by Cathy MacRae
They stood on the beach, barely a pace apart, though Riona felt the distance acutely. She tugged at her torn neckline and rubbed her palms nervously over her dress. Then jerked, startled, as Ranald laid his hands atop hers.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
“I’m . . . I’m such a mess.” We’re such a mess, she added silently.
Ranald seemed to understand. He gently closed his fingers about her hands, his touch light yet intimate. “I dinnae want to go back to the castle until we talk, Ree. Will ye stay and talk with me?”
Riona’s throat clenched and she nodded.
They both started at once. “I’m sorry . . .”
A slight smile tugged Ranald’s lips. “Let me go first, aye?”
He took a deep breath and clasped her hands together, bringing them to his heart and encouraging Riona to step closer. “I’m sorry I failed ye, Ree. It was never my intention to endanger Scaurness, least of all sweet Gilda. Many men lost their lives defending her and the castle, and my guilt for that will never lessen. Now yer brother is home, and I amnae sure what will happen.”
Riona tried to tell him of Kinnon’s vow, but Ranald shook his head, silencing her. “I wouldnae change my time with ye for anything in the world. But ye dinnae trust me enough to save Gilda. I know we dinnae know each other well, and dinnae get along well as children, but if we cannae trust each other, what are we doing?”
Riona stared at her hands, unwilling to meet his gaze. She took a deep breath. “I know ye dinnae understand my decision. I know ye told me to stay on Hearn, and for me to let MacEwen divide us as I did . . .” She swallowed and lifted her gaze, blinking hard to stall the tears burning the backs of her eyes. “But Gilda . . .”
Ranald pulled her against him, tucking her head beneath his chin. “I understand ye were frantic, worried about Gilda. Yer decision made things harder. On ye. On Gilda. Me.”
“How can ye blame me for wanting to save my daughter?” Riona raged but did not break from his embrace.
“Wheesht, lass. I dinnae blame ye for being afraid for Gilda. I want to know if ye trust me.” He tilted her head up with a finger beneath her chin. “And if I can trust ye.”
Riona drew a deep, shuddering breath. “’Tis true. Even though ye vowed to call her yer own, I dinnae trust ye to love Gilda enough. I saw her as a pawn being used between us and MacEwen, and I couldnae see another way out.”
“Ye dinnae give me a chance. Ye trusted that bastard to keep his promise to turn Gilda over to me and give us safe passage, but ye dinnae trust me to save what I hold most dear.”
Riona averted her face, and Ranald sighed. “Did he touch ye, Ree?”
She shook her head. “He tried. I hid a table leg beneath my pillow and set the metal ewer by the door. He hadnae let me see Gilda and I was afraid . . . that she . . ..” Riona closed her eyes, trying to block the memory. “I was so afraid.”
Ranald smoothed a hand down the back of her head. “I was afraid, too. Dearling, I’m still afraid.”
Riona drew back to gaze at him. “Of what?”
“Of losing ye. Of not being able to hold onto what we had, what we were starting to build.”
“Did ye come after me out of love, or duty?”
“I admit marrying ye was a duty the king had given me to fulfill if Scaurness’ laird died without an heir. I’ve since learned ye are a delight and a source of much pleasure and fulfillment for me, both in our bed and out of it. I admire yer spirit and yer heart, and whether I remain as laird here or not, I would want ye at my side.”
He caressed the side of her face with a slow drift of his fingers. “I love ye, Ree. Both ye and Gilda are my life. What say ye?”
“Kinnon doesnae want to be laird. He says he is taking vows and will enter a monastery.”
“Aye? And do ye think he’ll abide by his decision?”
“Ye have seen him. He isnae well.” Her voice caught. “I want him to stay home so I can nurse him back to health.”
“That might not be possible, Ree.”
“I know.” She sighed brokenly, miserable.
“What else do ye want, love?”
“I want what we had. I want to feel loved and safe. I want ye.”
“Will ye truly feel safe with me?”
“Aye. I was terrified when I defied ye. I was verra upset to know he held Gilda, but nothing went right after I left ye.”
Ranald brushed his lips across her temple, the simple touch igniting warmth deep inside her. She crowded closer, wanting to crawl inside him and never leave his presence again. She lifted her face, not sure if he would kiss her, but needing to feel him claim her, to know she was still his.
He bent his head, taking her offer. She stretched up on her toes, winding her arms around his neck, pulling him to her. Everything within her welled into the kiss. Her hurt, her fear, her apology. She felt his hunger as his lips devoured hers, his tongue stroking hers, blending them together as one.
Ranald sighed, ending the kiss. “Ye are my heart, Ree. Never doubt it.”
“I love ye, Ranald. I swear to trust ye and never give ye reason to doubt me.”
She felt him shift against her. “Will ye obey me?”
The idea jarred something inside her, and she opened her mouth to retort, but stopped, sensing the smile in his voice.
“Aye.” Rubbing slowly against him, she felt him harden against her. Her head against his chest, she heard his heartbeat quicken, felt his sharp inhalation of breath. His hands slid to cup her breasts. She breathed deeply, filling his hands.
“Everything?” he breathed.
Riona smiled.
Epilogue
Ranald hoisted Gilda to one shoulder, grimacing at her shriek of delight. He only half-listened to her excited babble, too aware of what was taking place in the laird’s bedroom two flights above. Or, perhaps unaware, he decided as he handed his daughter abruptly to Finlay. It had been too long since Tavia had sent word to him about Riona. He could wait no longer.
Without a backward look, he strode purposefully to the stairs. He would have ignored any protest for him to stay, that it was improper for him to attend Riona as she labored to deliver their child. But no one had the heart to stop him. The people in the hall wanted to know, too.
Doors opened, voices murmured, growing louder as footsteps echoed overhead. His foot touched the first riser and Ranald halted uncertainly. He tried to climb the stairs, but his legs would not move beneath him, and he gripped the twisted balustrade with whitened knuckles.
“Laird!”
He stared upward. His vision clouded and for a moment he fought the dizziness betraying his fear.
Riona’s young maid hurried down the stairs, her braid bouncing across her back. “Laird!” She drew to a halt before him, a broad smile across her tired face.
Ranald struggled against muscles suddenly lax with relief. “Aye?”
“Yer wife, Lady Caitriona, has been delivered of a son!”
Behind him, the room erupted in cheers. Ranald’s eyes bore into the maid’s. “My wife?”
“She is well and would like t’ see ye.”
Ranald began breathing again as euphoria ripped through him, and he bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. In a trice, he arrived at the bedroom door and reached for the latch, amazed to find his hand trembling so he could not grip it. He stared in puzzlement, and the door swung open as if by magic.
Tavia drew up short, surprise on her face. “There ye are! Ye took yer own time getting here.” She indicated the bed where Riona lay propped by a mound of pillows at her back. A cradle beside the bed drew his eager eyes, and he stumbled forward, his gaze sliding from the bairn to Riona. Her weary smile tugged at his heart and he sank gingerly beside her, his weight pushing deep into the soft mattress.
Gently, he brushed back a lock of her auburn hair, cupping her cheek in his palm. “Are ye well, Ree?”
Riona leaned into his caress. “Aye.” She nodded at the cradle.
&n
bsp; A slow grin spread across Ranald’s face. “He’s a right bonnie lad, aye?”
Tavia placed a hand on the birchwood cradle. “And he is a healthy lad, too,” she declared. Riona inhaled sharply and Ranald leaned to kiss her cheek, the loss of little Etta only days after her birth more than a year ago still a tangible grief between them.
“We could name him Niall, after yer da,” he offered.
Riona sighed. “I’d like that.”
The door creaked softly on its hinges and Gilda entered, one slow foot after the other. Ranald patted the mattress beside him. “Come in, lass. Come meet yer new brother.”
Gilda’s smile lit her face and she darted across the room. She bounced on her tummy against the mattress, not quite making it to the top of the bed. Ranald grabbed the back of her dress and hauled her into his lap.
“Look,” he said, pointing to the cradle.
Tavia picked up the bairn and settled him in Riona’s arms, adjusting the soft wool blanket around his face. The bairn scrunched his birth-reddened cheeks and yawned.
“Ist he daft, Da?” Gilda asked with some concern, pointing to Niall’s wrinkled, newborn features.
Ranald laughed aloud. “Nae, lass. He just needs a good feed to grow into his skin. He’ll be right as rain in no time.” Wrapping his arms around her, he tucked her head beneath his chin as she studied her new brother.
“Ye have, what, six summers now?” he teased her, knowing he undershot the mark.
“Seven,” Gilda replied automatically, fascinated by the bairn’s facial contortions. Then she pushed back against Ranald in good-natured protest. “Da!”
“That many, aye? Well, then ye are the perfect age to become his big sister. Ye will show him how to eat and how to walk.”
“Can I play with him?” Gilda cocked her head to one side, a doubtful expression to her face.
“Och, aye. When he is a bit bigger. And ye can show him how to collect sea shells.”
“Angel shells?”
“Of course.”
Gilda took a deep breath. “Will he become an angel like Etta?”
Ranald kissed the top of her head. “Nae, lass. I believe wee Niall is here to stay.”
“Good,” she replied with a determined nod of her head. “I like him. Even if he is a funny color.”
Young Niall, apparently unimpressed with the solemnity of the occasion, opened his mouth and howled with all the strength he could muster. Gilda clapped her hands over her ears.
Ranald grinned at her. “The lad is hungry. Shall we leave him to yer ma?”
Gilda couldn’t leave fast enough, and slid from his lap, fleeing the room. With tender care, Ranald settled Riona against him as she nursed their son.
He kissed the top of her head and smiled, his heart near bursting with love and contentment at the home—and the life—they’d created together.
The End
Authors’s Notes
You can read Kinnon’s story in The Highlander’s French Bride as he journeys from war-weary soldier to the man who discovers he left his heart in France.
Thank you for reading Riona and Ranald’s story. Ranald’s tale begins in The Highlander’s Accidental Bride if you’d like to know a little more about him, and continues in The Highlander’s Tempestuous Bride where he realizes wee Gilda has at last grown up.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to my wonderful critique partners Dawn Marie Hamilton and Cate Parke for their help in developing this story. And to Derek Dodson for his help with the technical ends of fighting and sailing.
Thanks also go to my editor, Char Chaffin, and to Dar Albert for the wonderful cover for this and the other books in the series.
Author Bio and Links
Cathy MacRae lives on the sunny side of the Arbuckle Mountains where she and her husband read, write, and tend the garden—with the help of the dogs, of course.
You can visit with her on facebook, or read her blogs and learn about her books at www.cathymacraeauthor.com. Drop her a line—she loves to hear from readers!
To keep up with new releases and other fun things, sign up for her newsletter! (You’ll find DD’s news there, too!)
Other ways to connect with Cathy:
Facebook
Twitter: @CMacRaeAuthor
Instagram: cathymacrae_author
Amazon author page
Pinterest
Book bub. https://www.bookbub.com/authors/cathy-macrae
Other Books by Cathy MacRae
Mhàiri’s Yuletide Wish (a Christmas novella)
De Wolfe Pack Connected World
The Saint: book 1
The Penitent: book 2
The Cursed: book 3
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor series
(with LL Muir, Diane Darcy, Jo Jones, and Melissa Mayhue)
Adam
Malcolm
MacLeod
Patrick
With DD MacRae:
The Hardy Heroine series
Highland Escape (book 1)
The Highlander’s Viking Bride (book 2)
The Highlander’s Crusader Bride (book 3)
The Highlander’s Norse Bride, a Novella (book 4)
The Highlander’s Welsh Bride (book 5)
The Prince’s Highland Bride (book 6, available May 2020)
An excerpt from The Highlander’s French Bride:
CHAPTER ONE
1374, Châteauneuf-de-Randon, France
Kinnon Macrory stared into the face of death.
`Tis nae fair. After all the battles I have survived, to arrive at this. He would have sighed at the injustice of it, but he was, quite frankly, afraid to make an unnecessary move.
The black mask surrounded dark topaz eyes, a burnished coat, and a fine set of strong, glistening white teeth revealing themselves from beneath snarling black jowls. The Alaunt’s ears lay flat against his skull in warning, and his hair stood up along his neck and shoulders. As did Kinnon’s.
Shite.
He lifted his eyes carefully from the reddened hand laid across the dog’s neck. The slender fingers could have belonged to a nobleman’s daughter, but the nails were short and the skin rough. Amazing what the mind registers when death is imminent. Kinnon’s gaze wandered further. The owner of the hand wore a serviceable gown, patched areas meticulously sewn, sleeve cuff turned back on itself, almost hiding the frayed edges of her struggling circumstances. A smudged apron covered the front of the gown, the bucket of milk at her feet announcing her job before he arrived—and came face-to-face with death.
“Do ye mind calling off yer beast?” He offered a winsome smile, splaying his hands at his side, a small bag of coins in his left palm. The young woman stared at him, giving the bag only a brief glance.
He tried again. “Chien?”
The young woman’s gaze did not waver—clear, cold blue eyes bore into his. Wisps of dark hair curled damply against her temple, attesting to her work ethic and the warmth of the day. Her thin nose sat atop full, red lips that neither smiled nor frowned at him, her thoughts inscrutable.
The dog growled, a deep menacing sound originating from his enormous chest that warned Kinnon from making a further move—if he wanted to keep his throat intact.
Kinnon did.
His heartbeat kicked up. The impressive muscles in the dog’s forelegs rippled, his claws gripped the ground, his hindquarters bunched, ready to launch himself at the least provocation. Savage power quivered beneath the thin hand of a milkmaid Kinnon could have easily tossed over his shoulder without so much as a grunt of effort. Endless moments passed as he roundly cursed the man who sent him to this farm on an errand better suited to one of the camp lackeys.
“Se calmer, Jean-Baptiste,” the young woman murmured as the dog leaned forward.
“Jean-Baptiste?” Kinnon couldn’t help himself. “Ye call this beast John the Baptizer?”
The woman gave him a curious look, but the edge of her lips quivered, threatened to smile. “He has changed la re
ligion of more than one man.”
Kinnon’s eyebrows shot upward and he shifted his weight against an alarmed ache in his loins. “Aye. I can believe that.”
He took measure of the enormous beast, its shoulder almost even with the woman’s waist, his possessiveness clear. With his mistress’s soft command, the dog settled, but his eyes did not waver, his threat remained unmistakable. No pampered pet, Jean-Baptiste was all business. And today his business included eating soldiers.
“I was sent to ask ye for what supplies I could buy.” Kinnon gently flipped the small bag in his hand. The movement and clink of coin drew the woman’s attention.
“You brought coin?” She snorted and hefted the milk bucket in one slender hand. “Most simply take what they want.”
Kinnon moved automatically to take the burden from her but froze at the snarled response from the dog. His startled gaze darted to the milkmaid, gaging her next action. Cool blue eyes met his, and this time, the young woman smiled.
“Merci, but I can manage. If you would like to keep your virilité intact, please take a step back. Jean-Baptiste and I do not like to be crowded.”
Kinnon let out his breath and took the required step back. “Aye. And I thank ye.”
She raised her eyebrows. “For what?”
“For not letting yer beast change my religion.”
The young woman jerked her chin, indicating him to follow. Keeping a respectful distance, Kinnon trailed her.
“What is it you wish to purchase?” Her voice hitched as she swung the bucket onto the back of the small cart against the edge of the stone stable. Moss grew over the crumbling edges, softening the façade. Hay spilled into the yard, fresh and clean, its odor mingling with the sharp tang of manure.