His Immortal Embrace. Lynsay Sands
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as she ran her tongue between his lips and said, “So taste it, Alpin. Drink deep.”
Alpin did, holding her tightly as he kissed her. She met his growing ferocity with her own. It was astonishing to him that this delicate woman did not flee his raw desire, but welcomed it, equaled it. A flicker of sanity pierced the madness seizing him. It would be easy to simply revel in what she offered, but he had to resist. Instinct told him that Sophie would not give herself lightly, and he could offer her no more than a bedding.
He ended the kiss, pulling back from her until his head hit the wall. He closed his eyes against the sight of her flushed face, her passion-warmed eyes, and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. When he felt his control return, he looked at her again only to catch her staring at his bared chest with a look so heated he almost lost control again.
“Cease staring at my chest, Sophie,” he drawled, pleased at how calm he sounded, no hint of the need tearing at his insides to be detected in his voice.
For a moment Sophie did not grasp the almost cold tone behind his words, then she felt the sting of the abrupt ending of their passionate interlude. She felt anger push aside her desire and glared at him, saying with an equal coldness, “I wasnae staring at your chest, ye vain mon. I was but noticing that your laces are badly frayed.”
She was good, Alpin thought, as he watched her stand up. If his senses of smell and hearing were not so acute, he might believe she was as unmoved by the kiss as he pretended to be. He could still scent her desire, however, still hear it pounding in her veins. Pride led her now, and, he realized, he could use that to keep her at a distance, to stop her from tempting him with her warmth.
“Best collect your rocks ere ye hurry away,” he said.
“They are rune stones,” she snapped as she picked them up.
He shrugged as he stood up slowly. “They are nonsense, foolish superstition. I begin to lose patience with all these games.”
“And I begin to lose patience with the air of defeat that fair chokes the air at Nochdaidh!”
“After so long, ye must forgive us for no longer believing in cures. And if the air here is so foul to ye, mayhap ye ought to go do your breathing elsewhere.”
“Oh, nay, ye willnae get rid of me so easily. Fine, go and wallow in your self-pity. I am nay ready to quit. If ye dinnae wish me to fight for you, so be it, but I will continue to fight for myself and for the sake of any children I am blessed with.” Seeing the look of fury upon his face, Sophie decided she had pushed him hard enough and she started back to her room. “And best ye get those weak laces seen to ere they snap. Ye could put an eye out, ye ken.”
She shut her bedroom door quietly, resisting the urge to slam it shut. Seeing that Nella was still asleep, Sophie shook her head and put her rune stones away. She crawled into her bed and closed her eyes, knowing sleep would be slow to release her from the tumultuous feelings still gripping her. As she struggled to calm herself, she decided it was not the despair of holding love too briefly and losing it that she needed to worry about. If she was not careful, Alpin would drive her utterly mad long before then.
“M’lady, what troubles ye?” asked Nella as she walked through the village with Sophie. “Ye have been verra quiet.” She cast a fearful glance at Sophie’s throat. “Did the laird drink too much of your blood?”
Sophie was abruptly pulled from her dark thoughts and stopped to gape at Nella. “Ye think the laird has been drinking my blood?”
“Weel, there is that mark upon your neck.”
Clasping her hand over the mark upon her neck, Sophie grimaced. “I hadnae thought it so obvious.” She sighed and told her maid about the confrontation between her and Alpin last night. “I assume ’tis something men like to do and, at that moment, it was quite, er, pleasant. I had thought I had hidden it.”
Nella moved to adjust Sophie’s braid as well as the collars of her gown and cloak. “ ’Tis better now. Keep your cloak tied at the neck and it should remain hidden. Dinnae want too many catching a peek at it. If they ken ’tis a love bite, your reputation will be sorely marred, though I suspect most will think what I did.”
“I fear so.” She frowned as she caught sight of a crowd of people at the far end of the road. “A meeting?”
Two men ran past her and Nella, rushing to join the crowd. Sophie caught the word “murder” in their conversation and froze. This was the very last thing Alpin needed. Sophie was about to turn back toward the keep when one of the women in the crowd saw her, called to her, and drew everyone’s attention to her.
“M’lady, ye must come see this,” Shona the cooper’s wife called. “This will make ye see the danger of staying within the walls of such a cursed place.”
“I really dinnae want to see this,” Sophie murmured to Nella even as she started to walk toward Shona, Nella staying close to her side. “For them to cry murder means ’tis nay a clean death. No death is pleasant to witness, but murder can leave a verra untidy corpse.”
“Ye fret o’er the oddest things,” Nella said as she nudged her way through the crowd. “Dead is dead. Aye?” Nella abruptly stopped and shuddered. “Oh, dear.”
Sophie took a deep breath to steady herself, stepped around Nella, and looked down at what had once been a man. She felt her gorge rise and took several deep breaths to calm herself, her hand cupped over her nose and mouth to shield herself from the scent of death. Aware that the villagers were all watching her closely, she carefully studied the corpse. She knew what they believed, knew the accusations and questions that would soon be spoken aloud, and she searched out every clue she could find to be used to proclaim Alpin’s innocence.
“ ’Tis Donald, the butcher’s eldest lad,” said Hugh the cooper. “Weel, nay a lad. A mon with a wife and bairns. The poor woman found him like this. Said he often came here to sleep if one of the bairns cried too much in the night. Since their wee laddie is cutting teeth, he was setting up a fair howl all night long. The laird must have been on the hunt, and poor Donald was easy game.”
“The laird didnae do this,” Sophie said, her voice steady and firm.
“But his throat was torn out.”
“Nay, ’tis cut.” She crossed her arms and waited as Hugh crouched down to look more closely. “A verra clean cut it is, as weel. Swiftly done with a verra long, verra sharp knife.”
Ian the butcher wiped the tears from his ruddy cheeks and looked closer. “Aye, she be right. I couldnae have done it neater myself. But that just means the laird used his sword.”
For one brief moment, Sophie considered the fact that the laird had been awake and wandering about last night. Then she felt both guilty and ashamed. Alpin would never do this. Even if he turned into a beast, she had the sad feeling he would cut his own throat before he attacked some innocent. The trick would be in convincing these people who considered every MacCordy laird cursed, or a demon.
“Did anyone see the laird last eve?” she asked. “I did—in the keep, barefoot, cross and bellowing, and with nary a drop of blood on him. Now, I ken what ye think the laird is, that ye think he feasted upon poor Donald last eve. Look ye at the ground beneath Donald’s neck. ’Tis soaked in his blood. If the laird did this, acting as the demon ye think he is, do ye truly think he would let all that blood go to waste?”
“He gutted the lad,” said Hugh. “Mayhap the innards were what he craved this time.”
Even as Sophie opened her mouth, Ian shook his head. “Nay. ’Tis another clean cut and I didnae see aught missing,” he added as he covered his son with a blanket someone handed him.
“And that wound bled verra little,” Sophie said, “as did the wounds to his head and face. Do ye ken what that means, Master Ian?”
“I think so. My poor lad was already dead and fair bled dry ere the other wounds were made. But why?”
“To