She laughed but he did not. His face had taken on a feral look, his features taut with lust and need. Kat felt her pulse beat in every nerve of her being. He caught her arms and gently pushed her to her back, standing above her now, gazing at her naked body. He nudged her thighs open with his hair-roughened leg.
His eyes were hooded, full of blazing desire, his square jaw rough with the shadow of dark whiskers. The firelight threw golden shadows over his battle-hardened body.
His eyes roved over her body and then his mouth was on her breast, teasing and hot. He lifted his head and his eyes took their fill of her sweet, pink flesh, the softness of her inner thighs, how wet she was for him. He groaned and moved lower.
“What do ye?” she said.
His hot mouth pressed between her legs, tasting her most intimate part, his lips licking her pulsing core, his teeth nipping her tiny bud. She could not speak for the sensations his tongue and lips were creating. She cried out in passion.
Conall was so hard for her he ached to slam himself inside her. Again and again. He wanted to get lost in her sweet, hot release and he feared if he waited much longer he wouldn’t be able to control his passion.
He kissed her. “Taste yerself on my lips.”
Kat was mindless with need now, grinding against him, her back lifted. Her blood was afire. She was open to him, aching, wanting, needing. Her body, not her mind, was in control now, her hips arching in primitive lust.
He positioned his shaft at the entrance to her core, her taste on his lips making him wild. He could stand it no longer. With a swift move, he entered her.
Kat registered the pain but the frenzy of heat continued to build in her body, just as he’d said it would. She felt only his fullness now.
She was done fighting. She was done denying.
He covered her mouth with his, his lips leading and hotly persuasive. She felt she’d been waiting all her life to be kissed the way he kissed her. He moved slowly, thrusting deeply in and out.
“Are ye….”
All thoughts that he was a Maclean faded from her mind; all thoughts she was a MacDonald drifted away as leaves on the brisk autumn wind. “I…I want to take ye deeper….”
He plunged inside her wildly then, his hands caressing her full breasts, his mouth on her face, on her hardened nipples, sucking, then on her neck and shoulders as he took his fill of her. The heat blazed inside Kat as she watched where they were joined, watched him taking her, and spiraled ever higher. A shuddering wave overtook her body in sweet spasm. As her flesh convulsed around his shaft, Conall cried out and released his hot seed within her.
When their hearts had thundered back to normal, she fell asleep, her head nestled in the crook of his arm, his big hand tangled in her hair. It was a long time before Conall slept. He’d never felt such intense passion with a woman before. Yet he feared she would resent him despite the pleasure she’d felt, despite having given herself freely to him. She was stubborn and now there was no way to undo their union. She might decide she would never forgive the Macleans for the death of her brothers. Truthfully, he didn’t expect her to.
He pulled her more tightly into his embrace, studying her lovely face as she slept. He had this moment at least. He studied her lovely features in the half light and half shadow of the fire in the hearth. He laced his fingers through hers, not wanting the dawn to creep too quickly over the jagged horizon. Indeed, he feared this all might have been a dream—the oaths that were made for them, that called to them both. The oaths they’d made with their bodies.
For certain, their story, their meeting on a battlefield, was one they could tell their children, one that could be told down through the ages. He realized with a jolt that he did want children with Beitris. He looked forward to making a child with his wife, when the snow drifts outside the castle walls would be shoulder-high and the air brittle with icy winds sweeping down from the mountains. They would need to keep warm in the long white hours, when the world was pale and still and it seemed as if the sun would never reappear.
Chapter 17
Beitris didn’t say much as she rode with Conall to the small village cemetery to visit her brother Ragnar’s grave. She hadn’t said much at all after awaking, washing, and dressing. And Conall hadn’t pressed her to talk.
The first snow of the season had started to fall, but it wasn’t coating the ground. Conall tied the horse to a gnarled tree near the cemetery and gave her some privacy while she knelt by Ragnar’s grave. The wind blew Beitris’ hair back from her face and he was struck by the sorrow he saw there, wishing he could erase it from her lovely features but knowing he never could. Feeling helpless, he turned and went inside the small, empty church.
He did not fear Beitris would run from him again; they were bound now as husband and wife. The clan had proof of their union. At least, he hoped she wouldn’t be that foolish.
He stood by a window, watching as her small form was wracked with sobs. Silently he prayed for forgiveness, for some sort of affection from her. He knew he probably asked too much for she saw him as a monster. Yet, the way she had responded to his touch in their bed could not be denied.
Beitris rose and headed toward the church. He waited for her to join him by the window.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. He wiped them away but she would not look at him. She stared out the window. His gaze followed hers as outside, an old woman entered the graveyard and placed flowers on Ragnar’s grave. She turned wide, blue eyes to Conall. “Who is that woman?”
The woman turned, as if she sensed being watched, and Kat saw she had a scarred face.
“Her name is Fonia. She was bitten by a horse when she was young and that’s why her face is marked. She was banished from our clan years ago.”
“Why? And why does she place flowers on my brother’s grave?”
“When she was newly married, she claimed to have made a love potion to arouse her husband’s passions, but instead she poisoned him and he died. She always puts flowers on the graves.”
“She is the outcast ye spoke of before.”
“Aye.”
Kat continued to study the woman whose cheeks were sunken with age and whose dark eyes were filled with sorrow. “She’s been alone since she was banished, all this time, all those years?”
“Yea, ‘tis sad. Fonia visits the dead often. None of the villagers will speak to her. They believe she is a murderess. She spoke to me once, as a lad.”
“What did she say?”
He frowned. “I had given her an apple because she was hungry. She looked at me and said, ‘I thank ye for the apple, lad. But when ye grow to be a man, dunna give things away so easily. And never give yer heart to anyone. The only thing that will ne’er betray ye is the fierce Scottish wind and the rain in Scotland, for it is steadfast.’”
“How sad. Do ye believe she’s a murderess?”
“I was a child then. I dunna remember much about it.” Conall wanted to put his arms around his new wife, for he knew she’d been alone in the world for far too long, but he didn’t want to risk her pulling away from him. Passion had forged a tentative acceptance and he knew it was fragile. “But I dunna think she is a murderess. She’s visited her husband’s grave all these years and tended it. Those are not the actions of someone devious, for every time she does it, she risks scorn, ridicule, and shame.”
Fonia moved to a gravestone carved with a floriated cross. She used a cane to help her walk. She moved her mouth as if speaking to the inhabitant of the grave.
“Maybe she really did love her husband,” Kat said. “Maybe it was an honest mistake.”
Conall studied Fonia as if he were seeing her anew. He’d seen her at times, as if she floated on the fringe of things and was not really there. When he’d given her an apple and spoken to her as a lad his grandfather had scolded him and told him never to speak to her again, for she might give them the evil eye and curse them all. The woman had smiled at him and gone back to wherever it was she lived, he assumed in a
cave. How had she kept warm and fed all these years?
She’d been a young woman then, with a scarred face, and very much in love with her new husband, who was not faithful to her. Her husband fell in love with a younger, more beautiful lass. The whole village knew of it. But there was much more to the story.
“Fonia was a vera skilled mid-wife. A young woman with a marred face who delivered beautiful babies for other women while she herself couldna have any.”
“How terrible for her, to want something so much and ken she would never wrap her arms around her own babe to hold it or sing to it.”
“Aye. ‘Tis vera sad. One day she went to help a villager deliver a child. The woman was the most beautiful woman in the village but no one else would help her because she was not married and had not revealed the father’s name. She had an older child, a lad, and his father had also never been revealed. No one but Fonia would help her.
“‘Twas a difficult birth. Had Fonia not been there, the lass and the babe would likely have perished. When Fonia looked down at the proud mother holding the healthy, bawling son on her chest and smiling, she knew right away whose son it was. Her husband had been careless and she’d also spied his favorite pipe by the woman’s hearth. Her heart broke a thousand times that day. And the next and the next.”
Kat shivered. “Conall,” she said, and he liked the sound of his name on her lips, “she has paid for the horrible deed many times over. What if all this time she has been innocent? Indeed, her own thoughts and feelings are a constant punishment. Imagine the raw pain and betrayal she felt when she realized she’d delivered her husband’s child.”
Battles fought and yet to come, he thought, and a life nearly over. Life in the Highlands was harsh and often short. Indeed, what if all this time the woman had been innocent? He thought of his own father, condemned as a male witch by the lies of a fearful king. His father, who had been unfairly judged and condemned to death, had found a way to escape, to live again. But it hadn’t been easy; his father had always to look over his shoulder for a witch hunter or some other lunatic who feared him and his reputation.
For the first time since he’d been a lad, Conall felt a true touch of magic as he looked at his wife.
Together, they watched Fonia hobble from the graveyard and disappear down a slight hill. How quickly our lives flash by and disappear, he thought. He felt compassion for Fonia, much as he had when he was a lad. He’d been foolish to think an apple could make her happy, but it was the hope and innocence of a child he’d had then. Still, he’d learned over the years how important small kindnesses were.
Now that he was a man, perhaps he could do something to right a long-ago wrong. He would talk to his father Malcolm.
Chapter 18
It was late morning when they returned to the great hall.
Kat sat by Conall’s side as he and his father dealt with the concerns of the clan and the villagers. Men and women, one by one, approached the main table to speak with Malcolm and his son.
Kat was impressed with the way Malcolm and Conall handled their concerns and with their genuine interest in helping both clan members and villagers alike. Angus MacDonald could never be bothered to do so.
She watched Conall, trying not to think of his hands and his lips on her body and the way he’d felt inside her, but she failed. She spotted Andrina by the great hearth, sweeping the rushes, and joined her. Kat was not unaware of Conall’s eyes resting on her.
“This is how ye do it,” Andrina said, startling her. “I remembered. Then ye dunna have to be afraid.” She poked at a spider on the wall with her broom and it fell to the floor. She stomped on it with her good leg.
Surprised, Kat felt a glimmer of hope, for Andrina had spoken for the first time in months! But the hope quickly vanished as the woman spotted Martainn entering the hall from the courtyard. Like a spider, she crawled off, still afraid of the man she loved.
Martainn, who hadn’t seen Andrina, looked over his shoulder and smirked at Kat as he approached the main table. “Conall, we’ve captured an interesting foe,” he said. He raised his voice so all stopped to listen—clansmen and villagers alike—as two men dragged a filthy prisoner in to the hall. The prisoner’s clothing was ragged and his boots muddied. He was on his knees with his dark head bowed; his hair was matted and filthy. When he raised his head, blue eyes stared out from a mud-spattered face and met Kat’s. She jumped up from the bench.
“Katarina!” he cried. With some difficulty, the prisoner stood. “My Kat! What do ye here?”
She moved toward him but Martainn blocked her way. “Do ye ken this man and do ye ken him well?” Martainn said.
Conall had come around the table to stand by the hearth, fury in his eyes. “Katarina?” Conall said. “Yer true name, wife?”
“I wonder how many lies yer new wife has told ye, Conall. And how many ye’ve believed. We should have left her on that cliff.”
It was as if Conall hadn’t heard Martainn. “Is it true, Kat? Do ye ken this man?”
Kat nodded, trying not to tremble. Conall’s voice was arrogant and she’d never been more aware of his height. His legs were braced apart and his eyes blazing. He looked both strong and cruel.
“What is his name, wife?” Conall demanded. He stood still, looking at her harshly. His face was different; gone was the tenderness and reverence she’d seen in it last night. Conall’s dark brows frowned above his hazel eyes. Kat thought, illogically, his eyes had no right to be so startlingly hazel-gold in such a dark face.
“Wife?” the prisoner rasped. “Yer his wife?”
“Oh aye,” Conall said. “In spirit and body.”
“I renounce Angus Og MacDonald,” the prisoner said. “I pledge my fealty and my life to the Maclean clan.”
There were gasps and whispers across the room.
“I’ve always hated the name Beitris, Conall. No one has used it since I was a wee lass. I was going to tell ye my true name. I was waiting for the right time….”
Conall put his hand up. “No more lies, Beitris. Katarina. Kat. Whoever ye are.”
Martainn glared at her. “Conall, what shall we do with Kat’s lover? I can think of all manner of nasty ways to torture him.”
The prisoner had the audacity to laugh.
Conall knew in intimate detail his new wife had been a virgin until he took her in his bed, so this man could not be her lover. Still, he did not know who this man was. Perhaps his new wife had once had strong feelings for this man. Perhaps she still did.
“Do ye love this man?” Conall asked.
“Yea,” she said quietly, without hesitation.
Conall looked like he might explode. A muscle in his jaw twitched and he clenched a fist at his side. But he said nothing.
“Conall, his name is Lorcan. I love him because…he is my brother.”
The look on Conall’s face changed in an instant. The room was silent. All waited for Conall to speak.
“Shall we remove Lorcan MacDonald to the dungeons?” Martainn said.
Belatedly, Kat realized someone was tugging on the sleeve of her dress. It was Andrina. Andrina shook her head wildly as she looked at Martainn. She grasped Kat’s fingers in her own.
“Martainn,” she said, her voice a raspy whisper, “Please, dunna hurt Kat’s brother. Many of his clan members are dead and…he is nae to blame for what happened to me. Dunna punish him because of what a few of his clan members did.”
Martainn seemed frozen in shock. Andrina had spoken to him for the first time in many months. “Andrina….” He moved to close the gap between them but she drew back.
“There is hope for her, Martainn,” Kat said. “She is a wise woman. Go slowly and she may heal from her abuses.”
“What would ye ken about it?” he spat. “Yer a MacDonald!” Andrina limped back to the kitchens, her head down.
Conall put his hand on Martainn’s arm. “Not anymore. Beitris…Kat…is a Maclean. And my wife.” He paused, not taking his eyes from Kat’s. “
I will speak to Lorcan. Alone.”
“And I will attend to his wound,” Glynmyne said, having joined the men, for now there was a puddle of blood on the floor at Lorcan’s feet and he had passed out.
Chapter 19
Conall and Kat stood glaring at each other in a small parlor off the main hall.
The parlor faced south and was well lit; a fire crackled in the hearth. Fresh herbs had been sprinkled over the rushes and there were tapestries on the walls. The parlor was simply furnished with a large desk and an oak chair behind it, which was darkened with age.
Conall had shut and latched the door. Dressed in a white leine, trews, and brogans he paced silently. Finally he spoke, raking a hand through his unbound midnight-black hair. “I spoke to Lorcan. Glynmyne treated the wound on his leg. He’ll need to rest but he will heal.”
“Ye haven’t sent him to the dungeons?”
“Nay.”
“Where will he rest?”
“I’ve given him a room.”
“Is he guarded?”
“For the time being.”
Kat frowned.
“’Tis better than the dungeon,” he said, his voice a growl.
“When can I talk to him?”
“In time. He’s sleeping now. Glynmyne gave him a drought for his pain.”
“I wanted to tell ye my true name,” Kat said. “Ye need to understand. It was the last thing I had left that was my own. The only thing I had left.”
“And despite all I have given ye, ye would not share it with me.”
His back was to her now as he stared down at the flames in the hearth.
“I am sorry,” Kat began.
“I wish no more lies between us, wife. I dunna ken how I will learn to trust ye in future. Is there anything else ye need to tell me?”
A Dark Highland Magic: Hot Highlands Romance Book 4 Page 11