by Barbara Bard
Seated across from each other and occasionally stealing a glance through the flames were Isla and Finlay, half-drunk on several mugs of wine and surrounded by their respective sexes as they went about masquerading that they weren’t thinking of the other.
The tug began in Finlay’s loins, making him more anxious as time went by and the striking eyes of Isla taunted him like a jester. Damn it, he scolded himself. Do not let this woman get the better of ye.
Isla, struggling to stave off the feelings rising in the pit of her stomach, felt herself fighting against the liquor coursing through her body as the indefinable magnetism that drew her to rugged Highlander across from her grew more intense by the second. Stop, she told herself. He is just a man. He is not special. Ye are being a child, infatuated by nothing more than feelings meant for juveniles.
But both of them knew that their words were now fruitless. Whatever was going to happen between them was going to happen soon—all it would take would be for one of them to make the first move.
It was inevitable.
Denholm, well past the point of drunk, with a bellyful of ale, stumbled over his feet and hooked his arm around Finlay. “Finlay Baird!” he greeted with a belch, the liquor on his breath hitting Finlay like a hot wave in his face. “It is a privilege and an honor tae have ye in our company.” Denholm then thrust a freshly poured mug of ale into Finlay’s hand, Finlay shaking his head and knowing he was well past his cut off point.
“It is a pleasure tae be in yer company, Denholm,” Finlay replied, placing the mug to the side as he caught yet another sidewise glance from Isla across the fire.
Denholm belted out another laugh and half-smothered, half-embraced Finlay. “Please!” he said. “Ye must regale us with tales of yer plight!”
Isla began to stand, shaking off the women giggling next to her as she moved toward her tent and made it a point to make eye contact with Finlay. My God, she thought, drawing a deep breath and feeling that proverbial fluttering in her chest return. What am I doing?
Finlay saw the glimmer in Isla’s eye, the beckoning, the fire that was now burning bright inside of her and calling for him to help kindle it. My God, he thought. What am I doing?
Finlay stood as Denholm continued on with whatever anecdote he was entertaining the fellow men of the clan with and slipped away, no one taking notice as he followed after Isla but made sure to keep a conservative distance. Both of them moved away from the campfire, far enough away that the jovial festivities and camaraderie was but a faint murmur.
Just outside of the opening to her tent, Isla stopped, debating and fighting internally one last time to call herself away from a situation she knew she had already made a conscious decision to enter. Finlay, no more than a few feet behind her, waited for Isla to give him some kind of sign, some kind of gesture to allow him to take her into his arms and please every inch of her body.
Isla turned her head toward him, slowly, looking at Finlay with a pair of eyes saturated with lust and yearning and passion. She then entered her temporary dwelling; slowly removed the shawl draped over her shoulders and hugged herself to stay warm until Finlay could assist.
Finlay followed in a few moments later with a cautious pacing in his steps, his head hung low and remembering the lessons taught to him by the wise women in his life to allow them to give the necessary permission. Isla turned and faced him, both of them a few feet apart and drawing anticipatory breaths as the low rumble of the gathering near the campfire filled the air around them. And then—Isla laughed.
Finlay felt his heart drop into his stomach. “I apologize, me Lady,” he said solemnly. “I have offended ye?”
She stepped toward him, her skin feeling hot and tender to even her own touch. “This is madness,” she replied, shaking her head repeatedly. “I do nae know ye, yet I cannae help fae feeling this way…”
He stepped toward her. “Ye keep saying these things like it will stop what we both know is going tae happen.”
“And what does that look like?” she teased.
They were toe-to-toe, their chests huffing and puffing and filling the air with a tension that both knew could only be relieved one way. Finlay, creeping his hand slowly toward her arm, stroked her skin gently with two fingers and sending a shiver up Isla’s spine. “Ye are cold,” he said. “The night air causes ye tae tremble.”
Isla nodded, her lips parting and a sweet aroma wafted from her open mouth in Finlay’s direction. “Then warm me,” she pleaded, her body feeling like melted butter, her normally defensive state lowered as she half-collapsed into Finlay’s arms and felt his lips make contact with hers.
The world spun for both of them, their hearts beating in rapid sync as their bodies entwined in an embrace and Isla moaned from the sheer bliss of giving into her primal instincts. Their lips dance, slick yet firm as they explored each other’s mouths and felt themselves lost in the revelry of it all. Finlay kept a strong yet gentle grip on her arms, Isla hooking hers around his neck and running her fingers through his hair as her knees started to go weak.
She leaned back and pulled Finlay to the floor, Finlay’s massive and sinewy body now straddling hers as he kept a hand beneath the small of her back for support. As soon as they were lying on a small pile of furs near the base of her cot, Finlay let his hand move in an aquiline motion downward toward her hips, exploring the curves as they formed into her firm yet soft buttocks. Once his hand found a firm grip, Isla wrapped her legs around Finlay’s waist and began pulling at her clothes like they were on fire. “Off,” she pleaded, “all of them. Take them off.”
Finlay obliged, removing Isla’s clothing in a flash and burying his face into her bosom, the sweet and tender quality of her skin like a warm blanket marinated by the finest and sweetest spices as he kissed her from her neckline down to her bare chest, each kiss planted on her sending a shockwave through her body that cause her to tremble in the most pleasant of ways. For a moment, Isla thought her heart had exploded, and the sheer moaning that she cried out echoed through the tent and drove Finlay to the brink of madness. She ripped at his tunic and fumbled to remove the garments attached to him from the waist down, searching for his manhood and gripping onto the stiffness with a tight grip that send a shudder through his body.
Neither of them could wait any longer as they tore off the last strands of their clothing and entwined their naked bodies around each other, Finlay pinning Isla’s arms above her head as they broke their passionate kissing and stared deep into the vibrant hues of each other’s eyes. They waited a brief moment, enjoying one another, living in the wonderful respite of the moment for as long as humanly possible.
“I cannae wait any longer,” Isla said, feeling as if the aching between her legs would cause her death if she did not satisfy herself. “Please,” she moaned. “Please.”
Finlay, gentle but firm, placed himself inside of Isla and saw her eyes light up as a wonderfully euphoria overcame every inch of their bodies. They thrust in unison, both of them grinding and feeling a delectation that was almost indescribable as the soft furs underneath them tickled at their bare flesh.
After a few moments of gyrating in unison, Isla pushed Finlay playfully off of her and mounted him, now pinning his arms above his head as she ground away on his waist and saw his eyes flutter from the pleasure. The rhythm of their lovemaking increased, both of them feeling like time itself was slipping away as they breathed harder and faster with each moment that past. Isla cried out her approval, feeling that rising sensation emitting from between her legs and filling her body before both of them, in unison, felt their bodies release a wave of sensations that forced them to collapse onto each other and pant heavily from the amount of exertion.
Still on top of Finlay, Isla rested her forehead, gently peppered with perspiration, against his and stared him deep in the eyes. It felt like an eternity for the both of them as they slowed their breathing and held onto the moment for as long as humanly possible.
He smiled. She smiled.<
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“Kiss me,” she said. “Kiss me one more time.”
Caressing her flushed skin with his hand, and appreciating every inch of the beauty before him, Finlay lifted his head, pressed his lips to hers, and kissed her with a gentle but nonetheless potent fury that Isla would never forget in a million lifetimes.
Chapter 9
Lord Henry felt the throbbing in his head approaching an untenable stage. His excess indulgence of wine over the course of several hours had made his already agitated state more exacerbated than normal, and as he rubbed his temples and licked his dry cracked lips from the stress, he rolled his eyes with disdain as his man Gregor entered the room and said: “My Lord—word has arrived from your father.”
Hunched over his polished table positioned in his overly elaborate tent, Henry replied, “Tell me that the old man has finally departed from his mortal coil.”
Gregor hung his head. “Quite the contrary, my Lord. Word has been sent down that your father will be arriving in these lands in two day’s time.”
Henry felt the pounding in his skull quickly subsiding as Gregor’s words hit him hard than a blow from a broadsword. “I pray,” he said, standing from the desk and looking at Gregor with nothing shy of scorn, “that this is you attempting to employ a sense of humor.”
“The words I speak are true, my Lord. The Earl has learned of your…” Gregor held his tongue, scared out his wits to use the world “failure” in front of a man who had been labeled as such the entire span of his existence, “delay in securing the land you were sent to hold dominion over.”
Henry approached Gregor, his pink skin somewhat glistening with a sickly layer of perspiration as he showcased his yellowed teeth in a sardonic smile. “My father lacks the knowledge that men like myself possess. He does not possess the understanding of how cumbersome it is to occupy and rule such ghastly and barbaric lands filled to the gills with peasants and savages.”
“Nonetheless, my Lord, he has sent his messenger to personally deliver his bidding from the homeland.”
Lord Henry diverted his attention to the opening of his tent, his face now slack with fear that only his father could instill. “He…he is here? Now?”
A nod. “Yes, my Lord. He awaits your company as we speak.”
Henry dabbed at the sweat on his brow with the back of his hand, smoothed his ruffled and thinning hair and puffed his scrawny chest as far out as he could, somewhat exaggerating his posture in a manner that would have had Gregor laughing if he did not possess the reserve that he had.
Outside of Lord Henry’s regal and sprawling tent, a young man, dressed in the finest silks and tunics that royalty could afford, stood at attention next to his mare and gave the subtlest of bows to Henry as he emerged from his tent. “My Lord,” he said. “I come with tidings from Earl Simon of—”
Henry held up his palm. “Spare me the formalities. The wine I’ve consumed will have none of it. So, please, what messages do you bring from my father?”
The messenger tilted his head—So be it. “Your father,” he said, “the Earl has sent me to bid you the following…” The messenger pulled a piece of rolled up parchment from his leather satchel, unfurled it, and began to read the words with a studious inflection. “My dear Henry, it has come to my attention that you have not secured the area designated by the King for our campaign through the Highlands. While certain delays are to be expected, the amount of time that you have taken in properly taking reign over the land has resulted in countless expenditures of our resources and wealth. Alas, your most recent requests of reinforcements, and the rather surreptitious nature surrounding the untimely death of several of your men, do not bode well of your current situation. That being said, I have taken it upon myself to ride to your encampment to further discuss these issues with you in person.” The messenger then rolled up the parchment, placed it back in his satchel, and stood back at attention.
Lord Henry, flashing the wriest of smiles with a slight roll of his eyes to accompany it, said: “Is that all?”
A nod from the messenger. “Yes, my Lord. That is the message from the Earl in its entirety.”
Henry placed a hand on Gregor’s shoulder. “Do you see what I am saying, my good friend? The Earl, a man who has never stepped foot outside the castle walls in well over ten years, has deemed it fit to tell me, a man of action, of what course to take in the pursuit of the expansion of the kingdom.” He looked at the messenger. “Tell me father that we will have all the necessary arrangements ready for his arrival.”
“Understood, my Lord. The Earl will be arriving in less than two day’s time.” With that, the messenger mounted his horse, bucked, and tore off toward the west in the direction of Earl Simon’s encampment. Lord Henry watched as the messenger rode away, his forced smile melting into a frown as he clutched onto Gregor’s shoulder and squeezed. “Get me my steed.”
Gregor arched an eyebrow. “My Lord?”
Henry’s eyes became glossed over with a lethal glint. “My horse, damn you. Now.”
The messenger was two hundred yards away from Lord Henry’s camp, somewhat relaxed and enjoying the few hours he would have to himself on his journey back to Earl Simon’s temporary outpost. The sun was shining overhead, piercing through the thick billowy clouds that seemed to expand more as time passed by. After a few moments, the messenger could make out the sounds of what appeared to be another approaching rider on horseback behind him. Slowing his steed, the messenger turned and squinted, a hand above his brow to block out the sun as he tried to make out the incoming rider.
“Hello!” he shouted. “Who goes there?”
The rider continued to advance, intention in every beat of his steed’s hooves as he perched forward on the saddle. The messenger slowly lingered his hand near the grip of his sword, shaking and worried that he would have to draw the weapon that he had never drawn out before. “Oye!” he shouted out to the incoming rider, now only a few yards away. “I say again: who goes there!”
Preparing to draw his broadsword, the messenger drew a deep breath, said a prayer—and then felt a rush of relief overcome him when he spotted that it was none other than Lord Henry himself.
Lord Henry came to a halt a few feet shy of the messenger, a smile on his face and a pensive look in his eyes.
“My Lord,” the messenger said. “You gave me a fright.”
Lord Henry held his hand flat against his chest. “My sincerest apologies. You left before I could bid my own tidings for you to deliver to my father.”
The messenger stood up straight and prepared to log away the message from Lord Henry so he could recite it by to the Earl. “You have my full attention, my Lord.”
A subtle nod from Lord Henry. “Good,” he replied. “Then tell him this—”
In a flash that the messenger did not even have the time to process, Lord Henry withdrew his sword, raised it in a downward arc, and sliced the messenger from chest to stomach. The messenger, eyes wide and completely perplexed as to what was happening, saw his tunic stained the color of ruby as his energy left him and he slid off the saddle in a dead, bloodied heap.
Lord Henry, wiping his sword clean of all remnants, did not bother to acknowledge his man Gregor as he approached in a hot and heavy hurry on his horse from a few yards away. “My Lord!” Gregor called out. “You rode too fast! Are you—?” Gregor felt the words escape him as he laid eyes on the dead messenger bleeding out in the grass. “My God,” he said. “My Lord, what have you—?”
Lord Henry pointed the tip of his blade in Gregor’s direction. “If you are in the midst of offering up a criticism, my dear Gregor, you would be best suited to keep said criticisms to yourself.”
Gregor shut his mouth and stared on in horror at the corpse. He had been in the service of Lord Henry for quite some time and was well accustomed to the man’s lust for blood and the carnal elements of life. He was brash, foolish sometimes, perhaps. But the more time that past, the further he witnessed his Lord burrowing himself into the
highlands had brought forth an irrational state of mind and sequence of events that was starting to disturb Gregor on a daily basis. Gregor knew well of his Lord’s lust for the woman, Isla, and the unquenchable appetite he had for her was starting to lead him down a road he feared they both would not return from.
Gregor swallowed his fear and nodded to the corpse of the messenger. “The Earl will be looking for him if he does not return soon.”
Lord Henry shrugged. “We shall tell the Earl that the highlander we were pursuing was responsible. Order two of the men two ride to his encampment to tell him the news. After that, I want you to order a scout to set about finding the encampment of my dear Isla. Understood?”