Highland Belle

by Patricia H. Grasso

  * * * *

  Dressed in the English mode, Iain and Dugie entered the bustling common room of the Royal Rooster Tavern. A cacophony of sounds and smells greeted their senses—myriad voices, rumbles of laughter, roasting meat, simmering stew, and heavy drink.

  Scanning the chamber, Iain noted two things. Brigette was nowhere in sight, and the tavern was mostly populated with men. He was not pleased. Wanting to observe without being observed, the two Scotsmen sat at a table against the wall, farthest away from the bar and kitchen.

  On their immediate left was a table crowded with young men, apparently sons of well-to-do merchants. A blowsy blonde serving wench was smiling at the men. “What'll it be?” Lil was purring.

  “We want the copper-haired wench to serve us,” one of them replied.

  “She's busy,” Lil snapped. “Ya'll have ta settle for me."

  Iain's ears prickled. His dark, intense gaze skewered the impudent rascal who'd asked for Brigette's services. Obviously, the lad had more on his mind than supper. Damn her, Iain cursed inwardly. He'd probably end the evening by dueling with every randy scamp in attendance.

  Three foppishly dressed men entered the tavern and sat at the table on Iain's immediate right. “I don't see her anywhere,” one announced, craning his neck to better view the tavern's occupants.

  “Her name is Brie,” said another. “One of the other wenches called her that."

  “A unique name for—” the third commented.

  “For a uniquely prime piece of meat,” finished the second. His companions laughed.

  “Yes,” the first one agreed. “I'd love to taste her tenderloin."

  Intending to murder the oblivious three, Iain growled and started to rise, but Dugie placed a restraining hand on his forearm. It was then Iain saw his wife for the first time in nearly a month.

  Carrying a tray of food, Brigette walked into the common room from the kitchen. She stopped at a table near the bar and smiled brightly at its occupants. One man resembled a pig and the other had the beak of a hawk. Unmistakably smitten, the pig made a comment, and the three of them laughed in easy camaraderie.

  Iain would have confronted his wife then, but Lil was suddenly standing there, smiling coyly and displaying her cleavage. “What'll it be, gents?” she asked.

  Iain's eyes flicked disinterestedly over her charms, then rose to meet her gaze. “Two ales and stew,” he ordered, pressing a gold coin between her fleshy mounds. “I want the copper-haired wench to serve us."

  Fuming, Lil nodded but decided she'd had enough of placing second to the red-haired chit. She hastened to the bar.

  “Brie?” Lil sidled up to her beautiful rival and smiled. “Could ya do me the favor of bringin’ stew and ale ta the two gents on the far side of the room?"

  “Yes.” Brigette looked at Lil with some surprise. Usually, the blonde scowled, sneered, or ignored her. This was the first smile she'd received. Brigette got the stew and ale, then hurried across the chamber.

  “Brie,” Lil called as she served the men next to Iain. “Over here.” So intent was Brigette on not spilling the tray's contents, she failed to even glance at the table's occupants. Lil smiled slyly and placed her foot in her rival's path.

  "Yeeooww!" Brigette tripped, and the tray flew out of her hands.

  “Ye clumsy chit!” Iain, dripping stew and ale, leaped out of his chair.

  Startled by the familiar voice, Brigette looked from the soiled clothing to the man's angry countenance. Her eyes widened in horrified surprise, and her lips formed a silent, perfect O of dismay. She whirled away, her instinct for survival surfacing quickly.

  Iain caught her shoulder and spun her around so violently, she crashed into his unyielding body. Scooping up his wife like a sack of flour, he threw her over his shoulder and headed for the stairs.

  “Put me down!” Brigette shrieked, harmlessly pummeling his backside. “You roving bastard!” Her cursing became a cry of outraged pain when he whacked her rump.

  Iain stopped at the top of the stairs. “Which is yer chamber?"

  “Go bugger yourself!"

  Again Iain whacked her upended rear.

  “The last door at the end of the corridor."

  Inside the dingy chamber, Iain bolted the door and then tossed her onto a cot. Brigette leaped off and backed away, one hand soothing her smarting derriere. Ignoring her, Iain discarded his soiled clothing, and then, magnificently naked, turned to Brigette, who was quaking in fear.

  “Ye spoiled, willful brat,” he spat, advancing on her.

  “Keep your distance, you indiscriminating cock!” she ordered, sounding braver than she actually felt. “You adulterous fornicator!"

  That halted Iain in his tracks. “Why did ye leave me?"

  “Why?” Brigette echoed incredulously. Her voice rose in righteous anger. “Why? I know all about you.” She sneered contemptuously. “I saw you kissing Antonia."

  “I wasna’—Antonia was kissin’ me."

  “What the bloody hell is the difference?” Brigette hurled, stamping her foot for emphasis.

  Iain lunged forward and, grabbing Brigette's upper arm, shook her roughly. “Who's been teachin’ ye such foul words?” He sat on the edge of the cot and dragged her across his lap, then yanked her skirt up, revealing her bare bottom.

  “I'll teach ye to respect yer husband,” he growled. The flat of his powerful hand came down hard on her exposed buttocks. Shrieking, Brigette tried to escape, but was hopelessly ensnared by her husband's strong arms. Again and again, Iain spanked his wife's creamy, flawless rump until it reddened. Brigette's struggles ceased, and her shrieks became heart-wrenching sobs.

  “What the bloody hell is going on in there?” Marianne pounded frantically on the door. “Open up, or I'll call the watch!"

  Cursing every last member of the English race, Iain ungently dumped Brigette onto the cot. He crossed the chamber.

  When the door jerked open, Marianne was eye level with a hairy, muscular chest. A magnificently masculine chest. Afraid to look down, she gazed into dark, glowering eyes. “Who are ya?” she asked, forcing bravado into her voice.

  “Iain MacArthur.” He thrust his soiled clothing into her hands and threatened, “See these are cleaned, or I'll take ye over my knee for teachin’ my wife obscenities.” The door slammed shut on Marianne's stunned expression.

  Iain turned back to his weeping wife; his ire faded. Damn, but he loved the impertinent minx. A smile tugged at his lips. Brigette had accomplished an astounding feat by getting herself safely from Dunridge to London. On the other hand, Magnus had undoubtedly assured her success. Iain's smile vanished. What had their accommodations been along the way?

  Banishing the troubling thought, Iain sat on the cot and drew an unresisting Brigette onto his lap. Gently, he wiped the tears from her face, then gazed into the misty depths of her green eyes. “I've been sick wi’ worry,” he admitted.

  “About me?"

  Iain nodded. “I almost slew Percy when I discovered ye'd gone."

  “Oh, I'm sorry for that."

  “Percy's the one who deserves yer apology,” Iain said. Like a scolded child, Brigette lowered her eyes and studied her lap intently. “If only ye'd eavesdropped a few seconds longer."

  “I am not an eavesdropper,” Brigette said hotly, her eyes flashing with anger.

  “I amna’ accusin’ ye of anythin', but if ye'd lingered longer near the study, ye would've seen me push Antonia away."

  “You pushed her away?"

  “I did."

  “You don't love her?"

  “I love ye, hinny.” Iain's voice was a soft caress. “Why else would I have so frantically followed ye?"

  “I suffered a month of unspeakable torment for nothing!” Brigette exclaimed.

  “Ye would have preferred I no’ come for ye?” Iain countered.

  “No.” Brigette eyed him suspiciously, then asked, “How can I be certain you're to be trusted?"

  “My word's nae good?” Iain snap
ped. When she remained silent, he added, “I'll have Black Jack send Antonia back to the MacKinnons."

  “No, I'd miss Glenda. Have you been to Basildon? How did you find me?"

  “I met a mutual friend of ours along the road,” he answered cryptically.

  “Mutual friend?” Brigette was puzzled.

  “My cousin, the Duke of Argyll's son."

  “I've never met—"

  “Magnus Campbell,” Iain interrupted.

  “Magnus is—?"

  “Ye talk too much.” Smothering her words, Iain lowered his head and captured her lips in a devouring kiss. His tongue invaded and plundered her mouth, stealing her breath away. She clung to him fiercely. “I'm hungry for ye,” he whispered against her lips.

  Divesting a beautiful woman of her clothing is the momentary task of an eager man, and so it was with Iain. He pushed Brigette back on the cot and, pausing for the barest fraction of a moment, gazed with anticipation at the rare beauty that belonged only to him.

  Iain, too famished to fully admire the sight, craved to feel her. He lay on top of her silken body as if they might melt into one another's being. They kissed endlessly, reveled in the glorious sensation of flesh touching flesh in the most tantalizing way.

  Brigette felt his erect manhood pressing against the softness of her stomach. She insinuated her hand between their bodies and touched his pleasure-giving staff. Iain groaned at the intimate contact, then spread her thighs and knelt between them.

  “It's like an angry dragon poised to attack the unsuspecting,” she whispered.

  “No, sweetheart, the monster's but lonely for his home."

  “The dragon's lair is here.” She guided his ruby knob to her moist entrance.

  Iain thrust home and Brigette cried out. Urgently and violently, they mated in the most abandoned, primitive sense of the word. Brigette arched her hips, meeting each of Iain's deep, powerful thrusts. The dragon's lair filled with life as they exploded together.

  When their panting eased, Iain rolled to the side and almost fell off the cot. With a horrified giggle, Brigette caught his arm. “How do ye sleep on this thin’ that's posin’ as a bed?” he asked.

  “I'm not as large as you."

  He slid a paw down the length of her spine and cupped a sweetly rounded buttock. “Yer delightful as ye are, lovey."

  “I love you too,” Brigette said pertly, then kissed the tip of his nose. “To answer your question, I've discovered that the truly weary can find blessed sleep wherever they perch."

  “Is that so? I must say, ye make a terrible servin’ wench."

  “Oh.” Brigette feigned dismay, then moved to strike. Iain caught her hand and held her captive against the muscular planes of his warrior's body, then kissed her lingeringly.

  “Brie,” he murmured, savoring her nearness, “throb of my heart, swear ye'll never leave me again."

  “I swear."

  * * * *

  Night was never-ending inside the windowless chamber where Iain and Brigette slept. Although the cot was much too small, the reconciled lovers were reluctant to separate. When she fell onto the floor a second time, Brigette cursed and started for the empty cot, but Iain drew her back and pulled her on top of him. Thusly, he satisfied her, then kept her prisoner in that position.

  Iain opened his eyes and wondered whether it was day or night. Brigette lay on top of him like a silken coverlet, her kitten's breath tickling his neck. The dragon, harmlessly flaccid, was still inside the heated folds of his lair.

  Idly, Iain considered waking Brigette with an intimate jab. That arousing thought startled the dragon from his slumber and with his hands cupping his wife's buttocks, Iain swelled and moved inside her.

  “Mmmmm.” Brigette moaned in her sleep.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Someone pounded on the door. Muttering his displeasure, Iain slid from beneath his sleeping wife, then smiled at her exposed back and buttocks. Damn! But Brie had the most fetching backside!

  Disregarding his nudity, Iain crossed the chamber and yanked the door open. His man stood there, holding a pan of washing water and a package beneath his arm.

  “Good mornin',” Dugie greeted. “I've brought fresh clothes."

  “Set the pan on that table,” Iain instructed, taking the package.

  Dugie cast a furtive glance at the cot. Brigette's naked glory was exposed to the world.

  “She's sleepin',” Iain whispered, then grinned wickedly. “I willna’ mention ye were here."

  When the door closed behind his man, Iain washed and dressed, then sat on the edge of the cot. Leaning over, he flicked his tongue across the nape of Brigette's neck. She tensed and rolled over, then smiled drowsily at her husband who was unable to resist nuzzling her breasts and licking their rosy nipples. Brigette's breath caught in a ragged gasp.

  “Yer body could incite a monk to lust,” Iain said, then chuckled throatily and added, “I'm certain the Pope would follow yer titties through the gates of hell."

  “And you?"

  “Unfortunately,” he answered, his thumb and forefinger tormenting a nipple, “I must ignore them until this evenin'. Dugie's waitin’ for us.” Iain chortled at her obvious disappointment. “There's clothin’ in that bag, and dinna dawdle over it. We've a fair distance to travel today."

  Iain paused at the door to study the cot. How he would have enjoyed waking Brigette with an intimate jab! “I believe,” he announced, “I'll purchase us a cot for Dunridge."

  Lighthearted, Iain fairly danced down the stairs into the common room. At once, he became aware of the chamber's charged atmosphere. Dugie sat at one table while Bucko occupied another, and the two were glaring hostilely at each other.

  After casting his man a puzzled look, Iain joined Bucko. “Thank ye for the excellent care ye've given my lassie."

  “Humph.” Bucko snorted.

  “Is there a problem?” Iain asked.

  “Problem?” Bucko's fist crashed down on the table. “Ya man got a little too bold with my woman last night!"

  Aggravated, Iain glanced at Dugie, then back at Bucko. “Would that be the blonde?"

  “No, the other."

  “Ye dinna own her,” Dugie insisted.

  “Dugie made free wi’ yer wife?"

  “Well...” Bucko cleared his throat. “Randi's not actually my wife yet."

  “Yer betrothed?"

  “Ah, no."

  “Och, mon!” Iain exclaimed. “Ye canna claim she's yers unless ye wed her."

  “I'm plannin’ ta marry her,” Bucko declared emphatically, “but the banns must be read."

  “Nonsense! If ye want a bride today, ye'll have one. Are ye papist or no'?"

  “No."

  “Dugie,” Iain called. “Find a minister and bribe him to wed this mon to his lady wi'out readin’ the banns.” Dugie nodded and left smiling.

  At Iain's suggestion, Bucko produced a flagon of whiskey. They raised their glasses in salute to their ladies.

  “May yer intended give ye a brace of strong sons every couple of years,” Iain toasted.

  “The same ta ya,” Bucko returned the tribute, then gulped his whiskey. “I hate ta see Brie leave,” he added. “Her comely face and form helped the Rooster's business."

  Iain's expression soured, then he asked, “Was that yer intended bangin’ on Brie's door last night? Ye'd do well to wash her mouth wi’ strong soap."

  “I couldn't stop her."

  “Ye couldna’ stop her? Do ye intend to let the hen rule the Rooster, then?"

  “No,” Bucko replied indignantly, but added a trifle sheepishly, “but there are times when Randi cannot be stopped."

  Iain patted Bucko's shoulder in masculine camaraderie. “Ye must be firm wi’ the lassies, friend, or they'll trample ye beneath their pretty feet. An occasional spankin’—no’ too severe, mind ye—does wonders for husbandly discipline."

  “Is that so? How is it ya own wife ran away?"

  Iain's eyes darkened. “It was a misunderstandin', no’ tha
t it's any of yer business. She thought I'd been nestlin’ between another's thighs."

  As Bucko opened his mouth to comment, the tavern's door opened. Dugie entered with a minister. In the next instant, Brigette and Marianne walked downstairs.

  Surprised by the minister's presence, Marianne turned to Bucko. “What the bloody—?"

  “Keep ya mouth shut,” he ordered gruffly, but in a kinder voice added, “The minister's come ta marry us. Be ya willin’ or no'?” Marianne's mouth dropped in shock.

  “She's willing,” Brigette answered for her friend.

  Witnessed by the MacArthurs, Bucko and Marianne were united in holy matrimony. His pockets jingling with Iain's coins, the minister left immediately following the ceremony. The two couples, plus Dugie and Bertie, sat down to an impromptu wedding feast.

  “Where the hell have ya been all night, Lil?” Bucko said as the blonde flounced into the tavern. “Pull up a chair and join us."

  “What're ya celebratin'?” she sneered. “Brie's departure?"

  Marianne's smile was triumphant. “Bucko and me was just wed proper by a minister."

  “Oh, crap!” Lil halted in her tracks, then turned around and left the tavern.

  “I'll roast her good,” Marianne said to Brigette. “She'll pay for every insult she gave ya."

  “Ya'll do nothin’ without my permission,” Bucko ordered. Marianne began to wonder into what she'd gotten herself.

  “I canna thank ye both enough for guardin’ my lassie.” Iain broke the ensuing silence.

  “It was a difficult task,” Marianne remarked, “especially keepin’ fat Bertie's hands off her."

  Bertie gulped nervously when Iain's formidable gaze rested on him. “I'll be in the kitchen preparin’ tonight's stew,” he said, making a hasty retreat.

  Bucko chuckled. “The Rooster's closin’ for today."

  “What?” Marianne asked. Bucko ignored her.

  “Bucko lad,” Iain said, rising from his seat, “we must be on our way.” He produced a hefty bag of coins and added, “This is for my wife's upkeep and a weddin’ present of sorts."

  “I want no reward for guardin’ such a sweet angel,” the tavernkeeper insisted. “Marryin’ Randi is reward enough."

  “Silence,” Marianne hissed, then looked at Iain and added, “If you please, my lord.” She rounded on her husband. “The Rooster's openin’ today—think of the money we'll lose!"