The Laird's Willful Lass (The Likely Lairds Book 1)

by Anna Campbell

  He groaned and grazed his teeth across the curve of her shoulder. Their legs tangled against the cool sheets as he settled on top of her. “I die for love of ye, lassie.”

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her touch as fiercely possessive as his. “Don’t die, amore mio. Live. Live for me, as I’ll live for you.”

  Fergus rose on his elbows so he could see her beautiful face, noting the signs of will and intelligence and passion. What a wife she was for a wild Highland laird. “I meant it when I said I’d go to Florence.”

  “I know you did.” Her smile was incandescent. “But I’m also sincere when I say we’ll make a good life here. We have everything we want in Achnasheen. We can visit Florence now and again, to see Papa and meet my patrons. I’d like the children to know about their Italian heritage as well as their proud Scots blood.”

  He arched an eyebrow at her. “Children, is it, mo chridhe?”

  “Aye, my braw laddie, I’ve got plans for four bonny wee bairns, two boys and two girls.”

  His laugh rang with delight. He loved it when she imitated his accent. “Och, there’s no time to be lost, then.”

  Mischief sparked in the flashing black eyes that had intrigued him from the first. “No reason to delay at all.”

  He kissed her with all the love overflowing in his heart. She was a thousand miles from the wife he’d ever imagined himself taking, yet she was the absolutely perfect choice.

  He started to stroke her, touching breasts and thighs and belly and sex, but neither he nor Marina was in a mood to linger.

  “Fergus, I need you now. Please,” she said in a husky voice, cradling his hips between her knees and raking her nails down his back. The sting only stoked his need.

  He tightened his loins and thrust. With a long sigh, she stretched up to take him deeper.

  “I love you, Marina,” he groaned, raising his head.

  Her eyes, heavy with arousal, burned into his. “And I love you, Mackinnon. I love you, Laird of Achnasheen.” Then with an aching tenderness that made his heart cramp, she said, “I love you, Fergus.”

  “My darling…”

  “Let’s try for a child. We don’t need to be afraid anymore.” When she squeezed around him, the blast of heat almost incinerated him. “I want everything life and love can give us.”

  Her grip on his shoulders tightened, and he realized that while he might claim her, she claimed him just as adamantly. Why not? This woman was his equal, the balance to his soul.

  “I give you everything I am.” The words were a vow, as his soul expanded to contain all the joy he felt.

  She lifted her hips in encouragement. “And I give you everything I am.”

  Fergus could hold back no longer. With deep, purposeful strokes, he plunged into her. She moaned her pleasure and rose to meet him.

  He heard Marina cry out as she reached her peak, then hot darkness crashed down over him. For the first time, he lost himself inside the woman he loved and found a radiant welcome that would sustain him all his life. With a broken groan, he slumped over her, spent and knowing that he’d found his destiny.

  * * *

  Fergus stirred, sensing that Marina was no longer beside him in the bed. After that first swift, miraculous joining, they’d made love again, lingering to share tenderness and passion, before they’d both tumbled into sleep.

  The room was dark. The candles had burned down to nothing, and the fire needed stoking. As autumn closed in, the nights grew colder. He looked forward to holding his bride close and snug in his arms all through winter. What a life stretched ahead of them.

  Marina stood at the window in her white nightdress.

  Drowsily, he pushed up against the pillows. “Is all well, my bonny love?”

  She turned toward him, a graceful twist of her slender body and a drift of midnight hair. “All’s well, amore.”

  He rolled out of bed, hooking up his kilt from a chair and wrapping it around his nakedness. “What’s got your attention out there?”

  “I was thinking how beautiful your glen is, and how lucky I was to find this place—and you,” she said in a dreamy voice.

  Och, she was the lassie for him.

  He added some wood to the fire, before he padded up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. When she leaned back to rest her head on his shoulder in perfect trust, his heart performed another besotted somersault.

  He dropped a kiss on her crown and tightened his embrace, while he stared out over his domain. This side of the tower faced the loch. The weather had cleared, and in the sky, the stars shone like fire.

  “How lucky I am, you mean, mo chridhe,” he murmured. “I always wanted to have ye up here with me, you know. Say we’ll marry as soon as we can call the banns.”

  “I’d marry you right now, if I could.”

  “Aye, well, you might have just got your wish, lassie.” He smiled into her rumpled hair. “Have ye heard about the old Highland tradition of handfasting?”

  She tilted her head. “Another barbarian custom, caro?”

  “You’ll like this one. In the eyes of God, we’re already husband and wife. If a man and a woman hold hands and promise to stay true to one another for the rest of their lives, they’re wed. It’s a very solemn vow, you ken.”

  She drew away and turned to take his hand. “Fergus Mackinnon, Laird of Achnasheen, I promise to be your wife and love you until the day I die.”

  He stared down into eyes lustrous in the firelight. After all the turmoil and unhappiness, her pledge moved him beyond words. “Marina Lucchetti, formerly of Florence, I swear to protect and love and cherish ye for all our life together. From this moment forward, I’m your husband.”

  Catching her up against him, he kissed her with all the adoration he felt. Their lips met in a passionate promise for the future.

  By the time he raised his head, he was trembling. So was she.

  Marina lifted an unsteady hand to touch his cheek. “We’re married now, caro?”

  His smile was wry. “In spirit at least. However for the vows to be binding, we need to make them before witnesses, and I’m no’ sure a court of law will uphold the contract, even then. We still have an appointment with the Reverend Angus ahead of us.”

  Her lips turned down in disappointment. “So we need to be respectable?”

  “For a mere three weeks, lassie.”

  She caught his hand where it rested at her waist and kissed it. “ Dio mio, it will be a long three weeks.”

  “Aye, that it will.”

  “I feel married,” she said softly.

  “So do I.”

  “And I suppose I have to sneak back to my room before the sun comes up.”

  “Aye, that, too.” He kissed the side of her neck and felt her shiver. “But in late October, the sun doesnae rise until late, and it’s nowhere near dawn yet. You don’t have to leave me for hours.”

  “I think I might come to like these dark Scottish winters.” He could tell from her voice that she was smiling.

  “It’s no night to wander around barefoot, so ye should stay here as long as you can.” He lifted his head to look down into her face. “I’m only thinking of your health, you ken.”

  She laughed. “You’re all consideration, Mackinnon.”

  “You have no idea.” Then in another tone altogether, “Will ye no’ come back to bed and warm up the last hours of the night with me, mo leannan ?”

  She rose on her toes and kissed him briefly but with purpose. “It will be my pleasure, laird of my heart.”

  * * *

  Epilogue

  * * *

  Edinburgh, April 1819

  Edinburgh’s high society gathered en masse at the George Street Assembly Rooms to view the new Highland paintings by noted artist Marina Mackinnon, Lady Achnasheen. A few connoisseurs even abandoned the London season to venture north and see what all the fuss was about. The critics from London and Edinburgh had also turned out in force, and so far seemed bowled over by the ar
twork on display under the line of crystal chandeliers that lit the magnificent ballroom.

  “Are ye over your nerves, mo chridhe?” Fergus asked, coming up behind Marina and curling his arm around a waist that was no longer as slim as it had been. The fashionable high waist of her dark gold silk gown concealed that she was expecting her first baby in late August.

  His touch warmed her as it always did, and she rested back against him for an instant before standing straight as befitted a laird’s wife in company. “Not until I see the reviews.”

  Fergus’s laugh was fond. “You and your artistic temperament.” He glanced around the packed room. “All I’ve heard is the most extravagant praise. People must have told you how much they love your work. I’ve certainly had trouble getting near ye all night.”

  She cast him a seductive smile. For an instant, the busy crowd disappeared, the noise faded to nothing, and she became just a woman standing beside the man she loved.

  He looked superb in elegant evening dress. Nobody seeing him would guess at the wild, kilted Scots warrior who strode the hills and braes of Achnasheen like a king.

  “Once we go back to the glen, we’ll have plenty of time alone, caro. Have patience.”

  His silvery eyes dropped to her lips, and she knew he thought of kissing her. She gave a shiver of wanton anticipation. “Not here, Mackinnon,” she whispered.

  “Och, why did I marry such a troublesome wench?” he said in mock despair. “A good Scots lass would kiss her lord and master when he asks.”

  “Whereas your Italian bride retains some grip on decorum.”

  “Blast decorum,” he said, sliding his arm free of her waist and catching her gloved hand.

  “I promise to be very indecorous later, amore.”

  “I cannae wait,” he murmured, brushing his lips across her knuckles.

  “Marina, you’re a grand success. Congratulations.”

  She shook herself out of the daze she always tumbled into when her husband set out to beguile her and turned to greet Fergus’s friend, Hamish Douglas.

  “Good evening, Hamish.” When she kissed his cheek, she had to stretch up to reach him. He was as large as a small mountain, and as fair and handsome as a young Viking. “When did you arrive?”

  “An hour ago. Diarmid is here, too.”

  “Oh, I hope I see him.”

  Since her wedding, life at Achnasheen had proven more convivial than she’d expected. Diarmid and Hamish were regular visitors, as were Fergus’s sisters and their families.

  Poor Mary and Clarissa. They’d never recovered from their shock at how casually Marina treated their brother’s authority. She could see where he’d picked up the wrong-headed idea that women were fragile flowers who needed a male to protect them from life’s harsh winds. She was glad she’d disabused him of that notion.

  Eighteen months of marriage had witnessed the occasional clash, but she and Fergus had both learned to compromise, or even upon occasion lose a battle. With each conflict that found its resolution, their trust in one another grew stronger and more certain.

  And there were benefits to their infrequent arguments. Marina and her husband had marked the start of each truce with some spectacular encounters in the laird’s tower bedroom.

  “I’ve asked Signor Lucchetti to save me one of the waterfall pictures, and I believe Diarmid means to buy the painting of the Cuillins.” Hamish gestured to where his lean, dark-haired cousin was chatting to Marina’s father. “I hope he’s in time. Soon the only pictures that haven’t sold tonight will be the ones that the Duke of Portofino lent for the exhibition.”

  As Fergus had foretold, Marina’s move to the wilds of Scotland hadn’t damaged her burgeoning career. His Grace, the Duke, had been delighted with the twelve pictures she sent him and had commissioned more. From the moment the first suite of Achnasheen paintings went on show at the ducal palace, his aristocratic friends had clamored for views of Scotland to decorate their own fine houses. She and Fergus had since traveled across the Highlands, seeking out beautiful places for her to paint, although nothing in her opinion could compare with the glories of her home.

  Marina’s fears that Fergus might resent her dedication to her art proved unfounded. He was proud of her talent. Not only that, he was delighted that because of her work, the world learned to admire his beautiful homeland.

  Life was grand. Now they expected a child in late summer, it promised to become even better. She felt blessed beyond what anyone could deserve.

  Diarmid and her father approached. Since breaking his leg, Ugolino had visited Achnasheen three times. On his last trip, he’d brought Giulia, the plump, easygoing widow he’d married not long before Christmas.

  Giulia was here tonight, charming potential purchasers with her broken English and flashing green eyes. Much of Papa’s spectacular record as Marina’s Italian agent stemmed from her new stepmother’s skills in persuading older gentlemen to buy the artworks.

  “Dolcissima, you’re a wild success,” Papa said, once Marina and Diarmid had greeted one another. “The Prince Regent’s secretary has just bought two pictures, and the fellow says His Royal Highness will likely want more for Carlton House. You’re under royal patronage now, figlia mia.”

  “Papa, you amaze me,” she said.

  Fergus scowled at his father-in-law, stouter and more cheerful than ever since he’d settled down with Giulia. “That fat pretender is lucky to have a painting by my supremely gifted wife.”

  “Hush, caro,” she said. Her husband was no lover of a Hanoverian Royal family he dismissed as mere usurpers on the throne that rightfully belonged to the Stuarts. “Once His Highness has paid for his pictures, you can harangue me about the Jacobite cause to your heart’s content.”

  “Brava ragazza.” Her father’s glance was admiring. “I’ve taught you the worth of a shilling.”

  “And a florin, Papa,” Marina said with a laugh.

  “That’s what a Scotsman needs, a thrifty wife,” Diarmid said.

  Fergus’s half-smile had been much in evidence tonight. It reappeared now. “Nice to hear ye thinking about marriage, laddie. Does that mean you’ve got a lass in mind at last?”

  “Not me, my friend.” The shadow that passed across Diarmid’s dark, intense features sparked Marina’s curiosity. “The lassies can sleep easy. I won’t trouble them with a wooing just yet.”

  Before she could probe further, Papa was clapping his hands and requesting silence. She and Fergus had appointed him master of ceremonies, not only because he was Marina’s business representative, but also because his theatrical nature thrived on being the center of attention.

  “Attenzione, attenzione! Prego! Prego! ”

  Gradually the hubbub subsided, allowing Papa to begin a fulsome speech about Marina and her work. When Fergus caught her hand, she twined her fingers about his. It was lovely being feted and receiving such accolades for her art, but her unshakable love for her husband was the source from which all her other happiness flowed.

  “He’s enjoying himself,” Fergus whispered in her ear. “Do ye think we’ll get out of here before Tuesday?”

  “Shh,” Marina said, stifling a giggle. Her father had been speaking for ten minutes already, and he was only up to the day Marina started at art school.

  At last Papa became aware that his audience grew restless, and he stepped aside to gesture to a shrouded easel that the waiters had carried in while he meandered on. “My brilliant daughter has one more surprise for you, a final painting that she tells me is a gift to her most distinguished husband, the Mackinnon, Laird of Achnasheen. The man I am honored to call my son-in-law. Fergus Mackinnon.”

  Fergus’s grip tightened, and he turned to her baffled. “What the devil…”

  Marina smiled up at him, as uncertainty coiled in her stomach. It was possible he mightn’t appreciate her offering, even though she’d worked harder on it than she had on any other painting in her life. “It’s a surprise.”

  “Aye, it’s that,
all right. Is it a picture of the castle?”

  “Wait and see,” she said, pulling free and crossing to stand at the easel.

  More applause broke out and an occasional cheer, which she would have thought beneath the dignity of this high-born audience.

  Ladies didn’t make speeches, so she’d been informed, and while she had few qualms about standing up to Fergus in private, she had no wish to shame him in public by having the world say he’d wed a hoyden. So she curtsied and murmured her gratitude and waited for the acclaim to die away.

  Fergus stepped up to her side. “What in heaven’s name have ye been up to, mo chridhe?”

  “Look and see, tesoro.” Without any more hesitation, she caught the blue silk cloth and flung it away from the painting.

  The room fell silent, then fresh applause broke out, even more fervent than last time. Half-afraid of what she might find in Fergus’s face, Marina lifted her chin and met his eyes. “What do you think, Mackinnon?”

  “Marina…” When he breathed her name, it sounded like a prayer. His features were stark with astonishment, and that little muscle in his cheek began to jerk and dance, always a sign of strong feeling. “You’ve made me look like a hero.”

  She glanced at the full-length portrait of Fergus in his red and black Mackinnon kilt, set against the view across the sea to Skye. He stood proudly in the place where she’d started to fall in love with the glen—and with its laird. In the dramatic landscape, he ranged tall and straight. A breeze rustled through his auburn hair, and the gray eyes burned with steadfast and invincible power.

  Marina had worked like a demon on this painting, although keeping her project secret from an attentive husband had presented its problems. She’d chosen to paint Fergus in oils, hoping the rich colors would do him justice. There had been some false starts before she grew proficient in the unfamiliar medium.

  “But of course I have, amore mio.” She turned back toward her beloved laird, who was so much more vivid and potent than any painting could ever be. “Because you are a hero. You’re my hero.”