Page 21 of Tempted
* * *
Ram Douglas would not have taken the word of a lying Hamilton for all the whisky in the Highlands, but something about the gatehouse guard of Lanark Castle rang true. He told Douglas that he was the highest-ranking Hamilton in residence. Patrick and his men were at Ayr, where his father had anchored the king’s new flagship. The Earl of Arran’s younger sons were on border patrol, and the rest of the Hamiltons were at Hamilton Castle, much farther north. Too, the deep-seated rivalry between the two clans was so ingrained, a Hamilton would have found it impossible to cower inside his castle while a Douglas with half a dozen moss-troopers sat without. The challenge would have been too insulting, too provoking, too damned deliciously tempting to pass up.
On the ride back to Douglas, Ram pondered who but the Hamiltons would dare lift his cattle. The English would never get this far north because even when he and his moss-troopers were on leave, other borderers guarded the marches. His brow cleared. When he got back, he would soon persuade the lad languishing in the dungeon to enlighten him. He’d never seriously considered hanging the young devil, but he was ready to give his head a damned good bashing against the stone wall of his cell.
That decided, Ram’s thoughts turned to the fiery beauty who awaited his return. His loins tingled, and his shaft began to fill just thinking about her. Had she seen him at the Gypsy camp and decided to try her luck at snaring him? Women tended to throw themselves at him when they learned he was a wealthy, powerful Douglas. He hadn’t wholly swallowed her tale of memory loss. He smiled. She was up to some female mischief, and he was willing to join her in whatever game she wanted to play. He’d had little sleep in the last few days and was ready for bed in more ways than one.
His mouth went dry at the thought of undressing her. He’d never realized it before, but lacy undergarments that both concealed and revealed the delicious curves of a woman’s body were erotically arousing. Ram Douglas licked his lips in anticipation.
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 his 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.
