Highlander's Stolen Wife: A Medieval Scottish Historical Romance Book

by Alisa Adams

  On those nights, she would lie awake for a long time after slumber had claimed him. She would think of what it might feel like to be his woman in the way a wife was to a husband. Was this libidinous craving ungodly and not befitting of a lady? She did not know, and she did not care. All that mattered was that she wanted to get as close as possible to him and only one avenue remained open to her. All she had to do was convince him otherwise. Somehow, the prospect seemed daunting. Despite assuming he was like other men, Alastair was different. He displayed great control.

  For the most part of their journey, they had been alone. The landscape had appeared vast and infinite as if it had swallowed up every other living being. The occasional traveler they did come into contact with brought news of the conflict between the English and the Scots. As it turned out, the Scottish victory at the Battle of Stanhope had tipped the scales of the struggle. Apparently, there was talk of peace between the two antagonists.

  “Blossom, I think we have come far enough for one day,” said Alastair.

  Mary looked up at the sky. It was overcast and gray. Murtagh had once described it as a widow’s sky; the kind you could only find in the deep of winter. High above her, the clouds appeared churlish and angry. They raced across the empyreal expanse above them with increasing speed. It was as if they needed to be somewhere in a hurry. For the most of the day, they had been one great mass, blotting out the sun. She felt as if she was stuck at the bottom of a cauldron with the surface covered by a vapor of gray that gradually turned darker.

  “It’s going to rain, Mary. We best get under those trees over there and start a fire before the wood and kindling becomes too wet.

  Mary nodded. She heeled her horse forward in pursuit of Alastair. Her tummy rumbled. The two of them had not eaten since the morning. She was grateful that Alastair had captured a rabbit in a snare he’d fashioned the night before. No matter how close to home and hearth she was, another dinner based on dried meat and hard bannock did not appeal to her.

  When they got to the spot where a stand of Scottish pines stood, Alastair dismounted and tethered the animal to one of the trees. He helped Mary down and did the same with her mount. “We best gather some pine needles and as many twigs as possible. Quickly now and don’t footer about.” Mary stuck her tongue out at him, prompting him to slap her on the behind. “Yer a minxy lass. Sticking yer tongue at me. I should tickle ye silly and give yer bahookie a small walloping for good measure.”

  “I will have you know I will countenance no more of your rough treatment.” For a heartbeat, she remembered the harsh whipping he had given her. She had forgotten all about it since their romance had started to blossom. Fleetingly, anger and humiliation overcame her. She swallowed down the sentiment.

  “Aye, Mary. It will not happen again,” he said, reading her mind. “Now, firewood. There’s not a moment to lose.

  She smiled at him wanly before she started her gathering under the trees. Their bark was thick, scaly dark gray-brown on the lower trunk, and thin, flaky and orange on the upper trunk and branches. These mature trees were distinctive due to their long, bare and straight trunks topped by rounded and sometimes flat-topped masses of foliage. She only hoped that they would provide ample protection from the impending rain.

  As she placed the kindling and other fuel on the ground, Alastair already skinned the rabbit. He pulled roughly on the fur, peeling it off the carcass with one deft tug. “Pass me that branch over there. It’ll serve perfectly as a spit.” She handed it to him and watched him sharpen one end with his knife. When this was done, he pierced the carcass until it skewered it down the entire length. After fastening the hind legs together, he repeated the process he had done so many times of lighting the fire.

  Above them, the winter sky was dark and vengeful. Steaming shrouds of cloud coiled and writhed, amalgamating further into a single entity. An unearthly caterwauling sound filled the air. The wind picked up, shrieking and keening as it induced the flames in their small birthing fire to flicker this way and that. The clouds continued to race across the sky, thrumming with charged energy, bulging them almost to a bursting point.

  The deluge started with big, sopping drops of moisture that were wild and indiscriminate plump missiles that splattered the ground. Within moments, the topsoil turned into slushy goo. It was as if God in the heavens vented his wrath on the world below. All around them, Mary watched the rain pour down in sheets. Despite feeling the cold increase with the ferocity of the wind and deluge, she felt cozy, content and at ease. The entire air had something romantic about it.

  Alastair did not waste any time scrutinizing his surroundings. He continued to prepare their food. He had already fashioned two supports for the spit out of twigs. The rabbit hung over the fire, beginning to roast in its own juices. He did not mind the rain. To him, it was a part of life and the nectar of God and the serum of the sky. He was neither philosopher nor farmer, yet he understood the importance of nature’s bounty. “If beauty is God’s mark, then the rain is his final embellishment,” he said, staring into the flames.

  “That’s beautiful, Alastair.” Mary gazed at his profile in the dusk that was all the more potent due to the weather. The flickering fire gave off sufficient light to see him in orange and red hues. He had a strong nose with a perfectly straight bridge. His jaw was powerful and covered with a short mantle of reddish facial hair. He would look good with a full beard, she decided.

  Alastair stared into the dark void beyond the fire. “The sun empowers life and the rain bequests it safe passage. It is the way of the world, blossom.”

  “Although, I wouldn’t mind a little more sun.”

  “Aye. We are lucky that the rain dinnae catch us while we were still on the road. At least, here, we have some cover. These pines should do the trick quite nicely. And besides, I have a little surprise for ye.” He rummaged in his plaid, producing a leather flask from the folds. “Some whiskey. I have been saving it for a night such as this. It’ll keep us mellow.” He handed it to her.

  Mary took the container, uncorked it and slugged a wholehearted dram. He was right. It warmed her up on the spot. On cue, a pleasant heat caressed her insides. When she handed it back to him, he copied her, smacking his lips for extra measure.

  “Just what we needed. Nothing like a dram to wet yer thrapple and warm yer bones.” Alastair lay back, resting his back against the tree. He sighed contently.

  “Alastair…”

  “Aye, Mary.”

  “What’s going to happen when we get to England?”

  He turned his head to look at her. “I dinnae ken. I haven’t thought that far yet. I suppose us being so close to the border merits some thought on the matter.”

  “Will you go back to Diabaig?”

  “I believe so. I cannot stay in England.”

  “What about us? Does it mean anything?”

  “Aye, lass. It means more than anything in the world to me.” He shifted his weight, moving closer to her. Mary automatically rested her head against his shoulder. “I will find a way for us to be together. I might even have to marry ye.” He chuckled, uncorking the flask again and taking another swig.

  “Do you call that a proposal? If you ask me, that was appalling, Alastair, even for you.”

  He chuckled. “Aye, I ken.”

  They sat in silence, watching the rain fall in an unending cataract from the sky. Due to its intensity, the occasional drop found its way through the foliage above them. The fire hissed and crackled in retaliation for this invasion. The down pouring had taken on the sound of one rushing cacophony, like a raging river, fighting its way across the land until its final release off a cliff, transforming the torrent into a waterfall.

  It fell on every part of the dark central plain before them, on the treeless hills, falling harshly upon the blades of grass, and farther westward, softly dropping into the dark mutinous hillocks. It was so cold that Mary half expected the drops to become heavy bulbous snowflakes, coating the land with a white b
lanket. The trees around her creaked and resisted against the wind. The branches swayed, some of them perilously, threatening to snap off the trunk.

  “It looks like supper is ready,” said Alastair. He lifted the spit off the Y-shaped poles and studied the rabbit. “Tis cooked, blossom.” He handed her the rotisserie. “Be careful; it is very hot.”

  Mary felt the searing heat radiate off the flesh. It would not be easy, she decided. Carefully, she pulled some of the meat off with her fingers, singeing them in the process. She quickly popped the flesh into her mouth and sucked on her fingers. It tasted a little like chicken, but with a more potent flavor.

  “Is it tender, Mary?” he asked, helping himself to some of the fare. She nodded hastily as she pulled on Alastair’s arm in an attempt to reclaim the spit. Alastair chortled. “Now, look who’s hungry.” Without protest, he handed it to her and watched on fondly as she ripped off more of the meat and greedily stuffed it into her mouth, burning her tongue in the process. He marveled at the sight of her small teeth as she gnawed on the flesh once again. They were perfectly white, shining in contrast to the darkness.

  They continued to eat in silence. It was what they did most evenings. A hard day’s riding robbed them of their words, replenishing their mouths with the saliva induced by hunger. The quietness between them was never oppressing. On the contrary, it spoke of the comfort they felt in each other’s presence. It was something only man and woman did when they were completely at ease with the sentiments of the other that they did not need to seek the narcotic dependence of speech to voice and assuage their insecurities.

  “Mary, I am gonna ask yer father for yer hand in marriage,” said Alastair out of the blue.

  She nearly choked on the food in her mouth. “Really?” The word tumbled out of her mouth like a pebble.

  “Aye. It is what I want. Yer the bonniest lass in the land and I think I love ye.”

  “Ye think?”

  He laughed at her imitation of his accent. “I know. Sorry. I don’t quite ken how to voice my feelings. It is not what I am particularly good at.”

  “I disagree. What you said about God and the rain earlier was very poetic. Don’t you think you can manage something on that note about me?” Mary had an impish grin on her face.

  Alastair placed what was left of the rabbit on the ground. He stared into empty space for a few heartbeats. Gradually, the deep cadence of his voice lilted agreeably with his Scottish accent increased in volume. “I found out I was in love with ye the first day I met ye. I did not ken what it was but something changed inside of me. I tried to understand… And when I thrashed ye…” His voice trailed off into the night. He turned his head until his full countenance came into view. Mary saw him swallow deeply and then he continued speaking.

  “I realized it pained me. I had to stop, and I did without having a second thought. I knew then that I could never hurt ye again after that.” He shrugged. “I never did apologize to ye for doing that. I am sorry, Mary.”

  Mary reached out and began to stroke his cheek, eliciting a scratching sound from the bristles thereon. “It is forgiven.” She smiled at him, wanting to coax more out of him. She liked to listen to him speak. “I did try and kill you,” she added.

  “Aye, that ye did. And very nearly successfully if I might add. But it was warranted. I did abduct ye – I had to. I could not let ye marry that earl. I wanted ye for myself. No other man could have ye…”

  Then he told her, in the quiet tones of someone offloading a confession, that she was the most amazing woman he had ever met. He said that he loved her. Those words tore down any hesitation that Mary might have felt before then. She knew that she shared the sentiment that had started out as a small ember in her tummy. Gradually, it had grown into the raging inferno, which currently burned within her. It was an incessant force that accompanied her when they traveled, reminded her when she ate and cradled her to sleep at night.

  Mary looked down as she felt her eyes well up with tears. She looked at her hand, one upon the other in a gesture of prayer, and thanked God for this man beside her. As she had always believed, fate was inexorable in its maneuverings – it had taken her to a place she never thought existed. Somewhere where she felt at home. When she lifted her increasingly swollen eyes to his, he cupped her head in his hands and mopped her cheeks with his thumbs. He dropped his lips gently to hers and did what he always wanted to do now – what he had wanted to do from the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

  He kissed her.

  As their lips met, heat traveled his bloodstream like alcohol, drowning any doubts he may have felt. He had seen the vulnerability in those wide brown eyes, heard the tremulous breathing drifting from those soft, parted lips, and all reason fled from his brain, disarming hesitation and restraint. In slow and careful motion, his hands cupped the sides of her face like a caress, keeping her head in place.

  His body was intoxicated with her scent, warmth and the knowledge of her beauty. His eyelids weighted closed as he moved nearer like a man in a trance, compelled, pressing his frame to hers. As the kiss deepened, their shallow breathing became one as he nuzzled her mouth with his own. And then, in a ragged beat of his heart, she melted into him with a familiarity that destroyed all limitation. He clutched her body to his with more vigor, developing the contact until he realized that this night, he would never be able to hold back. “God help me, Mary, I want you, all of you, so much.”

  “Yes, Alastair. I am yours – all of me.” To make her point and afraid he might stop like he always did when their passion become almost impossible to halt, Mary lay back, bringing him with her. His weight pressed against her, pinning her down. It felt earth-shatteringly wonderful, transporting her into a delirious vortex.

  The kiss, unbearably fragile and virginal at first, became voracious, spiking off tingles and heat, from the head to the shoulders and finally to her toes. Everything Mary thought about who she was, what she was, became irrelevant. There were no words, only sensation, smooth sensation. Tender, like the tickling lick of a kitten. She felt powerless, suddenly stoned into submission.

  Alastair was kissing her. She was kissing Alastair. All of it taking place under a stand of trees in the middle of the land. Giving and getting every kiss they’d ever gotten or given, kissing from memory. Kissing: fast, hard, unfathomable, desperate, long and slow. They tasted the lips, the mouth, and the tongue. Mary placed her hands on his face, marveling in the rawness of his stubble she found there.

  Beyond the protection of the foliage, the rain pressed on with divine uninhibitedness. It crashed down from the heavens in imitation of their passion. The wind had grown stronger, whipping across the fields. All around the lovers, the blades of grass shivered and trembled as the topsoil beneath oozed muddily. A noise escaped Mary, an embarrassingly deep moan, like air rushing out of something. She couldn’t believe that it was finally happening and she was letting it, not stopping it, and not screaming, but becoming one with it.

  The kiss continued on past the point where he usually broke off. Then, slowly, he pulled away. Mary groped for him, as though she were blind. “Alastair, please, please…” Her lips touched his pleadingly. “Don’t stop,” she hissed out into his mouth. She could see the hesitation play on his features. Seeing him like that melted her core. Before her was the most magnificent man. Mary willed him with her stare in an attempt to break any spark of chivalry he still harbored. She did not care if she came across as a predatory nymph; all she wanted was this clansman – on her, next to her, his lips crushing hers, his hands discovering and ultimately in her.

  Before her need of him could be put to voice, he was kissing her again, and slipping the heavy plaid up her legs. His strong and gentle hands began to stroke her body, anywhere and everywhere, his hands, his lips, his tongue a tactile and savory orchestra of sensual delight. He was gentle, then firm. It was not frightening. Not knowing what would happen next and how he would do it exhilarated her in ways she never thought possible. A cry escaped h
er lips when she felt his hand touch her breast. The rise and hardening of her nipples startled her. She mewed again when he became more insistent. Her entire frame shuddered, waxing impressions, images and emotions in a surge that stood in boastful context with the storm.

  “Shhh,” he whispered. ‘Shhh, it’s all right, don’t worry, just be calm and listen to yer body.”

  He was slow, rhythmic, gentle, moving down her body with his mouth, down and further still… And Mary was nothing but her body. He pulled on her clothing, freeing as much of it as he could, while taking care to keep her partially covered. The things he did with his tongue around her navel quashed any cold she might have felt because of the uplifted plaid and smock. Mary realized that he could see most of her body – her breasts, her abdomen, her… sex.

  She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. Alastair did not know whether to stare at her or devour her. He decided to kiss his way back up to her lips. On the way, he took one of her nipples into his mouth, tugging on it with his lips. His hands were willing accomplices as they fondled and squeezed, coaxing small sounds of pleasure from her mouth. She had placed her hands on his head, tracing her fingers through his hair. She pulled and pushed until she finally guided him back to her mouth.

  “Alastair,” she said, hissing through her teeth.

  “Aye, blossom.”

  “I need you to make me yours.” Mary was beyond reason. They were not married, not handfasted or anything, but it felt right. Alastair was the only man she wanted to do what she was hopefully about to do with. When she saw him vacillate, she murmured, “This is no longer the time for you to play the chivalrous knight. I want you to be what I know you can be. Show me what I saw on the road to Carlisle. Be the untamed man—”