Must Love Kilts

by Angela Quarles

  What just…? Okay… Traci shook herself. This was going to take time to process. She rubbed the crown of her head again.

  “Traci? Are you all right?” Iain’s urgent tone carried down the incline. “You’ve been gone longer than a moment.” He appeared over the crest of the hill, and he hustled down the slope. When he neared, he stopped, his eyes searching hers.

  “You’re still here,” he whispered. He glanced back over his shoulder, and then cradled her face. “Seeing you here, in dawn’s light, makes my heart ache. We won’t have much time to talk. It will take us several days to return to Dungarbh, and we’ll have to camp in the open with the men. But I couldn’t wait any longer to tell you it makes my heart glad that you returned, and to do this.”

  He crushed her mouth with his, and she returned his kiss eagerly. She grasped the back of his head and nearly whimpered at how right it felt to be here with him.

  Several days later, Dungarbh

  Despite Iain’s promise that they’d talk later, events had overtaken them. They had arrived only this morning from the battle site, having camped along the way. There had been no chance to be alone. She had been pleased more than she’d expected at the sight of Fiddich back at their camp.

  Traci clasped Fiona’s hand, while around them milled the MacCowan clanswomen in their finery. She shivered. The haunting cries of the keening women who’d followed the procession of the old chieftain’s body as it was laid to rest still shadowed the air around them.

  Iain’s kind aunt approached, her face stoic in her grief. “It’s done.”

  Traci and the other women had waited in an anteroom off the hall while the council met to elect their new chieftain. Iain had wanted to delay and give his uncle a proper grieving period, but the clan had insisted. With the fate of the rebellion still up in the air, they had no wish to be leaderless.

  Marjorie’s strong hands gripped hers. “Iain is our new chieftain. Come, the ceremony will commence soon by the sacred tree.”

  Pride on Iain’s behalf bloomed inside her.

  Traci laced her arm through Fiona’s, and together they followed the other women heading to the courtyard. They ducked through the main doors and out into the sun and strolled across the wooden bridge to the courtyard island, enclosed by a wall. There grew a stout, but majestic, yew tree, bent and twisted from wind and age.

  Below its arching branches, several clansmen stacked rocks into a pyramid. Murmurs arose, and the crowd parted, revealing Iain, fresh-washed and resplendent in a brightly colored kilt and tartan pants they called trews.

  No bagpipes echoed across the courtyard, but damned if Traci didn’t supply them in her head as Iain strode toward her, his shoulders squared, his smile and demeanor putting everyone at ease. As he passed by, he winked.

  At the base of the makeshift pyramid, he paused. A priest stood nearby, intoning words in Gaelic, and Iain placed his right foot into a depression in a rock. Once the priest stopped speaking, Iain climbed the several steps to the top of the makeshift stone mound.

  Another man paraded forward, his Gaelic chant-like. Marjorie leaned over. “That is our clan seanachaidh—poet—and he’s reciting Iain’s ancestry, as well as its heroic deeds, in order to inspire him in his new role.”

  Traci saw what the others saw—a leader—but whenever Iain’s gaze locked with hers throughout the ceremony, he telegraphed to her his unease, his doubts. And each time, she projected back her belief in him.

  They still needed to discuss their future, but in this, she had no doubt: Iain was destined to be a fine leader of his clan. The afternoon light filtered through the yew leaves and branches, speckling him in dappled light. When the poet ceased and stepped back, Iain lifted his head, and their eyes met. Everything around her—the myriad multi-colored plaids, Fiona’s hand hotly clasped in her own, the imaginary bagpipes—arrowed into her and carved out this moment. A moment suffused with promise. A promise of belonging. And for once, the alien, unintelligible sounds of Gaelic around her no longer made her feel separate. Instead, they too held promise.

  Because no matter what happened when she and Iain were finally alone, she’d dared.

  Dared to ask, to hope—in the most unlikely of places—for love.

  Dared to believe the little silver case had brought her to her soul mate.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Then let us be merry and gay,

  Since none are so happy as we.

  “There’s None So Happy As We,” Jacobite Reliques

  Iain held Traci’s gaze as the poet backed away. Her belief in him—shining from her eyes—made him feel simultaneously light and able to do anything.

  Gavin stepped forward and presented the sword of Iain’s father, hilt first, one of the last traditions in their clan’s ceremony. When the hilt graced and warmed his palm, the moment’s true significance swamped him.

  In his hands lay the welfare of all these people, as well as the tenants on their land. Like his father. And his father before him. For the first time, the prospect didn’t fill him with a nameless fear.

  Only one thing marred the ceremony—Duncan, as the man closest to him, should have been the one to present the sword. But he lay in the family apartments, still resting from his wounds. This event was the first time Iain had seen Fiona leave his side.

  Iain placed the sword’s tip at the mouth of his scabbard and paused, taking in the sight of his fist wrapped around the hilt of the sword that had seen his father through many a battle. Another was missing from this ceremony: his mother.

  As soon as the ceremonies finished, he’d write to the convent and know her wishes.

  Iain slid his father’s sword into the scabbard at his waist, surprised at the satisfaction the action—and his decision—gave him. Gavin next handed him a white rod—the slat tighearnais, the rod of sovereignty—and a yellowed-with-age ivory drinking horn. Edged with hammered silver and carved with symbols, it had been in his family farther back than anyone could remember. Legend told of an ancestor who brought it back from the Holy Lands while on crusade. Whatever its true origins, it had been used for generations to install new chieftains. Iain took a deep breath, let it out, and drank the warm claret in one long pull.

  When he finished, his people cheered, and he again caught Traci’s gaze. This time, the belief shining from her eyes wasn’t giving him confidence in his new role, but showing what was already present in him.

  He lifted his head and addressed the assembled crowd. “I am honored by the trust you have placed in me. I will not fail you. My uncle was a good man and met the best end any warrior could wish for, fighting for the rightful king and our way of life. That fight is not over, but it can abide for today.”

  He held out the ceremonial horn, and Gavin refilled it. “To mine uncle!” He raised the horn and took a healthy swig. Those around him cheered.

  He raised it again. “And to Dundee!”

  Cheers broke out again. He handed the horn to Gavin for him to pass around to the assembled gathering. “To the keep. We will enjoy a feast worthy of mine uncle’s memory.” He descended the ceremonial mound and slapped Gavin on the back. The man nodded, and Iain stepped away.

  His first duty as new chieftain was to demonstrate his generosity to all under his care. Every tenant would soon be arriving to partake in the feast, and he’d need to preside and make merry.

  But he had a sliver of time before that obligation. And he’d take that time to be with his wife.

  His wife who’d come back. For him.

  Traci strode through the cozy hall in the keep, squeezing past the growing crowd of clansmen and their tenants. Already folks were singing and playing instruments, and the cheerful notes dipped and swirled through the animated conversations around her.

  The ceremony had affected her on a level she hadn’t expected—this was her Scottish heritage. As she witnessed the rituals, it was clear each aspect had roots deep, deep in the past. Roots which no longer existed in her day. But for the first time in
her life, she felt at one with her heritage. She was Scottish. The conviction locked into place, and she felt part of a bigger whole.

  But now that the ceremony was over, she hummed with the need to find Iain, to be alone with him. She didn’t think she’d made the wrong choice in staying, but she wanted to finally have their discussion. Where the hell was he?

  She stood on her tiptoes and craned her head over a knot of villagers. No Iain.

  “Will you be all right on your own?” Fiona pitched her voice to be heard over the general noise of the crowd. Lord, she’d forgotten her sister had been next to her, so intent she was on finding Iain.

  Traci smiled a smile that came fully from within her. This, she had to do on her own. “Yes. Plus, isn’t there a certain someone whose side you’d rather be next to?”

  Fiona laughed, but Traci frowned, for it contained a fragile note. Fiona hugged her. “Good luck,” she whispered. She backed away, winked, and scampered through the crowd to the tower stairs.

  Giddiness swept through Traci at the audacity of her decision. She’d come back in time. For a man. And instead of scaring the freckles right off her, the possibilities and the promise made her mind and body feel free. Finally, she was reconnected to her younger self who had believed in love. Who had believed in finding her soul mate.

  And if the risk didn’t work out? That was okay.

  She would no longer be scared of ever finding it. Of exposing herself to the possibility.

  She wedged herself through another clump, grinning stupidly. Still no Iain. She backed up and stumbled.

  Strong, warm hands gripped her waist. “Whoa, there, lass. I have ye.” Iain’s melodic voice tickled her ear and elicited a cascade of shivers down her body.

  She’d found him.

  With Fiona back by Duncan’s side and his clan momentarily left to their own devices before the feast began, Iain was finally alone with his wife. As they stepped off the high wooden bridge that led from the keep and into the hallway at the top floor of their family apartments, Traci’s body brushed his. Her presence beside him was so weighted with meaning, he felt as if the whole space they traversed was thick with promise and awareness.

  Iain darted a glance toward her and caught her gaze. She grinned, her eyes twinkling, and they sprinted the rest of the way down the hallway, the decorative tapestries lining one wall fluttering in their wake.

  They burst into their room, out of breath and laughing.

  He grabbed her hand and tugged until her hips bumped deliciously against his.

  Everything he wished to say since she reappeared crowded his tongue, and his breathing hitched.

  But instead, he blurted, “I’m chieftain.”

  The smile that lit her face was one that spoke of an inner knowledge of each other, and his heart turned over.

  Her hand tightened on his. “I know.”

  Throughout the chieftain ceremony, her trust and belief in him had shone in her gaze. It had bolstered his confidence, helped see him through it. Helped him pretend.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  She cradled his face in her wee palms, her soft skin a cool and welcome caress on his cheeks. “Yes, you do.”

  He clasped her hands and covered his heart with them. She’d returned. For him. “I’m sorry.”

  She cocked her head and frowned.

  He cleared his throat. “For breaking my promise and not aiding ye.”

  “Iain, you did what you had to do.” She uncurled her fingers and spread her hands over his heart. “That’s why you’ll make a great leader. Your duty was to your clan.”

  “But it was also with ye.”

  She grimaced, and his heart clenched. “Well, I didn’t give you much of a chance, did I? I know you were angry with me when we parted, and you had every right to be.” She took a shaky breath, as if steeling herself. “Iain, the truth is, I was a big fat wuss.”

  “Wuss?”

  “Weakling. Scaredy cat. I didn’t dare probe further into what we could mean to each other. I…I…didn’t trust my instincts where guys were concerned, and I think…I think because my feelings are deeper than they’ve ever been, I mistrusted them even more. I was so afraid…” She trailed off.

  To be sure, Iain wanted to shake her and say, You? Afraid? But he held the moment delicately. “What did you fear?” he whispered.

  “I feared looking like a fool if you rejected me.” Her voice had started out a touch tentative, but she finished strong. Aye, but her confession cut through him, because he understood, didn’t he?

  He touched his forehead to hers. “Ach, lassie. In truth, I’d believed that I’d felt love’s bite a number of times over the years. But I hadn’t. Not truly. Always, it was about me. I looked to fall in love because I desired it so badly. The acceptance of another. But that’s not it, is it?” He cupped her cheek and rubbed his thumb across her bottom lip. She shuddered in his arms. “When I look at ye, it’s not about me and what I need. It’s you. And I’d do anything for ye.”

  She choked on a sob. “Oh, Iain. Is that your convoluted way of saying you…you love me?”

  He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Aye,” he whispered.

  Her breath expelled and brushed against his lips. “Thank God, because I love you too, you big flirt.”

  This time, those words didn’t wound. This time, the wielder knew he was more. She saw him. The whole him. And loved him.

  “But what about your life? The one ye left in the future?” It near killed him to remind her of all she’d forsaken, but he wished to make sure she had no hesitation—for he had none, and if she did, it would bode ill.

  She drew back slightly and clasped his shoulders. “You said you’d do anything for me, right?”

  “Aye…”

  She gave him a slight shake. “Can’t you see it’s the same for me? None of that matters. It’s all material, superficial trappings. Love is so hard to find. I realized I couldn’t throw ours away for modern luxuries.”

  “Even the hot shower?”

  She pinched his nose and kissed it. “Yes.” Her smile lit up her face, but it held no trace of regret. The last of his worry evaporated. She was here. Truly and fully. For him.

  “You’ll have to create this miraculous closet.”

  She laughed. “I’m not sure I have the skill, but as they say, ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ ” Her face sobered. “We’re still married, right?”

  He hugged her with all his strength. “Aye, we are. Though, I’d like to formalize it before the priest leaves.” He reached into his sporran with a shaking hand. “This belonged to my mother, and I know ye had to give up your valuable ring. Will you take this and promise to be mine past a year and a day?”

  Her eyes glistened. “Yes.”

  Ach, Jesus, his own eyes were threatening to overfill. “That’s…” He cleared his throat. “That’s wonderful.” Then the next word he said, though he’d been using it before to tease, was imbued with new meaning. With promise. With acceptance. With love.

  “Wife,” he whispered and slipped the ring onto her finger.

  Traci’s insides glowed with happiness. And fulfillment.

  And then something else entirely. She backed up and gave him a wicked smile. “Stay right where you are. No, wait. Move over to the hearth.” She grabbed his upper arms and shuffle-walked him into position. She stepped back, then angled him just so.

  She scrambled onto the huge four poster bed and curled up by the gap in the curtains. She eased back a fold and took in his puzzled expression as he stood obediently by the fireplace, three-quarters of him facing her.

  Perfect.

  “Now, strip,” she cooed.

  Instantly, his eyes darkened, and his lids drooped. He formed a seductive grin as he placed his hands on the brooch pin holding up the kilt at his left shoulder.

  This time, she’d be able to do what she couldn’t do those other nights he’d teased her with his strip show—invite him i
nto her bed. Their bed. And not have it be a stupid move.

  Now. Now, it would be the start of something. Something wonderful, heady, that would last a lifetime. She thumbed the ring he’d given her. He hadn’t known what the other symbolized, but she chose to see this as a promise of their future, instead of looking into the past.

  The kilt dropped, and he dispensed with the rest of his clothes and stalked toward her, gloriously naked, his gaze never leaving hers. Her insides fluttered. This was Iain. The man she’d come back for, but he was so much more than that. He pulled back the curtain, and his hungry gaze took all of her in as if she were bare before him. And she was, in a way. Bare to him like she’d never been before with a man. He knew her faults. He knew how deeply she felt about him to have given up so much. As he’d see it. But she didn’t see it as a sacrifice at all. More like a trade—a half-life for a full one of love.

  He placed his knee on the edge of the bed, which dipped with his weight. He leaned toward her, one hand landing beside her head. With his other, he gently cupped her face, the rough calluses of his palms a bare whisper against her cheek.

  “Mo dhuslach rionnaige,” he murmured. Her heart turned to sappy goo at that. He’d been calling her “my stardust” this whole time. He gently captured her lips, and the rush of contact, the taste of him after so long, shuddered through her.

  She stretched out and smoothed her hands up his muscled chest and gripped his shoulders, her blood heating and racing with anticipation. Being here, with him…it felt as if all the parts of her were here, in sync, with him. And she wanted to join with him to complete that new bond.

  They scooted farther onto the bed, and Iain pressed his body against hers. The weight—his weight—felt delicious, increasing her anticipation. She squeezed his gorgeous ass, and he groaned into her mouth.

  He levered up, his eyes a dark blue and hooded. “You are wearing entirely too many clothes.” His voice was low and rough.