Page 4 of Devil’s Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

Furrowing her brow, Marjorie followed willingly, thinking there was more to Bridget than met the eye.

Though the MacAlpins had been nicknamed Dunn’s Devils, with her black hair and mischievous dark eyes sparkling like the night sky, it was Bridget who might turn out to be the most devilish of them all.

Bridget resumed her brisk pace, towing Marjorie alongside. “I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

The thought made her blush. She heard Cormac following behind them; now that she knew he was there, he was all she was aware of. Would he see where she slept?

Suddenly, she needed to know. Did he sleep nearby? “I don’t want to put anyone out. Where does everyone else slee—”

“Och, you’re putting nobody out. We’re giving you Anya’s room.”

They were making their way down a narrow gallery. Squares of watery light pierced the windows. A shadowy cluster of rooms spoked out from the end of the corridor.

The bedrooms. There appeared to be four of them. Which one was Cormac’s?

She tallied the MacAlpins in her head. Youngest to oldest: Bridget, Declan, Cormac, Gregor, Anya. Five siblings, four bedrooms. Who sleeps where?

“You keep a room for Anya?” Marjorie asked, her voice hoarse.

“You’ve seen the place. I’d say we’ve rooms to spare.”

Cormac was still behind them. She felt the heat of his body radiating at her back. Marjorie struggled to make conversation. “And how is your sister?”

“Her?” Bridget shrugged. “Anya abides.”

“And whatever is that supposed to mean?”

Bridget shook her head, stifling an impish grin.

“Our Anya . . . She seems to bear her life in silence, aye? Except when she was married off.” She beamed admiringly.

“Oh, but the fit she pitched when Father sent her all the way down to Argyll! But she seems to have accustomed to married life. Her husband, Donald, he was injured you know, in the wars. Terrible thing. But she has her wee Duncan. Though he’s not so very wee anymore.

He’s . . .” She looked over Marjorie’s shoulder. “How old is he now?”

“Nine.” Cormac bit out the word as though pained.

She felt a little flutter of optimism. What was he doing, following and listening? It didn’t seem like something a man would do if he wanted to rid himself of you. Perhaps she could convince him to help her find Davie after all.

Marjorie cleared her throat. “Do you sleep up here, too?”

Though she’d hoped Cormac would answer, of course it was Bridget who replied, “Well, of course I do. And where else? Mine’s just here.” She pointed to the neighboring door before swooping into the room on the end.

Bridget began to bustle around at once, running a finger along a dusty side table, slapping at the bedclothes. She waved a hand before her face at the cloud of dust that swirled to life. “We’ll need to air it a bit. But a broom . . . a candle and a washbowl, and it’s easily put to rights.”

Marjorie couldn’t help but cut her eyes to Cormac. He was rigid as a post and eyeing her bed as though it was on fire and he’d been forbidden to put it out.

The bed was big, but not big enough for one so tall as Cormac. What would it be to share a bed with such a man? He’d sit at the edge of it. Gather her onto his lap. He’d kiss her. It would be her first.

She coughed, but it did nothing to slow the shallow racing of her heartbeat. Where had such thoughts come from?

He was staring at her bed. How big would his bed be? She fought to breathe. Cormac’s bed. Where was his room? Did he sleep close by? She had to know. “Where—?”

“I don’t know why we even keep it for her. It’s not as though Anya ever comes to visit. Her hands are full, nursing that crabbit old numpty she married.”

“Mind yourself, sister dear,” a voice boomed from behind them, “or I’ll marry you off like Father did Anya.”

“Gregor!” Marjorie brightened in surprise at the sight of the eldest MacAlpin brother striding toward them. Though it was Cormac who had her heart, his dashing brother never failed to make it skip a beat. Gregor MacAlpin was light and easy, and he maneuvered women as smoothly as a drover his flock.

He went straight for her, taking her hands in his. “Marjie, love!”

“Marjorie,” Cormac growled under his breath.

Cormac’s voice reverberated up her spine. His gaze caught hers, and for a thrilling instant she glimpsed a familiar flash in his eyes. One that she hadn’t seen since he was a boy. What would he be thinking to have such a look?

“Here’s the true devil of Dunnottar.” Bridget nodded her chin toward Gregor.

“Aye, you’d best watch me, Marj.” Gregor leaned down to plant a lingering kiss on her knuckles.

“Watch you , Gregor?” She pulled her hands away to study him.

He was tall, with the lighter coloring of the MacAlpins’ mother, and his blue eyes crinkled as he smiled.

Gregor was handsome and gallant, and yet he’d never made her tremble as only Cormac could.

“Last I heard, you returned from the wars a noble and conquering hero. As I understand it, maidens have naught to fear from chivalrous knights like you.”

Gregor’s laugh boomed in the small stone chamber. “Oh, Marjorie, Marjorie,” he said, shaking his head. “Just look at you.” His eyes swept her up and down, lingering on the cut of her bodice.

Somehow, suddenly, Cormac stood closer among them.

She stole a glimpse. She’d feared he hated her, but it certainly didn’t appear the case. If anything, in that moment, it was Gregor who seemed to be the object of Cormac’s contempt.

So, he didn’t seem to hate her, and that was a good sign. The Cormac she’d known was in there somewhere. But there was something different there, too, and she was unable to read it. Would she be able to convince him to help her find Davie?

“I’m humbled by how beautiful you’ve grown,” Gregor continued. “You don’t bless us with your presence nearly enough.”

“I . . . I live in Aberdeen, with Uncle.” This put her in mind of something she’d meant to ask. “As for Aberdeen, I was under the impression that you—”

“Pray tell, love,” Gregor interrupted, “but I must know. Whatever brings you to our wee pile of rubble?” He cocked a brow. “And how can we keep you?”

Bridget beamed. “Oh, we’re keeping her.”

“No, we are not,” Cormac muttered.

Bridget put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you be ungracious.”

Marjorie ignored them. If only they weren’t all standing in her bedchamber . “I’ve come . . .” She glanced at Cormac’s stoic profile and girded herself. “To ask for Cormac’s help.”

“He’ll provide it, of course,” Bridget said briskly.

“Aye,” Gregor added. “Bridge apprised me of your situation just after you came up from the beach. I insist you rest here a while, and then Cormac will return with you to Aberdeen, to help.”

Cormac’s eyes narrowed. He wouldn’t be helping Marjorie, because he couldn’t .

He’d tried such a thing, years ago, tracking Aidan—it was the reason he’d become a scout.

And now, one more boy, among hundreds of boys, stolen from the streets of Aberdeen?

It’d be easier to find a Covenanter in the king’s court. “I’ll do no such thing.”

Bridget’s jaw dropped. “Why ever not?”

“Because I . . .” He hesitated. Then he mistakenly turned to look at Marjorie. She tried to keep a brave face, but Cormac alone could see the despair in her eyes. He wanted to fold her into his arms and stroke her hair until the lines smoothed from her brow.

No.

He wanted to grab her and hold her and kiss her until she forgot this Davie’s name.

“Is it because you’re busy fishing from dawn till dusk?” Bridget asked, crossing her arms defiantly. She stomped her foot at the answering silence. “No, Cormac. Tell me why you can’t take a few days to help Marjorie find this boy of hers. Gregor, tell him.”

“Well . . .” Gregor cleared his throat. “Our brother will do what’s right. Now I’m afraid I must take this up later. ’Twas lovely indeed seeing you again, Marj, but—”

“Marjorie,” the other three corrected in unison.

“Aye, of course, Marjorie , but sadly, I must be going. I . . .” Gregor appeared to be fishing for some excuse. “I’ll go just now to send word to your uncle that you’ll be staying on.” He flashed them a broad grin.

Cormac grimaced. Staying on. Having Marjorie in their home felt as natural as breathing. Worse, it felt right . And it made him angry. He resented that she’d appeared, making him feel things he shouldn’t be feeling.

The pain and shame of Aidan’s loss, his mother’s death, the hideous and meaningless years at war .

. . it had taken him years to inure himself to it all.

But he’d finally found solace in his solitary life.

And here was Marjorie, ready to shatter that ordered solitude.

Like a numbed limb prickling back to life, the sensation was unpleasant.

Their older brother bowed from the room, managing to look both nonchalant and vaguely alarmed.

“Typical Gregor,” Bridget muttered. At Marjorie’s quizzical look, she clarified, “Our brother avoids any form of conflict. Unless, of course, he’s donned in armor. In which case, he postpones his grand exits until he finds himself awarded full military honors.”

Cormac needed to escape, too. He didn’t see how it’d be possible to help Marjorie, yet he could no longer bear the feeling that he’d somehow betrayed her.

“Not you as well,” Bridget said as he turned to leave the room.

Marjorie merely stared intently at the floor.

He forced his eyes from her. She’d recover.

Her grief was still fresh. Until now, the only hard lesson she’d experienced had been years ago, with Aidan’s capture.

Eventually she would learn that the world was cruelly able to heap a mountain of suffering onto one’s shoulders.

“Don’t you fret, Marjorie,” he heard Bridget tell her as he left the room. “We’ll get Cormac to help you.”