Highland Groom

by Hannah Howell

  “Hush, Ilsa, twill be alright,” he said.

  “Nay, it willnae.” She held herself stiff for a moment, then wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his chest. “I am a coward, a puling weakling.” Although her crying had eased a little, she felt drained.

  “Ye are one of the strongest women I have e’er met.”

  “Och, nay. I ran away. I ran away because ye were stirring it all up again and it terrified me.”

  “What was I stirring all up?”

  “All that love and faith I had, all that I had given ye so long ago. I thought it was what I wanted, but I didnae. I cannae bear it,” she said, fighting the urge to start wailing all over again. “It hurt so much when ye didnae come back for me.”

  “Ah, Ilsa, I wish I could change that, but I cannae.”

  “I ken it. But, dinnae ye see? I put it all away, buried it, locked it up. When I came to Clachthrom I realized I had let it slip free a wee bit and there was all that pain again for ye didnae want me, didnae remember me. And, now, ye are plucking at it again and I cannae seem to keep it all locked away.”

  “Ilsa, my sweet, what makes ye think I dinnae love ye?” He felt her grow tense in his arms.

  Ilsa wondered if all her crying had rattled her wits. “I beg your pardon?”

  Diarmot gently cupped her small face in his hands and turned it up to his. “I love ye.” For one minute the look upon her face was one of a gratifying wonder and delight, but then she scowled at him.

  “Ye couldnae mention that ere now? Ye couldnae have said it ere ye left me o’er a year ago or when ye suddenly remembered it? Mayhap say it as ye gave me flowers or that wee ring or e’en whilst we made love?”

  “Ah, weel, I wasnae sure until I saw Margaret trying to run a sword through ye.”

  Ilsa nearly gaped at him. She stepped back and furiously rubbed the tears from her face with her hands. It was not the fact that he had been so slow to know he loved her that upset her. She knew men could be very slow to grasp such an important fact. It was that he had known for two or three days, but had said nothing.

  “If ye had said that but once, I wouldnae have been going near mad with wondering, fretting about what I could or couldnae do, or what I wanted or didnae want.”

  Diarmot quickly pulled her back into his arms and kissed her. “I wanted to woo ye, to soothe some of the wounds I ken I had inflicted.” He kissed the hollow by her ear. “I remembered ye telling me ye loved me and was trying to woo ye into saying it again.” He traced the delicate curve of her ear with his tongue, felt her shiver, and relaxed. “Ye can say it now.”

  “Say what?”

  “Ilsa,” he growled softly against the side of her neck.

  “I think I might just wait as long as ye did ere I tell ye.”

  “Two or three days?”

  “Nay, about fifteen months.” She smiled sweetly when he looked at her. “Ye cannae force such words, ye ken.”

  “Nay?” He picked her up in his arms and headed for her bedchamber. “We shall see. I suspect I can make ye say it.”

  Obviously, he could, Ilsa thought as she lay sprawled on top of him, struggling to recover from their lovemaking. She had known what he would do once she had thrown him such a challenge, and was glad he had not surprised her this time. There had been a touch of resentment in her heart as she had thought of all she had suffered for the want of three little words. Passion had burned it away. Passion had also made it easy for her to cast off those last shields around her heart.

  She murmured a protest when he nudged her onto her side and got out of bed. A minute later, she blushed as he cleaned away the remnants of their lovemaking. When he climbed back into bed and pulled her back into his arms, she went willingly, Ilsa rested her cheek against his chest and began to idly trace his ribs with her fingers.

  “When did ye suspect ye might love me?” she asked.

  Diarmot absently stroked her back. “When I stood in that copse where we had first made love. I confess I didnae think of love, except that I could almost hear ye say it and I wanted to hear ye say it again as ye just did. Three times.” He smiled fleetingly when she lightly pinched him. “What I remembered was the passion, the sweet ferocity, and the peace I felt.”

  “The peace?” Ilsa had thought she had brought him some peace back then, but had recently begun to have doubts.

  “Aye, the peace. It had been a long time since I had felt at peace. I had ceased to reach for it in a woman’s arms almost a year before I met ye. Your cousins were wrong about the maid at the alehouse,” he hastened to say when she started to speak. “Aye, she was giving me inviting smiles and I did wonder on accepting, but had decided it would be a waste of precious coin. In truth, one reason I had decided to marry Margaret was because I had been celibate for a year. Couldnae understand why. I think a part of me did remember ye. That was the trouble. I was verra reluctant. I also kept feeling it was wrong to marry Margaret and the nearer the wedding day drew, the stronger those feelings grew. Then there were those dreams.”

  “What dreams?” Ilsa began to kiss his chest.

  “I kept having dreams about an angry redheaded elf surrounded by a horde of fiery demons.” He smiled when she collapsed against his chest, giggling.

  “So, a part of ye did remember me and my family.” She started to kiss her way down his chest.

  “Aye. Ye proved a sore trial to me.”

  “Good.” She lightly nipped his taut stomach.

  Diarmot laughed. “I had to keep reminding myself that I must nay trust ye, that ye were the only true suspect I had, the only one who would gain from my death.”

  She could hear the regret in his voice. “I didnae like how ye mistrusted me and, aye, it hurt, but I did understand.”

  “Ye accepted it.”

  “Aye, I accepted it.”

  “As ye accepted my six children, some of who might nay e’en be mine?”

  Ilsa looked at him even as she caressed his strong thighs. “They are your bairns. Just because your seed made them doesnae mean they must look just like ye. Many of them do. Odo has your eyes, as does Ewart. Ivy has the look of a MacEnroy, and Alice and Gregor have hair verra much like yours. But, e’en if your seed didnae make them all, they are all your bairns. Ye are Papa. I wasnae just giving them soothing words when I told them a family doesnae have to be one of blood. It can be one of heart, soul, and mind.”

  “They do feel like my bairns.” The last word came out as something perilously close to a squeak as Ilsa curled her fingers around his staff.

  “And how does this feel?” she asked as she stroked his staff and kissed his thighs.

  “Like more.”

  A heartbeat later she gave him more. He closed his eyes and savored the feel of her lips and tongue as the heat of them replaced the soft caress of her fingers. When she took him into her mouth, he thought he could have the strength to enjoy that pleasure for longer than he had yet been able to since they had so recently made love. He soon realized he was wrong, that his emotions were still too high, feeding and strengthening his need for her.

  Diarmot caught her up under her arms and gently tossed her onto her back. He gave her a grin that made her eyes widen as she recognized the passionate threat he silently made. Then, pulling forth every ounce of willpower he had to rein in his need to join with her, he did his very best to drive his wife wild with need.

  Much later, as he roused himself from a thoroughly sated doze in Ilsa’s slim arms, Diarmot raised himself up on his elbows and looked at her. He grinned. Ilsa looked beautifully ravished and utterly exhausted. He silently patted himself on the back as he brushed a kiss over her lips. Then he moved off of her, lay down on his side next to her, and tugged her into his arms. Once he got her settled with her back pressed close to his front, he kissed the top of her head, and closed his eyes. At last, his sense of peace, of quiet joy and satisfaction was back, and he reveled in it.

  The thumping noise dragged Diarmot from his sl
eep and, after a moment of confusion, he realized someone was banging on the door of the cottage. Pulling away from a still sleeping Ilsa, he got up and donned his braies. It was undoubtedly one of her massive family, he thought crossly. As he hurried down the steps, he realized it was barely past the dawning hour and he felt a tickle of unease. Throwing open the door, he stared sleepily at Odo, noticing an equally sleepy Liam slumped against the side of the cottage.

  “Odo, what are ye doing here?” he asked.

  “I came to see if ye made a mistake,” Odo replied, then frowned. “Where are your clothes?”

  “Somewhere in the bedchamber. Odo, everything is fine.”

  “Ye didnae say anything stupid?”

  “Och, I suspect I did and so did your mother, but everything is fine now.”

  “So she will be coming back to Clachthrom with us?” he asked, a hint of trepidation in his voice.

  “Aye.” He lightly tousled the boy’s dark curls. “She will be returning with us. On the morrow. So, ye can have a fine visit with all your new uncles and cousins. Your mother and I will come up to the keep later.”

  “May we go back and get something to eat now?” Liam asked Odo.

  “Aye.” Odo let Liam take him by the hand, then grinned at Diarmot. “Now ye can start making me some more brothers.”

  “I shall do my best.”

  “We need nine.”

  “Nine?”

  “Aye, so I can have more brothers than Fergus.”

  “Of course.”

  Diarmot shut the door on a grinning Liam, then grinned himself as he started back to bed. He had tossed aside his braies and was just crawling back into bed, when Ilsa turned to look at him. She looked adorable when she was half asleep, he mused, and gave her a brief kiss.

  “Did I hear someone at the door?” she asked as he pulled her into his arms.

  “Aye, twas Odo,” he replied and nibbled at her ear.

  “Odo came here from the keep all alone?”

  “Nay, Liam was with him.”

  “But,” she glanced out the window, “tis barely dawn.”

  “Odo was anxious to make sure I hadnae said anything stupid.” He smiled against her throat when she laughed. “And, once assured all was weel, he asked for some more brothers.”

  There was a strong hint of laughter in his voice which made Ilsa very suspicious. “How many?”

  “Nine. He wants more than Fergus has.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  EPILOGUE

  Nine months later

  “There is an army of redheads approaching your walls,” announced Nanty as he strode into the great hall.

  Diarmot stopped pacing, his four oldest sons doing the same, causing the still-new-to-walking Finlay and Cearnach to walk into them. As Diarmot untangled the boys, he frowned at Nanty. “How the devil did they ken it was today?”

  “Mayhap they simply felt it had to be soon.”

  “Ah, that could be it.” He started to pace the room again.

  Nanty watched Diarmot and the six little boys for a moment, then laughed and shook his head. “What are ye doing?”

  “Pacing,” said Diarmot.

  “Aye, pacing,” said Odo. “Fraser said men pace when women have bairns. She is helping Mama and sent us down here to pace with Papa.”

  “Ivy and Alice arenae allowed to pace?” asked Nanty.

  “Nay, Glenda says ladies sit and sew and tell each other it willnae be long now.”

  Diarmot gave his brother a disgusted look when Nanty started to laugh so hard he had to sit down. He was about to scold him when the horde of Camerons entered the great hall led by Sigimor. Sigimor quickly decided simply pacing was not manly enough and started drinking. Diarmot was glad of the diversion, even if it was not quite enough to keep all of his thoughts off Ilsa. He wanted the birthing done, wanted to see her safe and well, their child in her arms.

  The thought had barely finished crossing his mind when Glenda appeared in the doorway and cried, Tis a lass!”

  Chaos was the only word for what ensued. Diarmot found himself squeezed out of his own bedchamber as it filled up with huge redheaded Camerons and eight excited children. Then Glenda and Fraser, who had been nudged out of the room as well, grinned at him. He watched in amazement as the two women cleared the room with a judicious application of elbows and equally sharp words. He was stunned when he suddenly found himself in his bedchamber, alone with his wife and new daughter.

  “Come see the lass, Diarmot,” said Ilsa.

  Diarmot just reached the side of the bed when Odo appeared on the other side. He sat down on the side of the bed with a sigh. “Odo, why are ye still here?”

  Odo peered at his new sister for a moment, then patted Ilsa on the hand. “Tis a fine bairn e’en if tis a lass,” he said and started for the door. “I am sure ye will do better next time.”

  “How can ye laugh?” Diarmot said after Odo was gone and he looked at a giggling Ilsa.

  “How can I not?”

  “He spends too much time with Sigimor,” Diarmot said as he studied the tiny babe she held in the crook of her arm.

  Ilsa grasped him by the belt buckle she had finally given him, presenting it on the morning after they had both confessed their love, and tugged him close. “Dinnae fear. I willnae be giving ye one of these each year.”

  He smiled and kissed her. “I will welcome whate’er comes. Just remember that I want ye more.”

  “I want to be sure to stay here and let ye want me until we are both too old to see each other even when we are in the same bed.”

  Diarmot laughed as he sprawled on his side next to her, and reached over to stroke the baby’s soft cheek. “Weelcome, little one.” He kissed Ilsa’s cheek. “I love ye.”

  “And I love ye.”

  “She is going to be unbearably spoiled, ye ken.”

  “With so many uncles and brothers, how could it be elsewise.”

  “What shall we name her?”

  “Peace.”

  Diarmot looked at the newest addition to his family, thought of the horde down in the great hall, and grinned. “Aye, Peace. Whene’er I look upon her, I shall remember that, no matter what chaos surrounds us, we can find that sweet, comforting peace with each other.”

  “Aye, my braw knight, always and forever.”

  “Always and forever.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Hannah Howell is an award-winning author who lives with her family in Massachusetts. She is the author of nineteen Zebra historical romances. Hannah loves hearing from readers and you may write to her c/o Zebra Books. Please include a self-addressed stamped envelope if you wish a response.