by Temple Hogan
“Good lad,” Logan said.
“We have a boiled haggis if you and the lass are hungry. Mayhap the lass needs rest before traveling on,” Jaimie suggested, eliciting a grateful smile from Cailla. He seemed a pleasant, thoughtful man as well as handsome, but she must remember he was a comrade in arms with a man hunted for murder.
She studied Logan from half shuttered eyes, searching for some weakness she might use against him. He was dour and autocratic and arrogant, his manner rough and imperious and still his men seemed to follow him willingly.
“We have no time to rest now. We’ll ride through the night,” Logan answered then cast a dubious glance at Cailla. “Can you keep up?”
“If I choose,” she retorted. “You needn’t worry. I shan’t hold you back.”
“You already have,” he answered shortly and turned away.
“Have you a horse I can ride?” Cailla inquired stiffly.
“Aye, m’lady. A rare beauty,” Jaimie said with some pride and motioned to one of the men to lead forward a familiar slender mare baring Moncrieffe livery.
“Balvenie,” Cailla cried, rushing forward to hug the sleek neck. “I missed you so,” she whispered in the mare’s ear. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Balvenie whinnied her response, her muscles quivering with excitement.
“‘Twas your mare, m’lady?” Jaimie asked in surprise.
“Aye. The Moncrieffes stole much of our cattle and livestock. My father gave me Balvenie when I was but ten summers. We were inseparable.” She could barely speak for the sobs that clogged her throat. “I feared I’d never see her again.” She stood smoothing Balvenie’s neck, cooing sweet words into her ear.
She sensed Logan watching, a look of puzzlement on his face. He turned away and gave the order to mount up. Cailla couldn’t restrain a smile as she hugged Balvenie’s neck once more. She felt as if she’d regained a bit of her home and the life she’d lost. Her legs trembled as she tried to mount, so she was unable to drag herself onto Balvenie’s back. Suddenly strong hands lifted her into the saddle. Stifling a gasp of dismay, she stared down at Logan MacPherson, the heat of his touch burning through her clothes. He returned her gaze his eyes dark and unfathomable.
“So you’ve retrieved your mare,” he observed. “At least you take something of your home with you.”
“Aye,” she acknowledged, “but do not think me satisfied when Tioram rests in the hands of my father’s enemies. One day I’ll return with enough brave men to retake my father’s lands.” Tugging at Balvenie’s reins she turned toward the trail, her shoulders stiff with resolve.
Logan mounted the beautiful white steed she’d seen him ride earlier.
“Stay close,” he ordered over his shoulder and set the pace.
Silently they moved through the forest, navigating by the stars, traveling northwest. The night air grew colder and Cailla shivered against the chill. Pausing to insure no one followed them, Logan saw the tremble of her shoulders and dropped his tartan around her.
“I will not wear the tartan of a murderer,” she whispered stubbornly although she shivered with the need for its warmth.
“Have it your way,” Logan said and rode away leaving the plaid wool draped over Balvenie’s flanks. Shivering, Cailla tried hard to ignore the length of wool, but finally gathered it close around her shoulders.
They traveled through the night, silent wraiths moving stealthily along fog shrouded trails. Only the creak of leather and an occasional thud of an iron-shod hoof against stone marked their passage. Slowly the rhythmic sway of her mount lulled Cailla into a doze. She lay along Balvenie’s neck, grasping the little mare’s mane. Still, she nearly tumbled to the ground. Logan’s arm on her elbow halted her slide. Wordlessly, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap, readjusting his tartan so she was covered from shoulder to shin.
“Nay!” she protested. “I can ride myself. I don’t need help.”
“Aye, I know your words on it, lass. But you have no choice in the matter. You’re my prisoner, remember?”
“Balvenie,” she murmured a protest.
“She’ll follow behind, never fear.”
At first she sat rigid, all too aware of the ripcord thighs beneath her soft buttocks, the implacable muscular arms enclosing her, the hateful enveloping male scent of him. She wanted to strike out at him with her fist, to deny his comfort, but the warmth of his body seduced her and she leaned against his broad chest, giving way to the fatigue that claimed her.
Logan was all too aware of the feminine bundle snuggled against him. Her glorious spice scented hair rippled over his arm and her soft buttocks were warm on his thighs. His wound ached from the contact but he made no move to shift her. Only rigid discipline kept wayward thoughts in line and his hungry body from responding to her feminine softness.
He spent most of the ride thinking of Brigida Munro who’d made it a habit to slip away from her father’s cottage to meet along the river with any young swain who caught her fancy. She was a good-humored, full-buxom lass, copiously liberal with her favors and Logan had made full use of her benevolent nature. Brigida hadn’t seemed to mind, had in fact looked forward to their trysts for Logan took pains to see to her pleasure as well as his own.
He couldn’t help the inevitable comparison between Brigida’s curvaceous womanly figure and the slimness of the girl sleeping in his arms. Bedding Cailla MacLaren would hold little comfort for a man he told himself and knew he courted a craven lie.
Just before dawn they halted in a dense grove. “Rest,” Logan told his men. He slouched in his saddle with fatigue, but still he cradled Cailla against him so she wouldn’t wake. “Keep your cook fires small. We’ll move out again at sunset. Scotty, gather some leaves and pine needles for the lady’s bed.”
The men worked quickly and efficiently. In no time a makeshift bed was made and Logan handed Cailla down to Jaimie. She sighed as they settled her on the fragrant bed of pine needles. Logan knelt to pull his tartan around her.
“Who would have thought Gowain could have whelped such a bonny lass,” Jaimie observed, watching his friend shrewdly.
“Bonny enough but with a tongue like a viper,” Logan answered and quickly rose. “Enough dawdling over her comfort. Let’s see to the horses and then to our own beds. The hours will pass quickly.”
“Aye, ‘twas a long night into day.” Jaimie agreed as they unsaddled their mounts and led them to a tiny cascading rill to water. “Did you not try to explain to the lass the traitorous nature of the men you killed?”
“She would not listen to what I had to say,” Logan said sourly.
“Didn’t you try?”
“Aye, but she’s as stubborn as she’s bonny and with Moncrieffe’s and MacAuley’s men on us like hounds on a hare, I could not take time to convince her. Now leave it, Jaimie. I care naught what she thinks of me. I but do as I pledged to Gowain.”
“Stubbornness is not only a woman’s trait.” Jaimie gave a parting shot and stalked away.
Logan knew he’d annoyed his friend. Jaimie was obviously taken by Cailla. Logan thought about calling him back and talking it out, but he had no wish to pick at a festering wound so he let it go.
To allow privacy to the lady among them, the men had rolled themselves into their plaids some distance away behind a line of pine trees and were soon asleep. They were virtually invisible to anyone who passed within a few feet of their campsite. Unwilling to leave Cailla unguarded, Logan settled on the ground near the bed of pine needles and drew himself into a ball to conserve body heat since he’d given his plaid to her. The ground was hard and the morning air still carried a chill but the rising sun would soon lend some heat he consoled himself. Then he felt the warmth of a tartan plaid settle over him. He turned to find Cailla staring down at him. Without a word she returned to her bed and lay down.
“You’ll be cold,” he said, rising to return the tartan to her.
Her eyes were enormous, glowing in the hazy dawn light.
Was she suggesting what he thought? Slowly he knelt over her. Their gazes held, then she spread the tartan for him as well and scooted to one side and turned her back. He stayed where he was for a long moment, tamping down disappointment and desire. If he’d thought to find forgiveness and understanding in Cailla’s gesture, he’d been sadly wrong. Finally, he swallowed his pride and settled with his back against hers and the tartan tucked around himself.
Sleep finally came, and for a while, there was a surcease of the misery that covered his soul. Then the dreams began, dreams of men dying, their shouts echoing in his very soul. Thrashing about, Logan called out in helpless agony and a small, steady hand was there on his shoulder. Shamed at his outburst, Logan could not face her but lay with his head buried beneath the plaid.
“You were dreaming,” she said finally, her voice soft.
“Dreams haunt every man who fought with Montrose,” he muttered. “‘Tis nothing. Go to sleep.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nay,” he said abruptly.
A pale gray light lined the edge of the world, casting the trees in dark silhouettes. Without really seeing, he stared at the quivering leaves of the aspen tree above his head.
“You have a guilty conscience for all the men you killed.” Her voice came out of the shadows, unrelenting. “You can’t be such a bad man as Lundy described.”
“If killing our enemies for the cause of our country makes us bad, then we’re all guilty of that crime,” he said gruffly. “We fought battle after battle to save Scotland, but we were betrayed in the end. We’re left with only our regrets.”
A long pause ensued and just when he thought she’d gone to sleep, her voice floated to him.
“Was it very bad?”
“Aye, lass. War scours a man’s soul.”
“I was wrong to listen to Lundy’s words and condemn you the way I did,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Her words held such warmth and understanding; he couldn’t help but turn to her. He’d thought to find her back turned to him, but she was facing him, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes wide and luminous.
“Now I see Gowain’s daughter,” he murmured.
“Aye, I am that, but for a while, I was confused about who my enemy was,” she answered softly.
He remained silent for a long moment, then he reached for her, pulling her against him. She didn’t object, neither did she respond, but her bit of kindness, the softness of her voice absolving him from his deeds, reached deep inside him to a need for absolution from someone—God, an understanding woman, himself, he couldn’t say. Now his need for the healing touch of someone who cared made him lower his head and claim her mouth.
At first the kiss was chaste, but that fire that had flared between them in the castle came to life once more and almost against his will, he deepened the kiss. His lips parted hers, his tongue swirled into the honeyed recesses beyond, and he tasted like a man long parched. She remained still within his grasp, then something stirred her and she opened her mouth farther, her tongue darting to touch his, and all passivity melted from her. She arched her body toward his and he seized her capitulation to drag her closer until her breasts, soft and pliable, were flattened against his chest. His cock stirred and hardened. He knew she felt it against her belly, but she didn’t draw away.
Ravaging her mouth, he lowered his arm and flattened the palm of his hand against her buttocks, tugging her more tightly against him, twisting his hips so she could feel his hardened penis rake against her mound. He heard her gasp, whether of protest or dismay, he wasn’t certain, but she still made no move to pull away from him. He ended the kiss with her lips still clinging to his and lowered his head to skim damp hungry kisses over her jaw, down the column of her throat. The rounded neckline of the guard’s uniform stopped him before he could reach the sweet curves of her breasts.
“Take off your shirt,” he growled then kissed her again.
She was hot and trembling, answering his kiss ardently if a bit clumsily. She was defenseless against him, he realized, but she seemed only too willing and it had been too long since he’d held a woman in his arms. He salved his conscience with the reminder she was his promised bride. To take her like this in a field like a common maid was not so dishonorable. Many marriages had started in just this way, without benefit of a clergy’s words, but with a consummation of marital rights. The clergy’s blessing would come later when one was found. Such country marriages were not looked down on.
Cailla whimpered, her kisses as passionate and demanding as his own. He pulled her upright and helped her remove the guard’s shirt. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her breasts, a beautiful virtuous maiden captured in the soft hazy light. Chest rising and falling with each breath, she looked at him with wide darkened eyes, then slowly without breaking their gaze and with a simplistic surrendering that sent his blood roaring through his loins, she lowered her arms to her lap and waited. His gaze moved downward, taking in the beautiful curves of her body. He brushed a kiss over each nipple. Instantly, they puckered and she drew a breath and raised her face to the fog shrouded sky, arching her back slightly, swaying like a tender willow sapling.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, “and this day I take you as my bride in the sight of God.”
He pulled her against him, capturing her hot, eager mouth in a kiss that left them both breathless. Her hands plucked at his rags, pushing them away until his body was revealed, all of it. He shucked her britches over her long legs and paused to admire her beauty. They sat studying each other. She was as frank in her appraisal as he. Perhaps she wasn’t virgin, he thought briefly and realized it didn’t matter at this moment. He wanted her as she was.
She touched his hard, elongated penis, not the actions of a virgin, but the very boldness aroused him even further. He drew a sharp breath and closed his arms around her. He wanted to take his time with her, to lead her along a path of sensuous pleasure that would erase all memory of any other man, but his need was too great and she showed a passionate eagerness that further enflamed him. He lowered his head and kissed her breasts. She gasped and writhed in the throes of erotic heat.
He suckled until he could no longer bear the pain in his cock. He needed to sheath himself inside her. She lay back on the tartan, her head rolling from side to side in blind ecstasy. He rose above her, raising her slender tapering legs high, bending her knees, opening her. His fingers brushed across her clitoris and she cried out, a wild, joyous keening sound that echoed deep in his soul.
Lowering himself to her, he pushed himself into the moist heat of her, feeling the rippling folds of flesh close around him. He pushed harder, burying himself in the core of her. He felt a moment of resistance. She stiffened and threw her arms around his neck, drawing him closer, tighter and he went deeper and felt her muscles contract against him. He shuddered, trying to wait, trying to make sure she was satisfied too, but his resolve failed him.
He pumped against her with a wild rhythm that made no allowances for subtlety and tenderness. She met him stroke for stroke, each movement striving toward a climatic end that would finally free them from this sexual need that bordered on torment. When their release came, they were together, gasping and quivering in their aftermath, until the final ripple of desire had passed from them and they lay breathing deeply until they fell asleep. His last thought before fatigue claimed him, was that she’d been a virgin after all. He tightened his hold around her waist.
When he woke, full daylight lay about them. Beyond the line of trees, men stirred, horses stomped with impatience and subdued voices could be heard. Logan raised his head and looked at Cailla. Her head rested on his shoulder and she was still asleep. Delicate smudges lay beneath her eyes, making her skin appear paler. Fine brows drew downward as she stirred and opened her eyes. Her gaze met his and held.
“It’s time to go,�
� he said softly. “You need to get dressed.”
She shot up and looked around, clutching his tartan to her chest. She looked at their clothes scattered about and turned accusing eyes to him.
“You tricked me,” she said.
Chapter Seven
“You tricked me,” she repeated, her voice rising.
“I think not, m’lady,” he said, taken aback. “You were a full participant in the morning’s activities.”
“I never was,” she declared. “I…I never meant to be. I was only trying to be kind.”
“You truly were,” he said and couldn’t control a grin.
“Oh, and now you mock me for your deed.”
“Our deed,” he reminded her. “I did not take you against your will.”
“I had no will. I was a virgin.” A sob caught on the last word.
“Aye, and for that I’m sorry I didn’t take more time to see to your pleasure, but you seemed as satisfied as I. The next time, I’ll do it right.”
“There will be no next time,” she cried, drawing herself up so that the tartan slipped and he was provided with a brief tantalizing glimpse of a pale, rounded breast with a pink rosette nipple. Instantly, his mouth watered, until the meaning of her words broke through his desire.
“Madam, you are now my wife,” he reminded her.
“I’ve said no words of such,” she snapped at him. “Nor will I ever. You are an unscrupulous man who took advantage of my wish to give comfort.”
“You have no need to say the marriage vows to become my bride,” he reminded her. “Many a lad and lass do it this way until a cleric comes to say the proper vows. We are man and wife.”
“Never! It doesn’t count. You took me against my will.”
“That’s a lie and well you know it, Cailla. As for the comfort you gave, you took willingly of your own comfort.”
“How dare you!”
“As your husband, I dare. Now rise and dress before my men see you thus.”
Turning he stalked away, angry with himself and with her. If he’d thought to find her soft and malleable with the morning, he’d been wrong. But deny their time together as she might try, he remembered her acquiescence, nay her wholehearted participation in their lovemaking. There’d be no denying her way out of this or out of the fact she was now his bride in all ways.