Tempted by Virginia Henley

same with his favorite dagger, whose hilt was a heavy silver ram’s head with curled horns. He stood naked before his mirror contemplating what he would wear. His arms, legs, and chest were furred with black hair. He usually favoredblack from head to toe, for with his swarthy face and long black hair it had an intimidating effect.
    Today, however, he took up his Douglas plaid. The short kilt rode on his hipbones, exposing muscular thighs. He eschewed a shirt and instead draped the plaid across one massive bare shoulder and fastened it with a brooch boasting the clan’s ancient device, the Bleeding Heart of Douglas. He fastened his sword about his hips and stuck the dagger into his wide leather belt. From only a short distance the dark greens and blues of the Douglas plaid appeared black.
    As he observed his reflection, his were not the only eyes that looked upon him. The spirit of Alexander Douglas was restless and alert. The very air of the chamber was charged with raw animal power, barely held in check by the Black Ram. With his long black hair falling to his wide shoulders, he looked exactly as his wild ancestors had looked, and Alexander knew that only an extremely thin layer of veneer covered a savage, primitive nature. He was as uncivilized as the first Douglas had been centuries ago. Alexander was filled with dread, for he feared that Ramsay was tainted by the fatal Scot weakness—a preference for fighting each other rather than a common foe This very castle harbored evil and hatred for Douglas against Douglas. There had been enough bloodshed and sorrow in Castle Dangerous, in every Douglas castle for that matter, to stain the stones throughout eternity. The Douglas reputation for ruthlessness was legend. Mothers threatened their bairns with punishment by the Black Douglas only as a last resort. The fact that Ram was nephew to the all-powerful Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, only added to the dread in which he was held. Angus’s favorite pastime was hanging felons. He was rumored to have a degenerate capacity for cruelty, and when he rode forth with his escort of one hundred clansmen at his heels, all obeyed the order, “Make way for a Douglas!”
    Hotspur needed no saddle. Ruffian’s glossy black coatreflected the last rays of the afternoon sun before it sank behind the mountains. Ram Douglas knew exactly the picture he created astride the stallion, which stood an impossible nineteen hands high. He held the reins lightly, guiding the animal with his bare knees.
    When Zara saw the Black Ram gallop into the Gypsy camp, her heart leaped inside her breast. Was his need for her so great that he came before the last twilight of late afternoon deepened into dusk? She ran to him before he had time to dismount, her dark eyes greedily running over his bare thighs, lingering upon his wide, furred chest, then up to the dark face whose intensity made her shudder.
    Her teeth flashed, and her eyes could not conceal her pleasure. “My lord, I am flattered that you came before dark of night.”
    “You have something I need. I have come for it,” he said simply.
    Prideful as a cat, she led him through the camp toward her caravan. Zara threw pitiful glances toward the other Gypsy women who were starting cooking fires for the evening meal. In truth, she felt more triumphant than the night she had managed to snare James Stewart, King of Scots.
    Ram Douglas halted as he saw a Gypsy man leading a string of horses from the river. He did not need to examine the animals to see that they were prime quality. At the moment, it was the male who received his piercing scrutiny. The two men faced each other, their thoughts hidden behind careful masks, but the challenge of their stances revealed the raw animosity they felt toward each other. Ramsay tasted bloodlust on his tongue. He would have relished pressing his knifepoint into the Gypsy’s throat to make him utter the name he needed to know, but he knew he would be able to extract that