“Tell me you belong to me.”
Laurien hesitated, part of her wanting to give in, part of her needing to hear words of love from him first. Darach’s free hand left her breast to slowly, slowly pull her skirt above her knees, and her pulse began to race.
When she still did not respond, he teased a path up her leg, resting his fingers ever so lightly upon the dark curls below her belly.
“Darach…” Laurien challenged weakly, her eyes half closed.
“Tell me you are mine.”
She shook her head very slowly. His lips covered hers in a feverish kiss, his tongue claiming her mouth. His thumb found the delicate nub of her pleasure and flicked it gently. He eased a finger inside her.
Laurien moaned softly at his possession, knowing she was utterly his, but not yet willing to admit it aloud. He pressed his hand against her, sending exquisite sensations rippling through her.
“Say it,” he murmured against her lips.
“Nay,” she breathed, barely completing the word when his tongue again plundered her mouth. Her senses reeled as he began to stroke her, his finger moving in and out of her dampness. His tongue mimicked the thrusting of his finger, gently at first, then harder, deeper, demanding a response.
Held motionless beneath him, Laurien thought she would go mad at this double onslaught. His thumb began to move in a tight, circular pattern, faster. He fired the tension within her until she arched helplessly against his hand, crying out for release.
He shifted quickly so that he was poised to enter her. She tried to tilt her hips upward, but he held her still.
“You belong to me,” he urged, touching his tongue to the corner of her mouth.
Laurien closed her eyes, moaning with frustration as he teased her, pressing just the tip of his shaft against her. She trembled with anticipation, with need for him, and finally surrendered.
“I belong to you,” she said breathlessly.
He let go of her hands at last, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer. Darach slid inside her with a single thrust.
He groaned as she opened to him, his joy at her words doubling his pleasure at her sensual response. Tonight, he needed Laurien as he had never needed or wanted anything in his life. If only for this one last time, he would make her utterly and completely his. He probed the deepest length of her silken sheath, and she tightened herself around him, as if she wanted to hold him within forever. He watched her emerald eyes darken with need until they were the color of the Highland hills warmed by the summer sun.
He claimed the sweetness of her mouth, and she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, nibbling it gently. Shuddering, he varied the rhythm of his thrusts, plunging into her hard and fast only to slow down and tease her, withdrawing almost completely. Fiery tension coiled at the very center of his being, tighter, stronger, pulsing with the need for release. He gathered her to him and moved against her, wildly now, carrying them both to the heights of ecstasy.
Laurien clung to him, gasping with the heart-stirring joy of being one with him. He surged within her, and a shock of pleasure exploded through her, stronger than anything she had felt before. She felt hot and cold and breathless and brilliantly alive, all at once. Her nails marked his hard-muscled back, and he called out her name in a hoarse shout of release.
He lowered himself atop her, pressing her down into the hay, and traced a path of wet kisses along her glistening skin. Laurien stroked his back and pressed her lips to his shoulder, his neck, relishing his weight, his strength… her heart breaking at the thought of spending the rest of her life without him.
Chapter 22
Malcolm struggled to awaken, fighting his way upward from numbing darkness, the pain in his head nearly sending him under again. It felt as if he had been kicked—twice—by a destrier with a grudge to resolve.
He could feel brittle rushes beneath his cheek, the warmth of a fire at his back. He could also feel dried blood on his face. Where was he? How much time had passed since he had been attacked?
And where was Aidan?
He heard a voice, somehow familiar, and tried to make sense of what was being said.
“I did exactly as you told me. She was not in her chamber and I could not find her anywhere…” A woman’s voice. Fionna?
Malcolm sank into oblivion again, only to float upward moments later.
A man was shouting now. “I was to have the girl by now, and both of the thieves who took her.”
Malcolm recognized that voice instantly. De Villiers.
“Instead, Balafre, you bring me only one man and a useless boy! Where is Glenshiel? And what do you mean, Lady Laurien has disappeared?”
Laurien had disappeared?
“Obtaining Darach’s son was a stroke of luck,” Fionna replied in a placating tone. “’Twill work to our advantage—”
“The brat is of no use to me if we cannot locate the girl.”
Malcolm opened his eyes just long enough to glimpse a shadowy chamber, the edge of a bed, two pairs of legs standing a few paces away, and the skirt of a woman’s dress. He was not surprised to find his hands tied behind his back, and his ankles bound as well.
“We have MacLennan,” the other man said in a voice as deep and cold as midwinter. “That is more than we had two days past. I have all of our men out searching for Glenshiel and the girl.”
“I have suffered enough delays,” de Villiers snapped. “Awaken, damn you!”
Malcolm was grabbed by his tunic and jerked upright. A stinging blow to his cheek brought him fully awake.
Opening his eyes, he saw de Villiers’s face, reddened with rage. And he recognized the room: they were in the Bear’s Head Inn, not one of Kincardine’s more respectable establishments.
The other man he recognized from his meeting with de Villiers in Chartres—the giant, shaggy-haired mercenary with a neatly trimmed black beard and gray eyes, Balafre.
The woman, Malcolm realized with disbelief, was indeed Fionna.
Aidan was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is your friend?” de Villiers demanded. “And where is my betrothed?”
His question made Malcolm’s heart pound with worry. Laurien was supposed to have remained safe with William. If she was missing, something had gone dangerously wrong.
Instead of answering de Villiers, Malcolm locked his gaze on Fionna. “How could you take part in this? Where is Aidan?”
“The boy is not my responsibility,” Fionna replied. “And I owe you and the others nothing. Darach never recognized my worth, but the comte is willing to reward me as I deserve—”
“Silence!” de Villiers shouted at her over his shoulder. He glared down at Malcolm. “Where is my bride?”
“I do not know.”
Balafre stepped forward at a signal from de Villiers. Malcolm bit back a groan as the hulking brute grabbed him by the front of his tunic and slammed him up against the wall.
“Torture has its attraction,” de Villiers said softly. “But unfortunately, it requires more time than I can spare. I suggest you save us both the unpleasantness and simply tell me where Glenshiel has taken my bride.”
Malcolm’s only reply was a silent stare. Balafre hit him, a blow to the stomach that knocked Malcolm’s breath from him and wrenched a curse from his lips.
De Villiers repeated his question. “Where are they?”
Malcolm glared up at him, gasping for air. Despite the pain, he could not suppress a chuckle. “You will not believe this, but I have no idea. Do what you will, I shall only tell you the same. I do not know where they are.”
Balafre hit him a second time and Malcolm doubled over, falling to the floor.
“I will waste no more time on this.” De Villiers turned to Balafre and gestured toward the door. “Bring me the boy.”
Malcolm lay where he had fallen, gulping tortured breaths, watching helplessly as the shaggy-haired mercenary left the chamber. Fury coursed through him when Balafre returned moments later, pushi
ng Aidan in front of him.
The boy was gagged, his hands tied in front of him. He started to run toward Malcolm, but Balafre grabbed him by the back of his tunic.
“Harming the lad will gain you nothing!” Malcolm choked out.
“You chose to make this difficult, not I,” de Villiers replied smoothly. “I ask you for the last time, where are they?”
Anguished, Malcolm looked at Aidan, then turned a hate-filled gaze on de Villiers. “I cannot tell you what I do not know!”
“My patience is at an end.” De Villiers stalked toward the boy, drawing his knife.
“Nay!” Malcolm struggled to his knees. “I do not know where they are! Darach was to await my message at Glenshiel. Laurien is supposed to be at Sir William’s castle. That is all I know, damn you! Leave the boy alone.”
The knife still in his hand, de Villiers turned slowly to study Malcolm.
“Milord,” Fionna sidled over to the comte and placed a hand on his arm. “If the girl is missing, she is with Darach.”
De Villiers kept his gaze on Malcolm. “How can you be certain?”
Fionna’s eyes burned with hatred. “Because he is in love with her—”
“Fionna, sguir!” Malcolm said. “Stop!”
“If she left him, he would not rest until he found her,” Fionna continued when de Villiers gave her his full attention. “If Darach is at Castle Glenshiel, you can be certain she is there with him.”
The comte looked down at Malcolm, who tried to mask his reaction to Fionna’s words. With a sinking feeling, Malcolm knew she was right: Darach would search for Laurien until he either found her or dropped from exhaustion. And once he found her, he would insist on keeping her by his side and under his protection.
Damn Fionna for helping them!
A slow smile curved de Villiers’s mouth and he sheathed his knife. “I believe that you may be correct, my dear. Tell me, how far is it to Castle Glenshiel?”
“Less than a day’s ride,” Fionna supplied, beaming with self-importance. “I know the way. And I know the guards quite well. It should not be difficult to convince them to let me in.” She nodded toward Aidan. “The boy will also prove useful.”
“Good.” De Villiers nodded. “It seems that this momentary delay may work in our favor.”
Moving past Aidan, de Villiers went to a costly-looking traveling trunk in the corner. He lifted the lid and withdrew parchment, a plume, and a container of ink.
He returned to Malcolm’s side. “I shall require further assistance from you.” He placed the writing implements on the floor. “And do not insult my intelligence by trying to tell me that you do not know how to write.”
Drawing his knife, he sliced through the ropes that bound Malcolm’s wrists. Then he wrenched him into a sitting position against the wall, then held out the parchment and plume.
“You will write a letter to your friend Glenshiel. Tell him a problem has arisen, and you must discuss the situation with him in secret. Tell him to ride with all haste and meet you at Strathfillan Abbey—alone.”
“Burn in hell,” Malcolm ground out.
De Villiers nodded toward Aidan. “Refusing my request will bring your young friend here to great harm.”
At a flick of de Villiers’s hand, Balafre brought Aidan over. The assassin drew a large, curved knife and held it in front of him. Aidan went pale, his blue eyes wide with fear.
“Nay!” Malcolm’s heart hammered. What could he do? Send Darach into an ambush—where all of de Villiers’s guards would be waiting? He would not stand a chance. Malcolm tried to think clearly against the unrelenting pain in his head.
Regardless of what he did, he knew de Villiers did not intend to let him leave here alive.
Malcolm eyed the knife that the comte still held in his hand. One lunge and he might wrest it from him—but in that same moment, Balafre could harm the lad.
Rubbing his wrists, he glared up at the comte, then slowly took the plume and parchment.
“I warn you,” de Villiers threatened, “write exactly what I tell you. One misplaced word, even one stray blot of ink…”
De Villiers dictated the short message, fingering his knife in impatience while Malcolm wrote. When Malcolm finished, de Villiers snatched the parchment from him and looked it over intently. Then he folded it and tucked it inside his tunic.
“Fionna, my dear.” He turned toward her. “Bring the boy along. It is time for us to go.”
Hurrying to obey, Fionna took Aidan by the arm and left the room without a backward glance. Malcolm felt relief that the lad was unharmed, at least for now.
Now he needed to get his hands on that knife…
“As for you.” The comte settled his black gaze on Malcolm. “You are about to learn the cost of stealing from me.” Crossing the chamber, he picked up his ermine-lined silk cloak from atop the trunk. “I had planned to enjoy this, but the matter of locating my bride requires my immediate attention.”
“I would not celebrate yet, de Villiers,” Malcolm warned.
Laughing, the comte fastened the jeweled clasp of his mantle and handed his knife to his mercenary. “Amuse yourself, Balafre, but do not take overlong. When you are done, gather our men and ride to Strathfillan.”
“Darach will kill you,” Malcolm said flatly. “And if any harm comes to him, or to Laurien or the boy, I shall kill you myself—”
“That will be most difficult for you, mon ami.” De Villiers chuckled. “Unless of course, you plan on returning to haunt me. Adieu.” An arrogant smirk curving his mouth, he left.
Malcolm stared up at Balafre, who stood only a few feet away, a knife gleaming in each hand.
Malcolm’s hands were untied, but his feet were still bound.
His gaze never leaving Malcolm’s, the mercenary began to pace back and forth, slowly.
Malcolm remained completely still, his muscles tensing. Balafre continued to circle, taunting him, sharpening the blades against each other. One step closer. Two. Malcolm swallowed hard, offering a silent prayer that his strength would not fail him.
The steel blades gleamed in the firelight.
Balafre took another step closer.
Without warning, Malcolm launched himself forward. He pushed off from the wall, driving upward, and collided with Balafre’s midsection. One of the knives flew from Balafre’s hand and skidded away into the rushes.
The two of them landed on the floor, grappling for the other weapon.
Chapter 23
It was late afternoon before Darach and Laurien neared the rocky coast, heading for Castle Glenshiel. Laurien tried unsuccessfully to relax in Darach’s arms. After several attempts at conversation, they had lapsed into a long silence, both of them tense with awareness that they must soon part. Their horse picked its way along the boulder-strewn banks of a river, then splashed across to the other side.
“It is called the River Linnhe,” Darach said.
“The Linnhe,” she echoed. He had told her the various place names as they rode. She struggled to repeat the words. “Argyll, Strathclyde, Dalness Forest, Rannoch Moor, Linnhe… I am not sure I could ever master the Gaelic tongue.”
But then, she thought with a pang of sorrow, she would not be here long enough to even try.
“Your country is beautiful beyond words, once it stops raining,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “Everything is so green and lush. There are plants here I have never seen before.” She leaned down to pick a flower from a bush—two delicate, bell-like blooms on a single stem. “You never mentioned that Scotland has such beautiful flowers. What sort is this?”
Darach looked at it with a bemused expression. “Pink?”
She arched one brow. “You do not know the flowers of your own country?”
“I confess, milady, that I never gave much thought to flowers or plants until I met you,” he admitted with a grin.
She tucked the pretty flower into the chain that held her cloak. “How long before we reach your lands?”
He pointed to the far mountains and she gasped. “All of this is yours?” She looked at the endless lands stretching away into the distance—hills and vales, forests, fields, lakes.
“Aye,” he said with obvious pride. “When we first met and I told you that I was a nobleman, you found it difficult to believe.” He chuckled. “Do you believe me now?”
“Aye, milord,” she whispered in amazement.
“My father and his father before him were rewarded for their service to the crown during the Norse wars. Now that I am lord of Glenshiel, I am responsible for all of this, all the people who live here, and the castles that protect them. I live at the largest, Castle Glenshiel.” He pointed. “Just there. Sir Malcolm’s lands are in that direction, to the south.”
Darach urged the horse to a faster pace when they reached the shore of a large lake.
“The name is Loch Shiel,” he explained, “although ’tis not truly a lake. The western end is open to the sea.” They could see a sprawling ruin of a castle on the far shore. “Destroyed in a battle long ago, in my grandfather’s time,” he said. “My brothers and I spent hours exploring it when we were lads.”
Laurien heard the wistfulness in his voice when he spoke of his boyhood. This must have been a wonderful place to grow up, wild and free. The afternoon sun sparkled on the loch’s blue waters as she caught her first glimpse of Darach’s home.
Hidden in this maze of water and mountains, Castle Glenshiel perched on an island in the middle of the loch. Strong was the first word that came to her mind as they approached the fortress of stone. A slim causeway offered the only access to the island. They cantered down the slope that led to the ribbon of land, then crossed it.
The place suited him, Laurien thought. The castle was solitary, rugged, impervious to storms, to time… a place where a man could live very much apart from the world.
White swans floated past, rippling the castle’s reflection in the water. Above the walls, pennants fluttered in the breeze—green and white, marked with the symbol of the silver falcon poised to strike. Even before their horse reached the castle’s drawbridge, Darach’s guardsmen hailed him and opened the gates.
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 27