Euan knelt back on his heels and spread her legs wide, open to his hands, his mouth and later his rod. Hands on her thighs, he bared her swollen pink centre for his delight.
“Now, Euan now!”
Her moan twined with the howl inside him, and it took all his willpower not to thrust inside the bonnie flower in front of him. “Soon lassie, soon, first I must sup from your honey.”
And sup he did. Feasted with both lips and tongue as Morag’s hips lifted and her whimpers played in his ears. He’d found a treasure hidden in Cragenlaw, but it was a prize in a poison chalice, for he knew that if his life were to be as perfect as he would have it, Morag wouldn’t be barren and he wouldn’t be cursed.
He pushed his tongue inside her, using his thumb where he knew it would do the most good. As he felt a pulse flutter around his tongue and her cries began to ring around the bedchamber, bouncing off the curved walls into his ears, he reared up and back then thrust his full length inside her.
Falling forward onto his forearms, he retained just enough sense not to crush her with his considerable weight, he was the heavy thistle flower and Morag the stem that bent at his will.
His hips flexed, a powerful thrust, again and again. Morag’s legs encircled his hips and they moved as one. His pulse hammered in his head and behind his closed eyelids colours flashed—huge splashes of red, gold and blue that melded into a rainbow as he fell off the edge of the world, holding Morag to his chest.
And as the bed stopped tilting, he wondered how he would ever let her go. Yet, he knew he had no choice. Whatever he did in this life, the clan had to come first. The precautions he had taken by making Graeme his heir were just that, precautions. He owed it to his father and his father’s father to make sure the McArthur line carried on unbroken.
With honour came sacrifice, there was no getting away from that truth.
He rolled onto his side, taking Morag with him, reluctant to let her go for even an instant. She snuggled up against him, the crown of her head under his chin and her breath dampening his collarbone. “I’m so glad you’re home,” she said. “I don’t sleep well when you’re not here with me.”
“Hah!” The involuntary bark of laughter put an end to his philosophising. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’ll be getting much sleep tonight. You’re not the only one who’s glad I’m back home.
Snug on a pallet spread across the entrance to the solar, Nhaimeth let a smile curl around his mouth and pulled his hat low over his ears to shut out the noise from the bedchamber.
He didn’t begrudge Euan his happiness, nor Morag hers. To be sure, if Rob’s chatter was to be relied upon, neither brother nor sister had experienced much joy in recent times. Being a wee Fool, folk always presumed Nhaimeth’s view of the world could be likened to a baby’s. Nobody took into account that what he lacked in stature, he made up for in wisdom.
And he’d aye been aware that Comlyn’s delight over Astrid’s marriage was greater than that of the other parties involved. The McArthur took his responsibilities seriously, and Astrid, well she’d been taught her duty was to marry well. The best he could say was that she’d been content. Yet, Nhaimeth had never heard such noises from their marriage bed as he’d heard tonight.
That’s what worried him. It curled his innards imagining Morag bereft and alone when the McArthur took another to wife, for it would happen. Nhaimeth had nary a doubt. But at least it wouldn’t end in her death, and he’d already made up his mind that when the day came, he would be waiting to help her.
For wasn’t Morag just like the sister he’d lost and not been able to save? It would never happen again.
He leaned his head on one folded arm, clamping the other hand over hat and ear alike. Privacy was rare even in a castle this size. The least he could do was give Morag and the McArthur theirs for as long as it lasted.
Chapter 13
Euan noted Graeme awaiting him at the high table. Morag was still abed when he left his apartments; neither of them had managed many hours of continuous sleep. No matter, he felt like he could take on the world … Comlyn for certain.
He sat down beside Graeme, knowing his constable would be wishing to examine the attack on them the day before. They had no proof, only their innate instincts yelling in their heads, ‘Erik the Bear’.
Euan leaned forward over the laden boards, looking past Graeme, who was in the process of breaking his fast. Though smaller than Euan, no one would think Graeme small. He worked hard and ate well when he could, deserving of every morsel he pushed into his mouth. Yesterday had been a long day. Today could be worse. Euan called to his seneschal farther down the board. “Duncan, I’ve work for the scribe, a message to be carried to the King, with all urgency.”
Duncan didn’t waste time questioning Euan’s instructions, though he must have been curious. It was no secret that Euan and his father had always supported Malcolm Canmore—aye, even against Macbeth—so a message to the king was a matter of some import.
The seneschal merely nodded and with a wave summoned a servant, who then scurried away. Everyone at Cragenlaw was aware of the contretemps that had taken place the day before. Euan had noticed the heads leaning close, the soft mutters that whispered round the hall as he had entered. They began again as Duncan approached him and Graeme, waiting for the McArthur to speak. “You’ll have heard of the attack on us yesterday.”
“Aye, laird, I did that. A dreadful business,” he said but left it at that. Duncan was a man who knew his place. He had worked for Euan’s father, and was never obsequious, though more advisor than friend. Under his canny hand, the McArthurs had become richer, therefore more powerful and more envied. Like Graeme, Duncan was an essential part of Cragenlaw.
“What news have you of masons?”
“There’s a certain Frenchman—”
“French!” Graeme cut in, as if Duncan wanted to employ one of the monkeys Euan had seen at court.
“Aye, that would be a Frenchman. Normans are building castles all over England, God help us if they set their sights on Scotland again.” Duncan paused for emphasis. “This Frenchman was in the employ of a lord who’s run out of silver.” A sniff punctuated his wry comment. Duncan gave no cuttings to lords who couldn’t manage their affairs. He came from a family who were renowned for their stewardship, and Duncan confirmed it, saying, “I had news of this mason through a cousin.”
“I’ll leave that in your hands then.” Euan looked sideways at Graeme and said, “Remember, though we’re looking for security over beauty,” Euan grinned, “Graeme’s future wife will probably prefer it be bonnie, and would as lief not bide in a prison.”
A twinkle leapt into Duncan’s eyes as he watched Graeme’s face flush. “Och aye, I’ll make it my particular task to see Graeme’s future wife comfortable. If I looked askance, it was through not having heard you had a lassie in mind.”
Graeme’s chin lifted. “You dinnae ken everything. The wife part can wait until the Keep is under way.”
Euan was aware that, occasionally, the two most important people at Cragenlaw, barring him, were inclined toward small displays of jealousy, and he was grateful when one of his housecarls interrupted. For all that Scots had a reputation for outrageous behaviour, such as drinking and carousing, it didn’t happen in the McArthur household.
The housecarl waited until Euan gave him his attention. A messenger has arrived from Ruthven, laird.”
His second wife’s father, what now? “Bring him forward.”
Euan’s glance flicked from Graeme to Duncan and back, wondering what was in their minds, certain they couldn’t read his. Once again, fate would seem to be taking a hand in his life, for not even Graeme was aware which lass he’d had in his eye for his cousin’s wife.
They were about to have visitors, the Laird of Ruthven, plus a few extraneous family members, including his daughter. Morag knew what that meant. A new wife for Euan. Auld Mhairi brought her the news, and her heart sank. The future looked bleak.
&n
bsp; What was going to happen?
After a night that made her feel like a princess, she now wondered if she ought to hide. Auld Mhairi—auld besom—had laughed when she woke her and told who was visiting. “There’ll be another wedding. Aye that’s richt, I said a wedding, the Ruthvens are guid Scottish stock, not like Comlyn whau has more Norse in his blood than is guid for him.”
Morag picked up her plaid, wishing she’d had time to finish her new kirtle as she hurried into the solar, not wanting to hear anymore; but it would be childish to cover her ears.
Even so, Mhairi’s chortle followed her. “I remember her as a lass, she was a bonnie wee thing.” She was still saying, “Like as not she’ll have grown up by this time,” as Morag quickened her footsteps almost running toward the stairs.
She met Nhaimeth coming around the lower curve in the stone, spiral stairs, approaching from the Great Hall. “Ach, Morag, my thanks lass, you’ve saved me a climb. The McArthur sent me up to fetch you. We’re to have visitors.”
Morag’s chest heaved, air trapped in her lungs, and not because of her rush down the stairs. “So I’ve heard. Mhairi can talk of naught else.”
Compared to her previous dash for the stairs, her feet now lagged, as if keeping pace with Nhaimeth when, in truth, she was reluctant to hear her fate pronounced too swiftly. Would it be back to the kitchen? She didn’t mind the work, or the shame of being cast off. She had come to Cragenlaw for safety, not to rediscover love.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Was that the truth? Had she fallen in love with Euan once more? At her age she ought to know better. She was no longer the soft-hearted lass who thought the world as she knew it well lost for love. And here she stood, once more opening her heart to Euan, who might dismiss her without a second thought, as he had once before.
She’d never forget returning to the cave, her pulse racing from creeping out of her father’s hall under Doughall’s watchful eye. He’d never been a brother one could go to with a skinned knee or grazed elbow. That had been Gavyn, her father’s heir … until the day of the battle. Her eldest brother had never come home to Wolfsdale, and no ransom had been demanded for his return.
At first, she had taken her grief for Gavyn and fixed her attention on Euan, hoping someone had been doing as much for her brother. Her father was too caught up with his own grief to notice her long absences.
Doughall, on the other hand, had become puffed up by his greater consequence. Their father’s heir was a position he had always coveted and would destroy anything that might stand in his path, including his own sister. As Rob had gotten older, she had sensed the danger he stood in. Unlike Doughall, he had always been a big lad, and Doughall kept eyeing him like a stag might a young buck.
Euan was seated at the high table, Graeme to one side and a scholarly looking stranger on the other, feather quill fluttering in his hand and head bent over a sheet of parchment. Behind them, Duncan stooped; his eyelids drooping, half closed as he looked over their shoulders.
Around the hall, everything else was as usual, serving maids cleared tables while the hounds snuffled their feet looking for unexpected treats, as if they weren’t as well fed as anyone in the castle, considering their importance as a source of food gathering—in their case, deer.
Most people had eaten. No longer hungry, she didn’t care. What had struck her at first glance was the serious mien on all four faces at the high table. To her mind it didn’t bode well. Four men against one small woman, her heart clenched.
Once again, she wished she’d had time to finish one of her new kirtles—a piece of armour to give her courage.
Screwing up her nerve, she walked with Nhaimeth by her side. She hadn’t thought to give up her secret so soon, for so little. She felt cowardly, but she didn’t do this for herself alone, but for Rob. No matter what she felt for Euan, Rob was her life, and everything wrong about it rushed toward her ahead of a storm.
Her heart seized.
Everyone sitting at the table faded away. She felt as if she stood at the centre of a deep pool of silence. As if he sensed her fear, Nhaimeth’s fingers brushed hers where she held her plaid tight, terror writ in the crushed worsted check. Nhaimeth tugged on it. She looked down.
His face showed concern and he signalled for her to bend closer to him. Eyes wide, he asked, “You look troubled, my lady. Pale. Do you feel unwell?”
My lady. It had been so long since anyone called her that.
Before she could answer, Euan looked up, caught her eye, and smiled.
She could breathe again.
Before she had time to react, Euan rose from the board and walked round, taking the step down to her level in one long stride. “Morag,” he said, as he reached out and took her fingers in his. “Did you sleep well?”
Her smile, a habitual response, trembled on her lips, tinged with emotion. “Yes, Laird, I did.”
Euan leaned closer, his scent teasing her senses with memories of the night before as his breath brushed her skin. “Why so formal? It wasn’t ‘Laird’ you were shouting last night.”
She flushed, her gaze focused on his lips, remembering all the ways he had used them to bring her pleasure. Morag blinked, pulling her thoughts back to the present. “You sent for me?”
“Aye, we’re to have visitors, a wee bit of socialising, and a ceilidh. Would you like that?” His brows lifted, questioning, as if her agreement mattered, she mattered.
Morag’s immediate emotion was confusion, but her true character rapidly rose to her aid. She had let fear turn her into a trembling leaf, quivering at the first breath of air. She, the woman who had led Rob through hidden byways, inhabited by naught but fierce beasts who howled in the night and had brought the lad home safe to Cragenlaw—without showing fear or letting it take control.
That realisation brought her to the heart of the matter: she couldn’t afford to let herself love Euan again, to make herself vulnerable to his lightest whim. Perhaps her feelings were but an echo of the past—a longing for a time, when her life had been, if not easy, at least stable.
What she had here with Euan wouldn’t last. She should reconcile her dreams with that truth, and not cling to what could never be. Had her personality been other than it was, she might have taken what was offered and shrugged off her dismissal when it came. That had to be her aim.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I’m sure the castle could do with a bit of a ceilidh to blow away the doldrums. There has been little for your people to celebrate of late.” She’d found the curse to be well to the forefront of everyone’s mind. It would be crass to mention something Euan had lived and breathed since his first wife died, confirming that the curse was more than a mere threat.
“That could be one reason to celebrate; the other would be bringing a smile to your lips.” Much like the one on Euan’s she thought. Their wonderful night seemed to have given him a new lease on life, and she couldn’t begrudge him that. It was herself who needed a talking to.
Euan took her by the elbow. “Come,” he said, “You must be hungry, let me serve you.”
“No,” she protested, shocked. “It is for me to serve you.”
An unholy smirk curled around his mouth, and his eyes twinkled as he led her to the board. “I thought you already did.” Once he placed the trencher with bread, meat and fruit in front of her, he said, “Now, let me tell you about the Ruthven clan.”
Morag willed herself to listen without letting her emotions overcome her good sense. When he finished she asked, “Should I remove from your apartments during their visit?”
Euan suddenly jerked back from the board, his eyes flashed fire, not the heat she saw when he took her to his bed, but anger. “Is that what you want? You came to my bed willingly, without force. I thought you content. Why would you leave?”
“Mhairi said the Ruthven lassie would make you a good wife.”
“Auld Mhairi needs to learn to hold her tongue. I have sworn never to wed while the curs
e still exists. I am the law in this castle, master in my own house. I asked you to share my bed and for now, that will not change.” Euan looked around him, but the others had moved away, leaving them a small pocket of privacy that Euan looked like to ruin by raising his voice.
She watched his chest heave as he dragged in a long breath. “I’ll not lie to you, Morag. Before summer has run its course, I want that curse broken, smashed to smithereens.” His fist curled, lay on the board close to her hand. His jaw clenched, shut so tight it was a wonder he could speak. A quick glance over his shoulder, then he brought his face close by hers. “After all they years of trying to have an heir, for the first time, I’ve actually considered that it might never happen. So, I’ve put plans in order to make Graeme my heir, in case.”
Euan reached out and trailed a finger down her cheek. The look in his eyes almost broke her heart. She felt it squeeze tight in her chest. “If it was up to me, I would leave it at that. It’s a long time since I felt so … so content. Yet, all my life I’ve been taught to put the good of the clan first, before myself, before a woman … before love. And that will never change. I cannot let it.”
Morag lost all notion of how to respond. The love she had forbidden herself to feel, went out to him like an entity she could not control. And when he picked up a strand of her hair and coiled it round his finger, her restraint almost broke.
It took her back all those years, to the time when Euan was injured. He’d been unable to move from the pallet she’d placed in the cave for him. Each afternoon, when the time came for her to return to the hall, he would take a strand of her hair and coil it round his finger as if to hold on to her.
“Let’s just take what we have between us for as long as we can,” he said. “You and I can be there for each other as long as it lasts; and I’ll make sure you’re well treated, that you’ll never lose from being my leman. You, Morag, will find I’m a generous man.”
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