She was also in no doubt that this was Iseabal’s day.
The variety of expressions flitting across the younger lass’s features all expressed delight as guests wished her well, and segued to bliss when Graeme took her hand.
Earlier, Iseabal had shown Morag a ring. “Graeme gave it to me.” She held out her hand. Bright gold, finely braided rising to a crown set with a purple jewel. “He said it belonged to his mother, and his grandmother. I feel so privileged to be the next to wear it.”
She blushed, and Morag could easily gauge the direction of younger lass’s thoughts. “I hope the McArthur wastes no time getting the Keep built, so you and Graeme might soon be wed,” she said, feeling a fraud. Down deep in her soul, hiding among emotions Morag wasn’t proud of, she experienced something nearing jealousy, or envy. Green emotions that seldom rose near the surface of her mind. Contrary emotions that stabbed at her insides for, in truth, she was happy that Iseabal and Graeme had found each other.
For all the heartfelt pleasures she shared with Euan, this honest pronouncement of love could never be theirs, and she grieved for all that had been, and all that would never be. It was terrible to think that one could only ever be an onlooker, a seeker of the truth that brought together a man and a woman, a family, and everything that went with the words hearth and home.
Her hands were sore from clapping time as castle villeins and tenants alike danced complicated reels, one of which had wound through its audience, dragging them into the chain as they went. She couldn’t remember ever viewing such a cheerful event in Wolfsdale, though perchance it had been different when her mother was alive.
Overhead, the dull grey edge of gloaming brightened to a deep blue with stars peeking through it. Gazing up at with her head back, Morag missed the lads rebuilding the fires. After a time, she noticed flames dancing in the darkness above the logs, spilling light into the middle of the bailey. The pipers grew silent, the dancers stilled and, with everyone else in the bailey, began to crowd into a square with fires on each side.
At least they seemed to know what was expected.
She hadn’t seen much of Euan who, acting the generous host had made sure to speak with every one of his guests, from highest to lowest. Scanning the crowd for the McArthur she noticed that Graeme, too, had disappeared.
Iseabal had been pushed to the front of the gathering along with Colin Ruthven. Morag moved along the line, stopping beside Iseabal whose face was writ with excitement. “What is happening?”
“What, you’ve never seen this before? I suppose Roslyn is too far south to have our traditions, our dances.” Smiles wreathed Iseabal’s face. “Well, then, you’ve a rare treat in store. Graeme and Euan,” she lifted her hand to her lips, covering them, apologetic. “He said I could call him that. I hope you don’t mind.”
The question shocked Morag far more than the fact that Euan was going to dance with his cousin, who she felt should have clasped hands in the dance with his betrothed. “It’s not for me to object. I have no ties on the McArthur.” Only the cruel bonds of unbidden love.
“It’s nice of you to say so, even if only to put me at ease.” Iseabal touched her arm, giving her a small squeeze. “It’s a tradition hereabouts, a challenge of swords so to speak.”
Morag’s breath caught, they were going to fight. “A duel?”
“Some might say so. Pa would have joined them, but he insists he getting too auld.”
Her final words were lost in the drone of pipe music as the crowd made way for two pipers to pass. Moving closer, Morag spoke in Iseabal’s ear, “What were you saying?”
“That it was just Graeme and his cousin in the dance.”
The skirl of the pipes died away and a clashing of steel took its place. Were they duelling already?
Heart in her throat, Morag turned her face to the gap in the crowd left by the piper’s passage. Squeals of excitement arose from those women and children closest, and high over their heads, she watched swords meet, slide and swirl, thankfully more practiced than heated.
Her gaze felt stuck to the swords. Flashes of firelight glanced off the blades, spinning wildly into the night, until Euan and Graeme filled her view and took her breath away.
She’d never before thought of men as beautiful, but she did tonight. Both were bare chested, lengths of plaid that would normally loop over their shoulders, now draped around the waist held by the silver pins that made certain it couldn’t twist between their legs. That they had done this before was obvious, yet couldn’t take aught from the beauty of their agile movements—movements that could kill with one misstep.
Then, in an instant, it was over.
The duellists bowed graciously, one to the other, and when Morag would have expected the crush of folk to crowd forward, the pipers once more puffed till the bags under their arms swelled and the drones waved above their heads, the ribbons on them wafting upwards, flying in the updraught of heat from the fires. The sound twisted higher and higher, floating in amongst the smoke.
Iseabal grabbed her hand. “This will be grand. Though I’ve never seen them dance, I have heard Euan and Graeme are among the best around.”
There it was again, the mention of dance.
Wolfsdale men were renowned for horse riding and fighting. While the border swung back and forth between Scotland and England, never a word was spoken about dancing.
As she watched, both men threw the length of plaid over their shoulders, looping it diagonally across their chest, securing it with the pin so the fringed tail hung free. That done, both dancers were passed the pair of swords they had already used to demonstrate the art of swordplay.
“They say,” said Iseabal, “a lot of the skill is in the legs, they need to be strong.” The pipers started up again, almost drowning Iseabal’s words and, as if on a signal, the crush of folks began to clap in time, some piercing the air with long howls of encouragement, “Eeaauuch!” Their calls filled the night.
The dancers stood, swords crossed before their faces and bowed from the waist. They smiled, one to the other, Euan’s wide confident, challenging, while Graeme’s mouth lifted at one side, as if to say, ‘I’ll win.’ Of course Graeme was out to impress his beloved.
Bending at the waist, both men, in truth warriors, laid the crossed swords at their feet then began to dance.
Four equal quarters framed in steel, lethal edges to slice through toes, for neither man wore shoes. Their feet danced a pattern in each square and then leapt high to land in another square, another pattern another leap, higher, faster. The piper’s nimble fingers sped over the chanter, controlling the dance, controlling the warriors.
Flames gleamed off skin gilded by sweat and reflected firelight. Glorious.
As the warriors leapt, so too did the flames, like an echo of skill and courage.
Morag’s heart pounded in her chest.
She watched Euan and her heart said mine, yet her head knew better. It made no matter. Just looking at him, all bared chest, glowing gold in the firelight, muscled arms held overhead, legs springing high, pushed by the liveliness of strong feet. Morag wanted to touch it all, to run her palms over all that bare skin, and more. The mere thought of turning her notions into reality made her breasts peak. Tender already, they hurt where they skimmed the inside of her shift. Ach aye, he was a man made for loving as well as fighting. She’d forever been aware of his effect on her.
Beneath the layers of clothing she wore—plaid, kirtle and shift—between her thighs, she felt her juices flow with wanting, and the more she watched, the wetter she became. Wet and ready, but only for Euan, the one she loved. The one man she could never call her own.
The dance continued, a swirl of light and colour, with no man willing to concede. Iseabal’s hand tightened on her own, tension held them both immobilised, their only reality the men they loved. Euan leapt in a turn, and as he landed, caught her eye. What did he see in their faces? Hunger for her man in hers, fear for her man in Iseabal’s?”
Was it her imagination that Euan took in every particle of that information in the blink of an eye?
On the next leap, he seemed to hover, remain suspended until his ankle gave way as he landed, leaving Graeme the winner.
Euan had lost, and she loved him all the more for it.
Shouts went up from the crowd and bonnets rode on the air. The duel had ended. Graeme came over, with a nod bade a housecarl to gather up their swords, then flung his arms around Euan in a bear hug. They were both big men, but like brothers, nothing aberrant in their eyes, as when her brother and Kalem hugged.
She hated herself, hated Doughall with a loathing so pure that he could creep into her mind at a time like this and take the sheen off the comradeship she saw before her eyes. Men who would die for one another—not kill for one another, as it was with her brother and the Moor.
But her brother had gotten what he wanted, become baron in her father’s seat, by killing him—allowing his catamite to do the deed—and had thus proved he would never be half the man the Wolf had been. And death would likewise be her and Rob’s fate if Doughall ever caught up with them.
Perhaps it was a guid thing that Rob learn to fight from the best there was—his father—a man who could lose with grace if losing meant enhancing his cousin’s stature in the eyes of the woman he loved.
Amongst the men gathering around the dancers, there was much slapping of backs and shaking of hands until Graeme broke away to find Iseabal and Euan followed. She didn’t ken what the betrothal customs in this part of Scotland were, but Colin Ruthven made no move to object when Graeme took Iseabal’s face between his big hands and kissed her hard on the mouth.
When Graeme lifted his head, a cheer went up; and Iseabal’s eyes, when she looked up at her betrothed, were starry. It was a guid night. And about to get better, for when Morag turned, Euan stood in front of her. The sweat she could smell on his body wasn’t distasteful, but honourable, honest and hard won.
A fever burned behind his brown eyes, flickered higher as she returned his gaze and realised he burned for her, kindled a flame her unhappy thoughts had doused, until it burned brighter than ever. Euan…
Silently, she said his name, tumbled it over and over in her mind until naught else could enter, naught else could fill it but Euan.
As if he could read her thoughts, his palm cupped her cheek. There was no hard kiss such as Iseabal received from Graeme, but at that moment, it was enough—a communication of minds and a look in his gaze that made her wonder if he remembered. Christ’s wine, how she wished he remembered.
In an instant, the mood changed. He was the McArthur, and though Graeme had won the duel, Euan was still Chieftain.
His palm slid from her face, down to grip her waist, and before she had time to squeal, Euan had her over his shoulder and her ears were ringing with the war cry of a McArthur as he strode across the bailey and into the keep without losing a stride from her extra weight.
Behind them echoes of his cry pealed off the granite walls and into McArthur legend.
Blood roared in his head, raced through his veins, pounded at his temples. Though she had begun hitting his back with tight little fists, Euan didn’t break his stride. He carried Morag up the winding stone staircase and through the solar, the bedchamber his destination.
Every thing that had happened tonight, the celebration, the feast, the sword dance, Graeme’s betrothal—Christ’s wine how he envied him that—had all been leading to this moment: him and Morag and the rest of the night.
Never once in all of his marriages had he looked forward to a night as he did this one.
His father had a saying that a man must make the best of whatever was served up to him. Morag hadn’t been placed before him on a trencher, no she had arrived in his life when he needed her. And though some might say what he really needed was a son, and that Morag was barren, he shoved yon kind of notions aside so he wouldn’t drive himself daft.
As if he weren’t already crazy enough with lust for her.
There was no wee Fool to step over in the doorway, no one to hear them. Like the stags that lived in the forest at the top of the brae, he wanted to roar.
He tumbled her off his shoulder onto the bed. It was still light enough to see her dark hair fan out as she fell onto the bed, still fully dressed. He didn’t care; he couldn’t wait long enough to strip her, to strip himself.
He slid his big hands under her kirtle and shift, up the smooth length of her thighs, dragging her clothes with him until she was naked to the waist and he’d spread her legs wide enough to fit between them. On his knees, so ready that if he didn’t take her now, one look from her could make him shame himself like an untried youth, trembling and anxious before his first fuck.
Still, he hesitated, searched out the entrance to her body with unsteady fingers. “No, take me now, fill me all up, I’m ready for you. I have been since watching you dance.”
He took her at her word and, leaning forward, thrusting into her damp heat, filling her in one long stroke. All the time she kept speaking, “You were wonderful … set my heart pounding to see your strength … your majesty, for I know you made sure Graeme won…”
Morag quietened as he began to move, her words dissolving into sighs, sighs deepening into moans and, through it all he kept stroking, flexing his hips, moving within her. Reaching for the heights and willing Morag to reach them with him, he could see the crest ahead of him. The pleasure was so great that part of him wanted to slow down, never let it end, but not Morag. Her hands were in his hair, pulling his mouth down to hers, locking her lips against his and filling his mouth with her screams the way he filled her body as the end came … too soon … too soon.
Each breath Morag took scraped the lining of her throat. She didn’t care. She lay under Euan, chest heaving, he’d taken her to heaven, yet she was disappointed because she couldn’t feel his skin against hers. She felt trapped in her own clothes, bereft without his hands, his mouth on her.
His weight was pressing down on her, and she was certain he was ready to sleep after his exertions, both in bed and in the dance. So to waken him up, she said, “What I was trying to say earlier was, you’re a guid man, Euan McArthur, but if you don’t get off me and let me undress, I’ll … I’ll get so angry you’ll send me away.”
There wasn’t enough light in the bedchamber to see his face, yet as his body loomed up over her, she felt his smile reach out and caress her. “I would never send you away,” he chuckled. His voice, low and gruff made her skin tingle. “Trust me, I would never,” he assured her, while his hands worked to remove her kirtle.
Then something occurred to her and she gave voice to it, “Less than two days ago you were threatening to send me and Rob away if you didn’t get your own way.”
“But I did get it. Rob has become one of my squires and solved a problem for me, but the choice to go or stay was aye yours. However, next time perhaps I’ll only threaten to send your wee brother away from Cragenlaw, for I never saw a sister so concerned for his welfare.”
No matter what he said, she couldn’t get the notion out of her mind that he might yet cast them off when he discovered the truth she had hidden from him. There was no getting away from the fact that Rob was born out of wedlock. Should the curse be broken and Euan’s next wife give him a son, Rob would still be a bastard, and still, as Doughall considered him, a threat.
Her kirtle and shift popped off her head before she could respond and her words swallowed up by the feel of his hands on her breasts as she flung herself at him. “Forget about that, just hold me. Wrap me up in your body and let me sleep there through the night.”
“Your pleasure is my pleasure,” he answered and did as she had requested. At last she could sleep at ease with the knowledge he was there by her side, for now.
He held her tight in his arms, unwilling to let go. No one knew better than he what a pretty pass his life had come to, letting the rod between his thighs rule his future. It no longer rested there. He ha
d only to think of what he could to Morag with it for his erection to sit up and beg like the dog she probably thought him.
No matter that she dozed, eyes shut, regaining her strength, Euan rolled on to his back till her body covered him, Morag sleepily murmuring, “So soon?” as he smoothed a hand down her spine.
He lifted one of her wrists to place a lingering kiss on her palm, making good use of his tongue to send her wriggling against him … which ended with him placing that same dampened palm atop his hard length, and an added measure of squirming on his part as her fingers closed around him. “Morag, mho creagh, it’s missed you were last time I went away. Perhaps, we should make guid use of the time we have now before I leave again.”
Again, the words, “So soon?” slipped from her lips but, no longer sleepy, she asked, “When do you leave?” sounding wide awake.
“Within the week. There are a lot of matters needing attention before I go. There’s a ship to be readied, men to be picked to accompany me, supplies to put on board…”
“All that can be done in two or three days. When are you actually leaving?”
He heard uncertainty quiver in her words and the unspoken part of her question, leaving me, and aimed to reassure her. “Whist now. The sooner I leave the sooner I’ll return.”
Considering their previous conversation, Euan felt extremely reluctant to resort to more threats. As clan chieftain, he liked to think he was hard but fair. Morag was in his bed at his behest. Forget that no other lassie would lie with him, he’d told Morag in the beginning, become my leman, or go, and if it came down to her will or his, he would have his way.
Had he made a mistake, was Morag becoming overly attached to him? Euan glanced down at her face and, seeing what he feared in her expression, he cajoled, “Come now, lass, let us forget my leaving and concentrate on the loving. Would you have me leave Cragenlaw with a sour taste on my tongue?”
The Chieftain's Curse Page 19