Iain’s mind was still and focussed on the task at hand. His brother, the blood of his family, closer than any, had laid this upon him. He had no choice but to proceed. If he had his time over, he would have chosen to leave John and Alice behind on Orkney, but there was no point wondering about that now. He was, at heart, a practical man. He put his doubts aside and focused on the task at hand.
He crested the hill and looked over. The wind swept up from the sea, catching him off-guard and making his eyes water. The hill sloped gently away before him down to the cliff. There, silhouetted against the vast, shifting, dark ocean, he saw the dark hulk of a building. It was too dark to see anything clearly, but something struck him about it as odd. He peered through the gloom, but he could not get clear in his head what it was. There was something...
A clenched fist stopped the other two columns as they crested the ridge, then the other hand pointing to his own column with a wave to make them follow him. He moved forward a little way toward the dark silhouette of the castle below, then waved the other two on. This way, they would follow at a distance, able to rush in and flank any surprise attack. He feared an ambush. It was too quiet. Not a light burned in the hulk below, and not a breath of woodsmoke or smell of food tainted the air. Upwind of a castle, you expect to smell the fires, the horses, the latrines, even the kitchens. There was nothing, nothing but the cold sea on the biting northerly wind.
Sneaking down upon the castle with his men at his back was painfully tense. At every moment he expected to hear the yell of an attack or to hear the whizz of arrows or the boom and crack of rifles, but all he could hear was the far-off wailing and crying of the waking seabirds who populated the cliff. Eventually, he reached the wall and gazed out over the castle in wonder and growing chagrin.
Behind him, his men began to mutter, rising from their crouching positions and looking around. John’s column hurried, followed by Alice’s. After a moment, the young couple had joined Iain, backed by fifty bemused fighters. Iain blinked, struggling to understand what he was seeing.
“What... what is this?” said John. Iain shrugged helplessly, shaking his head. Alice laughed, disbelief loud in her voice.
“There’s nothing here!” she cried.
It was not strictly true. Under the swiftly growing light of dawn, the footprint of what must once have been an impressive fortress lay before them, delineated by lines of fallen masonry and here and there a broken section of wall which rose as high as a man’s waist. Piles of worked stone lay about, but it was clear that most of the stone had been scavenged over the years to use in other buildings, as was common practice in the highlands.
Years had passed, decades, since this had been anything other than a ruin. Thick grass ran wild over what remained of the stone walls. Out of the ghost of a deep fireplace, a young, windswept tree was growing. It was perhaps twenty years old judging by the width of the base, though it was cropped close by years of harsh sea wind. None of the remains offered any chance of shelter. There was nothing here.
Iain’s men began to relax. They wandered into the ruin, looking out at sea, exclaiming at the long, slow reclaiming which this once-proud fortress must have been. Iain turned to John and Alice and spread his hands, wordlessly.
“The chart must be wrong,” said John, doubtfully. Alice shook her head.
“There’s no way,” she said. “I looked carefully at that chart, and I know about such things. Rarely have I seen a chart so finely and accurately drawn; it marked perfectly every twist and turn of the coastline as we sailed here. Even the currents and the reefs were correct.”
“Then, the priest must have been wrong.” It was Tom Fisher, Thorvald’s stolid foster-father, who had spoken. He stood, hands-on-hips, gazing around him at the empty, lifeless ruin. “I’d have thought if anyone had good intelligence on where these pirates were hiding out, it would have been him, but obviously not.” He turned around and wandered away.
The men were milling about, chatting aimlessly, some sitting on the walls and getting out rations. Feeling deflated, Iain sank down on a bit of wall next to him.
“What do we do now?” he asked helplessly.
* * *
Anne Gow awoke slowly from a dream of peace and safety. She had not known such sleep for a long time – perhaps never She breathed deep; the scents of clean linen filled her nostrils, and the warm smell of sleeping bodies and food. It was dim in the room, and the sound of the rain drumming on the tiled roof above was pleasant and comforting.
Thorvald was asleep beside her, on his back, one arm behind his head and the other flung out beside him. His mouth was partially open, and he was breathing very slowly and deeply, but he did not snore. His dirty-blonde hair lay mussed around his head.
She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him, her eyes keen in the dim light. She travelled the landscape of his body with her eyes, drinking in the sight of him, every hill and valley, running her gaze across the chiselled jaw, broad, work-honed chest, tight, defined belly. He had a week’s growth of blonde stubble on his chin, and tightly curled blonde hair on his chest and belly, but not on his shoulders or back. The hair between his sturdy legs was darker blonde, like dull gold. His legs were strong, like a man used to rowing, and even now, at rest, she could see the clean lines of the defined muscles in his thighs and calves.
The fascinating part of him that lay between his legs was at rest now, and she looked at it more closely. She thought of that night in the dell – it seemed almost like a dream to her, as if it had not actually happened, but she knew it had. Anne remembered how it had become as hard as a wooden spar under her touch, how it had felt in her mouth and filling her as he had thrust into her. She remembered the way he had climaxed, and the powerful surge within her that had felt so right.
Without realising, she began to shift her hips on the bed where she lay, looking at his manhood and thinking of the potential it had to grow and fill her. One hand reached out to touch it, but then she drew it back. He was asleep. Surely it would be wrong to touch him in such an intimate spot while he was sleeping? She wondered how she would feel if she woke to find him with his hand between her legs, exploring her. The thought made her uncomfortable and aroused at the same time, but she decided that she would not like it and drew back to let him sleep.
She shifted on the bed, now wet between her legs, but she rolled over and pulled one of the light woollen blankets toward herself, draping it around her shoulders and wrapping it roughly around her waist and legs. She shivered as her foot found the cold, stone-flagged floor which was not covered by rugs. Two steps took her back onto the thick rugs that floored the area by the hearth, and she dug her bare toes gratefully into the deep pile.
The fire in the hearth, which had been burning brightly when they had first arrived had reduced to a bed of red embers, and by the dimming light at the window, Anne judged that several hours had passed. Crouching by the hearth, she selected a few logs from the basket, placing them carefully on the pile of embers and blowing gently. After a moment, she was rewarded by a flicker of flame, and before long the fire was brought back up to a cheerful blaze. In the light of the new fire, Anne looked around for candles. There were several in holders around the room. A triple branch on the mantlepiece was the closest to hand, and she lit these and placed them back on the mantlepiece, illuminating the place. There was a covered tureen on the hearthstones, and in a bowl covered with a woven cloth next to it, two thick slices of bread. The tureen was filled with a rich-looking dark stew, thick with carrots, potatoes, and chunks of beef. Her stomach growled.
Resisting the temptation to devour the stew immediately, she found a spoon sitting on the tray, and giving it a stir, put the lid back on the tureen and pushed it in close to the hot base of the fire, where she was pleased to hear it begin to bubble almost immediately. She arranged the bread carefully near the fire too – it was a little bit stale, and she hoped to warm it.
There was also a kettle of black iron sitting by the f
ire that she hadn’t noticed before. In a bucket by the door, there was fresh water too. Filling the kettle, she set it on the neat little iron arm fixed to the side of the hearth that hinged cleverly over the blaze. Using the iron poker to manoeuvre the hinged arm, Anne put the kettle to boil. The sound of the water beginning to hiss inside the black iron was balm to her soul.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In the bar, some hours earlier, a calm Seamus McMillan had sat on a stool at the bar downstairs, a mug of dark beer in front of him. He had removed his hat and outer cloak and towelled off his hair and beard, and, after a little while in front of the blazing fire, was feeling almost entirely dry. He was pleased with himself. The two young people upstairs would have died for sure on that rock, and Seamus thought it a powerful sign of the goodness of providence that he had found himself there, at just the right time, to pluck them from the rock and bear them to a place of safety. Seamus McMillan was a stoutly religious man and gave thanks to God for the chance of saving the young folk, as he sat with his beer and prayed solemnly for their future and good fortune.
Hamish Sinclair, the landlord of the inn, was moving around the main room, sweeping the floor and straightening the furniture, and contemplating the damp spot at the far corner of the place where the limewash was degraded, and the rain was leaking in. He really must do something about it, but there was no point doing anything until he got a dry day. His good wife, Ingrid, was in their private quarters away in the new wing of the inn, getting some sleep in preparation for the expected busy night ahead. If the rain kept falling, there was little that the folk of a fishing village could do. Rainy days meant busy nights for Hamish and his wife.
Hamish spared a thought for the young couple upstairs, but little more. Seamus McMillan had rescued them after their boat had capsized, and they had been tired and hungry, and he had not wanted to burden them with the inevitable questions from his guests. That was why he had brought them in through the back. Seamus had spoken with Ingrid, and Ingrid, in turn, had come to him, hands on hips, instructing him severely to keep his mouth shut on the topic of their guests. Hamish Sinclair was a man who knew what was good for him. If Ingrid told him to stay quiet, he would do so, that was all.
He wandered back to the bar. Seamus was still sitting there, contemplating his mug with a serene look on his face.
“Well, Seamus,” said Hamish companionably, “catch anything when ye were out, did ye?”
“No, no, just yon young folk, clinging tae the rocks, that’s all. I wasn’t really trying if I’m honest. On a day like this, I just take the boat out because it feels wrong not tae. Daft, eh?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was a good thing for those two, at any rate.”
“Aye, that’s true enough, my friend. Very true, indeed.”
Seamus hefted his mug, took a drink, and shut his mouth. Hamish gave him a wry look. The man knew or guessed something interesting about the young couple, that was clear, but what it was he did not seem likely to tell.
Hamish was becoming interested and wondering how to frame his next venture on the subject when the door creaked open, and both men glanced up. But instead of it being one of their fellow villagers, the figure in the doorway was none other than the gigantic stranger who had entered the inn in the storm a few nights ago and bought Malcolm McRob’s draught horse for two hundred pounds. The big man was the strangest character to come through that quiet place for a long time, and Malcolm McRob’s sudden wealth – relatively speaking – had been the talk of the village. But Hamish had never expected to see the ugly fellow again. Indeed, he had almost convinced himself that the man had been some kind of apparition and that Malcolm’s wealth would turn out to be cursed in some way; Hamish Sinclair was a man with a somewhat over-active imagination when it came to spiritual matters.
And yet, here he was, as large as life, water sluicing off him like a ship lifting into a drydock as he ducked his great head and lumbered through the doorway. The inn’s generous common room seemed to shrink with the weight of him, and the light seemed to dim a little. But, Hamish reminded himself, a customer is a customer, and a sale is a sale. Perhaps I should try tae sell him the inn this time?
Unbidden, a laugh threatened him. He smothered it with as neutral a smile as he could muster.
“Well now, friend,” Hamish said warmly, as the giant stood at the bar, gazing down on him with cold, dispassionate eyes. “What can I do for you this day.”
* * *
It was dark outside their room, and Anne had finished her meal and was pouring hot water into a bucket when there was a soft knock on the door. She jumped, then wrapping the blanket more tightly around her, went and opened it a crack, peering out. The grey-haired woman was standing there, another tray in her hand.
“I brought ye some more food,” she said, indicating the tray. Anne smiled in reply.
“Thank ye kindly,” she said, reaching for it.
“Will ye require anything else this evening?” The woman seemed troubled about something. Anne could hear loud chatter from the bar downstairs, and the clink of crockery and the strains of a fiddle.
“I don’t think so,” Anne replied. “I’m drying out our clothes, and my... husband... is still asleep. I think we shall be fine until the morning.”
“In the morning, we must have a talk,” the older woman countered.
“But not until then, I beg ye,” said Anne, and the woman nodded.
“Aye, it will keep until then, but things are not as they should be. Until the morning, then.”
“Hey,” Thorvald called sleepily from the bed.
“Hello,” replied Anne, smiling. The room was lit by the fire, and she had also lit a few candles. Their warm radiance filled the room, shining on his strong body as he lifted himself up and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Is everything alright?” he asked yawning.
“I think so. The landlady seems troubled, but she says it will wait until morning. I’ve heated water for washing.”
He stood, walking over to her as she placed the tray on the little table by the fire. His skin glowed like bronze in the candlelight, and she caught her breath as she gazed at him. She stepped toward him, and he took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. The warmth of his naked skin closeby her made her weak at the knees. She pulled back from his kiss, laughing.
“Wait,” she said through her laughter. “Let’s wash first. The water is hot, and there’s even some soft soap here, look.”
She lifted a clean cloth from the little rack by the fire, soaked it in the warm water and placed it on his chest. Little rivulets of water ran down his muscular body as she drew it down, her other hand on his hip. He gasped at the heat, and she felt him relax under the touch. Moving slowly, she wetted his chest, his belly, and his back. Then he took the soap and lathered himself with it, and took the cloth from her. As he began to wash, she took another cloth and started on her own body. The heat and pleasant feeling of removing the weeks of dust and grime was incredibly pleasurable, and the pure intimacy of washing together was beautiful in a way she had never experience before.
When they were done, they stood, naked, facing each other. His damp skin reflected the firelight, and she could see with a glance that he wanted her. They came together in a slow, deep, passionate kiss, and Anne drew him down upon her on the thick, warm rug before the crackling fire.
This time, it was different from the first time in the little dell under the pine trees. Then, neither of them had known completely where the other stood. They had been cold, tired, and sick from the chase and being hunted, and the pleasure they had found in each other had been driven by their mutual need for something to counter their loneliness and fear. Now, she knew him. They had fought side-by-side, he had saved her life, and she, his. Now, their trust was sound and tangible. Before, they had come together in a torrent of lust. This time, love drove them onwards.
They explored each other’s bodies slowly, taking their time. His hands traced her scar
s and found a place in the small of her back which sent a shudder of pleasure through her. His lips and tongue traced the lines of her shoulder blades and made her back arch when they found her nipples, his steady hand cupping her other breast as his mouth responded to her pleasure. She gasped as his tongue flicked the hard bud, then his mouth moved down, kissing her belly and the ticklish point where her hip joined smoothly with her leg. She lay back as he moved on top of her, the smell of his clean body washing over her. It was delightful. She opened to him, and with a deep, satisfied groan, he thrust himself smoothly inside her.
She moved against him, her hands tight on his buttocks, drawing him closer to her. This time, she remembered the spot he had found with his tongue and shifted so that it pressed against him. With every deep and satisfying thrust, both inside and outside, she sang with pleasure, a sweet and perfect harmony.
Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3) Page 16