Taming His Rebel Lady

by Jane Godman

  He held her close until she stopped quivering, his lips finding her ear as he cupped her sex possessively. “Remember what I said, Iona. Every time I sense rebellion in you, this is how I will tame you. That is a promise I will keep.”

  Still slumped in his arms, she nodded. Her lips found the pulse at the base of his throat, and her hand slid back to trace the outline of his cock. Edwin lifted her into his arms and walked with her to the foot of the back staircase. This was the way the servants accessed the upper floors of the Tower House. Since all of the staff were occupied in the great hall, it allowed Iona and Edwin to make their way to their bedchamber without encountering anyone else. By the time Edwin slammed the door behind him and leaned his shoulders against it, they were both flushed and panting.

  Before Edwin could speak, Iona dropped to her knees before him. His eyes widened as he stared down at her. A wicked little smile played about her lips as she loosened his breeches, wrapped a hand around his cock and pumped. He was hot steel encased in silk. Her eyes remained locked on his.

  With a groan that was half mastery, half surrender, he ran his fingers through her hair. Iona licked her lips and stroked again, cupping her other hand under his balls. Improvisation had never been a feature of her first marriage. She decided it was an absolute necessity to introduce it into her second.

  “Taste me, Iona,” he commanded and she understood. This was part of the taming he had described. He had to know she would obey him. Utterly.

  She leaned forward and flicked her tongue over his tip. Deliberately, she caught the salty drop of liquid that glistened there. Looking up at him, she licked her lips again, letting him know that she relished the taste of him.

  “Now suck me.” His voice was a hoarse, needy rasp.

  Iona didn’t hesitate. Her lips circled the rim of his cock then she moved her head forward. Sucking hard, she took as much of his length as she could into her mouth. She repeated the movement, her head bobbing, her teeth lightly scraping his sensitised flesh. From his shuddering groans, she knew her actions were driving Edwin wild with desire.

  Edwin pulled her hair back from her face so that he had a clear view of her lips engulfing his cock. “Take all of me.”

  Iona relaxed her mouth, letting him slide even further inside, feeling him bump the back of her throat. Within seconds, she felt him tense, and he cried out, long and loud. The first hot burst of his release hit the back of her throat, and she swallowed greedily as his climax shuddered on and on.

  Reaching his hands down to grip Iona beneath her armpits, Edwin drew her up until their faces were level. His breathing was still ragged as he pressed a kiss onto her lips.

  “Edwin?” He raised an enquiring brow. “I thought you should know I’m feeling rebellious again. Will ye no take me to bed and tame me once more?”

  With a laugh, Edwin hauled her against him and dragged her across the room until they could tumble together onto the bed.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Blow thy horns for the hunt, my lads, and blow thy horns on high.

  There is a hart in yonder wood, my laird, and i’ faith he will not die.”

  Iona sang the words over her shoulder to Edwin as they rode out into the forest. As always, he trailed just behind her as she spurred Aoidh after the beaters. The hounds had been set loose to follow the scent of a hart, a mature male deer. This elegant animal was the largest prey to be hunted in the forests of the Great Glen, and while it was a gentle and timid beast, it could also be wily. The broad spread of its antlers could easily kill a hound or a man. On this bright morning, there was a crowd in pursuit—the beaters on foot, the hunters in the saddle—all listening for the howling of the hounds or the bellow of the horn. Once the hart was sighted, it would be chased through wood and vale until it was held at bay by the hounds.

  A variety of dogs led the way along the narrow track including swift-footed greyhounds, burly little running hounds, smooth-coated alaunts and huge mastiffs. This was a ritual hunt. The par force de chien. The laird’s demonstration of his power and prowess. It had been, Iona told Edwin, a Lachlan tradition throughout many centuries.

  There had been much discussion behind closed doors about whether the hunt should go ahead in the presence of two of the king’s soldiers. Sir Garwen and Captain Fleetwood showed no immediate signs of departing from Lachlan. On the contrary, they seemed content to remain among the guests and enjoy Fraser’s hospitality. Their ulterior motive was obvious. They were trying to lull the highlanders into a false sense of security. In the end, it was Martha’s calm common sense that prevailed in the matter of the hunt.

  “They are trying to catch us out by finding signs of the highland way of life. They seek those things that are banned such as the wearing of the tartan, speaking in the Gaelic tongue or the playing of the bagpipes. The hunt is a practice known the world over, it is not unique to these glens. Therefore, it should go ahead as planned and the soldiers must be invited to join in the chase as honoured guests.”

  The red coats of Sir Garwen’s and Captain Fleetwood’s uniforms were added, therefore, to the bold hues of the clothing of the hunters. The procession was a vivid splash of colour against the sombre forest shades. Up ahead, the mournful tones of a lone horn sounded, and Fraser reined in, signalling for those behind him to do likewise.

  “Dare I confess that my sympathies lie with the deer?” Edwin said, as he drew alongside Iona.

  She turned her head to study his face, her amber eyes huge and solemn. “Will ye always surprise me, Edwin Roxburgh?”

  “I hope so.” He grinned, enjoying her blush at his reminder of the night just gone. There had been very little sleep, but much exploration and passion involved. Before he could speak again, a second, further distant horn sounded. “Two signals? What is the meaning of that?”

  Iona’s eyes sparkled. “’Tis possible the hounds have found another scent. There are wild boar aplenty in these woods. A boar is the worst and most unpredictable quarry for the hunter. More often than not it will turn on the dogs that find it or ’twill run so hard and long that the hounds can’nae keep up with it. The hunter who would take on the boar must have quick reflexes, calmness and dexterity with a spear. Ye get one shot. Miss and the boar will kill both hunter and horse.”

  Edwin clapped a hand to his head in mock despair. “Don’t tell me. You wish to go after the boar.”

  Iona was already turning her horse’s head in the direction of the second horn. “Can ye doubt it?” The words were called back over her shoulder as she galloped along the narrow track.

  Iona’s superior knowledge of the forest and her death-defying horse-riding skills soon left Edwin trailing further in her wake. Although he did his best to keep the bright pennant of her hair in his view, he lost sight of her increasingly often. Finally, when he had not glimpsed her through the trees for several minutes, he drew his horse to a standstill. There was nothing, no clue as to where she had gone, no sound to mar the still silence. Come to think of it, he had not even heard the distant horn for some time.

  The forest seemed suddenly menacing. Had he been a fanciful man, he might almost have imagined it to be a living beast that had swallowed Iona whole. Had he been the sort of man who allowed such emotions into his heart, he might have begun to feel fearful for her. Might even have entertained mad, heroic notions of dashing to the rescue of his lady. A long-buried memory of a similar notion tried to surface, and he quashed it instantly. Hard and fast. The way he always did. A sensible man, a man not given to foolish notions—the sort of man he had diligently trained himself to become—would turn back and rejoin the main party. Such a man would leave Iona to her own devices and rue the day he had tied himself to a madcap highland lass with more devilry than sense.

  He dug his heels into his horse’s side. The downward path would surely lead him back to the main party. Up into the denser pines, that must be the route Iona had taken. Edwin hesitated. Why hurry either way? What did it matter if he pressed on a little further
? It was a fine morning for a ride into the darker forest reaches. If he continued on Iona’s trail, it demonstrated nothing other than his desire to observe her skill with horse and spear. It was not indicative of any concern for her welfare. His nature was hardened to a point where it did not allow for such chivalrous impulses. Muttering a curse—although whether his annoyance was aimed at himself or Iona he could not be sure—he turned his horse’s head in the direction he guessed his wife had gone.

  As he followed the path it grew narrower, the canopy overhead more dense. The sun appeared to have been swallowed by the dark fronds that stretched over the sky. Tree branches creaked, the sounds of forest life manifested themselves as soft cries and scurries. He sensed eyes upon him as though nervous watchers observed his progress from burrows and bushes. Stalking beasts crouched in the shadows, waiting for him to pass so that they could continue their own hunt. A flurry of movement high above his head startled Edwin and his horse as a bird burst through the thick cover of branches and into the sky beyond. Once or twice, he thought he heard movement behind him—the snapping of a twig under a horse’s hoof, the sound of a body shifting in the saddle—and swung round, expecting to encounter Iona’s laughing countenance. Each time there was no-one there.

  Edwin was not generally given to whimsy, and he was able to smile at the new quirk in his imagination which allowed him to believe he had become the quarry in some sinister chase. He pictured himself telling Iona the story later and experienced another new sensation. This was the desire to confide in someone, even if it was only in order to laugh together at his foolishness.

  “You are a difficult man with whom to catch up, Roxburgh.” Sir Garwen’s voice behind him brought Edwin to a standstill, and he wheeled his horse around. His fears no longer appeared to be groundless.

  “You have strayed far from the hunting party, Sir Garwen.”

  “As have you, my friend. It is a situation most fortuitous for I have something I wish to say to you. It is on a subject I feel you would not care to have discussed in front of others.”

  Edwin felt his heartbeat spike sharply, although he made sure he kept his expression neutral. Ever since Sir Garwen’s arrival at Lachlan, he had been expecting this confrontation. He had heard it said that the Hendry brothers had been more than just alike. They were two halves of the same evil whole. It was too much to hope that Augustus Hendry had not confided in his brother. Sir Garwen might have come to Scotland to capture the Falcon and perhaps avenge his brother’s murder. Given the man’s reputation, it was inevitable that he would use any knowledge he had about Edwin to his advantage at the same time.

  “My brother and I were close,” Sir Garwen said, as though confirming Edwin’s thoughts. He sighed and shook his head regretfully. “Very close. As, of course, were you and he.” He waited, and when Edwin did not answer, a flicker of a smile touched his lips. “He told me of the many interesting experiences you shared.”

  Edwin had told himself he could do this. He really had come to believe he had reached a point in his life where he might be able to bear to have the words he dreaded spoken aloud. Now the moment had come, however, he knew he would give anything to avoid hearing Sir Garwen speak of it. “What do you want from me? Money?”

  “You wound me, Roxburgh. Such mercenary considerations really had not occurred to me. Although I will admit it is nice to know you would be willing to oblige me with monetary assistance, should it ever be necessary.” Edwin had never wanted anything as much as he wanted to wipe that grin from Sir Garwen’s face in that instant. “No, let us just say that my brother’s words have painted a picture of you. As his friend, I feel assured that I may rely on you, as he did, in times of need. I wanted to let you know that I will not hesitate to call on you for help in my current quest.” He fixed Edwin with a meaningful stare. “I will expect your support not your obstruction in the matter of the Falcon.”

  The message was clear. For a moment the temptation to wrap his hands around that blackmailing throat was almost overwhelming. He resisted it. I will not allow another Hendry to poison my life. “You will excuse me, Sir Garwen. My wife rode away from the main party. I must go in search of her.”

  Sir Garwen bowed slightly. “As long as we understand each other. I fully appreciate your impatience to be with Lady Roxburgh.” Sir Garwen turned his horse and took a fork in the track. Reluctant to turn his back on him, Edwin watched until he was out of sight before continuing along his own path.

  Iona was not unduly concerned to realise she no longer had any idea of the direction from which the second horn had sounded. Nor was she worried when she couldn’t hear Edwin pounding persistently behind her. The forest was a dangerous place, that much was true. But she was a child of this land and knew it well. She trusted her own instincts to either find her way back to the hunt or find her way out. With a view to discovering a familiar scene, she continued on the upward track, heading for higher ground and the ridge that ran above the tree line. Although the morning on the loch side had begun bright and crisp, with the bitter promise of a Scots winter pluming vapour into the still air, here in the forest only the hardiest rays pierced the gloom. It was impossible to judge the time of day, but it had more the feel of evening than noon. Silence prevailed, broken only by muffled animal cries, flutterings and shufflings. Forest sounds that were unused to a human audience. Iona shivered, even though the density of the trees offered its own protection from the chill. She rode on for some considerable time, remembering the stories from her childhood of the faerie folk who dwelt in these dark depths casting their spells over unwary travellers. The path was steep, and she was glad to be mounted on sure-footed Aoidh.

  When Aoidh’s nose crested the ridge, Iona sighed with relief. It was all very well to claim to know the forest. Knowing it meant also having the knowledge that it was possible to wander aimlessly within its dark reaches for hours—possibly even days—before finding a way out. Here, on the higher ground, the forest petered out and only a few hardy trees had managed to grow. Tethering Aoidh to one of these, Iona took stock of her surroundings. It was better than she had hoped. This was the south side of the forest ridge. Below her the lake shimmered dark silver. Castle Lachlan was set like a jewel within its surface. If she followed a path directly down from here, even if she did not meet up with the rest of the hunt, she would find her way back to the loch. A sound drew her attention, and she turned her head as another horse and rider appeared. Her heart gave a joyful thud as she anticipated Edwin’s arrival and quickly plummeted when Sir Garwen dismounted and tethered his own horse alongside Aoidh. He could not have come across Iona by accident. She knew he must have followed her, and her heart sank even further.

  “Lady Roxburgh.” Sir Garwen’s tone was courteous, but she did not like the gleam in his eye as he approached her. Away from the castle and the protection of her family and the other guests, she suddenly felt very afraid to be alone with him. Her spear was fastened to her saddle and her dirk was in her saddlebag…but Sir Garwen was between Iona and her horse.

  “My husband is just behind me.” She gestured back toward the path.

  A smile deepened in his eyes. “No, he isn’t. I have just left him. He was headed in the opposite direction. We are quite alone.”

  Iona took a step back. “I should return to the castle. Edwin will be looking for me.”

  He matched her step, his longer stride bringing him within touching distance. “There is no need for haste, my lady. Indeed, you may rest assured I plan to take my time with you.”

  It was a declaration of intent, and in a way, it was a relief. It meant she didn’t have to pretend. Iona tried to whirl away from him. Sir Garwen was too fast for her, however, and he caught her by the wrist, hauling her to him. Uttering an outraged protest, Iona began to struggle in earnest.

  “That’s it.” His breath was hot against her cheek. “I knew you’d be a fighter. Kick and scratch and bite all you will. It makes the inevitable victory all the sweeter.”

&nb
sp; Iona needed no encouragement to avail herself of this invitation. Using every ounce of her strength, she writhed in his grasp, clawing and straining at him to break free. She managed to hook her nails into his cheek and score deep, bloody marks into the flesh. Sir Garwen slapped her hand away and struck her a blow across the face that rocked her head so painfully that her vision blurred. Iona felt her eye begin to swell closed and reality hit her. She was fighting for her life…and she was going to lose. In spite of her efforts, Sir Garwen was forcing her inexorably backward until she was pushed up hard against a tree trunk.

  “Scream if you want to—” His smile hid something dark and evil within it. He held her firmly with his body pressed against hers while one hand began to lift her skirts. “I like screaming. It spurs me on.”

  At that moment an English voice so refined it could have been used to cut diamonds reached Iona’s ears. It was so incongruous, she at first thought the blow to her head must have caused her to hallucinate.

  “I do find the courting techniques employed by the king’s men these days to be most frightfully oafish, do not you?”

  The upper-class tones—much more suited to a London ballroom than a Scots hillside—had the effect of shocking Sir Garwen into loosening his grip on Iona. She tore herself free of him and, panting for breath, followed the direction of his gaze. There were two men on horseback blocking the path. The top halves of their faces were covered by masks, and they carried pistols. Although they both wore thick mufflers about their necks, the man who spoke had pulled his down so that his mouth was visible. The other man kept his firmly in place so that the lower part of his face was completely covered. A tiny shred of hope insinuated its way through Iona’s panic. A sidelong look at Sir Garwen confirmed he shared her belief about the identity of these out-of-place arrivals, if not her newfound optimism about the outcome of the encounter. Unless she was very much mistaken, the man who had spoken must be the Falcon.