A Highlander's Temptation

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  As if he knew, he gathered her in his arms and lowered her onto the pallet, following her down onto the soft mound of colorful blankets.

  He stretched out beside her, their bodies closer than a hand’s breadth. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Arabella.”

  The words made her heart jump and he slid an arm around her waist, drawing closer still. “I do not want you to feel shame or fear.” He spoke against her breasts and the warmth of his breath on her bared flesh made her shiver again.

  Something inside her was splintering, splitting wide open to let tantalizing molten heat fill her. She was melting, burning with such tingling anticipation she could hardly bear the pleasure. Even her skin tingled and she felt caught in a whirlwind of sensation so intense she feared each shuddering breath might be her last.

  “I am not ashamed.” A voice much stronger than her own startled her.

  The voice of a woman about to give herself to the man she loves.

  “But”—her own voice spoke up, too—“I am—you know that I have never—”

  “I will be gentle with you.” He began kissing her breasts and then his mouth was at her nipple, his tongue swirling around the tightly puckered furls. “But I will no’ lie to you. There will be pain, though”—he smoothed one hand along her curves, then down across her stomach, his fingers lightly brushing her maiden hair—“there are ways to prepare you so that the hurt isn’t so great.”

  “Then”—Arabella couldn’t believe she was saying this—“tell me what to do.”

  “You must let me touch you, sweetness.” His voice was rough, deep and rusty as if it pained him to speak. “You must open your legs for me.”

  “Open my legs?” Her eyes flew wide. She wasn’t ignorant of how couples mated, yet the thought of parting her thighs suddenly terrified her.

  It would mean he’d see everything.

  Her most secret parts and—she flushed—she was wet!

  “You are as good as my wife now, Arabella.” He was rubbing her breasts, kneading and caressing them. “You know that in olden times a man and woman need only declare their desire to be one and they were wed.” He leaned close and kissed her, gentle and sweet. “Here on Olaf’s isle the ancient ways are honored. There is no reason we shouldn’t seal our love.”

  “And if my father refuses you?” She had to ask.

  Darroc pushed up on an elbow. “Then I shall feel most sorry for him,” he vowed, hoping it wouldn’t come to that. “Because, lass, I meant what I told you at the feasting. Now that you’ve told me you love me, I shall never let you go.”

  “Oh, Darroc…. Then make me yours! Let us be joined in the old ways and with the blessing of the ancients.” She reached down to touch him, her fingers light and questing as she slid them along his length.

  “Lass!” He jerked and grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away just as she circled her fingers around him. “You mustn’t touch me. No’ yet. If you do, I’ll shame myself.”

  “But I want you to have pleasure. I—”

  Darroc almost choked. “You are my pleasure. My entire joy.”

  And she was. It was a truth powerful enough to bring him to his knees. She wasn’t the only one trembling. And when she shifted against him and he felt her honeyed warmth slide across his hip, he nearly spilled himself from that brief, tantalizing contact.

  He’d never wanted a woman more.

  And never had he taken a virgin.

  Humbled that he was about to, he began murmuring Gaelic love words to her. He gently stroked the soft skin of her thighs, hoping to soothe her into relaxing. When she did, parting her legs just enough to allow him to slip his hand between, he found the hot moist center of her slick and slippery, her silken heat filling him with a fierce, primordial need greater than any he’d ever known.

  As if she sensed his urgency, she rubbed herself against him and opened herself to him, letting him stroke her. She glided her hands down his sides, then to the small of his back and his buttocks, her fingers grasping, digging into his flesh and holding him tight.

  “Och, lass, you shouldn’t have done that.” He groaned and rolled on top of her, urging her legs farther apart. “I can wait no longer.” Careful to keep his hand on her heat, he let his fingers circle and flick across her most sensitive spot. She cried out and pressed herself into his hand, her desperation letting him know she was ready.

  His heart squeezed and he raised his head to look at her, but she’d closed her eyes. “I am sorry for the pain,” he breathed, grasping her hips. He reached down to take a hold of himself, nudging her softness until he could hold back no more and thrust inside her, wishing he could block his ears to her sharp cry of pain. It was a cry that soon quelled to a soft accepting sigh.

  Exaltation filled him, almost splitting him with the wonder of her. “The next time will be different,” he promised, lifting a hand to smooth the dampness from her face. He rubbed his lips against her hair, gentling feather kisses across her brow, her tear-stained cheeks. “You’ll never feel pain again, I swear it.”

  “I know….” Looking very brave, she bracketed his head with her hands and kissed him, slowly rocking her hips as she did. “But I would suffer the hurt again gladly if it meant being one with you.”

  “Arabella.” Darroc’s world upended, all the sorrow and anger he’d ever known spinning away as if it’d never been. “Saints, but I love you.”

  He began to move again, as slowly and carefully as he could, but the exquisite pleasure was almost killing him. The urge to plunge deeper and faster made his pulse roar and his heart race with such savage need that sweat beaded his brow. It dripped into his eyes, stinging, but he scarce noticed.

  Arabella was kissing him passionately, her lips and tongue scorching his soul. The wonder of it caught him by the throat, her tempestuous kiss blotting everything but the astonishing intimacy of their joining, the melding of their hearts.

  Then, as if she’d been born to love him, she tangled her fingers in his hair, deepening their kiss and wrapping her legs around his hips.

  It was too much.

  “Mother of God!” He stiffened, his seed pouring into her. He shuddered with indescribable sensation, the little room going dark around him, then bursting with brilliant light as if every star in the heavens swept down to blind him.

  Arabella lifted her hips and arched into him. She kissed him still, making soft little mewling sounds as he collapsed on top of her, spent and consumed, the aftershocks of his release still coursing through him.

  He broke her kiss at last and pressed his cheek against her temple, panting. “I can ne’er live without you,” he swore, knowing it was true.

  Through his bliss he thought he heard her murmur something about someone being bold and succeeding, but then she was kissing him again and nothing else mattered.

  Only the knowledge that he could walk through life forever with her and it would never be enough.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It took a full sennight for a day of dark drifting mist to descend on Olaf Big Nose’s Isle. Seven bright, crisp days and frosty, passion-filled nights, but now—at last—the Hebridean Sea was a deep, inky black. Even the foaming white crests of the waves were tinged a steely gray, each steep trough and long, fast-moving roller more uninviting than many had ever seen. It was a day of biting wind and cold. A morn that broke for good and ill and that would end in joy or sorrow.

  Darroc released a tense breath, watching Conall leap nimbly from one beached galley to the other. The younger man’s face shone with excitement as he ensured that each craft was ready to be launched. Dense, icy mist swirled everywhere, but other men were equally engaged. Olaf Big Nose stood in the midst of them all, shouting orders and looking keen to be away.

  Bloodlust glittered in the Norseman’s eye and Darroc didn’t miss that his friend had thrust not one but two Viking war axes beneath his belt. The handle of an extra dirk peeped up from his boot and everyone who’d been in his longhouse the previous
night knew he’d spent hours sharpening his sword.

  A blade he’d vowed would run red before another night passed.

  The brilliant steel sullied with the spent blood of Black Vikings.

  Curling his fingers around the hilt of his own sword, Darroc prayed for victory. Anything else was unthinkable. Especially now. Unfortunately, the place in his heart that should have blazed with confidence proved dimmed by the unshakable dread of what would happen if they failed.

  Though Arabella was still abed, he could almost feel her beside him. Her scent, so clean and fresh, seemed to fill the cold air, teasing and tempting him. And he could almost imagine her hand slipping through his arm. The soft, warm press of her as she’d leaned into him, her cool, silky hair brushing his arm and her breath so welcome against his cheek as she reassured him of her love and wished him well in battle.

  She’d done so in the small hours, before they’d slept. Then when she’d caressed the lines of his old warring scars, nipping and lighting her tongue along each one until he could take it no more and had seized her, kissing her hard. He’d thrust his hands into her unbound hair, wrapping the glistening strands around his fingers as he’d ravished her mouth and plunged into her, his thrusts as hot and demanding as his kiss.

  She’d arched into him, clinging and matching his pace, her cries echoing in the little fisherman’s hut they shared. They’d shattered together, both panting with the powerful force of their passion.

  Darroc swallowed, his gut twisting.

  One false move this day—one fleeting moment judged or timed in error—and Svend Skull-Splitter and his band of cutthroats would unleash the furies of hell onto Arabella and Olaf’s womenfolk.

  The possibility sliced through Darroc like a frigid wind, stealing his breath and almost laming him. He tightened his grip on his sword hilt, bile rising hot and fast in his throat. Tossing back his hair, he shoved aside the thought, the ghastly images.

  He opened his mouth to grind out a curse, but a hand, large and grasping, closed around his elbow. “A favor, MacConacher—asked by an auld, ill man.”

  Captain Arneborg.

  Darroc whipped around, surprised to see the shipmaster out of his bed. “Whate’er I can do for you, aye,” he agreed, alarmed by the shadows beneath the older man’s eyes. His frailty and pallor. “But you are no’ auld. You’re only recovering from an ordeal that would’ve been the sure end of a less stout-hearted man.”

  The captain nodded, looking pleased. “I’ve something for you.” He let go of Darroc’s arm to fumble at the folds of his cloak. A fur-lined bedrobe that wasn’t a match for the driving wind and freezing mist, though the morning’s chill didn’t seem to faze him.

  Even so, Darroc frowned. “Whate’er it is, I’d rather you give it to me after we’ve had our way with Svend Skull-Splitter. You should be abed—”

  “I should be going with you is what I should be doing.” Captain Arneborg’s voice was strong. “As is”—he glanced at the bay, the war galleys men were just beginning to slide into the water—“I’m asking you to take this plague bell with you in my place.”

  He plucked a bell from inside his bedrobe, proffering it with pride.

  “Plague bell?” Darroc blinked at the dented, tarnished bell. He hadn’t forgotten the bells that had caught on the rocks after the wreck of the Merry Dancer.

  Still…

  “There isn’t any plague in these waters.” His brow furrowed. “None that—”

  “Svend Skull-Splitter is plague enough.” Arneborg’s blue eyes flashed with spirit. “His men are the scourge of this earth. When they took me, I snuck one of my bells into my cloak. The bells kept my ship free of the pox and”—he stepped back, standing tall—“who’s to say it wasn’t this bell that kept me alive?”

  Darroc nodded, understanding.

  He’d thought the bells on the rocks were charmed. He surely didn’t blame Arneborg for holding on to one of them.

  He’d capture and defeat the Black Vikings using wits and steel, the help of his good friends and their own cunning and prowess at arms. But if taking along the shipmaster’s bell was important to the man, he’d gladly oblige.

  Though he would secure its clapper!

  “I thank you, sir.” He opted for tact and kept the notion to himself.

  Captain Arneborg’s smile rewarded him. “I promised Lady Arabella that I’d look after her. Now that she’s lost her heart to you, I’ll not see her widowed before she becomes a proper bride.”

  Darroc started to assure him that he had no intention of failing. And that—in his eyes—Arabella already was his bride. But before he could open his mouth, the captain slipped away to head slowly but purposefully back up the strand, toward the path to the longhouse.

  Then the whirling mist swept around him and he was gone.

  Darroc looked down at the bell in his hands and his heart squeezed as he remembered once more when he’d first heard and seen the bells.

  It was the day that had changed his life forever.

  Hours later, Darroc stood on the stern platform of his birlinn, free now of Arabella’s sail screen. Blessedly, the day’s dark, freezing mist hadn’t lessened. A superstitious corner of his mind wondered if Captain Arneborg’s bell—rendered silent and tied to his steering oar—wasn’t charmed indeed. The day could not be more perfect.

  Grateful, he stroked his chin, ignoring the knife-sharp wind and keeping his eyes on the fog-shrouded sea. A score of Olaf’s galleys rocked in the waves nearby, the ships’ rowing benches manned double.

  Beyond the sheltering cliffs of the narrow inlet where they hid—a bay far distant from Olaf’s isle and so remote Darroc hadn’t known of its existence—Olaf’s dragonship beat past them, the clanging of the gong sounding eerie in the near impenetrable mist.

  “How many times has he gone past?” Conall stood beside the birlinn’s gong, the baton clutched in his hands, waiting.

  “No’ so loud.” Darroc cut the air with his hand, not taking his gaze off the sea. “You know sound carries on water. Svend Skull-Splitter could be anywhere. Just because we think he’ll come from the east doesn’t mean he will.”

  “My balls are freezing.” Conall scowled. “The bastard may not even know Olaf is about.”

  “He knows.” Darroc was sure of it. He could almost taste the blackguard’s stink in the air. “Word has been passed by signal fires all through the Isles. Friends and allies who’ve agreed to our ploy and are acting as if they’d welcome Olaf on his way to claim his charter.”

  Conall snorted. “Snakes like the Black Vikings will suspect the deception.”

  “What if they saw us leave Olaf’s isle? They could attack the settlement.” Hugh, one of the oarsmen, spoke from his rowing bench. “If the Black Vikings suspect Olaf is bluffing, they might think his supposed coffers of silver are on the isle, with the women.”

  Darroc pulled a hand down over his face. “Hugh.…”

  The large, broad-faced man was strong as an ox, but didn’t quite have all his sillers.

  “Why do you think we spent the last few days ranging every spare vessel Olaf had in his bay?” Darroc reminded him, secretly proud that the idea had been his own.

  They’d even rounded up old and rotting fishing cobles and erected extra masts in the galleys, all in the hope of making the bay look crowded with a fleet of moored longships. Anyone spotting the clustered vessels would think a great party of men had gathered on Olaf’s isle.

  The womenfolk were as safe as if it were so.

  Or so Darroc hoped!

  But Hugh was worrying his lip, doubt all over him. “In this fog, the Black Vikings might not see the false fleet we built in the bay!”

  Darroc clamped his jaw in annoyance.

  Hapless Hugh had a point.

  And it was a consideration that could make his head pound if he thought too long on it. So he scowled at the hulking oarsman until the wretch shrugged and resumed peering into the mist, just as all of them were doing.
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  “Here comes Olaf again.” Conall set down his baton and raked both hands through his hair. “I swear that’s the twentieth time he’s gone past.”

  “Have patience.” Darroc’s own was waning, but he refused to show it.

  “Patience when my fingers are about to snap off.” Conall spat over the side of the birlinn into the water. “I swear if the Black Vikings do appear, I won’t be able to beat the gong. The baton will slip from my—”

  A sharp trilling cry like a curlew rose from one of the other galleys.

  The signal that the Black Vikings had been sighted.

  “A dark sail to the west!” The call came from the nearest galley, the men at the bow pointing to the mouth of the bay.

  Darroc saw the black-painted dragonship at once. Darker than the mist, it flashed past at speed, the lashing oars sending up great clouds of spume as it sped after Olaf.

  For one sickening moment, Darroc’s gaze flew to Arneborg’s bell, fury tightening his chest. His pulse roared in his ears, almost blotting all else. To think that a small, dented bell was all that remained of the large, sturdy cog. A ship filled with living, breathing men. The woman who’d come to mean the world to him.

  Rage shot through him and the day’s blackness seemed to pour into him, chilling him to the bone.

  In his soul, he knew he could so easily forget his and Olaf’s carefully laid plans and tear apart Svend Skull-Splitter limb by limb. He’d use nothing but his bare hands and gleefully damn the devil to die a death as horrible as he’d inflicted on innocents.

  Instead, he sucked in a hot breath, ready.

  Throughout the inlet, men sprang to action. They raised the oars, their eyes fixed on Darroc, waiting. High on the cliffs, lookouts returned the curlew cries. One of them, a man deemed with the best eyes, stood and waved a torch. Hidden in a crevice unseen save by those inside the sheltered bay, his signal was their final assurance that the dark-sailed dragonship that had sped past had indeed been the Black Vikings.