When the Laird Returns

by Karen Ranney

  “I would teach you what I know so that you wouldn’t be afraid,” she said, lightly.

  “Tell me,” he urged, leaning against the railing once again. “I have no knowledge of carving.”

  “All I know is what I’ve done,” she admitted. “My technique may be all wrong.”

  “You’ve never taken instruction?”

  “My father would not have paid for such a thing,” she said, smiling at the idea. “Perhaps you might hire a stone carver to replicate some of the more delicate work in the priory. I would be able to ask him some questions.”

  “Such as?” he asked curiously.

  She picked up the mallet, hefted it in her hand. The instrument was made of old wood, soaked in a mixture of pitch and oil until the grain had turned black. She’d had the tool for five years and it appeared as pristine and unmarked as it had the day the carpenter secretly presented it to her.

  “What is the best way to make a curved surface?” she said, answering his question. “Is there a method to it that’s easier than what I do now? What do I do when a fissure appears in the stone? Is there a way to save my image, or is all that work destroyed?”

  “Then I’ll have to plan on an expert to come and work at Gilmuir and answer your questions,” he said.

  She smiled at yet another sign of his consideration.

  He bent and took the tools from her, setting them down on the table. Drawing her up slowly, he encircled her wrists with his hands. Gently, he slid his thumbs across her skin as they stood there watching each other.

  “You look so lovely standing here with the sunlight in your hair and your eyes sparkling at me. Do you know what it reminds me of?”

  She shook her head, bemused by the tender look in his eyes.

  “When I first kissed you in the garden. You were angry at me, but your lips were welcoming.”

  I wanted you so desperately and couldn’t have you. Instead of saying the words, she tugged her wrists free, placing her hands flat against his chest. Here was the warmth and life she’d not felt in the cold marble.

  “Your diligence to your craft deserves a kiss,” he said, his smile part rascal, part lover.

  He matched the promise with the deed, and when the kiss ended, each leaned against the other.

  “I could love you here,” he whispered. “And caution the crew that I need time alone to reprimand you for your sins.”

  She pulled back and looked at him with mock indignation. “What sins would those be?”

  “Too alluring,” he said, kissing a path from one ear to the other, his lips dancing across her nose. “Too enticing,” he said, moving one hand so that his fingers brushed against one clothed nipple. “Entirely too impudent,” he added, kissing her once more, so deeply that she saw sprinkles of silver behind her closed lids.

  Iseabal had thought him charming before, but she had not known that he might have a patch of wickedness in him. There was, evidently, still a mischievous boy trapped inside the man.

  Once again he held her hands against the wall, but this time he shielded the backs of her wrists with his fingers so that they wouldn’t become abraded by the planking.

  They were unseen here, protected from curious onlookers, even had one of the crew been standing in the rigging.

  Bracing one hand against the wall, he bent and lowered his head, kissing her gently. “I like kissing you,” he said softly. Moving his other hand to her jaw, his fingers kept her prisoner there while he deepened the kiss, using his tongue to trace her lips before slipping it into her mouth.

  His hands returned to her palms, although there was no need to restrain her. She was trapped by his kiss and by the feel of him pressing gently against her.

  Her eyes fluttered shut again, and her breathing grew tight as her fingers curved toward her palms, trapping his fingertips. Below them, the ocean currents swirled, almost as if tenderly rocking the Fortitude as she sliced through the waves.

  “The goddess of the sea,” Iseabal whispered, feeling Alisdair’s smile at the corner of her mouth.

  Her smile answered his. Her eyes were still closed, and she could feel the heat of the sun’s rays upon her face, and the warmth generated by Alisdair’s touch. At this moment she felt like a creature of nature, all thought and reason vanishing beneath a greater need to be touched and loved. Not simply physically, but with her whole spirit.

  Around her, the crew of the Fortitude worked. But leaning her forehead against Alisdair’s chest, her hands flat against his waist, Iseabal realized that she truly didn’t care if the whole world watched them.

  Spreading her fingers wide against his jacket, Iseabal decided that she wanted to feel his skin instead. The fabric of his coat could not disguise the powerful curve of his shoulders, or his sleeves veil the strength of his arms. She wanted, almost desperately, to place her hands upon his stomach and lower, until his breath hitched in need. But more than that, she wanted him close to her, until one of them was part of the other, neither invaded nor commanding, but simply welcomed in the closest embrace of all.

  “Love me,” she whispered, the words awkwardly uttered, trapped as they were in the constriction of her throat.

  He stepped back finally, as if knowing she needed room to breathe.

  “Now, Iseabal?” he asked, his eyes sparkling.

  She would have spoken her thoughts to him were she capable of having any. But her mind was oddly empty, even as her body warmed at the look in his eyes.

  “Yes,” she said tenderly, tipping her head back.

  “Not here,” he said, his face changing at the moment, his eyes narrowing slightly, and his smile disappearing. Without another word, he grabbed her hand, pulling her down the narrow corridor until they rounded the corner of the captain’s cabin.

  “Sir,” Brian said, stepping into their path, “if I might have a word.”

  Brian had been promoted to fill Daniel’s role while the first mate was in London. The young man had looked stunned, and since then slightly discomfited at his new role.

  “Is the ship sinking, Brian?” Alisdair asked, frowning at the young man.

  “No, sir,” he replied, nearly jumping at Alisdair’s tone.

  “Are there pirates chasing us?”

  The young man shook his head, his cheeks reddening.

  “Sea monsters? Mermaids? Is the damn cat rubbing her tail on the mast?” Alisdair made no pretense at civility.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then it can wait, Brian,” he said abruptly, opening the cabin door and pulling Iseabal inside. The door snapped shut as he turned to her.

  Her smile vanished as he stared at her, any thoughts of amusement melting away at his look. Her face felt flushed, her skin too warm, and her knees almost weak; her fingers trembled against the material of his coat. Her heart raced with a fluttering beat when she stood on tiptoe and extended her hands around his neck.

  Slowly, gently, she drew his head down to hers, needing his kiss the way the world needed the sun. An elemental yearning.

  She sighed against his lips, as if in relief. Her eyes drifted shut, but in her mind, she could see him. Tears dampened her eyes and nearly slipped from beneath her lids as she opened her mouth and welcomed him.

  His blood was brandy, streaking through his body to rest in his fingertips and toes, making it impossible to walk steadily or to hold her without trembling.

  Stepping back, he bent on one knee before her, and without glancing up, began to remove one shoe.

  Wordlessly, Alisdair rolled down the first of her stockings, taking time with his task while he tried to regain his composure. For the first time in his life, Alisdair wished he had James’s talent for words. He would tell her then how much he’d come to value her smile and their talks together. How her amusement charmed him, and her secret thoughts surprised him. Perhaps he would even confess how effortlessly she stripped him of his experience, rendering him as youthful and excited as a boy.

  With one hand at the back of her knee for support
, he lifted her foot and slipped the shoe and stocking free.

  He had seen her naked before, had loved her both in the light of candles and in sunshine. Now Iseabal stood with only her legs bare, and he felt a surge of tenderness and desire that nearly staggered him.

  Her toes were short and pudgy, and endearingly sweet. Placing one finger on each of the toes of one foot, he began tracing a path to her ankle, then upward to a knee.

  Bending his head, Alisdair pressed his face against the fabric of her petticoat. His fingers trembled against her leg as his hand curved around her calf to steady himself.

  A moment later he reached up and unfastened the bow securing her petticoat, sliding it from her gradually, almost reverently. She stepped free of it, her hands clasped at her waist. The look in her eyes was both vulnerable and trusting in a way that made his breath stutter.

  I will protect you. I will keep you safe. I will place myself between danger and you, sweet Iseabal, he thought, the words the only poetry he’d ever composed.

  Wordlessly, she watched while he tossed the stocking in the air to land where it would. Amusement vied with tenderness as she watched him finish with the other stocking and stand before her.

  Alisdair tossed her jacket to the lid of her basket, her stays suddenly adorning the tansu against the wall.

  What he did next, she would always remember. He reached out his hand, tracing the thin edge of lace on her shift. She felt his fingers tremble against her skin and closed her eyes, defeated by this sign of his vulnerability. At this moment, in this silent room, he was neither captain nor earl. Not the MacRae. He was simply a man, as mortal as she felt. Her husband, given to her not once but twice, that she might know the wonder of him.

  She covered his hand with hers, stepping closer to unwind the stock at his neck. Once she had it unfastened, she allowed it to drift to the floor in a serpentine twist of fabric. His coat was next, and she pushed it off his shoulders, where it stubbornly resisted her efforts. He smiled finally, aiding her until it, too, fell to the floor, resting atop one of her stockings.

  He removed his boots and stockings himself, but instead of stepping out of his breeches, Alisdair placed her hands on the button flap and held them there.

  They exchanged another look, one of awareness and discovery. Breathing should not be so difficult, Iseabal thought. Nor should undoing one button, then another, her mind alight with anticipation. When he was freed from the restraining cloth, she held him cupped in her hands.

  He had promised her pleasure and given it to her time and again, teaching lessons of love that had shocked and delighted her. She wanted to give him back the same joy.

  Releasing him, she removed her shift, grateful that she no longer needed the wrapping. Her side was still discolored, but in this faint light the bruising would simply be one more shadow.

  Her eyes were downcast now, a flush appearing on her cheeks. But Iseabal said nothing to halt him. She stood naked, making no move to cover herself. Her hands remained at her sides, the palms flat against her thighs. A statue of loveliness, he thought, but instead of stone, there were supple curves, and life in the pulse beat of her blood.

  He wanted to flatten his palms against her, place his mouth on the inside of her elbow, gently suckle those impudent nipples, and stroke the back of her knee, the bulbs of her heels, behind her ears, the soles of her feet. All of it done with no sense of hurried haste. But that wish was impossible around Iseabal.

  Reaching out a finger, Alisdair touched the tip of her breast, following it with a kiss. With the greatest of care, he trailed a path from her wrist to her armpit to her hip with one finger.

  If he ever constructed a ship with Iseabal’s grace and beauty, the vessel would sail across the water like the breath of life itself.

  Bending his head, he kissed her. Sweetly, slowly, imbuing into the kiss all the unspoken words that cowered in his heart. Looping her arms around his neck, Iseabal moved even closer.

  Nipples tight with arousal demanded the touch of a finger, the lave of a tongue. Lush, full lips coerced a kiss.

  The ache that swept through him was one of incipient rebellion. His body longed for release even as his mind counseled restraint. Now, when the swell of her breasts beneath his hands encouraged his capitulation. His mouth encompassed a nipple, his body protesting the pace of this seduction.

  Alisdair felt as if he would cease to be unless he touched her, would evaporate in the wind that sighed around them if he did not bury himself in her softness. Disappear, like a wraith, if he did not nourish himself in this one woman.

  She stepped away from him, moving to the bunk. Glancing over her shoulder at him, she smiled in invitation.

  Outside the cabin men were shouting to one another. Waves splashed against the Fortitude’s bow, and wind filled the sails. But in this shadowed room there was silence laced with a pandemonium of the senses.

  Perhaps there were other men just as handsome, crafted of muscle and bone and beauty. But she had never seen one and would never look for his match. This man, erect and male, was all that she needed.

  “You don’t know how many times I’ve thought of you like that,” he said, removing his breeches. “You were lit by candlelight,” he murmured, coming to her side. “With your breasts just as they are now, tight and ready for my lips.”

  He trailed his fingers over one nipple, then the other.

  Iseabal drew back slightly, lifting herself until she lay on the bunk, close to the wall. She held out her hand to him and he joined her. Here, in this comfortable nook built into the wall, they had loved before, and with each act she’d found a growing pleasure in his arms.

  How would she articulate what she felt? She needed to feel him deep inside her, to hear his breath against her cheek, harsh and gasping.

  Passion was as new to her as joy, both emotions swirling through her, along with an anticipation so powerful that it seemed almost wanton. She had expected to feel companionship and comfort from a husband, but Alisdair had given her so much more.

  Something thrummed between them now, some mutual awareness that had not been there in those nights of loving.

  Lying beside her, he turned onto his side. She wished, suddenly, that there was light, like on the morning after their wedding. He made her feel beautiful, as if her body were perfect and her flaws inconsequential. But more important, she wanted to see him. Glorious and male, strong and virile. He was hers, she thought in a surge of protectiveness.

  She touched the edge of his jaw, drawing him to her with the smoothing of one fingertip against his lower lip.

  His kiss was long and deep and eternal in its perfection. Pressing her face against his neck, she wound her arms around his back, pulling him close to her in a sudden, desperate wish to keep him safe. But he would always climb the rigging, or stand at the bow of the Fortitude, looking out into the world as if to welcome all its excitement and dangers.

  Bending his head, he mouthed a nipple, scraping the edge of it with his teeth. He drew sharply on it, caressing her breasts with tender fingers, the contrast between the two sensations startling.

  Running his palm over her stomach, he followed with a kiss, trailing a path from her throat to her navel. She shivered at the feeling, but he soothed her with a murmur.

  He touched the tip of his tongue to her, the sensation so startling that her eyes flew open. His thumbs spread open intimate folds, before lingeringly tracing a path for his lips to follow.

  “Alisdair,” she said, but wasn’t sure if she spoke in protest or entreaty.

  A long, slow glide of his tongue silenced her.

  Delight raced through her body, warming her. Her legs widened instinctively; her hips arched to meet his lips. He acceded to her unspoken demand, lengthening the strokes of his tongue, circling, then soothing.

  Iseabal felt herself contract deep inside, a reaction to the soft puff of whisper as he spoke against her flesh. “Iseabal.”

  She wanted more, then less of the sensation
, then more again. Please. Tiny arrows speared her, each one calmed, then incited again by the sensual motions of his tongue.

  Gripping the sheets on both sides of her, she absorbed and accepted, adrift in pleasure so intense that her heart fell silent, her breath stilled. There was only Alisdair and need.

  He drew slightly away and she murmured a protest, only to release her breath and her heart as he entered her a moment later. Her body bowed upward to meet him, her mind a midnight sky, deep and dark and empty. Her body held sway now, feelings dictating her movements, passion becoming both mind and heart.

  Her hands gripped his arms, pulling him to her. She buried her face against his throat, opened her mouth against his heated flesh. Wrapping her legs around his, she held onto him as if he were both her captor and her savior.

  Supporting himself on his forearms, Alisdair looked down at Iseabal as she blinked her eyes open. Did he wear the same dazed expression? He must, held as he was at the knife point of desire.

  His fingers measured her shoulders, his hands trailing down to rest on either side of her breasts.

  Iseabal widened her legs, lifting her knees slightly to rock gently beneath him. He felt a contraction around him, urging him toward completion.

  “Don’t do that,” he said harshly.

  “Did you feel that?” she asked, eyes closing. But a small, almost triumphant smile played on her lips.

  “Yes,” he said tightly, laying his cheek on hers. “For the love of God, Iseabal,” he muttered, torn between mindless pleasure and capitulation.

  “I didn’t know I could do that,” she said, and squeezed again, her internal muscles gripping him like a hot, damp fist.

  An oath escaped him, a cry of surrender and mortality. He felt as if he were being split in two, and a second from now would need to gather parts of himself together with flailing hands.

  Once more he pushed himself into her, reaching a place of darkness behind his lids.

  Iseabal gripped him again, making him lose track of who was being seduced. He had wanted to grant her a moment of perfection, and was, instead, being led into an abyss of pleasure.