CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Are you certain the countess won’t mind if the girls go to the bonfire?” Caroline asked Muira as the sun set, standing in the kitchen, helping to pack baskets of food and flasks of ale.
“She didna say a word against it when I asked her not half an hour ago,” Muira said archly, her eyes wide.
“Perhaps I should check with her,” Caroline said, but the old servant cackled. “There’s no need—Her Ladyship has taken herself off early to bed, asked not to be disturbed. She has a headache from spending all day starin’ at those dress books Alec brought from London. I daresay she won’t wake until morning, or possibly even early afternoon. Now don’t you worry about her another minute—you’ll be wanting to get ready yourself, and there’s not much time. The lasses have been watching the sun go down, and as soon as it drops behind old Glenlorne Tower, they’ll be off.”
Caroline glanced out the window. The red sun hovered just above the ragged roofline of the old tower. She glanced in the mirror and tidied her hair, made sure the top button of her gown was primly fastened under her chin. “There,” she said, turning to Muira.
The old servant rolled her eyes. “For the goddess’s sake, lass, ye canna mean—”
The door burst open, and the girls entered. They wore plain linen gowns, tucked into tartan sashes at their waists. Their feet were bare, and their hair hung long and loose down their backs. They stopped in the doorway and stared at Caroline.
“Miss Forrester!” Megan squeaked in shocked surprise, as if it were Caroline who was standing with her hair loose and her feet bare for the world to see.
“You can’t go out looking like that!” Alanna said.
“We’ve got to do something, and quickly—look!” Sorcha said. Caroline barely had time to look out the window at the sun, see the sun had dipped lower still, before the girls descended upon her. Sorcha pulled the pins from her hair, and Alanna unbuttoned her prim gown, while Megan went to fetch another gown, a simple shift in Highland style.
“Wait! I’ll do it myself!” Caroline said, as they approached, ready to undress her. She ducked into the pantry. The girls examined her when she came out, circling her with their arms folded over their chests. Muira perched on a stool by the fireplace, grinning like a fey crow.
“Well?” she asked.
“ ’Twon’t do,” Sorcha said.
“Stockings.” Alanna pointed.
They wanted her to go out barefooted? “A lady never—” she began, but the girls took a menacing step toward her. “I’ll do it,” she said, holding up a hand.
“There are no ladies tonight, lass,” Muira said. “Just lads and lasses and the pleasures of dancing and laughter, and no harm ever came o’ that.” She came forward and tucked a small white flower into Caroline’s hair, above her ear. “There now—that looks right.”
“She has no plaid sash.”
“She can have my red ribbon,” Sorcha said, and it was duly tied around Caroline’s waist.
“Oh, miss, you look bonnie,” Alanna said.
“She does indeed. Now off with you. The sun’s going, and I’ve more to do before I come along myself,” Muira said, shooing them out of the kitchen.
Megan and Sorcha grabbed her hands, and Caroline found herself caught in the spirit of the excitement, running with her charges over the cool grass in her bare feet with the soft evening breeze in her hair. They joined the villagers and the castle servants, until there was a long, merry procession of girls heading up the well-worn path to the old tower.
Sorcha stopped, her eyes wide. “Oh look—Alec is wearing his plaid—how wonderful he looks.”
Wonderful indeed. Caroline caught sight of the laird among the other men and stopped, her breath catching in her throat. The last rays of the setting sun were upon him, and his brow shone and his saffron shirt glowed, the laces open at the neck showing the tanned skin beneath. He wore the plaid like an ancient warrior, bold and proud, grinning like a pirate. He greeted everyone as they came up the path, truly the lord of this place. He was the handsomest man she’d ever set eyes on.
Breathe, a voice whispered in her ear. Breathe.
The air was intoxicating, and she felt pure joy run through her blood. Above her the moon floated in a deep blue sky, and the stars began to appear, one by one.
Fire flared on the hillside near the tower as the wheel was lit, a symbol the change of the season, the dark half of the year beginning tonight, and the light half giving way. With a whoop, lads rolled the wheel down the slope, racing after it, tumbling in the dewy grass, laughing and cheering. Caroline found herself cheering as well. If the wheel reached the bottom of the hill without going out, it meant a good harvest, and good fortune for Glenlorne.
A cry went up as the wheel began to skip and wobble over the rocky ground, shooting sparks as it flew, red and gold against the blue of twilight, but it reached the bottom of the hill before it toppled in the long grass of the meadow, still ablaze.
A cheer went up and everyone rushed forward to add fuel to the wheel, turning it into a bonfire that would burn for the rest of the night. From across the fire, Caroline watched Alec MacNabb toss a log onto the pile, and the flames leaped, lighting his eyes, his face, the muscles in his neck, and the strong length of his legs. Everyone in turn added fuel, and stepped back to admire the blaze.
Someone in a hood—Muira perhaps—came forward to place a crown of holly leaves on Alec’s head, and the crowd cheered again. She handed him a cup carved of horn, decorated with silver, and he drank deeply, the firelight caressing his throat as he swallowed. He raised the cup high, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, laughing as his clansmen cheered.
Then Muira placed a second crown in his hands, this one decked with ivy and wildflowers. “The king is crowned,” she announced to the crowd. “Now he must choose the Midsummer queen.”
A hopeful female whisper went up. Caroline watched as Alec’s fire-bright eyes scanned the crowds, and the lasses giggled and simpered to get his attention. She stayed where she was in the shadows, hoping his gaze would touch her and stop, yet dreading it as well.
His eyes passed over her, moved on, and she felt a shrivel of disappointment. Then he turned, and his eyes locked with hers. She felt a bolt of lightning hit her, saw the recognition in his eyes, the slow curve of his smile, the intent in his gaze, and for a moment her heart stopped. She couldn’t look away.
Without taking his eyes from hers, he lifted the crown of flowers high above his head, and petals showered over his dark hair.
“Jump the fire,” Muira commanded.
In one athletic motion, Alec leaped through the flames, coming through the sparks and smoke to land by Caroline’s side. He gave her an exaggerated bow, his eyes on hers. He held out the crown, and set it on her head. The scent of wild roses filled her. Muira handed him the cup, and he held it to Caroline’s lips. The warmth of the sweetened ale flowed down her throat and through her limbs, instantly intoxicating, taking her breath away, lifting her from the ground to float above it. Or was it the laird, his hands on hers, holding the cup, his fingers warm and sure?
“Now we must leap back,” he said, and took her hand. “Are you ready?”
Caroline stared into the blaze before her. It was as high as her hips, the flames licking their lips hungrily. Still, she nodded, and he put his arm around her waist, and together ran forward and flew over the fire, bathed in smoke and sparks, blessing the land for another season. She felt as if she’d been flying forever when she finally landed on the cool grass on the other side of the blaze, breathless. He didn’t let her go, but kept his arm around her, and she pressed close to his side, feeling safe and warm there.
Other couples clasped hands and jumped the fire. Lads herded the cattle through the billowing smoke to bless them. The music began to play, drums, flutes, and pipes, and the dancing began, and ale flowed. Lads and lasses paired off, slipping in and out of the shadows, stealing kisses and more. Children chased each o
ther with burning sticks.
Alec MacNabb took her into his arms and began to dance, spinning her from firelight to shadow and back again, until all she could see was the glitter of his eyes, all she could feel was the beat of the drums in her veins, her heartbeat beating in time with his.
Other couples joined the dance, moving faster and faster until they became a blur, and Caroline and Alec were the only people in the world. She threw her head back and laughed as he lifted her off her feet, and spun her in a dizzy circle, then let her body slide down the length of his, until their lips were inches apart. She was breathless, intoxicated by Alec as much as by the ale. He kissed her, and she tasted the sweetness of the brew all over again.
“You taste of honey and flowers, my lady.”
“Me? I thought it was you, my lord,” she quipped, batting her lashes, flirting with him, moving in close to press against him as the dance went on, then pulling away, until she was half mad with desire for more ale, another kiss. He kept hold of her hand, drew her back to his side when the steps of the dance took her too far from him, laughed down at her.
His eyes were shiny in the firelight, lit from within. She saw desire there, and felt it flow through her limbs as well. He pulled her close against his body and kissed her again, his tongue lapping at the seam of her lips, demanding entry. She opened, tasted the honey on his tongue, the bitterness of the herbs and the ale, and him. She put her arms around his neck and pressed closer, wanting to do nothing but kiss him. The heat of his mouth gave way to the cool of the evening, as he stepped back. He clasped her hand in his and grinned down at her, his teeth white in the firelight.
Alec couldn’t take his eyes off the woman in his arms. Her red hair burned as bright as the flames. Her lips were soft from his kisses, her eyes golden-green. Could he truly be so fortunate to have this woman for his bride? He’d marry her tomorrow—this very moment—if he could. The drumbeats filled him, or perhaps it was more than that.
She smiled up at him, bit her lip as she stumbled against him in the dance, the length of her body against his for a moment. She felt right in his arms, familiar, perfect. He’d felt the same surge of desire in the tower when she fell. Arousal stirred, hard, and powerful. She lifted her arms above her head as she danced, her body lithe and sleek. His eyes roved over the firelit silhouette of her breast under the muslin of her gown. Her white feet trod the steps perfectly as she moved away, then came back to him in the rhythm of the dance. He couldn’t wait to take her in his arms again, to spin her, to hold her close, to smell the sweet fragrance of her hair under the crown of flowers. He was suddenly glad to be Laird of Glenlorne. Surely there was nothing he couldn’t do with this woman by his side, his Midsummer queen, his countess, his wife.
He pulled her close and kissed her again, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his, her hands in his hair.
“Come with me,” he said, grabbing her hand, pulling her up the slope toward the tower.
He let go of her just long enough to lift the bar from the door, and drop it in the grass. He tugged her into the velvet darkness, and the wind blew the door shut behind them, leaving them in deep darkness; the sound of the revelry was distant now, the drums still beating in his ears, his veins, filling him with excitement and need. The roof was open to the stars, and the light of the moon made a soft pool in the center of the room, and he drew her into it, tipped her face up, stared down at her.
Caroline stared up at the moon, breathless, and stepped into the circle of the light. He took her in his arms, held her, looked down at her face, stroked her hair. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. She stood on her toes and cupped his face in her hands, her fingers moving over the rough stubble of his beard as she kissed him again. He moaned softly and pulled her closer still, pressing her against the length of his body, breast to chest, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. She opened to his kiss, sparring with his tongue as if she’d done this a thousand times. Could he tell she hadn’t? She should stop, but she didn’t want to. She was the queen of Midsummer, and he was her king, at least for tonight.
She tilted her head so he could kiss her neck. It felt so good. How was it possible to live as long as she had and never know that such a sensation existed? She could feel his arousal, knew what it meant. He desired her. He groaned as she pressed closer still, shifted her hips, moving against him. She tangled her hands in the rough linen of his shirt, holding him to her, needing more than kisses, yet she couldn’t imagine anything more delicious than his kiss. She could not have stopped kissing him if she wanted to. She was bewitched.
He trailed his mouth down her throat while he opened the ties of her gown ahead of his questing tongue and teeth. She slid her hands inside his shirt, felt the heat of his skin under her hands. He pushed her gown off her shoulders, baring her breasts, and drew her nipple into his hungry mouth. The sensation drove the last clear thoughts from her mind. She wanted this, wanted him, and he wanted her. She writhed against him, pleading for more. She pushed back his shirt and the plaid that covered his chest the way he’d done with her gown, baring his shoulders and chest in the moonlight. Hard muscles gleamed in the soft glow, turning him golden and glorious, a mythical Midsummer king indeed. It must be magic. She ran her fingertips over him, exploring the silk of his skin, the fascinating flex of his muscles beneath. His body was marvelous, male perfection. The scent of his skin poured over her, intoxicating her far beyond anything the ale had done.
She pressed her mouth to his chest, kissed him, tasted him, and he groaned. She felt his heart pounding under her lips, felt the breath singing through his body in time to the beat of the drums beyond the walls as his muscles tensed with pleasure at what she was doing to him. Power sang through her own veins. She found his nipple and bit gently, then sucked the hard pebble, and he gasped for breath, his hands tangling in her hair.
“Wait,” he murmured. He pulled his shirt over his head, unbuckled his belt, and let the folds of his plaid drop. She drew a breath at the sight of his naked body. He spread the plaid over the ground, a makeshift blanket, a bed padded by the soft moss beneath. He used his shirt to make a pillow. He knelt. “Come here,” he said, holding out a hand to her. This time, it wasn’t hard to decide what she wanted. She put her hand in his and knelt before him. He tugged her gown over her head, tossed it aside. She held her breath as went still, he looked at her in the moonlight. What was he thinking? No man had ever seen her this way before. Was she beautiful?
“Oh, lass,” he murmured, and ran the back of his hand over her cheek, her shoulder, her breasts. “I trust we should go slow,” he said. “Or stop. The choice is yours.” His voice was thick with desire.
She put her arms around his shoulders, tangled her fingers in his hair, and brought her mouth to his. He groaned and pulled her down onto the soft bed of his plaid. He groaned and tumbled into her embrace, covering her body with his. She reveled at the sensation of hard muscle and hairy legs against her skin, the sound of the murmured endearments he whispered in her ear in Gaelic. He suckled her breast as his hand explored the curves of her body, finding places she hadn’t even known existed before he touched them. He set her on fire everywhere his fingers brushed, until she arched upward, restless, desperate.
“Please,” she said softly.
“Wait,” he whispered against her mouth, and she whimpered as he returned to suckling her nipple, slowly, sweetly. She gripped his shoulders, dug her nails into the hard flesh, begging wordlessly for much more, but he took his time. He blew cool air on her heated flesh, then took the sensitive bud back into his mouth again. She writhed as his palm descended over her belly and hips, moving with infuriating slowness to caress the curls between her thighs. She bucked against his palm, wanting more, wanting—well, whatever it was that made the poets sing, and the ladies swoon. It was within his power to grant it, but he held back. He brought his mouth back to hers and she opened to him, biting and sucking at his tongue and lips, hearing his b
reath turn into grunts of suppressed desire. His erection pressed into her hip, and she reached down to touch it. She closed her hand on it and he gasped, cried out in Gaelic. His hand still hovered over the delicate lips of her sex, and then his fingers dipped between, found the place she needed him most. She cried out in English, and he began to circle the wild, wet bud with his fingertip, taking her beyond madness to a place of such exquisite pleasure she feared she would die of it. Her hand fluttered over his, half afraid of what was to come, half afraid he’d stop.
The sensation burst over her, like a bonfire roaring to life, shooting flames and sparks, all-consuming, holy. She clung to him, saw the stars above the tower, feeling them descend upon her one by one to sing through her blood, lifting her.
He kissed her, murmured endearments as he shifted, and she felt the blunt tip of him where his fingers had been. She took a deep breath and arched back, her teeth gritted as he drove into her, stifling a cry at the sharp pain. She dug her nails into his shoulder as he waited for her to adjust to him, to being filled for the first time, kissing her neck, stroking her face.
Slowly, he began to move, filled her, withdrew, and filled her again. The pain ebbed and the pleasure returned, and she watched the muscles in his neck cord and tighten, hooked her ankles around his hips, telling him what she wanted. She was breathless with need, and he moved faster, thrust harder, and she clung to his shoulders, wanting this to go on forever. She cried out as the sensation poured over her again, lifting her hips to draw him deeper, and he cried out, tensed against her, buried within her, and she felt him shudder before he collapsed against her, his heart pounding against hers. She folded her arms around him, held him to her.
Once Upon a Highland Summer Page 11