The Laird's Choice

by Amanda Scott

  Pushing the thought from her mind, she said lightly, “Do you want to discuss habits of which you disapprove, sir, or show me this wondrous place of yours?”

  His lips twitched, but he said, “Put your breeks on, lass. But we will talk more about this.”

  Moving swiftly to obey, she fastened her belt and shifted the dirk in its leather sheath into place. Then, as she swiftly tidied her long, thick hair into two loose plaits, she said, “Did you and your father sort things out?”

  He shrugged. “If you mean did we talk about the argument, Will’s death, or my agreement to take the MacFarlan name, nay, we did not. We talked of less taxing family matters. I let him guide the conversation, because I don’t want to fratch with the man whilst Jamie needs him.”

  “The laird did not make his intentions toward Jamie clear, though, did he?”

  “Clear enough,” Mag said. “He’ll wait to discover which way the political winds blow him.”

  “But he did say he would aid my father if he could.”

  “Aye, he did say that. And he said it again after you left. Art ready to go now?” he asked as she pulled on her second boot.

  “I am, unless you truly want to cover me with a cloak.”

  “We’ll take yours along. But you needn’t wear it if you’d liefer not.”

  He led her down a service stair to the kitchen and outside by a postern door, then across a yard, through woodland, to the water. A small coble with two oars lay atilt on the shore, its mast up, its sail furled and tied to the spar. The loch was flat calm, like glass, the moon reflecting on its surface like a large pearl on black velvet.

  Mag put her cloak in the boat, eased the stern into the water, and gestured for her to get in as soon as the stern was afloat.

  “Move to the stern seat, lass.”

  The air was chilly, but he wore only the sark and breeks he had worn all day, without his plaid. The boat rocked just slightly when he got in, for he did so agilely and with economy of motion.

  Sitting on the midthwart, he took up the oars. As he rowed the boat away from shore, ripples swirled outward from it and water splashed from the oars, creating tiny ripples everywhere that opened into ever-widening circles, edged with silvery lace wherever the moonlight touched them.

  The night was so silent and the loch so still that when she heard someone talking, it startled her. Realizing that the voice came from the clachan onshore, she was astonished that it had traveled so far.

  Mag rowed efficiently, powerfully, and with steady rhythm. She soon saw that he was heading toward the islands north of Inch Galbraith. All were much larger than the islet.

  The night and the view were too perfect to spoil by talking. Also, having heard someone talking ashore made her suspect that anything she or Mag said would travel to ears beyond their own.

  Chapter 17

  They passed the low, flat, peat-moss-covered islet called Inchmoan. Two large, steeply hilled, thickly wooded islands flanked them now and, with Inchmoan behind them, formed a triangle. As they approached the Narrows, a winding stretch of placid reed-edged water that separated the two larger islands, Mag watched Andrena. The moonlight lit her face so that he could see her expression change.

  “Is that not Inchtavannach to the left of us?” she murmured.

  “Aye, the monks’ isle,” he said. “No one has inhabited it in two decades.”

  “Doubtless because, although it lies in MacFarlan territory, it also lies too near Inchconnachan, where the Colquhouns own yet another stronghold. I’d wager that Parlan fears to anger them. That is Inchconnachan on our right, is it not?”

  “It is.” He glanced over his shoulder as he rowed. “You can see, ahead of us, where Inchconnachan and Inchtavannach come so close together as to seem one.”

  Ten minutes later, he rested the oars and let the coble drift to a halt. The moon was directly overhead. Silvery ripples circled outward for a time, but mirrorlike images on the glassy water soon restored themselves.

  At first, the silence seemed all-encompassing. Then a nightjar uttered its shrill coo-ie and clapped its wings as if saying that its less nocturnal companions should wake up. The monotone whistle of an owl replied, followed shortly by its slow but querulous pwooo… pwoo… pwoo.

  Dree’s lips parted. Her eyes reflected the moonlight.

  “What do you think of this place?” he murmured.

  Andrena could scarcely breathe for a moment, let alone speak.

  Before and after the night birds’ exchange, the night was as still as could be. No breeze rustled the leaves, no water lapped the shores, and the image of the moon on the water exactly reproduced what she saw in the sky.

  Earlier, she had been able to see lofty Ben Lomond looming high above the loch in the northeastern distance. Now, with two steep-sided islands flanking them and seeming to touch noses just ahead with their overhanging dense woodland, Ben Lomond had vanished. It was as if and she and Mag had entered a magical place, the realm of fairies or other wee folk.

  Breaking the silence might destroy the magic.

  Mag smiled, and she was smiling, too. She tried to think of any other man she knew who might be affected so by such a place. She suspected that most men, even if such a place did affect them, would be unlikely to admit it.

  Magnus not only understood it but had wanted to share it… with her.

  The thought filled her soul with warmth, and in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to feel his warmth enveloping her.

  His feet flanked hers. Their knees nearly touched. She had only to reach…

  Scarcely thinking, simply acting, she did.

  His hands swallowed hers and felt as if he had warmed them by a fire. Without another word, he drew her to her feet and to him. If she spared a thought for the danger of standing up in a boat, it was fleeting. Mag would not let her fall. Nor would he let the boat tip over. She was safe with him, whatever she did.

  Without a single second of awkwardness, she found herself in his embrace. First she was hugging him and then on his lap, comfortably leaning back against him, her head against his shoulder and his arms gently holding her.

  His breath tickled her ear as he said, “We can talk if you like. The Colquhouns’ castle sits at the southwestern tip of Inchconnachan, and there is no other dwelling nearby. The islands’ woods will keep our voices between them.”

  “It feels like a cathedral here, or an abbey kirk, as if one breaks something precious when one speaks.”

  “I used to row out here when I was angry or upset and sleep overnight in the coble,” he said.

  “That must have been gey uncomfortable.”

  “Nowt o’ the sort,” he said. “If I hadn’t just stormed out of the castle in a temper, I’d bring a cloak and a pillow. So I was content enough. If it was windy and the wind came from the south, it would roar through here and drown out my thoughts. Usually, the most one hears is the rustle of leaves in a breeze.”

  “It is a splendid place.”

  “It is, aye. In winter, the south part of the loch freezes solid. One can ride a horse across it. But no one can remember this wee strait freezing over, and it isn’t deep. It just stays warmer here, though it ought not to do so. Other such sheltered places freeze even though they are much deeper.”

  “ ’Tis a magical place to be sure, then,” she said with a sigh of pleasure.

  His right hand moved to the side of her breast, idly stroking it. When her breathing turned to a little moan, the hand caressed each of her breasts more intentionally, then eased down toward her right hip and played over the deerskin breeks, coming to rest at last on the hilt of her dirk.

  She heard him chuckle low in his throat. “I must tell you that it disorders my senses to feel breeks on such a fine hip, let alone to find a blade there,” he murmured. “Why did you bring it?”

  “I always wear it when I wear my breeks. Its sheath hangs on my belt.”

  “Have you ever used it?”

  “Only to practice and s
ometimes to cut something—twigs from a branch, or a string or thong. I haven’t ever stabbed anyone, nor would I want to unless I had to.”

  “Well, I’ve more alluring things in mind now. But, it puzzles me how I’d get these breeks off you without one or the other of us—or both—taking an icy bath.”

  “I don’t want you to stop what you are doing.”

  “Nor do I want to stop. But if we go on, it will become gey awkward. So I’m thinking we’d best be getting back whilst we still can do so with dignity.”

  Although the open loch was as calm as the water in the Narrows, and the distance to Inch Galbraith the same as when they’d left, it seemed to Mag that the return trip took much longer. Andrena sat again in the stern of the boat as he rowed, and smiled at him, often seductively. His body responded with urgency every time.

  Her tawny plaits hung loosely over her shoulders, gilded by the moonlight, inviting him to undo them and stroke their silky strands. Her breasts rising and falling beneath the soft deerskin jack tempted him, too. He wanted nothing more than to peel the damnable breeks off of her right there.

  They beached at last on Inch Galbraith’s shore, and he got out quickly. Pulling the coble high onto the ground, he helped her step out and stowed the oars. Then he put an arm around her shoulders and, carrying her cloak over his other arm, sped her back through the woods to the tower.

  As they approached the postern door, he tried to imagine Hector’s face if he should see her in her breeks and boots. In troth, though, Mag rather liked them. The dirk and her habitual solitary rambles were another matter.

  Such habits could prove terrifyingly dangerous.

  When they reached their bedchamber—fortunately without meeting anyone—he shut the door quietly, tossed her cloak aside, and moved to relight candles with the flint and tinderbox on the table. Glancing at her after he lit the second candle, he saw that she had shrugged off her jack and was putting it into a kist with her other things.

  When Galbraith had said that they would sleep in the room that had been Will’s, Mag had feared that Will’s image would haunt him there. But Dree apparently had the power to banish ghosts. He could think of nowt but possessing her.

  When she straightened, he held out his arms, and she moved right into them.

  He helped her finish undressing and get into bed. Then he stripped off his clothing, snuffed the two candles, and opened a shutter to let the moonlight in before he got into bed beside her.

  As always, Mag’s presence warmed Andrena at once. When he slipped an arm beneath her shoulders and turned on his side, she saw that enough moonlight had entered the room to let her discern his features.

  His free hand touched her cheek, and he drew one finger from there down along the line of her jaw, then back to touch her lips.

  She kissed it, and as if that were signal enough for him, he shifted his hand downward and captured her mouth hard with his. Responding, she pictured the mirrorlike water of the Narrows again and the magic she had felt, just being there with him. His hands on her body felt magical, too, stirring responses wherever he touched her so that the magic seemed to spread all through her. His lips and his tongue were even more magical. Even so…

  He paused, raising his head and shifting upward to look into her eyes. “What is it, lassie?”

  “Naught,” she murmured, not only because she was sure he would think it was naught, but also because she did not want him to stop what he was doing.

  “You seemed warm at first, even eager, but then distant, as you did at Colquhoun’s tower. Have I offended you in some way that I should know?”

  She shook her head.

  “I ken fine that something is amiss. What is it?”

  “I want to sense what you are feeling when we couple,” she said, reducing the matter to as simple a statement as she could make. “You might at least tell me.”

  He did his best, but words did not fill the void she felt inside. Even when he told her how much he enjoyed stroking her silken skin or how kissing her stirred his passions, her awareness of those feelings grew no stronger.

  Unable to explain any more clearly why her inability with him was driving her daft, she exerted herself to keep him from sensing that something was still missing. Little did he know how delighted she was to see him enter a room, how safe he could make her feel, or how much his own vitality invigorated her. But those were not words she felt comfortable saying to him yet, although she had begun to care deeply for him. If only she could feel as connected to him as she did to others, she would agree with her father that Magnus was perfect for her.

  She felt guilty for worrying him and knew that in doing so, she had been unfair. He doubtless still thought he had done something to displease her, when what had displeased her was the lack in herself. Even that had changed. She did know when he was pleased with her and when he was amused. She had also, she reminded herself, sensed deeper emotions of fear and anger in him. She suspected, too, that when he had chucked Ian into the loch, she had sensed his jealousy.

  After Mag had reached his climax and fallen asleep, Andrena lay long into the night, thinking. She knew that she liked him far more than she had let him believe. As her thoughts faded at last toward sleep, she realized that it was far more than liking. As thoughtful, gentle, and kind as he had been, she was fast falling in love with him. Even so, the emotional bond that she wanted to feel with the man to whom she had given herself for a lifetime was missing.

  Awakening to dawn light in a sweat from a disturbing dream wherein he had found himself back at Arrochar, locked in a cage, while Andrena fought with her damnable dirk against Pharlain wielding a sword, Mag fought off the lingering fear he had felt and forcibly shifted his thoughts to the new day. Becoming aware of soft breathing beside him, he carefully shifted himself so he could watch Andrena sleep.

  Just watching her took his breath away and made him wonder what had spurred the capricious Fates to let the two of them meet, let alone marry.

  She was so beautiful, even with her tawny hair in a tangle and her covers in disarray. He wondered if he had done that in his sleep. He always slept warm and rarely needed more than a coverlet. Then he saw that one of her hands still clutched the quilt and knew that she had pushed the covers off herself.

  A mixture of emotions filled him, first a sense of protectiveness that wanted to cover her again against the chilly air coming through the still-open shutter. But a sense of deep desire also stirred that made him want to—

  Her eyes opened, and she looked at him as he moved closer, her lips parting just before he captured them in a kiss that should have left her in no doubt of how he felt about her. Desire surged through him but not to possess her again, not yet, and not in the way she might expect. He had shown her much and taught her much.

  But there was one thing that he had yet to reveal to her about herself.

  As his fingers, hands, and tongue moved from her lips and breasts lower to her waist and belly, and lower yet, he stilled her brief, soft protests. Tasting her, he caught one flailing hand and smiled when she relaxed and uttered no further protest. After that, he paced himself carefully, laving her most sensitive spot, giving thought only to her pleasure but, in effect, stimulating himself, too, almost beyond bearing.

  Her culmination exploded from her so powerfully that her body arced and she cried out—nay, screamed her pleasure to the winds—and immediately clapped a tremulous hand over her mouth.

  He chuckled and moved to excite her again. Her body leaped again in response, but she grabbed him by the hair with both hands, saying, “Nay, no more, I prithee. Come inside me instead.”

  Eagerly, he obeyed. And she did not mention his emotions.

  When the two of them went downstairs to break their fast and found themselves alone on the dais, Hector explained that Galbraith had gone across the water to the clachan. “He said tae tell ye he’ll return midmorning, Master Magnus. He kent fine that ye’d likely sleep late.”

  Andrena glanced
at her husband, wondering how he would respond, since Galbraith had insisted that they stay. Mag seemed to see naught amiss in his father’s absence, though. He merely thanked Hector for the information.

  But when they had finished, Mag said, “Come back upstairs with me, lass.”

  “But surely, you do not—” She stopped and felt heat surge to her cheeks.

  He smiled. “Nay, but we do have time yet before he returns, and I want to have a talk with you. We’ll be alone, so you can wear your breeks.”

  They were going outside, then. Uncertainly, she said, “Do you mean you want me to wear them?”

  “I do,” he said.

  Wary questions sped through her mind, but none made sense. Pushing them aside, she went with him to their chamber and quickly changed her clothes.

  Remembering that he had objected to her dirk the previous night, she began to slip its sheath from her belt before putting the belt on.

  “Leave it,” he said quietly.

  Something in his tone warned her that she might not like what lay ahead. But she finished dressing. When she turned toward the door, he stopped her.

  “We’ll stay here,” he said. “I want you to take your dirk from its sheath and come at me with it as you would have if one of those louts of Pharlain’s had done aught to make you unsheathe it.”

  “But I don’t want to do that,” she said. “I told you, my father taught me to use it. I could hurt you badly.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “But I want you to try. Since you like to carry it, I must know that you can defend yourself with it. I promise I won’t let you murder me. But you are welcome to try.”

  Mag saw her eyes narrow and knew she was unhappy with him. But the fact that she had worn the dirk the night before while she was safely with him, rather than take it off her belt and leave it behind, had told him that she always carried it when she wore the breeks. She had not even considered leaving it. His nightmare had only emphasized the dangers that such a habit could bring to her.