When the Laird Returns

by Karen Ranney

  Please, his body urged. Now. He withdrew again, a second later surging into her in priapic demand. Her hips arched and he stifled his groan of pleasure against her breast, withdrew again. He had ceased being a thinking man, his body’s urgings becoming a drumbeat he could not help but obey. Now. Now. The rhythm escalated as he gripped his hands on her shoulders and pulled himself deeper inside her.

  His breath fanned against her temple as he closed his eyes and simply relished the unendurable feeling of need. Swirling through him like a hot tropical storm, it seemed replicated in the currents below the hull.

  Alisdair felt trapped in a rhythm as old as the waves, as undulating and as fierce. He withdrew, then entered her again, the sound of her soft moan a counterpart to his own wordless wonder. He was rigid, painfully so, but it was a feeling he savored, like sailing before the wind. Dangerous, unpredictable, falling headlong into excitement and wonder.

  The current beneath the hull, steady and relentless, followed his movements, the arching of his hips, the press of his swollen length inside her, his reluctant withdrawal. A tide of sensation, and she was his beach, a safe haven, a resting place.

  The goddess of the ocean rocked them in long, sensual movements. He wanted to make this joining last, but Iseabal clutched his back suddenly, her nails gouging into his skin. Her eyes flickered open, wide and helpless in surrender. In that moment he was lost, his vision fading, his body and mind blinded in bliss.

  Chapter 23

  T o Iseabal, the journey back to Gilmuir seemed to take only moments. Perhaps because she’d spent the voyage to London worrying about her uncertain future, while now she barely noted the passing of the days.

  Alisdair stood beside her, but Iseabal didn’t turn to look at him. His appearance was marked on her mind forever, just as his touch would always be imprinted upon her body. He stretched out his hand and instinctively her fingers threaded with his.

  Over the past few days, the Fortitude had traveled without full sail, slowing her speed so that the Molly Brown could catch up with them. Now both ships were navigating Coneagh Firth. The wind welcomed them, batting playfully at the Fortitude’s sails, fluttering Iseabal’s petticoat, and tossing her hair against her cheeks.

  Silently they stood, hand in hand, watching as they neared Gilmuir.

  From time to time they passed a village nestled close to the loch, as if the tiny hamlet sipped at the water like an animal slaking its thirst.

  Alisdair’s hand tightened on hers, and she knew he’d seen the castle. Standing like an impressive icon to heritage, Gilmuir glowed with the rays of a morning sun.

  “Gilmuir seems to be welcoming us,” he said, smiling.

  She nodded, her attention drawn from the castle to Alisdair. Lately, he seemed even more handsome than he had at their first meeting, as if the character of the man had seeped outward from his soul and altered his features.

  She wondered if their children would be graced with the MacRae eyes. Bringing their clasped hands up to his lips, Alisdair placed a tender kiss on her knuckles as if he’d heard her thought.

  “The Molly Brown will dock here,” he said, looking toward his left, where the land sloped gently to the loch. “In order to unload the horses and most of the provisions,” he explained.

  Understanding immediately, Iseabal smiled. “It would be difficult trying to lead the horses up the staircase,” she said, amused by the mental picture.

  Without warning, he bent to kiss her, in full view of his crew. A few men grinned at her when she glanced in their direction, but then turned tactfully away. Not one of the sailors had voiced an objection to her presence on this voyage, at least within her hearing. Perhaps, she thought, bending to pick up Henrietta, their approval was due in part to the cat’s affection.

  The Molly Brown eased behind them, the captain standing on the bow. A signal from the Fortitude was answered quickly with a similar flag.

  “What are they looking for?” she asked, watching the men on the other ship peering over the side.

  Glancing at her, Alisdair reached out and scratched Henrietta between her ears. The cat’s purring grew louder and her body heavier, as if she’d relaxed every muscle in it.

  “See the differences in shading?” he said, pointing to the shoreline. Iseabal lowered Henrietta to the deck and the cat wound herself around Alisdair’s legs. Following his direction, Iseabal looked over the side, noting that, close to the shore, the loch was either a pale green or a deep emerald.

  “The darker the water, the greater the depth. The Molly Brown is heavy and they don’t want to chance going aground.”

  The spot where the captain chose to dock was within sight of the necklace of rocks. Easing the Molly Brown closer to shore, however, was not so easily accomplished. An hour later the merchant ship weighed anchor not ten feet from shore.

  After the first plank was placed in position, one sailor nimbly walked across to the glen.

  “What’s he doing now?” she asked, fascinated by his actions. He seemed to be digging a hole.

  “The landward side of the gangway must be rooted,” Alisdair said, “so that it doesn’t slip. He’ll bury about an arm’s length of each plank.” The second and third boards followed, the area now wide enough to accommodate the horses and the numerous barrels.

  As they began unloading, the Fortitude slid cautiously around the jagged rocks. The cove seemed particularly beautiful this morning with the sun sparkling off the surface of the cobalt-blue water and the cliffs towering protectively above them.

  “Have a boat lowered,” he said, turning to address Brian. “And ask the men returning to Nova Scotia to ready their gear.”

  “What about Daniel?” Iseabal asked.

  “When he arrives, he’ll take the Fortitude back to Nova Scotia. To send word to my family and gather what belongings I need.”

  “You would let him take your ship?” Her tone held amazement.

  “There are others to build,” he said, holding out his hand for her again. She placed hers in his, and he led the way to the rope ladder.

  As Iseabal followed him down the rungs, she had the thought that this task was no more easily accomplished with practice. Gratefully, she lowered her feet into the flat-bottomed skiff, holding onto Alisdair for support.

  She sat in the boat, watching him handle the oars. Her heart felt as if it were expanding to encompass not only Alisdair but Gilmuir itself.

  If she were a fanciful woman, Iseabal would have believed that the old fortress gave a sigh of relief as they left the boat and entered the cave. The morning light, deflected by the water, illuminated the domed space.

  Iseabal halted in surprise, noting the portraits. The first time she’d been here, a storm had shrouded her view, but now the portraits of a woman adorning the ceiling and wall were clearly visible.

  “Ionis’s lady,” Alisdair said from beside her. His low voice seemed even more intimate in this quiet and shadowed place. “Do you know the story?”

  Wordlessly, she shook her head.

  “Saint Ionis was sent to live here hundreds of years ago, a penance given to him by God. It seems he strayed from his vows and loved a black-haired, green-eyed girl. From the looks of it, she haunted his dreams all the rest of his life.”

  Iseabal glanced at the woman who had been so well loved, only now noticing that there was a tinge of sadness to her eyes. Had she truly grieved, or had Ionis simply mirrored his own feelings in his paintings?

  “Did God ever forgive him?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, drawing her back against him. “Perhaps He did, simply because there is little left of the saint, but his lady remains.”

  For a moment they stood staring at the woman, Alisdair’s hands gently moving up and down Iseabal’s arms. Turning finally, they began to mount the steps in silence.

  Once on the floor of the priory, Alisdair held out his hands for her, beginning to lift her free much as he had that first day, when she’d been trapped in the pit of the f
oundations. Only this time he held her close when she stood, his arms surrounding her, his hands flattening against the small of her back.

  In this ruined priory once held sacred, Iseabal suddenly realized that she was more fortunate than a woman beloved by a saint.

  Alisdair bent his head, resting his chin against the shimmering ebony of Iseabal’s hair. Her hands wound around him, gripping the back of his coat. For a moment he was content to stand there, the wind gently whirling around them as if the priory itself approved of their return.

  “Are you happy, Iseabal?” he asked, never having thought to ask such a question before. The moments ticked by in an agony of seconds while he waited for her response.

  “Yes,” she said, the answer coming in a low, breathless voice. He moved his hands to her buttocks, pulling her even closer.

  His new bride, once innocent and now an apt pupil, arched her hips against him as if welcoming his sudden uncontrollable reaction.

  “If you continue, I might take you right here on the priory floor,” he whispered.

  “Not here,” she said, teasing him with his own words spoken only days ago. She kissed his shirt, a sweet gesture in comparison to what her hands were doing. She was stroking her palms down his midriff, past his hips, her fingers trailing up and down his thigh in a maddening exploration.

  When had he lost control over his sensual nature? When, for that matter, had he ceased to be a creature of intellect and one solely of bodily responses? When Iseabal spoke, he answered silently. When she moved close to him, the scent of her encouraged his erection. He could not, Alisdair thought in disgust, even embrace his wife without feeling a tinge of lust.

  “Iseabal,” he cautioned.

  “Not here,” she said again, then surprised him by drawing back. She held out her hand to him, a small, delicious smile playing on her lips and her green eyes sparkling with merriment.

  When had she become a vixen?

  He allowed her to take his hand and lead him unerringly through the ruins. Iseabal knew Gilmuir better than he, Alisdair decided as she wound through the fallen bricks and around deep holes caused by the missing floor. He was the ghost of Gilmuir; and she, the woman who fulfilled her promise of unearthly beauty within its shadows.

  In that instant, his mind conjured up a figurehead for the first of the MacRae vessels constructed at Gilmuir. The form would bear Iseabal’s face, her hair billowing out behind her. But he would not allow this ornament to be naked to the waist, breasts thrusting toward the waves. She would, instead, be gowned in silk, something green to match the beauty of her eyes. Some garment, perhaps, in the Chinese fashion, with a high collar and buttons down to her ankles, so concealing that only he knew what lay beneath the fabric.

  “Here,” she announced when they came to the mostly intact corridor. “I used to think that I’d heard lovers’ whispers here, but now I think it was only a foretelling of what was to come.” As she gazed at him, the smile vanished from her face.

  She took a few steps toward him until her hands rested against his chest once more. “It’s a place for lovers, Alisdair,” she said. “For secret assignations.”

  “I would not have you shamed, Iseabal,” he said gently. “And any of the crew might come to Gilmuir and see us. I’ve another locale in mind,” he added.

  She said nothing when he took her hand, walking from Gilmuir and across the land bridge to a place told to him in tales.

  Crossing the glen, Alisdair was unsurprised to see evidence of recent sheep grazing. Drummond, evidently, was not a man of his word. Iseabal had warned him.

  “I wonder what Drummond will say when he learns we’ve returned,” he said.

  Iseabal smiled. “He will take you to court,” she said unhesitatingly.

  He glanced over at Iseabal, wondering why he had never seen signs of Drummond in her. She didn’t have the nature to be devious, or contemptuous of others. In Iseabal there was a core of sweetness, as if she had learned the lesson of love well enough. From her mother? Or from another, one she might have loved before their marriage?

  Alisdair halted in mid-step, the idea anathema to him.

  “Was there anyone special for you?” he asked, more gruffly than he had intended. “A sweetheart you might have known before our marriage?”

  “With my father guarding my virtue like a gorgon?” she replied, evidently amused.

  He did not mean her body, but her heart.

  Alisdair resorted to silence, leading her to the line of trees, wishing he had a more detailed map than his memory. His great-uncle Hamish had once told him of this place, bragging of standing atop the knoll and serenading the British with his pipes.

  “Where are we going, Alisdair?” she asked.

  “To the top of MacRae land,” he said. “Where we might look out on Gilmuir and our new home.”

  Perhaps later he would lay her down on the ground and show her what he felt. Words could not express this feeling, but loving her might do well enough.

  The strong scent of pine flavored the air as they entered the thick forest. Where perhaps there had once been a path, small saplings, decaying branches, and a thick cushion of fallen needles now layered the floor of the woods.

  He was not a man, for all his thoughts of Gilmuir, given to whimsy. But it felt right, somehow, that he would be ascending this hill with Iseabal. As if this moment, perfumed and perfect, had been destined to occur from the moment of his birth and hers.

  Glancing down at her once more, he marveled at her beauty. The dappled sunlight graced her with both shadow and sun, giving her a radiance he’d never before seen. Almost, he thought, as if she were a mythical creature, Iseabal of the forest.

  Smiling at himself, Alisdair realized that if she were the queen of this place, then he was the fool.

  Chapter 24

  A t the top of the hill, Alisdair halted, his breath stripped from him by the surrounding view. Brandidge Hall, with all its magnificence, could not measure up to this scene.

  Ahead was the glittering loch, and next to it, Gilmuir. To his left were the rolling glens of MacRae land, the destruction caused by the foraging sheep softened by distance. To his right was a thick line of trees, and beyond, a series of hills stretching out like the humps of a dragon’s back.

  “Alisdair.”

  Turning, he smiled down at Iseabal. She imbued his name with tenderness and passion, seduction and surrender. Threading his hands through her hair, he pressed his palms against her scalp.

  His kiss was gentle but deep, promising both sweetness and passion. “I want to love you here, Iseabal,” he said, pulling back. “Here,” he said again as if enforcing the point.

  The wind would caress their bodies; birds would sing in a joyous chorus as if to accompany their loving. Even the sun blazing brightly overhead seemed to approve of his plans.

  His fingers stroked the corners of her lips, measured the beauty of her lovely smile. When had he become fascinated with the line of a woman’s jaw, or with the sweep of curve from throat to shoulder? Touching his lips against her skin gave him two delights, one from Iseabal’s sighing response, the other from his reaction.

  He wanted to render her speechless with wonder, to see her eyes when she soared with him to a place beyond articulation or description.

  Her heated breath against his throat required a calming kiss to her temple; her racing heartbeat, a soothing palm resting against one breast.

  Slowly he unfastened the front of her jacket. Her only movement was to regard him with that solemn gaze of hers.

  “May I love you here, Iseabal?” he asked gently.

  She nodded, the color mounting in her cheeks. But with a deft movement she untied her petticoat, stepping out of it with easy grace. Her shift fell to the ground, until she stood only in stockings and garters. Slipping off her shoes, she moved her hands to the tops of her stockings and, in a gesture feminine and delectable, began to roll each one down.

  As she undressed he matched her actions with his o
wn. His coat joined her petticoat and skirt; his shirt, her shoes; and his pants, her stockings. Hurry, his mind counseled, and a far-off bell pealed, reminding him that he had never felt this way for any other woman. Only for Iseabal.

  Raising herself on tiptoe, Iseabal stroked his skin with her palms, curving around him like a siren of legend and lore. A figurehead come to life, or a mermaid, stripped of her tail and given speech. Her hand flattened on his abdomen, her fingers splaying across his skin, the silken brush of her hair against his bare chest enticing.

  Forcing his hands down to his sides, Alisdair stood in the position of supplicant. Or victim, he considered a moment later. She brushed her breasts against his chest in an evocative gesture, her eyes closed and the expression on her face one of rapt wonderment.

  “Kiss me, Iseabal,” he murmured. She opened her eyes, staring up at him, and for a brief moment Alisdair felt locked in her gaze. A thousand thoughts came to him, none of them coherent, each one enmeshed in a confusing puzzle.

  He wanted to reward her for her acquiescence, praise her in some mindless way. Instead, he bestowed a fervent and heated kiss between her breasts.

  The sun speared them, spilling over the forest and bathing the treetops. An enchanted land and place and time.

  Slowly she sank to her knees before him, sliding her palms up the length of his thighs. He was so powerfully built, a warrior disguised by well-tailored clothing and the grace of his movements. Her thumbs brushed against his erection with a featherlike touch.

  His hands fisted in her hair as his body arched forward. “Iseabal,” he warned.

  “Am I hurting you?” she asked.

  He shook his head from side to side, moved his hands to her shoulders with a talonlike grip. “I’m too close,” he said, his voice a pained whisper. Gently, he removed her hands from him before sinking to his knees.

  Cradling her head between his hands, his thumbs brushing against the corners of her mouth, he whispered, “Shall I find my release with your touch, Iseabal? Or bring you pleasure?”