Devil of the Highlands (Devil of the Highlands #1)(2)
Author: Lynsay Sands

"God’s teeth. What is she doing?" Fergus asked as he halted beside him.

Cullen didn’t even glance to the tall, burly redhead who was his first. He merely shook his head silently, transfixed by the sight. The woman was riding back and forth across the clearing, sending her horse charging first one way, then the other and back. That in itself was odd, but what had put the hush in Fergus’s voice and completely captured Cullen’s tongue was the fact she was doing so in nothing but a transparent chemise while holding the reins of her mount in her teeth. Her hands were otherwise occupied. They were upraised and holding what appeared to be a cape in the air so it billowed out behind her above her streams of golden hair as she rode back and forth… back and forth… back and forth.

"Who do you think she is?" Rory’s question was the only way Cullen knew the other men had caught up as well.

"I doona ken, but I could watch the lass all day," Tavis said, his voice sounding hungry. "Though there are other things I’d rather be doing to her all day."

Cullen found himself irritated by that remark. Tavis was his cousin, and the charmer among his men; fair-haired, handsome, and with a winning smile, it took little effort for him to woo women to his bed of a night. And the man took full advantage of the ability, charming his way under women’s skirts at every opportunity. Were titles awarded by such an ability, Tavis would have been the king of Scotland.

"I’d first be wanting to ken why she’s doing what she is," Fergus said slowly. "I’ve no desire to bed a wench who isna right in the head."

"It isna her head I’d be taking to me bed." Tavis laughed.

"Aye," Gillie said, his voice sounding almost dreamy.

Cullen turned a hard glare on his men. "Ride on. I’ll catch up to ye."

There was a moment of silence as eyebrows rose and glances were exchanged, then all five men took up their reins.

"Ride around the meadow," Cullen instructed, when they started to move forward.

There was another exchange of glances, but the men followed the tree line around the meadow.

Cullen waited until they had disappeared from sight, then turned back to the woman. His eyes followed her back and forth several times before he urged his mount forward.

It hadn’t appeared so from the edge of the meadow, but the woman was actually moving at high speed on her beast, slowing only to make the turn before spurring her horse into a dead run toward the other side. The mare didn’t seem to mind. If anything, the animal seemed to think it was some sort of game and threw herself into each run with an impressive burst of speed.

Cullen rode up beside the mare, but the woman didn’t immediately notice him. Her attention was shifting between the path ahead and the cloth in her upraised hands. When she finally did glimpse him out of the corner of her eye, he wasn’t at all prepared for her reaction.

The lass’s eyes widened, and her head jerked back with a start, unintentionally yanking on the reins she clenched in her teeth. The mare suddenly jerked to a halt and reared. The lass immediately dropped her hands to grab for the reins and the cloth she’d been holding swung around and slapped—heavy and wet—across Cullen’s face. It both stung and briefly blinded him, making him jerk on his own reins in surprise, and suddenly his own mount was turning away and rearing as well.

Cullen found himself tumbling to the ground, tangled in a length of wet cloth that did nothing to cushion his landing. Pain slammed through his back, knocking the wind out of him, but it positively exploded through his head, a jagged blade of agony that actually made him briefly lose consciousness.

A tugging sensation woke him. Blinking his eyes open, he thought for one moment the blow to his head had blinded him, but then felt another tug and realized there was something over his face. The damp cloth, he recalled with relief. He wasn’t blind. At least, he didn’t think he was. He wouldn’t know for sure until he got the cloth off.

Another tug came, but this was accompanied by a grunt and a good deal more strength. Enough that his head was actually jerked off the ground, bending his neck at an uncomfortable angle. Afraid that, at this rate, he’d end up with a broken neck after the fall, Cullen decided he’d best help with the effort to untangle himself from the cloth and lifted his hands toward his head, intending to grab for the clinging material. However, it seemed his tormentor was leaning over him, because he found himself grabbing at something else entirely. Two somethings… that were covered with a soft, damp cloth, were roundish in shape, soft yet firm at the same time, and had little pebble-like bumps in the center, he discovered, his fingers shifting about blindly. Absorbed as he was in sorting out all these details, he didn’t at first hear the horrified gasps that were coming from beyond the cloth over his head.

"Sorry," Cullen muttered as he realized he was groping a woman’s br**sts. Forcing his hands away, he shifted them to the cloth on his head and immediately began tugging recklessly at the stuff, eager to get it off.

"Hold! Wait, sir, you will rip—" The warning ended on a groan as a rending sound cut through the air.

Cullen paused briefly, but then continued to tug at the material, this time without apologizing. He’d never been one to enjoy enclosed spaces and felt like he would surely smother to death if he did not get it off at once.

"Let me—I can—If you would just—"

The words barely registered with Cullen. They sounded like nothing more than witless chirping. He ignored them and continued battling the cloth, until—with another tearing sound—it fell away, and he could breathe again. Cullen closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath with relief.

"Oh dear."

That soft, barely breathed moan made his eyes open and slip to the woman kneeling beside him. She was shifting the cloth through her hands, examining the damaged material with wide, dismayed eyes.

Cullen debated offering yet another apology, but he’d already given one, and it was more than he normally offered in a year. Before he’d made up his mind, the blonde from the horse stopped examining the cloth and turned alarmed eyes his way.

"You are bleeding!"

"What?" he asked with surprise.

"There is blood on my gown. You must have cut your head when you fell," she explained, leaning over him to examine his scalp. The position put her upper body inches above his face, and Cullen started getting that closed-in feeling again until he was distracted by the br**sts jiggling before his eyes.

The chemise she wore was very thin and presently wet, he noted, which was no doubt what made it transparent. Cullen found himself staring at the beautiful, round orbs with fascination, shifting his eyes left and right and continuing to do so when she turned his head from side to side to search out the source of the blood.

Apparently finding no injury that could have bloodied her gown, she muttered, "It must be the back of your head," and suddenly lifted his head, pulling it up off the ground, presumably so she could examine the back of his skull. At least that was what he thought she must be doing when he found his face buried in those br**sts he’d been watching with such interest.

"Aye, ’tis here. You must have hit your head on a rock or something when you fell," she announced with a combination of success and worry.

Cullen merely sighed and nuzzled into the br**sts presently cuddling him. Really, damp though they were, they were quite lovely, and if a man had to be smothered to death, this was not a bad way to go. He felt something hard nudging his right cheek beside his mouth and realized her n**ples had grown hard. She also suddenly stilled like prey sensing danger. Not wishing to send her running with fear, he opened his mouth and tried to turn his head to speak a word or two of reassurance to calm her.

"Calm yerself," was what he said. Cullen didn’t believe in wasting words. However, it was doubtful if she understood what he said since his words came out muffled by the nipple suddenly filling his open mouth. Despite his intentions not to scare her, when he realized it was a nipple in his mouth, he couldn’t resist closing his lips around it and flicking his tongue over the linen-covered bud.

In the next moment, he found pain shooting through his head once more as he was dropped back to the ground.

Chapter Two

"Oh!" Evelinde gasped when she realized she’d dropped the man on his injured head again.

She hadn’t meant to, but she’d suddenly realized where she’d pressed his head while searching for the wound. At first she’d simply frozen, mortified at what she’d done, and when he’d tried to speak, his mouth against her breast had caused the oddest tingling sensation to shoot from where his mouth moved. It had been stunning in the pleasure it caused. So, of course, she’d released him. Anything that felt that good must be bad.

The man rolled onto his side, his tartan shifting so that she had a lovely view of his legs almost all the way up to his personal bits. Evelinde forced herself to look away from the intriguing sight and instead leaned forward to peer at the wound on the back of his head. He was a Scot, but that didn’t worry her. Her father had several friends who were Scots, mostly highlanders he’d met at court or on his travels. They’d had many visitors over the years from Scotland, and Evelinde supposed this was another, and expected he’d treat her with the same respect and kindness the others had. She’d found that Scots weren’t nearly the primitive heathens they were reputed to be.

A curse of pain from the man brought Evelinde’s attention back to his head wound. There had been a good deal of blood on the gown, and there was still more caught in his hair. However, she found it impossible to tell how bad the wound was with the blood and dirt obscuring the injury.

"Are you all right?" she asked worriedly, shifting her gaze to what she could see of the side of his face. He was grimacing in pain, his one visible eye squeezed tight shut. Evelinde shifted on her knees and glanced around the meadow as she tried to think what to do. Then she asked, "Do you think you can stand?"

A grunt was his answer. Unsure if that was a yes or no, she stood up herself, then bent to catch his arm and try to help him to his feet. "Come. We have to tend your head."

"Me head is fine," he growled, but would have been far more convincing if he weren’t still grimacing in pain.

His words, spoken with a heavy burr, reminded her that he was Scottish, and Evelinde found herself leaning anxiously over him again as she asked, "Do you know the Devil of Donnachaidh?"

The way he suddenly stiffened suggested he at least recognized the name though most people did. It was the name parents all over England and Scotland used to terrify children into good behavior. ‘If ye don’t behave, the Devil of Donnachaidh will get ye,’ was an oft-repeated warning by nursemaids and mothers.

When the man started to sit up, Evelinde quickly sat back to give him room. Much to her dissatisfaction, however, he didn’t answer her question but simply stared at her, his expression closed.

"Do you know him?" she asked fretfully.

"Aye. I’m the Duncan," he said finally, and Evelinde frowned, not sure what that meant. Was Duncan his name or title? She suspected it was his title, but wondered if the Duncans were a neighbor of clan Donnachaidh? She opened her mouth to ask, but then decided it didn’t matter. What was important was that the man knew the devil she was supposed to marry.

"Is he as cruel as they say? He is not, is he?" she asked hopefully. " ‘Tis just a rumor, is it not? Tales told by the fireside that grow all out of proportion? I am sure he will be a fine husband. Really, he could not be more cruel than Edda. Could he?"

The man wasn’t answering any of her questions, which Evelinde thought was terribly rude. Then she saw the streak of red running down his neck and recalled his injury. It really was not well-done of her to sit here pestering him with questions when he was wounded.

"You are bleeding badly," she said with concern. He reached to feel the back of his head, and Evelinde saw pain flash through his eyes at just that tentative touch.

Snatching up her ruined gown, she stood and glanced around. Much to her relief, he’d taken his tumble at the end of the meadow nearest the river. She hadn’t paid attention to where they were when their mounts had reared—her attention had been taken up with keeping her seat—then she’d been more worried about him than anything else as she’d rushed to dismount and reach him. Fortunately, they merely had to walk a short path through a narrow band of trees to reach the water.

Turning back to the man on the ground, she held out a hand. "Come. We should tend to your injury."

The man noted her offered hand but got to his feet without accepting her help.

Men can be so proud, Evelinde thought with an exasperated shake of the head.

"Wait here, and I shall retrieve our horses," she instructed. Both animals had moved a good twenty feet away. Her mare was standing still, studiously ignoring the other horse, who was nosing at her side.

Evelinde had only taken a step in that direction when a piercing whistle made her pause. Eyes wide, she glanced back to the Duncan, then gasped in surprise when he caught her arm as his horse suddenly charged over and presented himself with a proud flick of the head.

Evelinde waited long enough to see the Duncan murmur a soft word of praise to the animal and run a hand over his mount’s neck. She then turned and headed off to collect her mare.

"There is a river just through the trees here," she announced, returning with Lady. "We can wash your wound, and I can get a better look and see how bad it is."

"I be fine," the Duncan muttered, but followed when she moved past him with her mare and started through the trees.

"Head wounds can be tricky, sir," Evelinde said firmly as she led him into the clearing on the edge of the river. "It needs to be cleaned and tended. And you need to be careful about sleeping and such for a bit. You lost consciousness after the fall."

"I be fine," he repeated, his voice a growl.

"I shall be the judge of that," she announced, releasing Lady’s reins and moving to the water’s edge. Once there, she knelt, found a clean bit of skirt on the gown she carried, and dipped it in the water. She’d been hoping the wind would dry her dress, which was why she’d been riding back and forth, holding it over her head. It probably would have worked better had she simply taken Lady for another, heart-pounding race, but she hadn’t wished to be seen charging through d’Aumesbery’s woods in naught but a chemise. The meadow was surrounded by trees, and she’d hoped to dry the dress without being seen. Her plan hadn’t worked too well, obviously. She’d been seen, startled off her horse, and her gown still wasn’t dry.