To Love a Highlander by Sue-Ellen Welfonder Read Free Book Online Page A

at his temples. He glowered into his room’s dark and chilly shadows, furious he’d felt such a need to banish certain images from his mind. But what man could find sleep when the memory of Lady Mirabelle’s pert nipples wouldn’t give him any peace?
    Praise be he’d only glimpsed their puckered upper crests.
    Had he seen more…
    He pulled a hand down over his face, not wanting to imagine. Never before had a woman driven him to such madness. His head pounded, he felt queasy, and he doubted if he had the strength to crawl from his bed, much less stand and face the morning.
    And wasn’t this the worst day to find himself in such a state?
    Duty called. Fenris business he’d been tending for ages and with the intricate care required of one of his sort. Bringing down any man for shady, villainous maneuvers was aye a pleasure. But when the blackguard counted himself among the highest in the land, such outlawry had to be handled with especial caution. In this case, severity, the Fenris having been urged to stretch punishment to the farthest reach of their efficiency.
    And few Fenris were as hardened, proud, and skilled as Sorley.
    Never yet had he disappointed his King.
    He wouldn’t now either.
    So he bit back a groan, threw aside the bed covers, and pushed to his feet. The room careened around him, but he grumbled his way across the rushes to the one ewer he hadn’t touched. Feeling queasy, he bent over his wash basin and poured the jug’s icy water onto his head.
    “Satan’s arse!” Spluttering, he straightened and grabbed a drying cloth, rubbing briskly at his drenched hair and aching eyes.
    The shock helped some, but the room still spun.
    He quirked a small smile on noting that, despite his wretched condition, he’d remembered to place his weapons by the door before he’d slept.
    When he reached his destination, a hard and rough hamlet on the River Forth, near to the ruined Abbey of St. Mary, he’d have need of his sword and dirk. For good measure, he’d even added a broad-bladed war ax. He eyed the arms now as he dragged on his clothes, having the greatest struggle with his tall, soft-leathered journeying-boots. The truth was, as foul as he felt, he might forgo weapons and use his bare hands to have done with the miscreant known to be sharing the King’s secrets with the English enemy.
    Relishing the possibility, he somehow managed to tug on his boots, buckle his sword-belt low about his hips, and even stuff a ratty, moth-eaten pilgrim’s cloak into a large leather satchel. His war ax followed. A man with a sword at his hip wasn’t an unusual sight about Stirling, but a fighting ax would draw unwanted attention.
    He’d retrieve the weapon when he donned the wayfarer’s mantle. For now, all he needed was to rid himself of the pain ripping through his head.
    The wretched pounding was worse than a hammer on a forge anvil.
    Blessedly, he knew a cure.
    Frowning because a scowl also helped soothe a raging ale-head, he slung the leather pouch over his shoulder and left his room, hoping the wall torches in the corridor weren’t burning too brightly.
    The gods were kind.
    Most of the passage was steeped in darkness. Only a few sconces flickered, their light too feeble to stab his hurting eyes.
    Grateful for such small mercies, he strode down the corridor and then took the winding stair up to the battlements.When he reached the top and opened the door, a blast of chill air hit him. The cold stung his eyes and helped clear his aching, ale-fuzzed head. Knowing the view from his special corner of the ramparts would do the rest, giving him the strength he needed to start his day, he stepped into the icy wind and turned toward the eastern wall.
    He stopped short after only a few steps.
    Lady Mirabelle stood near his favorite spot, her lovely face turned to the wind, her red-gold hair tumbling loose about her shoulders.
    “By all that’s holy,” Sorley swore, glaring at her as the pain in his head returned with a