by Amy Jarecki
Mara ran her hand over her somewhat flat belly, and Anne beamed. “Are you?”
Mara’s face glowed with a healthy pink sheen. “With child. Aye.”
“Oh, my goodness, I’m so happy for you. When will the babe come?”
“Near Christmas. Me thinks I conceived the night Calum brought ye to Brochel.”
Chapter Thirty
Calum used the friar’s salve and wrapped his wounds before he slipped out of the chamber at dawn. No matter how much he wanted to, he could not lay abed all morning when there was so much work to be done. He knew the battle from the night before had not passed without losses. He must lead the effort to bury the dead.
Alone, he made it to the beach and stood with his hands on his hips. Most of the dead strewn across the stones were English, though the lead shepherd, Gordon MacLeod, lay nearest his feet. Calum gritted his teeth and forced back his tears. He would show the stoic face of a warrior this day. He bent down and lifted his clansman into his arms and carried him to higher ground where the beach met grass—where they buried their dead. He knelt down and lowered his friend’s body gently, ever so careful to cradle Gordon’s head.
Calum closed Gordon’s sightless eyes. He prayed for his friend’s soul that it would be delivered into the hands of God and this fearless warrior would be accepted through the gates of Heaven and exalted for his bravery. Calum prayed for his clan, for a quick recovery, and gave thanks for those who’d come to his aid. Finally, he thanked God for Anne’s safe return, and prayed for forgiveness that his love for her ran so deeply. A laird should keep himself above such heartfelt emotions, but Anne owned his mind, body and soul. She embodied his need for food, shelter, even his need to breathe the sweet air of Raasay.
When Calum raised his head, his guard had filed onto the beach. In silence they cleaned the carnage, just as they had after other battles, just as their forefathers had done before them. Then the wives came and their cries of agony sent chilled knives of remorse across Calum’s skin as he dug graves beside his men.
Friar Pat led a line of women down the hill. At first he didn’t recognize his Anne, but the golden blonde hair fluttering in the wind, made Calum’s heart skip a beat. She wore a blue kirtle over her shift—the dress of the women of Raasay. Anne carried a wooden bucket and ladle and Mara held a basket. Each woman carried something—baskets of food, shovels, peat, oils—all things they would need to finish the day’s work.
Anne stopped at each man and offered a drink, silently. No one spoke. They honored the dead. Anne stopped at Calum with her eyes lowered and offered him a ladle. His fingers brushed hers when he accepted it, and a flush spread across her cheeks. He wanted to pull her into his arms, but this was not the time. They had to care for the fallen first. Her eyes met his and her tears glistened in the sunlight. Calum wiped his mouth on his sleeve and handed her back the ladle with a nod of thanks. Anne bowed and continued on. Calum watched her. The kirtle hugged her body like a glove. Her hair hung loose down her back and swayed across her shapely bottom as she moved. Calum would speak to the friar when their work was done.
It was late afternoon when the beach was clean and the dead buried. Calum stood beside Anne as the friar chanted the funeral mass. When it was over, silence encapsulated them. The only sound was the rush of waves sliding on and off the beach—just as they had since the beginning of time. In silence, Friar Pat led the procession up the hill. They would mourn until the sun set, and then they would feast and celebrate their victory.
***
After the funeral, Anne needed time to gather her thoughts. She walked through the castle gardens, every step propelling her forward, yet the weight of two stones pressed down upon her shoulders. The terror of the battle, the intoxicating fervor of last night spent in Calum’s arms, and now her heart weighed heavy in her chest with the ever familiar musket hole.
Had she done the right thing? Thomas Wharton proved to be a greater tyrant than she’d imagined. Thank heavens, now that he was dead, no ill could pass to her family.
This is where God intended her to be. Calum loved her. She wanted to be with him. Forever.
Anne stopped when she came to Swan’s mews. For some reason she didn’t expect the bird to be there, but he hopped onto a limb near the door. He still had jesses tied to his legs. She pulled the long falconer’s gloves from the peg, and slipped them on. Reaching in, she sang her lullaby.
She grasped the short strap and Swan jumped onto her outstretched arm. The bird pecked her gloved fingers. Anne found his food in a barrel beside the cage and offered him a treat. Snatching it with his beak, he ate greedily. Anne sang, cooing to him.
The bird had now grown the full plumage of a young golden eagle, his tail and wings tipped with white. He stretched his wings and Anne marveled at the enormous span. “You are magnificent.”
“I thought I would find ye here.” Calum smiled, stretching the dark circles under his eyes.
“You’re tired.”
“I’ll sleep tonight.” Calum looked at the bird. “He’s missed ye.”
“I’m surprised he recognized me so quickly. I’ve been gone nearly a month.”
“And I never want to see ye leave again.” Calum opened the cage door and she placed Swan inside. The laird stood still and watched the bird for a moment.
When Calum turned, he grasped Anne’s hands to his chest and knelt. “Lady Anne, I haven’t much to offer ye, but me sword and a crumbling keep. I love ye more than life itself. I love ye more than the air I breathe, and I cannot live without ye. Would…would ye be me wife?”
Anne’s insides fluttered as if tickled by the feathers of a golden eagle. Calum knelt before her, with his broad shoulders and his auburn hair streaked copper in the sun. He had forgiven her, and now he opened his life to her. She wanted nothing more. “Yes.” She pulled him into her arms. “Yes. I would have it no other way. I will marry you, Calum MacLeod.”
Calum squeezed her until the air whooshed from her lungs. “Thank God. I dunna ken what I would have done if ye’d said no.”
“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t asked.”
“Should I send word to yer mother?”
Anne stood back. That was a sobering thought. “If you do, we may be facing a whole fleet of English ships.”
“That would be no, then.”
“Correct. No. At least not for some time. Possibly the word should come from me—perhaps when our first child is born.”
“Child?” Calum pressed his lips against her forehead. “That would be yet another miracle.” He grasped her hand. “Let us go see the friar.”
***
Anne wore her Scottish kirtle to the feast and took her seat beside her betrothed. Ruairi sat to Calum’s right and Rorie on Anne’s left. Dougal MacKenzie also sat at the laird’s table beside Norman and Friar Pat.
The smell of roasted meat wafted through the great hall and trenchers laden with food lined the tables. Calum stood and raised his tankard. “The sun has set, our dead have been mourned, ’tis now time to celebrate our victory.”
The hall echoed with a resounding, “Here, here!”
“I toast me brother, Ruairi, and me new friend, Rorie Douglas, and his guard who brought Lady Anne back to me—back to us. And to my close friend, Dougal MacKenzie, for taking up our fight and standing beside us to beat down the English!” Calum’s voice rose when he spoke the final word. Everyone stood and raised their tankards with a boisterous roar.
Calum held his hands out, asking for silence. “I have one last toast.” He turned to Lady Anne and held up his tankard. “To the woman who is known to us all, who brought organization to our keep, whose smile warms our hearts. To the woman who agreed to be me wife. Lady Anne.”
The hall erupted in a shout of praise and congratulations as people clapped and pounded the hilts of their dirks on the tables.
“Feast me friends and share in our success.”
Anne wrapped her hands around Calum’s arm and whispered in his ear,
“And here’s to you, the strongest sword—a man who pulled me from the depths of the sea and took me soaring to heaven all in one night.”
Calum gave her a wicked grin and waggled his eyebrows with a promise of things to come.
When their bellies were full, the piper and the fiddler climbed up on the dais. Bran was the first to Anne’s table. “Will ye dance with me, Lady Anne?”
Anne shot an apologetic glance at Calum, but he gestured to the floor. “After him I’ll be next.”
Bran had heeded his lessons and spun Anne around the dance floor with practiced precision, and she threw her head back and laughed. Calum tapped him on the shoulder, and held her hands in anticipation of a reel. No one else existed as they danced the steps, but Anne was tired, as were the others. The hall emptied early.
Calum looked over her shoulder and tugged her hand. “Come. They’ll not miss us.”
Anne could hardly breathe as she followed.
Inside the laird’s chamber, her weariness fled. Calum bent down and kissed her neck as Anne attacked Calum’s clothing. How much easier things were to remove when their clothing was dry. They stood naked in front of the hearth and Anne explored every inch of his glorious body with fluttering kisses. She had him turn and paused while she examined his scarred back. She blew cool air on his skin traced her fingers over the pink scars. “Does this hurt?”
“With yer hands on me, nothing could hurt.”
His manhood stood proud from its copper curls. He took her hand and led her to the bed. She watched the pleasure in his eyes as she ran her fingers along the length of him. He reached down and brushed his fingers over her sex. “Are ye sore?”
“With you, I could never be too sore.”
A husky chuckle rumbled from his throat and he lay her down. He took his time and showered her body with kisses until Anne could take no more. “I want to feel you in me.”
He rolled to the side and stroked his member. “Ye want me to pleasure ye with this?”
“Aye.” Anne giggled at her use of the Scottish word.
He pushed her thighs apart and covered her. The heat in Anne’s loins rose so fast, she could not wait. She reached for his manhood and guided it inside, watching his eyes. They glazed and his body tensed. With a gush of air, his hips rocked. Anne latched on to his buttocks and rode their wave of ecstasy until her release burst and shuddered around him.
Three more deep thrusts and Calum cried out, his body quivering while his seed sewed inside her womb. He rested with his head on her chest and she ran her fingers through his thick hair. Calum closed his eyes and his breathing slowed. In sleep, he looked as peaceful and serene. Anne spooned her body against his and let sleep come as she floated on a cloud of happiness.
Chapter Thirty-one
Two weeks later
Mara helped Anne into her favorite dress of golden silk. She imagined this would be the last time she would wear a gown this fancy. But it was her wedding day. She wanted to look beautiful for Calum and wanted him to rake his eyes across her body with the same hungry desire that had practically stripped her naked at the Beltane Festival.
Anne sat before the mirror and Mara twisted her locks into a work of art with curls cascading down her back. Mara lifted the silk wimple and veil and settled it in place. “Ye look like an angel sent from heaven, milady.”
“I could have never done it without you.”
Mara gave her a hug and secured the headpiece. “I think you’re ready.”
“Is it time?”
“Me thinks they’re all waiting on you.”
With a sigh, Anne regarded herself in the mirror one last time and held her hand out to Mara. “Walk with me.”
Rorie Douglas stood at the bottom of the steps. “Ye look like a vision.” He chuckled. “I never would have thought the guttersnipe in a snug pair of trews could turn herself into a queen.”
“Not a queen. The wife of a laird.”
“And a former baroness.”
Anne’s gaze shot to his and her mouth fell open. Someone must have told him.
He shrugged. “’Tis all right. I would have wanted him dead if I were married to that bastard.”
“How did you find out?”
“Ruairi and Norman filled Dougal and me in on the details.” He offered her the crook of his arm. “We’ve a wedding to go to, milady.”
“I prefer it when you call me lass.”
“Aye, but ye are highborn, and the people of Raasay will respect ye more if they ken you’re good enough for their laird.”
He led her around the courtyard and to the garden, alive with summer blooms. The MacLeods in their red tartans opened a path for Anne and her eyes trailed up to the trellis. The most beautiful form she had ever seen waited beside Friar Pat. Calum wore his hair tied back with a red bow, and it shone with copper streaks in the sunlight. Turning to face her, he looked every bit the powerful laird, wearing his finest ruffled linen shirt, with his plaid draped across his left shoulder. His kilt rested upon his hips with a badger-hair sporran hanging from a fine chain. Held up by black flashes, his hose emphasized his powerful calves.
Anne could see nothing but the man with whom she would happily spend the rest of her days. It seemed as if she floated down an isle of roses. Rorie kissed her hand and placed it in Calum’s. Their eyes locked and they became one body, man and wife, before the clan, and in the eyes of God. Together they would bear children and watch them grow healthy and strong, breathing northern island air. She had no doubt, together they would grow old.
Anne scarcely heard Friar Pat’s prayers. Calum’s crystal blue eyes shimmered and stared at her with the hunger she loved to see. He spoke his vows, and somehow she uttered hers. When Friar Pat pronounced them man and wife, Calum shuttered his eyes with his long lashes and kissed her—an impassioned joining of lips that staked his claim forever. This truly was the happiest day of her life.
THE END
Excerpt from Amy’s Next Release:
The Highland Henchman
~Book Two: The Highland Force Series~
Coming April 28, 2014, by Amy Jarecki
Chapter One
Scotland. The Firth of Clyde ~ 1 April, 1568
The activity on the deck stilled when the ship turned east and entered the Firth of Clyde. All eyes cast to the inlet. Entering Lowland waters always bore a risk.
His golden eagle perched on his shoulder, Bran scanned the waterway with the bronze spyglass. “Ruairi’s galley sails ahead.” He strained to identify pennants on the ships beyond. “MacNeil of Barra and MacLeod of Harris as well.”
Laird Calum MacLeod grasped the ship’s rail beside him. “Do ye see the MacDonald pennant?”
To allay all doubt, Bran surveyed the Firth waters one more time. “Nay.”
“Cannons stand down,” Calum bellowed and circled his hand above his head. “Continue on, Master John.”
Bran turned and leaned his backside against the galleon’s hull. “I never considered I’d become a knight.”
Calum smooth his hand over the eagle’s brown feathers. “A Highland henchman needs a title to garner respect in the Lowlands.”
Knighted by the Highland Chieftain only a few hours ago, some might view the honor as contrived, but Bran’s chest swelled. He owed his life to Calum. With his father dead, the clan had considered Bran an outcast, until he turned twelve and the laird took him under his wing. Now one and twenty, Bran’s dedication to the clan had been rewarded.
Griffon’s claws clamped into Bran’s shoulder harness as the eagle stretched his back. Bran chuckled. “I aim to win the tournament and show all the might of Raasay.”
Calum’s weatherworn hands grasped the rail beside him. “That’s what I like to hear. I didna train ye to be me henchman for naught.”
“How many contestants do ye think there’ll be?”
“We’ll find out soon enough. Lord Ross invited all the Hebridean clans. I’m sure there’ll be quite a gathering.”
“Why do y
e think he’s holding the tournament?” Bran slipped a piece of bully beef into Griffon’s beak. “Lowlanders hate Highlanders.”
The salty wind picked up and Calum tugged his feathered bonnet lower on his brow. “Me guess is he’s up to something.”
“Then why’d we come?”
“And miss a chance to gain respect for me clan?” Calum shook his head. “Never. Besides, Lord Ross would have anarchy on his hands if he lifted a blade against us. He wants something, mark me.”
“Are ye inclined to give it—ye ken, what he wants?”
“Have I taught ye nothing since yer father passed? Ye never give something for naught, lad.”
“I’d consider no less. Ye have me sword, on that there will nay be a question.”
The ruddy chieftain leaned in, his warm breath skimming Bran’s cheek. “Stay close. Keep yer eyes open. The tournament will be over soon enough and we’ll be back in Raasay with Anne and the boys.”
“Weigh anchor,” shouted John Urquhart, Calum’s quartermaster and right-hand man. With John on Calum’s right, Bran now occupied the left—a fearsome trio they made.
Bran counted the galleys moored at the estuary of the River Clyde which flowed into the firth from the town of Glasgow—six boats, all laden with cannon, but none as impressive as Calum’s Golden Sun. With eighteen guns, the galleon and crew would lie in wait should any skullduggery arise.
Once the skiff had been lowered, Bran stood behind his laird with Griffon perched on his shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around the basket-weave pattern of his hilt, scanning the sea and shore for suspicious activity. Instructions were to gather with Sir George Maxwell at Newark. Horses would be provided for the short ride to Halkhead House in Renfrewshire.
Bran didn’t like it. Though every Hebride chief was accompanied by his henchman, they were leaving their greatest weapons behind. The Golden Sun’s cannons would be of no use ten miles inland.