by Dee Davis
He stopped, his back still to Iain. "Aye?"
"How much longer are you planning to stay at Duncreag?"
"I promised Sorcha we'd stay out the se'nnight." He shot a look at Iain over his shoulder. "Does that meet with your approval?"
"Aye, I've no cause to keep Ailis from my auntie Sorcha if she is helping her in her grief. But at week's end I'll expect you to go."
Alasdair nodded. "And you'll think on the matter of my sister?"
"I said I would."
Iain sat motionless, watching Alasdair leave, studying the man's retreating back. There was something about him Iain couldn't quite fathom, something deep inside carefully hidden behind layers of courtesy and congeniality.
Iain slumped forward, and ran his hands through his hair. He felt outmaneuvered. It seemed everyone was conspiring to get him to marry Alasdair's sister. First Fergus and Ranald, then Alasdair, and now it seemed even his father wished it so—from the grave, no less.
Iain closed his eyes, trying to picture Ailis. But instead his mind conjured a golden-haired, gray-eyed beauty dressed in emerald green. Her lips were open in invitation. He felt himself harden in anticipation of tasting her sweetness.
He slammed a fist down on the table. He'd not be forced into a marriage with Ailis by his well-meaning family. And he certainly wasn't going to let Alasdair Davidson tell him whom to wed.
*****
"Well, I see you survived your encounter with Alasdair."
Iain crossed the great hall to the window to where Ranald and Ailis sat across from each other on the two facing window seats. "I believe I'm still in one piece."
Ailis colored and bent her head to examine the tapestry she was working on.
"Ailis." Iain nodded to the top of her head and sat down on the window seat next to Ranald.
"My Laird." She glanced over quickly and then bent again to her work.
"I trust my cousin has been keeping you entertained?"
Again, Ailis' cheeks turned pink. She looked at Ranald and smiled timidly. "Your cousin is indeed full of interesting tales. He has been kind enough to spend the afternoon sharing his marvelous stories of the intrigues at Moy. It seems to have been very exciting. I do not doubt that you miss it a great deal."
Iain grinned at Ranald. "As it happens, things here have been rather exciting of late and so I've had no time at all to miss being at my uncle's."
"Tell me, then, is it true that you and Ranald singlehandedly rescued the Mackintosh's grandson from the clutches of the Camerons?" she asked, giving Iain a shy glance, her smile hopeful. He shifted uncomfortably.
"Aye, 'tis true. We rescued the lad. But we didna accomplish the feat by ourselves. We wouldna have managed to release the man at all if it hadna been for his betrothed. Eleanor was the one who saved him, in truth. We were naught but the muscle behind her plan."
Ailis looked at Ranald in confusion. "But I thought..."
Ranald looked at his feet, a reddish stain creeping across his face. Iain resisted the urge to laugh. "I've never seen you blush, cousin. 'Tis quite becoming."
Ranald shot Iain a warning look. Iain ignored it, smiling at Ailis. "You see, my cousin has a habit of embellishing his stories a wee bit, always to his benefit, of course. You may be sure that there is some truth in the tales he tells. He is no' a dishonest man. He merely sees things from a bard's point of view."
Ranald sputtered. "A bard? I am certainly no' one of those."
"You're right. I should have qualified it." Iain grinned at Ailis, who was now smiling too. "You're a warrior bard, a fighting poet. A very odd breed, I'm told. Ailis, we are indeed in the presence of a rare fellow. We should count ourselves blessed."
Iain winced as an elbow jammed into his side. Ailis' lips trembled in her struggle to contain her merriment. But she finally lost the battle, and her sweet laughter rang through the hall. Ranald threw his hands in the air with a gesture of surrender, his baritone rumble joining Ailis' melodic sweet soprano.
Gulping for air, Ailis swallowed and wiped tears from her eyes. "And to think I thought you merely a gallant fellow. I had no idea you were so... unique." She started to laugh again, her eyes shining as she looked at Ranald.
Iain removed his dirk, laying it beside him, then began massaging his bruised skin. "Well, Ranald, I'm certainly living proof of your warrior side. I think you've broken a rib."
"Now who exaggerates, cousin?" Ranald asked, grimacing in good humor.
"Oh, do stop it, both of you. I cannot breathe for laughing."
Ranald immediately moved to sit beside her, his concern evident as he awkwardly patted her arm. "Are you all right then? I certainly didna mean to cause you any harm."
Ailis smiled at him. "I am fine, honestly." She reached for Iain's dirk and ran a gentle finger over the smoky stone in its hilt. "I see you found Alasdair's dirk. He will be ever so pleased. He told me just the other day that he had managed to misplace it."
Iain gave her a puzzled look, taking the dirk from her. "Nay, you're mistaken, Ailis. 'Twas my father's dirk. And now 'tis mine."
Ailis stared at the knife, her brow furrowed with concentration. "You are right, of course. Now that I think on it I am sure Alasdair's dirk is larger than this one. It was just the dark stone that fooled me." She turned to smile at Ranald, the dirk completely forgotten.
Iain slipped the knife into its scabbard and sat back, watching the two of them. Ailis was laughing softly again, and Ranald was almost fawning. Fawning. Ranald. Amazing. Well, Iain told himself, at least he could quit worrying about Ailis. She seemed quite capable of attracting a husband without any help at all from her brother. Ranald had better watch his step.
With that thought, Iain's mouth curled into a smile. He stifled the urge to laugh. "I'll be off, then. I've a need to find Auntie Sorcha and check on young William."
He might as well have been talking to the wall for all the notice the couple in the window seat gave him.
*****
"How fares the lad?"
Sorcha looked up as Iain entered the chamber. She was kneeling at William's side, a needle in her hand.
"I'm just stitching him up. The bleeding's stopped, Saints be praised, but he's burning up. I canna promise he'll recover." Sorcha returned to her work, making neat stitches along the wound.
Iain moved to the side of the bed. The gash ran almost the length of William's leg, the skin around it an angry red. Sorcha tied off the stitches and cut them with her knife. She reached for a strip of linen covered with a poultice of some sort.
"What's that then?"
" 'Tis naught but a few herbs to help draw out the bad humors and ease the swelling." She wrapped the bandage around the leg once and tied it off with quick efficiency. "There is naught to do now but wait. Either the fever will take him or it won't."
The boy thrashed on the bed, moving his head back and forth. Sorcha immediately reached to soothe the boy pushing the damp hair back from his face. He moaned and quieted. "Have you told his parents yet?" Sorcha asked.
"Aye. I went to them almost as soon as we returned. They'll be here at nightfall. I think his mother would have come now, but I assured her it was best to let you tend to the boy first. I know they're comforted in knowing you're caring for the lad."
Sorcha blushed, embarrassed by the compliment. "A body does what she can."
Iain circled the bed to stand beside his aunt. Guilt slashed through him, almost as tangible as the poor boy's battered leg. "If I could will him to live, I would, but I fear 'tis no' within my power to do so."
"Nor is it your place. 'Tis in God's hands now." Sorcha awkwardly placed a hand on Iain's arm. " 'Tis sorry I was to hear about your troubles. I know 'tis probably a sin, but I'm ever so grateful that 'twas Andrew killed and no' you."
Iain put an arm around her thin body and gave her a squeeze. To his surprise, she burst into tears. "What ails you, Auntie Sorcha?"
" 'Tis nothing." She scrubbed the tears away with the back of her hand. "Only that I
'm still missing your father." She turned then, briskly setting about wetting a scrap of linen. Once it was sufficiently damp she laid it across William's forehead. "Be off with you now. I've work to do."
Iain stood for a minute longer watching as she ministered to the boy. As he left the chamber, he wondered, not for the first time, just exactly what kind of relationship Sorcha had shared with his father.
*****
Candlelight flickered, illuminating the bedchamber. Iain paced like a caged beast, trying to assimilate the discoveries of the last few days. Two of his clansmen had suffered, one dead and another hanging by a fine thread. His father had been murdered. Of that Iain was certain. Whether it was, in fact, at the hand of a Macpherson was yet to be seen. Alasdair Davidson had weaseled his way into Duncreag. And if Iain didn't watch his step he'd soon find the bastard his brother-in-law.
And if all that wasn't enough, he had started having visions. Granted it was a lovely vision, and more to the point, had likely saved his life. But, by the Saints, it was still fantasy, wasn't it? Iain stopped pacing long enough to pour himself some wine. He drank deeply, then wiped his mouth with a linen-covered arm. He knelt down, staring into the fire, wondering, not the first time, who she was and why she haunted him both day and night.
He closed his eyes, trying to see her, to feel her. He waited.
Nothing.
He sat back on his heels, angered at his vulnerability. No, he had seen her—there by the stream. Bloody hell, she had saved him. He closed his eyes again, and this time she was there, standing by the burn, her eyes wide with terror, her mouth moving in the effort to reach him. Her slender hand pointing, desperately trying to warn him, to save him. He trembled, seeing again the love in her eyes. It had been almost tangible.
He opened his eyes to his empty chamber. Tightening his fist around his cup, he shifted to sit cross-legged before the fire, its flames dancing in hypnotic rhythm. He sat in silence, letting the fire and the wine warm him. Here, in the flickering light, nothing seemed impossible. So he sat, sipping mulled wine and wishing for miracles.
Chapter 10
KATHERINE SAT BY the peat fire, watching her brother try to stay awake. His eyes were already half-closed. She knew from long experience that he would soon be soundly asleep. Never had she known anyone who could fall asleep faster. All through their childhood they had shared good night talks. The sessions had started as a family custom, with all four St. Claires gathering in either her or her brother's bedroom to wish each other good night and exchange last-minute words of wisdom and comfort. When their parents had died, the nightly ritual had taken on even more significance, the two children trying desperately not to let go of what had once been a family. Over the years the talks had become less frequent, but they had never stopped altogether, often taking place by telephone. But always, always, Jeff had fallen asleep in the middle of them. It was, at the same time, both exasperating and endearing.
"I'd say that unless you want to sleep in here tonight, you'd better get a move on."
Jeff sat up sleepily, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Oh Lord, did I do it again? I'm sorry, Kitty. Did I miss anything important?"
She smiled at him fondly. "No, as a matter of fact, I wasn't talking at all. Just enjoying the quiet and being here with you. But I think we'd best be off to bed now." With that she stood, grabbed his arm, and pulled him upright. Both hands on his shoulders, she turned him to face the stairs. "Up you go. I'll see you in the morning."
"All right, I'm going." He took two steps, then stopped, turning back to face his sister. "You'll be okay? I mean dream boy ..." He stopped mid-sentence, looking sheepish.
"I'll be fine. Whatever happens, I'll be fine." Katherine crossed to him and gave him a hug. "Good night." Her voice held traces of laughter.
Jeff nodded and trudged dutifully up the stairs, his tousled hair making him resemble a toddler on his way to a nap.
Katherine stood and watched until he was out of sight. "I love you," she whispered.
*****
The radiator hissed quietly in its corner as Katherine got ready for bed. She slid into the cool silk of her nightgown and then began brushing out her long hair. Freed from its confining braid, her hair tumbled over her shoulders, its golden strands shining in the harsh electric light.
After a few moments, she put down her brush and climbed into the tiny bed and snapped off the lamp. Moonlight filled the room. She tossed and turned, but sleep eluded her. Her brain whirled with thoughts of time travel and fantasy, dark lovers and medieval warriors.
Realizing that sleep was not coming, she pulled herself out of bed and walked over to the window seat. She curled up in a corner and watched as the moon threw shadows across the courtyard. As the stars moved overhead, Katherine felt her eyes grow heavy. Thinking that she ought to climb back into bed, she drifted off to sleep.
*****
Iain jerked to with a start. How long had he been sitting here. The fire had burned down to softly glowing coals and the candles had long since gutted out. The chamber was filled with darkness, and he was cold. He stood cautiously, aware that his foot had fallen asleep. Stomping on it, he tried to ignore the vicious tingling.
Cursing the cold, he began undressing, casting his plaid into a corner. He watching as the garment settled into a heap on the floor. He reached down for the tails of his shirt, already moving toward the warmth of his bed, but stopped when he saw the shadow that marked the doorway to the adjoining chamber. His feet seemed to move of their own volition, taking him to the door.
He paused in the doorway, his heart pounding. Drawing a deep breath, he looked at the bed. Empty. He felt his gut lurch with disappointment. It was as always. She had not come. He turned to go, but halted when a flicker of green caught his eye. He spun around, his eyes focusing on the window.
The moonlight washed over the sleeping figure. She was curled in the corner of the stone seat, the emerald of her night shift almost glowing in the pale light. He took a step forward, hands shaking. The figure at the window shifted. He froze, watching as she opened her eyes and sat up, staring in sleepy confusion.
Their gazes met and held. She drew in a breath that was almost a sob. Pressing a trembling hand to her breast, she stood.
"You're here...." Her words trailed off, a mere whisper.
He crossed the room, his eyes never breaking contact with hers. She moved toward him as well, slowly, like a sleepwalker. She licked her lips nervously, her hands mindlessly clenching and unclenching. Time seemed to stop. She was drawn to the green of his eyes, the only color, in all his darkness.
They met in the center of the room. She reached with trembling hands to touch him. His chest felt solid beneath her fingers. She let out the breath she had been holding. He was real.
He moved, and then his mouth was covering hers, hard and demanding. His arms closed around her. She was soft and yielding. He pulled her tighter into his embrace. Even with the passing of years, she felt right there as though he had held her through countless nights instead of just one.
She breathed his strong, spicy scent and sighed, her mouth opening. His tongue found its way home, stroking, sucking, mating with hers. The warmth spread slowly from somewhere below her stomach. It grew and spread until she ached from it. And still the kiss went on. His hands wound through her hair. He pulled her close, closer. She wanted ... wanted to be closer still. Part of him. Yes, that was it, she wanted him to be inside her. Oh God, she'd spoken out loud. Hot color burned her cheeks.
He laughed and pulled her up into his arms, then he walked quickly through the arched doorway into the adjoining chamber. In two short steps they were at the bed. He released her, her body sliding against his hardness. He pulled the tie at her neck and pushed the gown from her body. The silken fabric caressed her as it fell in a pool of cool green at her feet.
She shivered, but not from the cold. He was wearing only a long shirt. With shaking hands, she tried to push it aside. He stepped back and with one long swift
motion pulled the shirt over his head, his bronzed muscles rippling as he did so. Her breath caught in her throat. He stood before her naked, and her eyes drank in the sight of his hard, muscled body. Her hand, with a will of its own, reached out to stroke the puckered redness of the scar on his arm. Her eyes were drawn downward. She swallowed and moved a step closer.
He pulled her tightly against him, feeling the soft swelling of her breasts against his chest. Her skin burned him and he felt a tightness deep inside him growing harder. He wanted nothing more than to sheath himself deep within her. He lifted her and turned, lowering her gently to the mattress. He paused above her, drinking in the sight of her. She was beautiful. Her hair was spread like a fan beneath her. He wondered how it would feel to be wrapped with her in its silkiness. He lowered his body to hers, bracing himself so that he wouldn't crush her. He bent his head, his mouth again claiming hers.
Her body arched forward, straining to get closer. His hands were touching her everywhere. Stroking. Caressing. His hand brushed against her breasts. She shivered, and a low moan escaped from deep in her throat. She wanted him. It had been so long. Her hand stroked his back as his mouth continued to force her surrender. The warmth spreading inside her had grown red hot. She began to move against him, feeling his hardness against the warmth of her thigh. His mouth moved to the curve of her neck. She shivered with passion and turned her head to give him better access to the soft skin. But his mouth moved lower, to the vee of her breasts. His tongue brushed across her nipple, circling the tender, hardening bud. She arched upward, wanting more. The single word "Please" echoed through the still night. His mouth closed over her breast and he began to suckle. She cried out with the joy of it.
Never had he felt such passion. The longing for her was intense. Not just for release, although his body was aching for it, but for something more, something deeper, beyond the primal need of man for woman. It wasn't just woman, it was this woman. The need built inside him, growing in fury and pitch until it burned out of control. He moved a hand down the silkiness of her belly, caressing and stroking.