“But Ina’s oatcakes—” Niall shook his finger at the cat. “You’ll not find better anywhere, cat!”
Beelzebub grumbled something rude and dangerous, and glared at the oatcake disdainfully, his ears flat.
“Perhaps we should fetch Fia. Are ye feeling poorly, puss?” Ruari cooed. Beelzebub fixed him with an evil-tempered glare. “Haud yer wheesht, I’m only askin’.” He looked at Niall’s scratches and winced. “You’ll have to see Fia, get some salve for that.”
“Lucky lad,” Jock said.
Niall grinned. “Aye.”
Jock sighed. “She’ll smile and tell ye to sit by her, and she’ll pick up your hand in hers—”
“Such lovely wee hands she’s got,” Ruari said.
“She’ll get out that ointment o’ hers, and lay out a cloth,” Jock went on. “And she’ll lean in so close ye can smell the sweet scent of her hair.”
“Roses,” Ruari murmured.
Niall frowned. “Nay, it’s honey. She smells like honey.”
“’Tis heather,” Jock said. “She makes soap from it. She says the finest heather in all the land grows at Glen Iolair.”
Ruari squinted at him. “You asked her?”
Jock shrugged. “I hit my finger with an axe. It bled so much I was sure I was going to die. I may have said some things while she was stitching me up, certain they were my last words on this earth.”
Niall frowned. “What did ye say?”
“I canna remember exactly. The pain was terrible.”
The cat let out a low, anguished yowl, and all three warriors jumped to attention and looked at the creature. Beelzebub prowled in a circle, then flopped over onto his side.
“He’s dying,” Jock whispered.
The cat gave an exasperated sigh and shut his eyes.
Dair regarded Fia’s pet. “He wants a lass, a female cat,” he said. The three men turned to him. “I’ve seen men on long sea voyages look just like that.”
Everyone looked at the cat. Beelzebub raised his head and looked back at them.
“Well, a man does require more than oatcakes,” Ruari added, his thumbs in his belt. “There’s plenty of cats in the village—one of them would do.”
“Now, wait a minute. Perhaps he likes a particulartypeof lass. Not too fat, not too thin . . . ,” Jock said. He turned to look at Dair, as if he might have some expertise to offer on the matter. Dair considered how long it had been since he’d had a woman in his bed.Months.No wonder his body reacted to the sight of Fia MacLeod every time she so much as walked past him. He held his tongue. There were plenty of other lasses at Carraig Brigh—Beitris Murray was free with her favors, and Tearlag Sinclair was a sweet lass. But he didn’t want to bed them. There was only one woman he wanted.
He looked at the cat again, at the bored expression, the edgy swish of his tail, the tense, restless muscles, and knew just how the beast felt.
A call came from outside the gates, and the men on guard duty swung them open. There was jaunty flute music as a veritable parade of Sinclair lads and lasses entered, singing, laughing, and skipping with joy. Dair and the men in the bailey gaped.
It was a merry sight that Carraig Brigh hadn’t seen in a very long time. “We’re getting ready for midsummer,” John called to Dair. Dair stood back and stared. The lasses were decked in flowers, their skirts kilted up, their pretty ankles showing, their feet bare and dusty. The warriors—for they were still his father’s warriors despite the wreaths of flowers crowning their heads—were dancing like fauns in a French tapestry. Eyes met, smiles flashed. Hands touched, caressed. Lust filled the warm midsummer air.
Then Fia MacLeod rode in on a garron, and Dair’s mouth dried. Her skirts were lifted too, revealing the fetching sight of her calves and knees, white, bare, and shapely. Her dirk must must be hidden somewhere else on her slender frame, though he couldn’t guess where. Her simple linen gown clung to her curves with the heat of the day. Her hair was coming loose from her braid in long red tendrils, and her face was flushed with laughter. She wore a circlet of wildflowers on her head and a necklace of daisies. The garron’s panniers were overflowing with more flowers, and the poor beast was even wearing some in his mane. Fia laughed with her head thrown back, her face carefree and happy, like a fairy queen, fey and lovely. Desire coursed through Dair’s body, hot, thick, and instant. He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut, had the air driven out of his lungs. He wanted to pull her off the damned horse, drag her into his arms, and kiss her senseless.
Lust. It was simple lust, a case of being without a bedmate for too long.
Just like the cat.
He glanced at the beast. Beelzebub was sitting up proudly, staring at Fia with sweet eyes, his belly rising and falling with the force of his purr.
Dair’s body purred too, hummed with need. He remembered how Fia had looked in the night when he’d woken from the nightmare to find her there, her sweet mouth inches from his, her eyes golden in the candlelight. He’d wanted her fiercely then too, with a hunger he’d never felt. There’d been desire in her eyes as well . . .
