He pressed closer to her, making her even more aware of his arousal. “Aye,” he said, his voice a husky purr. “Have you a problem with that, my lady?”
“And if I do?” She rose on tiptoe and nipped his chin.
His lips curved in a smile that fired her blood. “Then I think, mo cridhe, ’Tis time I was taking you for a picnic.”
For a woman expecting to be swept off her feet and carried away for a passionate bout of lovemaking, this was hardly a welcome suggestion. “A picnic?” she repeated, her mouth forming a sulky pout. “Now?”
He gave a lusty laugh, sweeping her into his arms and swirling her around in a circle before depositing her once more on her feet. “Aye, now,” he said, dropping a smacking kiss on her lips. “And dinna look so put out, sweeting. ’Tis a Highland picnic I mean to take you on.”
Deciding that sounded as if it might have definite possibilities, she pretended to pout a little longer. “And what, sir, might a Highland picnic be?”
His grin grew wider. “Go fetch your shawl, lassie, and I will show you.”
“Oh, Hugh, how beautiful!” Caroline stood beside Hugh, her arm draped companionably about his waist as they stood on a rock cropping high above the valley. “I’ve never seen anything half so lovely!”
“Do you truly like it?” Hugh asked, gazing slowly about him with a heart overflowing with joy. As a lad this had been his favorite place in all the world, and sharing it with Caroline made him happier than he had been in years. Up here with only the wildflowers and the larks for company and Loch Haven spread out below their feet, he felt both the laird and the lover, and he burned with the desire to make love to his wife with only openness between them.
“How could I not love it?” she asked, brushing a windblown curl from her cheek as she turned to give him a smile. At his request she’d left her long blonde hair down, and the soft breeze, ripe with the smell of heather, blew it playfully about her face. “I do not think even Shakespeare himself could do justice to so lovely a sight.”
“Of course he couldna do so,” he teased, deciding they’d wasted enough time admiring the view. “He’s an Englishman, and what would they know of the beauty of the Highlands?” He took her hand and led her back to where he had spread out a blanket.
“Some wine for you, annsachd?” he asked, pouring out some of the golden wine and handing it to her. “ ’Tis almost as sweet as your mouth, and it heats my blood near as hot as your kisses.”
She accepted the silver goblet silently, her eyebrows arching at his provocative praise. “There is another word I am beginning to recognize,” she said, after sampling the potent wine. “It means dearest, does it not?”
“Or darling.” He bent his head and lightly kissed her neck. “Or beloved. Is tu mo annsachd: thou art my best beloved.”
“Mmm.” She tilted her head back and threaded her fingers though the hair he had also left down. “Gaelic would seem to have as many pretty phrases in it as French. And you speak it most eloquently.”
His hands went to the back of her gown to begin untying her laces. “I’ve many words I’ll gladly teach you, my love. Just mind you pay close attention, for I believe in teaching a most thorough lesson.”
He pressed her back down against the blanket, covering her mouth with ardent kisses. “Bheóil,” he whispered teasingly. “Mouth. Yours is as sweet as a summer berry, my darling, and nearly as tempting.”
He deepened the kiss, his tongue engaging hers in a passionate duel until she was moaning with delight. “Teanga, tongue. And how cleverly you make use of yours. You make me mad from wanting you.”
“Hugh.” She arched beneath him, clearly delighting in his ardent instruction. “Oh, Hugh, you make me burn!”
He slid his mouth down her neck to the gentle slope of her shoulders. “Gualainn,” he told her, slipping the loosened gown from her shoulders. “Shoulders, and how smooth and creamy yours are, annsachd, like the richest of desserts.”
He removed her gown and undergarments with more teasing words and gentle caresses until she lay naked beneath him. He stopped to pull his shirt over his head, unwrapping his kilt and using it as a pillow for her head. His body was screaming for release, but he was not yet ready to abandon his play. He returned to her, his hands gently cupping her full breasts.
“Broilleach,” he said, using his fingers and tongue to tease her nipples to hardness. “And these lovely things are called ceann na ciche. I love kissing them, touching them. Do you like it as well, Caroline?”
He took her breathless moan for assent, and pressed a wet kiss to her quivering stomach. “Stammac,” he said, chuckling as he teased her navel with the tip of his tongue. “An easy word to guess, I’m thinking. And this …” He slipped his fingers into her wet, feminine folds in an audacious caress. “… is called—”
“I don’t care what it is called,” she interrupted, twining her fingers through his hair and lifting her hips in a demanding plea. “Stop talking, you wretched man, and make love to me!”
Her imperious demand delighted him, and he pressed another kiss on her stomach. “As you wish, my lady,” he said with a low chuckle, and then lowered his mouth to kiss her sweet femininity with a daring that soon sent her soaring over the peak.
He had never wanted her more in his life, and he drove himself and Caroline to madness as he dined on the sweetness of her. Finally he knew he couldn’t wait any longer, and moved over her to claim her at last.
“Caroline, mo cridhe,” he groaned, slipping eagerly into the liquid warmth of her. “Annsachd, tell me you want me. Tell me you adore me.”
“I want you, Hugh,” she moaned, her face flushed and her eyes squeezed closed in ecstasy. “I adore you more than I can say.”
He thrust deeper, burying himself in the heart of her. “Tell me in Gaelic,” he demanded, bending his head to lightly bite her soft shoulder. “Let me hear you say it in my tongue.”
She moved her head restlessly, her breath coming in fast pants as she neared yet another peak. “ Annsacha,” she repeated, her slender legs wrapping around his surging hips. “Leannan. Oh! I cannot think of the words! Now, Hugh, now!”
Her gasped words delighted him, thrilling him in a way he could never have anticipated. He slipped his hands beneath her, his palms cupping her as he thrust deeper and harder. Emotions he couldn’t give name to exploded inside of him and he groaned out her name, shuddering with release as he swept them both to glorious ecstasy.
The following afternoon, he was in his study with his accounts spread out before him, but his mind on the windswept meadow where he and Caroline had made such passionate love. He remembered her shyness afterward, and the way she’d laughed later that night as she plucked out the wildflowers tangled in his hair. How was he supposed to honor their agreement? he wondered bitterly, closing his books and rising to his feet to prowl about the room. How was he to stand back and let her walk away when every instinct he possessed screamed at him to hold her close for all time?
It was like being trapped in the deadly marshes of the Carolinas. Marshes that looked sound and safe until a man had blundered into them too deep to retreat, and then the treacherous sands sucked him down into death. Struggling only hastened the inevitable, for the harder one struggled, the deeper and faster one sank. There was no going forward, no going back. Like now.
“Devil take it!” he muttered, impatient with his morose thoughts. A breath of fresh air was what he needed, and on impulse he decided to ride into the village. It had been several days since he’d last been there, and there was much he needed to see to.
Bypassing the main keep where the women were hard at work, he slipped out the back and down to the stables. One of the first purchases he’d made upon reclaiming the castle was a fierce black stallion, the first mount he’d owned in more years than he could count. He’d named him Nathrach, Dragon; the name well suited the great beast whose fiery temper and strong will nearly matched his own.
The promise of summer was sof
t in the air as Hugh rode down from the castle and into the slumbering village. Several people called out to him and a few came up to speak with him, offering compliment or complaint as was their nature.
After promising an elderly crofter he would see to the repair of the man’s pig shed, he was about to ride away when the man said, “And a blessing as well on she who is your wife. A fine lassie she is, and nae the icy bitch as some would name her.”
Hugh pulled up sharp on Nathrach’s rein, making him dance with impatience. “Who called my wife an icy bitch?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous with fury.
The elderly man shrugged his skeletal shoulders. “Everyone, laird. They see her in her fine clothes, in her fine carriage, and curse as she drives by. But that is because they dinna see her sweet smile, as I do,” he added, offering Hugh his own broken-toothed smile. “She does Loch Haven and its laird proud.”
By the time Hugh burst into the smoky taproom of the inn, he was spoiling for a brawl. The first person he saw was Lucien, and he stormed over to confront him.
“You’ve done a poor job of explaining things, Raghnall,” he said coldly. “And I’m fair displeased with you. When I give an order, I expect it to be carried out.”
“What order?” Lucien asked, setting down his tankard with an astonished expression on his face. “What have I nae explained? Truly, Hugh, I dinna know what you are talking about.”
Hugh laid his hand on the bar and leaned down until he was eye to eye with the other man. “I made it plain to you that I would brook no insult to Caroline,” he ground out, his voice low and tight with fury. “I told you I would have the life of any man who hurt her. Did you nae believe me, Raghnall? Or did you nae think I could enforce the bond of my word? Either way, laddie, you’ve made a grievous error.”
Lucien swallowed uncomfortably, his eyes showing both alarm and indignation. “I did as you asked, laird,” he said with quiet dignity. “I spoke with the chieftains and their men. I warned those in the village that the lady of Loch Haven was to be accorded every degree of honor, but it did no good. It is as I tried to tell you, Hugh. Your wife is English, and the people are of no mind to accept her.”
Hugh thought of his wife’s sweet nature, and the open way she showed affection for his sister and even his impossible aunt. She was one of the kindest people he had ever met, and the notion of her warm generosity being spurned because of her nationality filled him with murderous rage. Caroline might only be his wife for a brief period of time, but so long as she bore his name, he would do what he must to protect her.
“Then mind you tell the people this,” he said, fixing Lucien with a hard stare. “Tell them the goodwill of the laird is dependent upon the welcome accorded his wife. If they continue offering her insult, I withdraw my aid. ’Tis that simple.”
Lucien gaped at him in horror. “You canna do that!” he gasped. “You canna choose one of the English above your own people! ’Tis treason!”
“I do nae choose!” Hugh fired back, slamming his fist onto the bar. “Or if I choose, ’Tis because they have forced me to do so! Caroline is my wife, and protect her I will!”
“Your temporary wife,” Lucien corrected, although he was careful to keep his voice pitched low. “Think, man; think of all you have sacrificed and sweated for. You have it now, here in your hand; why should you risk it all for her? Why should her feelings matter to you, when in a year’s time she will be gone and back in London where she belongs?
“Hugh.” Lucien leaned forward and grasped Hugh’s arm, his expression earnest as their gazes met. “Listen to me. Let me tell the others the truth of your marriage. Let me tell them your wife will soon be away, and they need nae worry about her again. If they know that, ‘twill make it easier for them to swallow their hatred of her.
“I understand you feel you must protect the wench,” he continued when Hugh remained silent, “and I admire you the more for it. But dinna put your sense of duty to her above the duty you owe to your people. She will soon be gone, but they will still be here, and if you choose her above them, it is something they will remember always. Think of that, Hugh. That is all I ask of you.”
“Ouch!” Mairi cried out angrily, dropping the shirt she was hemming and sticking her wounded finger in her mouth. “That is the third time this morning I have stuck myself! The plague take this insufferable sewing! Why must we do it?”
“Because the sewing of clothes for the poor is the duty of the ladies of the castle, you ill-mannered kempie,” Aunt Egidia informed her sourly, peering at her over the edge of her spectacles. “You dinna hear Caroline complain, do you? And she’s sewn double the amount of clothes as you! Hush now with your wheeking, and get on with it. We’ve a dozen more shirts to hem before nuncheon.”
“And I shall be as full of holes as a crofter’s shift,” Mairi grumbled under her breath, directing a scowl at Caroline. “And you,” she said crossly, “the least you might do is not sit there smiling like a saint. Are you nae as sick of this as me?”
Caroline’s smile deepened at what she knew to be no more than good-natured teasing. “I’ve always enjoyed sewing,” she replied, passing her needle in and out of the sturdy fabric. “It’s quite soothing, really, once one gets the hang of it.”
“Soothing?” Mairi gave a disgusted snort, even as she resumed her hemming. “Boring, ’Tis more the like of it. Well, if we must pass the time in such a ladylike manner, then we might as well do what all fine ladies do, and gossip about our neighbors. Have you heard about Flora MacGregor?”
“Who?” Caroline asked, not really interested, but always willing to indulge Mairi.
“The daughter of the village miller,” Aunt Egidia provided, her lips thinning in obvious disapproval. “And aye, I’ve heard the tale, though I dinna think ’Tis a proper topic for unwed maidens to be discussing.” A hard stare was directed at Mairi, who merely laughed.
“Now come, Auntie, and how are we poor unwed maidens to learn of the dangers that lurk from dallying with men, if we canna discuss the results?” She turned to Caroline, her green eyes bright with mischief. “Flora dallied with a man from the glen near the loch, and now she’s three months gone with child. Her father’s for shooting the fellow, once he’s wed Flora, of course, but ’Tis said he’s already taken himself off to Aberdeen. Poor Flora. It doesna look so sunny for her.”
“The hizzie ought to have known better than to be lifting her skirts without taking the proper care,” Aunt Egidia opined with another sniff. “What Highland lassie doesna know the good of a visit to a wisewoman? She was after getting herself with child, if you want my thought on it, so that she could force the man into marrying her.”
“What is a wisewoman?” Caroline asked, all this talk of children making her nervous. “Do you mean a witch?”
Aunt Egidia glared at her. “An English word, is witch,” she said with a frown. “Here in the Highlands where we dinna have fine doctors waiting to attend our every hurt, ’Tis the wise-women and the healers who see to people’s needs. A wisewoman knows many things, including what herb a lass might eat to make certain a man’s seed doesna find a home in her belly. If Flora MacGregor had kept her wits about her, she’d have gone to the wisewoman near the cairns and seen to the matter. But as she didna …” She lifted her shoulders in an indifferent shrug.
“I heard Annie talking, and she says Flora never even guessed she was breeding,” Mairi continued with a shake of her head. “It was only when she began losing her breakfast each morning that the truth of the matter dawned on her.”
Caroline winced as she jabbed the needle in her hand. For the past several mornings, the smell of food had been enough to set her stomach churning. And this morning she’d had a brief dizzy spell when coming down the front steps. If she hadn’t grabbed the banister, she was certain she would have fallen. What if …
“Aye, the girl was ever as thick as a plank of oak,” Aunt Egidia agreed. “The stopping of her monthly flow ought to have told her something, but ex
pecting wit from a MacGregor is like expecting eggs from a cow. ‘Twillna happen.”
Caroline did some quick calculations. She and Hugh had been man and wife for over three months, and in all that time she’d had but one flow. Dear God! She dropped the shirt she was hemming, her eyes going wide with shock. Was it possible she was breeding? The idea brought a dreamy smile to her lips.
“Well, I’m glad you can find humor in the poor girl’s ruin.” Aunt Egidia had noted the smile and was frowning at Caroline reproachfully. “For as the lady of the castle, ‘twill fall to you to find a position for her and the bairn if her father canna force the man to do what is right.”
“Mayhap Hugh might find a husband for her,” Mairi suggested. “Douglass Badenoch lost his wife last fall, and he’s three small ones in need of a mother. ’Tis something you might want to mention to him, Caroline. Caroline?”
“What?” Caroline looked at her, then blinked as she realized some reply was expected. “Oh. Oh, yes, Mairi, thank you; I shall be certain do to that.”
The topic turned to other matters: who was flirting with whose wife, and what handsome young man had more than his fill at the taproom and got miserably sick during services the following morning, but Caroline listened with only half an ear. A baby, she thought, laying a gentle hand on her stomach. A son, perhaps, with Hugh’s hair and eyes, and his fiery sense of honor. Or a little girl, mayhap, with red curls and a shy, sweet smile. Mairi was lovely as a picture, and she was certain her daughter would surely favor her aunt.
In the next moment her eyes were burning with unshed tears. The arrangement she and Hugh had entered into had made no mention of children. What would happen if she was breeding? And what if the babe was a boy, an heir to the MacColme name and lands? She knew Hugh too well to think he would allow her to take his son with her when she left. Would she be forced to leave her child behind, as well as the man she was coming to care for more and more with each passing day? Tears began flowing down her cheeks at the thought.
Rose In Scotland Page 23