by Jayne Castel
Craeg groaned as she worked her way down his chest, her fingers plucking at the waist band of his braies.
“No, mo ghràdh,” he growled. “Tonight is my turn to take the lead. Tonight, I will make ye mine.”
Excitement fluttered low in Coira’s belly, and delicious anticipation shivered through her.
Craeg undressed her swiftly, stripping off her kirtle and léine. He then gathered her to him, pressing Coira up against the wall next to the open window. A cool breeze feathered in, caressing her naked skin. Outside, it was completely dark now, and a moth fluttered by, seeking the flames of the fire burning in the hearth and the cressets upon the walls.
Bracing his hands either side of her head, boxing her in, Craeg’s mouth ravaged Coira’s once more. His presence overwhelmed her, yet she gave into it. Her eyes fluttered shut as his lips shifted from hers, and he trailed kisses down her jaw and neck.
Mother Mary have mercy.
His mouth was hot, seeking, and when he reached her breasts, she let out a shuddering groan. Her hands fastened upon his shoulders, holding him fast as he stroked and suckled.
And then when he slipped farther down her body—and lifted one of her legs over his shoulder as he went down on his knees before her—Coira let out a soft cry.
Never had a man touched her like this.
During her time at The Goat and Goose, the men never took time to pleasure her—they risked catching the pox from a whore after all. As such, the intimacy of what Craeg was doing to her now made tears sting Coira’s eyelids, made her chest tighten in a strange blend of tenderness and abandon.
Pleasure crested swiftly, making her cry out again, yet he didn’t halt his ministrations. Coira’s thighs started to tremble, and if he hadn’t been holding her up, she’d have slid down the wall and ended up in a quaking heap upon the floor.
Coira was aware then that she was moaning his name, her fingers tangling in his hair.
Eventually, Craeg rose to his feet—the movement so swift that Coira’s eyes flew open and she smothered a gasp.
Their gazes met. Craeg’s face was all taut angles, and his eyes had deepened to a dark green. Not shifting his attention from her, he reached down and unlaced his breeches. Then, almost roughly now, he took hold of her hips and raised her up against the wall, kneeing her thighs wide.
An instant later he entered her, in a slow, deep thrust that made Coira buck against him. The sensation of him sliding into her, of how she stretched to accommodate his girth, caused an aching pleasure to ripple through the cradle of her hips.
Last night, she’d reached her peak with a man for the first time—had marveled at how pleasure had set her loins on fire.
But this was even more intense. It was a pleasure that throbbed deep inside, radiating out like ripples in a pool, suffusing her whole body with a languor that made her feel reckless and wild.
Nothing in the world mattered except this. Nothing.
Craeg’s body trembled, while he held himself leashed. He moved slowly, holding her pinned against the wall as he took her.
And all the while, his gaze held hers.
It was almost too much, too intense, too intimate. Coira felt stripped bare, as if all she was—her heart and soul—was displayed before him. But she didn’t look away. Instead, her hands clung to his shoulders, her fingernails biting into his flesh as wave after wave of aching pleasure rippled through her.
And when Craeg finally exploded inside her—his groan shuddering through the cool night air—tears flowed down Coira’s cheeks.
A grey dawn rose over Dunan. Curtains of fine rain swept across the valley, obscuring the surroundings. It made the broch a grim place indeed, yet there was a lightness to Craeg’s stride as he descended the steps into the bailey.
Gunn was there, checking over one of the horses from Duncan MacKinnon’s stable. It was a fine beast, a huge bay stallion.
“His name is Curaidh,” Gunn greeted Craeg. “Apparently, he belonged to yer brother.”
Craeg smiled. Curaidh—Warrior—a mighty name indeed.
“He’s recovering from a foot abscess,” Gunn continued. “The old man who looks after the stables—one of the few folk left in this place—tells me that’s why MacKinnon left him behind.”
MacKinnon.
Soon folk would start referring to him by that name. For years now, the clan-chief’s name had brought sneers and grimaces to the faces of the people of this land.
“He’s a beauty,” Craeg murmured. He stepped close and stroked the stallion’s neck.
“Well, he’s yers now,” Gunn replied with a grin. He leaned down then and ran practiced hands over the stallion’s hind-quarters, checking for any lameness.
Craeg was observing him when suddenly, something cold and wet pushed against his hand.
Startling, Craeg glanced down to see a large charcoal grey wolfhound sitting at his feet. The hound stared up at him with soft, dark eyes, its tail beating out a tempo on the flagstones.
“What’s this?” Craeg said, addressing the dog. “No use looking at me like that … I’m not yer master.”
“The hound’s been pestering me all morning too,” Gunn replied, glancing up. “The old stable hand tells me that the dog’s name is Bran. He too belonged to MacKinnon … so that means he’s yers as well.”
Craeg sighed, before he reached out and ruffled the dog’s soft ears. The hound looked a bit lost. A pang went through him then. Duncan MacKinnon had been such a vile individual—the only one who’d truly mourn him was his dog.
“How is Fen this morning?” Craeg asked.
Gunn straightened up and slapped the stallion on the rump. “Much better. She’s starting to get her appetite back.” The relief on his friend’s face was evident. His eyes gleamed, and his throat bobbed. “And we have Coira to thank.”
Craeg smiled. Stepping forward, he placed a hand on Gunn’s shoulder. “Ye are the first to know that as soon as we can find a priest … I’m going to make Coira my wife.”
A grin stretched across Gunn’s rugged face. “That is good news indeed.”
“How is she?”
The rawness in Carr Broderick’s voice made Coira tense. His face looked as if it were hewn from stone, yet he betrayed himself when he spoke.
“A little better, I believe,” she replied cautiously. Coira’s gaze narrowed as she examined the boils she’d lanced the day before. Although they had a raw appearance, she was pleased to see that they were clear of pus and blood. It also seemed that Drew’s fever had lowered a little.
Indeed, the lady herself was awake and now observed Coira, her grey eyes clouded with pain and confusion. “Who are ye?” she croaked.
“My name’s Coira. I’m a healer.”
“And why do ye wear a scarf over yer face?”
“Ye have the plague, Lady Drew … as ye know, the illness passes quickly from person to person.”
Drew licked her dry lips. “I’m so thirsty.”
“Here.” Coira picked up a wooden cup of water, not an easy task when wearing leather gloves, and held it to her patient’s lips. “Just take a few sips mind … yer belly is still tender.”
Drew did as bid before settling back against the mound of pillows. Her gaze shifted then, over Coira’s shoulder, to where Captain Broderick stood, still and silent now that his mistress had awoken.
“Did ye fetch this healer, Broderick?” she asked weakly.
He shook his head. “She arrived here with Craeg, milady.”
Drew’s gaze widened. “The outlaw … he’s here?”
Coira stilled. Was that how Lady Drew saw Craeg? The outlaw … he’s yer brother.
Straightening up, Coira met Drew’s eye. “I am Craeg MacKinnon’s woman,” she informed her softly, her breath catching a little as she said the words out loud. “Ye should know that there was a battle between the Dunan Guard and the outlaw band two days ago. Duncan MacKinnon is dead.”
Drew stared at her for a long moment. Watching her, Coira�
��s throat tightened. She wasn’t going to apologize. When it came to MacKinnon’s demise, she couldn’t bring herself to show any regret. Not only that but, despite her weak state, she sensed that the woman before her was no whimpering maid. There was strength in the set of the lady’s jaw and the steely glint in her eyes.
Silence stretched out, and then Lady Drew let out a long sigh. “It’s over then,” she whispered weakly.
“Aye, milady,” Broderick spoke up. “Worry not, Craeg MacKinnon will allow ye to remain here.”
Drew’s mouth thinned. “That’s generous of him.” Her eyes fluttered shut then, the tension going out of her. “Well … he can’t be any worse a clan-chief than Duncan was I suppose,” she rasped.
“He won’t be.” The vehemence in Coira’s voice surprised her. “Craeg is a thousand times the man Duncan MacKinnon was.”
Drew MacKinnon’s eyes opened and then, surprisingly, she favored Coira with a tremulous smile. “That is a relief to hear.”
32
Destined
Two weeks later …
STANDING IN FRONT of the slender mirror, Coira surveyed her appearance. She’d never seen her reflection like this before—having only ever caught glimpses in a still pool or the polished sheen of metal.
She barely recognized the woman before her.
Dressed in a sky-blue kirtle with a violet over-gown, meadow flowers entwined through her hair, she looked like a princess.
It was hard to believe she’d once been a fallen woman, and then a Bride of Christ. Both those identities were behind her now.
Coira’s throat thickened then, and she glanced down at the ring she now wore upon her left hand—soon she would wear Craeg’s ring upon her right. How she wished her parents were still alive to witness this day.
“That shade is perfect,” a woman’s voice intruded. “It matches yer eyes.”
Coira smiled and turned from the mirror, her gaze settling upon Fenella. Once her fever had abated, the outlaw woman had recovered swiftly. Now, only the thinness in her face hinted that she’d recently been ill. Usually, Fenella favored a more masculine style of dress, striding about the broch in braies and a form-fitting leather vest. Yet today she’d donned a dark-blue kirtle. Her wild mane of blonde hair, which usually tumbled over her shoulders, had been tamed and piled above her head.
Inhaling a shaky breath, Coira then smoothed out the silken material of her over-gown. “I’m nervous, Fen … what a goose I am.”
Fenella’s mouth curved, her blue eyes twinkling. “As all brides are. Come on … everyone’s waiting in the kirk. Craeg will soon think ye have changed yer mind.”
Coira’s breathing hitched. Never.
Ever since Craeg had sent out men in search of a priest, she’d been looking forward to this day. The plague had ravaged parts of the isle while leaving some areas untouched, yet men of the cloth were hard to find. However, finally one of the men had returned with a priest from Dunvegan in MacLeod territory. He had arrived with the carcass of a prize stag and Malcolm MacLeod’s best wishes.
It appeared that the folk of these lands weren’t the only ones pleased by the news of Duncan MacKinnon’s passing.
“Let us go to him then,” Coira replied. She retrieved a posy of flowers from the sideboard—aromatic sprays of purple heather—and led the way out of the women’s solar.
Outdoors, the sun bathed Dunan in warmth. The bailey was still quiet. Although the sickness had passed, folk were slow to return to the fortress. Even so, Dunan no longer had the desolate air of when they’d arrived here.
It still didn’t feel like home, although Coira could now envision a time when it might. These days, she was just happy that the sickness had spared her and those she loved. Each night, she knelt by the foot of the bed and thanked the Lord for it.
The two women skirted the base of the broch and headed toward the South Gate.
Two men wearing MacKinnon sashes stood guard there. They both bowed to the women, smiles stretching their faces. Those of the Dunan Guard who’d not wished to serve Duncan MacKinnon’s bastard brother had been let go—only those who willingly followed Craeg remained.
Passing under the archway, Coira and Fenella made their way through the kirk yard. The path led between haphazard clusters of gravestones. Ahead, loomed the open door of the kirk.
Coira swallowed hard, sweat suddenly beading upon her back.
This was real. She was about to become Craeg MacKinnon’s wife.
Only a handful of people awaited them inside. With the threat of sickness still lurking in Dunan, Craeg preferred to keep the gathering small. Still, those who mattered most to them both were there—even Lady Drew.
Seated by the doors, Craeg’s half-sister turned to look at Coira as she stepped inside.
The two women’s gazes fused for an instant, and Coira noted how much better Drew was looking. Color had returned to her cheeks, although she was still painfully thin. Behind Drew stood Carr Broderick.
The man had barely left the lady’s side over the past two weeks. With Craeg’s arrival, he’d become her shadow. Gunn was now Captain of the Dunan Guard and Broderick had taken on the role of Lady Drew’s personal guard.
The moment drew out, and then Drew MacKinnon’s mouth lifted at the corners, warmth showing in her grey eyes. It had been a strange time for Drew. When she was strong enough, Craeg had gone to her solar, and the pair of them had spoken for a whole afternoon.
Coira wasn’t sure what had passed between them, but in the days that followed, when Drew joined them at mealtimes, she noted that brother and sister got on well, and even laughed together on occasion.
The family Craeg had never known wasn’t completely lost to him after all.
However, Drew only occupied Coira’s attention for a few instants. She shifted her gaze then to the tall dark-haired man who awaited her before the altar.
A squat individual with ruddy cheeks, garbed in priestly robes, stood next to him.
Both of them watched her approach.
Gunn sat upon a bench a few yards away from the altar, Farlan next to him. The latter favored her with a grin and a wink. A walking stick sat next to him; the outlaw’s leg had recovered well, although he would be lame for a while yet.
Both men shuffled to one side, making room on the low bench for Fenella.
Craeg ignored them all. His attention never shifted from Coira, not for a moment. Dressed in a charcoal pair of braies and a snowy-white léine, with a sash of pine green and red across his chest, he’d never looked more handsome. His hair, although long still, had been trimmed. The striking green of his eyes stood out against his lightly-tanned skin.
Coira couldn’t stop smiling. With every passing day, she loved this man more—his strength, warmth, kindness, and courage. He was constantly surprising her. Since taking control of Dunan, Craeg had swung into action, clearing up the mess created by the plague and his half-brother’s poor management. Crops had been tended, and the broch’s stores of grain were now being used to bake bread for the locals. Folk were returning to ‘The Warren’ in a steady trickle now word had spread that Craeg MacKinnon was clan-chief.
Looking at him, it dawned on Coira that this had always been Craeg’s destiny. Mother Shona had told her once that the Lord had a plan for everyone, and although he’d spent many years as an outcast, Coira now believed that Craeg was always meant to end up here.
Which meant that she was also destined to be his wife.
Coira’s throat constricted. The joy within her brimmed so full it risked spilling over. She didn’t know it was possible to feel this happy, to shine like the sun. She’d heard folk say that there were few as radiant as a woman on her wedding day, but she hadn’t believed the tales till today. Now, she understood—if the match was between two people who loved each other, there was no happier moment.
Coira’s step slowed as she approached the altar. She wanted to draw this moment out, wanted to imprint it forever upon her mind.
Smiling
, Craeg held out a hand to her, his gaze shining.
And reaching out, Coira entwined her fingers through his and squeezed tight.
Epilogue
Belonging
Dunan broch
MacKinnon Territory
Yuletide
Four months later …
“THE DRUIDS OF old used to swear by mistletoe, ye know?” Coira said as she hung the garland above a doorway. “It was seen as sacred … a symbol of life in the dark winter months.”
“I’ve always thought mistletoe a dull-looking plant,” Leanna answered from across the room. “I prefer holly—the red berries are so cheerful.”
Coira frowned, examining the sprig with dark green leaves and tiny white berries she’d just hung up. She disagreed. There was something timeless and wise about mistletoe—maybe it was the fact she was a healer, but she loved the plant.
“It’s the scent of pine I look forward to every year,” Ella spoke up then. “The Great Hall at Scorrybreac resembles a forest glade this time of year.”
“Duncan never liked me to make a fuss over Yuletide decorations,” Drew said, her voice oddly subdued. “It feels strange to see this broch so … festive.”
Coira turned then, her gaze traveling to where the three women sat near the fire in the chieftain’s solar. Together, they’d decorated this chamber with all three of the seasonal plants. The only thing missing was the Yule log—the massive oaken log that they would try to keep burning for all twelve days of Yuletide—that burned downstairs in the hearth of the Great Hall.
A warm aura of contentment spread over Coira as she looked upon Drew and her two friends. Drew had recovered swiftly over the past months. She now had a bloom in her cheeks and a gleam in her eye as she peeked under the lid of the pot of mulled wine that sat keeping warm by the edge of the hearth.