by K. E. Saxon
“Nay, you dolt! The potion’s for me!” She dropped her chin to her chest and mumbled, “and you.”
“You...and me? He crowded into her, their bodies no farther apart than the finest of gossamer silk. He rested his hands on her waist and dipped his head so that his lips brushed her ear as he asked in a smoky whisper, “Do you love me, Branwenn?”
She shrugged.
She felt his smile against her ear and then he said, his voice low, so low, so intoxicating, the vibration of it traveled, like warm mead, down deep inside her to her womb, “Why ever would you think you needed to give me a love potion? Has it not been plain, as plain as...as...well, as plain as the freckle on your lovely left breast,”—her cheeks flamed at that reminder—“that I already love you? Nay, more, I adore you. I cannot get through one moment of the day without thinking of you?” He took her hand and placed her open palm on his cheek. “Wed me, Branwenn. Wed me, have babes with me, make love to me every day, build a life with me. Wed me.”
“Aaayye,” Branwenn said. ‘Twas a sigh. But there was joy in her voice and joy in that word when she said it. “And I do! I do love you!”
“Praise be,” he said reverently. Then he kissed her to seal the promise.
* * *
A short time later, as they walked hand-in-hand across the glen, Callum asked softly, a bit warily, “So...you will wed me then? No more uncertainty?” He bent forward a bit and craned his neck in order to see her profile.
There was only a twinkling of a second’s hesitation before a bright smile split her countenance. When she looked at him, there was no doubt. Love shown there. “Aye, I’ll wed you. I already said I would, remember? Back there?”—she pointed behind her—“Five minutes ago?” she teased. “When?”
Callum let out a loud ‘whoop!’ and threw his arms around her waist. He began to spin her around.
“Caaallum!” she squealed.
“Now! The morrow! Soon!” he yelled and then he tossed his head back and laughed.
Branwenn relaxed in his embrace and threw her hands up in the air, joyous laughter bubbling from her throat as she allowed herself to enjoy the revolving view. Was there ever a more beautiful, perfect day?
* * *
Later, as they lay on their backs in the tall, brown-of-winter, meadow grass and gazed up at the white clouds as they moved slowly across the pale blue sky, Branwenn’s thoughts turned to the reason for Callum’s anger. “Want you many bairns, then?” she asked, turning her head to watch his expression as he answered.
He smiled a bit sheepishly and turned his head also. Looking into her eyes he said, “Aye. At least five”—her eyes widened and he turned on his side and raised up on an elbow—“but, we already have one—two, if you count David,” he rushed to say.
Branwenn’s smile turned tender. She lifted her hand and softly moved the hair that had fallen over his brow away from his eyes. “That will be fine then.”
Callum bent his head and kissed her gently. “My thanks,” he whispered. Rising above her, he settled between her thighs and began brushing soft kisses over her eyes, her nose, her cheeks. “You are, by far, the loveliest, most finely fair lass I’ve ever met.”
“Caaallummm,” she said on a sigh, her eyes closed as she drifted along the sensual stream he brought her down. Her eyes flew open. “But what of Maryn?” ‘Twas an accusation. “And, tell me not that you did not find the fair Jesslyn to your liking as well—the two of you were betrothed.”
Callum, his fingers twined through her hair and her head cradled in his palms, lifted his head and studied her. “‘Tis truth, I believe, that first day we met all those moons ago—remember?” He waited for her nod before continuing, “I believe ‘twas the day my childish, selfish love for Maryn took its last breath. I shall tell you this now, for you’ve made it clear that you want plain talk henceforth.” Branwenn gave him a vigorous nod. Callum grinned and placed a quick peck on the tip of her nose before saying, “I wanted you that day. In fact, I had every intention of returning to the Maclean holding with my cousins after the negotiations were concluded and wooing you.” He chuckled, shaking his head and looking off in the distance a moment, before turning his sights back on her. “Both your brothers—especially Daniel—saw that I was attracted. But, my pride, still sore from his winning all that I’d lost, made me hide my desire with some evasion or another.
Branwenn’s eyes widened, her lips tipped up in mirth—and utter happiness. “Truly? Even after I scrubbed your kiss from my hand?”
“Aye.” Callum grinned. “Mayhap mostly because you’d done such.” He sighed. “But, then, I was made the prize in the negotiations between the clans, and it became my duty to wed Laird Gordon’s daughter to settle the dispute. My plan to woo you was lost to me for evermore, or so I thought.”
Branwenn had barely heard the last, so intrigued was she still by the notion that Callum had actually been attracted to her all those moons ago—had intended to woo her. “But—my hair! I was so ugly—”
Callum stiffened. “You were not ugly!” he said, as if she’d given the insult to him.
She shook her head, though there was little movement, as he held it in his hands. “How could you like me then?”
His smoldering green eyes scanned her face a moment before he replied, “As I said, you are the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen. My heart skips a beat each time my eyes rest on you—did you know that?”
Branwenn’s eyes misted. She had to swallow past the lump in her throat before she could answer. “Nay,” she whispered thickly and sniffled.
“I adore you, Branwenn.” Callum gave in to his craving, dipping his head and kissing her. Hard and long. His desire grew so quickly out of control that he fisted his hands in her hair and ground his hard sex against the frustratingly-still-covered flower of her femininity. With a shaking hand, he dragged the thick material up, over her hips and did the same with his tunic and shirt before quickly unlacing his braies. “Open,” was all he said. ‘Twas a plea—and a demand.
She did just that. “I want you inside me. Now,” she ground out. She knew she wasn’t yet prepared, but the need to have him fill her after so long a time outweighed the natural aversion to the sting it would cause when he at first entered her.
“Aye,” Callum said, but he took a second—a small second—to prepare her a little, even using a bit of his own saliva to lessen the damp resistance before he pushed inside her as he kissed her. It abraded, but she cared not. She even helped him by clamping her hands to his hard buttocks and pushing down. She held her breath until he was fully seated. In the next moment, he was gently rocking into her, using his manhood to entice her canal to give up its juices. “God, you are so perfect. A perfect fit for me,” he said, his voice strained. Suddenly he threw his head back. “Aaahhh!” He stopped moving. His entire frame shuddered violently and his breath was harsh, labored. He dipped his head, resting it on her shoulder. “God, I almost came just then.”
“Good.”
He turned his head and looked at her. “Nay, not good. I am still determined that you will not be with child when we wed. This marriage will have no scandal attached to it, as my previous one did.”
“But this is different! We love each other; we want to make babes together!”
He lifted up and began kissing her cheek, her neck, nuzzling her just below her ear. He brought his mouth to her lobe and nibbled it a moment, slowly beginning to move his hips once more in the ancient rhythm they’d come to know so well together in the sennights prior to the conclusion of their affair. “Aye,” he said at last, the hot breath and vibration of his deep voice teasing her ear canal as he spoke into it, “but after we are well-wed, my love.”
A desperate need for release unfurled within her womb, making her move her hips in tandem with his, making her meet him halfway, making her take him deeper with each new thrust. She tossed her head, feeling the dew from her exertion form on her hot skin.
Callum felt the first contractions of her
canal and moved with more speed in and out of her, forcing the climax he knew she was on the verge of having. In seconds, she was crying out his name, yanking and clawing at the cloth of his tunic covering his back. Beautiful. The word flitted across his sex-fogged mind as he watched her sensual delight peak and then slowly settle into tired contentment.
He was close now himself. He gave her one last, long, deep-throated kiss as he took his pleasure of her. In the next moment, his seed began to rise. He jerked out of her. “Aargh!” he cried, his body spasming in reaction to the pleasure-pain of leaving her to complete the process outside her loving cavity. Her small, warm hand settled around him and stroked rapidly. He was lost to the pleasure then, and in seconds he was spewing his seed—on her gown.
“What a waste,” she said chidingly. But there was humor in it as well, for the dimple in her cheek was in clear evidence. “At least I know now ‘twill not stain.”
Callum rolled over onto his back and threw his forearm over his eyes. “Lord, but you are getting quite good at that.”
Branwenn grinned, rising up and resting her chin on the arm she lay over his heaving chest. “Truly?”
He cocked his head slightly and, opening one eye, peered out from under his arm at her. He grinned too. “Aye, my wee sea sprite. You’ve got me under your spell now. Do with me as you will—for, ‘tis truth, that I have none left where you are concerned.”
Branwenn giggled. A thought struck her then. A very unnerving thought that harkened back to their earlier conversation. “Did you...do”—she fluttered her hand in the air, waving it over their bodies quickly—“this...with Jesslyn? I mean, when you were betrothed?”
A bit more recovered from the intense release he’d just received at the hand of his faery lover, Callum’s sense of humor kicked in. He rolled to his side and straddled her, tickling her ribs. “What think you?”
“Aieee! Caaaluuummm! Stop! That tickles!” But she was laughing uncontrollably now, trying valiantly to push his hands away and twisting from side to side.
His own laughter had a bit of evil pleasure running through it.
After another moment of this, he at last had mercy on her and stopped. Still settled astraddle her, resting on his knees, he said at last, “Nay, my love, I’ve had no one but you for nearly two years. Well, except for the one night of my wedding to Lara.”
Branwenn’s eyes grew round. Callum? Callum, the most gorgeous human male she’d ever laid eyes on? Callum, who could charm the gown off of any woman—lass or lady—with that silver tongue of his, had not been with a woman for that long?
“Truly?”
He chuckled. She was clearly amazed. Hell, he was amazed he’d gone so long. But gazing upon the end result of all those moons of abstention, he realized, ‘twas worth every moment. And he’d do it again, if she were waiting for him at the end of it. “Aye,” he finally said, “truly.”
* * *
“Well, ‘tis clear that we were right to inveigle that handsome guard to give his attention to Branwenn these past eves,” Grandmother Maclean said to Maggie and Isobail the next day. “For, I’m sure ‘tis what sparked my grandson to at last speak his heart to our lass.”
Isobail grinned. “Aye, but ‘tis also clear that Branwenn would get those words from him regardless—she was quite set on giving him a love potion!”
“Aye, but naught, even a love potion, I trow, could have brought forth those words from my son lest there was a good amount of feeling behind them in the first place,” Maggie said.
The door to the solar swung open and Branwenn stepped inside. “Good morn, ladies,” she said. Then, to Lady Maclean: “Will you give me some assistance with the priest? He is insisting that we wait until after Samhainn to speak our vows, as he must oversee and collect his parish’s tithes to the church from this year’s harvest until that time. Must we wait so long?”
“But, lass, that gives us less than a moon to put your trousseau together and plan the feast! I’ll not rush the priest, for we, ourselves, need at least that long to plan the wedding.”
Branwenn’s shoulders slumped. “But, Grandmother...” Then, seeing the light of determination in the older woman’s eyes, she said, “Oh, very well.” She turned to Maggie. “Will you at least speak to your son and explain this to him? For, I cannot bear to give him these bad tidings. He was so determined that we would be wed within the sennight this day past.”
“Aye, lass, fret no more about it, for I know just the thing that will turn his mind to other pursuits.” She turned to Lady Maclean and said, “Mother, let us host a tournament! ‘Tis been so long since we’ve done such and Chalmers has said his warriors are growing fractious with the onset of winter coming on. This will surely settle them.”
Lady Maclean grinned. “Perfect. ‘Tis the perfect solution. And I’m sure Daniel and Bao will be pleased for the diversion as well.”
“But will it not take just as long to prepare for a tournament?” Branwenn asked, bemused.
“Aye, it will,” Isobail chimed in, having caught the gist of the lady’s reasoning. “But, the tournament will require that the men train quite vigorously. Long hours, in fact.” She turned to Maggie, “Am I not right, my lady?”
Maggie nodded and there was a definite sparkle in her eye. “Aye, which will give my son little, if any time, to storm about muttering over the delay in the wedding.”
“But what if Callum gets killed! “Nay! ‘Tis a very bad plan, I trow,” Branwenn said with a shake of her head.
Lady Maclean looked at her with kindness. “Branwenn, my dear, what Maggie and I speak of is a test of skill on the jousting lists, not a melee. ‘Twill be no more likelihood of death than there is each day when Callum trains.”
* * *
Little did Gaiallard de Montfort know, as he stepped off the sea vessel onto the craggy shore of Arren that mid-October morn, that he was setting foot at almost the exact location his wayward betrothed had stepped close to three moons prior.
He’d come on this initial search mission alone. He was not far behind Branwenn’s brother Reys, whom he’d been tracking since the man departed with his new bride a fortnight past, and whom he assumed had direct knowledge of where the chit was staying. He had every intention of bringing her back with him and completing the ceremony that would make her legally his bride, giving him the demesne he’d been promised.
When he’d awakened the morn of the wedding and been hastened to meet with his uncle, he’d believed ‘twas merely the formality of signing over the land that had prompted the early morning summons. But, when he’d been given the news that the girl had fled in the night—to no one knew where—and that Reys, her brother had stepped in to fulfill the contract by wedding Alyson, Gaiallard had been filled with a sense of relief. Now, he’d thought, he would at last be able to pursue the lady Caroline, as he’d wanted to do from the beginning. And that lady would surely not reject his troth now that he would be in possession of the lucrative demesne. There would also be the added benefit of getting his sister off his hands, for the thrill he’d received the past times he’d played his little game with her had palled, as she was no longer quite the untutored youngling that she’d been when he’d begun teaching her how to pleasure a man.
But his initial elation was dashed into dismal dust in the next moments when his Uncle told him that the demesne would now go to his arch rival, Guy de Burgh. Over the last year, Guy had won the day at every tournament the two had entered, bringing much praise and coin to both himself, and his liege lord, Guillaume le Maréchal.
But, he would deal with that thorny matter later. First, he must at least fulfill the original contract, as signed, then he would petition the court for rights to the land he’d been promised.
“Ho! Fisherman!” he called out to an old man just taking his boat out for the day.
The man turned and nodded a greeting.
Gaiallard jogged up to him and said, “A few moons past, was there a lass—he intentionally used the vernacular of
the region—who washed up on shore? A shipwreck survivor, mayhap?”
The man’s brows drew together in thought and he scratched his rather dirty, quite tangled, gray-haired pate. After a moment he shook his head. “Nay, ‘twas no’ a lass I sa’, but a lad of mayhap thorteen summer.”
Gaiallard’s heart began to pound as his blood rushed. Victory was just within his grasp, he could feel it. “And, in what direction did the lad go, do you recall?”
The old fisherman shrugged. “I know no’, fer the lad be gone from m’ hut when I got back fro’ fishin’.”
Damn! A lost trail. And then: “Did a man, with hair as black as pitch, come through here a few days past?”
“Aye—he be a fine sor’, too, fer he bought me whol’ catch and then shared hi’ spirits wi’ me. And he could sing wi’ the choir of heav’n, too, so sweet wa’ his voice.”
Reys. It had to be, for he was well known for his songs and his playing of the crwth, the lyre-like instrument he was rarely without. “Do you happen to know in what direction he went?”
“Aye, he crossed on a boat to the High Land no’ two days past.”
Wonderful! “My thanks, old man,” Gaiallard said and strode back the way he’d come, back to where the larger sea craft were docked.
* * *
Alyson nocked her arrow, drew the bow and took aim. “Like this?” she asked Reys.
Reys, who stood behind his young wife, studied her stance from that angle and crouched down to see if her aim was true, then walked to her right side and studied her stance from that angle as well. “Aye, that’s good. Now, loose the bowstring and, forget not to keep your aim and follow through until your right hand is just past your ear.”
His young wife had been so timid with him the first couple of moons after their wedding, even tho’ Reys had sworn there would be no pressure from him to bring forth an heir until she was older. But, one day a few sennights past, he’d decided to go grouse hunting with bow and arrow and, when she’d shown interest in the outing, he’d asked her if she would like to join him. Surprisingly, she’d said she would. That had been the first day of their newly budding friendship. For, she’d taken to the sport immediately, ‘tho the bow he’d lent her was too large for her frame.