Mary tasted the burn of the whisky he’d had at dinner and the spice that was his alone. Mal drew her closer, his fingers unfastening the back of her frock, finding the laces of her corset.
The kiss deepened as Malcolm pulled her bodice away, then the thin linen garment Mary wore between herself and her stays. The corset loosened, falling to the floor, baring her to Malcolm’s touch. Malcolm caught the weight of her breasts in his hands and bent to her lips again.
His shirt was already loose, and when Mary tugged at it, Malcolm slid it off and dropped it onto the pile of her clothes. He came to her, bending down to kiss between her breasts.
“You’re always beautiful, my Mary,” he whispered, his breath hot on her skin. “Never more beautiful than when you’re bare to me. And the way ye taste.” Mal licked her breast. “The gods can’t know anything this good.”
Mary could only make a sound of need as Mal drew her breast into his mouth, fingers cupping it. The pull of his teeth sent darkness through Mary’s body, heating and awakening her.
Mal slowly slid to his knees, pressed a kiss to her abdomen, and loosened her skirt. The waistband opened, and the skirt slid down, as did the linen underskirt beneath it. Mary hadn’t worn panniers since she’d come to Kilmorgan, and now there was no barrier between her and Mal’s mouth.
“And here, lass,” he said, his voice soft as he grasped her hips with hot hands and kissed the curls at the join of her thighs. “Ye taste best of all.”
Mary laced her fingers in the silk of Mal’s hair, her feet moving apart, her body knowing what was coming.
Malcolm moved his hands to the inside of her thighs, thumbs caressing the soft flesh there. His whiskers burned her as he closed his eyes, came forward, and drank.
Mary’s head went back, her hunger for him leaping high. Malcolm slid his tongue into her, licking, drinking her, while Mary’s toes curled against the carpet.
Malcolm played his tongue over her opening and then suckled the bud that drove her wild. Mary cradled him closer, unworried that she stood naked, in stocking feet, in the middle of her chamber, while her husband knelt before her.
She rocked to him, succumbing to the rhythm he coaxed from her, letting sounds of pleasure escape her throat. Mary had learned how to dampen the noise, with so many people in this small house, but today, she couldn’t quiet herself. Her cries poured out of her, notes of joy that echoed through the chamber.
As if in answer, Mal increased his torment. Finally, when Mary was nearly screaming, Mal released her and stood up. As cold brushed Mary’s legs, Mal wrapped his arms around her and lowered her to the floor.
Their chamber’s rug had been rescued from the castle—Mary had found it in one of the unburned cellars. The rug had a soft, thick pile, fine on the feet. The wool prickled Mary’s back now, as Malcolm stripped off his kilt and met her, body to body.
Mal touched her face, eyes fixed on her. He slid his hand between her legs, where she was wet and very sensitive now, parting her thighs.
“I need ye, sweet Mary,” he said, his voice thick. “So much right now, I don’t know if I can go slowly.”
Mary only nodded, the urgency in her matching what she saw in his eyes. Mal gave her a look that was almost despair and, in that moment, slid inside her.
Mary had never grown used to how big he was. Mal never hurt her, always easing himself in, drawing pleasure out of her with slow tenderness.
Today, however, his gentleness fled. Mal’s thrusts came right away, hard and swift. She sensed him try to slow himself, but his face was drawn, as though it hurt him to try to stop.
Mary slid her hands down his back. “It’s all right, Mal,” she whispered. “Come to me, love.”
The despair flashed again, then Malcolm closed his eyes and bent his head. His thrusts came harder, faster, a rush of need. They burned, and at the same time opened her to a pleasure Mary had never known.
She cried his name, begged with hands and body for him. The room filled with their voices, weaving together as their bodies did. Mary lost where she was, who she was. She was Malcolm’s, body, heart, and soul.
Malcolm shouted. He came down on her, his hips moving, Mary’s back digging into the carpet.
The peak of his frenetic need matched hers. They clutched each other, rocking together, separate and one at the same time.
As a Scottish wind rose to sing through the eaves, Malcolm collapsed, his body a warm weight on top of hers. He tumbled Mary’s hair, cradled her, brushed slow, open-mouthed kisses over her lips.
“Mary,” he whispered. “Ye know I love ye. I love ye so very much.”
“I love you, Mal,” Mary said, her eyes full, sorrow swooping in to dissolve her joy. “Please come back to me.”
“Always.” Mal raised his head, his expression holding white-hot Mackenzie determination. “Ye know I’ll always come for ye, Mary. Ye’ll never be rid of me that easy.”
Riding away from Kilmorgan took all Mal’s strength of will. He refused to look back, to lift a hand to Mary or even note whether she watched from the house. The feeling of her was still around him, filling him while his heart hurt. If Mal said good-bye to her, something inside him told him, then it would be forever.
Duncan was impatient to be gone. They took leave of their father, who was both unhappy to see them go but pleased they were off to cause trouble for the English. Duncan and Mal rode into the dusk together, heading for the road that would take them to the waiting column of Mackenzie clansmen.
They met the company five miles north of Kilmorgan, falling in with Highlanders marching hurriedly along in the gloom, the April night a chilly one. But before they had gone two steps, the commander, a dour Scotsman with ropy muscles, sought out Duncan to tell them that he’d been ordered back to Inverness.
“Why, for God’s sake?” Duncan demanded. “I was to lead the men on the search.”
“I got word while you stopped at home,” the commander said. “They want you back in case Cumberland comes a’calling. The prince himself asked for ye. It’s a compliment, man. Go.”
Duncan looked unhappy. “If we dinnae get these supplies and money, there will be no falling back. The food and arms at Inverness are all we have.”
“Aye, and Geordie Murray says they need everyone they can to defend them.”
Mal broke in, trying to soothe his brother’s temper. “Sounds like they want commanders who can bully the men to stand and fight, no matter what. That would be you, Dunc. Go on. I’ll find the French gold and haul it back for ye.”
Duncan scowled again. But he knew he had no choice, and Duncan was ever a man to be obedient to what he perceived was his duty. Finally he nodded, clasped hands with Malcolm, and turned and rode away, his plaids fluttering in the gathering twilight.
As Malcolm watched his oldest brother, the one he’d never understood well, go from him, he realized that Duncan was the bravest and best of them. Duncan was not afraid to hold to his convictions. He wanted Scotland free of England’s yoke, and he’d use any method, even a prince who was proving to be more of a liability than he was worth, to achieve it. If backing Charles didn’t work, Duncan would find another way. Nothing would stop him.
The gloom swallowed Duncan, and he was gone. Malcolm turned north, his heart heavy, and fell in with the line of Mackenzies.
The search for the French gold turned frustrating quickly. No one knew where the bloody stuff was. Malcolm and his clansmen beat the bushes all over the north, looking for the remains of the regiment who’d stolen the cargo.
They did come across plenty of men to skirmish with. Just because Lord Loudon’s army had been dispersed, Loudon fleeing to the west, the remnants of that army hadn’t necessarily ceased fighting. The wild Highland lads enjoyed it too much.
Most of the northern lands, too, were loyal to the English throne, for reasons Mal did not understand. As they battled, though, he began to see that these Highlanders were a bit like him—they didn’t want anyone ruling them but their clan ch
iefs.
The military roads had ended far south of them at Inverness, and these remote clans had been more or less left alone for centuries. If English King George stayed in London and never ventured this far, that would be fine with them. The Stuart Prince Teàrlach was proving annoyingly demanding.
Mal fought hard at the head of the troop he led. Sometimes they were victorious, sometimes Mal knew when to call a retreat, but mostly the Highlanders chased one another around the treeless hills, neither side accomplishing much of anything.
Finally, Mal’s company received the order to march back south. Cumberland wouldn’t wait much longer to strike, the messages said, and Murray needed every able body in Inverness.
Mal happily abandoned the pursuit of French gold, which had become just about mythical by now. No doubt the contingent of Highlanders who’d originally seized it had taken it, divided it, tucked it away. The Jacobite troops couldn’t raid every croft in every glen.
Mal’s home and Mary were at the end of the road, and Malcolm happily turned his steps toward her.
At least he did until Will Mackenzie found him, just as the column was approaching Dunrobin Castle, seat of the Dukes of Sutherland.
Will came riding flat out up the road, making for the commander. “Cumberland’s left Aberdeen,” he said breathlessly. “He’s advancing on Inverness and Teàrlach’s army there. Right now.”
“Bloody hell.” The commander spat on the road. “While we’re dancing around up here? Go tell Murray we’re marching as fast as we can.”
Will nodded, unworried about playing messenger. Mal, however, watched him narrowly, and turned aside with him. No doubt Will knew exactly where Cumberland was, what his plans were, when the man would reach Inverness, what he’d eaten for breakfast, and the color of his underclothes.
“Ye didn’t come up here just to pass on orders,” Malcolm said in a low voice. “Ye’d have sent someone for that. What is it?”
Will’s eyes were quiet, all mirth gone. “The news of Cumberland’s advance reached Kilmorgan before I could get there. Dad and Alec have gone south, off to fight for Charles.”
Tightness gripped Mal’s chest. “Ah, damn it! What the devil did they do that for?” Kilmorgan had been raided, yes, but beating off raiders was a far cry from facing down Cumberland’s mighty army.
“Dad didn’t want Duncan to go alone. He’s afraid for him, Mal.” Will held Malcolm’s gaze, all signs of his usual humor absent. “I’m afraid. Almost all battles up until now have been skirmishes or routs. There’s been a lot of feinting, no out-and-out thrusts. This will be different. No going back. Come and help me save them, Mal.”
Mal barely heard the last of his speech. He was thinking of the brother, Magnus, he’d lost long ago, of opening the door and finding him on the floor, his life gone. And then Angus, lying gray with death on his father’s lap. He thought of Duncan riding off into the darkness days ago, his plaids flowing around him, the white rose on his bonnet the last thing to fade.
Something gripped Mal’s heart. He was losing his family, one by one, and nothing he’d done had been able to stop it.
“Mary?” he asked, his lips barely able to form her name. “Please tell me she hasn’t taken up a claymore and followed them.”
“She’s safe at Kilmorgan,” Will said.
Mal nodded, hiding the relief that made him want to slide to the ground in a heap. He settled into his saddle, pulling his plaid closer about him. “Cromartie is leading these men south, but they’ll be too slow,” he said with conviction. “Think ye can keep up with me?”
Will’s grin broke through. “Can I keep up with you? Who d’ ye think you’re talking to, runt?”
“Then we go.”
Mal broke from the column and headed off down a path, Will following. No one stopped them going. They knew Mal and they knew Will, and would understand.
The two had ridden only about half a mile when they heard shouting behind them, then firing, explosions, a cacophony of sound. They turned back as one, making for the top of the hill they’d just descended.
Mal gazed down in amazement at the scene. Red-coated soldiers boiled out of hills and the flat area surrounding the castle, and more were coming up from the sea. They converged on the Mackenzie columns, hundreds swarming, shouting, roaring their triumph. Gunfire peppered the air, smoke floating into the gray sky. Men met, shot, engaged, fought.
“Shite,” Mal said.
Soldiers whom Mal had joked with, eaten with not an hour ago, screamed as they died, crumpling into blood and death. The entire contingent of men Mal and Will had left were surrounded, fighting for their lives. The commander leapt forward on his horse, claymore raised, and died when two shots slammed him out of his saddle.
Mal swung his horse around, ready to charge to them and help. Will, who fought by different rules, grabbed Mal’s horse by the bridle.
“We need to go,” Will said swiftly. “We can’t do anything if we go back but die heroically. Won’t help Dad or Mary.”
Malcolm swallowed. He saw more Highlanders shot, fall, Mackenzies who’d never see their lands again, their homes, their families. Bile bit his throat as he conceded that Will was right.
“Damn it,” Mal growled.
Will gave him a nod. Mal saw the same conflict in his brother, the need to help his fellows warring with the need to protect his family, to live to fight another day. Will must have to face these kinds of decisions all the time.
Mal made himself turn his horse and follow Will back down the hill. Behind them, the Mackenzie clansmen died or were taken, their part in this war over.
The trouble with traveling south quickly was the firths. Between Malcolm and Inverness was Dornoch Firth, Cromarty, and Beauly, inlets of the sea that pushed across the land. The roads Mal and Mary had used on their way to Kilmorgan took travelers far inland around the firths, but this cost time.
Mal and Will skirted the shores of Dornoch, eyeing the fishing boats moored there, but none looked sturdy enough to float them across. If Mal had been able to summon Gair, he would have, but even though he’d put out word that he was looking for the smuggler, there wasn’t time to wait for him.
The two brothers cut back east after they left Dornoch and reached Cromarty Firth. There, as they searched a village on the north shore for a craft that might take them across, a tall Scotsman came off a dock and strode to them.
“Malcolm Mackenzie, isn’t it?” he asked, eyes crinkling in the corners. “I hear you’re looking to take ship.”
Mal recognized him as the injured man he and Mary had rescued from the English soldiers not many months ago. He was injured no longer, striding proudly along the dock, moving with only a slight limp.
“Calan Macdonald,” Mal said, dismounting and clasping the man’s hand. “Well met. Aye, m’ brother and me, we’re off to crush Cumberland’s army. But if we don’t hurry, we might miss our chance.”
“That is a worry,” Calan said with slow Scots deliberation. “As it happens, I have a ship. A little merchantman. It’s at your service, Lord Malcolm. I told ye I owed ye a favor.”
Chapter 35
Calan’s ship took them out between the Suitors to the open sea, then back into Beauly Firth and so to Inverness.
Malcolm and Will landed on the sixteenth of April, to find the armies already out of Inverness, gone to meet Cumberland in a field near Culloden House.
They hastened the few miles there, covering it in less than thirty minutes. Gunfire popped in the distance, then the roar of men fighting came at them in a wave of sound, punctuated by the shrill wail of the pipes. Mal and Will halted near the edge of the field, catching their breaths and surveying the scene.
Colors swirled across the open moor—the red of English soldiers; the blue, red, and dun of plaids; the bright coats of dragoons. Flags moved forward, precious standards that flapped in the wind. The ground was littered with bodies, the black red of blood washing into the grass. Smoke drifted upward to mix with mist, lendin
g to the confusion.
Will seized Mal’s arm. “Find Dad and Alec—there are things I can do. Meet up here afterward?”
“Aye. Give ’em hell.”
There were things Mal could do as well. Today he wanted to stand and fight, to find Cumberland’s standard and take the man’s life, but he’d become the brollachan again if that were the only way. The next few minutes would decide.
Will clasped Mal in a hug, Will’s tall body crushing Mal’s, the scent of wool and damp Mackenzie cutting the acrid stench of gunpowder. Will released Mal, then sprinted away, disappearing into mist in the way only Will could.
Malcolm loaded his pistols, straightened his weapons, and made for the battlefield and the sounds of the pipers.
I love ye, Mary, he said silently as he broke into a run. Never forget that.
A quarter of an hour later, Mal realized that the battle was lost. He ran through marshy ground, trying to find a solid path, his boots sinking into mud and water. Bodies lay everywhere, blood mixing with water on the damp ground. The smoke, stink, and damp hampered him, as did the pockets of soldiers that swarmed him, a lone Highlander, and tried to cut him down.
Mal fought with dirk and claymore, diving under the reach of those with pistols and muskets, spinning from bayonet thrusts to sink his dirk into the men trying to kill him. The stink of blood splashing him made him sick, but at the same time awakened the warrior that lurked beneath his surface. Mal knew how to fight and how to live. No heroic and legendary last stands for him.
He’d found no Jacobite company he recognized, no clans he knew, in spite of the pipers still calling to clansmen. Mal didn’t find his own family either, until he broke away from a skirmish to make for an open area of the battlefield.
He saw them to his left, amid smoke and mists floating over the ground. There was Duncan, swinging his deadly sword at a knot of soldiers in red, bellowing as loudly as the duke had ever done. Near him was their father, also with sword and dirk, and Alec, firing a musket into the line. There was no order—they were fighting on their own, as so many were.
The Stolen Mackenzie Bride Page 29