by Amanda Scott
Holding her as he was, he could not think about anything clearly, because his body wanted to do his thinking for him. His loins stirred with every motion she made, and when he began to suspect she would not continue to fight their marriage, his head had filled with images he was sure even a Highland priest would condemn.
He had wanted her from that first night, but if he were to tell her that, it would only reinforce the image she had of him from that night. From his viewpoint, a marriage between them was imminently suitable. His father certainly would have approved of it, and not only because of the lass’s fortune, assuming he ever found it. That he was attracted to—nay, lusted after—her was an added advantage.
As they continued toward Eilean Donan, he found himself watching her, letting his gaze dwell on the soft pink cheek turned slightly toward him, and on the rosy fullness of her lips. He had wanted to kiss her again since the day on the shore, before Mackinnon had joined them, but kissing was not enough now. His imagination was busy feeding him lustier notions. However, if he acted on any one of them, she would instantly change her mind again, and if she did, he did not know if he had the strength of character to allow it. He would do better to set things in train for the wedding as soon as they returned to the castle.
Because Molly had lost her shoe, he had to carry her inside, and holding her tempted him nearly beyond what he could endure. He noted with humor that while his people were astonished to see her dressed like a peasant lad, they were even more astonished when he announced that he intended to marry her straightaway.
Patrick, after a speechless moment, gathered his wits and shouted, “To the laird! ’Tis a fine thing he does for Eilean Donan.”
The others cheered, and conscious of Molly’s tense body in his arms, Fin said, “I’m glad to have your approval, friend. Send a running gilly to tell Dougal Maclennan I want him to perform the ceremony here two days from now. Then get something to eat, for I’m sending you to tell Mackinnon. Take an armed escort, in case you meet Sleat, but bring Mackinnon and his lady back for the wedding.”
Grinning, Patrick executed an elaborate bow and said, “At once, laird. And has your lady any commands for me?”
Molly shook her head, saying nothing, and from her heightened color, Fin knew she was wishing herself elsewhere. To Patrick, he said, “If she thinks of any, I’ll let you know before you leave. Now get about your business. Someone tell Mauri the news, and then the rest of you take your orders from her.”
With that, he carried Molly to the stairs and up to her bedchamber, conscious all the way of the way her body felt in his arms. Inside her room, he set her on her feet but did not release her. Hands on her shoulders, he forced himself to say evenly, “Art sure, lass?”
“Would you let me change my mind?” she asked, looking into his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he replied honestly, holding her gaze. Her eyes were so beautiful. The thought of looking into them every day for the rest of his life gave him a sense of rightness. He doubted that he had the strength to let her go.
“You wouldn’t,” she said, her lips curving into an enigmatic little smile.
The smile did it. He bent and kissed her, meaning only to kiss her lightly, as if to tell her—what? Before he could bring his thoughts to bear on the question, her lips twitched responsively against his, and he was lost. Pulling her close, he moved his hand over her back and sides, possessively, delighting in the idea that he would soon know every inch of her. That thought stirred others, and as his tongue explored the soft interior of her mouth, one hand moved to untie the strings at the neck of the saffron shirt. The hand slipped inside the opening, stroking the soft skin beneath.
Molly gasped and stiffened, pulling away.
“It’s all right, lass,” he murmured.
“No, it isn’t; not yet,” she said, breathing rapidly, as if she had been running.
Her cheeks were flushed, her lovely eyes bright. His body ached for her. But he would gain nothing by infuriating her and much, perhaps, with forbearance.
“I’m a patient man,” he said, putting the thought to words.
“No, you are not,” she said, stepping back.
He grinned at her. “I’m willing to practice, though. I’ve offered you a bargain, lass. You’ll soon have the home you’ve yearned for.”
“You aren’t offering me your home,” she said with a sigh. “It is as Sir Patrick said, and you are doing it for your beloved castle. Moreover, on the slightest whim, you could order me to live somewhere else, could you not?”
“Aye, well, here’s a better bargain then,” he said, undaunted. “Tell me before the wedding that you’ve changed your mind, and perhaps I’ll let you out of our agreement. In the meantime, put on a proper dress. Looking like that, in lad’s clothing, you make me feel like a lustful sodomite.”
He left, chuckling.
Molly stood where he left her, shaken and wondering what demon had made her agree to marry him. She could hardly tell herself that she had taught him to value her opinions or understand her need for freedom. If she had accomplished anything, it was the exact opposite. What could she have been thinking?
Would he really let her change her mind? And if he did…
Her thoughts turned instantly to his handsome face and strong arms, to the twinkle in his eyes when he smiled, to the way that smile lit up his features and warmed her to her toes. Then she thought of what he had done when he had hauled her up across his saddle, and she remembered his stern frown and harsh words.
Then she remembered his kisses and the passionate way he had caressed her.
The more tangled her thoughts became, the more she expected to find herself talking to Maggie Malloch, but the little woman did not appear even when she called her name. Evidently, fairies or household spirits, or whatever they chose to call themselves, appeared only when they wished to do so.
Downstairs, Fin discovered he had to deal with Mauri. “Such a hasty wedding doesna be seemly,” she said, arms akimbo.
“To find Donald the Grim on our doorstep demanding Molly’s return at sword’s point would not be seemly either,” he retorted. “Just do your best, Mauri. None of our guests will expect a grand occasion.”
“What guests?” she demanded. “Who will ken aught about it?”
“We’ll send running gillies to spread the word,” he said. “People will come. Perhaps not many from any distance, but we’ll not find ourselves alone.”
“Aye, well, we’ll see,” she said darkly, “but ’tis nae the way for a Mackenzie chieftain tae wed, and if that lass be willin’, I’ve seen nae sign of it afore now.”
“She’s willing enough,” he said, hoping he was right. He was rapidly growing accustomed to the notion of having her as his wife, but she was perfectly capable of changing her mind at the last minute and refusing to take her vows.
As he turned from Mauri and gave his orders to the running gillies, he had an odd sense of someone moving just at the edge of his peripheral vision, but when he turned his head, no one was there.
Doreen came to help Molly change her clothing, clicking her tongue and scolding as only a servant who had known one from childhood could do. Molly, however, had long since learned how to deal with Doreen.
“What has become of Thomas MacMorran?” she asked casually when the maidservant paused to take a breath. “I have not seen much of him lately.”
“Well, ye might ha’ done had ye looked,” Doreen said sharply. “Not only does he sleep wi’ the others in the hall at night but he were here in the castle all day yesterday, making a nuisance o’ himself.”
“How so?”
“The man wants to live in one o’ the wee cottages the laird gives them what ha’ families to provide for,” Doreen said. “It makes no matter to Thomas MacMorran that other folks ha’ their duty, as well. Only Thomas MacMorran’s needs matter to Thomas MacMorran. Forbye, here today he’s gone off to Skye wi’ Sir Patrick MacRae and wi’out so much as askin’ a body did she ha’
any messages for her folks there. So much for Thomas MacMorran’s notions o’ love.”
Molly began to feel sympathy for Doreen.
“Men,” she said with feeling.
“Aye,” Doreen said in fervent agreement. “A sorry lot, most of ’em.” Then, however, she spoiled this moment of harmony by adding, “Except for the Laird o’ Kintail, o’ course. A grand man, that one, and lucky ye be to marry him.”
Repressing an urge to growl, Molly said, “Kintail is just a man like any other, who thinks he rules the earth.” Even as the words spilled forth, she knew they were not true. No one could look at Kintail and see just a man like any other.
Doreen stared at her. “Faith, mistress, if all men were like that one, there’d be nae room left on the earth for the women.”
The image of an earth covered with men as large as Kintail, wearing swords and mail, and standing shoulder to shoulder, struck Molly’s sense of the ridiculous so hard that she laughed aloud. “Very well,” she said when she could talk, “Kintail is larger than most but no less stubborn or sure of himself. What is it about men that makes them think they know more about any subject than a woman can know?”
Doreen grimaced, clearly agreeing, but after a few moments of silence as she helped Molly into a fresh bodice and skirt, she said, “I warrant he’ll do well by ye, mistress. I own, though, I were flat astonished to learn ye mean to marry him.”
Molly sighed. “Do you think I’m being foolish, Doreen? I own, I don’t even know what stirred me to say that I would marry him.”
“Ye’ll ha’ a home at last that’s truly your own,” Doreen said gently.
There was that, Molly thought. Although she had contradicted Kintail when he’d said the same thing, Eilean Donan would be her home unless he decreed that she live elsewhere, and that seemed unlikely. Indeed, perhaps the chance to gain a proper home at last was what had persuaded her. She would belong. That thought comforted her more than any other that had passed through her mind that day.
From the day that her uncle had so abruptly removed her from Dunsithe, she had felt displaced. Even at Dunakin, where everyone was kind to her, she had felt apart from the others, different, but the thought of calling Eilean Donan home had distinct appeal.
“I do want a real home,” she said wistfully to Doreen.
The maidservant smiled. “Aye, sure, I ken that fine, mistress. Every woman wants a home of her own and a man and bairns to look after. ’Tis natural, that.”
“Perhaps,” Molly said. She found the thought of bairns— hers and Kintail’s—rather startling. A son of her own— doubtless one just like his father—was a daunting but nonetheless intriguing prospect.
Kintail would kiss her again. Indeed, he would do much more than that. She was not sure exactly what the “much more” entailed, but married people did often sleep in the same bed. Thinking of his kisses made her lips burn, and thinking about sharing his bed and creating bairns stirred other parts of her body to burning as well.
These thoughts and others like them tumbled in a continuous but unhelpful stream through her mind as that evening and the following day passed. Aside from the long hours of the night when she lay abed without sleeping, trying not to think about the wedding night ahead, she seemed to be surrounded by people attending to one task after another, talking and making plans. They consulted her from time to time, but whatever she added to the proceedings, she would never recall afterward.
She saw Kintail occasionally in passing, but although he smiled at her, he seemed to elude conversation, and she was just as glad, for she knew not what she would say to him, and she did not want to stir coals with the wedding so near.
During the afternoon before the wedding, she was dimly aware of Mauri and Doreen sorting through her clothing in search of just the right gown for her to wear for the ceremony, but she did not care which they chose. She tried on one after another as they bade her, obediently turning this way and that.
If anyone noticed her distraction, they attributed it to pre-wedding nerves and said nothing. As for herself, she could seem to think of nothing other than that she would soon be Kintail’s bride and, more than ever, subject to his authority. Her uncertainty grew, but at the same time, she felt as if the wedding had taken on a momentum of its own so great that nothing could stop it. The priest would obey Kintail’s orders, and so would everyone else, including herself.
That thought nearly shook her out of the spell under which she seemed to have fallen, but then Mauri told her that it was time to go down to supper, and she rose obediently to go with her, feeling a sudden desire to see Kintail and be warmed again by his reassuring smile.
She entered the great hall, expecting to see the same scene that had greeted her eyes every evening at that time, but the reality was so different that she stopped at the threshold and stared. The hall teemed with people, and new arrivals crowded the main entrance. The din of conversation was such that she wondered how she had missed hearing it on the way downstairs. Indeed, she wondered if more hours had passed than she knew, and it was time for the wedding.
She looked for Kintail and saw him a short distance away, speaking to Tam Matheson. Other men turned to greet newcomers just then, and when she saw muscles clench in Kintail’s jaw, she followed his gaze.
First, she saw Sir Patrick, looking unnaturally grim. Behind him, she saw the familiar figures of Mackinnon and his lady, and her spirits rose. Eager to greet them, she followed Kintail as he moved toward them, but she stopped when she saw the glowering face behind Mackinnon. It was a memorable face, for all that she had seen it only three or four times in her life.
Mauri bumped into Molly. Hastily apologizing, she said, “Who is that? He has two eagle feathers in his cap, like Mackinnon or the laird, but I dinna ken…”
“That is Donald the Grim,” Molly said, her uncertain mood evaporating as apprehension took its place.
Fin strode toward the newcomers, barely concealing his outrage at Sleat’s audacity. He did not require Patrick’s warning glance to remind him of the need to remain calm, however, so he centered his attention on Mackinnon and his lady, rapidly estimating the number of men-at-arms with them.
“Welcome, sir,” he said to Mackinnon. “And you, my lady, are even more welcome. Mistress Gordon will be delighted to see you, I know. She stands yonder,” he added, gesturing toward the doorway where he had caught sight of Molly moments before, only to see that she had disappeared.
“I’m here,” she said quietly from behind him. She looked wary and as if she were not certain that she wanted to show herself.
Lady Mackinnon bustled past him to hug her, saying brightly, “My love, how well ye look! I vow, the change o’ residence has done ye good.”
“That remains to be seen,” someone growled behind Fin.
The curt tone, cutting off Molly’s reply, told him who had spoken. He turned back and said just as curtly, “To what do we owe your visit, Sleat?”
Donald Grumach “the Grim” of the Isles, Chief of Sleat and Uisdean, was a tall, broad-shouldered, fair-haired man with light blue eyes. He had the proud look of his forebears, the sons of Somerled, King of the Isles, and arrogance underscored his words as he snapped, “Ye’ll kindly refer to me as Donald, or Macdonald, as I’ve assumed my rightful, heritable title as Lord o’ the Isles.”
Hastily, Mackinnon said, “There were naught else to do but bring him along, Kintail, for he were wi’ me when Sir Patrick brought me your good news.”
“I do not agree that it is good news,” Sleat said gruffly.
With a heartiness belied by the measuring look in his eyes, Mackinnon said, “Now, Donald, ye canna do anything about this, for ye’ve only a half score o’ lads in your tail. Moreover, ye promised no t’ make trouble an we let ye come wi’ us. Sakes, lad,” he added in an audible aside to Fin, “there were naught else t’ be done wi’ the man!”
“He slaughtered my father and Patrick’s,” Fin said, striving to control his temper. “He has no
business to set foot inside the walls of Eilean Donan.”
“Their deaths were unfortunate, but they fell in battle,” Sleat said. “ ’Tis the chance a man takes when he raises his sword against an enemy, but ’tis a worthy death. As to my purpose here, I claim hospitality to attend my ward’s marriage.”
“He comes in peace,” Mackinnon interjected swiftly, clearly recognizing that Fin would see little glory in battle deaths that had resulted from base trickery.
Sleat added smoothly, “I trust ye’ll no forbid my attendance at the Maid’s wedding, or refuse such hospitality as I have every right to claim.”
“And I trust that you do not mean to make trouble, Sleat,” Fin replied, putting emphasis on the name but seeing nothing to gain by pointing out to the villain that Molly was no longer his ward.
“Mayhap your hearing failed you,” Sleat said gently. “I’m no longer merely Sleat but Macdonald, Lord of the Isles.”
“Elsewhere, perhaps, but not here,” Fin said, giving him a straight look. “Last I heard, Jamie was still Lord of the Isles.”
Sleat grimaced but did not press the point. Shifting his attention to Molly, he said abruptly, “Ha’ ye lost your mind, lass?”
“I do not believe so,” she said, surprising Fin with her apparent calm.
Sleat snapped, “For all that Jamie had the bad manners to do me a mischief, ye need not compound it by marrying this fellow. Ye can do better! Say only that ye want no part of this, and I’ll look after ye myself. I’ll take ye to your cousin Huntly, for even Kintail, with all his wild ways, won’t dare go against him.” Shooting a glance at Fin, he added, “I have heard no man call ye a fool, Kintail, for aught else I might have heard.”
Refusing the bait, Fin said, “We are about to take supper, Mackinnon. Perhaps you and your lady, and these others, would like to refresh yourselves.”