by Paula Quinn
Malcolm wasn’t about to refuse her anything. He would have given her his life.
Cailean was eager to get to Alison, who was waiting, hidden in the stable with Brianne and the others, but he led Malcolm to Sebastian first. Emma had wrapped his wound tightly to stop the bleeding. He was still conscious and when he saw Malcolm, he asked if Oliver still lived.
Reassured, he allowed Malcolm to help him to his feet and then under his arm to aid him with moving forward.
With Sebastian’s feet just hitting the ground and the force in his command to the rest of Castle Keep’s men, warning them not to attack, Malcolm and the others hurried toward the stable to gather the other and ready their horses.
They made it about halfway when Alison, seeing Cailean safe and sound, ran from the structure, ready to leap into his arms.
No one was prepared for the shot that rang out. They all startled in their skin and hit the ground. Malcolm shouted orders to Cailean and Gunter, but the former had fallen to his knees with Alison limp in his arms.
“M’ love, och, m’ love, please hold on.”
Alison closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Cailean,” she whispered before she took her last breath.
Standing to his feet, despite the danger of getting shot next, Malcolm watched in horror as sweet Alison left them.
“Someone had to pay for Andrew, Grant!” The baron’s voice called out from about fifty yards away. “The redhead started it all!”
Malcolm didn’t reply but sprang forward and sprinted, sword drawn, to Winther.
Seeing such fury come at him, the baron tried to load his pistol in time, but finally gave up and threw it to the side. He unsheathed his sword just in time to slide and screech against Malcolm’s.
They fought for a time, with Winther once again proving his skill, but this time, Malcolm bested his every move. He parried and jabbed, sliced and slashed at the man who killed Alison and Bess. Malcolm thought of their faces as he fought, and they gave him new strength, superior skill. The baron blocked many of his attacks but the edge of Malcolm’s blade caught him about the face and body a few times, spilling his blood, making him weary. He heard a terrible sound behind him, like a growl rolling in thunder. He turned to see Cailean running toward them and managed to step aside just in time to avoid being cut in half by his brother’s blade.
Oliver Winther wasn’t so fortunate.
Chapter Forty
She’ll sleep for a few hours,” Emma told Malcolm when she stepped out of the room Sam Fletcher’s wife, Constance, had prepared for Leslie. “The wound is closing nicely.”
Malcolm drew her under his arm and kissed her head. “That’s good news, m’ love. And Sebastian?”
Young Fletcher had received a nasty wound from his brother’s sword in the halls of Castle Keep. But happily, he too was on the mend.
“I dinna’ think Cailean is comin’ home with us,” Malcolm told her. “He mentioned stayin’ behind with Sebastian for a few months and then returnin’ with him fer Hogmanay. So we can be on our way whenever ye wish.”
“Tomorrow?” she offered.
He nodded and led her downstairs. It was a cool, clear night, good for walking.
They passed Constance Fletcher in her kitchen and waved. “We’ll be back shortly, my lady,” Malcolm let her know. Constance adored Malcolm and Emma adored Constance, but she wanted to go home.
“You’ll have to tell him when we get back that we’re leaving tomorrow.”
They stepped into the brisk night air and he slipped his fingers through hers. “The nights in Camlochlin will be much colder than this.”
She stopped and turned to him. “Do you still want me to go with you? So much has happened. I am a lot of trouble. I understand if you’ve changed your mind.”
His finger softly pressed to her lips quieted her. “Changed m’ mind? Lass.” He pulled her into his embrace. “I dinna’ want to live anywhere withoot ye. I wanted another chance to tell ye things and to show ye who ye have awakened in me. But now that I have ye here in m’ arms, I want a lifetime not just days or even weeks. I want ye and ye alone at m’ side and in m’ bed. I love ye, Emma, with all of me, so much, that at times I dinna’ like it.”
She giggled softly and he kissed her laughter from her mouth.
“Marry me, lass. Grant me this and I’ll build ye a house crafted the way ye like and a bed big enough for us to play in it.”
“Oui,” she kissed his mouth. “I grant it. I will marry you.”
His lips were like hot brands or honey-coated cakes, enticing her beyond reason. He swept his tongue over hers in one possessive move and then ended their kiss with a series of short kisses.
“Thank you for coming for me,” she whispered against him. She loved the way he breathed, the sound of him, the feel of him so tight and tense in her arms, her hands.
“I would have come sooner.”
“I know.”
“Bring me back to the house and take me to bed.”
Malcolm promised he would, but first there was something he had to do.
He led her back to the house and went directly to Sam. “Are ye ordained?”
“Sixteen years now.”
Malcolm turned to her. “D’ye want to do it now, lass?” The excitement and happiness in his voice wore off on her.
She nodded, beaming like a fool.
“Marry us,” Malcolm said, returning to Sam.
Later, after Malcolm Grant vowed to love her and honor her until death, he took her down the road to an inn and carried her to bed. It was the first bed they’d been in together, and as he undressed her, he told her what she meant to him.
When she lay with him naked and blushing, he didn’t say anything else but touched her, learning her with his fingers, as she taught him to do.
His callused hands felt exhilarating on her breasts, rough and yet tender. His hungry mouth made her toes curl and sparked a fire deep within her belly.
She was his wife. His wife! Oh, how had she done it?
“Ye’re lookin’ verra’ triumphant, wife.” He lay poised above her; his voice was light yet thick. “Are ye relishin’ in yer victory?”
She laughed and coiled her arms around his neck. “What victory is that?”
“That ye tamed Malcolm Grant.”
She smiled and then sighed with utter pleasure when he nestled his hot, hard body between her legs.
“Oui, ’tis sweet.”
He kissed her and spread her legs wide with his, then whispered along her mouth. “And I vow to ye, m’ one true love, ’tis goin’ to get even sweeter.”
Epilogue
I think I found some Saint-John’s-wort,” Emma called out to the beautiful redhead a few feet away.
The redhead lifted something in her hands and held it against her chest. “Look what I found, Emma! An abandoned baby bird. Poor thing. I should bring it back to Skye.”
“No, Mailie.” Emma shook her head. “Your mother said no more animals, and ’tis still her house.”
Mailie stopped and stared at her. “Emma, are ye ill?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“Because ye’re speaking nonsense. Ye know I’m taking it. ’Twill die oot here on its own.”
Emma smiled. Out of all the visitors from Camlochlin, Emma liked Mailie MacGregor best. Mailie’s mother, Isobel, knew much about herbal medicine and she and Emma spent most of Emma’s first month as Malcolm’s wife teaching the other what they knew.
They remained in Camlochlin for a little over a month and then came here to Ravenglade three months ago. Emma loved Perth but everything about Skye had won her over, the bracing winds across the vale, the jagged mountain ranges, the seclusion, the quiet, and most of all, the Grants and the MacGregors.
She was happy that Malcolm’s family visited Perth so often. There were plenty of rooms for everyone and they all kept her company during the day when she didn’t see Malcolm at all.
He assured her that he was busy working on their home,
building it for her. But he never let her visit. She’d been to his cousins’ homes in Camlochlin, whimsical manor houses of different shapes and sizes, strewn across the vale. Some closer to the main castle than others.
Why was Malcolm building their home here on the mainland? She knew deep down that she didn’t care where she lived—Camlochlin, Perth, or anywhere else as long as it was with him.
She touched her swollen belly, content to know that she carried her husband with her, even though she missed him terribly during the day.
She trusted his fidelity with every shred of her being, for no man could come home to her each night rock hard and hungry, if he was eating elsewhere.
No. Her man was hers. If she could only enjoy her husband at night, while he built her a home in the day, she would do it, happily.
Besides, living in a castle had its advantages. It kept her busy learning every hall, every curve, every room. It gave her an opportunity to spend time with Malcolm’s entire family at one time or another. Someone always wanted to escort her, which gave Gascon more time to become sire to so many puppies.
She loved Malcolm’s “kin,” as he called them. Abby was so ambitious and inspiring, Emma began riding a horse on her own. She almost had one trained—a particular russet mare—to follow Gascon and trust that she wouldn’t run them off a cliff.
“Pardon me, lasses.”
His voice pulsed through her, moved her to step closer to him. “My love,” she said, reaching a hand toward him. He caught it in his and brought it to his lips. “’Tis early in the day. I didn’t expect you until much later.”
“Come with me,” he beckoned. “Excuse us, Mailie,” he called out, then noticed his cousins’ wives, Amelia, Sarah, and Janet, in the grass, lounging in the sun. He smiled. “Ladies.” He didn’t wait for a response but took Emma and lifted her into his saddle.
“Where are we going?” she asked when he mounted behind her.
He buried his face in her neck and reveled in the scent of her. “Home.”
They rode away from Ravenglade and into the woodlands. Malcolm felt her inhaling deeply in front of him. Pine, oak, birch. The damp, leaf-carpeted ground beneath them. The birds overhead, the gnats in the shafts of pale late summer sunshine before them, squirrels chattering as they chased one another through the maze of branches above. Emma knew where they were.
“Malcolm,” she said on an uneven breath. “Did you build me a house in the woods?”
“Aye,” he affirmed, helping her out of the saddle. “I didna’ know what Clementine’s looked like so I just went with m’ guts. This one is yers.”
He walked her to it, leaving her at the front door of the home he built her, with some help from his kin, to explore and see what she thought.
She stepped away, hands before her, and stopped when she came to the door. He’d carved some of the wood, but his father had done all the intricate vine carvings. Malcolm could see all the delicate flowers worked into the wood, but Emma’s fingers could see them better. She took in every inch, standing on her tiptoes to follow the length of a certain vine marked with butterflies Malcolm hadn’t even noticed. She smiled the entire time, finally moving on to the outer walls made of boulders and mortar. She was careful not to trample the flowers growing around the house, touching them as she touched the walls. Her fingers danced over all of it, walking around the entire perimeter.
It wasn’t overly massive but large enough to house the both of them and a few bairns.
She hadn’t yet gone inside, but she stopped when she returned to the door. He saw her tears and moved to go to her. But she ran and leaped into his arms, capturing him in her arms and legs and careful of her wee belly.
“No matter what I say, ’twill never be enough to thank you.” She ran her fingers over his face. “So come, carry me into our new home and take me to our bed.” She quirked her mouth and tilted her face up to him. “Do we have a bed?”
He hefted her up higher on his waist and said hoarsely, eager to get her there and strip her before him. “Let’s go find oot.”
Sinfully sexy romance and wild adventure continue in Paula Quinn’s new MacGregors: Highland Heirs novel featuring Malcolm’s brother—Cailean Grant!
Please see the next page for a special preview.
Glen Lyon Castle sat perched atop Carm Gorm, one of the four Munros surrounding the hamlet, so the ride down in the vale wasn’t long. A crisp chill in the air produced puffs of white from the horses’ noses as they descended the mountain. From here Cailean Grant could see a procession of lights moving in the darkness. Where were the people of the hamlet going? His cousin Patrick MacGregor was fighting for his life because of someone who lived in Invervar. Cailean was tired of waiting. He wanted recompense and was glad they were finally on their way to get it.
He thought of his family on the way down. He’d been thinking of them often lately. He’d left Camlochlin four months ago with Patrick. He hadn’t seen anyone else from Camlochlin since. He missed them, but he couldn’t go back. He wasn’t ready, he thought while he and the others tied black kerchiefs around their faces and pulled up their hoods. He wasn’t sure he would ever be.
When they reached the bottom of the glen, he looked around. There was nothing to see but darkness and only the small cluster of fires and lanterns to the west. He hadn’t been here before, having arrived at Lyon’s Ridge a se’nnight after the harvest. But he believed the people were in the fields.
The Black Riders proceeded with more caution entering the hamlet, unseen, like a plague on the midnight gales.
The first thing to rake across Cailean’s ears was the laughter. It filled the air before voices, young and old, rose in song.
They were celebrating—Christmas most likely, Cailean suspected, surveying them from the shadows, ignoring their joy and looking for weapons. His gaze flicked over the inhabitants and settled on the lass from the marketplace. Did she live here? Was she traveling back with the man who shot his cousin? The tall man standing beside her mayhap? Cailean wanted to reveal himself and question them. But before he could stop them, his eyes returned to the lass, her face tilted toward the moonlit heavens, elation lighting her smile as she sang about the mountains and the King who made them all. Her joy was radiant, all-consuming. Crippling to his senses. He couldn’t remember when he’d been so joyful.
He looked away from her.
Never again. Never again.
“Seth Menzie!” Duncan called out.
Duncan had told him about the leader of Invervar before they left. He had a daughter and a passion to defy the laird he’d sworn fealty to.
A few of the women gasped and cried when the Black Riders came closer to the fires and into view. Cailean looked around at the fear in their faces. He would make certain none of them were hurt as soon as they handed over the man who shot Patrick.
“Duncan Murdoch,” the tall man called back, stepping forward. “Welcome to Invervar. I—”
“I don’t need your welcome upon land owned by my father.”
“Of course,” Menzie agreed.
An old woman wearing a patch over one eye glared at them with it and stepped closer to Menzie.
Cailean’s eyes returned to the lass who’d been singing moments ago. The joy in her expression was replaced with fear and anger while she too raked her eyes over them.
For a moment, Cailean felt ashamed and glad no one, including her, could see his face.
“I meant no disrespect,” Menzie continued, sounding repentant but not looking away or lowering his gaze. “What can I do for you?”
“To begin,” Duncan sneered from atop his mount, “you can tell me what you’re celebrating tonight.”
Cailean knew perfectly well what they were celebrating. The same thing his own kin were likely celebrating this sixth night. So what? Murdoch sure as hell didn’t enforce the law on Christmas. They’d come here to find out who shot Patrick.
“The birth of our Lord,” the leader stated, his feet firmly planted i
n the land he worked. “Christmas is a se’nnight away.”
“Then you’re breaking the law,” Duncan advised him coolly.
“Who gives a damn aboot that, Murdoch?” Cailean kept his voice low so that only the closest men to him could hear.
Duncan ignored him.
“I see it in your eyes,” he said, setting his merciless smile on the leader. “What you want to do to me is quite clear. You want to shoot me, just like you shot this man’s relative today.”
“I was in Kenmore,” Menzie replied, his voice seemingly calm but an octave more raspy. “I shot no one.” Suddenly he was looking at Cailean, his eyes piercing Cailean’s skin, trying to see him beneath his hood. “I did not shoot your relative. You have my word to do all I can to find out who did.”
Hell, he sounded sincere. Did Cailean believe him?
“I could drag you back to Lyon’s Ridge and have you hanged.”
“No!” Two women said at the same time.
“Or,” Duncan went on, “you could offer me your daughter for the night.”
“Duncan,” Cailean warned. Avenging Patrick was one thing. He wouldn’t stand around while a lass was being raped. “Ye’re makin’ a mockery of what happened today. He’s agreed to help us.”
“Leave her alone,” the leader warned.
Cailean hated Duncan for laughing just then. He was a spoiled, spineless child. It made him dangerous.
“We don’t want trouble with you,” Menzie said, sounding no more compliant than he had before. “Leave us alone.”
“Is that a threat, Menzie?” Duncan’s agitated voice set his mount’s nerve and the beast pranced in place, eager to run. Despite the leader’s negative response, he motioned for Cutty to dismount and take hold of the leader.
There was a reason Cutty was given that name. The flash of his dagger glinted in the moonlight. He was going to kill Seth Menzie. It had nothing to do with Patrick, and everything to do with Duncan hating the leader’s defiance.