by Fiona Faris
When Idonea was done with Duncan’s thigh, she handed him an herbal concoction for the pain and then moved on to sew up the gash in James’ arm. Duncan drank down the tea in one gulp, discarded the bowl, then stood and walked out of the croft, not able to stand looking at the man for another moment longer. He walked back up to the courtyard where he had left Marra, but did not find her there. He climbed the stairs and entered the keep, hoping to find her in the great hall, but found his father and aunt sitting by the fireplace instead. The sight of his father’s pale failing form brought sadness to his heart and gave him pause. Temporarily leaving his search for Marra, he moved to stand next to his father’s chair.
“How are ye, Faither? I apologize if our duel caused ye any undue distress.”
“Nonsense! Ye must fight for the woman ye love. If ye had no’ fought the brute, I would have done so,” his father remarked emphatically, causing him to burst into a round of coughs that left him gasping and wheezing for air. Blood spattered from his lips onto the floor at his feet.
“Shall I send for the healer, Faither?” Duncan asked in concern.
“Nae, she will come when she is done seein’ tae our guests,” the laird shook his head in refusal. “I saw as I watched yer fight from the door o’ the keep that ye were wounded. How is it?”
“Nae, but a wee scratch,” Duncan lied. In truth he had had quite a gash and was fortunate that he had not bled out upon the ground.
“Ye made me proud today, son. Ye will make a great laird when I am gone.”
“Och, there is nae need for that kind o’ talk. Ye have a good many years yet, Faither.”
“Ye ken as well as I that I dinnae have much time left, son. I can deny the truth o’ it nae more. We both ken what coughin’ up blood means for an auld codger like me.”
“Faither, I…” Duncan stopped unsure what to say. He wished to argue that it was not so, but he knew that it was.
His father reached out and took his son’s hand, squeezing it affectionately. “Dinnae fash, all will be well in time. I will nae be leavin’ ye this day, and when I do, ye will be ready tae face what comes next. I ken that ye will do well and make me proud. There is nae doubt in my mind.”
Duncan laid his free hand on his faither’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. “Aye, Faither. I will make ye proud.”
“That is all any man can ask.”
A tiny sniffling sound drew Duncan’s attention from his father toward his aunt, Fiona. She had ceased her sewing, and tears streamed down her face unchecked. He knew exactly how she felt and wished that he too could weep as freely as she did now. Noting Duncan’s gaze, she drew her arisaid up to her face and attempted to wipe away the tears. “Dinnae hide yer sorrow, Auntie. ‘Tis well that ye weep. ‘Tis cleansin’ for the soul.”
Fiona sniffed again and attempted a watery smile. “Ye are a good man, nephew.” Turning to Fergus she praised, “Ye have done well, brother. Our people will be left in good care.”
Fergus smiled at his sister’s words. “Aye, that they will.”
Getting her tears under control, Fiona searched the hall behind him. “Where is yer lass?”
“I dinnae ken. After the fight, she ordered James MacDonald and I down tae the healer’s croft, but when I returned, she was gone. I was in search o’ her when I saw ye.”
“I am sure she is around here somewhere, son,” his father reassured him.
“Aye, but I cannae help tae be concerned with her havin’ so recently been taken and all,” Duncan admitted. He could no sooner stop worrying about her than he could have stopped the sun from setting.
“That is perfectly understandable.” Fiona acknowledged his feelings on the matter. “I would feel the same.”
“As would I,” his father agreed. “I did no’ see her come through the hall, but that does no’ mean that she did no’ do so when I was no’ lookin’.”
Duncan nodded, squeezed his father’s shoulder once more, and then released it. “I think I should continue my search tae ensure that she is safe and well.”
Duncan moved on and ascended the stairs to look for Marra in her bedchamber, but he found it to be empty. Growing more concerned, he went down to the kitchens to enquire among the women there, but none of them had seen her either. Exiting the keep he stood at the top of the stairs and searched the courtyard below. “Is it the MacDonald lass that ye seek or the man who has come tae claim her hand?” Ewen asked from behind him, where he stood guard beside the door.
“Marra,” Duncan answered turning to face him. “Have ye seen her?”
“No’ since after the fight. We exchanged a few words and then I saw her wander down toward the stables,” Ewen answered, pointing in the direction he had seen her go.
Duncan nodded his thanks, then descended the stairs. He crossed the courtyard and entered the stables. The smell of horse, hay, and oats assailed his nostrils as he walked down the line of stalls. He searched each stall, but found nothing. A noise from above caught his attention, so he climbed the ladder up to the loft. There among the piles of hay and straw lay Marra curled up in a ball on her side fast asleep, her arms wrapped around the sleeping form of a tiny baby kitten. Duncan stood still and watched the slumbering pair in silent wonder at the beauty of the moment. Light filtered through the wooden slats of the loft walls, falling in narrow beams upon her face, sparkling in the tears upon her cheeks. It appeared she had cried herself to sleep. Och, lass. Seeing her in pain made him feel as if someone had ripped his heart out of his chest.
Marra shivered, pulling Duncan out of his thoughts. Moving forward, he lay down beside her and wrapped her in his plaid. She moaned slightly and snuggled up against him, but did not wake. Holding her in his arms, he allowed himself to drift off to sleep as the herbs Idonea had given him took effect. His last thoughts were that he would gladly hold her in his arms for the rest of his days.
* * *
Marra awoke to find herself wrapped in a plaid with a man’s muscled arms holding her body firmly against a hard surface. The kitten had disappeared. Turning, she found Duncan sleeping soundly behind her. She smiled and rolled over to lay her head on his chest, wrapping her arms around his torso. The gentle steady thud of his heart played its beautiful song beneath her ear. She loved the feel of his muscled form against hers. She kissed the exposed skin at the base of his throat, tracing the edge of his shirt with her fingertips.
She had spent days attempting to put some distance between them so that it would not be so hard for her to leave him and return to her own people when Diana and Ian went back to the island, but waking to find herself in his arms had been more than she could resist. She closed her eyes and reveled in the feel of his warmth. She sighed deeply, breathing in his scent, an intoxicating mixture of man, the sea, and purple heather, intermingled with the sweet smell of the hay that surrounded them. Here in this place, with this man, she felt safe. Here in this place, with this man, she felt loved.
Opening her eyes, she turned her face up to study his features, so strong and masculine. Dark hair framed his face, setting off his high cheek bones and chiseled jaw. Dark lashes lay upon his sun kissed cheeks. The whiskers on his chin gently scratched her forehead as she laid her head back down upon his chest. She watched his torso rise and fall with every breath, the muscles rippling through his shirt beneath her hand. Remembering his wounded leg, she sat up and gently moved his kilt up his thigh to inspect the gash. She gasped in sympathy at the angry red line marring the muscled perfection beneath.
“See anythin’ ye like?” his deep voice rumbled with amusement from behind her. Startled and embarrassed, she dropped his kilt back down upon his legs and turned to face him.
“I did no’ mean tae wake ye,” she apologized for her intrusion of his person. “I simply wished tae ensure that ye were well and would heal properly.”
“Aye, Idonea is a fair hand with the needle and thread.” He pulled her back down to lie upon his chest, wrapping his arms firmly around her.
The
y lay there in silence for a time as Duncan soothingly caressed her hair in long smooth strokes. Marra lazily drew invisible circles on his chest with her fingertips, loving the feel of his shirt against her skin. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then lay back against the hay once more. “I could remain here just like this forever,” she whispered.
Duncan’s hand stopped caressing her hair and pulled her body even closer to his own. His other hand came around and lifted her chin up, meeting her lips with a tender kiss. “As could I,” he breathed against the tender flesh of her lower lip.
Desire flooded her senses, and she found herself seeking his lips once more with such fervor she surprised even herself. “Oh, Marra,” he moaned, pulling her atop his outstretched body. His hard shaft nestled between her legs with only his kilt and her skirt between them. Marra moved against him unable to stop herself.
“Och, lass, would I could take ye here and now,” he groaned flipping her onto her back and covering her body with his own. He moved his hips against hers and growled deep inside his throat.
“Oh, Duncan,” Marra cried out, clutching him to her as she raised her legs to encircle him.
Duncan clenched his jaw as if he were in pain and stopped moving. Concerned, Marra looked up into his eyes. “What is wrong? Have I hurt ye?”
“Nae, lass, but ye will be the death o’ me I have nae doubt,” he ground out through his teeth. “I cannae resist ye,” he groaned lowering his lips down to hers.
Lost in a frenzied passion, Marra moved her hips against him, moaning as her hands roamed over every part of his body she could reach. Duncan’s hands moved down her body to the hem of her skirt and slid beneath it to warm flesh beneath. His hand traveled up her thigh and grasped her buttock lifting her up opening her hips to him. Marra frantically pulled at the belt of his kilt and jerked it free, the plaid falling away, leaving him exposed to her. Duncan’s lips moved down to her neck, then down to her breasts still concealed beneath her bodice. He pulled down hard on the fabric exposing her nipples to the air. Duncan bent his head and took each of the hardened buds into this mouth lathing them with his tongue in turn.
“Oh, Duncan!” Marra threaded her fingers through his hair, clasping him to her. Her body exploded with sensations she had never felt before. He lifted his head, moving back up to her lips, his hand coming up to stroke her breasts. She felt the head of his shaft brush against her nether lips pressing against her opening poised for entry. One move is all it would take, and she would be a virgin no more. One move and she would be his forever. Duncan paused breathing heavily. “Dinnae stop,” Marra begged, panting with need, pressing her hands against his backside to pull him into her.
“I cannae,” Duncan groaned, every muscle in his body taught with tension. “I promised ye that I would no’ take ye until we were wed.” He lay atop her perfectly still as if he were afraid to move.
“Please, Duncan,” Marra whimpered, her need for him becoming painful in its intensity.
“I cannae,” he growled, then flung himself off of her with such force it was as if his very life had depended upon it. Grabbing his plaid, Duncan disappeared down the ladder into the stables, leaving Marra lying exposed in the hay alone.
Chapter Sixteen
Marra had never been more embarrassed in her entire life. She lay there panting and humiliated, her most private places lay open for all to see. She was grateful that there was no one present to witness her shame. Hearing a noise below she scrambled to cover herself before she was discovered. She stood and brushed the hay and straw from her dress and hair. An inquisitive groomsman’s head appeared at the ladder. “Oh, ‘tis ye, My Lady. I heard someone movin’ about. My apologies for disturbin’ ye.” The groomsman’s head disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her alone once more.
Marra sat back down unable to face the possibility that she might encounter Duncan again so soon after he abandoned her. Tears stung her eyes. He had refused her twice. It was now obvious to her that he cared more for her virtue than he did for her feelings. She knew that in reality, she should be glad that he was a man of honor, but his repeated rejections had hurt her, and she could not view what had transpired with such objectivity. She was not a wanton, unprincipled lass, but when he touched her, she lost all sense of reason. He was the only man that she had ever desired, and she could not resist it. She did not understand how if he felt the same for her as she did for him that he could walk away as if he had not just touched her in the most intimate way possible. Had he refused her on the grounds of her virtue, but then stayed to hold and comfort her, she might have understood. Instead he had abandoned her. He had launched himself off of her as if she had been made of poison and then walked away, leaving her naked, vulnerable, and alone.
Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply in an attempt to control the flood of emotions that assaulted her. Even after her father’s death she had never felt so alone. Her father’s disappointed face flashed through her mind, and his words echoed in the silence that surrounded her. Duty and honor above all else. Sobbing, she opened her eyes to find herself immersed in a golden haze. Light filtered down around her, catching on the dust that hung in the air, giving the loft an ethereal glow as if in that moment all of time stood still. “I hear ye, Faither,” she whispered and rose from the loft floor, swiping the tears from her cheeks. When she had awakened in Duncan’s arms, she had allowed her emotions to get the better of her, dictating her actions as if nothing else mattered, but other things did matter. Her people mattered. Her father’s legacy mattered.
Descending the ladder, Marra left the stables and headed to Idonea’s croft to speak with Ian and Diana. When she arrived, she found James in deep conversation with Ian. At first she thought it was odd, but then realized that as the only two MacDonald men among people whom they considered their enemies, it made perfect sense that they would have gravitated toward one another. James seeing her approach arose and bowed, “My Lady.”
Marra curtsied in response to the courtesy. “Please, call me Marra.” She had never been much for observing the formality of her title and only used it when necessary.
“And ye may call me James.” He smiled and motioned for her to join them.
Marra took a seat on a log by the door between the two men. She sat in silence for a moment, basking in the warm spring sunshine as they finished their conversation about the possibility of the MacDonalds of Skye rendering aid to the MacDonalds of Jura. James promised that his kinsmen would do all they could to aid their fellow clansmen, but that a visit to Skye to speak with his father would be in order to finalize the details.
“I would be glad tae go once my sister has recovered enough tae return home,” Ian offered.
“I am sure my faither would be glad o’ yer company, Ian, but it would be most beneficial if Marra were the one tae go and speak with him.”
Marra nodded. “For my people,” she agreed.
“Aye, as any leader should,” James remarked, an admiring look in his eyes.
Ian snorted. “A lass cannae lead a clan.”
“In that ye are most erroneous, my dear fellow. Some o’ the greatest leaders in Scottish history have been women. Surely ye have no’ forgotten yer history man?” James asked with a raised eyebrow.
Ian grumbled under his breath for a moment then settled silently back into his seat. Diana called from inside the croft, and he arose to see to his sister. James smiled at Marra, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “A well-meaning fellow I am sure.”
“I am sure,” Marra agreed in spite of her doubts on the matter. “I thank ye for yer words o’ support.”
“No’ at all. I spoke only the truth.”
“’Tis no’ often that such support is received,” Marra admitted.
“We men are forgetful, proud creatures,” he acknowledged in good humor.
“It would appear no’ all,” she noted, looking at him pointedly.
“I thank ye for the compliment, My Lady.”
She
sat and quietly studied his face for a time as he watched the comings and goings of the village around them. She was sure that he knew she was examining him, but he had the good grace to pretend as if he were oblivious, allowing her the freedom to do so without embarrassment. She admired his gracious manner, and he exhibited a depth of open character that she found most intriguing. He was intelligent in a way that combined a learned education with an understanding wisdom that belied his years. His conversation with Ian about providing aid for her people had revealed a generous, compassionate spirit, with a respect for his father’s authority, as well as her own.
His features were angular yet masculine. His pale blue eyes, which she had thought to be sharp and cold, had sparkled with such warmth and good humor as they had spoken that she had been forced to reevaluate her opinion of him. His lips were the perfect shape and fullness, not too thin or too thick, and when he smiled, two of the most charming dimples she had ever seen peeked out from the corners. He had a slight cleft in his chin accentuated by a thin layer of whiskery blonde stubble. His hair shown golden in the sunlight, giving him an almost angelic appearance.
“Why did ye agree tae wed me when my faither asked ye tae do so? Ye did no’ ken anythin’ about me,” she asked breaking the silence.
James turned his pale blue gaze toward her and smiled. “I had heard many a tale o’ yer grace and beauty, which tempted me greatly,” he admitted, admiration in his eyes, “but it was yer faither’s description o’ yer character that drew me the most.”
“What did he say?” She had never known her father to be a particularly complimentary man and was curious how she had been perceived by him in the days before his death. She hoped that he had been proud of her, but she had no way of knowing as he had never told her.