The Highlander's Welsh Bride: Book 5 in the Hardy Heroines series

by Cathy MacRae

  Carys countered by sliding one hand up his muscular thigh, fingers finding the warmth between his legs. His sac filled her palm and she squeezed gently.

  He broke away, panting, sweat on his brow. He glanced about the room, then, grasping her hand again, dragged her to a door in the corner. Flinging it open to reveal a narrow passage of stairs winding upward, he pulled her behind him, her feet flying to keep up as he took the steps two at a time.

  They burst into a large bedroom, walls covered in faded tapestries, a fire laid on the hearth. Birk kicked the door closed and drew his dirk.

  Carys stared at him in surprise. He reached for her gown. She slapped his hand away.

  “You destroy this dress and you’ll answer to Elspeth on the morrow.”

  Birk grunted and shoved his blade beneath a pillow and quickly shed his clothing. With nimble fingers, she loosened the laces and pulled the gown over her head. She blinked to find Birk scarcely a hand’s breadth away.

  His desire for her thrust between them, standing bold from a nest of black hair. It bumped against her belly, demanding her surrender. She stared for a moment then lifted an eyebrow.

  “I will not compare you to Terwyn again,” she commented, a smile rising from purely feminine approval. She gently encircled his cock with her fingers, closing her fist about it. Hard and silky smooth, the heat of it scorched her palm. Her core melted in answering fervor. A moan escaped her lips. She wanted him inside her, wanted to burn in the flames he promised.

  She tightened her grip, pleased with the groan wrung from his chest.

  “If ye dinnae remove yer chemise, I cannae swear it will return to its owner in one piece.”

  His voice a rumble of barely leashed passion pushed her heart rate even higher. She scarcely knew this man yet he owned her. Body and soul, she was his to do with as he pleased. Everything about him was overwhelming, from his towering height to his enormously swollen cock, his raging self-confidence, and the passionate fire blazing from his eyes.

  A voice in her head urged her to run, but an instinct older than time rumbled approval at her new mate. He was worthy of her, and law bound their union.

  She pulled the fine shift over her head and sent it floating through the air with a flip of her wrist. Her hair swirled about her in a black curtain. Birk’s chest heaved, muscled bands rippling burnished gold in the fire light. Thunder rumbled and lightning rent the sky. The scent of rain rode through the open window. Carys’s skin fairly crackled with anticipation.

  If she was his, then he was, by God’s will, hers.

  Birk caught the gleam in Carys’s eyes as she leaned closer. A fresh surge of blood tightened his cock almost beyond endurance. He’d dallied with few women after Rose died, and they’d simpered before him, praising his attributes. A balm to his sense of inadequacy after finding his first wife hopping from one bed to another. An outward appearance only that did nothing to touch his scarred soul.

  Carys met his nakedness boldly with her own, stirred him beyond arousal to a beast he did not recognize—and she did not back away. Her hand on his cock drove him mad, each finger as it shifted its grip sending bolt after bolt of desire straight through him, reverberating, building.

  He growled a warning. A wedding night should woo the bride—Dugan had insisted. But his bride was no shrinking virgin, and her passion threatened to surpass his. He slipped his fingers between her thighs, finding her hot and wet. He swept her into his arms, carrying her the few feet to the bed. Releasing his cock, she laced her arms about his shoulders as he laid her amid the bed coverings. With a grunt of impatience, he seated himself between her legs and plunged deep.

  Her gasp stopped him. He lay atop her, panting with the effort to remain still. His cock throbbed painfully, threatened to explode before he could complete the act.

  She would be the death of him.

  She inhaled deeply and wrapped her legs around his waist. With a hitch of her hips she pulled him deeper.

  “Don’t stop,” she breathed. Her fingernails dug into his upper arms. She gripped him tighter, grinding herself against him.

  Birk drew back, against the restraint of her legs, gasping at the feel of her just before he pulled free. His strokes intensified, unable to resist the frenzy of Carys’s response. He hurtled over the edge, her passion meeting his.

  The furor died away. His arms shook as if he’d just finished a day of heated battle and could scarcely lift his sword. He rolled to the side and pulled Carys against his chest, burying his nose in her scented hair. Between one breath and the next, he was asleep.

  * * *

  Carys woke to the unaccustomed feel of a soft bed beneath her. The fire glowed contentedly on the hearth, giving the room a faint red glow. She stretched, her muscles aching, but it was a glorious ache that brought a satisfied smile to her lips. She reached for the large bulk of warmth next to her, gratified to feel him swell beneath her questing hands. She went eagerly into his arms, seeking the place where they were equal, where they were one. Groaning as he filled her, meeting his urgency with ardor that quickly spiraled out of control, she exploded into a thousand particles of light.

  Birk shouted, gripping her tight. He rode her to the end of their passion and lingered over her. He drew away as if reluctant to leave. She hooked her heels behind his knees, savoring the feel of him a moment longer.

  “Ye are a rare lass,” he murmured, settling next to her.

  “I am nothing special,” she replied. “What happens between us is rare.”

  He chuckled softly. “’Tis not every man who finds a virago in his bed.”

  “I admit this is beyond my experience as well. But this is not all there is to marriage.”

  “’Tis a sight better than I’ve had before,” Birk declared, yawning mightily. He rolled to his back. “Our bargain is well-met. I am content.”

  A settling snore drifted from his pillow.

  Carys considered smothering him with the down-filled square.

  You are content? Pleasing you in bed is the extent of our relationship? She inhaled sharply, grinding the breath out between clenched teeth.

  He bargained my life for an inspiring bed-partner. I suppose I should be grateful he included marriage in his proposal. She snorted. The bed sport wouldn’t have lasted long had he been less honorable. He sleeps so deeply I could rifle his rooms for loot, dress, and eat my fill before coming back to plunge his own dagger into his black heart.

  She flounced onto her side, presenting her back to him, and pounded her pillow into submission. A large hand lazily fondled the curve of her hip and passion flared anew. Steeling herself against its onslaught, she let soft tendrils of longing curl within. Birk patted her buttock as his breathing evened, and his hand slipped to the mattress.

  * * *

  Light streamed in through the window. Bleary-eyed, Birk stared at the tiny dust motes dancing on sunbeams. Memory jolted through him.

  Saints’ toes! What a night! His cock shot to attention, eager for more bed sport. He groped for his wife, encountering only cool, bare sheets. He sat up, scratching the back of his neck as he noted the empty bed, the fire untended on the hearth. A tray of bread and a mug sat upon a low table. He listened for sounds behind the screen in the corner. A bird chirped outside the window.

  Damn! He wasn’t ready to leave his bedchamber. He wanted his wife. In his bed. Beneath him as he pumped into her.

  With a frustrated growl, he swung to his feet and snatched his leine from the floor. He dragged it over his head, shoving it past his erect cock. He splashed a bit of water from the ewer behind the screen over his face then did his best to hit the chamber pot.

  Striding to the table, he drained the mug, wincing at the bland taste of watered ale. He ignored the bread and dragged a pair of trews over his hips, settling himself uncomfortably within the snug fit. His mood thoroughly soured, he pulled on his boots and stomped from the room.

  Laughter drifted from the hall below. He stood at the railing and spied
a cluster of people at the head table. His wife, in brilliant yellow wool, entertained the small group with a tale that brought rippling amusement to his ears.

  My wife! She should be attending me! Not entertaining the rabble.

  He clomped down the stairs, boots loud on the stone. Smoking green tendrils of jealous possessiveness wound through him, twisting his face into a scowl, further darkening his mood.

  The little knot of people quickly dissolved at his approach. Carys remained in her seat, calmly eating from a platter of fruit, cheese, and oatcakes. She poured a stream of golden honey over the cakes. Meeting his gaze, she lifted a bannock to her mouth and took a bite, running her tongue over her lips to catch an errant drop.

  His balls tightened as he remembered the ingenuity of her tongue the night before.

  He grabbed a handful of oat cakes. “Couldn’t find ye this morn,” he remarked. “Ye’re looking well.”

  “A mixed bag, is it? A complaint and a compliment in the same breath. I must have done something right.”

  “I wanted my wife. I got cold watered ale and stale bread.”

  “You slept late. I had better things to do than wait on you.”

  “Better things?” His eyes narrowed. “I remember ye were quite satisfied last night.”

  Carys glanced about from beneath her lowered brow and took a sip. “This is hardly the place to discuss private matters. Cool your heels, m’laird. ’Twill be evening again soon enough.”

  She rose and, collecting the tray, strolled from the room, gathering a trail of serving lasses and the interested gazes of several men-at-arms who lingered over their meal. Jealousy dug its barbed claws into his belly.

  “She’s already made friends,” Dugan noted as he slid into the chair next to Birk. He set his mug and trencher on the bare wooden boards and dug into the steaming porritch.

  “She’s my wife!” Birk growled, burying his face in his mug.

  Dugan looked up, startled. “Aye. Was that not the plan?” He shrugged. “A fair waste of time and effort if it wasnae.”

  “Exactly my plan,” Birk retorted, taking another swallow of cider.

  “Dinnae tell me ye mucked up yer wedding night,” Dugan clucked, shaking his head.

  “My wedding night was fine.”

  “Fine? Laddie, ye willnae please yer wife with fine.”

  “My wife is well pleased.” Birk slammed his mug down, tired of Dugan’s ribbing.

  Dugan pointed a bannock at the kitchen doorway. “Aye. And already handling Cook with sweetness and tact, charming the serving lasses into a complete cleaning of the hall and upper chambers, and has yer weans eager to begin lessons in another hour or so.” He shrugged. “Doesnae sound to me like a woman who cannae stay out of her husband’s bed.”

  Birk rose to his feet, his chair’s legs clattering on the flagstones. Catching sight of his daughters crossing the room, he unclenched his fist. Grabbing the pitcher of cider, he emptied its contents into Dugan’s lap.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Carys stood in the kitchen doorway, ostensibly viewing the redesigned garden, when it was the fresh breeze from the sea she craved. The heated skin of her neck and cheeks slowly cooled, as did the racing beat of her heart.

  Damn the man! He will not know how much I longed to run my fingers through his hair, press against him and demand he take me upstairs. She exhaled slowly. I cannot let him know how much he affects me, for it feeds his overweening ego too much. He thinks to keep me only as a broodmare. Well, I desire children as well. At least the creating of them will be no hardship. It seems our marriage begins and ends in the bedchamber.

  Carys shook her head grimly. I will likely have a pair of weans on my hip before the first two years are out. She stepped to one side as a lad entered the kitchen, hefting a large woven basket laden with vegetables freshly picked from the garden. She surveyed the contents with a critical eye then smiled at the boy who gave her an anxious nod.

  Whether my laird realizes it or not, he has married a woman well versed in running a castle such as this. I am capable of adding improvements he likely never thought of. A smile crossed her face. Won’t he be surprised?

  “M’lady.”

  Carys turned as she realized the voice addressed her. The cook, an ample woman with a pleasant face and a spotless white apron spread over her light woolen gown, wiped her hands on a towel at her sash. “We take our main meal at noon unless there is a banquet. If this meets with yer approval, I have a moment to share the menus with ye.”

  “Everyone appears well fed,” Carys said. “That schedule is one I am familiar with. I am certain your menus are impeccable, though I would like to confer with you.”

  Cook, obviously pleased with Carys’s response, drew a ring of keys from her sash.

  “What shall I call you?” Carys asked.

  “I answer to Cook most of the time.” Her brisk manner gave way to a small smile. “No one ever asks, but me Christian name is Ava.”

  “Well met, Ava. Let us see what you say grace over.” Carys raised a hand suggesting Ava lead the way.

  Carys spent the next hour on a tour of the kitchen and store rooms, pleased at the cleanliness yet puzzled by the low quantities of food.

  “Laird MacLean only ordered the rebuilding of Dairborrodal Castle less than a year ago. ’Tis not his main residence, and unlikely to house more than a handful of people and men-at-arms when he isnae here,” Cook confided. “But dinnae fash. We’ll have everything as it should be by fall, with a fair amount from the gardens and hunters put by to carry us through winter.”

  “I see,” Carys replied slowly. “Where is his regular residence, then? And do you know how long he plans to remain here?”

  Cook gave her a startled look. “I know ye married hastily—we all know.” She waved a hand vaguely about the room. She pursed her lips, brows lowering. “And we are every one of us loyal to the laird. I willnae gossip, but men dinnae always tell the women what they need to know. I will tell ye I have been asked to prepare foodstuffs for a return journey to MacLean Castle on the morrow.”

  Carys forced a slight smile. “Thank you, Ava. I do not indulge in gossip and appreciate your loyalty. By the way, which direction to MacLean Castle?” she asked innocently.

  “Why, south along the coast a half-day no more, m’lady,” Ava answered.

  “My thanks again. I will see to Laird MacLean’s and the girls’ preparations.”

  Cook nodded approvingly and returned to her duties.

  Carys crossed the hall and entered the stairwell at a thoughtful pace. She’d won over the most important member of the staff at Dairborrodal Castle, but the woman apparently was not part of the staff where the family would be living.

  MacLean Castle? A niggle of memory took shape. A bustling dock with a large keep overlooking the bay, and a flourishing village between. Captain Ferguson had left them to barter with the merchants on the shoreline while he spent the afternoon meeting with the laird.

  Laird MacLean, of course. Her new husband.

  So, he was no mere chief of this rubble—albeit a rubble under obvious reconstruction—and a few scattered crofts beyond, but an affluent laird in charge of a busy shipping port off the Strait of Mull. An important and strategic holding for commerce and in times of war. And vast lands beyond. Gossip had been free among the sailors, though she’d been so tired she’d paid little heed. What had she missed?

  Travel to MacLean Castle on the morrow? The knowledge still rankled. He’d promised to take her to see Tully settled with Lorna and Fergal whilst they sought his mam and siblings, and to fetch the rest of her belongings from the forest. Either he’d forgotten his promise—unlikely—or was not a man of his word—and she was not willing to believe that. Whatever his reasoning, she wouldn’t be put off any longer.

  Adjusting once again to her altered life, she climbed the stairs and entered the girls’ room. She planted a cheerful smile on her face when she wanted to wring the truth from her husband and discover
why he planned on breaking his word to her about Tully’s welfare. She spent half an hour or so encouraging Eislyn’s penmanship and promising her an hour after supper to teach her how to wield a knife. Carys then gave Abria a hug and petted Tegan, assuring Margaret of the evening hours alone—or however she chose to spend them.

  Farther down the hall, she opened the door to Birk’s bedroom—now hers as well. She spied the trews and tunic she’d worn two days’ previous—had it only been two days?—cleaned and mended, hanging from a peg. Making a mental note to thank the maids for their care, Carys quickly exchanged her kirtle and surcoat for her worn clothes, more familiar than expensive finery after two years as a soldier in Llywelyn’s army and the last few months aboard ship and living off the land.

  She slipped her feet into her boots, grateful she’d not discarded them as she awaited a new pair. Her thick woolen cowl and sturdy leather bracers followed. Flipping open the lid to the chest at the foot of the bed, she grabbed her belt and sword then slung her bow and quiver across one shoulder. Daggers slipped into each boot and one at her belt.

  Finding a bay gelding in the stable with long legs and bright eyes, Carys quickly tossed a blanket and saddle over his back and slid a bridle over his head. She dashed through the gate beneath the watchful eyes of two soldiers on the wall, hearing no voices calling to her to halt. A weight she’d not realized she carried fell away as she breathed deeply of the midday air. Within minutes, she was enveloped by the shadows of the forest.

  Birk could not contain his good humor—restored after a bout of sword practice in the field behind the bailey. He pulled his leine over his head and scratched an armpit, then draped the sweat-soaked shirt over a fence rail. He shoved his head beneath the water in a rain barrel, surfacing with a shake of his head to good-naturedly accept the ribbing from Dugan and the men.