No Other Highlander

by Adrienne Basso

  Joan rose to the tips of her toes and brushed her lips fleetingly across his cheek. He reached for her, but she pivoted, managing to elude his embrace. She hurried to the door, not daring to glance in his direction until they reached the landing.

  Malcolm’s expression revealed what he thought of her kiss. She braced herself for his anger. Instead, he sighed heavily and offered her his arm, which confused her.

  Mayhap that was his intent?

  They descended to the lower levels of the castle, visiting the kitchens, storerooms, and stillroom. They climbed higher and she peeked inside his father’s study and the women’s solar, commenting on the lovely stained glass. On the upper levels were an impressive number of bedchambers, some large, most small, but all comfortably furnished.

  After walking through what felt like miles of twisting corridors, they reached one of the towers and climbed to the battlements. As she stared down at the scattering of buildings in the bailey, Joan inhaled deeply, the bite of fresh air filling her lungs.

  “’Tis a most impressive holding,” she allowed. “Though I cannot help but wonder where my place will be in it.”

  “Ye are my wife,” Malcolm said simply.

  “Which means that I should be in charge of yer household. But this is yer mother’s domain.”

  “I’m sure she would be glad to have yer help. I’ll speak with her about it.”

  “Nay!” Joan grasped his arm. “I need no champion in this matter. When the time is right, I will approach yer mother myself.”

  Malcolm looked at her strangely. “My mother is hardly the easiest woman to persuade.”

  “I know. But this is something that I must do on my own.”

  “If ye are certain?”

  Malcolm’s voice trailed off and Joan was struck by how welcome his instinct to protect her felt. “’Tis best this way. Trust me.”

  Though he looked unconvinced, he nodded. She felt a twinge of pleasure at her victory. Perhaps, by some miracle, she would be able to find contentment in her marriage.

  ’Twas a hard idea for Joan to grasp.

  Yet even harder to dismiss.

  * * *

  The morning was nearly over when Joan and Malcolm met Brienne in the courtyard. She appeared well rested and in good spirits, greeting them with a ready smile. She told them that she was taking advantage of this rare moment of freedom while her son was sleeping peacefully in her chamber, watched over by a McKenna nursemaid.

  “My father would like ye to come to the practice yard to have a look at the McKenna soldiers,” Malcolm said. “’Tis possible the man who claimed to be me was one of our own.”

  “I should feel very awkward gaping at the men while they train,” Brienne replied, looking beseechingly at Joan.

  The last thing Joan wanted was to spend the remainder of the morning watching the men go through their training. The barely contained violence of their swordplay and the occasional sound of fist against flesh always made her uneasy. Yet she couldn’t let Brienne face this on her own.

  “We shall stay a discreet distance away, so as not to attract any attention,” Joan decided.

  Some of the young squires trained with wooden swords and all trained without armor or helmets, making it easy to view their features. Joan was impressed by the sheer number of soldiers and ceased counting when she passed two hundred.

  Taking the request seriously, Brienne seemed to carefully study each man. Joan noticed her squinting, peering, and lowering her chin, but never once did a sign of recognition cross her features. As their training ended, the amount of men on the field gradually began to diminish until there were but a few left.

  It was then that Joan observed Malcolm and his brother. They had moved into a readied stance opposite each other. They were laughing and joking with each other, but the moment James swung his sword, the brothers became deadly serious.

  Their blades met, the clashing sound of steel shuddering through the air. Joan felt her own body tense when James lunged forward, the sharp edge of his blade only a breath away from Malcolm’s throat.

  With a grunt, Malcolm blocked the strike, then shoved his brother away. Feet planted, swords locked, they continued battling, each hoping to bring the other down, attacking and blocking until sweat poured over their brows. The few retainers who were left ceased their training and others gathered to watch, including the McKenna, Lady Aileen, and Katherine.

  Excited by the display of skill and power, the crowd began shouting encouragements along with a few good-natured insults. Joan suspected wagers were also being made and she wondered which brother was favored. Each appeared equal in skill and stamina. Malcolm was the taller of the pair, yet James moved faster.

  There was a sudden flurry of thrusts and James’s sword went flying out of his hand. Placing the tip of his weapon at James’s throat, Malcolm grunted in triumph, claiming victory. His eyes scanned the crowd and when they met hers, Malcolm smiled broadly.

  James seized the opportunity, shifted away from the blade, bent at the waist, and rammed his shoulder into Malcolm’s stomach. The surprise blow knocked Malcolm off his feet and he landed hard in the dirt, raising a cloud of dust.

  The men cheered and started arguing over which brother had been the victor. The McKenna stepped forward, turned, and looked at the crowd. “Let that be a lesson to ye all. That’s what happens when ye let yerself get distracted by a pretty lass.”

  James extended his hand to his brother and pulled Malcolm to his feet. Laughing, Malcolm slapped James on the back, but when he bent to retrieve his shield, Joan noticed that he winced. Lady Aileen must also have noticed. She approached Malcolm the moment he walked off the practice field, a mother’s concern clearly on her face.

  Malcolm shook his head repeatedly as she spoke, shrugging off her attempts to examine him. “’Tis nothing, Mother. But if ye insist, then I should like my wife to attend to me,” he said in an exasperated tone.

  All eyes turned to Joan. “I’ll need some things from the stillroom,” she answered, hoping that whatever ailed Malcolm was within her limited skills to cure. If not, she would be forced to ask for help, an embarrassment she wanted to avoid.

  She would not allow her pride to jeopardize his health; however, she very much wanted to show his family that she had some redeeming qualities.

  “I’ll get what ye need,” Katherine volunteered.

  Joan sidled up to Malcolm, hoping he would lean on her, but he ignored the gesture. He moved slowly and deliberately, his lips pressed in a grim line as they entered the great hall. Joan was unsure if that was due to annoyance or pain.

  At her insistence, he reluctantly sat on the stool near the fire as various family members gathered around him. Lileas wiggled her way between them, pulling Callum with her. Prince trotted happily behind the pair.

  “What’s wrong with Papa?” Lileas asked, her voice quivering. “Is he bleeding? Will there be stiches? I hate stitches.”

  “Nay, he just took a tumble in the dirt,” Joan answered, not liking the labored way Malcolm was breathing. “He’ll be fine, but it looks like Lady Brienne needs some help with the babe.”

  “She does?” Lileas raised her chin hopefully.

  Joan exchanged a look with Brienne and the younger woman nodded in understanding. “Aye, ’tis time fer the wee one to take his nap and I need someone to rock his cradle. Could ye help me, Lileas?”

  The little girl nodded eagerly, but then her brows knit together with concern and she turned her attention back to her father.

  “Go on, the babe needs ye,” Malcolm encouraged. “I’m fine.”

  Lileas leaned forward and kissed Malcolm on the cheek. Then she grabbed Brienne’s hand and began pulling her toward the stairs. “Callum and Prince and Mistress Innes will come, too. But we must hurry before the babe starts crying.”

  After they left, most of the others departed. Lady Aileen and James stepped away, yet stayed close enough to observe. Self-consciously, Joan helped Malcolm remove his shirt.
His muscled skin glistened with sweat and she could clearly see a dark bruise shadowing his left side.

  She knelt, tentatively, running her fingertips over the bruised flesh. “Does it hurt a great deal?”

  “Nay.”

  “How about here?” she asked, trailing her fingers over a reddened area.

  “Nay.”

  Huffing out a breath, Joan leaned back on her heels. “Malcolm, clearly ye are injured. How can it not hurt?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve had harder falls and deeper wounds. There’s no need to make such a fuss.” He reached for his shirt, but she stayed his hand.

  “And there’s no need to be so pigheaded,” she proclaimed. “I’m certain yer ribs are bruised, if not cracked. Let me bind them.”

  His gaze dropped to her cleavage. “If ye’d really like to know where it aches, lass, ye’ll have to go a bit lower,” he said silkily, reaching for her hand.

  The tightness eased in her chest. He couldn’t be that badly bruised if he were able to flirt and leer at her. “Malcolm McKenna, if ye pull my hand down between yer legs, I promise that ye will learn the true meaning of pain.”

  He started laughing, which brought on a fit of coughing and ended with a visible shudder. Joan looked anxiously toward the end of the hall. Where was Katherine with the medical supplies?

  “Is it a trick of the light or is that worry I see on yer brow?” he asked.

  “Of course I’m worried,” Joan groused. “First ye deny that ye’re injured, then ye lack the sense to allow me to properly tend to ye. We’ve only just married. ’Twould be inconvenient indeed if I were to become a widow so soon.”

  Katherine returned, clucking her tongue when she saw the bruises on Malcolm’s torso. Together, they looked through the basket, selecting the longest strip of linen fabric. Though he grumbled again at her request, Malcolm raised his arms. Joan carefully wrapped the material around his ribs, hoping she was applying the correct amount of pressure.

  Obediently lowering his arms when she commanded, Malcolm then took a deep breath. “It feels fine.”

  “Good.” Joan removed a jar of salve, then repacked the basket of herbs and medicines.

  “But I do require one last thing,” Malcolm said. “A kiss to make me feel better.”

  Joan quirked an eyebrow. “A kiss?”

  “Aye. To ease my pain and aid my healing.”

  “I’m not a witch. My kisses have no special power.”

  “They do fer me, lass.”

  Her heart quickened at his words. She pressed a hand to her breast to quell the sudden burst of delight. Reacting purely on the emotion, Joan stroked her fingers through his hair, then placed a soft, gentle kiss on his lips.

  “There. Now, behave yerself.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The hour was late. The dying flames from the fireplace in the great hall danced weakly across the table where Malcolm sat alone, a goblet in his hand, a bottle of whiskey at his elbow. The liquor aided in numbing the throbbing pain in his ribs, but did little to settle the thoughts in his head.

  Thoughts of Joan, sleeping upstairs in their chamber. Thoughts of how he burned for her, how he longed to taste the pleasures of her delicious body. Thoughts that were insinuated in his head, impossible to dispel.

  The injury to his ribs meant he wouldn’t be making love to her tonight. Frustration burned like sour ale in his gut knowing that she was more than likely pleased about it.

  He had been too long without the warm comfort of a wife in his bed. Yet now that he was once again married, it appeared he was still waiting for the comfort.

  He was a man raised to set and achieve goals. Challenging goals, difficult goals, impossible goals. Success was his more oft than not and he was not about to let his wife be the first to hand him a resounding defeat.

  With a sharp curse Malcolm rose to his feet. He might not be able to make love to her, but he certainly could sleep beside her. He trudged up the stone steps slowly, quietly opened the door, and stepped inside the chamber.

  A lone candle sputtered on the table near the bed, cutting through the darkness. Joan was curled in the center of the bed, turned on her side, clutching a pillow in her arms like a lover. The candlelight illuminated her skin, giving it the look of silk. His blood was roused by the sight, knowing it was as soft and sleek as it appeared.

  He shrugged out of his clothes, blew out the candle, and peeled back the covers. Her even breathing skipped and she shivered at the sudden loss of warmth. The mattress ropes creaked as Malcolm knelt on the bed. He loomed over her a moment, hoping she’d wake so he could steal a kiss.

  Joan sniffled and hugged her pillow tighter. Feeling an unreasonable bolt of jealousy toward her pillow, Malcolm slid in beside her, inching forward until his chest was pressed against her back. Nuzzling the nape of her neck, Malcolm breathed in her sweet-smelling scent.

  She shifted again and sighed. “Malcolm?”

  Her voice was a dreamy whisper, an indication that she hovered just beyond full alertness. With her defenses lowered, ’twas a moment ripe for seduction, yet his whiskey-clouded mind rippled with uncertainty.

  His aching ribs meant the best he could manage would be a quick coupling. ’Twould ease the immediate ache, yet leave them both unfulfilled. He wanted more than only this night. He wanted the promise of tomorrow.

  Malcolm kissed her nape softly, then sighed and said regretfully, “Sleep, Joan.”

  “Hmmm.”

  She snuggled closer, pressing her buttocks firmly against his cock. It rose and stiffened with great interest. Malcolm stifled a groan and tried to rein in his passion. Admonishing himself for being a randy fool, Malcolm renewed his determination to wait for a more appropriate moment to begin his seduction.

  Joan wiggled again, molding her body against his, and his cock jumped. God’s truth, the woman was going to be the death of him. Grimacing inside, Malcolm kicked the covers off his body, hoping the cool air would drown his ardor.

  It didn’t.

  He pressed his lips on her bare shoulder and nibbled a path up her neck to the tender spot behind her ear. She tasted like heaven. His body tightened with need, wracked by a spasm of lust. He wanted his hands and kisses to be everywhere. Malcolm took slow, deep breaths, attempting to tame and master his desire, fighting the raw male impulse to ravish her.

  He struggled. Yet his will was strong, his determination complete. Somehow, he would keep himself from tumbling into the abyss.

  She’s worth waiting fer, he repeated to himself, pulling forth every ounce of patience he could muster. I’m sure of it.

  Malcolm lifted his head and gazed down at Joan in the moonlight, a shudder going through him.

  Yet I pray the waiting doesn’t kill me.

  * * *

  Joan shifted the garments she held as she mounted the curved, narrow steps that led to the bedchamber she shared with Malcolm. The noise from the lower rooms faded as she climbed, bringing on a blissful quiet.

  It had been a strange day. She had only seen her husband briefly. He had left the bedchamber by the time she awoke, but had gathered with the rest of the family after breaking their fast to bid farewell to James, who was very anxious to return home to Davina.

  Malcolm then left with his father to attend to clan business. Joan in turn had spent the morning with Lady Aileen, Katherine, and Brienne in the women’s solar, visiting and gossiping and getting to know each other.

  Unused to the companionship of women, Joan felt slightly uncomfortable. She stayed silent most of the time, keeping her hands busy mending one of Malcolm’s shirts.

  Thanks to Katherine’s and Brienne’s cheerful chatter, Joan’s lack of conversation was not glaringly obvious. After a simple midday meal, Joan walked the castle grounds holding Callum by the hand while Lileas pointed out every building, person, cart, and item in the bailey.

  Her powers of observation were impressive for a child her age, lending further proof to Joan that the lass possessed the intelligence a
nd understanding to behave correctly. What she lacked was the inclination.

  Still, Joan felt it had proved to be a valuable afternoon. She had learned much about the castle and its workings and had managed to lessen Lileas’s animosity toward her. Soon she should be able to begin correcting the child’s spoiled behavior.

  Joan smiled ironically as she reached the landing, knowing that was going to be a royal battle. Thankfully, she had never been a woman to run from a challenge. She nudged the bedchamber door open with her knee, relieved the latch had not been fully closed.

  There was a meager fire burning in the grate and a distinct chill in the air. A strong wind ruffled the tapestries on the wall, revealing the source of the cold. Vexed, Joan moved to the far side of the chamber and pulled the heavy wooden shutters closed, dropping the bar across to hold them in place. The action cast the room into semidarkness, but she reasoned it was far better than enduring the cold.

  “I appreciate yer concern, wife,” a deep voice called. “Catching a chill while bathing would be a sorry demise fer a McKenna warrior.”

  Joan screeched and dropped the pile of mending she carried. “God’s blood, Malcolm, ye nearly scared the life out of me.”

  “Did I? I beg yer pardon.”

  His apology startled her. She knew few men who admitted to uttering a thoughtless word and even fewer who would ask forgiveness for the deed. She turned toward the sound of Malcolm’s voice and was astonished to see her burly husband seated in a large bathing tub near the meager fire.

  Drat! The pile of clothes she had been carrying had obstructed her view of the chamber. If she had known that he was bathing, she would have quietly—and quickly—withdrawn.

  “What are ye doing lazing about in a bath at this late hour?” she asked, bending to retrieve the garments.

  “I took a few falls in the muck while training with my men,” he explained. “I thought it would be a benefit to all if I removed the odor.”

  “’Tis most considerate of ye,” Joan said, edging toward the door. He was staring at her with that intense, almost brooding look in his eyes that never failed to unsettle her. “If ye were once again on the practice field, I assume that yer ribs no longer pain ye?”