Highland Groom

by Hannah Howell

  Diarmot groaned, slumped in his seat, and rubbed his hands over his face. He had been studying Anabelle’s writings for most of the day, taking a respite only when something else required his attention. Although reluctant to do so, he had returned to the chore soon after the evening meal. Now he felt only sickened by it all, sickened by Anabelle, and sickened by the fact that he could have been so blinded by her beauty when he married her. Worse, it was beginning to look as if he had suffered for naught for he had found nothing.

  He had realized a few things about his late wife that he had not seen in the first readings he had done, when his mind and his heart had been clouded by anger and hurt. Anabelle had loathed men. She had seen them as sad, pathetic brutes who could be led around by their privates. The way she wrote about the far-too-numerous sexual romps she had indulged in made them all sound like some battle with her as the victor. In some ways, she sounded akin to the worst of callous seducers, men who used women and found satisfaction in the number of women they could lure into their beds, more than in the women themselves.

  The reason he had gone to Dubhleidland, to that area, was in these writings. Diarmot could not shake the feeling despite the fact that all he had gained so far was a painful headache. That was not quite true, he mused, as he stared at the journals. He had discovered one thing, something that mattered only to him. It did not hurt anymore.

  Anabelle was gone from his heart, her grip on his mind and pride broken. When he read her words, it was as if he read about a stranger. In most ways, she had been a stranger to him. The Anabelle he had married had been only a chimera created by a mind besotted by her beauty and drunk with lust. The scorn she had heaped upon him in her writings no longer stung for he realized it was no more than the scorn she felt for all men. She had not known him any better than he had known her.

  A soft rap at the door distracted him and he bade the person to enter. His eyes widened slightly when Ilsa slipped into the room. In the four days since she had overheard his crude words to Nanty he had seen little of her. Diarmot knew he should apologize for that remark, yet he hesitated. He recalled a great deal about their time together a year ago, but still fought against giving her the trust he had given her then. The attack in Muirladen had beaten it out of him and rereading Anabelle’s journals had sharply reminded him that his judgment was not always sound.

  As she approached him, he knew he was willing to accept one thing about their relationship without hesitation or question, and that was the passion they shared. Now that they had both apparently healed from their ordeal at the ridge, he wanted her back in his arms. Since Ilsa had sought him out, perhaps she was ready to return to his bed. He had missed her at his side and, after reading Anabelle’s dark, sordid writings, Diarmot realized he hungered for the clean honesty of Ilsa’s passion.

  “What has kept ye hiding in here all the day and into the night?” she asked as she reached his side.

  “My late wife’s writings,” he replied. “I cannae shake the feeling that something I read here sent me hieing off to Dubheidland or someplace near there.”

  “Ye cannae recall the reason yet?”

  “Nay, that memory hasnae returned yet. Tis there, but tis just out of my reach.” He watched her pale slightly as she read from the journal open on the table. “Ye dinnae wish to see that filth,” he said and closed the book.

  Ilsa looked at Diarmot as she pushed aside her shock over what she had just read. “Ye didnae find anything?”

  He shook his head, curled his arm around her waist, and tugged her down onto his lap. “Naught.”

  “Should I read them for ye?”

  “They arenae easy reading, Ilsa, and are filled with the same sort of sordid rantings ye just read.”

  “Nay doubt, but I believe I can endure it. I didnae ken Anabelle, have only heard about her. I was ne’er wronged by her so I can read what she wrote without hurt, anger, or any other emotion. Aye, I suspect I will be shocked, but that will fade. I am also a woman and may see something ye, as a mon, cannae see.”

  “Words are read the same way by men and women.”

  “Aye, but the meaning of them can differ, each one who reads the words understanding something different from them. Believe me when I tell ye that a woman can write or say something that will mean one thing to a mon and something verra different to a woman. Howbeit, if ye would rather I didnae—”

  “Nay, read them. Ye are right. E’en if there arenae any odd messages that I didnae catch, I am still missing whate’er I saw there before. Ye might find that answer.”

  “Are these all of them?”

  “Nay, there are more, but they are from years past. The woman spent a small fortune on these books to record her rantings.” He kissed her ear, felt her shiver, and nearly grinned.

  “Did ye read those, too?” She leaned back against him and murmured her pleasure as he nibbled her ear.

  “Aye, when I first found them, but I felt those from later years, from our marriage, held the answers I seek.”

  “Mayhap, but it may weel be that there was something in those earlier ones that at least made ye curious.”

  Diarmot softly cursed, set her on her feet, and moved to fetch those early journals from the shelf where he had stored them. He briefly thought he should read them, that he might find the answer he sought and save Ilsa from having to read Anabelle’s rantings, then shook his head. Ilsa was right in saying a woman, one who had never met or been wronged by Anabelle, could read the journals with the cold eye of a stranger. He set the older journals on top of the newer ones, picked up the whole pile, and looked at Ilsa.

  “Is this why ye sought me out?” he asked, hoping it was not.

  “Nay, I came to tell ye that I have moved back into your bedchamber.”

  She sounded almost martyred, he mused, and nearly grinned. “Our bedchamber. Good, tis where ye belong,” he said as he turned and headed out of the room. “Snuff the candles and bank the fire ere ye leave.”

  Ilsa wished he had not taken the journals because she would like to toss a few at his head. She sighed and began to do as he had ordered. After she had sulked for a day or two, she had sternly lectured herself. Diarmot had begun to remember their time together. Wariness still lingered for there had been two attempts to kill him since their handfasting, and her mind could accept that as reasonable even as her heart ached. That wariness would never be banished if she avoided him, however. He remembered that they had handfasted, remembered they had been lovers, and it was up to her to try to make him remember why. She could not be certain he had loved her, but she knew she had made him happy, that he had felt at peace with her. It would be impossible to remind him of all that from across the hall.

  The man was a basketful of contradictions, she decided as she headed toward their bedchamber. He held her at some distance, yet obviously wanted her in his bed. He wondered if she might be a threat to him, yet held her close at night and accepted her as mother to his children. He was suspicious of her brothers, yet let them run tame over Clachthrom and appeared to accept their hunt for his enemy as genuine. As she opened the door to their bedchamber, Ilsa wondered if the man was aware of just how confused he was, then she stepped into the bedchamber and lost all track of her thoughts.

  Diarmot was sprawled upon their bed wearing nothing more than a smile. She could see the lingering bruises and small, mostly healed, wounds he had suffered. She could also see the stout proof that he was healed enough to feel very randy indeed. Ilsa closed the bedchamber door and walked over to the bed.

  “Impressive,” she murmured.

  “Thank ye, m’dear.” He scowled when she turned and walked away. “Where are ye going?”

  “Did ye expect me to start tearing my clothes off in a fit of unbridled lust?” she asked as she stepped behind the privacy screen and finally gave in to the urge to grin.

  “That would have been satisfactory.”

  “For ye, nay doubt, but I am rather fond of this gown. And I have seen it al
l before, after all.”

  She struggled to muffle her giggle when he grunted in response to that idle disregard of his charms. In the smile he had given her as she had entered their bedchamber Ilsa had seen the ghost of the playful Diarmot she had once known. That made her feel even more certain of her decision. This time there might be only a glimpse of the man she had loved, only a brief return to the joy she had once known, but she was sure there would be other times, that little by little the Diarmot who had so beguiled her a year ago would return.

  Ilsa hurried to shed her clothes and wash. She brushed out her hair then donned the lace-trimmed night shift she had made from the fine blue linen she had bought. The way Diarmot watched her as she walked back toward the bed told her she had not been foolishly vain to think it flattered her.

  “Verra fetching,” Diarmot murmured. “In truth, there is only one thing I might suggest to make it look even more fetching.”

  “Oh? And what would that be?”

  “Drop it on the floor.”

  She could tell by the challenge in his gaze that he did not think she would do it. A pinch of the modesty she could not fully shake free of caused her to hesitate, but she pushed it aside. This would be their first night together since his memory had begun to return. It was the perfect time to be bold. Ilsa gave him a faint smile and slowly removed her night shift. Still smiling, she held it out at arm’s length and dropped it.

  “There. Ye think it looks more fetching now?” She noticed he was not looking at her night shift.

  “Oh, aye.” Diarmot reached for her and cursed softly when she eluded his grasp. “Now where are ye going?”

  “Nay to the great hall to pour wine, that is for certain. I thought I had best bank the fire.”

  “Tis fine. Come back here and tend to this fire instead.”

  Ilsa moved to the foot of the bed, climbed up on it, and began to crawl toward him on her hands and knees. “There is a fire here that needs banking, is there?” She reached his legs and moved up them slowly, kissing and stroking every strong inch of them with her hands, her lips, and her tongue.

  “Och, aye, and tis getting hotter every minute.”

  Diarmot wondered if she had any idea of how sensuous she was. The way she had crawled up the bed, every move of her strong, slender body holding invitation and promise had been a pleasure to watch. The look upon her face, the tempting curve of her smile, and the heat in her gaze had made his passion soar. The way her long, bright hair had swirled around her had simply been the coup de grace. She enthralled him and he knew that should worry him, but it did not. Instead he sprawled there, savoring the feel of her small hands, the heat of her mouth and tongue, and the silken caress of her hair as she inched her way up his legs.

  His whole body shook with pleasure when she began to use that clever tongue on his manhood. When the moist heat of her mouth enclosed him, he propped himself up on one elbow, and brushed her hair aside with his other hand, needing to see as well as feel her gift him with this delight. Despite all his efforts to cling to some control, to make it last, it was not long before he knew he needed to be inside her. He sat up, grasped her under her arms, and set her astride him. Although he had done nothing to prepare her, he felt only the hot damp of welcome as he entered her, and he groaned at this proof that she could be so stirred by pleasuring him. She moved upon him with a natural skill and a sweet greed that made him tremble, and he gave himself over completely to their passion.

  Ilsa roused herself from a sated doze and felt the first tickle of embarrassment. Returning from the delicious oblivion Diarmot could send her to and finding herself sprawled in his arms was not so strange. It was recalling how she had behaved that made her uneasy. Such wanton behavior might not be the best way to win a wary man’s trust, especially when that man had been wed to a woman like Anabelle. She eased herself off him, glanced at his face, and caught him frowning at her.

  “Ye do that verra weel,” he muttered.

  Sometimes, Ilsa mused, there was no joy in being right. “What? Moving?”

  “Ye ken what I mean.”

  “Aye, I am afraid I do.” She leaned over him, picked up her night shift from the floor, and yanked it on over her head. “Ye want to ken how many men I have done that to. I couldnae possibly have simply thought to do to ye what ye have done to me. Och, nay. That would be too simple. There must be more to it. Nay, it couldnae be that there isnae any great trick to it that I can see, either.” She got out of bed and went behind the privacy screen. “Just stroke, kiss, lick, and stick it in your mouth. As long as ye dinnae scream in pain or start bleeding, tis being done right.”

  Diarmot had to choke back a laugh. Ilsa was so angry he doubted she realized half of what she was saying, would probably shock herself if she did. Now she was just muttering. He suspected it was a good thing he could not understand what she was saying now for it would either insult him or make him laugh. She had a right to be angry for his remarks had been both unkind and unwarranted, but she was a delight to listen to when she was ranting. All his amusement faded when she came out from behind the privacy screen and walked toward the door.

  “Where are ye going?” he demanded, thinking he was getting sick of asking that.

  “To the room across the hall,” she replied. “I willnae stay here—”

  She screeched softly when Diarmot was suddenly there by her side. He picked her up and carried her back to the bed. Before she could protest, he had them back in bed with her tucked up against him and was pulling the covers over them.

  “This is where ye belong,” he said, adjusting her a little in his arms so that her firm little backside was nestled comfortably against his groin.

  “Ye are a verra confusing mon,” she said. “All welcome one moment, then a strong right to the jaw.”

  “If it confuses ye, try to imagine how it all seems to me at times.”

  Ilsa winced slightly, recognizing the truth of his words. Diarmot was clever enough to know he was behaving in a very odd way at times, being contradictory in his feelings, words, and actions. To have such large gaps in one’s memory had to leave him feeling lost, uncertain. She suspected having some of the memories return, but not being able to grab hold of all of them was not much better. It did not excuse his unkind words, but she also suspected that Diarmot openly admitting to his own turmoil was as close to an apology as he would get.

  “Are ye trying to tug at my sympathy?” she asked.

  “Will that get ye to take your shift off?”

  “Nay. If I cannae go away and sulk, then I am keeping my shift on.”

  “Fair enough.” Diarmot kissed the top of her head and decided not to argue. Ilsa slept soundly. He would just wait until she fell asleep and take her shift off later.

  “Poison?”

  Margaret glared at the man. “Aye, poison.”

  “What am I to do with this?”

  She bit back the urge to tell him to drink it and paced the small cottage in an attempt to calm herself. Her gaze passed over the tiny bed where she had just serviced the oaf, the remembered feel of the straw mattress and rough woolen blanket still making her itch. She wanted to leave, to return to her cousin’s home and wash the stink of the man from her body. After taking a few breaths to quiet the rage that was becoming harder to control, she faced the man again.

  “Put it in her drink or her food.”

  “I dinnae serve her.”

  “Wait until she has been busy at some chore for several hours, then bring her some wine and, mayhap, something to eat. Tell her her husband sent it.”

  “That may work. Why her? I thought ye wished the laird dead.”

  “I do, but that isnae being accomplished, is it? Mayhap, if another of his wives dies, he will be seen as the murderer he is and will be hanged. It willnae be as satisfying, but twill serve. If not, he will be a widower again, and I can marry him. Then I will be able to deal with this myself as I had planned to ere that red-haired slut interfered.”

 
“I am nay sure ye will be able to. They say his memory begins to return.”

  “Then ye had best succeed at this so that I can get close to the laird again. We dinnae want him wandering back to Muirladen, do we. If he does regain all of his memory, ye and I could find ourselves in a great deal of trouble.”

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Ilsa grimaced and rubbed at the ache in her back. She had been studying Anabelle’s journals since right after breaking her fast and it was now late in the afternoon. A brief time spent with the children as she nursed Cearnach had been her only respite. She was tired and somewhat disheartened. She also felt battered by all she had read.

  Fraser had said Anabelle was a troubled woman. That was far too gentle a word for the woman she had found in these journals. If there had been a time in Anabelle’s life when she had not been filled with anger and hatred, it had been before she had begun her journals. Anabelle had scorned and ridiculed everyone.

  Not quite everyone, Ilsa thought, as she glanced over the entry she had just read. Whoever her Precious Love was had been spared for most of the time. Every now and then Precious Love had obviously misbehaved and Anabelle had been scathing in her denunciation, ranting about betrayals and a need for vengeance. Then Precious Love would be forgiven, even though, in Ilsa’s opinion, that had not been a very good thing for Precious Love. Anabelle’s love appeared to have been a dominating, all-consuming thing. It had demanded complete subjugation, blind adoration, and unwavering obedience. Ilsa had to wonder about the sanity of any person who would endure that for so many years.

  She gasped and sat up straight, feeling the thrill of discovery. Precious Love was the only person mentioned with any consistency through the years. Others, such as Diarmot and Fraser, were mentioned more often than others, but none had the constancy of Precious Love. That annoying name had been sprinkled throughout every journal. Whoever it was had obviously been an integral part of Anabelle’s life.

  Just as she started to glance through the journals to confirm her observation, Ilsa was distracted by Geordie’s entrance into her solar. It annoyed her a little that he had not asked permission to come in, but she scolded herself for that unwarranted irritation. She had left the door open partway so that she could hear if any of the children cried or called to her. Geordie had obviously thought that meant anyone was free to come and go. She smiled at him as he set a tray of wine and sweetened oatcakes down on her table.