious effort.

“So strong you are,” Marjorie cooed, her voice sounding low and sultry next to him.

He mumbled a curse. She'd been purring, whispering, and just about moaning at that damned mare all morning, and it was driving him to distraction.

“So, so strong.” She ran her hands along her horse's neck in long, languid strokes. “You were lonely in that stall. But you like when I ride you, don't you? Yes you do. You like having me on your back.” Cormac flexed until his knuckles popped.

He looked out of the corners of his eyes, watching the sway of her hips in the saddle. The sound of her bedroom voice was a reverberating hum through his body. What would she look like riding him?

His mind returned to the image branded there: Marjorie, standing in the shallows. Her wet bodice had clung to her, revealing every curve, every dip and swell of her soft flesh. And then she'd looked at him, and there'd been a darkness in her eyes, a wanting that he recognized as his own.

It'd taken all the concentration he had not to go hard at the sight of her. If there was anything that could make his cold cock rouse, it had been the feel of Ree's eyes on him, roving his naked body as though she'd a right to.

Her horse began to flag, and Marjorie made soft kissing noises to liven up the animal's gait.

“God help me,” he breathed. He adjusted himself on the saddle, forcing himself to focus on the path ahead, on the sway of the horse beneath him.

It should've been a decent ride. Gregor had shocked Cormac when he loaned his braw chestnut gelding, but not even the superior horseflesh at Cormac's seat could distract him.

Marjorie. Marjorie was the distraction.

“Ohhh, that's the way,” she murmured.

Cormac's groin tightened anew. He scowled. Agony. What could've been a pleasant enough ride had become his own personal hell.

He held his body stiffly, putting his mind to other things. Fishing. Hunting. The fine horse he rode. He patted the animal's neck, willing thoughts like the mending of boats and the gelding of horses to wipe the wayward images from his mind.

“What's his name?” Marjorie asked, trotting to catch up to his side. The sea breeze had pinkened her cheeks.

She'd always loved riding, and she bore the hint of a smile on her face. Her breathing was up, and her bodice strained with it. The sight silenced him.

“Cormac?”

Marjorie was waiting for his response, and the only words that surged to mind were how lovely she looked with the wind in her hair. He shook himself. It was too dangerous to entertain such notions. “Name?” he said, coming back to himself.

“Aye, Gregor's horse. What's his name?”

He looked down, contemplating the animal's coat, dark russet with sweat. He shrugged. “I don't ken its name.”

“You didn't ask the horse's name?” She nudged her mount closer to his. Her skirts rustled against Cormac's calf, and he stifled a shiver.

Fishing. Hunting. Boat mending.

“He's a braw one,” Marjorie said, leaning toward the animal. Her bodice tugged lower, revealing the gentle swells of her breasts.

Boat mending. Hoof trimming. Stall mucking.

She murmured to the beast in a low, sultry voice, “Aren't you just a big, braw boy?”

“Why?” Cormac asked abruptly, his voice barking out like a muted shout. “Why would I need its name? It's not as though he'll come if I call.”

“But you'll be riding him all day. Don't you want to know?”

Cormac was completely off his guard, and so his response was something his younger self might have said. “He and I, we weren't formally introduced, Ree.”

Suddenly silent, Marjorie let her horse fall behind. Cormac grew curious after a moment, and twisted in the saddle to study her. A puzzled look wrinkled her brow.

“What is it?” he asked, concerned. “Are you not comfortable?”

Her puzzled look intensified. “No… I… why do you ask?” Her features hardened. “I'm perfectly comfortable. Don't forget, Cormac. I have made this journey before, and I am perfectly capable of making it again.”

“Och, that's not what I was saying at all.” What had he unwittingly stepped into? “That'll teach a man,” he added under his breath.

Now she just looked hurt. He rued his words.

“That's not what I'd meant,” he said, trying again. “You simply… you've got a look about you. I thought you might be uncomfortable, is all.”

“Oh.” She thought on it for a moment, then gave a brisk shake to her head. “I'm perfectly comfortable. It's simply… you foxed me some, with your jesting.” She gave him an uneasy smile.

“Aye, I've not jested much,” he admitted.

“Not jested? Cormac, you barely speak.”

“Aye.” He stopped himself from saying more. Marjorie's bright blue eyes were guileless and her face open as she watched him. She seemed to be waiting for something to happen. He needed to stem such ideas. Nothing would ever happen. How had he even found himself this far into the conversation? Nothing could come of such talk. Naught could ever be between them. “Aye, 'tis true,” he said again, and left it at that.

The brief exchange had charged their silence, and he regretted ever saying anything in the first place. Her horse caught and then passed his on the path.

“You're angry at me,” she said after a time.

“Oh aye?” The lass was such a mystery. He didn't recall her being so perplexing when they'd been children. He studied her back as she rode before him, watching as her muscles tensed, imagining the look that might be crossing her face. “Angry, you say?”

She gave a tight nod. “For making you come with me to Aberdeen.” He thought on it. It wasn't anger but dread that he felt. He dreaded Aberdeen. Cormac didn't want to face the ruffians of Justice Port; they had naught but fights and death in their eyes, and he only recognized himself in their cold, flat gazes. He dreaded revisiting her uncle's town house. Most of all, he dreaded facing the memories of another missing boy, one who'd never been found.

But Marjorie would be dreading Aberdeen as much as he did. She'd come to him for help, and he'd been acting the boor.

He felt guilty, and it warmed his words. “It's not that I'm angry, Ree.” He sighed. He'd never been able to stay angry with her anyhow. Like it or not, they were traveling to Aberdeen together, and he might as well make the best of it. Inhaling deeply, he announced, “We'll need a plan.”

“A plan?” It was Marjorie's voice again, the voice he knew, straightforward and without hesitation.

He hadn't realized his shoulders had tensed until he felt them unclench just then. “Aye, if we're to search for the boy, we'll need a plan. We're up the coast to Aberdeen, and to your uncle's by dusk. We'll take a turn around the quay tomorrow, at first light.”

She nodded and stilled her mare for him to catch up.

Cormac felt a fraction lighter inside. Empathy was too painful, but this planning, this he could do. He was in it now, and if he was going to do a thing, there was no sense in not doing it right. His words came more easily.

“I'll need to know about the boy. You'd said he's a wee lad, just five?”

“Aye.” Her voice cracked. She cleared it and started again. “He didn't know exactly, but he thought five. I'd say not more than six.”

“What's he look like, then?” He braced himself. He would hear her response and parse it as though devising a military campaign. He'd not let himself imagine this boy too vividly. This boy who would never be found.

“He's a wee rascal.”

Cormac heard the smile in her voice and kept his eyes trained on the path ahead. He gathered his nerves. He'd not let himself grow attached to the thought of a missing child. And more even than that, he'd not allow concerns for Marjorie to penetrate his defenses.

“He's a little ginger-haired boy,” she continued, warming to the topic. “Smaller than the others. With freckles, and a pointing chin, and mischief to spare. From the start, he seemed to me a fey creature.” It was clear she loved the boy. It suddenly struck him how much she'd enjoy raising a child of her own. He wondered why she hadn't yet married.

And he realized he was oddly glad she hadn't. Deep down it pleased him that there was someone out there who'd turned to him for help. More so, that it'd been Ree who had. The thought that she might've married, might now be relying on another man for support, sent a plume of instinctive, protective anger snaking through his belly.

He let the sensation hang briefly before pushing it away. It'd do no good to dwell on such things.

“And you're certain he wouldn't simply have wandered off?”

“I'm certain of it,” she said with a steadiness that made him feel a strange wash of pride. “Evening was his favorite time of the day. Supper at Saint Machar isn't a grand affair, by any means. But there's a pack of them, the youngest boys, who play in the evenings. Such grand stories they enact for themselves. Davie's favorite is to relive tales of the Campbell, just as we did. Remember?”

“Aye,” he said quietly, feeling a small crack in his heart. Of course he remembered. It'd been his favorite thing as well.

Cormac's expression softened almost imperceptibly, and Marjorie swelled at the sight.

She let herself relive memories of Davie. “They'll play at the same stories for days,” she said, smiling wistfully. “Such elaborate campaigns with pretend armaments and battle plans. Fights with the Marquis of Montrose are a particular favorite. Except when Davie has to play the Campbell. Och, but he hates being the Campbell, just like—”