Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders)

by K. E. Saxon

  Morgana wanted to meet David, now that she knew of him. The cogs in her mind began to turn, but every thought scattered when she felt her husband’s warm lips and teeth nip and suck the tender skin just under her ear.

  “I’ve questioned my clansmen,” he said against her earlobe, then took it between his teeth and tugged. A tremor of pure desire traveled through her. Its destination: Her eager portal. “None saw this creature you described.” He ran the tips of his fingers along the bare skin just beneath the neckline of her chemise. Her nipples puckered and she tried to turn onto her back. He wouldn’t allow it.

  “God, I wish I could fuck you right now.”

  Her heart tripped. Eyes wide, and brows lifted in question, she turned her head and looked into his heated gaze. Would he think her base? Vile? She had to know, had to take that chance, for she wanted him inside her just as badly as he claimed a desire to be there.

  With a pounding pulse that worked in both anticipation and fear, she loosened and lowered the neckline of her chemise and gown, pushing it down until she was giving him a full view of her breasts. When his eyes heated and his breath came more rapidly, and he said naught to stop her, she lifted her skirts, unlaced the undergarment beneath and draped her leg back o’er his own, opening her thighs to him.

  Her husband’s nostrils flared, the steel-gray of his eyes disappeared as the black centers opened wide. She didn’t even blink as she reached around and lifted his tunic, then ripped at the linen that covered his loins. When his erection sprang free, she stroked it, bringing up a bit of seed as she did so.

  Would he say her nay? Would he leave her wanting? She would pleasure him thus, or with her mouth, if he so desired. But she craved the release he could give her as well, with only a few deep strokes into her with this, his lovely, long, hard-muscled appendage.

  If only he would.

  He swooped and she gasped in surprise before he took her mouth in a hot, carnal, devouring kiss. In the next instant, she was on her back and her calves were o’er his shoulders. He pressed forward then, his arms straight as he balanced on his palms and pushed into her. He’d ne’er taken her like this before, and the point of entry stung a bit, but the feeling of being filled by him was instantly gratifying.

  * * *

  “Another first,” Robert mumbled. He didn’t realize he’d said the words aloud until Morgana nodded. Then her eyelids fluttered shut and she arched her back. When he saw the rose blush begin to move o’er her chest and neck, to flush her cheeks, he changed the meter of his plunging; began to move with shallow strokes instead. He didn’t want her to come yet; he enjoyed keeping her right there with him, on the edge. Enjoyed watching those lush breasts bounce in time to his rhythm.

  His eyes scanned down to her pale pink, tightly wound nipples and his mouth watered. God, he’d love to suck on them awhile, but he knew she’d climax then, so he waited. Later. He’d savor them later, mayhap after they’d enjoyed each other.

  Enjoy each other. Was that not what the ladies called it? Mayhap, he should use that phrase with Morgana.

  Did his coarse speech offend her? He’d ne’er really thought about it until now.

  He did a slow glide almost completely out of her and then sank inside her again, up to the hilt. It caused her breasts to grow rosier still, the nipples taunting him further to take a taste. He dipped his head to do just that, but halted at the last moment, his lips hovering o’er that tantalizing crest. Nay, he’d wait. He forced his head up. ‘Twould be a first, as well—enjoying a lady’s breasts after the climax. He’d ne’er tried that. But the thought excited him.

  Could he make her come again that way?

  God, but her scut was slippery. He raised up a bit further and beheld the place where they were joined. Beautiful. It reminded him of their first time together, of the virgin’s blood. He’d ne’er thought anything of fucking a lady, even during this—what did they call it? Ah, yes—flowering time. But he’d ne’er before met any—even Vika—who’d allowed him to try it with them. Until Morgana. ‘Twas what he’d meant before by ‘another first’, tho’ she’d no doubt believed him to mean their current position.

  She was so free with her gifts to him, with her body. What e’er he wanted, she enthusiastically gave.

  And she wanted his babes! He still felt stunned, and honored that she’d wanted his bairn so badly she’d wept when his seed hadn’t taken root. No one—no one—e’er had liked him so well.

  A wave of absolute joy—different than the ecstasy of release—filled his being, warmed his chest. What the hell was this feeling he kept experiencing when he was with her—or just thought about her? The question evaporated when she grasped hold of his buttocks and undulated her hips, forcing him to move faster and deeper into her. He threw his head back. “Aaaahhhhh!”

  And lost control.

  No more thought, only the ardent, strident, assiduous pursuit of visceral delight.

  * * *

  Morgana’s whole frame began to quake. He’d kept her on the precipice for so long! And now she was near to touching heaven. It felt so good, so goooood. Please, please—oh, God! He pounded into her even faster and she tossed her head from side to side. Finally, finally, her canal began to convulse. She saw the sparks and colored lights behind her eyes, felt her body grow rigid with the unmitigated pleasure of being taken so fully, so voraciously, by the man she adored. Her eyes flew open for a split second. “Robert!” she cried. And then darkness.

  * * *

  Robert folded Morgana’s limp legs o’er the backs of his own as he collapsed on top of her. Sweat dripped from his brow onto her chest before he could wipe it away and his breathing was so ragged it echoed in the chamber. Still locked snugly inside her warm womb, he rested his forehead on the pillow to the right of her ear, just managing somehow to remain up on his elbows, so as not to completely crush her. His mind spun like a top, his ears rang, but still he managed a grin.

  He’d finally made her swoon first.

  His eyes went wide. She’d called out his name! He lifted his head. ‘Twas an effort, but he managed to raise up a bit more and study her slumbering visage. She’d spoken her first word in God knew how long, and it had been his name. Something important, something profound, settled into place inside him, somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. He trembled as he gazed at her, studied her, memorized every lovely curve, every gentle line of her countenance.

  Then he kissed her lips. Softly and reverently. I love you, Morgana. The words, which expressed that unknown feeling, took him by surprise as they flitted across his consciousness and took up permanent residence in the center of his chest.

  * * *

  When Morgana woke, the sun had already begun to lower in the sky, as evidenced by the receding line of sunlight across the dim bedchamber’s wooden floor. She looked around, for Robert, but he was not about. The chamber was silent, except for the slight hiss and crackle of the hearthfire.

  She yawned and her body moved into a long, satisfying stretch. The edge of the blanket dipped below her nipples and she realized she was no longer in her gown and chemise. Curious.

  With a flip of her hand, she tossed the blanket aside and sat up. Her eyes scanned her body and the bed covering for vestiges of the mess the two of them had made earlier. Naught. She was bathed clean and—dear Lord!—she had a new wrapping on her lower half as well. ‘Twas not possible, surely! Aye, she did sleep soundly, she knew, for the nuns had chided her often enough as she grew, when they could not wake her for matins, but this? Nay, surely not. ‘Twas too mad. She giggled. Aye, but he had made her swoon first, and that no doubt sent her into an even deeper slumber than was her habit.

  She nibbled on her bottom lip. Robert? Had Robert, her Robert, ministered to her as she slept? She shook her head. Nay, ‘twas more likely he’d asked one of the young chamber maids to do the deed. Her cheeks grew hot at the thought. But then, after another moment of horror, she sighed and shrugged. ‘Twas much too late now to waste time cringing
about.

  She got to her feet and dressed in one of her prettier gowns. ‘Twas the pale blue one with the snug-fitting bodice and waist; the one that had caused a warm light to shine in her husband’s eyes, a small smile to curve his lips, the last time she’d worn it.

  * * *

  “She’s written the tale out. Her husband’s been bandying the pages about in his effort to find me.”

  A gust of wind blew at the hem of the other man’s long, dark tunic. The material made a whipping sound as it tossed to and fro. “Have you read it? Does she mention the ambush?”

  “Nay, I’ve not read it.” The man turned the woolen cap in his beefy, calloused hand. “But naught has been said about the ambush, nor all that happened afterward, either, so ‘twas likely not revealed in her script.”

  “Good, good.” After a pause, the other man said, “And no one suspects you of the deed the other night? Even tho’ you’ve only been amongst the apprenticed masons for less than a sennight?”

  The man shrugged and shook his head again. “It seems so. Not a query have I gotten in regard to it, at least not as yet.”

  The other man nodded, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “I’ll meet you here again in two days’ time. I’ll give you further instruction then. For now, keep on as you have been; gathering as much information as you are able about the lady and her memory of that time.”

  The two men parted then: One moving back in the direction of the fortress, the other turning toward the hermit’s cot he’d discovered upon his arrival.

  * * *

  Modron took one more quick look o’er her shoulder before slipping out the door of the keep.

  ‘Twas past the chimes of midnight, and all but the night guards on the curtain wall were well abed. The air was crisp and calm, filled with the dust of ground stone, dank with the scent of still-wet mortar. Her son-in-law had done well in his bid to repair and furbish his much-ignored fortress these past moons.

  It had taken Vika near to two moons to reply to Morgana’s query regarding her past, but the letter had arrived this morn, and since that time, all had been in flux. For Vika, it seemed, had decided upon a visit.

  Since their arrival at this holding, Modron had allowed some of her disguise to fall away. She’d slowly stopped applying as much of the pale gray ash to her face and golden brown hair, discontinued the slower, slightly stooped gate she’d employed during her few sennights at William’s court.

  But now, she feared, she’d be forced to resume the guise. And that worried her. For Morgana had noticed and commented upon her changed demeanor, but had accepted Modron’s explanation that the rustic air away from the bustling court had been the reason; it had been a balm to her aching bones and vitalized her weary flesh.

  As she’d done each eve since arriving o’er three moons past, Modron nodded to the guard and escaped the walled fortress through the postern gate.

  The nights had become warm enough to enjoy the cool bath by moonlight in the clear water of the burn she’d discovered that first day. ‘Twas hidden in a dense crop of pine, oak and spruce not far inside the wood. The place she liked to bathe had been dammed by the trunks and branches of fallen trees, so there was a deep pool in which she could immerse her tired and sore body, cleanse it for a few hours of the smothering ash.

  At its edge, she quickly doffed her gown and chemise and then inserted the torch into the natural nook she’d made between three large stones. Afterward, as she always did, she walked directly into the depths until she was chin-deep in the still-frigid water. And, just as always, within a few minutes, her body stopped quaking and she began to glide and swim.

  ‘Twas not long before her mind turned to her daughter once more. Only three days past, she’d discovered that Morgana was with child. The news had both pleased and stunned her. Even now, she was having a bit of trouble imagining herself as a grandmother.

  Yes, she was of an age to be one, as she was just past her thirty-second summer, but still it seemed too soon, somehow. For, so much of the life she’d been promised—had expected to have—had been stripped from her while she was prisoned away in Brittany these past thirteen years. And now, she wanted to live again; enjoy life, enjoy her newly gained freedom.

  Modron twisted and dove under the water. After several strokes, she reemerged, sweeping her hair back off her forehead with the palms of her hands as she lifted her face to the silvery moonbeams that gleamed above her.

  Still, her mind would not settle, and her thoughts crowded in once more. But, she must make sure she, and most importantly, her daughter, were free from harm first. Recalling the bloodied, striped flesh of her daughter’s back Modron had tended in those days after Morgana’s prisonment by Donnach and the vicious priest—another of Donnach’s minions, she had little doubt, tho’ she’d not gotten a view of the man—and recalling as well her own anguished impotence at not being able to contravene, Modron was e’er more certain that Donnach would not rest until he’d destroyed Morgana as well. With a shiver, she sent a small prayer heavenward for both guidance and assistance in gaining the protection and the justice she craved for them both. And, aye, she knew that her being here in Alba, and this close to Morgana, would instantly bring danger, if ‘twere discovered. Yet neither of their lives were safe as long as the savage devils remained untried and free. She was not meant to survive the attack, this she’d come to ken not long into her captivity.

  She dove again, and paddled hard, yet the anger and unease remained.

  Nay, her captor had gone against orders, had wanted her too feverishly, to destroy her that day.

  But after her escape…. Aye, ‘twas why she’d disguised herself, created a new identity, gotten herself inside William’s court. It had not been easy, but her experiences there when she was a young wife and mother had aided her in her device; had allowed her to remain unnoticed as she sneaked about and maneuvered her way into her daughter’s chamber and life.

  And then, when she’d learned that her husband’s brother, Donnach, the unsuspected man behind her husband’s murder, behind her and her daughter’s abductions, was successful in forcing a marriage on her little lass, Modron had made sure that Robert allowed her to travel here with them. If Donnach had further villainous intentions toward her family, as she suspected he did, then she was determined to stop it this time.

  Rolling to her back, she glided through the moon-kissed ripples, allowing the silken-soft, cool bath to soothe her abused skin, her tightly drawn muscles.

  After a long moment, a sigh escaped. Aye, she’d wavered many times o’er the past moons between revealing her ruse (or at least warning Robert about her worry) and keeping silent, especially after Morgana’s strange vision the night of the Bealltainn fire and feast. But, when no real danger was found, she decided it best to keep silent. ‘Twas clear from Morgana’s inability to speak, and from that vision as well, that she was in no state for another blow. Besides, Robert, being a man, was better made for hand-to-hand battle with a known enemy, and this required a woman’s facility for cunning and stealth, if the traitors were e’er to be rooted out.

  “You’re still as lovely as ever, my dear Gwynlyan.”

  Modron gasped and took in a mouthful of water. Swiftly, she whipped into an upright position and crouched up to her chin in the burn. Coughing as she crossed her arms o’er her chest, she turned in the direction of the voice, and froze, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief, her jaw slack.

  He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Aye, ‘tis I, your husband.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came forth. Morgunn. He’d survived somehow. Praise be. “How?” she managed to ask at last.

  Morgunn glanced down at the folded garments near his foot. After lifting them in his hand and thrusting them out toward her, he said, “Clothe yourself first, then I shall tell you.”

  She nodded and waded a step toward the bank, but then halted. “Place the garments on yon bolder and turn your back to me while I dress.”

/>   The smile did reach his eyes then. “Surely ‘tis not shyness you are feeling—not with all that we were, all that we shared.”

  Modron bit her lip. Aye, ‘twas shyness. After all, it had been nearly fourteen years since he’d last seen her in the bare; much had changed—settled—since that time. And...there were the scars now, as well. “Please. Turn around.”

  The smile left Morgunn’s face, but he did as she’d asked.

  She darted out of the water and, as quickly as she was able with wet skin, tossed first her chemise and then her gown o’er her head and tugged the resistant hems down o’er her dripping, chilled frame. While she tied her knotted, damp hair with a leather thong, she turned back to the man she’d wed with so much hope in her heart twenty years prior. “All right. I’m ready to hear your tale.”

  He swiveled to face her then. Crossing his arms over his chest, he said, “After my brother’s accomplices left with you and our daughter—”

  “So you do know of Donnach’s treachery.”

  His jaw clenched. “Aye,” he ground out, “and he’ll pay. This I vow.”

  She gave a quick, decisive nod of agreement, then prompted him on with his tale, saying, “After...?”

  “Aye, after the fiends left with you, your cousins, Giric and Alaxandar, the men I’d sent to arrange the next delivery of copper and who were to join us on our journey that day, fished me out of the water and brought me to a nearby kinswoman’s cot. They’d come upon the grisly results of the ambush just as the convoy was leaving—and just as the conspirators tossed my limp, bloody carcass in the loch. The dear woman worked a miracle somehow, for I survived the bastards’ swords—and the near-drowning as well.”

  Modron could not take her gaze from the man before her. In so many ways, ‘twas as if no time had passed. And yet. He was older, as was she. Where before, his hair had been long and straight, black—so black, the sun’s rays could make it seem streaked with deep blue—and he’d always had it tied with a thong, now ‘twas cut short, in the way of the Normans, and there was just a touch of gray at the temples.