by Laura Landon
“Aye, milord.” Janet turned toward Màiri and smiled. “Come, mistress. The laird’s rooms were freshly aired just this morn. Old Yseult braved coming here to tell me herself to prepare the laird’s chambers. She knew he was coming back to us and even told me he was bringing the MacAlister future with him.”
The look on Iain’s face hardened. “You know not to have anything to do with her,” Iain said, his tone a reprimand that sounded through clenched teeth. “I do na want the hag to step foot in my keep.”
Janet’s cheeks colored. “But her words came true, milord. She said you were alive and would come back to us. Her powers told her.”
Fire flashed from Iain’s eyes. “She is a witch!” he bellowed. The tone of his voice was as violent as Màiri had ever heard. “Everything she touches suffers from her interference. She is fortunate I allow her to live close enough to benefit from my protection.”
Janet’s face beamed a bright red. “I am sorry, milord. I will na mention her again.”
Iain raked his fingers through his hair and breathed a heavy sigh as if to get his emotions under control. When he spoke, his voice was softer. “Show your mistress to her room, Janet, and see to her comforts. Then come back down and tell me all that has happened while I have been gone.”
A tentative smile covered Janet’s face. “Aye, milord. I canna wait to share with you the news about Hector and the tanner’s daughter, Agnes.”
A surprised look covered Iain’s face, replacing the frown he’d worn a moment ago. “Hector?”
“They will be married as soon as the priest gets back from the MacDuff’s,” Janet answered with a broad smile.
“Hector?”
“Aye. It has been a sad time indeed for many a young lass since Hector asked Agnes’s father for her hand. The wailing was heard for miles around when the news first broke.”
Iain’s eyes opened even wider before he laughed.
“Come mistress,” Janet said, muffling a derisive giggle as she waddled across the rushes. “I will show you to your rooms.”
Màiri followed her out of the great hall and up the stairs to the rooms she would share with her husband. She tried to concentrate only on the warrior called Hector and his soon-to-be wife, but Iain’s reaction to the woman named Yseult got in the way. His response more than startled her. It alarmed her. The woman obviously had powers, and her husband appeared terrified of them—just as her father had been terrified of her mother’s powers.
Somehow she knew this Yseult was the same woman she’d noticed standing by herself when they’d arrived. The woman Iain had ordered her to avoid.
The woman whose presence pulled at her.
Màiri walked at Janet’s side, only half-listening to her idle chatter. She thought how carelessly she’d used her gift to ease Janet’s fear of birthing the babe. It had not seemed important at the time, but her recklessness could have been disastrous. Iain’s reaction to the woman Yseult was a warning of just how precarious her situation would be if he ever found out about her powers. It was also a warning that she must always be on her guard.
If she couldn’t hide her gift for even one hour this first day here, how did she think she could hide it for a lifetime?
. . .
Iain walked into his chambers to change for the evening’s celebration, expecting to see his wife still resting. She wasn’t. He found her sitting on a padded bench before the stone window staring out onto the courtyard below.
The clean scent of roses and heather hit his nose. She’d already bathed and washed her hair, then dressed in a beautiful burgundy gown trimmed with gold satin. She’d pulled her hair back from her face and wound it loosely in the back. Iain wanted nothing more than to rake his fingers through it until it fell from its bindings, then bury his face in its silky softness.
She looked up at him, her green eyes shining with contentment in the waning light of the setting sun. By the saints, she was beautiful. He’d recognized her beauty the moment his sight had returned, but had not let himself pay too much notice. He’d forced himself to think of her only as a maiden destined to live her life devoted to the church. If he’d not heard her father call her name, she’d have gone beyond the convent walls and been lost to him forever.
The thought made his blood run cold.
“Have you rested at all, milady?”
“I am na used to sleeping in the daylight. I will sleep tonight.”
He cupped his palm to her cheek. Her porcelain skin was smooth to the touch, as soft as the feel of new velvet. “Tonight I will make you my wife. We have gone far too long already.”
Her gaze dropped to her hands in her lap. He sat down beside her and took her hands in his. “Did Janet share with you the reason we found such humor in Hector taking a bride?”
She shook her head but did not look up at him. The color of her cheeks matched the burgundy of her gown almost perfectly.
“I will be sure to introduce you to our future bridegroom tonight, but I warn you to remember you are already married.”
He smiled at the surprised look on her face.
“I do na understand,” she whispered.
“It is the way Hector looks.”
“He is that unsightly?”
“Nay. Although I do na see it myself, all the lasses think he is very handsome.”
“Then why could he na find a MacAlister lass to marry him?”
Iain laughed. Her innocence was precious. “Finding a lass was never Hector’s problem. Choosing only one was. The lassies are so busy fighting for his attention that he has never had the need to settle down with only one of them. The humor is that our plain, shy, sweet Agnes has never given him so much as a second glance, yet she is the lass to finally catch him.”
“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “I canna wait to meet this Hector,” she added, hiding a small grin.
“I think I am lucky I married you when I did or perhaps I too would be fighting Hector for your attention.”
Her grin widened, then changed as the humor faded. She lowered her head and stared at his hands covering hers. “I must warn you, milord. Tonight I may be a terrible disappointment to you. I do na know what to do.”
Iain placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her head until she had to look him in the eyes. “You will na disappoint, my sweet Màiri. You will be my wife, the mistress of my keep, and the mother of my children.”
Her eyes misted with emotion and he felt a tug at his heart. Someday he would find out what had happened between her and the MacBride that caused his bride to seek sanctuary in the abbey, knowing she would never be a wife and mother like God intended for her.
Right now he only wanted to kiss her.
He lowered his head until their lips touched.
Their meeting was at first hesitant and gentle, a brief reminder that only made him want more. He kissed her again, pressing his lips against hers until she yielded to his pressure. A small sigh echoed in the silence as she gave in to his touch.
Her lips were soft yet inviting, firm yet yielding, warm yet fired with passion. Again and again he pressed his lips to hers, giving her just enough to make her want more, teaching her just enough to make her ask for more, demanding just enough to make her beg for more.
Each time he lowered his lips to hers, she reached for him, anticipating his touch, demanding the pressure of his mouth against hers. The blood roared inside his head, warming his body.
Finally, with an impatient sigh, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. He thought his heart would burst in his chest.
With undeniable possessiveness, he ground his mouth against hers and took from her until she gasped for breath as wildly as he. He drank from her sweetness, taking and giving, demanding and rejoicing in the untapped passion dormant inside her all this time.
He skimmed his tongue lightly over her swollen lips, moistening them, tormenting them, then urging them open. She parted her lips, tilting her head to the side to give him easier access
. Another surge of emotion thundered in his head, crashing like waves against the rocks with each thrust inside her honeyed cavern.
His tongue entered then exited, touched then mated, thrust then battled with her silky hardness until he thought he would die of wanting. Never before had he desired a woman like he hungered for the woman in his arms, and with a jolt of reality, he realized he could have her.
Fighting the ache deep in his loins, he knew he wanted to do more than kiss her and hold her and touch her. He wanted to have her naked flesh pressed against his. He wanted to bury himself deep within her. He wanted to pleasure her and make love to her until the world ceased to exist for either of them.
He lifted his mouth from hers and studied her face. She wanted it too. He saw it in her eyes.
Iain lifted his trembling fingers to the lacing that fastened her gown and pulled the first loop free. The lilting melody from below stairs reached up to twine with their labored breathing, seeping into the hazy recesses of his mind, reminding him of the celebration going on below. They were expected to join in the festivities soon.
With a painful groan, he dropped the satin ribbon from his hand and lowered his head until their foreheads touched. The shocked look on her face echoed his disappointment. By the saints he wanted her, but not now, not like this. Later, when he had time to pleasure her and show her what it would be like between them.
He rose from the bench beside her and braced his arms against the cool, stone wall, letting his lungs gasp for air.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked, her voice soft with the slightest tremor.
“Nay, wife. You did nothing wrong, but if you want to make it to the celebration starting below stairs this eventide, we had best cease our kissing.”
“Oh.”
He smiled when her cheeks darkened. He touched the rosy circles that warmed her face then let his thumb trace the swollen lips he’d just kissed. “I will get ready and we will join the crowd already gathered. Roderick should be here any minute. I canna wait for you to meet him.”
“That is your brother?”
“Aye. He is younger by five years but sometimes seems older by ten.”
Iain unfastened the brooch that pinned his tartan at the shoulder and removed the MacAlister plaid. The minute he lifted the bottom of his shirt to raise it over his head, his wife spun around to face the wall.
“Is your brother much like you?” she asked, her nose less than a hand’s width away from the stones.
“Some say so,” Iain answered, trying to cover his laughter. He was giving his shy wife a view she wasn’t prepared to handle yet. “Roderick is more than my brother. He was only fourteen when our father died and at an age where he needed a father more than a brother.”
“And you became that father,” she said, still not brave enough to turn around to face him.
“Aye. I saw to his training and his upbringing. If something were to happen to me, he must be ready to be the next MacAlister laird.”
“Yet you were gone a month and more and the MacAlisters did na make him their laird.”
The thoughtful tone of her voice echoed his thoughts exactly. “Donald said the elders wanted to wait until they were sure I was na going to return. Now that I am back, I am thankful.”
“You do na think Roderick is ready to be laird?”
Iain picked up a clean shirt and rubbed the material between his fingers. “Roderick is my right hand in all things and loyal to a fault. If needed, he would make an excellent laird. He is equally as determined to do what is best for the MacAlisters as I.”
“Would he have married the MacBride’s daughter to gain peace?”
Iain’s hands halted as he dropped the shirt over his shoulders. “I do na know. Roderick sees a show of power as the way to maintain peace between the clans. Where I bargained for you, Roderick would probably have fought for your hand.”
Iain placed the tartan over his shoulder and fastened it with the MacAlister brooch. “I do na want to watch more of my people needlessly die. That is all. If peace can be guaranteed without sacrificing good, decent Scots and creating scores of widows and orphans, then that is the road we should travel.”
She raised her brows. “And it is more noble for only the MacAlister laird to sacrifice his freedom by marrying the enemy’s daughter?”
Iain cupped his hand around the nape of her neck and pulled her to him. He lowered his head and kissed her hard, then kissed her again. He lifted his mouth from hers and held her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted her face upward to see into her eyes.
“It was not such a sacrifice, was it, milady?” he asked, his voice a ragged whisper.
She spoke no words, only reached her hand up to wrap her fingers around his neck. It was all the answer he needed.
Chapter 9
The great hall was filled to overflowing. Every MacAlister old enough or fit enough to walk had come out to welcome their laird’s new bride. Ale flowed freely and each long trestle table bowed under the weight of the huge trenchers of food. Every person who came to extend Màiri their good wishes told her they couldn’t ever remember such a celebration.
Màiri had never been happier.
She sat at the long table on the dais next to Iain with Donald and Conan on her left and Lochlan and Rauri on Iain’s right. The clan elders and a number of MacAlisters boasting some importance also sat at the table on either side of them, but Màiri could hardly remember all their names. Only Roderick’s place sat empty and Màiri noticed Iain’s gaze move to the doorway again and again in anticipation. She could not wait to meet Iain’s brother. From the softened look on her husband’s face when he talked about him, she knew the two were close.
From the back of the room, a young MacAlister warrior with fire-red hair and beard to match raised his cup of ale in a toast to his laird’s new bride. Màiri smiled as the young lad teetered back and forth while he slurred his words of congratulations. She doubted any saint had ever been given such exalted praise as she. When he finished, the room exploded in uproarious cheering. Màiri lowered her head demurely as she gratefully accepted the toast.
Iain placed his hand atop hers and wrapped his fingers around hers. “Congratulations, milady,” he said when the warrior sat back in his seat. “You have already found a place in the hearts of my people.”
Màiri turned her face to him. She saw the pride in his eyes and her heart swelled in her breast. “If I have, it is because your people have such a love for their laird they would develop a fondness for me even if I had a face that frightened children.”
“I think not. I think perhaps they too can see the gentle heart that beats in your breast.”
Màiri turned her head to hide her burning cheeks. “I am sure the ale helps. Don’t you think so, Donald?” she asked, needing to include someone else in their conversation.
Donald laughed. “I think the night is young yet. When they start toasting old Granny Farlane as a sweet young lass, then I will know it is the ale talking.”
Just then another MacAlister warrior stood to toast his mistress. Twice during his overly-flattering ovation, his friends on either side of him had to reach out to steady him. When he finished, Màiri gave both Iain and Donald an I-told-you-so look. Donald leaned back in his chair and laughed.
“I think we will concentrate only on practicing archery tomorrow,” Donald said as concession. He had to shout to be heard over the din of laughter and revelry coming from the growing number of MacAlister men and women squeezing into the great hall. “It is doubtful the warriors will be able to even find the practice area in the morning, let alone hit a target, but it will be less dangerous than broadswords. We can at least point the arrows away from each other.”
Màiri looked at Iain and smiled at the grin lighting his face. Many of the older warriors sat in groups, loudly relating long-ago feats of valor and heroism that still enjoyed the embellishments of exaggeration, while lasses wended their way among them, laughing, and jokin
g, keeping everyone’s cups filled with ale. A few of the younger, less experienced drinkers already lined the walls, sleeping off the effects of too much ale. “I fear, milady,” he said, leaning closer so she could hear him, “you will na be remembered so fondly in the morning.”
She laughed out loud, then reached for a piece of candied fruit on the platter before her. She popped it into her mouth then reached for another. She had never tasted anything like it before.
“I am glad to see you like the candied fruits our women prepared for this evening. No one makes them better than our Ada.”
Màiri reached out and picked up another piece of fruit and held it between her thumb and finger. The thick, syrupy juice from the fruit ran down her hand and she popped a candied pear into her mouth, then licked the sticky liquid from her fingers. It was delicious.
She reached for another piece then looked up to see her husband staring at her with a sly grin on his face. “What?” she asked, watching his grin open to a broad smile.
“Nothing, wife. I did not realize you had such a taste for sweets.”
She felt her cheeks warm. “I have made a glutton of myself, haven’t I?” She moved her hand away from the platter and put it in her lap.
Iain laughed. “No one is counting how many of the sweets you have eaten, although I don’t remember anyone ever eating as many as seven before.”
“I have had that many?” she asked, feeling her cheeks warm even more.
He laughed even louder and picked up the discarded fruit and brought it to her mouth. She opened when the sticky liquid touched her lips and ate it.
“Aye. Now you have eaten eight. It will be the talk of the keep for days.”
“Will it really?” she asked trying to decide if he was teasing her. She wasn’t quite sure. She was not used to such teasing. “It is just that I had never tasted anything like it before and—”
“Are you telling me you have never tasted candied fruits before?”
“We did na have them in my father’s keep.”