Must Love Kilts
Page 8
Guilt swamped him. Iain’s wish to please and impress his father had led to the man’s death. No excuse existed for that, and there was no going back.
He shoved aside that old, but no less painful, memory and pushed open the strong room’s door.
“You wished to see me, uncle?” He sauntered into the middle of the room and stood, hands behind his back, bravado squaring his shoulders.
“Yes. Have a seat.” His uncle turned from the peat fire and settled behind the desk. Iain took the closest chair and fought the urge to shift in his seat while his uncle speared him with his sharp gaze.
The chieftain sighed. “I must acquaint you with the latest happenings. We appreciate you keeping your wife distracted so we may forward our plans to aid Dundee. As you were uncommonly quick to point out, having her here—and keeping her ignorant—would allay any suspicions the Earl of Argyll might entertain. Besides, it would go against the bounds of hospitality to ask her to leave.”
Iain nodded. “Of course.”
“But we require your assistance with a new matter.”
Triumph and vindication coursed through Iain at this new level of trust with clan matters. He merely nodded, gripped the chair arms, and kept his features neutral in case the request—and trust—was laughably minor.
“Ross’s party carried unwelcome news, which casts this whole business in a direction I like not.” He sighed. “I regret we did not tell you sooner, but we’re responsible for the disappearance of your wife’s sister.”
Shock froze him initially, but outrage lashed him immediately afterward. Again, he fought to keep his outward appearance calm. Only his foot jerked forward. “And how is that, sir?”
“Ross wanted those Campbell girls off our lands. He meant to take your wife too, but she disappeared before you could return to the room and distract her. At any rate, his party proceeded to Invergarry castle to put her in the MacDonell chief’s safekeeping. She’s there now.”
They hadn’t even confided in him? They’d asked him only to play the fool for his wife? He would feel bitter about it if it weren’t so typical. They didn’t trust him unless they had to, and it seemed that was as it always would be.
“So we may retrieve her. I shall inform Traci.”
“Not so quick, my boy. Always so rash. Think this through. The MacDonell wants answers. Their appearance, at this moment when the summoning stick is spreading across the Highlands, is too coincidental.”
“It could be innocent, as she claims.”
His uncle slammed his hand onto the table. “I say it’s suspicious, boy.”
Iain ground his back teeth and pulled in a measured breath through his nose. “I’m not clear on what you wish of me.” He was pleased to hear his voice held none of the pain he felt at their betrayal.
His uncle and chieftain leaned farther forward, bringing his mighty personality to bear across the table. The air fairly crackled with his erratic authority. “I wish for you to use your considerable…persuasive powers to discover the truth. Discover their true purpose on MacDonell lands.”
Shock coursed through him, and a chill raced down his spine. “You wish me to torture my own wife?” This time his voice came out strained.
His uncle glared at him. “Nay, you idiot. Use your famous charm. Legend has it women routinely melt around you. The spitting image of your father in looks and charm, you are. Use what you’re good for, and get the truth. The summoning stick was clear—all clans need to join with Dundee at Struan. We’re to be there by the twenty-ninth of July to secure Blair Castle against those loyal to King William. We cannot afford any word of this reaching government forces. Which means, no Campbells.”
Iain gritted his teeth, but he stood and nodded. Resentment was a familiar but bitter taste in his mouth. “Aye, I will do as you bid, uncle.”
“Exercise some discretion, will you, and keep her ignorant of your aim. Her presence is an inconvenience, since we need to send men to Dundee’s rendezvous in Struan. Yesterday’s search party went straight to Struan, with her none the wiser to our true motives, but I no longer have that excuse.”
Inwardly he rocked at this latest revelation. Christ on the cross, it wasn’t a mere revelation—’twas a betrayal. He’d assured his wife—in several conversations, no less—that his clan had been doing their best to find her sister. His clan had made a liar of him. The muscles all along his shoulders and neck tightened.
Outwardly, he granted his chieftain only a bow and the words, “I’m sorry you no longer have that excuse.”
His uncle narrowed his eyes, but then waved to the door. “Off with you. Find out what she’s hiding.”
Iain strode to the door, though anger made his legs jerky. He’d wished to seek his wife to lay down a foundation for a future. But now he had to seek her out, yet again, to play the fool and get secrets from her?
Curse his uncle.
Chapter Nine
With soft down of thistles I’ll make him a bed,
With lilies and roses I’ll pillow his head,
And with my tun’d harp I will lead
To sweet and soft slumbers my laddie.
“My laddie,” Jacobite Reliques
Not much later, Iain found Traci in the courtyard playing with the wee ones as was her wont during the day.
Use his bloody charm?
Nay. He’d be direct, as the son of a chieftain should be. Directness was the virtue and the failing of his own father. Until now, Iain had never paid heed to the contrast between the ruling style of his father and that of his uncle. His uncle was only direct when it suited.
Though would the directness put Traci off him? He was tired of this aimless, lonely existence. The ache and conviction grew even more acute whenever he caught sight of her playing with the bairns in the courtyard. He wished for wee ones of his own to care for and protect and a wife with whom to share them.
He thinned his lips. Blast it. Charm. His uncle was right. It was the surest way to gain the information he sought. While it galled, he’d do his duty. He’d not turn aside one of the few, paltry times the clan entrusted him with a task.
Some bluebells twisted through the dirt near the courtyard wall, and he snatched a fistful. He swept them behind his back and approached his wife. Young Griogair held one of her fingers and looked upon her with open admiration. Iain could fully sympathize with the lad. Would a boy of theirs have her shade of hair?
She bent over, whispering encouragement to the lad if his face was any indication, and the position outlined her delicious rump.
Ah, God. He was a useless sod. At the mere site of a luscious, feminine behind, his thoughts darted immediately to the carnal—to his hands gripping her hips, her bent over… Could he not stay focused for five minutes on clan business?
Stiffening his resolve, and attempting to unstiffen a particular piece of his anatomy, he stepped up behind her as she rose to her full height. He swept her hair from one shoulder to the other, presented his flowers in front of her, and whispered in her ear, “Care for a wee walk?”
He was gladdened to hear his voice sounded natural and not rife with the tension which tightened his limbs, but his whole body screamed at the unnaturalness. This was not right.
That same shimmer of awareness vibrated through him whenever he was inches from her, and he witnessed her involuntary tremble. It was as if the attraction, which vibrated between them while apart, gathered up tighter and tighter as they neared until it pushed against him when he was this close.
Her hand covered his, soft skin against rough skin, and she grabbed the cluster of flowers. She stepped away and faced him.
His heart clutched anew as he beheld her in the daylight. Her height brought her to his chin—no need to stoop at a neck-breaking angle to kiss this woman. Her light blue dress adorned her curves, and his hands fair itched to trace the dips and hollows of her luscious flesh.
He pasted on the smile he knew from experience made the lasses lean involuntarily closer. And…ther
e—she started to list forward, but then she stood straighter, catching herself. Smart lass. You shouldn’t trust me.
“Shall we?” He held out his arm, and she looked upon it in confusion. Then she shook herself and awkwardly placed her hand on his arm. Was she not used to being escorted about by a gentleman? He clasped her hand and tucked it into position, pressing her tight. That it brought her body snug against his side was an added bonus. God, just her scent—an enticing combination of lemon, lavender, and an earthy tang unique to her—was going to drive him barmy.
Since it was an unusually clear and warm day, he ferried her across the short stretch of water, and they strolled down the causeway and along the shore of Loch Garry, dodging around the grazing cattle.
Oddly, she stared at the cows as if unused to such a sight. A burgh lass then?
He cleared his throat. “How are you adjusting to life here, wife?”
“Well enough, I guess. Though I miss Fiona.” She kicked a tuft of grass as they walked. “Who were those men? Did they have any news about my sister?”
He couldn’t bring himself to lie to her, so he sought a diversion.
“You wound me. I seek to accompany you on a lovely stroll to wash away the cares of the day, and you choose such a sobering topic.”
“Well, it is the topic uppermost on my mind.”
He stopped and pulled her around to face him. “Uppermost? Are ye certain?” He stroked his finger down her cheek, and her breath hitched in a gratifying manner. Aye, she could deny the attraction, but it was there. He brushed his finger along her jaw and grazed the pad of his thumb across her plump lower lip. She stubbornly aimed her gaze away, so he bent his knees slightly and shifted to follow. Her warm brown eyes latched onto his, and their breaths came shorter. Slowly he straightened, keeping her gaze on him, and continued to stroke her kissable lips. And speaking of kissing…
He lowered his head, his heart beating madly, and watched every shift and movement for any sign she didn’t welcome his kiss. But, dear God, he saw none.
Triumph and dread roared through his body in equal measure, for he ached to touch his lips to hers, to feel their softness, to taste her sweetness, but he worried it was too soon. Always he rushed his fences, and lately he wondered if that was the reason for his reputation.
His lips came within a hair’s width of hers, and he felt as if he were crossing an unseen barrier. Again, his body screamed to breach that barrier, while his mind screamed it was too early.
Her lovely eyes fluttered closed.
Blast it. He pulled in a breath and brushed his lips once, twice against hers. A tentative overture, but unspeakably more intimate than he’d ever imagined. He eased his palm up her neck and clasped the back of her head. Her silky hair brushed his knuckles, and he pressed his mouth more firmly to hers.
She moaned and edged closer. On a slight hitch of her breath, she parted her lips. Never one to deny an invitation so generously given, he stroked his tongue past her delectable lips to taste her, to rediscover the exact recipe of her sweetness. Her tongue touched his, and blood rushed through his ears. So sweet. So, so sweet.
Yes. This. Her.
His hand tightened against her head, and he angled her closer. All thoughts of his blasted uncle and his blasted demands fled in the face of a new demand. He groaned, clasped her waist with his other hand, yanked her flush with his hips. Need ravaged through him, firing his blood. Dear God, he couldn’t get enough of her.
Flashes of their heated encounter at the inn crashed through him as her scent and taste filled and consumed him. He welcomed the flood of sensual images, for he’d been unable to recall all of it from being too far gone in his cups.
But her scent, her taste unlocked everything, and he remembered this, how they fit together. Perfectly. In sync. Each stroke of his tongue more urgent than the last. She matched him, stroke for stroke, and delight and lust spun tighter when her hand scratched into his hair. She held his own head just as tightly as he held hers, as if she too couldn’t get enough.
Yes.
He inched his hand from her hip and up her lush curves until the notch between his thumb and finger bumped into the underside of her luscious breast. The heat and weight of her rested just above his fingers—he yearned to turn his wrist and follow her plumpness, have the whole, delicious weight of it solid in his hand—but he sensed this would be another barrier to cross. He should stay and dwell in this moment and plumb its depths.
Amazing. Discovering these defined moments now in his life. If he crossed it, and she allowed it, they’d be down in the heather until he was stroking in and out of her in a fevered rush, taking his pleasure, giving her pleasure, searing past all the barriers, all the moments.
He yanked on all the threads of his control. Perhaps he could still not only do as his uncle bade, but also win his lady. He slowly parted their lips and rested his forehead against hers. Her fingers curled against his scalp, stinging him as a few hairs twisted in her grasp. Their breaths filled his ears, and her eyes were screwed shut.
But need, lust, demand rushed through his blood like an insistent force and pulsed in the air surrounding them, thickening the space between their bodies.
He closed his hands tightly at her sides, shut his eyes, and drew in a long, shuddering breath. His hands crept down to the small of her back and nudged her against his hardened cock.
The mission. The mission, you numbskull.
He jerked his hands back to her waist and curled them back into tight fists.
“So, my wife. What’s your true aim?” He winced. That was not subtle. But he’d never claimed to be an expert at this subterfuge business. And by all that was holy, she scrambled his brains to porridge.
She pulled in a harsh breath and backed away, taking her heat with her. His body felt empty without her pressed along his front. The awareness that had swelled between them sputtered.
“What do you mean?” Her voice contained not a hint of passion, but rather suspicion and mortification. The last wisps of erotic possibilities puffed away at her tone.
Ah, well, there was nothing for it. “Merely that my uncle wishes to know your true reason for being on our lands.”
She fisted her hands at her sides, a crimson blush flushing her neck and cheeks, his pathetic flowers drooping at her hip. “That’s the reason for…for this?” She waved between them. “This is still about that spy nonsense? You believe him? And you were trying to seduce the answer from me?”
Ach, he’d muddled this for sure.
He stepped toward her, and she stepped away, her gaze wary. A furious blush rose in her cheeks.
His ineptitude made him restless. “Come, let us head back to the keep.”
“No. I want to get to the bottom of this.” Hurt laced her voice. “Did you bring me out here on purpose to soften me up for questions?” She straightened the arm holding the flowers, which brushed against her leg, and looked at him, her expression unreadable.
“Nay! I mean, aye. Not really.”
She pursed her lips and crossed her arms, the blooms taking a further beating. “Which is it? You’re not making sense.”
“Aye, I was tasked with questioning you.”
She flinched as if he’d struck her a physical blow. Damn if her reaction didn’t cause him to feel as if he’d been struck as well. “And you figured it would be easier to kiss me first, I take it.” Fury blazed from her eyes. “Typical.”
Frustration and inadequacy to the task at hand further heightened his restlessness. He ached to soothe her hurt. The hurt he’d inflicted.
“Nay. If you’d allow me to finish…” He stepped forward again, and he took it as a sign of progress that she didn’t retreat this time. “That kiss…” He swallowed. “That kiss was real. To me it was. It might have happened sooner than I’d planned—”
“Wait. What? What do you mean? You have things planned out, do you? Unbelievable.” She turned to the side.
“You’re twisting my words.”
“You’re willfully misconstruing their meaning. There’s nothing sinister happening with me. I’m a simple man, and the truth is, I find you very attractive. With the emphasis on ‘very.’ What happened was a result of that attraction. Which, I believe, is mutual.” He raked his gaze down and up her length. “Try to deny it.”
When she remained silent, triumph surged through him before he soberly remembered that was not where he usually failed. It was in convincing a lass he had substance, and right now he was failing at that. Miserably.
Instead of responding to his question, she raised her chin. “What does your uncle want to know? And I think now you’ll explain whether this…” She waved between them. “…and the questions about me have anything to do with the party of men that just arrived.”
“Their arrival did prompt the renewed interest from my uncle, who simply can’t believe you and your sister are on our lands for innocent reasons. And I have to admit, ’tis rather strange. Especially since you are not commoners and so require chaperones.”
“How do you know we’re not commoners?”
“Your hands are smooth—unfamiliar with the hard labor that make the youngest hands turn old before their time. Your speech, while oddly accented, is educated. Also, ’tis obvious you are more familiar with the city than the country, and it’s been my experience that lasses who are raised and work for a living in the city are shorter and more sickly looking. You have the health and height of someone who has eaten well for the entirety of your life.”
She looked a bit taken aback by that assessment. And when he’d said “eaten well,” she’d drawn herself taller and sucked in her stomach, as if self-conscious.
“I’m not fat.”
Now it was his turn to be taken aback. “Did I say you were? Nay. You are quite shapely in all the right places.” He raked his gaze down her form again until she stomped her foot.