The Highlander's Crusader Bride: Book 3 in the Hardy Heroines series

by Cathy MacRae

  Leaves rustled. Arbela grabbed Bram and flung him into his saddle. She shoved the reins into his hands as she met his startled gaze. “Do not stop until ye reach Dunfaileas,” she ordered, dragging the pony around to face down the trail. She smacked her palm against Ari’s ample rump and the pony leapt forward, Bram clinging gamely to his back.

  Knowing Voski would not follow the pony without her, she faced the forest, balancing lightly on the balls of her feet, weight slightly forward. Every nerve in her body tingled, aware of every flashing mote of light, each sway of shadow. The deep, earthy scent of churned, rotting leaves from the forest floor separated sharply from the tang of pine needles. The gurgle of the burn a counterpoint to Voski’s staccato breaths as he drank in the air.

  Branches crackled with a swoosh of leaves. Arbela vaulted onto Voski’s back. He danced a step, lithe between her knees. Hooves crunched the debris of the forest floor a short distance away in a rhythmic tattoo, the sound fading as the animal hurried away.

  Whirling Voski to follow Bram, she sent him racing back to Dunfaileas.

  She reached the gates as Caelen swung Bram from his pony. His head jerked toward her as Voski thundered into the keep, his brow furrowed.

  “What has happened?” he barked, his gaze sliding to his son whose excited chatter riddled the air. Caelen grabbed Voski’s reins as Arbela quickly dismounted.

  Men paused in their duties, their hesitance filling the air with expectation. Arbela brought her apprehension-charged breathing under control.

  “We may have encountered someone on the trail,” she said, loud enough for her voice to carry to the anxious ears. “Though we saw no one.”

  With a quick glance to their laird, the clansmen drifted slowly away, relief almost palpable.

  “Why did ye send Bram racing back without ye?” Caelen asked, his voice taut.

  Arbela gave Bram a smile to smooth over the accusation in his father’s question, then turned to Caelen. “We rode to the burn, but something did not seem right. I called to Bram to halt, and when both our horses insisted there was something in the forest, I sent him away from the possible danger, though I lingered a moment to see if I could determine what it was.”

  “I fell off Ari!” Bram exclaimed, tugging on Caelen’s arm.

  Arbela sighed. It wasn’t that she did not wish Caelen to find out Bram had fallen from the pony’s back, and it was clear he’d sustained no injury, it was simply not the time she would have chosen to broach the subject.

  Caelen’s gaze snapped to his son. “What happened?” he demanded. Arbela winced at his tone, but Bram was too caught up in his tale to notice.

  “Arbela shouted at me and I told Ari to stop,” Bram said, glossing over the fact he’d sawed heavily enough on the reins to cause the pony’s abrupt halt. “And I flew over his head and slammed into the ground,” he added, emphasizing each action with raised voice. “I couldnae breathe!”

  “The fall knocked the breath from him,” Arbela interjected calmly in an attempt to downplay Bram’s somewhat embellished story. Caelen gave her a sharp look then knelt before Bram, relieving Arbela of her worry he’d rage over the details. At least not in front of Bram.

  “Always grip with yer knees, lad,” Caelen said. “Did the fall injure ye?”

  Bram swayed his upper body from side to side as he chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “Nae. Arbela checked me. I dinnae need to see the healer.”

  Caelen ran his hands lightly over his son’s arms and peered into his eyes, then chucked him under his chin. “Then take yer pony to the stable and give him a good rubbing. He was brave to bring ye home so quickly and deserves an extra handful of oats. But no more,” he admonished, waving a finger before Bram’s face. “Ye dinnae wish to give yer pony a sour stomach.”

  Bram nodded and stepped toward the stable, Ari following placidly. Caelen watched the boy’s progress for a moment, then turned to Arbela.

  “Tell me what you found.”

  Somewhat taken aback by his calm tone and surprised he did not immediately accuse her of putting Bram in danger, Arbela hesitated, shifting from thoughts of Bram to remembering what she’d noticed in the forest, shying away from the guilt fluttering through her that she’d taken her attention from their surroundings by daydreaming instead of protecting Bram with every ounce of her being.

  “As soon as Bram was away, I noticed the quiet. No birds, though we’d made enough noise to silence them. But they did not resume with Bram’s absence. Both horses had alerted to something in the woods, though I could not determine what it was. Voski continued to scent the air and after several moments, hoofbeats pounded on the ground only a short distance away. I had originally wondered if we’d encountered the wolf, but I am now certain it was a rider who did not wish to be seen.”

  Caelen absorbed Arbela’s words without comment. A moment of silence stretched between them, then he nodded. “I will send someone to search the area. I am glad ye and Bram are safe.”

  Caelen’s hard gaze changed before her eyes, from hardened warrior, inflexible laird, and solicitous father into something warmer, inviting, encompassing her in a wealth of caring—and the flutter began anew in Arbela’s belly. Leaning forward, Caelen lowered his head and kissed her.

  Chapter 31

  Relief, panic, and desire slammed through Arbela, completely overwhelming her, overriding the intentions and beliefs she’d clung to in terror of losing herself. Had Caelen been arrogant, brutish or demanding, she could have resisted him—and had, for well over a month. A month in which he’d been no more than distant, polite, and undemanding. The past weeks of unexpected change, however, had worn away at her resistance—softly, insistently, as one polished a cherished object to coax a reluctant shine.

  His lips skimmed hers with a gentleness that took her breath away. Warmth, like sunlight after a cold rain, shimmered hot beneath her skin, and she eased upward on her toes to deepen the kiss. Caelen’s mouth slanted across hers in acceptance, then slid slowly across her cheek.

  “I believe we should discuss this further where there are no prying eyes,” he murmured in her ear. His breath stirred against her skin, raising hensflesh on her neck and shoulders. Realization of where she stood quickly doused the prickles, but the accompanying heat hummed insistently through her veins.

  Caelen cocked his head. “Mayhap ye could impose upon yer aunt to engage Bram in a game or two of Fierges whilst the rain keeps him inside?”

  A roll of thunder punctuated his thinly veiled question. A drop of rain landed on her nose and others kicked up puffs of dust in the ground around them. Arbela nodded. “I will see to it.” Her cheeks flushed hotly at the faint rasp of her voice.

  Bram scampered across the yard as thunder rumbled yet again. “Dinnae get wet!” he shouted as he passed, heading into the hall. Arbela’s head spun, torn between chasing down her stepson and attending his sire. With a low chuckle, Caelen pulled her against him.

  “Five minutes, no longer,” he whispered, then released her with another fierce kiss.

  Arbela’s breath grew shallow as she hurried into the keep. The enormity of the step she anticipated loomed before her. She wound her way up the stairs, scarcely feeling the stone beneath her booted feet, and found Zora bent over a piece of embroidery in Bram’s chamber.

  “Could ye…that is, Bram….” Arbela stared at her aunt, her tongue in a hopeless tangle. Heat twisted in her core and she dropped her gaze to the floor. Embarrassed.

  “Shall I mind the boy for ye this afternoon?” Zora asked mildly, setting her sewing aside. She rose and glided to Arbela’s side, lifting her chin with a gentle touch of her fingers. “I will be happy to do so. He is an engaging child.” A small smile played about her lips. “Mayhap ’tis time for another.”

  Arbela bit her lip, stifling her protest. To deny Zora’s assumption would be naught more than a convenient lie.

  Zora tilted her head. “I will entertain him below stairs whilst ye prepare yerself. Take whatever oils and such
from my belongings as ye wish.”

  “He said five minutes,” Arbela blurted. She clamped her mouth shut as new heat flamed in her cheeks.

  Zora laughed. “Take at least ten, im destry. ’Twill be worth it.” Without waiting for Arbela’s reply, she swept from the room in a rustle of silk and the delicate chime of bracelets.

  Arbela shook herself and spun on her heel, crossing the hall to Caelen’s—their—room where she quickly divested herself of her stained clothing. She set the latch in the door to hinder interruptions and poured water from the ewer into the basin, adding a few drops of rose oil. Breathing in the scent, she swiftly bathed, then toweled dry as she stared at the garments available to her. Choosing the heavy brocade robe, she belted it loosely about her waist then unbraided her hair, combing through the long strands with her fingers.

  Her toilette firmed her mind on the path she’d chosen and relief settled over her, freeing the burden of indecision, leaving her almost giddy. The door latch rattled, pricking Arbela’s mood. Rather than entertain the nagging doubt that rose at the sound, she quashed it beneath a surge of excitement spreading sweet as warmed honey.

  She released the latch and opened the door. Her blood heated at the sight of Caelen’s damp, bare chest, evidence he’d also taken time to sluice off sweat and grime. Clearly, he thought this moment to be important. Her heart soared with unexplainable joy.

  “I’d prefer to stare at ye from that side of the door,” he murmured with a nod inside the room.

  With a swirl of her robe, she stepped to the side and granted him entrance. Caelen pressed the latch home with a snick. Arbela’s pulse raced wildly. Should her wedding night have been like this? Excited to be in her husband’s presence, anxious to have his arms about her, longing for his kiss? Quite different from the calculating desire to engage in the proper motions to seal their marriage vows.

  She met Caelen’s gaze, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach.

  Dinnae muck this up. Caelen stared hungrily at Arbela, glad he’d managed the calm words to get him inside the room, for at this moment nothing above his waist functioned properly. Her eyes sparkled, and if he’d drunk a barrel of whisky, he’d not feel more disoriented—or euphoric.

  Even after acknowledging the lass had captured his interest, and after a week of fumbling about, attempting to garner his wife’s notice, and after an additional week coaxing her to trust—and hopefully accept—him, this was the first time he’d looked his fill at the woman he’d married. And the first time she’d stared back with such frank interest—and invitation.

  “I’ll—” Caelen halted and cleared his throat, smoothing the rough edge of his voice. “I accept all ye offer, Arbela. And ye may say yea or nae as ye will.”

  A lift of a dark brow asked a silent question. Caelen’s grimace at his bumbling words pressed into a half-grin.

  “I wish ye to have choice over what happens. Not doubt or remorse afterward,” he attempted to explain.

  Arbela’s lips softened and her hand rose to the belt of her robe. Caelen took a step toward her. “No,” he breathed, and immediately chided himself for the look of confusion on Arbela’s face.

  “May I?” he asked, reaching for the thick silken tie. He chanced a look at her face, relieved to find the pale dismay replaced by heightened color in each cheek.

  “Aye,” she murmured, relaxing her hands to her sides.

  Caelen stood close enough to feel the heat from her body, scent the aroma of roses that drifted from her skin. He captured her waist and drew his hands around the full curve of her hips, then to the trailing edge of her belt. He gave it a quick tug and the knot slithered apart. Arbela caught her breath on an inhale. Caelen fingered the edges of her robe.

  “Something bothers ye still,” he murmured. “Speak plainly so we may work this through.”

  “I wish to do this,” Arbela replied, “but the concern lingers I will lose myself as I become, not Arbela, but Caelen’s wife.”

  “And if I said I dinnae wish to lose Arbela?” Caelen asked. “That she and my wife could be the same?”

  Relief smoothed her brow. “Ye do not wish to change me?”

  Caelen shook his head. He could not imagine a worse fate. “Nae.”

  A smile flashed in her eyes, and a blow of desire struck Caelen’s chest, thrusting outward, hardening his body. He gripped the edges of her robe, whitening his knuckles.

  “If I remain Arbela,” she warned, her voice soft, “I will not become a biddable woman who chatters constantly about babies and household gossip.”

  Caelen’s bark of amusement rang. “By St. Andrew’s crooked nose, I would hope not! I’d not risk changing ye into a woman who reminds me of my dead wife.” His humor fell. “I want ye—Arbela. And all that entails. Will ye have me as yer husband?”

  “If I take ye as my husband, I will give in to the temptation to do this,” she murmured, raising a hand to cup his cheek. He turned his face into her caress, dropping a kiss to her palm.

  “Ye may touch me however and wherever ye wish,” he rasped, his voice betraying his passion.

  “And ye will touch me?” Arbela’s voice fluttered.

  “Mayhap we could discover what ye do and dinnae like.”

  He loosened his grip, drawing the edges of her robe apart, spilling her breasts to his gaze. Kneeling before her, he cupped her breasts, pressing them gently together. Arbela gasped as he opened his mouth, drawing the tip of one breast inside in a slow, suckling movement. His fingers kneaded her soft flesh, his tongue rasping across the tight peak. Arbela grasped his shoulders, fingers biting hard into the muscle, bracing against the sway of her legs.

  Caelen slowly released her breast and stood. “I happen to like that. Quite a bit, actually. Though, if ye dinnae, I would not….” He grinned. “I would try to not do it again. ’Twould be difficult, but I would attempt to honor yer wishes.”

  “Nae,” Arbela croaked. “I like it, as well.”

  Laying his palms against her shoulders, Caelen slowly swept her robe back, and Arbela let it fall to the floor. “This is also what I like,” he murmured. “Yer skin is warm, kissed by the sun.” His hands fell to her full breasts, down the slender expanse of her waist, and over the swell of her hips. “I could lose myself for hours in yer curves.”

  His kisses feathered across her skin, spreading henflesh in their wake. His blood ran hot and fast, but he remembered their wedding night, and resolved he would somehow change her opinion of lovemaking from a burden to a pleasure she was willing to pursue.

  Taking her hand, he led her to the bed, sweeping back the coverlets, steeling himself against the outburst he prayed would not come. Ruthie had hated lovemaking, and though he’d eventually found his release with other women, nothing had ever been as important as forging this link with Arbela. She both excited and humbled him. If she bolted, he would not ask again.

  Arbela slid onto the bed, her dusky skin a contrast to the sun-whitened sheets. Caelen felt certain he’d never seen anyone so beautiful. She shattered every notion he’d ever entertained as to a comely lass, rebuilding his ideal to her exact, perfect proportions. He unbuckled his belt, dropping his plaide to the floor, then lay next to her, smoothing curls of hair from her face. She reached an arm about his neck and drew him to her, her lips lightly brushing his.

  “I like this,” she said.

  “And this?” he asked, drawing the flat of his hand from her hip to breast, lingering to fondle the fullness. At her murmur of approval, he gently caressed her curves, kneading firm muscle, noting how she relaxed in his arms.

  She countered his caresses with innovations of her own, matching his boldness, slowing to a rhythm that had his blood thrumming in his ears. He dropped his palm to the curls between her thighs, encouraged by the heat and dampness he found there. Arbela jerked her hips once as he slid a finger against the swollen skin. He continued his careful exploration, gritting his teeth against the answering thudding pulse of his body.

  “Have
I found any places ye dinnae like to be touched?” he asked, nipping playfully at her belly to cover his apprehension of her answer. Her gasping giggle brought him up short.

  “Ye find my lovemaking amusing?”

  “Nae,” Arbela replied. “Ye found a sensitive spot.”

  “A ticklish spot?” He sent her a devilish grin before testing the soft skin just beneath her ribs.

  “I have never been ticklish in my life,” she retorted, though the wary look in her eyes told him otherwise.

  “Ye wouldnae lie to yer husband, would ye?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then we will save this for another time,” he murmured, his cock heavy with desire, denying time for foolery. He rose above her, a hand on either side, touching her core lightly. Her eyelids closed as her lips parted. Fighting the urge to give in to the need to sheath himself fully, he teased his way, marveling at how her body adapted to his. Arbela tightened about him, then cried out, pressing herself against him. His arms trembled as he held himself still, but she caught his flanks in her strong hands, forcing him to move. And move. And move.

  Her breathless cries added fuel to the fire raging inside him. She arched against him, arms flung wide. He fought against his release and lost, carried away by her passion. His breath roared in his ears, nothing else existing but the tight warmth rippling over him in never-ending waves. Depleted, he still continued, sending Arbela into another spiral of pleasure. His breath rasped in his chest, but her response hardened him again, and he took her again, reaching his second climax quickly.

  Weightless, yet too heavy for his arms to support him any longer, he lowered himself atop Arbela, resting his head in the crook of her shoulder, not missing the opportunity to nuzzle her breast. Her heart raced beneath his ear, and she smoothed her fingers over his head as her chest rose and fell with each ragged breath.