Highland Groom

by Hannah Howell

  “Ilsa,” Sigimor began.

  “A mon who dearly loved the woman he sinned with.” Ilsa sighed and clasped her hands against her breasts. “A mon who thought her naught but a sad, troubled woman, driven to despair and sinful ways by her cruel wretch of a husband. A young mon who felt certain he could save her from herself with his love only to lose her to a cold, unforgiving grave. A mon who—”

  “Enough,” growled Sigimor as Tait rolled his eyes in disgust.

  “Ah, so ye have decided ye erred in heeding the words of an angry, embittered adulterer?”

  “Aye, and I have also decided that I cannae abide listening to any more of that mawkish nonsense ye were just spouting. God’s toes, another moment or two of that, and I would have been emptying my belly into the dirt.”

  “Too true,” murmured Tait.

  “Then there is nay a need to be pounding my husband into the mud,” said Ilsa.

  “Nay, I suppose there isnae,” agreed Sigimor, his disappointment clear to hear in his voice. “Of course, I suspect I could think of a few other verra good reasons to pummel the fool.”

  “Dinnae let me stop ye from trying,” said Diarmot.

  Ilsa rolled her eyes. “Have at it then. Pummel away. Indulge yourselves in your odd monly rituals until ye are broken and bleeding.” She started toward the keep, Gillyanne and Fraser at her side.

  “Where are ye going?” demanded Sigimor.

  “I have important things to do.”

  “That was verra weel done,” said Gillyanne as they entered the keep.

  “Thank ye,” Ilsa replied. “When one grows up so heavily outnumbered by men, most of whom are much bigger and stronger than ye are, ye have to be particularly clever.”

  “And devious.”

  “Aye, that is verra helpful as weel.” Ilsa laughed with the women, then said, “Weel, let us go and rescue poor Gay.”

  Sigimor watched Diarmot idly rub his belly as he watched Ilsa walk away. The moment the door of the keep closed behind the women, Diarmot looked at him, and Sigimor asked, “Hurts, doesnae it?”

  “She is stronger than she looks,” admitted Diarmot.

  “Aye, she is, and that pointy, wee elbow of hers is a dangerous weapon. Be glad she used it on your gut. She caught our cousin Dennis in the groin once and I swear the poor lad walked funny for a sennight.”

  “Pointy wee elbow?” Diarmot murmured and briefly frowned at Connor when he laughed.

  “Wheesht, ye didnae raise the lass weel, Sigimor,” said Tait.

  Sigimor punched him. Tait cursed as he staggered backward, then fell hard, flat on his back. He propped himself up on one elbow, rubbed his sore jaw with his other hand, and glared at his brother.

  “What did ye do that for?” Tait demanded.

  “Ye were impertinent.” Sigimor idly cracked the knuckles on each hand. “I also spent the whole walk from the village readying myself for an enjoyable fight, only to have our sister talk me out of it. Left me feeling a wee bit tense. I feel better now,” he said and strode off toward the keep.

  A still-chuckling Connor helped Tait to his feet. “All right, lad?”

  “Aye,” replied Tait as he brushed himself off. “He didnae hit me hard.”

  “Sigimor raised Ilsa?” Diarmot asked, unable to quell his sudden curiosity about his wife.

  “Aye. Raised all of us. My father’s fourth wife died birthing Fergus, who is eleven and some months now. Father died a few months later. A fever swept o’er Dubheidland. Took the verra old and the weak bairns, as such things always do, but it also struck hard amongst those about thirty and older. Took Da, two of my uncles, and one of my aunts. Left a lot of orphans and a fair number of widows. Left Sigimor laird of a lot of needy people and he barely twenty. He had his twin Somerled to help, but also had a dozen younger siblings to care for and a lot of younger cousins either orphaned or without a father.”

  “There wasnae any kinswoman to take her in?”

  “Several of them offered, but, either they were widows with a large brood of their own or didnae live on Dubheidland lands. Sigimor thanked them all kindly, but said Ilsa’s place was with us. A lot of orphaned cousins came to live with us and they were all males, too.” Tait shrugged. “She may be a wee bit rough, but she willnae be troubled by a nursery full of wee lads to tend to, either.”

  “Nay, that has been clear to see.” A little surprised at how kindly he felt toward his wife at the moment, Diarmot turned his attention to the rumors that had brought Ilsa’s brothers to the keep eager to break his bones. “So, the people of Clachthrom and the village think I killed my wife?” He had thought those suspicions had died, but admitted to himself that he had mostly closed his ears to them.

  “Only the mon Wallace spoke of it. No one here at the keep has e’er implied it.” Tait grimaced. “Ilsa was right. We should have paused to consider the mon making the accusation, mayhap asked him a few hard questions. If Ilsa wasnae concerned, Sigimor would have hesitated to listen to a mon who openly confessed to cuckolding his laird. Probably would have just knocked the fool senseless and carried on with his drinking and wenching.”

  “And with leaving Ilsa wandering about with only Gay for protection.” He may not want Ilsa for his wife or trust her, but it was his duty to protect her. “Didnae ye heed me when I told ye some danger stalked me?”

  “Ye, nay Ilsa,” Tait said, but frowned slightly. “Ye truly think she may now be in danger, as weel?”

  “If ye truly arenae the ones who tried to kill me, then, aye, tis possible.” Diarmot was a little disappointed when Tait did little more than glare in response to that subtle insult, and then frowned in thought.

  “I cannae see what anyone would gain by hurting Ilsa.”

  “Neither can I, but I dinnae ken who seeks to harm me or why. The why may include harm to my wife and bairns.” Diarmot dragged his hand through his hair. “I should ne’er have thought to marry. I should have cleared this trouble away first, as ye say I had planned to. After the beating naught much else has happened and it has been verra quiet, verra safe o’er the last few months. Mayhap the beating was nay more than ill luck for I was robbed, yet, unclear though my memory is, I feel certain that it was much more than that.”

  “Weel, my brothers and cousins will search out the truth.”

  “Dinnae ye think we have tried?”

  “Aye, but ye arenae weel kenned by the people of Muirladen. The Camerons are. Some of my kin have wed lasses from those lands. Ye were but a stranger hurt whilst traveling o’er their lands. I suspicion my brothers will make full use of the kinship we have with some of the Muirladen folk.” Tait frowned. “Might set Liam to searching out nay only who holds those lands, but who might rule o’er that mon.”

  “Cannae ye just speak with the mon holding the keep now?” asked Connor. “I tried, but he wasnae there and we needed to get Diarmot away so I couldnae linger. He hasnae answered any of the queries I have sent him, either.”

  “And he probably willnae,” said Tait. “He hides in that keep like some troll. His wife is long dead and there were no children. I think he isnae supposed to be laird there now and tries to remain quietly out of sight and mind. If I am right, he certainly willnae help anyone seeking his laird, the true owner of the land. Liam will ken where to look. It has to be recorded somewhere. One of the elders in Muirladen might have a name to give us, too.”

  “I hope so. My instincts say the answers lie there.” Connor looked at the two young men strolling through the gates. “Didnae ye notice the Camerons had left ye behind?” he asked Nanty and Angus.

  Angus frowned. “Aye. Did wonder on their leaving for Sigimor and Tait hadnae done any wenching yet.” He grinned at Tait. “Maggie was fair disappointed to find ye gone when I was done with her.”

  “Is she any good?” asked Tait.

  “Would be better if she would just stop talking and expecting ye to talk to her.”

  “Hilda didnae talk much,” said Nanty, “though she does smell st
rongly of onions.” He frowned at Connor. “Were we supposed to keep a watch on the Camerons? We did hear someone say they thought they had come here to pummel the laird, but ye look fine to me, Diarmot.”

  “They changed their minds.” Connor succinctly explained what had brought Tait and Sigimor back from the village and how the ensuing confrontation had been resolved.

  “Do ye want us to go and have a wee word with this Wallace?” offered Angus. “He may be the enemy ye seek, Diarmot.”

  “I doubt it.” Diarmot declined to point out that the Camerons ought to be watched for the same reason because he knew his family did not share his suspicions. “Once I was recovered enough to do so, I began to investigate my late wife’s lovers.”

  “Ye kenned who they were?” Tait asked in surprise.

  Diarmot sighed. “My wife kept meticulous records of everything she did, from when and how she cleaned her teeth to each mon she rutted with.” He decided they did not need to know that Anabelle had not only listed who, but how, where, and how often. Only a few times had the name been missing. “Almost to a mon it was nay more than succumbing to a need and a beautiful woman. A few thought that cuckolding their laird was a daring coup. Only Wallace showed any sign of anger or jealousy, but he didnae have the coin needed to hire someone to beat me, nor will he.”

  “My wife’s family has almost completed an investigation of the more weelborn lovers the woman had,” said Connor. “Tis much the same. A few raised some doubt, but that begins to look as if it is simply a reluctance to confess to cuckolding a mon.”

  “Jesu.” Tait shook his head. “I am astonished that ye didnae kill her, Diarmot.”

  “She wasnae worth hanging for,” Diarmot said, then turned and headed back into the keep.

  As soon as the door shut behind Diarmot, Connor looked at the three younger men. “Diarmot is probably right about Wallace, but I think it wouldnae hurt to give the mon a second, hard look.”

  “Agreed,” said all three.

  “And try nay to do it from the alehouse,” he drawled as he strode away from the three blushing young men.

  Diarmot paused at the door to his bedchamber. He could hear the sound of softly splashing water. The thought of catching Ilsa naked and relaxing in her bath had him reaching for the door latch. He slipped into the room and quietly shut the door behind him.

  It took but one look at Ilsa to stir his desire. Her lithe body was only lightly shadowed by the soapy water of her bath. She was resting her head against a drying cloth folded over the rim of the tub, her glorious hair hanging down the outside to pool slightly on the floor. Her strong, slender arms rested on the sides of the tub, her eyes were closed, and her face was slightly flushed. Diarmot wondered how any mon could not think she was beautiful.

  He hesitated to move, fighting the urge to shed his clothes and join her in that bath. It was not a good time for him to lose himself in the passion they shared for he was feeling a dangerous softness toward her. She had defended him to her brothers and he could not deny that he had been touched by that. Instinct told him a seed of doubt had been planted in her mind when Wallace had spat out his accusations, but it did not matter. She had not rushed to him with accusations, but gone to Fraser and Gillyanne to seek out the truth. It was more than many another had done. Her own words had also told him that, whatever else she may have briefly thought, she had not been able to believe that he would harm a child, in or out of the womb. It was impossible to harden himself against that.

  When, despite what good sense was telling him to do, Diarmot took a step toward the bath, Ilsa’s flush darkened and she slowly opened her eyes. He kept his gaze upon her as he shed his clothes. The way she pulled her legs up close against her body and wrapped her arms round them did nothing to cool his blood. She had beautiful legs.

  “What are ye doing?” she asked. “Ye cannae mean to get into the bath with me?”

  “Tis exactly what I mean to do,” replied Diarmot even as he shed the last of his clothes.

  “Ye willnae fit.”

  “Aye, I will.”

  Ilsa cursed softly in surprise as he stepped into the tub, bringing the level of the water dangerously close to the edge. Try though she did, she could not stop herself from looking at him. She liked the look of him far too much. The sight of his lean, strong body, and his obvious arousal stirred her blood. The way he studied her as he bathed should have made her uncomfortable, but only aroused her more. The heated looks he gave her made her feel almost beautiful.

  “Such modesty isnae necessary between a wife and her husband,” Diarmot said, smiling faintly at the way Ilsa continued to huddle at the far end of the tub.

  He certainly was not troubled with it, Ilsa thought a little crossly, but said, “A bath is a private, intimate thing.”

  “So is what I intend to do verra soon.”

  “Now? But, we must soon go down to the great hall for our meal.”

  “Aye, I dinnae intend to miss that, either.”

  Her eyes widened as he stood up and stepped out of the tub. The bath had obviously not dimmed his lust at all. She squeaked when he suddenly grabbed her by the arms and lifted her out of the tub, setting her down facing him on the cloth she had spread out on the floor. She murmured a protest when he tugged one of her arms away from her breasts and began to dry it. Slowly, with a sensuous care that sent her passions soaring, he dried her body.

  Ilsa was so caught up in how he was making her feel that by the time he knelt before her to begin to dry her feet, she was only briefly concerned about how exposed she was. The way he dried her stomach then heated it with kisses quickly killed that soft flicker of modesty. He did the same to each leg, lingering over her thighs until she was trembling. She groaned softly as he nudged her legs wider apart to dry betwen them.

  When Diarmot dropped the cloth, Ilsa was more than ready to go to the bed. Then she felt his mouth upon that part of her he had just gently patted dry. She tensed in shock and tried to pull away, but he grasped her by her hips and held her steady. Ilsa was not sure if what he was doing was right, but it took only a few strokes of his tongue for her to decide she did not care. She clung to his shoulders as she lost herself in the pleasure he gave her. Only his hold on her kept her from collapsing as her release tore through her with dizzying force.

  Although still dazed as Diarmot slowly rose, kissing his way back up her body, Ilsa felt a twitch of renewed desire. Then she noticed that Diarmot was still damp. Eluding his grasp, she picked up the drying cloth. Turnabout is fair play, she decided, and enjoyed the way his eyes widened as she started to dry his arms.

  By the time Ilsa reached his taut stomach, she could feel the faint tremors in his body beneath her lips. His passion was running hot and wild. Afraid he might end her play before she was ready, she stepped behind him, almost smiling at his soft grunt of disappointment. As she dried his back, then kissed, licked, and occasionally nipped his warm, smooth skin from his broad shoulders down to his strong calves, she felt her own passion rise. When she moved in front of him again to start at his ankles and moved upward, she was more than ready to be as bold and intimate in her attentions as he had been. She was eager.

  Diarmot was not sure how much more he could endure as Ilsa dried and kissed her way up each of his legs. When she meticulously dried the damp from his groin, he tensed, wondering if she would be bold enough to bless that area with her kisses. He shuddered with delight when she dropped the drying cloth, ran her fingernails lightly over his thighs, and touched her warm, soft lips to his aching shaft. Although he was not sure he was very coherent, he muttered his approval and encouragement. He threaded his fingers in her thick hair to hold her close as she drove him to near madness with her lips and tongue.

  The feel of her mouth lightly enclosing the head of his staff told Diarmot he had to stop this play. It was both too late and too soon to enjoy such pleasure. Too late for him to grasp enough control to savor it and, despite her apparent willingness, probably too soon to reques
t her to gift him with the intimate pleasure he now craved. He grasped her by the arms and pulled her away, then gently pushed her back onto the drying cloths scattered over the floor.

  “Oh. I thought ye liked that,” Ilsa said, afraid she had shocked or offended him with her boldness.

  “I did. Too much.” He knelt between her legs. “Another time, when I am nay so needful of being within ye.”

  He looked her over, noting the flush of passion upon her skin, her taut nipples, and the rapid pace of her breathing. Placing his hand over her womanhood, he felt the hot damp of welcome and saw the way she shivered at his touch. Diarmot realized her passion had been stirred by making love to him and the last thin restraints he had clung to snapped. He fell on her, thrusting himself inside her heat, blind need driving him onward. Even as his release shook him, he heard her cry out and felt her body tighten around him. The only clear thought he had as he collapsed on top of her, was that at least he had not hurt her.

  Ilsa blinked when, after several minutes of lying together, sated and a little dazed, Diarmot got up. She clumsily wrapped a drying cloth around herself and sat up. It irritated her when she saw that Diarmot was silently dressing. Surely he could at least manage some inconsequential talk without threatening the truce they had agreed to. Her eyes widened in surprise when he paused on his way to the door to press a kiss to the top of her head.

  “Dinnae tarry too long,” he said. “The food will be set out soon,” he added even as he shut the door behind him.

  Staring at the closed door, Ilsa quickly suppressed the urge to throw something at it. She would fix her mind on that brief, affectionate kiss. It could mean that she was slowly winning her battle to conquer his heart and mind. As she rose to get dressed, she told herself not to let her hopes rise too high. It was early days yet and a man as scarred in spirit as Diarmot was would not cast aside his bitterness and wariness easily. They were his defenses against pain. Ilsa just wished she did not have to suffer as she struggled to prove to him that she would never hurt him.