The Devil's Heart The Chattan Curse

Chapter Twelve


Heath had rarely credited kissing as anything other than a prelude to what he really wanted. Men kissed because women liked being all sloppy. What men truly wanted was much lower on the body.

However, now Margaret taught him that a kiss was a desire in and of itself. It was communication and communion.

Had the poets, whom he’d so often mocked, claimed kisses were better than wine? He’d not thought so . . . until this moment.

Memories of the dream evaporated. Responsibilities, doubts and worries disappeared.

There was nothing of more importance in this world than this woman in his arms.

She opened so sweetly to him that he knew theirs was not one-sided desire.

Of course, the kiss grew more heated. He wanted her in a way he’d never yearned for a woman before.

He began undressing her, tentatively at first, and, when she didn’t object, with more purpose. The storm raged around them, but here in front of the fire, protected by the crumbling walls of Macnachtan Keep, they were safe.

Had his buttons been hard to unfasten in his dream? They were doubly difficult now. His fingers were clumsy in his excitement and he would not let his lips leave hers. She was so soft and yielding. He’d rather struggle with wet clothing than part from her.

Her hand came down to help him. He reached for her waist, searching for the lacing of her skirt. That same skirt served as their covering. His jacket and breeches became their mattress.

Undoing her jacket was a challenge. The silver buttons were slippery.

She laughed at his inept attempts, breaking the kiss. She sat up and saw to the task herself.

Heath used the moment to throw more wood on the fire. He was naked and not ashamed of the hard desire he showed for her.

Margaret blushed, but then she rose up on her knees and opened her jacket. Thin, white lawn material covered her breasts, and he was reminded of that day by the great oak when her petticoat had drifted through the air.

Her black-as-a-raven’s-wing hair curled around her shoulders. He reached for the white lawn and pulled, bringing her toward him, even as the material ripped. The back of his fingers touched her skin as he kissed her.

This kiss was demanding. He wanted her and he wanted her now. Her breasts were full and tight, the nipples hard. She wanted him as well.

Her arms came around his shoulders as he leaned her back onto their makeshift bed. He pulled her skirt over them, forming a haven just for the two of them.

Their kiss deepened. He could feel her heat.

The scent of her was sweeter to his senses than any perfume. He tasted her flesh, kissing his way to her breast.

She gasped in surprise at the tricks his mouth could play, a gasp that quickly turned into small encouragements of delight.

As he moved to tease her other breast, he settled himself between her legs. She opened and arched to accommodate him. Her thighs were silky smooth against his hips.

There is a point when a man cannot turn back. Heath had reached that point.

His mind was insane with wanting her. She filled his senses. He raised himself to hungrily kiss her again—

She held her hand up to his lips. Her eyes were dark with desire. He kissed her fingers, and she sighed and took her hand away, giving him full access to her mouth.

Their tongues met, caressed, stroked—and he thrust himself deeply inside her, all the way to the hilt.

Margaret stiffened. She was blessedly tight. Too late he thought of her innocence. He called himself every worst sort of bastard, and then he could think no more as he gave himself over to the bliss of being inside her.

No woman had ever felt as good as Margaret Chattan did in his arms.

After her initial shock at accepting him, she became a full and eager participant in their lovemaking. Her movements matched his and heightened his pleasure while letting him know what she needed.

Heath was delighted. He liked a partner who didn’t stint in her own desires.

Too soon he felt his concentration weakening. She overpowered him.

And then her breath quickened. She moved faster. He wrapped his arms around her and gathered her up. Deep muscles tightened and he was lost.

Heath couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

No release had ever been this forceful. She drained the life of him and yet at the same time, he was more alive, more aware than he’d ever been before.

She cried his name and held fast to him. The strength of her completion radiated through him.

This was no ordinary coupling.

She was no ordinary woman.

In that moment, their bodies sharing the perfect summit of completion, Heath fell in love.

It startled him.

Yes, he was attracted to her. Margaret Chattan was a lovely, intelligent woman. There had been moments when he’d questioned her sanity, but he had no questions now.

The dissatisfaction that had nagged at him from the time he’d heard of his brother’s death, to the daily struggle to see to the estate’s debts, evaporated. The niggling doubt that life held anything of importance to him vanished.

In their place was a sense of wonder.

Margaret released her pleasure in a sigh of contentment. The ringing of church bells or the music of birdsong could not have been more pleasing to his ear.

He held her, studying her face as if with new eyes. He now saw beyond her looks. He knew her soul.

And he realized that all the events that had taken place in his life had happened to bring him to this one moment.

This one woman.

A dreamy look crossed her face. She raised her lashes and smiled, satisfied.

Only then did he realize he’d been holding her, bracing her in his arms. Gently he let her rest upon their makeshift mattress. She raised a hand to rest against his jaw. He knew his whiskers were rough but she smiled as if their prickly growth pleased her.

“I did not know it could be like that,” she whispered.

He hadn’t, either.

Heath brushed her curls away from her face. He adored looking at her. He knew he would feel the same even when her beauty faded with age—no, her beauty would never change for him . . . because it was her spirit he loved.

He loved. Heath Graham Davis Macnachtan had fallen in love, and it was the most precious, exciting, thrilling emotion of his life.

And then a coldness stole through him. She was easy to love; he not so much. She was the Unattainable, the glorious toast of London, and he was a penniless Scottish chieftain. Margaret Chattan had more sense than to love a man like him.

She drew a shaky breath and he realized he was on top of her. He edged over so they lay side by side.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” she said, but didn’t seem to need an answer because she smiled and brought her palm down to press upon her belly. “I’m still tingling,” she admitted. “I never want this feeling to leave.”

It wouldn’t, he wanted to say, if she loved him. He’d make her feel this way every night.

But his usual smooth manner had disappeared. The confidence he’d always had with other women was gone. And he knew that was because he wanted her so much. They had done more than just make love. She had changed him forever.

She pressed a kiss to the underside of his chin. “It’s good to be here with you. I’m not afraid. For so long, I’ve been afraid.”

He found his voice. “You need never fear anything while I am here to protect you.”

Margaret shook her head as if denying his words. He captured her face in his hands. She was so finely made. So delicate and soft, while he was hard and rough.

“This was meant to happen,” he said almost fiercely, wanting to impress the fact on her. He had her now, and he was never going to let her go.

Margaret rested in the haven of his arms, her body still humming the joy of their coupling, and she wanted to believe him.

But she knew better.

“Tomorrow it may all be different.”

“Tomorrow will be no different than this moment,” he vowed. “Margaret, I mean what I say. I’ll not let harm come to you.”

She adored the sound of her name on his lips. She liked the way his accent drew out the first syllable, the way he lingered on the last.

He then sealed his pledge with a kiss, a kiss that again quickly became heated, and she was surprised that he was already hard for her.

Years ago, out of love, she’d given herself to a man she had wanted to believe was worthy of her. He had not been. But he had revealed her passionate nature to her. She’d tried to deny this aspect of her character. She’d kept her desires carefully under control. She’d allowed no man near her.

Was it the storm that had broken down her defenses?

No, she knew better than that.

Heath was cut of the same cloth as her brothers. He was an honorable man, a good one, and nothing like Mark, who taken advantage of her youth and innocent need to be loved.

Heath didn’t speak idle words. He would defend her with his life if need be.

She pressed her naked breasts against his chest, basking in the feel of the hard, unyielding planes of his body. She could relax her guard with him.

And Margaret wanted to make love to him again.

She leaned against his shoulder, pushing him onto his back. She surprised him when she rolled on top of him. He laughed, the sound deep and masculine.

His lips brushed her hair and she searched them out, letting her kiss say to him what she dared not speak aloud.

Of course, the kiss became heated.

Margaret straddled him, pushing up and breaking the kiss. He tried to follow as if he could not bear to release the contact of their kiss. She appeased him by settling herself upon him.

He leaned back to the ground now that he knew her intent. He thrust up, reaching the very core of her, inciting new, stronger yearnings within her.

She threw the skirt that served as their blanket off her so that she could sit upon him boldly. There was no more storm, or at least she couldn’t register its existence. She was too taken with the tempest of her own emotions.

Her lover was a handsome man. His hands cupped her breasts. She held him inside, feeling wildly pagan.

And then she could take it no more. A sharp pinpoint of sensation grew inside her. She had to find release. She moved with greater purpose, reveling in the intensity that built with each thrust.

He was smiling, the glint in his eyes one of wicked enjoyment. She was doing this to him. He was as overpowered by her as she was by him.

She could feel the tension building in his loins. His hands came to her waist and he urged her to move faster, deeper. She didn’t believe she could. The heat between them was hotter than the fire.

Heath’s hold tightened. He pushed her hard against him, once, twice, and in the third, she felt the tension break.

For one sweet moment, she seemed to hover between earth and sky, life and death.

Once again, he had shown her that what she’d thought she’d known of what happened between a man and a woman was only a meager portion of the whole.

She experienced it all now. She could feel the force of his very being melding with her. She would never let him go. She held him as long as she could . . . and then slowly, she released her hold and fell down upon him.

His strong arms came around her.

He held her tightly. “You are a jewel,” he praised her, bring the heavy skirt of her riding habit around them. “A gift from the gods.”

Margaret knew differently. However, she did not correct him. Instead, she fell asleep, her cheek against his chest, the beat of his heart in her ears.

She knew these moments would not last.

They could not.

Heath had never slept so well in his life. He wasn’t certain what woke him, but it was morning when he opened his eyes. He stretched his body as he came awake, and then remembered he was not alone.

Margaret, his Maggie, was curled up beside him, her back to his chest. She appeared completely at peace, without any of her former anxiousness. He liked seeing her this way.

Her hair was a tangled mess. He stroked it lightly and felt himself harden. It was only an hour after dawn. They had been up most of the night. If he was kind, he would let her sleep.

Then again, her passion was as demanding as his own. He was certain she would want him to wake her—

A movement of white at the edge of his vision caught his attention. Something sat on the edge of the low wall not far from the fire. He frowned and came up on one arm, the better to see what the white was . . . and found himself staring into the large, wise eyes of a small cat. Her ears were folded over, giving her face the unusual impression of—

“Owl?”

The cat’s response was a low-throated purr before she jumped off the other side of the wall, disappearing from his view.

Here was Margaret’s cat, the one she had been willing to drown for.

The one he had not been able to see.

Heath climbed out from beneath the skirt that served as a blanket and came to his feet.

Now he felt the aches of sleeping on hard ground. He walked over to the wall, uncertain if he truly saw the cat or if his mind was playing tricks. Perhaps he wasn’t awake. Perhaps he was dreaming.

The cold air of a winter morning assured him he wasn’t. And when he walked to the wall and looked over it, the cat was still there, sitting on her haunches close to the woods.

For a long moment, they held each other’s attention, and then Owl came to her feet and with a swish of her tail went into the forest.

Heath reached for his breeches and began dressing. His clothes were dry. He thought little of that considering the heat from the fire he’d built. Even now the embers still burned.

Seeing that Margaret was snuggled under the covers, he added more wood to keep the fire going until he returned. He was going to catch that cat. He had a plan to bring her to Margaret and show her that the animal was not some ghostie that could disappear, but real and very earthly.

Then, perhaps, she would accept that her family was not caught in the grips of some witch, but that there had to be, must be, very real, concrete reasons for the deaths of the males in her family.

If there was anything of the magical happening around here, it was the way they made love. That had been astounding, and he firmly planned to see that they did it again. Often.

But first, he was determined to banish the shadows in her life.

He had nothing for his feet but that did not bother him. He’d been colder and in worse circumstances on board a ship a time or two. The secret was to keep moving.

Climbing over the wall, he headed in the direction where Owl had disappeared. Standing on the edge of the woods, he listened. As if teasing him, he heard a faint meow and caught a glimpse of white.

The chase was on. Owl teased him by always staying ahead of him. He followed her into the densest part of the forest. A time or two, Owl almost let him catch her. His fingers just brushed the long, fine fur of her coat before she would leap out of his reach and playfully run in a new direction.

Heath was growing winded. The cat was leading him across small streams and over fallen trees. He knew they traveled in circles.

Slowly, his opinion changed. This was no ordinary cat. She understood what she was doing . . . and he realized she was leading him somewhere.

The moment he stepped into the small clearing surrounded by firs, he recognized the place. This was where he’d found Margaret the day before.

Owl waited for him. She sat between the two headstones, her expression sphinxlike.

Heath stopped. “Clever cat,” he said. “We could have arrived here sooner.”

Her response was an expression he could only interpret as a smile.

He didn’t move closer but knelt, wanting to see what the cat would do.

The intelligence behind her large eyes, the knowing gave him a chill. She understood he challenged her and, in the manner of all women he’d known in his life, resented him for it.

They eyed each other, combatants at patience, and then Heath stood. “All right, I concede.” His purpose wasn’t to have a staring match with this cat but to capture it.

He started walking toward Owl. She waited with the air of a queen.

A step away from her, Heath decided to make his move; he lunged for the cat, his arms going around her . . . his arms going right through her.

And he parted them to look at her in surprise, except she was gone. She’d vanished.

Everything he believed he knew was suddenly suspect.

Heath studied the space of ground where his own eyes had told him the cat had been. Now there was only brown grass and damp leaves and pine needles.

He searched the forest around him. There was no flash of white.

Or perhaps the cat was here and he couldn’t see her, just as Margaret had claimed.

“What game do you play?” he asked the clearing.

As is too often the case when a man asks a question of the universe, the response was silence . . . the same eerie silence devoid of birds or the rustling of leaves that Margaret had commented on the day before and he’d so easily fobbed off.

And then he heard a sound. A man was calling his name. It was Rowlly. “Laird Macnachtan? Heath? Can you hear me? Tell me you made it safe, man. We’ve been worrying all night.” He didn’t sound as if he was that far away.

Heath’s immediate thought was of Margaret. He had to return to her, to protect her from Rowlly and whoever was with him before they discovered her in less discreet circumstances.

Heath took off as if the hounds of hell were giving chase. He stumbled over rocks and continued on, ignoring the pain in his feet. He pushed aside branches and thorns that reached to hold him back.

Within minutes, he reached the ruins and was relieved to see that Rowlly and his party were not there, only then did he take a moment to catch his breath before charging down the edge of the knoll to the fireplace where he’d left Margaret sleeping—and came to an abrupt halt.

The fire still burned in the old hearth but there was no sign of Margaret Chattan.

At that moment, he heard Rowlly behind him, “Here you are. Could you not hear me hollering my lungs out?”

Heath was suddenly uncertain, the disappearing cat making him wonder about everything, including Margaret and what had happened between them. He turned to find Rowlly standing on the knoll with John Gibson. “I thought I’d meet you here,” he murmured.

“And I thought you’d be freezing cold and anxious to leave this place,” Rowlly answered. “I’d forgotten about the old hearth. Smart of you to use it. A pity Lady Margaret didn’t find you.”

“Aye,” Gibson echoed, “she’s lucky to be alive. So are you. I didn’t believe you could swim that current.”

“You found Lady Margaret?” Heath asked.

“She found us,” Rowlly answered. “She came running down to the shore, looking just as disheveled. I can’t believe the two of you were on the same island and couldn’t find each other.”

Had Margaret told them that?

“Yes, well, the storm forced each of us to seek shelter where we could,” Heath answered. Something hard was building inside of him. He told himself that, of course, Margaret would want to make it seem as if they had spent the night apart instead of rogering each other for everything they were worth. “Did she say where she was?”

“She said she found a clearing surrounded by firs that kept the storm at bay.” Rowlly shook his head. “She tried to describe where it was, but I don’t remember such a place. Do you?”

Heath shook his head. “Is she at the boat now?”

“Aye, waiting for us,” Rowlly said. “Ah, yes, and your sisters are here. We made them wait at Gibson’s house. Worried ill they are. Even Dara came.”

“Then let’s go. My feet are cold,” Heath said, speaking the truth, but his words made Rowlly and Gibson laugh. Rowlly clapped an arm around Heath’s shoulder and told him about how they had tried to return to the island last night, but the storm kept blowing them back.

“I’ve never seen the loch like that before,” Gibson said.

“Would you call it highly unusual?” Heath asked, wanting to know if the fisherman thought otherwise.

“Och, well, who is to say? Mother Nature and God always hold surprises.”

“I hope not to experience that surprise again,” Heath answered, and they again laughed. He pretended to laugh as well but his mind was on Margaret.

“Did she say what caused her to jump out of the boat?” Heath asked, curious as to what information Margaret might have shared.

“Didn’t ask,” Rowlly answered. “All I know is she thought she saw a cat and then dived in. Who understands the gentry? Especially the English ones. They say they are all half mad.”

They came out of the woods to where Gibson’s boat was docked on the shore. “We came over in the large one in case another storm brewed sudden-like,” the fisherman explained.

Heath only half attended. His attention was on Margaret. She sat at the aft of the boat, her red cloak around her. She appeared to be huddled against the cold, but he knew better. She was ignoring him and didn’t even bother to look up as he approached.

She wasn’t alone. Rowlly had brought a few of the stable lads, and he hailed them now.

Margaret didn’t look up. There was no smile for him, no acknowledgment of what had transpired between them.

Heath wanted to believe that perhaps she was being wise, that it was prudent to not offer anyone a clue to what they’d spent the night doing.

But he knew differently.

She had shut him out, and he wanted to know why.