Highland Storm

by Ranae Rose

  Alpin gave the hilt of his dagger one last, longing stroke and turned on his heel, muttering something highly uncomplimentary in Gaelic as his kilt fluttered around his knees.

  Isla watched him leave, but her nervousness didn’t decrease. If anything, it worsened. This was it—the moment that would change her life forever. So far, it didn’t seem to be going very well. For the second time, she counted her broken bones a blessing. If not for Alexander’s firm hold around her, she didn’t think she’d be able to carry out the promise she’d made to him on the road.

  Alexander turned towards his shocked audience, clutching Isla tighter than ever, and took several moments to recompose his expression. “Isla,” he said, squeezing the hand he still held in his, “finish our vows.”

  A chorus of shocked gasps filled the room. Even the children had stopped their play to watch the highly unusual proceedings, clutching dolls and wooden blocks as they stared with wide eyes. Isla was just as stunned as they looked. The display of brotherly discord had shaken her down to her very core. The hate in Alpin’s eyes, both for Alexander and herself…

  “How can I?” she gasped. “I never meant to turn your family against ye, Alexander. I—”

  “Ye haven’t,” Alexander insisted, his eyes flashing as they bored into hers. “Say your part.”

  “I dinnae want to see ye harmed!” she pleaded, tears of desperation pricking the backs of her eyes, threatening to spill out. She recalled all too clearly how Alpin had caressed the hilt of his dagger, with murder in his eyes. He’d looked as if he’d wanted to slice through his own brother, just as he had her own dear Hamish. Horror filled her as she remembered doing the same herself, even spilling Alexander’s blood.

  This was all wrong. She didn’t deserve Alexander, and he didn’t deserve the trouble and hate she’d heaped upon him.

  “Isla!” Alexander cupped her cheek with one hand, forcing her to look directly into his eyes.

  His gorgeous, pleading eyes.

  She swallowed one last time, holding his hand in a death-grip, half her mind screaming that what she was about to do was so very wrong, while the other half was ready to do anything he asked. Absolutely anything—and the fact that she desperately, selfishly wanted to say her part sealed her decision.

  “I declare Alexander Gordon my husband.”

  “We are merrit, then,” Alexander said to the room at large, “and you’re all witnesses.” He bent his head and kissed Isla, quickly and deeply.

  Someone exhaled spectacularly, and skirts brushed Isla as one of the women on the seat behind her rose.

  When Alexander pulled his lips from hers, Isla saw that the woman was bristling, taking advantage of every inch of her height. Her fair hair looked as if it would have stood on end if it hadn’t been pulled into such a tight bun, the severity of it relieved only by a short length of dark green ribbon.

  “What’s the meaning of this, Alexander?” she gasped, her mouth moving soundlessly for several moments afterwards, as if she wanted to say more but couldn’t find words sufficient to express her obvious indignation.

  Alexander returned the older woman’s glare with one of his own. “I should think the meaning is quite clear.” With that, he turned on his heel, carrying Isla down the hall as the shocked buzz of resumed conversation began behind them.

  The walls blurred as Isla went limp in Alexander’s arms, as she’d been longing to do since they’d reached Benstrath, and her heart slowed just a little. She bounced against his chest as he quickly climbed a flight of stairs and her foot twinged in protest. She sighed with relief when they reached the landing, and the sound of an opening door told her they were entering a bedroom.

  It was dim inside, the only light coming from a window that showed them the stormy sky and Benstrath’s planting and cattle fields. The room was furnished with a wardrobe in one corner and a bed in the other. Alexander made directly for the latter, depositing Isla on it and lying down at her side.

  “We’ll have a proper ceremony with a priest in the morn,” he said, still clutching her hand in one of his own as he pressed the other into her hair. His eyes met hers and flickered, taking in her image, soaking hair, garments and all. “But for now…ye shouldnae stay in these droukit clothes any longer.”

  Isla pushed herself up into a sitting position, pressing her palms against the mattress. Her hair tickled her cheeks and jaw in wild disarray, a testament to the day she’d spent in the rain and in Alexander’s arms.

  “Undress me then, husband,” she said, heat creeping into her cheeks as she spoke. Flustered excitement was still pumping through her veins from the happenings in the sitting room, and she felt unusually bold under its influence now that the immediate tension had passed. She tried not to imagine what Alpin might be thinking at the moment, let alone the rest of the family, and forced herself to focus on Alexander instead.

  It wasn’t hard. His split shirt invited her attention, the stripe of dark hair that ran down his belly pulling her gaze to his tartan-covered crotch and causing her own to tingle.

  Alexander whipped off her cloak and the same thrill she’d experienced in the woods flared anew as he pushed his hands beneath her skirts, baring her legs. Her excitement was quickly suppressed by a flash of agony.

  “Ahh!” she cried as he bumped her foot, sending a spike of pain from her toes to her ankle. She curled forward and clutched the throbbing joint tightly, too afraid to actually touch her foot.

  “Sorry!” Alexander apologised as he carefully finished removing her dress. “I didnae mean to hurt ye.” He tossed her dress to the floor. “I suppose ye should have your injury tended before we do anythin’ else.”

  Isla sighed as he placed his hands on her breasts, massaging them through the thin fabric of her shift, giving clear meaning to the words ‘anythin’ else’. She hadn’t stopped craving his touch since she’d first felt it, and some time during their journey to Benstrath she’d ceased to be content with simple physical closeness. The idea of making love again both thrilled her and filled her with nervous anticipation. It had been a strange thing, lying beneath him and feeling him fill her so thoroughly. And yet it had felt natural, had felt right, too. Yes, she had been made for him, feuding families or no. And without him inside her, she felt empty.

  He kissed the side of her neck, his hot breath sending strands of her hair flying.

  A knock came against the door, and Isla jumped, bumping her foot against the wall.

  “Ahh!” Her cry of pain was muffled by Alexander’s hair, now escaped from the tail it had been tied back into, as the door cracked and someone coughed tentatively from the other side.

  “What!” Alexander cried as he frowned, clearly annoyed with whoever had the gall to interrupt them.

  Isla thought of Alpin and pressed her hands over her heart, afraid it would thump its way right out of her chest.

  God, don’t let it be him!

  Alpin’s eyes flashed in her memory, cold and murderous.

  “It’s me, Alex,” a woman’s voice called meekly, melting Isla’s fear away.

  Alexander rolled to a sitting position on the side of the bed, smoothing his kilt as best he could over the significant bulge that had risen beneath it.

  “Och,” he said. “Well, what is it?”

  The door opened a little more and a dark-haired head poked in, quickly followed by a round, matronly body and a tray that was laden with a pot of tea and stacks of little cakes. Isla recognised the aproned woman who’d emerged from the kitchen to witness their handfasting.

  “The Lady sent me,” their visitor explained, proffering the tray apologetically.

  “And I suppose she expects ye to return with more than an empty tray?” Alexander asked knowingly.

  The woman nodded. “Aye, I’m afraid so.” She cast a curious glance at Isla, who seized a blanket and used it to cover herself better than her thin shift did.

  “Dinnae fash yourself, Mrs Mary,” Alexander said. “I was goin’ to call for ye anyw
ay. My wife has got a broken foot.”

  Isla’s heart swelled a little at hearing Alexander call her his wife. Yes, they’d handfasted, but it hardly seemed real yet. Rather, it was like a dream—one she feared she might awaken from. She wondered when the reality of the situation would settle in. Maybe tomorrow, when she and Alexander would ride to the nearest kirk to be married properly by a priest, as he’d promised her during their ride to Benstrath. She flinched slightly at the thought, imagining what her father would say if he knew she intended to be married by a papist. Probably nothing—he’d just have a quiet apoplexy instead.

  Mrs Mary, as Alexander had called her, bustled across the room with a worried expression on her face, pausing only to shove the platter of snacks into Alexander’s hands.

  “She’s got something of a reputation for mending wounds,” Alexander said, turning to assure Isla over the steaming tray.

  Isla winced as Mrs Mary lifted her left foot from the bed, where it protruded from the blanket she’d covered herself with, but the woman’s touch was gentle as a mother’s.

  “It looks fair swollen,” she said with a frown. “How’d it happen?”

  “Her horse came down on her foot, spooked by thunder,” Alexander explained.

  Mrs Mary tsked to herself as she gingerly felt the top of Isla’s foot. “Well, I can bind it for ye, but it’s only time will heal it.”

  Alexander nodded, and Mrs Mary hurried from the room, exiting into the hallway and clattering down the stairs on her quest for bandages.

  Alexander took one of the cakes from the tray she’d left with them and stuffed it into his mouth. Then he held the platter out towards Isla with his free hand. “Hungry?”

  Isla nodded. “Fair starved, now that ye mention it.” She promptly seized a cake and ate it with a little more grace than Alexander had managed. Its sweet crumbs felt like soft boulders, tumbling pleasantly in the empty canyon of her stomach. By the time Mrs Mary returned, half the cakes were gone, and as much of the tea had been drained. Isla had drunk several cups of it, relishing the way it dissipated the damp chill that had seeped down into her bones over the course of the stormy day.

  “Ready now?” Mrs Mary asked as she pushed the door open again, carrying an armful of white cloth. She settled on the edge of the bed without hesitation and lifted Isla’s foot again. “Hold it for me,” she instructed Alexander, who grasped her ankle gently as Mrs Mary relinquished her hold and picked up a soaked cloth instead. Slowly, carefully, she wiped away the dirt and debris that had accumulated on Isla’s bare foot. While the warm water she’d soaked the cloth in was soothing against Isla’s skin, even the weight of the washcloth made her foot twinge. She gritted her teeth and endured it, eager for the bandages to be on and the ordeal to be over.

  Mrs Mary set the washcloth aside and began to wrap Isla’s foot in strips of pale cloth, tying the ends in a neat bow at her ankle. “Ye shouldnae be able to move it accidentally now,” she said when she’d finished, surveying her work with a critical eye. “Mind ye keep off your feet, though, or you’ll only make it worse.”

  Isla nodded, lying back against a pillow and staring up at the ceiling as she searched for Alexander’s hand with her own. She found it and he gave hers a reassuring squeeze as Mrs Mary turned to him.

  “Och, I almost forgot,” Alexander said. “Your hand.” He lifted her palm aloft, examining the long, narrow cut that ran along the side. “What do ye think, Mrs Mary? Does it need stitchin’?” Isla stomach plummeted. Stitching? She shuddered. Her hand had stopped bleeding back in the forest. Surely it didn’t need to be sewn shut. Her stomach threatened to empty itself of the cake and tea she’d downed just at the thought.

  Mrs Mary took Isla’s hand and examined it with as much care as she’d shown her foot. “I dinnae think it needs stitchin’,” she finally said.

  Isla breathed a sigh of relief as Mrs Mary gently washed the dirt from her hand with the warm cloth. “What about your hand, Alexander?” she asked. “And…and your chest wound.”

  She hadn’t forgotten the sight of blood dripping from his wrist and fingers as he handed her his dirk, nor what she’d done to him with her own knife. Her heart ached at the thought, as much for his selflessness as her own horror at his willingness to let her slaughter him.

  “Och, it isnae anythin’ serious,” he said, much more flippant about his own wound than he had been about Isla’s. She was touched by his concern, but also worried by his nonchalance. Though his hand hadn’t bled for long, she could still see crimson streaking his fingers in her mind’s eye. The spring water had clouded with red when he’d dipped his hand in it, leaving a visceral token of his presence as he washed himself.

  Fortunately, Mrs Mary would not be dissuaded from looking. “T’would be hard to keep the stiches from poppin’ out,” she said thoughtfully, examining the long, neat cut that crossed his palm, deeper than the cut across the side of Isla’s hand. “But I dinnae think ye truly need ‘em anyway. Just mind ye use the hand carefully, so it doesnae start bleedin’ again.” She pulled a spare length of bandage from her apron pocket and began to wind it around his hand.

  Alexander nodded wordlessly and picked one of the last cakes from the tray as Mrs Mary bound his hand. When he popped the morsel into his mouth, he started an awkward silence as he chewed.

  It was Mrs Mary who broke the quiet several moments later. “I dinnae think it will go over well,” she said earnestly, her face lined with worry. “Your marriage, that is. They’ve gone fair mad with the news downstairs, and the Lady has sent young John to tell your father.”

  Alexander frowned. “Well, tell them I’ll speak with them in the morn.”

  Mrs Mary drew breath as if to speak, but Alexander cut her off. “They mustnae disturb us tonight.” His face was stern and his eyes were as piercing as ever. Isla pitied Mrs Mary, the sole subject of his gaze.

  “Well I dinnae think that will satisfy them…” Mrs Mary began, and trailed off, appearing mildly flustered. “Och, verra well—I will tell them what you hae said.” She stood, smoothing her skirts.

  “Leave the tray, if ye dinnae mind,” Alexander said as she started from the room. Mrs Mary nodded, cast one last look over her shoulder at him and left the room.

  Alexander frowned at the door after she’d left.

  “Is something wrong?” Isla asked. She felt foolish as soon as the words left her mouth. Of course something was wrong—at least as far as the rest of the Gordons were concerned. Alexander, heir of Benstrath, had come home with a strange, temporarily crippled Forbes and declared her his wife.

  Alexander’s mind still seemed to be on Mrs Mary, and he answered Isla’s question after a brief pause. “I amnae proud of leaving her to fend them off by herself. Mrs Mary has worked here since I was a bairn, and I amnae as fond of most of my own blood relatives as I am of her. But I’ll be damned if I cannae have a night alone with my wife.”

  He turned to Isla and pulled her against his chest. She shivered as his damp clothing pressed against her skin and shift.

  “Sorry,” he said, releasing her and standing to remove his clothing.

  She watched as he stripped off his shirt, revealing arms and shoulders that still glistened faintly with dampness. Dried blood matted his dark hair where she’d cut him below his breastbone, and she cringed at the sight, biting her lip until she tasted her own blood. How could she have come so close to killing him? Doing so had seemed to make sense at the time, had seemed to be her only way to redeem herself from the shame the Gordons had heaped upon her, but now…

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I wounded ye, Alexander.”

  “Dinnae be sorry,” he said, taking a step towards the bed. “If anyone should be sorry, it’s me. I’m ashamed of what my kinsmen hae done to ye, and my life would be but a pittance to pay for your salvation.” He reached out and cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “But as it is, I’m glad it worked out this way instead.”

  “Why?” Isla asked
. “Did ye marry me only to ease your family’s guilt, then?”

  She felt guilty herself for asking. And what if he had? People married for lesser reasons, and she should be glad of his kindness in any case. But at the same time, she’d felt sure there had been more to it than that when they’d made love at the spring. She would have sworn then that he’d wanted her badly for herself, and guilt be damned. Could she have imagined it?

  Alexander shook his head. “No. You’re the most beautiful lass I’ve ever seen, Forbes or no. When I stole those kisses from ye by the roadside, I didnae think I’d ever have another taste of ye. When you agreed to marry me—to let me make love to you—I didnae think twice before doin’ either.” He stroked her jaw, catching a lock of her hair between two of his fingers and wrapping it gently around them. “If ye ask me, I think it was a mistake that ye were born a Forbes, to a family who didnae deserve ye. I think ye were always meant to be a Gordon.”

  Isla blushed beneath the intensity of his gaze and looked away, blinking. That morning, such a claim would have infuriated her. But now, the only thing it seemed to bring was tears, which she fought to hold back. The thought of facing the rest of the Gordons made her stomach churn, but here in Alexander’s bed, she felt as if she belonged.

  “Ye make me blush so that I think my face is aflame, Alexander.”

  “Aye,” he said. “I like the sight of it.” He brushed her cheek with his hand, baring it as he tucked her hair behind her ear and settled onto the bed beside her. “Will ye touch me, then? As ye did in the woods?” He traced the back of her hand lightly with his fingers.

  “Aye, I will,” she replied, finally dropping her gaze to his groin, where his cock had risen once again beneath his kilt.

  Chapter Five

  Alexander pulled his tartan from his body. It slid over his hips and to the floor.

  Isla blushed as it fell, and what it revealed sent her heart racing. Before, she’d explored him by touch, under the cover of his kilt. There, in the secrecy of darkness, she’d become acquainted with his body. Then, she’d seen his cock only momentarily as he’d slid between her legs, and though she’d certainly felt every inch of it, the sight was still a shock now. It was as hard as it had been then, reaching towards her as if to beg her touch. His skin was flushed with the blood that filled it, and deep blue veins spanned the length beneath its surface. It was a brighter red in some places than his arousal accounted for, stained by her blood. Seeing the evidence of her surrendered maidenhood thrilled her in a way that she didn’t totally understand, and the flesh between her legs tingled at the sight. She extended her hand, reaching for him.