She tensed, and he felt the lean, firm muscles of her arm flexing in his hand. And stronger too.
Her skin was smooth and unlined, creamy next to what seemed a coarse halo of jet-black hair. “Nay,” he said. “Not sister. Niece, then.”
“A bheil Gaidhlig agad?” she asked haltingly. Her grammar was stilted, overly familiar.
“Aye, I speak Gaelic,” he replied in English. “And what else?” He pushed her chin roughly from his hand. “But apparently you've strange notions of the Gaedhealg tongue.”
He spared a glance to the men passed out by the fire, then MacColla squinted, studying her. “Where is it you're from?”
She leaned toward him, peering through the shadows. “You!” Terror lit her features like a torch. “You were in that… that painting. Who the hell are you?” She looked around frantically. “Where the hell'd you take me?”
Was she cursing him to the devil? Did this wee Campbell lass dare damn him? MacColla glared at her, trying to make sense of her strange accent. She seemed to be speaking English, but none like he'd ever heard. Her words were like the sharp claps of a barking dog. “Speak slow when you curse me.”
He approached her. He saw spirit in those wide gray eyes, and he was compelled to look closer.
She shuffled back, arms askew as if to brace herself on thin air. The lass was shouting at him now, unintelligible words.
MacColla took her in once again, from head to foot. She was a well -proportioned one, of modest height and with just enough meat on her bones. If Campbell had a mind for kidnap, two could play at his game. If only he could understand her clamoring.
“Air do shocairl” he commanded, speaking over her. “Och… slowly now. I'd hear your curses… ” He studied the movement of her mouth, trying to understand her words. Her lips were full and dark against the pale glow of her cheeks in the moonlight. He'd taste this Campbell woman, he decided suddenly. “Before I wipe them from your mouth.”
He grabbed her, wrapping his hand easily around her upper arm. Though he'd pillaged in his day, MacColla was never one for rape. But a kiss? One kiss would be no crime.
The woman once again flexed her arm in his grip and he smiled outright. The feel of her solid flesh in his hand madehis heart kick. Many a lass had offered themselves for a kiss by the great hero MacColla. But none such as this. This one had muscle to spare. Interesting.
Curse it, but he wanted a bloody Campbell.
He leaned down, closing the distance between them. The woman froze, like a hare paralyzed by the sight of the hunter's bow. A low laugh rumbled in his throat, so eager was he to taste her. His free hand clutched the soft flesh of her rump, pulling her toward him.
MacColla kissed her. He'd wanted at first to be rough, but she was soft. So soft and sweet, his mouth gentled in the tasting of her. And, for a single moment, he imagined the lass kissed him back, her breath sighing into him, her mouth opening just enough for him to taste her, fresh and warm on his tongue. And then, with a tiny growl, she caught his lower lip hard between her teeth and bit.
MacColla pulled away. She glared at him, bored her teeth, and exhaled with the measured breath of a prowling wolf.
He studied the wee Campbell hellcat before him, and then strangely, inexplicably, he found himself laughing. These long years of exile, his father's imprisonment, his sister's capture - all a pall of waiting and dread that had clouded his vision for so long now. It was as if the veil had suddenly burnt to ash kindling MacColla to life. A deep, freeing laughexploded from low in his belly.
One of the men by the fire stirred.
He looked to his sister and the terror and confusion in her eyes made him remember himself. Clearing his throat, he nodded to Jean as if she'd communicated more than simply her silent, charged glare. “Aye,” he whispered. “We must go from here.”
He looked back down at the woman. “A bonny Campbell for my spoils,” he said, licking the blood from his lower lip. It left a taste like rust on his tongue. He smiled wide at the lass then, knowing full well that the blood reddened his teeth.
He didn't need a man to help him lower the castle stairs after all, MacColla thought as he guided her to the entryway. He was of a mind to make the wee Campbell assist instead.
Snagging his hand in her hair, he cupped her head and guided her toward Jean. Despite the violence of the gesture, he tried not to hurt her - the ravaging of women was an ignoble sport. Though he'd half a mind to scare her into docility. He imagined he might need such tactics if he were to manage such a fiery soul as this one.
His aim was to use her for barter. The next time one of
MacColla's Royalists found himself in a Campbell cell, this lass would be good to have at hand. Family members were the most effective bargaining chips.
He scowled. It was a lesson Campbell himself had taught, with MacColla's own father and brother as the example. He had handed over any number of his enemy Covenanters, all in hopes of trading for their lives. And if he'd had someone closer to Campbell's heart with which to barter? Perhaps he could've spared his father and brother so many long years imprisoned.
* * *
What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck… The thought pinged through her mind like a loosed pinball.
Big man, black hair, those brows. And what the fuck was with her reaction to him? The first sight of him had sent an involuntary shiver through her. He'd kissed her, and her body had sent up a quick flare, pure animal reaction to the sheer size of him.
Haley shook her head to get rid of the memory. She'd get ahold of herself.