The Irresistible Mac Rae

by Karen Ranney

  “Where are we going?”

  “To a place of fantasy and wishes,” she said.

  He was here, he wanted to tell her. Tyemorn Manor was as enchanted a place as he’d ever been.

  Chapter 23

  “T he Witch’s Well is on the other side of the river,” she said, leading the way across the footbridge. Once there, they walked to a place at the base of the abbey ruins. Riona enticed him to join her with only a glance over her shoulder. Smiling to himself, he followed her.

  In a clearing, marked by a well and a double granite cross, he hesitated. She walked to stand in front of the monument and he joined her, glancing down at the crude inscription carved into its base.

  Here lies Annie Mull, Burned as a witch—1625.

  “What did she do to deserve such punishment?” he asked.

  “Perhaps she cursed a few people. Or refused to prepare a potion for a lovesick girl.”

  “Or perhaps she was simply a lone woman without someone to care for her,” he said, turning away. Walking to the edge of the well, James looked down at the bottom of it. He could imagine the myths that grew up around this spot, the whispers about the magic performed here. More than one pretty girl had sipped from its waters, he suspected, and perhaps more than one boy.

  “I have seen enough of the world to know that each culture chooses to exclude the unusual or the different. The greatest victims are often those without others to speak for them.”

  She came and stood beside him, looking down into the well. Gracefully, she sat on the rim, lowering the bucket by its rope.

  “Shall we have a drink, James? Gathering Lethson branches is thirsty work.”

  He bent and lifted the bucket with one hand and placed it beside her on the rim of the well. “A wish, then,” he said, holding the dipper for her to drink. “To always having someone to care for us.”

  Her fingers supported the bowl of the dipper as she drank from it. Then he, too, sipped the cool water. A strange communion, he thought, in a place where magic was supposed to dwell.

  “I think the well is older than Annie Mull,” Riona said, as if she felt the same odd tension in the air. “The stones look similar to those of the Roman wall.”

  “What is that place?” he asked, his attention suddenly drawn to the hill above them and the same ruined wall he’d seen upon his arrival at Tyemorn.

  “An old abbey,” she said, “but the villagers avoid it.”

  “Yet they seek out a witch’s well,” he teased.

  “Perhaps they are less afraid of witches than of God.”

  “What about you?” he challenged. “Come explore it with me.”

  He held out his hand and she took it with ease, smiling up at him as she stood. A moment later he found an overgrown path winding up to the top of the hill.

  Once there, James stood and surveyed the view of the River Wye and beyond to the pastures belonging to Tyemorn Manor. Because of the undulation of the landscape, the manor house was not visible, only a corner of the village and the hills that surrounded the place like the bony elbows of a protective nurse.

  For the first time, he could understand what Alisdair had meant when he’d said that Gilmuir had called to him. James had felt ancestral ties to the old castle, but nothing as he did now standing where only one wall remained of what must have been a splendid place.

  The spot cried out for structure to be built. Not anything as grand as the fortress of Gilmuir, because there was no further need for defense. But someplace where a man might look out and survey what he owned and be content.

  How long had he been thinking of leaving Gilmuir? Perhaps for as long as he’d been there. He needed a place for himself, somewhere to call his alone, where he might be lord. A place where he might find some semblance of peace. Where he might not be regaled constantly with evidence of the deep and abiding love between Alisdair and Iseabal and wonder why it had escaped him.

  Here, on this spot almost isolated from the rest of the world, he might find what he sought, especially since there was no view of the manor house.

  He turned to watch Riona. Instead of branches, she was gathering wildflowers. Her braid had come loose, and now her hair flew about her shoulders in an almost wicked way. As if she summoned him with a flurry of auburn curls.

  In a matter of days she would be gone. Their paths wouldn’t cross unless by accident. Life would be once more as it had been before he’d come to Tyemorn. Seemingly complete yet unbearably dull.

  The stones of the abbey wall were blackened either from age or from an ancient fire. Waist-high weeds, waving in the brisk wind, were now the only inhabitants of this place. But there was no sense of sadness, no waste of purpose as he occasionally felt at Gilmuir.

  Riona came to stand at his side, her bouquet of flowers too much like that a bride might carry.

  “My sister-in-law would study this wall,” he said, reaching out to touch the heavily carved lodestone over the one remaining arch. For all its wistful beauty the wall was unsafe. “Iseabal works in stone,” he explained, “and has created marvels where before there were only chunks of rock.”

  “She sounds very talented.”

  “She is. Her latest work is a bust of my brother. She insists on it being placed in the entranceway of Gilmuir, while Alisdair becomes embarrassed at the thought of his face greeting every visitor.”

  “I have no abilities to speak of,” she said, bending to strip the flower from a sturdy weed. Tall and stocky, the weeds had a beauty of their own, gently swaying in the breeze that swirled around the abbey ruins. “I cannot help but feel lessened by someone else’s accomplishment. Is that a foolish way to feel?”

  “You shouldn’t measure yourself against others.”

  “No, I shouldn’t. But we do, don’t we? I always thought I knew my worth. I was reared to believe that as long as I worked hard, that was all that mattered. But now I know it’s ability that separates one person from another.” She traced a pattern on the stone with one finger. “I haven’t Iseabal’s gift in carving and I will never be as good a dancer as Maureen. Or even keep a home like my mother.”

  “Then you will have to find your talent,” he said.

  She glanced at him, surprised.

  “Most people discover their paths in life early. Some must wait until it comes to them.”

  “What do you think my skill might be? Or should I be brave enough to ask?”

  He glanced at her, smiling. “Your way of dealing with people, perhaps. When you smile, others follow suit.”

  “Really?” she asked, looking pleased at his words.

  “You never ask anyone to do something you would not, I’ve noticed, which makes people want to work beside you. Even Ned does not have that ability to inspire others.”

  “A trait that I cannot carry to Edinburgh. I wonder what my talent shall be there?”

  Instead of answering her, he moved to stand at the point of land, looking down over Ayleshire and Tyemorn Manor.

  The doubt she felt made him want to embrace her, reassure her with physical comfort as well as words. The trouble was that he wanted years of her. He wanted her smiles and frowns and observations, humor and complaints, all the untidy parcels of emotion that made life worth living. He wanted to share his secrets and confess his most horrible thoughts, laugh at the unfunny and be ungainly, even rude, with her.

  “I want to buy this land,” he said abruptly. “I like this place. I feel comfortable here as I never have before.”

  “Even at sea?”

  He shook his head. “I never truly had an affinity for the sea. Not like my brothers. While I believe that anything can be learned, it was difficult to overcome my physical aversion to ocean travel. I’m more like my father in that regard. He would just as soon never put another foot on the deck of a ship.”

  “You were seasick?” she asked, smiling slightly.

  How many confessions would he make to her if given enough time? She might well become the repository of all his secr
ets.

  “Are you such a good sailor, then,” he asked wryly, “being a woman of Cormech?”

  “I have never been on the ocean,” she confessed, placing a blossom on the curving arch of one now empty window. There was a sparseness to this place that oddly suited her, as if, with her auburn hair and gray eyes, she was the most vibrant ornament here.

  She turned and looked at him quizzically, and he realized the moments had been spent staring at her.

  “I apologize, my mind was wandering,” he said, and watched in surprise as color mounted her cheeks.

  “I asked if there was another occupation you would prefer?”

  “I’ve discovered that I have an affinity for farming. The land almost reaches out to me, and urges me to plant it.”

  “I’ve heard Ned say much the same.” She turned, staring out through the empty windows of the abbey wall. “I’ll think of you here, then, when I’m in Edinburgh. Building your great house.”

  “And learning about farming.”

  “That, too,” she said, her smile not matched by the look in her eyes. They seemed too sad. “You’ll do well with it, I know. And you’ll come to love Ayleshire, I’m sure. From the moment I saw the village, I never wanted to leave it. But I’m glad that I have had this year.”

  He didn’t choose to discuss her wedding, and banished the thought of Harold McDougal from his mind with a surprising alacrity.

  A gust of wind blew a few leaves against the abbey wall, capturing their attention. Riona turned her head away, her hands impatiently pushing an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

  His fingers replaced hers, his thumb lingering on the curve of her cheek, the shell of her ear.

  “Do not be afraid, Riona,” he said, feeling her tremble beneath his touch.

  “I’m not.” Her voice, however, was faint. “I am thinking of decorum and modesty, James, and all those emotions I’m supposed to feel.”

  He wanted to reassure her that he would do her no harm, but at the moment he wasn’t entirely sure that was an honest statement. He felt less protective of her than possessive, wanting to make her his. Once, before she was taken from him.

  His honor was in tatters, his will in shreds. He no longer cared.

  In his mind, he had sketched out what a perfect woman might say or do, and she had walked into that net of words and thoughts, performing the role with exquisite ease. At any other time such ability would mark her as the one woman in the world he must have. Now, however, all it did was render the moment bittersweet.

  He wanted to place his hands against her temples and hold all her thoughts and his at bay. The world would not intrude and there would be only the two of them. Family and friends, soon-to-be husband were all unimportant now.

  Nothing was more important than the two of them.

  He reached out his hands, pulling her so close that a whisper couldn’t come between them. She gasped as he covered her mouth with his. Her hands gripped his shoulders as he swung her around, pressing her gently against the abbey wall.

  His mouth was suddenly on her neck, then her temple, burning a trail across her cheek to her lips once more. He murmured something, a word, an oath, an order, she wasn’t certain. Her eyes were closed, her head arching back.

  She’d thought hunger was reserved for food, thirst for drink. Nothing had prepared her for this. Her hands clenched in his hair, then on his back. Her laces were being unfastened, her bodice loosened, and then his hands, his fingers were on her bare flesh, cupping her breasts.

  “Yes, please,” she said in a voice barely recognizable as her own. She sighed in surrender, or complicity, as he deepened the kiss.

  She had waited for this, wanted it. Dreamed about it.

  Her body heated, felt constricted, as if her clothing was an obstruction that must be removed. Her heart felt as if it was in her throat, and her breathing was so fast that she felt almost faint with it.

  Her hands joined his in removing her clothing. Her skirt was finally loose, her dress falling to the ground in folds of fabric. She stood before him in her corset, shift, and stockings, wondering at her wantonness. Only for a second, before he smiled and reached for her.

  Slowly, she began to unfasten his shirt. His hands covered hers, not to still her actions as much as hasten them.

  They shared a look, open and honest. No denial was allowed in these silent moments.

  A conquest everywhere he walks. Rory’s words.

  “You’ve made one more conquest, James MacRae,” she admitted finally, her voice faint.

  “If I’ve made one of you,” he said, “then it’s only fair. My heart was stolen the first moment you spoke.”

  He didn’t counsel her to prudence, or argue decorum or decency. Instead, he picked her up in his arms, the feeling of being cradled against his naked skin deliciously wicked and decadent.

  Had she always been so wanton in spirit? He’d done more than remove her clothes; he’d swept aside any barriers between them. They couldn’t be rebuilt with regret.

  Love me. Teach me. Touch me. Words she ached to speak. But she was constrained to silence, not by shyness, but by wonder. The moment, sunlit and brilliant, seemed almost perfect.

  The only ornament to their trysting place was the abbey wall behind her. The sun was their candle, the ground was her bed, and around them, as if summoning assistance from the wind itself, were the tall swaying grasses shielding them from accidental discovery.

  He kissed her again, imbuing their embrace with a sense of wonder. Or perhaps it was simply that nothing at Ayleshire was quite as magical as James, naked and holding her. He placed his thumbs along her jaw, tilting her head at just the right angle to kiss her.

  Uncertain yet eager, she flattened her hands against his chest and felt the muscles dormant there, heard the beating of his heart as it pounded against her palm.

  He lowered her so that her feet touched the ground and she stepped forward, until her naked toes touched his. They both lowered their heads, startled at the intimacy of the gesture. Hers whipped up again and she stared at the far grasses, her face warming before she returned to her inspection.

  He was so very large.

  Curious, she stroked his manhood with one finger, feeling him draw back, then surge forward as if he could not help himself. She measured him, startled to find that his erection was longer than the distance from the tip of her longest finger to the end of her thumb.

  She wasn’t certain what to do, but some instinct told her that he would gain pleasure from touching her. Reaching out her hands, she gripped his, placing them on her breasts, moving them until her nipples were in the center of each palm. Leaning against him, she kissed him, then entwined her arms around his neck, raising up so that she could deepen the kiss.

  James made a sound deep in his throat as his hands dropped to encompass her waist, pulling her closer to him. His legs widened until she was standing between them, his erection, hard, proud, and heated, bumping against her stomach.

  She leaned her cheek against his, feeling lost. She wanted to touch him, marvel at the strength of muscles and bones and sinew.

  He lowered his head to kiss a breast. His lips encircled a nipple, pulling slightly, exerting a little pressure and then just a bit more. Another lesson, that she wanted the feeling to continue.

  She wished her breasts were larger and that she was taller. No, more diminutive. And that her scent was more alluring than barley and summer flowers. Her fingers were callused, and her lips felt almost rough to her own tongue. If he hadn’t wound his hand in her hair, she might have draped it in front of her artfully, baring herself to his gaze at the same time she hid her most glaring faults.

  Her insecurities both maddened and embarrassed her.

  He laid her on the ground, neither of them caring where they were. Neither of them capable of altering the moment or being sensible or prudent.

  His hand slid down her body, over her stomach, where his fingers rested for a moment. She buried her face i
n his neck, wishing that she had more talent and experience.

  He touched her then, parting the delicate folds between her thighs. His fingers were tender and gentle, sliding over the dampness. Her mouth opened as she breathed against his throat. Her hands gripped his shoulders, but not to push him away. Rather to hold him close as he softly stroked her, inciting a wondrous feeling.

  More, please.

  “As much as you want.” Until he spoke, she didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud.

  Her hips arched up, following his hand as he gently caressed her. Her head tossed from side to side and her hands linked behind his head, pulling him down for a kiss.

  Hours, moments, years later he slid a finger inside her. She flinched, expecting to feel pain, but experienced only a slight tightening. Curving his finger slightly, he stroked slowly and deliberately against one particular spot as his thumb circled her flesh. The sensation was strange, beginning as a tingle of light, before deepening to become pleasure.

  He whispered something, words of instruction, of praise, of inquiry. They were lost beneath the startling feelings he was evoking.

  The pleasure was too intense, too much. Too delightful. She felt speared by it. Her vision turned golden and she reached down to hold his hand there. Pure and selfish bliss held her captive as her hips arched and a low, soft moan escaped her lips.

  The moment elongated until she couldn’t tell how long it lasted. A moment, a year, a lifetime.

  She weakly blinked her eyes open as he entered her. Holding her hands, he gazed into her eyes.

  “Have I hurt you?”

  “No,” she said, surprised to find it true. All she felt was fullness. He was too large, or she too small. Neither seemed to fit the other.

  “Tell me what you feel,” he said, pulling out of her gently, then entering her again a moment later.

  Her hands lay against his back. She felt enervated, weakened. Yet the feeling was beginning again. She began to tap her hands against his shoulders in an unconsciously impatient gesture as he moved in and out of her. Patient, yet demanding movements.