Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  She grabbed his arms as though to steady herself. "Will we ever be free of him?"

  In her eyes, Marcus saw the fear he had felt when he saw Silas poised to murder his son. Marcus glanced around and spotted the bucket of water he was looking for several stalls down. He fetched it, then pushed past Elise and Kiernan and threw the water on the unconscious man. Silas awoke with a sputter. Marcus seized him by his collar and yanked him to his feet.

  "Who sent you?" Marcus shouted.

  Silas cowed.

  "Tell me or I'll kill you here and now."

  "That woman." Silas cringed.

  "Woman?" Marcus gave him a hard shake.

  Silas went silent.

  "Kiernan! Give me your pistol."

  "No," Silas cried.

  Marcus lifted his fist for another blow.

  "Ross!" Silas shouted. "Lady Ross."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Elise stilled at the sound of Marcus's bedchamber door opening. She rose and stole through the closet which separated their two rooms, then knocked lightly on his door, and entered. He looked up from where he stood near the nightstand on the far side of the bed. Her heart lurched. She had suspected he kept a mistress, but seeing him now, hair tousled, cravat missing, the top button of his shirt undone, there was no mistaking the fact he had just risen from another woman's bed. The mental picture of Marcus kissing the rise of her breasts, then taking her nipple into his mouth filled her vision.

  "Elise?"

  She snapped back to the present. "I—" Her gaze caught on his hands—hands that had once touched her, had once—the urge to cry sprang up. No, she wouldn't cry. She had made her bed. She would live with the consequences.

  "I wondered how things went with Lady Ross's trial," she said. "Is it over?"

  Marcus reached around his back and pulled out the revolver stuffed into his waistband.

  Where had the revolver lain when he made love to his mistress?

  "It is over," he replied. "She claims to know nothing of a plot to kill Kiernan." Marcus glanced at her. "I suspect she wanted you dead. Though she denies that as well. I don't know how, but it is clear she was in league with Ardsley. Margaret had no reason to kill Kiernan."

  Elise started to ask how he could be so sure when he said, "She won't face prison." He gave a mirthless laugh. "England is not about to put one of her noblewomen in prison, even if she is Scottish. She is to go to America." Marcus's expression abruptly darkened. "Do you intend on standing in doorways the remainder of our marriage?"

  She blinked.

  "Or is it that you simply find it too abhorrent to be in a room with me?"

  "I… no. I only thought—"

  "Thought what?" he demanded.

  "I didn't want to intrude. It is late—"

  "So it is." Marcus began unbuttoning his shirt.

  "Good Lord," she muttered. "It's not as if you have invited me into your bed—chambers." She added "chambers" in a rush, seeing his fingers halt on the third button and the sudden gleam in his eyes.

  His eyes narrowed. "Am I to understand it is I who have stayed out of your bed?"

  "You say that as if you're surprised," she snapped.

  "By God," he thundered. "I will settle this now." He started around the bed.

  Elise rolled her eyes. "You have no energy to settle anything."

  He stopped short. "What the blazes does that mean?"

  "It means, I have made my bed and I'll lie in it." Alone.

  Marcus charged across the room. Elise backed up. He grabbed her and tossed her on his bed before she could blink. His lips crashed down on hers in a bruising kiss. Shock ripped through her. Energy pooled in the pit of her stomach, then between her legs. His hand covered a breast. Elise arched into him. She wanted him, but could she live with the fact he had another woman? He yanked up her night rail and reached between her legs. Yes. She could live with anything if she had him. His fingers probed. Marcus abruptly pulled away from her.

  He touched her cheek. "Steven is well," he said. "There is no need to cry."

  "Cry?" She lifted a finger to her cheek, but even as she did, she realized she was crying.

  "Unless…" Marcus said.

  Elise looked at him.

  "You can't forgive me for Steven. I am sorry. I understood the consequences. I could not change—"

  "Forgive you," she interrupted. "You have done nothing to forgive. It's my fault, even your taking a mistress. I can't blame you for wanting—"

  "A what?" He looked startled.

  "What?" she repeated.

  His brows puckered in a fierce frown. "We have been in Ashlund two weeks and already you have me consorting with other women?"

  "There's no better explanation for the late nights, your state of dishevelment."

  "My state of dishevelment?" His gaze swept across her body. "You seem to have forgotten what my state of dishevelment is like when I make love to a woman." He kissed her mouth, her cheek, her ear. "When I make love to you," he whispered.

  Elise drew a sharp breath as he rocked against her. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

  "There is no more Margaret," he whispered. "No more Ardsley, and"—Marcus slid a hand beneath her and lifted her hips to meet each thrust of his hips—"there is no mistress."

  He pulled his arm from around her, then reached between them and unfastened his trousers. His erection sprang free of its constraints and Marcus drove himself into her.

  "There is only you," he said, and began the rhythm that bound them together as one.

  ####

  I hope you enjoyed Marcus and Elise's journey of discovery and love in My Highland Love. Feel free to drop me a line and let me know what you thought of the book. Take a peek at my Scottish Historical Lord Keeper.

  Tarah

  LORD KEEPER

  Scottish Highlands 1508

  CHAPTER ONE

  Iain might have been standing on the edge of a dream when the abbey door opened and she stepped out into the morning light. Though separated by a small earthly measure of holy ground, he sensed her mind to be as far from him as heaven was from hell. His heart stilled with the sudden blaze of auburn hair against the Highland sun and he determined to learn what color eyes matched such fire.

  With a nod in response to Father Brennan’s statement that the Menzies clan was rumored to be raiding land to the north, Iain slid a hand along his horse’s neck. The beast nickered and shifted beneath him. An answering whinny followed from one of his men’s horses behind him. Careful not to give away his intention, Iain slid his gaze across the heather covered hills in the background, and covertly monitored the woman’s progress as she strolled along the grounds, a book in hand. Another moment and she would be off Montrose Abbey.

  She slowed.

  Annoyance flared. Curse the archaic law that kept her safe on holy ground. What if he ignored the civilized directives instilled by his education, and simply took her? He dropped his attention to the intricately carved leather wristband that covered his arm from wrist to elbow. A deep scratch spanned the leather, a reminder of the battle that almost took his arm, had taken the lives of many good men, a battle fought in the name of justice.

  Iain looked up in response to Father Brennan’s report that four Menzies clansmen had passed the abbey yesterday afternoon. He was in no mood to encounter marauding Menzies on his return home, particularly considering his change in plans. He breathed deep of the Scots pine scent carried on the keening wind. The law forbade him taking the woman while on holy ground, but sanctioned the kidnapping once she entered the outside world. No law would be broken, no war begun when he claimed her.

  Ticking off the seconds in his mind, he gauged her progress away from the grassy expanse that marked the distance needed to intercept her race back to the monastery. Any resistance would be hampered by the heavy skirts of her expensive brocade dress. She took the last fateful step. Iain flashed Father Brennan a grin as he grasped the hook on his claymore’s scabbard and unhooked latch fr
om hook. Sword and scabbard dropped to the ground. The priest’s eyes registered surprise, then understanding. He whirled as Iain dug his heels into the horse’s belly and broke ranks with his men.

  “Run!” the priest shouted.

  She looked up from her book. In seconds, Iain drew close enough to discern the expression of a doe catching first sight of the bowman. His heart surged. Mayhap the wide-eyed stare wasn’t fear, but fascination? Understanding lit her features and Iain laughed at his folly. The doe realized the bowman meant to have her, after all.

  She dropped the book and yanked up her skirts to run. Iain veered right and leaned from the saddle as she darted left. He seized her waist. She gave a muffled ‘oof’ and kicked when he dragged her against the side of the galloping beast, her legs tangled in her skirts. The horse snorted, his gait faltering with the uneven burden; he steadied and Iain hauled her across his thighs.

  His groin pulsed with the weight of her derriere across his lap. He laughed to himself. If she understood the pleasure her struggles afforded him, she would cease. His horse snorted and Iain threw a leg over the lass’ shins, hugging them close to the belly of the beast. She grunted with the effort of trying to slide from the saddle, then stiffened with his firm grip on her thigh.

  “Iain,” Father Brennan said in a loud voice.

  Iain forced his attention from the disheveled mass of velvet hair that cascaded down slim shoulders and looked to where the priest had retreated onto holy ground. Father Brennan motioned him forward. Iain smiled and gave a shake of his head. The hand at Father Brennan’s side fisted.

  Good. The priest understood no MacPherson would set foot on holy ground today.

  The woman’s muscles tightened in another attempt to throw off his leg, and Iain gave the flesh a warning squeeze without breaking eye contact with Father Brennan. The priest ran the back of a forefinger in a slow line along each side of his mustache. Iain understood his shrewd look, but the curiosity in his eyes was a surprise. He strode toward them, and the warriors who had ridden in with Iain drew up alongside as the priest neared.

  “It doesna’ seem she is taken with your charm, Iain,” Father Brennan said.

  “Charm?” his captive snapped. “What madness is this?”

  “Patience, lass. It is a simple mistake.” The priest looked pointedly at Iain.

  “Aye,” she blurted, “and this barbarian would do well to release me before he discovers just how grave a mistake.”

  Iain glanced at his companions when someone unsuccessfully stifled mirth.

  Father Brennan clicked his tongue with impatience. “Iain, you cannot take her.”

  Iain responded with a raise of his brows.

  “Aye, then,” Father Brennan muttered, “you can take her, but ’tis not fair play. I had not informed her of this tradition. A tradition long dead,” he added with asperity.

  “I believe it was you who said ignorance of the law is no excuse,” Iain reminded him with a low laugh.

  Father Brennan hesitated. “You must know she is English. Are you sure you want her?”

  The lady gasped. Iain started to demanded explanation for the slur, but forestalled at something unknown in the priest’s demeanor and replied in an unruffled tone, “If I did not want her, I would not have taken her.”

  Relief flickered in Father Brennan’s eyes, but his voice remained insistent. “This is wrong. She did not know it was unsafe to step from holy ground.”

  “Unsafe?” Iain echoed.

  Father Brennan’s expression darkened. “You heard what I said, Iain MacPherson, unsafe.”

  “Is she entering the convent?” Father Brennan’s frown deepened, and Iain added, “It is, no doubt, a grievous sin to lie about such matters.”

  “By the saints. Nay, you scoundrel, she has no such intentions.”

  “Why is she here?”

  “Sweet Jesu,” the lady cursed. “What concern is that of yours?”

  Iain shifted his gaze to her. Fury ruled her gaze, but it was the challenge in the lift of her chin that gripped his heart. “Where is your husband, lass?”

  Silence hung thick in the air and every nerve stood ready for the answer he dreaded, hadn’t considered, until this moment.

  “In a grave in England,” she answered at last.

  That was unexpected and Iain wasn’t sure whether to praise God she was free, or feel compassion she had lost a loved one. Guilt surfaced with the realization that he gladly chose the former. He wheeled his horse around.

  “Nay!” She kicked the stallion’s belly.

  The beast reared. Iain yanked back on the reins, but she kicked again. The stallion reared a second time. Iain seized the pommel, but felt their bodies slipping from the saddle. He rolled, hugging her close so that she landed on top of him as they crashed to the moist ground. She shoved away from him. He held tight, laughing in spite of the dull pain in his shoulder when she growled. She jabbed an elbow into his ribs. Pain lanced through his gut. His grip faltered and she broke free. The closest of the warriors shot after her and was upon her in a few short strides and grabbed her.

  Iain leapt to his feet and lunged after her. “Release her!”

  The man dropped her. She jumped up, tripped on her skirts, and barely scrambled up again as Iain brought her down like a wild animal.

  He flipped her over and straddled her. “I should have let you break my fall.”

  She grabbed his shoulders and dug nails into the hard muscle. Iain seized her wrists and shoved them above her head. He slid his body along hers until he covered her length and his face was an inch from her mouth. She continued to struggle.

  His groin thickened. “At least you might have been knocked senseless long enough for me to get you to my bed and shackle you there.”

  She stilled, eyes wide. Regret stabbed at him. He had enjoyed the thrust of her slim hips against him.

  The lower edge of Father Brennan’s scapula came into view beside them. “Let her up, Iain.”

  Iain shook his head. “Nay. I am enjoying this more than anything else this morning.”

  A round of approving grunts and laughter went up from his men. As an afterthought, Iain lowered his mouth on hers. She stiffened, but the scent of rose water mingling with the heather crushed beneath her assailed his senses and he breathed in the arousing scents. Shifting, he found the curves of her body held the expected promise. He couldn’t help a glance in the direction of the forest where privacy lay but a moment away.

  “MacPherson,” the priest growled.

  Iain jerked his gaze back onto her. Fear tinged her expression. A twinge of guilt gave way to the desire to kiss away the small tremor on her lower lip.

  “Iain.”

  “Aye.” He rose, pulling her to her feet.

  She bolted, but he yanked her to his side.

  “Please.” She worked to pry his hands from her arm as he led her in the direction of his horse.

  The desperation in her voice halted Iain’s march.

  Father Brennan gave her a fatherly pat on the arm. “All will be well, lass.”

  She scowled. “What an absurd statement.”

  Iain laughed and received a kick to the shin for the offense.

  “I am to blame, child.” Father Brennan sighed. “I did not warn you to remain on holy ground when we had visitors.”

  Iain angled his head in acknowledgement, then faced her. His brief inspection earlier suggested her long skirts hid feminine curves and shapely legs. Yet, her carriage had intrigued him above all. A woman of intellect and gentle breeding, she would suit him well. To his surprise, she had spared but a cursory glance in his direction before turning back to her book.

  He touched the spot where cheekbone met eyes. “As blue as the waters of Loch Ericht.”

  Startled understanding appeared in the blue depths and satisfaction rippled through Iain. Luck was with him today, luck and his captain’s suggestion that he visit Montrose Abbey to investigate rumors of trouble with the Menzies.

&nb
sp; Her eyes narrowed. She shoved his hand away and faced Father Brennan. “You are saying that because I took one step too many in the wrong direction this . . . this man can take me and I have nothing to say about it?”

  “Well, ’twas more than one,” Father Brennan corrected.

  She gave an unladylike snort.

  “Lass,” Iain cut in. “I am Iain MacPherson, leader of my clan. I will provide you a fine home and swear by God to keep you safe.”

  Her severe expression turned with deliberation on him. “King are you—”

  “Clan chief,” he corrected. “A difference King James is sure to appreciate.”

  She raised a scornful brow. “That gives you the right to take me prisoner?”

  “Nay, my lass.” Iain yanked her to his chest. “The fact I am a man gives me that right.”

  Determined fury darkened her eyes. He tangled a hand in the soft tresses behind her neck and pulled her mouth to his. She shoved at his chest. Iain tasted her with slow consideration, not forcing the tightly clamped lips apart, despite the compelling desire to thrust his tongue inside. The length of him hardened to near pain and his heart pounded at breakneck speed, but he ended the kiss. She twisted in an effort to free herself, yet Iain didn’t miss the tremble in her body.

  “Nathan, fetch my horse.”

  The young warrior broke from the band and, a moment later, brought the horse up alongside, with Iain’s sword strapped to its side.

  “Hold fast the reins.”

  Nathan complied and Iain lifted her. She braced her hands against the horse’s ribs, but he hoisted her into the saddle.

  “You will keep her?” Father Brennan crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Aye.” Iain kept an arm around her waist as she tried to slide down the opposite side.

  The priest nodded. “Since you take advantage of her stepping from holy ground, you will abide by the law and wait until she consents.”