Page 2 of Devil’s Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

Cormac heard the hollow clack of rocks shifting behind him. Years of savage training had attuned his senses, sensitized them, rendering him as acute as any predator. The merest rustle could sound at his back, and pure instinct flared, making him ready to fight or to kill.

He’d spun, but it was her: Marjorie. The sight of her was a punch in the sternum.

She was his guilty pleasure. Through the years, he’d hold himself off, until he could bear it no longer, then he’d allow himself to ask after her, or more delicious still, find an excuse to travel to Aberdeen and the promise of a chance glimpse or two.

To his family he feigned casual disinterest, but Cormac felt certain the world saw through his mask to the anguish beneath.

He should’ve saved Aidan that day. If he’d been stronger, less clumsy and inept, he could’ve fought to save him.

But like a fool he’d gotten himself stuck in a damned chimney flue.

He’d borne the shame of it every day since.

His stupidity had lost him his twin, and his grieving mother hadn’t survived the year.

Two losses on his head, all before his eleventh birthday.

The third loss, though, the crushing blow, was this woman who approached him now. This fine and beautiful creature whom he’d never deserve.

He suspected Marjorie saw more in him than his shame, but he could not.

He was beyond feeling love or joy, and he’d sealed that fate when he’d gone off to war, craving battles like a parched man water, baptizing himself in blood.

But rather than washing his soul clean, the blood of others had only stained it blacker.

Marjorie grew closer, gliding across the rocky beach as though it were a ballroom. She held her head high, and long strands of her golden brown curls whipped in the wind. The ache in his chest turned sharp, from the punch of a fist to the twist of a knife.

Rarely did he truly see anyone anymore. All faces looked the same to Cormac. All, except for hers. She emerged from the world’s meaningless bustle as a goddess would a frieze.

Marjorie was close enough now that he could see her eyes.

He’d been seeing them in his dreams for years.

He’d convinced himself it was merely a last remaining boyish fancy that had embellished his memories, but he knew now he’d been wrong.

Her eyes were as brilliant as he’d remembered.

They were wide, a rare blue that had always reminded him of the petals of barraisd .

Her eyes, like the flower, impossibly vivid and bright.

“Ree,” he heard himself whisper. And with that, a veil cleared from before those startling eyes, and he saw her pain; it sliced through his armor as easily as a blade between ribs. “Aw, Ree, lass.”

“Cormac, it’s happened again.”

He understood at once and fought the urge to reach for her. “Tell me.”

“I live with Uncle now, in the old town house.” She paused, the memory of that house and that day hanging between them. “I’ve been helping tend the children at the Saint Machar poorhouse.”

He nodded, even though he already knew where she lived and how she’d been spending her time. She’d been battling her own demons, just as he had.

He wanted to give her some reassurance, but instead he felt his eyes narrow.

He damned himself. Perhaps he’d never remember how regular folk acted, how they comforted, how they smiled.

“I was with Davie—” Her voice caught.

Jealousy spiked his veins with acid. Had Marjorie come to him to discuss another man? Rage overcame him, then disbelief. He waited for Marjorie’s explanation in pained silence.

“I was with a boy named Davie,” she began again, “down by the docks. He’s a wee lad, just five, and clings to my skirts like a limpet, he does.”

Cormac’s chest eased, and he realized he’d been holding his breath.

Marjorie peered at him for a moment, a curious look in her eyes. “I had business in Castlegate,” she continued, “and so gave him a bawbee for some food. The baker had a pan of rowies hot from the oven . . .” Her voice drifted off.

Dread lanced him, and for a moment, Cormac knew what it was to be a feeling man again, instead of the brittle husk he’d become. He hardened his stance. “And?” His voice came out harsher than he’d intended, his battle to remain remote making his voice sound a snarl.

Marjorie looked down. “And he never came back to me,” she finished quietly.

He forced a casual shrug. “Maybe he ran off. He’s just a boy after all.” But even as he said it, Cormac knew. No boy in his right mind would tear himself from the skirts of the fine Marjorie Keith.

“No,” she said simply. She collected herself, inhaling deeply. “I know him. He’d not run off. And . . . there have been rumors . . .”

Cormac regretted it, but there was nothing for it. Marjorie deserved to hear the truth. “Not rumors, Ree. Fact. Parliament decreed long ago that able-bodied poor found idling be gathered and claimed as property.”

“Like Aidan?” Her voice was barely a murmur.

He set his jaw. “Aye. Precisely like that.”

She swiped a tear from her cheek, and Cormac fisted his hands at his sides. He would not— could not—comfort her. “’Tis a cruel world, Ree. There are even some who say the poor lads are the better for it, breathing the fresh air of the Indies, or the Americas, rather than—”

“Rather than climbing chimneys?” she asked coldly, putting a fine point on both their pain. At his nod, she blanched and then darted her eyes down to stare at her foot as she toed a rock. “It’s horrible. How can men do that, and to children?”

“Aye, man is horrible.” He’d seen it firsthand. He’d done horrible things.

As if she’d read his thoughts, she reached for him. The touch of Marjorie’s hand on his arm was light, but it was as though lightning cracked, splitting his heart wide open. Her touch shattered him, exposing the pale, bleak creature hidden at his core.

In that instant, he was vulnerable. Alone, and aching with yearning.

He looked at her fingers wrapped around his forearm, and a lifetime of want burst to the fore. His eyes rose to find her gaze on him. He’d loved her so. The sight of her reminded him of all he’d lost. Of all he was missing.

Cormac stiffened. He let his mind rove to a dangerous place, one where he eased Marjorie down to take her along the rocks, running his hands over her body, through her hair. She’d let him; he saw it in her eyes. He could bury himself in her, forget it all. She’d absolve him of his pain.

His eyes clenched shut as he let that pain roil through him. He couldn’t touch her. He wasn’t the man she needed. He could never be good enough for one like Ree.

Cormac pulled away, turning to heave a basket of fish higher up the shore. “Forget the boy, Marjorie.”

He set his haul down with force, his eyes shut in a grimace. He’d never used such a tone with her. He hadn’t called her by her full name in he knew not how long. But he couldn’t help that the world was a cruel place.

“Marjorie!” his youngest sister shouted from up the beach. He told himself he was grateful for the interruption, that the pang in his chest was relief.

Cormac busied himself with his nets. He heard a rustling as Bridget enthusiastically embraced her.

“Marjorie,” Bridget exclaimed, breathless. “It is you! I never thought we’d ever see you come calling. I sent you a letter just yesterday, planning my next visit to Aberdeen, but . . . Losh! Here you are. Are you well?” She added with feigned innocence, “Cormac was asking after you just last week.”

He scowled, untangling and smoothing the twine webbing, even though the nets were already in impeccable shape. If he could, he’d tan his sister’s meddlesome hide.

Bridget trilled merrily on. Cormac could hear from the laughter in her voice that she knew she’d gotten under his skin.

“Truly, Marjorie, it distresses me that it’s taken you so long to visit.

We’ve lived here nine years! Imagine that.

I do love the times I’ve gotten to see you in Aberdeen, but, och , what a stranger you’ve become.

You’ll stay for a time with us, of course. ”

Cormac winced. “She’ll not want to bed down in our pile of rubble,” he said, not looking up from his work.

“Cormac MacAlpin!” Bridget leaned down to swat his shoulder. “It’s not so grim as all that. Come”—she linked arms with Marjorie—“and be welcome at Dunnottar Castle.”

He rose slowly, meeting Marjorie’s gaze. They locked eyes and, for a blessed instant, the rest of his world fell away. He lost himself, the past, his pain, drowned in vivid blue.

She blinked, and something shifted in her gaze. Cormac swore he felt it shimmer like electricity across his skin. Marjorie narrowed her eyes, assuming a look, her look, the one she used to get before issuing one of her infamous dares. That glint aimed straight for him, and Cormac braced.

Marjorie patted his sister’s hand, her gaze never leaving his. “Thank you, Bridget. I look forward to my stay.”