The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  None had questioned her when she called Keiran out of the shadows of the council chamber and assigned him the task of protecting Barra. The following days, she watched him take command of his duty with vigour. He summoned tacticians and gathered the leaders of the mesnie in the Great Hall where they spread maps overtop the trestle tables and strategied a plan. Sorcha had kept Keiran’s goblet filled and from time to time she nodded her approval for no other reason than to see him smile at her.

  He didn’t need noble blood to lead the clan, nor did he need her to name him tanist. He was already playing the role of chieftain, and he did it while paying her the respect of a queen. He walked behind her, bowed to her, and referred to her by the epithet deserving of her status. Come eventide, he would escort her to her solar, bid her good night, and leave her to seek her slumber alone.

  Last night, she’d wanted him to stay. She wanted him to hold her like he’d done that first night on the ship. She wanted to feel his strong arms around her and know the tenderness of his touch. But she’d been a coward and said naught to draw him into her chamber.

  Sorcha lay back in the cool grasses, splayed her arms out, and inhaled the floral scent that was Barra. She must have dreamed of this place a thousand times while living under Hector’s thumb. In her mind’s eye she saw herself standing in the open doorway of the croft-house with her and Keiran’s bairns tugging at her skirt.

  The image warmed her heart. She could have been happy here in the valley, tending a family and loving Keiran. She wished her life had been different. She wished she’d been born a peasant and could have chosen her own husband. She would have chosen Keiran and given herself to him willingly.

  The memory of her first coupling with Hector forced its way into her head. She’d been too fearful to fight him. She’d laid in her marriage bed like a cold fish the first time and every time thereafter. Fortunately, Hector had turned to the whores to tend his needs very early on in their marriage.

  Making love to Keiran would be different, she decided. No doubt he would be a gentle lover, one who would kiss her with passion and touch her with tenderness. She imagined making love to him beneath a canopy of stars. ’Twas an image she wanted to burn into her memory, even if it was a fantasy. She needed something to push Hector out of her head.

  “M’lady.”

  She opened her eyes to find her dream lover peering down at her. Unfortunately, his pinched expression was far different from the one he’d been wearing behind her closed eyes.

  “Keiran.” She smiled up at him, excited to have him near, but her good mood didn’t smooth the harsh lines carved into his cheeks.

  “Ye should be at the stronghold. Ye must remain guarded at all times.” He squatted beside her, still scowling.

  “My guard is perched atop the croft-house.” She continued to grin.

  He rolled his eyes and exhaled a heavy breath. “Why did ye come here?”

  “I needed to fill my heart with positive energy.”

  “Are ye ill?” He set the backs of his fingers over her forehead. “Ye are hot. We should seek out Magda.”

  Sorcha eyed him warily. She had hoped to reunite with Grandmum, but she hadn’t been at Sorcha’s homecoming, nor had the woman shown herself at the council meeting. Although later Keiran had sworn on his life that she’d been present at both. Sorcha held no desire to argue with him again on the subject of her Grandmum, be she dead or alive.

  “I’m not ill.” She sat up. “On the ship, when ye were casting the healing spell, ye asked me to visualize the things that are sacred to me. I had none, save for Peigi.”

  Keiran gave her a sidelong glance. “And ye came here to …”

  “I came here to remember.”

  Keiran unsheathed his broadsword and stretched out his long lean legs beside her. He gestured towards the croft-house. “Ye wanted to remember a raw-boned woman who feared her abusive husband so much that she starved herself to death?” He snorted. “These are the things I try to forget.”

  Sorcha knew Keiran struggled with his upbringing, but it shaped him into the man he was today. His desire to protect made her trust him. “Do ye still live here?”

  “Nay. I guard Kisimul now.” Keiran curled her hair over her ear. “And my queen.”

  “I am no queen.” Sorcha hugged her knees, her insides swirling.

  “Ye are to me.”

  The energy igniting between their locked eyes was a force she could no longer deny. It made her scalp tingle and her body hum. She wanted him to touch her again, but he lowered his eyes and tore a buttercup from its stem. He leaned back on his elbows and studied a pink and yellow horizon. “We are ready for him. I have ships positioned in the bay and men walking the parapet atop the keep.”

  “It won’t be long now.” Hector was coming. She could feel it in her bones. Every day they awaited his arrival was one day less she had with Keiran. “Ye might think yourself prepared, but Hector is conniving.”

  “I have no fear of him, nor do my kinsmen.”

  A small smile touched her lips. “The warriors of Barra respect ye as their leader,” she pointed out, hoping he would tell her why. Unfortunately, he held tight to his tongue. Curiosity got the better of her. “What did ye do at Leckmelm?”

  “I fought.” He watched the puffins gathered on the shore.

  “Ye did more than fight. I wish to know how ye earned the respect of my clan.”

  “Your clan?” He looked at her then and raised both brows. “I mean no disrespect, m’lady, but upon your return, did ye recognize all the members of your clan?”

  Though she didn’t appreciate his sardonic tone, she shook her head and waited for him to explain.

  “Your da decided we needed to offer our support to our neighbouring clans so we sailed to the mainland to fight for the Kingdom of Ross. Battle after battle, we remained unconquered for we were a unit of five clans in all. After we defeated Clan Gunn at Leckmelm, we followed a group of MacLeod warriors into a village to reap the rewards of our victory. We were told to lay claim to anything we wanted and given orders to kill anyone who attempted to stop us.”

  “And someone did?” Sorcha’s pulse kicked up a notch.

  Keiran nodded, his eyes became distant. “Our enemy’s womenfolk. We murdered their husbands and brothers and sons on the battlefield, and they had naught more to lose. Your da was eager to prove his prowess in front of the MacLeod chieftain and drove the kinsfolk out of their cot-houses with fire.” He paused, his head shook slightly. “Their screams wake me at night even still.”

  Sorcha wanted to console him, but he held himself aloof.

  “The bairns huddled in clusters and watched the curs beat their mams into submission. Then they separated the women into two groups: the ones they would kill and the ones comely enough to take with them.”

  Sorcha’s breathing escalated. War was an ugly thing, and her heart wept for these women and their bairns. But her pity was not nearly as intense as the anger pushing her fingernails into her palms. She expected nothing less from her father, but Keiran must have done something to prevent it. “What did ye do?”

  “I wanted no part in it, but your da ordered me and the other MacNeil warriors to take the women to the docks. We were expected to distribute the comely women equally on our allies’ ships, and the older, less appealing women – whom your da conveniently deemed Pagans – were to be tied to the oars of the ships.”

  “Oh Christ! Stop. I dinnae wish to hear more.” Sorcha felt ill. Shame washed through her. How could she possibly share blood with such a heinous man? She regretted pushing Keiran. There was nothing noble about what had happened in Leckmelm, nothing honourable, nothing worthy of respect.

  “Ye wanted to know and will allow me to finish.” Keiran grabbed her wrist when she tried to stand and continued without her consent. “We loaded the women aboard the Cerridwen – all of them, then Sileas and I went back for their bairns.”

  Tears rolled down Sorcha’s cheeks. Her heart swelled into he
r throat. Partly because Keiran had proven himself a champion and partly because she feared the words he’d not yet spoken. “Did they all survive?”

  Keiran nodded and brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Sileas brought home sixty-seven women and one hundred and twenty-four bairns. Some of their men – the ones that survived – have since joined the clan.”

  “What happened to ye?”

  Keiran only stared at her for long moments, a mixture of panic and resolve lined his worried face. His chest heaved. A muscle tightened in his jaw. The upset in his eyes sent spirals of icy fear coiling around her spine. She held his hand in both of hers and asked again, “Ye said Sileas brought them back to Barra. What happened to ye?”

  “Your da and six of his loyal kinsmen caught us on the docks. I held them off until Sileas could escape out the inlet. I cut down my own kinsmen – your kinsmen – to protect my enemy.” The tendons in his neck bulged. “Your da called me a traitor and ran me through with his sword.”

  Sorcha swallowed a gasp. Her unblinking eyes burned as unexpected fury roiled through her stomach.

  “I should have died. I was choking on my own blood, when he spit on me, and proclaimed himself the victor. But he didn’t defeat me, Sorcha.”

  She heard Keiran’s next words in her head before he ever spoke them. “I killed him.”

  The world stopped for a moment. Her pulse pounded like a drum between her ears. She was stunned, but felt no anger towards Keiran. Had Da loved her or treated her with the slightest amount of dignity, she might have given over to rage. Instead, she felt vindicated.

  A flash of unexpected lightning startled her and the boom of thunder that immediately followed sent her into Keiran’s arms.

  “Come quickly.” He pulled Sorcha to her feet, and they raced to the croft-house in front of a sheet of rain.

  This storm was Magda’s doing, Keiran decided as he watched the steady downpour out of a small window of the croft-house. His auld friend had done her best to force him and Sorcha into seclusion since their arrival, but her conjured rainfall couldn’t have been more ill-timed.

  He’d been patient with Sorcha, resisted the urge to kiss her every night, resisted the need to touch her, but most of all, he’d resisted the desire to tell her he loved her. And now, she had even more reason to think he only wanted her title. What could he possibly say that would convince her otherwise?

  “Keiran.” He felt the heat of her body before she touched his arm.

  “I did not kill your father for his title,” he blurted out. “Ye have to believe me.”

  “I believe ye.”

  Surprised by her quick response, he spun around to face her. “Ye do?”

  “Ye are Clan MacNeil’s champion.” She rose up on her toes and brushed her lips over his. “And mine.”

  Her words and her kiss crushed the last of his resistance.

  Keiran claimed her mouth with a fierceness he couldn’t control. And Sorcha matched his intensity without a morsel of timidity. Tongues and teeth met, hands searching – he revelled in the reality of what had been a fantasy for far too long.

  Desperate for air, he pulled away from her lips and slid his mouth down the column of her neck. She smelled like a shower of floral mist and tasted of sweet clover. Everything about her ripened his senses and heated his blood, especially the way she eagerly tugged at his garments.

  His cock jerked beneath his plaid. Knowing his need would soon control him, he stilled her hands on his belt. “Are ye certain this is what ye want?”

  She nodded, her eyes nigh shimmered with trust. “I want to know what it feels like to be touched by a man who loves me.” When she threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled him back to her mouth, a shudder ripped through him.

  Her acceptance was the greatest victory he’d ever known. His chest burned. His heart rejoiced. And his body demanded he claim her once and for all … and for ever.

  His lips never left her mouth as they disrobed and fell atop the bed in a frenzy. He caressed her arms, her breasts, her hips, and kissed her from chin to navel. His body hummed with desire, thrilled at the sound of her whimpers as he stroked her silken flesh, preparing her for what was to come. Then at last, he settled between her thighs. With his manhood poised at her entrance, he asked the gods to bless their union then committed himself to her spiritually.

  “Keiran.” She cupped his jaw with both hands, her knees tightened against his hips. “Ye do love me, don’t ye?”

  If it took the rest of his life, he intended to erase the doubt furrowing her brow. He gently pressed his lips to her forehead. “I love ye more than Morrigan loves Her warriors.” He kissed her chin. “I love ye more than Cailleach loves the earth.” He bent low and nipped the hardened tip of each breast. “I love ye more than Brigid loves Her daughters.” He then laced his fingers in hers and entered her.

  She squeezed his hands as she cried out like a virgin on her wedding night.

  He bore the ache seizing his loins and waited for her to adjust to him. “Like the puffin, I am now your mate for life.”

  She smiled then and arched her pelvis when he initiated the rhythm. With each thrust, she spread her legs a little wider, accepting him an inch at a time. She was tight and hot and slick and rippling along his length. She felt good, too bluidy good.

  Sweat poured down his chest. His seed boiled in his groin, but he refused to seek fulfilment without her. He reached between their bodies and stroked that swollen pebble hidden inside her curls.

  She stiffened. “Keiran, please stop. Something’s wrong.”

  “Naught’s wrong. In fact, ’tis verra right.”

  The first wave of her climax gripped him like a silken fist.

  “Oh, Keiran!” she cried out her pleasure, dug her fingernails into his hand, and wrapped her legs around his waist. Hot liquid cascaded over him and triggered his own release.

  After the last of his seed left him, he rolled to his back, taking her with him, not yet willing to break the connection between their bodies. Skin to sweat-slicked skin, he held her close in his embrace and waited for their hearts to slow. He kissed her hair and tickled her back while he listened to the dwindling patter of raindrops. A grin played at the corner of his lips. He would have to thank Magda for the rain.

  Long minutes passed before Sorcha stirred to life. She lifted herself up and the look she wore was not one he’d ever seen on her before. ’Twas a saucy, mischievous expression. “I know not what ye did to me, but that was incredible.”

  “Aye. That it was.” His body still tingled in the aftermath. His muscles were weak and sated, yet he felt invigorated knowing he’d been the first to ever satisfy her.

  “I wish to do it again.” She flicked his sensitive nipple with the tip of her tongue and rolled her pelvis round his groin.

  “Now?” he questioned even as his cock responded to her movements.

  “Now. Tonight. On the morrow …” The last of her words were drowned out by Tàiseal’s cry.

  “Wait.” He stilled her rocking hips, closed his eyes, and flew with the falcon over the sea where he saw six ships on the horizon.

  “What is it?” Sorcha asked, no doubt reading the worry on his face.

  His eyes sprung open. “Your husband has arrived.”

  Four

  “Heave!” Sileas ordered the rowers the moment Keiran stepped aboard the Cerridwen. “Did ye not hear the alarm, mon? Where the bluidy hell have ye been?”

  Not even a war could lessen Keiran’s spirits. He felt invincible, like he could rid the world of his enemies with the flick of his finger. He swaggered towards Sileas and assisted him with the rigging while the topmen overhead raised the canvas. “I’ve been … about.”

  “About? We’re on the brink of battle and—” Sileas paused, stood upright, and scratched his thick copper beard. “Ye bedded her.”

  Keiran’s grin was his only response.

  “’Tis about bluidy time.” Sileas smacked Keiran on the back then tied off
the rope dangling from the yardarm. “The way the gods cling to your shoulders, she is likely already with child. And if she’s anything like my Maura, then …”

  With child. Keiran froze. The merriment fled from his person behind a rush of worry. Of course he wanted bairns – hordes of them – but he didn’t want a single one born a bastard. He raked his fingers through his hair and surveyed twelve MacNeil ships forming a V on either side of the Cerridwen. “Send a signal to the fleet to take down all but the flagship. I’ve a personal vendetta to settle with Laird Ranald.”

  “I hope that vendetta involves making our queen a widow?”

  Keiran bore his glare into the approaching ships. “Aye. That is does, my friend. That it does.”

  As the distance closed between the fleets, Keiran prayed to Morrigan to watch over him and his kinsmen and offered a similar prayer up to Brigid to protect Sorcha until his return. He then soared over Kisimul with Tàiseal and watched Sorcha pace the stone walkway behind the parapet. Be safe, my love.

  “Load the cannons!” Sileas bellowed the order, drawing Keiran out of his thoughts.

  Fully armed for combat, Keiran prepared himself mentally for hand-to-hand warfare. For the first time in his life he anticipated the battle with enthusiasm. He welcomed the moment he would slide his sword between Hector’s ribs.

  A dark cloud settled over them. Lightning ripped through the sky like clashing swords of gods in battle. He should have known Magda would play her part. Knowing she was with him empowered him all the more.

  The first cannon fired with an announcing boom, and the battle began.

  Hector’s ships stood no chance against the MacNeil fleet. Soon, five of his six vessels were afire. The sea bawled with the oaths of dying men, but Keiran blocked out their pleas and prepared to invade the flagship. The air filled with clouds of acrid stench, scorching Keiran’s eyes and lungs. Grey smoke enveloped everywhere, making it difficult to see when he tossed a four-hooked grappling iron over the wooden rail of the enemy ship. Keiran wrestled the ropes alongside his kinsmen until the two vessels sat abreast– bow to bow, stern to stern.