When a Laird Finds a Lass

by Lecia Cornwall

  She made him believe he could do anything.

  Malcolm watched the way the pale spring sun drew red and golden light from her dark hair. The wind pulled soft tendrils loose from her braid and made them beckon to him. Her cheeks were flushed with the wind, her eyes as bright as stars.

  She kilted her skirts and cast off her shoes so her feet were bare on the sand, her ankles shapely and trim. She was the most beautiful thing Malcolm had ever seen. He was watching her instead of paying attention, and the creature under the sand squirted him, drilled his cheek with a sharp stream of icy water, and he cried out and fell on his arse. She laughed, a sound like fairy bells, but he didn’t mind, since he’d made her happy.

  She came close to him, and bent beside him to dig the offending creature out of its hole and add it to the basket, her fingers quick and sandy.

  When she wasn’t looking, he put it back, giving the creature its life in exchange for giving him that moment with Ronat.

  “The basket’s full,” she said at last, adding one more cockle. “And the tide will be coming in soon. We’d best get back.”

  Malcolm didn’t want to go. He wished he could make this day last forever, stay in the pleasure of her company, all alone on the shore, just the two of them. He took the basket from her, then offered her his arm as if they were strolling along the street in Edinburgh. She brushed the sand from her hands and tucked one under his sleeve. It felt right there, small and warm, clasped against his side just under his heart.

  Yes, if the wish were just for him alone, he knew what he’d ask for.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Ronat was right. Malcolm found his dinner did taste better for having dug the cockles himself. He pulled them from their shell, tasted the sea-sweetness of the flesh. He laughed more at the jokes Dougal made, tapped his foot to the music of the pipes, and smiled at everyone, especially Ronat. He couldn’t recall ever having been this happy before.

  Maccus slurped at the shells, tossed them over his shoulder, and burped loudly, but even that couldn’t dim the joy of the evening. Everything felt right and possible to Malcolm.

  “More ale, Maccus?” Beitris asked sweetly, filling his cup to the brim. Every evening went the same as the first one—they would fill Maccus with drink until he fell into a stupor. Then they’d carry him up to Cormag’s room and toss him on the bed. He’d wake the next morning in Ronat’s bed, remembering nothing. But once he’d been removed from the hall for the night, the lasses would arrive, and there’d be music, stories, dancing, and flirting, with Maccus none the wiser.

  And then, they would retire for the night. Malcolm would escort Ronat upstairs to his chamber, and he would retire to the solar. He would lie awake, imagining her undressing, bathing, pulling a silken nightgown over her head and letting it slide down the luscious length of her body. He turned to solving complex math problems in his head, or he read long, dry passages in his law books, but nothing quenched the desire simmering in his veins. His logical brain, the lawyerly part, the honorable, chivalrous part of his nature, told him that if he didn’t see her lying in his bed, if he couldn’t hear the soft sounds she made or smell the sweet scent of her skin, then he couldn’t be overwhelmed by desire. But the male part of his brain knew differently. He wanted her beneath him, his skin on hers, the soft weight of her breasts in his hand, her legs clasped around his hips, her head thrown back in passion as he loved her, over and over again through the night. He ended up pacing the floor most nights, yearning for her with an ache that went straight through to his soul.

  But the day would come when she would leave Dunbronach, go back where she truly belonged. It wasn’t with him. It would be harder on that day, if he loved her.

  He had to give her up and give her back.

  She wasn’t his.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The first fingers of sunlight crept through the window and poked at Malcolm’s eyes the next morning. He’d fallen asleep at his desk with a legal tome for a pillow. He winced. He was stiff and cold, and his neck ached.

  He recalled his appointment to meet Ronat at the waterfall and shot to his feet. The book slid sideways, and he caught it, shut it, and forgot it.

  He pulled on a clean shirt and breeches, stuffed his feet into his boots. He was about to splash water on his face when he remembered he’d be immersed in water in a few minutes’ time. He swallowed the rising dread at the thought and hurried down the stairs. He avoided the broken steps by habit now, not even having to look.

  Outside, mist still covered the tops of the hills, and the sea was calm and gray as he climbed the path to the waterfall. There were three waterfalls at Dunbronach. The top one tumbled over a high cliff, forceful and rushing, to plunge a hundred feet into a churning pool. From there, the water fell over a second, smaller ledge onto sharp rocks, hissing and foaming, filling the gorge with spray that coated the steep walls with mist and moss. Then the water slipped through another narrow opening, eased itself over a run of smooth boulders, and landed softly in a wide, deep pool. The water here was silky and welcoming.

  He climbed through the gap in the rocks that hid the pool, and his breath caught in his throat. Ronat was already there, in the deepest part of the pool, , her dark head sleek and wet, her long, white limbs visible through the clear water as she swam. She dove like an otter, and he caught a glimpse of her shapely bottom. He swore softly, dug his fingers into the rock beside him. He stood where he was, with one foot in the burn.

  Where were her clothes? He couldn’t see them on the bank. He cleared his throat when she surfaced again, and she floated, submerged up to her chin. Water sparkled on her long lashes, and her wet skin shone in the pale sun. She looked . . . magical was the only word he could think of.

  “Madainn mhath, Malcolm Ban. Good morning,” she said brightly. “Are you ready?”

  He stood with his hands folded over his crotch, hoping she wouldn’t notice the heavy bulge in his breeches. “Is it cold?” he said. God, he hoped so . . .

  “You’ll get used to it,” she said, and smiled, her white teeth gleaming. Her hair floated on the surface of the water. He could see her shoulders, white and smooth as marble. It was easy to imagine her as a selkie now.

  “Ronat, are you . . .” He swallowed. “Are you—naked?”

  She laughed that fairy-bell laugh, and it shot straight to his groin. “I’m wearing my shift,” she said. “I’m quite decent. See?” She held up a dripping sleeve.

  “What do I do first?” he asked.

  “Did you bring extra clothes or a dry shirt?”

  “Um, nay.” He felt like a ninny.

  “Then take your shirt off at least, or you’ll be chilled walking back to the castle.”

  He felt self-conscious as he peeled his shirt over his head, dropped it on the rocks. He took off his boots as well and felt as vulnerable as if he were fully naked. “I’ll keep my breeches,” he said.

  She blushed, pink as a rose. “’Twould be best.”

  She rose from the water and came toward him, and the water cascaded off her body, molded her linen garment to her form. It hid more than he’d thought—and less. The exquisite, feminine shape of her was outlined. He could see the indent of her navel, the shape of her breasts, the smooth swell of her hips. He dragged his eyes away, but his imagination filled in the rest. Her nipples would be pink and ruched by the cold water . . . he swallowed a groan.

  She mistook his discomfort and held out her hand. “There’s nothing to fear—it’s quite shallow here,” she said as if she were speaking to a shy child. He had never felt less childlike in his life. He could take her hand, draw her to shore, lay her down on the wee bit of mossy bank with his shirt for a pillow . . .

  Instead, he let her pull him into the water, one step at a time. His ankles were instantly numb, then his knees, then—he gasped as the water quenched the hot rocks between his legs. She drew him deeper still, to his waist, and stopped. “How do you feel?” she asked.

  He looked around
him. The lower half of his body grew used to the cold. It began to feel refreshing. “Well enough,” he said, wary of what came next.

  She folded her knees and submerged to her shoulders, as if she were sitting in a chair before him. He took a deep breath and bent his own knees, let the water cover him to his chin. It was ice-cold, shocking. There were no waves, and the water was sweet, not salty. He did not slip under, nor did the water rush to fill his lungs. Still he clung to her hands, held tight. She disappeared under the surface, and he felt panic flick through him.

  She came up again. “Now you.”

  He stared at her. “Me?”

  She tilted her head and blinked at him patiently. “Aye, Laird, you. There’s no one else here.”

  He took a breath, forced himself to lower his face into the water. His eyelids were numb. His lungs began to burn and panic raced through him. Now he remembered the way it felt to nearly drown. He came up gasping, the memory vivid and red behind his eyes, his heart pounding. But Ronat smiled at him as if he were the cleverest man in the world, as if he’d slayed a dragon for her.

  He could taste the water on his lips, sweet and cool. It made him wonder what it would taste like on her lips if he kissed her. He took a step toward her, and the bottom dropped out from under his feet, and he floundered and panicked. He took a breath as he went under, and held it.

  He felt her arms around his waist, the silken brush of her hair as it floated against his chest. She drew him up to the surface, slipped behind him, and held him up. “Now lift your feet,” she said in his ear. “Lie back in the water and lean on me.”

  “Too heavy,” he panted, feeling for the bottom with his feet.

  “Not in the water.”

  He put his head on her shoulder, let the water take the weight of his limbs and float them toward the surface. His white toes poked out of the water. He lay still, staring at the sky above him, his limbs stiff. He could feel the sun on his face and Ronat’s hands under his shoulders.

  “Where did you learn to swim?” he asked her.

  “I think I’ve always known.”

  Now was the moment—all he had to do was say the name MacLeod out loud, see if it triggered her memories, reminded her of who she was. He took a breath, opened his mouth, but her hands felt good under his shoulders, his body light, and he didn’t want this spell to break. “Did you—do you think—you grew up near the sea?” he said instead.

  She shrugged, and he felt her stiffen a little and knew without looking that she was frowning, thinking, struggling to remember.

  “Ronat?” He said it softly, carefully.

  “I don’t remember,” she said a trifle sharply. Then her body softened, and she tilted her head, looked up at the soft, butter-yellow morning sky above the pool. “What if I never remember? I am not unhappy here, Malcolm. It would be a place where I’d be glad to begin again, make new memories, start my life over. I cannot miss what I don’t know, or regret the past. I haven’t one, so I must worry about the future.”

  Guilt prodded his tongue to move, to speak, but another emotion smothered it.

  He could keep her.

  He knew it in that moment. He only need turn to her, kiss her. She would allow it, and he could keep her. But as he flipped over, he got a mouthful of water, and he sank like a stone. When he reached for her, it was to cling to her for survival, not lust. She tugged him forward, and he scraped his knee on the bottom of the pool. Had it been so shallow all along? He hadn’t known. Still, she didn’t laugh or point out what a fool he was. He stood, began to wade out of the water. “I think that’s enough for today,” he said.

  “Shall we try again tomorrow?” she asked, following him out. He sat on a rock in the sun and gulped air. She slipped behind a boulder that was taller than she was. She was dressed when she reappeared, her sodden shift over her arm, her hair still wet. He sat and stared at her, heard the fairy bells sing again.

  “If you wish to keep our lessons a secret, then we’d best return to the castle separately. I’ll go now.” She hesitated as her gaze locked on his, and she bit her lip. “Good day, Malcolm,” she said formally, and left him there.

  Malcolm let the sun dry his skin and then pulled his shirt over his head. He should have told her. He felt guilt gnaw on him with sharp little teeth. He looked out over the pool. The light had shifted, penetrated the depths, turned the water to gold.

  “Not yet,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

  He saw Dougal and William on the way back to the castle, their faces smeared with dirt, shovels over their shoulders. “Ye’re about early, Laird,” Dougal said. “We’ve been out looking for yer father’s coin. We’re done for now and off to the waterfall to wash the dirt off before breakfast.”

  Malcolm felt his face heat. Another few minutes and they’d have seen him there with Ronat, learning how to swim. “Surely there’s no need to be digging so early in the day.”

  Dougal and William shared a look. “We wouldn’t want Maccus to see us looking, now, would we?” William said.

  “We get up early and dig while he’s still abed,” Dougal added.

  “We haven’t found a thing yet,” William said.

  Dougal nodded. “Aye, that’s true, but there’s no cause to worry. There are plenty of places we haven’t looked yet.”

  “Mind the holes as ye go down, Laird,” William said, and Malcolm watched the two elders climb the steep path and disappear. He sidestepped several holes, only to trip in yet another and fall. He landed on his hands and knees in the grass, his teeth crashing together. As he righted himself and brushed the dirt from his knees, he paused and looked out over Dunbronach—the rolling sea, the crumbling castle on the rock, the long, green rocky hillsides—and felt his heart open.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  When Malcolm arrived back in the bailey, Ronat had already disappeared inside.

  Iain MacDonald was sitting in the shade, whistling as he carved a piece of wood with a small, sharp knife. Malcolm paused to watch him. “Annie said that you’re good with your hands, especially with wood. I see it’s true.”

  Iain smiled. “Did she? I carve toy animals for my wee nieces, build shelves or chairs now and then.”

  “And I hear your grandfather was a weaver.”

  “Aye, he was, and a fine one. My uncle carries on the tradition, and my cousins as well.”

  Malcolm rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you can help me with something,” he said. “There’s a loom in the village that needs some repair. Would you look at it, help me fix it?”

  Iain nodded. “I’d be glad to.”

  Late that afternoon, they returned to the castle. The loom was fixed, ready for the hands of a weaver. Iain thought his cousin might like to come, take the loom and the cottage and make his home at Dunbronach. He had four bairns already, with another on the way. The old cottage would hum with life again. Malcolm couldn’t wait to tell Beitris.

  He took the stairs two at a time, went into the solar, and gathered the fine law books he’d brought with him from Edinburgh. He’d been so certain he’d need them as the leader of a clan. Now he packed them back into the crates they’d arrived in and wrote a letter to his uncle in Edinburgh. Once sold, the books would fetch enough money to buy seed and livestock both.

  And he’d find herders, guardsmen, bakers, midwives, and carpenters and invite them all to make a new home at Dunbronach. There’d be plenty to guard then, as William suggested.

  And as for Diarmid’s wish?

  He thought of the way Iain MacDonald blushed at the mere mention of Annie’s name, and how Peggy had smiled at Rob at supper. That wish, he decided, would soon take care of itself.

  As for Dougal’s wish for more wishes—well, if the other three wishes were fulfilled, then who could possibly need any more than that?

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Beitris was alone when Maccus slipped into the room behind her and shut the door. She hadn’t meant to be, and she knew better, but there he was, and her knife lay on
a table halfway across the room. She lunged for it, but he caught her wrist, pulled her against his body, dragged her close enough that she could see her own reflection in his eyes.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Where are the lasses?” he demanded.

  She looked away, determined not to tell, but he squeezed her arm, his grip merciless. “They’re all about their chores,” she gasped.

  “What chores? Where?”

  “How should I know? About the place somewhere. There’s a lot to do, with so many taken by the Sickness . . .”

  His eyes narrowed—hard, dark pebbles under shaggy brows, mean and sharp. Her breath caught in her throat. The man was capable of anything. Anything. She had to think of something, and quickly.

  Before she could act, the door opened again, and Glenna stood there, her face and hands and dress muddy. She took in the situation at a glance, eying Maccus and the knife on the table across the room.

  “No, Glenna—go,” she panted, but the girl had her own knife out.

  Maccus let Beitris go and turned to laugh at Glenna.

  “Look at that wee blade—are ye going to pick my teeth with it?” Glenna’s face reddened, and her chin rose. The dirk didn’t waver.

  “My father was Cormag MacDonald, our finest warrior,” Glenna said. “His blood is in my veins, and I won’t let ye hurt Beitris or any one of my clan, Maccus MacDonald. I’ll gut ye.”

  “No,” Beitris said, holding up a hand to the girl, stepping between her and the chief’s son. “Ye can’t do this, Glenna. Put it away.”

  But Maccus stepped around her and swatted the knife from Glenna’s hand as easily as if he were swatting a fly. He grabbed the front of the child’s dress and lifted her off her feet. “I’m going to be laird here, and when I am, ye’ll learn yer place. Ye’ll clean the dunnies and scrub the floors, and I’ll make ye regret the day ye were born.”