Eternal Hunger: Scottish Vampires Page 3

  She was panting, her cheeks flushed. Her lovely pale breasts strained against the bodice. He wanted to run his lips over their tops, then yank down the fabric and suckle her until she screamed.

  “Are you?” she countered, her eyes locking with his. Those eyes. Eyes he’d never forgotten. Not in five hundred years.

  “Are ye?” he again demanded.

  She gazed up at him, breathless. “I hardly know anymore.”

  He couldn’t keep his hands off her. He pulled her back to him. She flinched in his arms, making a small sound of pain. Instantly, he released her, appalled at having hurt her. Her pale skin glowed in the moonlight, there were three crimson scratches running along her forearm.

  “The thorns,” she whispered.

  That feeling in his chest intensified. He’d done that when he’d dragged her through the bushes. He gently took her arm and bent to it, the scent of her blood rushing to his head like a drug. He skimmed his lips and tongue over the tiny wounds, her taste arousing him to the point of pain. She sighed softly. His eyes locked with hers over her extended arm.

  This was it. After all these years, he was going to take her now and never lose her again. He kissed his way up her arm to her collarbone, her neck. Need built to the point of madness. “Nora,” he whispered against her skin.

  She stiffened, turning to stone in his arms. “What?” she gasped, her eyes wide with shock. “Who is Nora?”

  He didn’t answer, not understanding for a minute, then it hit him like a clap of thunder.

  She didn’t know him. She didn’t know herself.

  She didn’t remember.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nora.

  Emily breathed deeply, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t the slightest idea who Nora was, but she was irrevocably envious of her. And furious at him.

  Here she was kissing a stranger, letting him touch her and touching him back, abandoning her upbringing and honor. And he called out for another woman!

  She’d known kissing would be pleasurable, but she’d had no idea how pleasurable. In fact, pleasure was an entirely inadequate word for the experience. Kissing MacRoyce was exciting, frightening, and intimate all at once. The feel of his hands on her body, touching her in places no one ever had before. Rough one minute and gentle the next. His lips against hers, warm and firm, as he held her body to him, letting her feel the strength and the shocking hardness of him. She’d never known she could feel powerful and vulnerable at once, or that her heart could race so fast yet leave her standing.

  A small vestige of propriety had demanded she resist him, but that voice was a whisper compared to the needs of her body. Somehow denying society’s rules made the experience all the more exciting. She’d been ready to give him more. Anything he wanted.

  And then he’d called her that. From the intensity with which he’d whispered the name, Emily knew he must care for this Nora in a way she could only dream of for herself.

  “Who’s Nora?” she demanded.

  He didn’t answer. His body was alert, his grip on her like a vise. Suddenly he turned his head, as if hearing something.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Hush—”

  A moment later she heard footsteps and a woman’s laughter, followed by a man’s voice.

  Another couple was approaching.

  “Oh no!” She had to hide. She couldn’t be seen like this—alone with a stranger. Her reputation would be ruined. She started to move, but he stepped in front of her.

  “Be still,” he whispered gruffly.

  The couple laughed loudly as they stumbled along the path, obviously unconcerned about who might be listening. They crashed through a set of low bushes and stopped dead when they realized they weren’t alone.

  Emily gasped. “Morris?”

  Morris Fitzhubert, husband to Emily’s cousin Constance, stood gaping at her. His mask was crooked and his thinning hair disheveled. He swayed slightly and quickly removed his arm from the waist of the brunette beside him . . . who was most definitely not Constance.

  “What the deuce is going on?” Morris demanded, his lower lip starting to tremble.

  MacRoyce’s smile was cold, an unspoken warning. “It appears you are disturbing us. Feel free to excuse yourselves.”

  Morris’s jaw dropped, and his eyes sought Emily’s. “Who is this? Why aren’t you with Constance?”

  Emily glared at the woman beside Morris, whose glassy eyes scanned MacRoyce appreciatively. “I might ask you the same question, Morris.”

  MacRoyce turned his head, his eyes pinning her over his shoulder. “You know this fool?”

  “A fool? A fool, is it?” Morris sputtered. The woman beside him looked bored. “How dare you speak to me so. Who in the hell are you?”

  MacRoyce stepped forward. Emily had never seen such a simple act look so menacing. “I am someone who can make things very unpleasant for you,” MacRoyce said. “And what’s more, I’d probably enjoy doing it far too much. So I suggest you leave. Now.”

  Emily sucked in a breath. She’d never heard anyone stand up to Morris like that. In fact, no one had ever stood up for her the way this stranger did now.

  Morris smiled mirthlessly. “Eve’s apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it?” He clucked his tongue mockingly, watching Emily. “How it will break poor Constance’s heart to know her darling cousin is as big a slut as her mother ever was.”

  Emily’s cheeks burned, the old shame rising up. “It certainly would, Morris. Especially considering her husband is the most spineless philanderer in London.”

  Morris blanched, then quickly turned a deep crimson. “How dare you, you little—”

  In a flash, MacRoyce caught Morris by the throat. The other woman shrieked, the sound cutting through the night.

  “Apologize.” MacRoyce’s voice was cold, passionless.

  Morris choked, desperately trying to pry the Scot’s hand away.

  “Apologize.”

  “I— No!” Morris sputtered.

  MacRoyce’s face was blank, but his eyes shone with some dark, feral emotion. He raised his arm, lifting Morris from the ground as easily as he would a doll. Morris kicked his legs frantically, his face turning an unholy shade of purple.

  Emily felt as if her heart would burst from her chest. Any exhilaration from seeing Morris humbled was gone, replaced by terror. “Don’t! Stop!” she cried.

  The Scot didn’t acknowledge her. She rushed forward and pounded him on the back and shoulders. “For God’s sake, stop!”

  MacRoyce’s eyes locked with hers. Not a man’s eyes anymore, but those of a beast she’d interrupted during its meal.

  “Please . . .” she whispered.

  Something behind that merciless stare softened. He loosened his grip, and Morris crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath. The other woman had already run off.

  “Emily . . .”

  She started, hearing Constance’s voice calling her from somewhere in the garden. She must have come looking for her. Morris muttered a curse and struggled to his feet.

  She turned to leave, but a strong hand grasped her elbow, stopping her. MacRoyce’s eyes searched hers. She glanced at his large hand on her arm, dimly noticing the scratches from the rosebush had already faded.

  “Damn it, Emily. Come away now!” Morris demanded.

  “Do you want to go with him?” MacRoyce asked.

  “Emily . . .” Constance was coming nearer.

  “I have to.” She pulled from his grasp. This time he didn’t stop her.

  ***

  Malcolm watched as she followed that bastard down the path. She looked back, those remarkable eyes fixed on him. Just once.

  Follow her, his instinct demanded. Don’t lose her again.

  But somehow he held himself still. From ahead he heard the man—Morris—harassing her. “Damn you, Emily. Have you lost your senses?”

  Emily. Her name was Emily.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Malcolm stood in the street outside her home, uncaring of the rain that drenched his hat and coat. It had been easy to follow the hired hackney to the modest set of rooms in the cheapest neighborhood a man could live in and still dare call himself “quality.” It would be easy to steal inside and seek her out, but he wouldn’t. Instead he let the rain soak him as he pondered this strange game fate had decided to play.

  It wasn’t possible, yet it was happening.

  He heard arguing inside the house, not loud enough for a mortal ear to perceive. The bastard was lecturing her and the other woman. Malcolm balled his fists, resisting the urge to force his way inside. Minutes passed, and a light appeared in the second floor window. A figure passed by the window and he nearly shuddered with desire. He was pathetic. Even her shadow excited him.

  He remembered their wedding night with more clarity than he should. Time had faded many memories for him, yet that one was branded in his mind. He’d replayed it thousands of times over the centuries. Reliving it, over and over . . .

  Scotland, 1329

  They swarmed him, MacKeith and MacRoyce men alike shouting their congratulations and clapping him on the back as they led him toward the wedding chamber. Their drunken cheers echoed around the castle walls like thunder. They pushed him against the chamber door, shouting crude advice as he drunkenly fumbled with the handle.

  A hard hand grabbed him, yanking him from behind. He turned and stared into the piercing green eyes of Iain MacKeith, now essentially his brother-in-law.

  “If ye hurt her, I’ll kill ye,” MacKeith growled, loud enough for only Malcolm to hear.

  Malcolm didn’t have time to respond before the chamber door opened and he was thrust inside. A loud cheer resounded as the door closed behind him.

  He leaned against the wood and closed his eyes, but the room didn’t stop spinning. He’d been drinking since the previous night. The wedding and the feast were both a dim blur. Even this moment seemed unreal. He heard the men in the hall gradually leaving. He longed to close his eyes and sleep. Disappear.

  He started toward the bed and stopped. She was there. Sitting silently on the bed, already in her nightdress, the covers pulled to her chin and her eyes cast down. Her long yellow hair fell over the bedding. She had the same yellow-gold hair as her cousin, Iain MacKeith.

  He shook himself. Of course she was here. They were linked now. Man and wife.

  Wife.

  The thought made him dizzy. He staggered to a nearby table. His hand shook slightly as he poured himself wine.

  Nora MacKeith, born his enemy and now his bride. It was an arranged marriage to seal the alliance between his clan and the MacKeiths. She was the niece of the Laird MacKeith, raised by him since her the death of her parents. She was a wee thing with a soft face. Neither a beauty nor a hag, and not a lass Malcolm would normally look twice at.

  Her one remarkable feature was her eyes. One like a summer sky and the other like ale swirling in a tankard. His jaw had dropped the first time he’d seen them. There’d been rumors of the MacKeith women being witches for generations, and when looked upon his wife he could believe it.

  He slumped into a chair, cradled his head in his hands, and sighed. He was nineteen, too young to be burdened with a wife. Any wife, let alone a MacKeith. He wondered for the thousandth time if this marriage was truly necessary or if it was just his father’s way of punishing him.

  The laird would never forgive him for what had happened to Gregor.

  A knock sounded behind him. He looked up, and saw his wife stiffen on the bed, eyes fixed on the door, blond brows furrowed.

  Who would interrupt them on their wedding night?

  Lord help him if it was Iain MacKeith come to check on him. Or to deliver more threats.

  He approached the door and cracked it open.

  “HAAA!”

  “Ah!” Malcolm jumped back. “Christ, man, what are ye doing here?”

  Henley’s freckled face and dark eyes appeared in the doorway, his crop of red hair shining like a flame, even in the dim hallway. He leaned in the doorway. “Ye should have seen your face. Ye looked like I’d stepped on your grave.” His best friend snorted with laughter. “Come with me, we’ll have a drink.”

  “Are ye daft?” Malcolm cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “Or so drunk ye’ve forgotten? ’Tis me wedding night. I canna go with ye!”

  “Oh?” Henley lowered his voice and leaned closer, trying to peek into the chamber. “Ye mean, ye’ve not started on her yet?”

  “Christ.” Malcolm tried to close the door, but Henley’s boot stopped it.

  Henley leaned closer, poking his head through the small opening. “I dinna know how ye’ll be able tae get your willy up—with them eyes staring at you,” he whispered so loudly he might as well have shouted it.

  Malcolm shoved the door hard and it slammed closed. He heard Henley’s high-pitched laugh receding down the hall.

  He rested his head against the door and reflected for perhaps the thousandth time that an accused murderer could hardly be selective with his friends—even if he was the laird’s son.

  “Ye truly think ye’re the only one forced into this, don’t ye?”

  Malcolm raised his head, unsure if he’d imagined the voice. “Did ye say something, lass?”

  “Ye’re no’ the only one who’s put their clan before themselves.” Her eyes were on the floor, but he heard the anger and the challenge in her voice.

  He realized he had barely heard her speak aside from her whispered “I do” during the marriage ceremony. Her voice was smooth and low. He liked it. “So, ye do speak then?” he asked.

  “I speak when I’ve something worth hearing ta say. Unlike some others.”

  Malcolm felt his cheeks flame. “Care to explain what ye meant by that, lassie?”

  She sighed as if summoning the patience to speak to a daft person. “When I’m called upon to do my duty, I do it. And I do not sulk or expect the world’s pity. Or get so drunk I can scarce stand.”

  Malcolm’s blood burned under his skin. He took a step toward the bed. “Who taught ye to speak to a man like that, lass?”

  She stiffened, her face turned away from him.

  “If ye’re going tae insult a man, ye should at least look him in the eye when ye do it,” he continued.

  She looked at him, startled, her strange eyes wide as an owl’s.

  A howl cut through the chamber, breaking the tense moment.

  She jumped. “Was that a wolf?”

  He shrugged. “Aye. What else would it be, lass?”

  She didn’t answer but huddled farther into the bedclothes. Like a frightened kitten. She was scared, he realized.

  “If ye hurt her, I’ll kill ye.” He recalled MacKeith’s words from only moments ago. He knew the cousins were close—closer than many brothers and sisters. He’d even heard them calling each other strange pet names. He wondered if they were more to each other than mere cousins. He flushed, surprised at how angry the thought made him.

  “Dinna fash yourself. The wolves will no’ come near the keep,” he said.

  She didn’t look like she believed him, but she nodded.

  A shiny object on the bed stand caught his eye. He took a step forward to see what it was and picked it up. It was a chain with a ring as a pendant.

  “A wedding gift,” she said.

  A wedding present. He didn’t have anything for her.

  “To keep ye safe in the Holy Land,” she said.

  Malcolm was set to join Black James Douglas on his quest to Jerusalem. On his deathbed, the great Scots hero, Robert the Bruce, had charged Douglas with the task of carrying his heart to the Holy Sepulchre, and of fighting the infidel in his name. Malcolm and a few of his men had been granted the honor of being Douglas’s escort. Iain MacKeith was joining them as well, as a representative of the MacKeith clan.

  Malcolm fingered the strange gift. The ring was unusual, not a circle but an octagon, and forged from a metal Malcolm didn’t recognize.

  “T’was my mother’s,” he heard her say.

  Malcolm swallowed hard, forcing back some unfamiliar emotion. “Think I’ll be needin’ luck then, lass? It’s the infidels should be worrit.”

  She stared for a long while at the bed covers. “I want ye to know . . . I dinna believe it.”

  He felt pinpricks run up and down his body, as if his blood was pumping too fast through his veins. “Believe what?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

  She shifted nervously. “What they say. About your brother.”

  He turned away, not wanting to look at her or to be seen himself. He stared at the tapestry on the far wall, a scene of a mob of peasants slaying a winged dragon. “Why’s that, lass?”

  He heard her stand and leave the bed. “Ye dinna seem the sort who’d—”

  “Well, ye’re wrong.”

  She hesitated. “Then it must have been an accident.”

  He faced her once more. “No.”

  Her fiery gaze met his before she looked away. “I don’t believe you.”

  He strode toward her. “Then you’re a fool.”

  He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face to him. The first time they’d touched. “If ye think me innocent, why can ye not look me in the eye? I am yer husband now. Murderer or no.”

  Her eyes flashed to his, then lowered again. She flushed deeply and bit her lip. “It’s no’ that. It’s just . . .”

  “Aye?”

  She sighed. “I know my eyes are no pleasing, is all.”

  Now it was his turn to be shocked. He had a flash of unexpected and brilliant anger. Who had made her feel so unworthy? Her cousin? Her uncle? Guilt rushed over him as he remembered Henley’s coarse joke from just moments before.

  “Who told ye that, lass?”

  She shrugged.

  “Who?”

  She sighed again and looked toward the hearth. “I notice. How people look at me.”

  Suddenly, he remembered what her eyes reminded him of. When he’d been a lad of eight, a feral cat had left her litter in the stables. One of the wee kittens had the same mismatched eyes: a green one like dragon’s scales, and the other like hammered gold.