The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3)

by Maeve Greyson

  He shook his head. “Yer marriage to the duke is recorded in the Church.”

  If he thought she’d surrender so easily, he was sorely mistaken. Too much was at stake. She gathered up her skirts and picked her way to the trees. Removing her shoes, she slid her skirts high above her knees to untie the ribbons holding her stockings.

  “Isobel!” He strode to the edge of the nest and held the torch higher. “I demand ye stop this and…and come up here this instant.” He scrubbed his face and gave a frantic look around. “Come now, Isobel.”

  His faltering encouraged her. Aye. She’d win this yet. With a slow, seductive stretch of her leg, she slid off her first stocking and smiled. “I demand ye come down here and consummate our union from long ago. Now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A strained groan escaped Alasdair. God help him, this woman would surely be his death. The torchlight flickered across the satin of her exposed leg. He swallowed hard. Throbbing in his bollocks along with the rigid ache in his cock, threatened to turn him into a mindless idiot. His body raged to partake of the bliss she offered. Nay. He would not do this.

  “Isobel,” he pleaded. “Ye know as well as I that this isna right.”

  “Ye’re saying ye dinna love me?” She rolled her other stocking down until it bunched around her ankle. “Ye refuse to honor our vow?” She fixed him with a look that nearly undid him. “My marriage to the duke is invalid. Do ye not remember that day in the cave all those years ago? The vows we spoke to one another before my father sold me to that brute?” She gave the softest shake of her head. “We planned to run away. Have ye forgotten?”

  Forgotten? Nay. He’d never forget that day. After sealing their vows with a passionate kiss, they had both nearly drowned in the rising tide. Caught up in their love, they had sorely misjudged the time they should have fled the cave. “Ye know I have nay forgotten.”

  He risked a step forward. She had to understand he didn’t wish to dishonor her. His love was that pure. “It was after that day yer da locked ye away, and mine berated me for being a lovesick fool for a lass who could never be mine.”

  She freed her bound hair, allowing the dark river of silk to cascade down around her shoulders. “So, ye see? We are man and wife. My imprisonment with Temsworth was just that.” She slid a finger under the ties of her bodice and toyed with the laces, loosening the garment in the process. “It was never a consensual marriage.”

  He passed the torch from hand to hand, struggling to reason when all he wanted was to cast everything aside and go to her. “Our vows…” He lost the ability to speak as she slipped off the rest of her clothes, leaving only her chemise.

  Alasdair wet his lips. The outline of her hardened nipples drew him. “Our vows,” he repeated. “No witnesses.”

  “God was our witness,” she whispered as she reached him and slid her hands up his chest. “The land, the sea, and the wind heard our words.” She yanked his tunic upward and teased a nibbling kiss above his heart.

  All that separated them was his léine, his kilt, and her threadbare chemise. God have mercy on his soul. How could he not surrender to this woman? He stabbed the torch into the ground and took hold of her wrists, fighting for control. “Isobel.”

  “Aye?” She leaned into him, adding to his agony with a trail of kisses along his throat.

  “Those witnesses,” he groaned.

  “Aye?” She wiggled against him, imprisoning his poor aching cock between them.

  He released her wrists, smoothed his hands down her back, then ran them up under the luscious curves of her arse and pulled her hard against him. “Our vows wouldna stand in court.”

  “Court doesna matter,” she reasoned as she slid his kilt upward and wrapped a leg around his bare thigh. “We know. God knows. All who matter know.” She slid her arms around his neck and molded her softness to him. “Love me, dear one. Love me, I beg ye.” She pulled back a bit and cupped his face in her hands. Her dark, longing gaze searched his face. “Yers is the purest love I have ever known. We are man and wife. This is not just some weak argument to justify sleeping with ye. Search yer heart, my love, and ye’ll see the truth of it. I swear ye will.”

  “Mo ghràdh.” He could bear it no longer. Sweeping her up into his arms, he lowered her to the soft ground. “Such beauty,” he whispered.

  A sad smile teased across her lips, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes as she trailed a fingertip along his jaw. “The shadows hide the cruelty of the years. I’m no longer the woman ye once loved.”

  “Nay. Ye are not. Ye’re better.” He silenced any chance of further argument with the kiss he’d longed for since rediscovering her. Heart and soul poured into it. All his hunger. The years of loneliness. The nights of unquenched need. His dearest lady love responded in full.

  He raked endless kisses across the satin of her skin. No amount would ever be enough. Desire raged, surged into torment. He forced himself to slow down, to savor every bit of her. Lips, sweet as rare wine. Breasts, a wondrous delight. The mewling gasps for more. Her fierce urgency as she wrapped her legs around him and arched against him.

  Plunging into her ecstasy, he thundered with a claiming growl. He buried to the hilt and held still, ready to pound his way to oblivion. Nay. Not yet. Not until she found her pleasure first. He rolled over and held her tight as she straddled him. He slid her chemise off over her head. “Glorious,” he whispered as he cupped a breast in each hand.

  She smiled down at him, then started rocking. Leaning over him, she brushed her nipples across his mouth and continued her slow ride. With a purr, she intensified her movements. Alasdair drove his hips upward, harder and faster. He clutched her tight as she spasmed and cried out, her fingers raking down his chest. He rolled atop her again and drove inside, hard and deep, thrusting with the fury of endless longing. Isobel clutched at his buttocks, yanking him into her. “Aye, m’love, aye!” She let out another piercing cry and shuddered.

  The world ceased to exist as he reeled into her ecstasy and found his release. He collapsed atop her, his forearms resting on either side of her to keep from crushing her. Forehead pressed to hers, he gasped out another groan as he struggled to regain his senses. “Mo ghràdh. Mo chridhe,” he whispered between tender kisses. He felt her smile against his mouth.

  “Ye own me heart and soul,” she murmured as she held him tight.

  “Nay, love.” Alasdair eased over to one side, pulling her into the curve of his body and covering her with his plaid. He stared up into the darkness. “Our hearts and souls intertwine. Neither owns the other, but each is needed to make a whole.”

  “Ye’ve grown quite eloquent with age, Master Solicitor.” She settled her head more comfortably in the dip of his shoulder. A deeper, less contented sigh shifted her against him.

  “What troubles ye, love?” He thanked God above that his ability to read Isobel’s moods had finally returned, as sharp as though nary a year had passed from the days of their youth. He kissed the top of her head and nuzzled his cheek into the silkiness of her hair. She smelled of wood smoke, fried bread, and a woman well-loved. Utterly intoxicating.

  “Do ye regret giving yerself to me?” He had feared she would. No matter what she said. He’d recognized her thinly veiled ploy for what it was. “Speak yer heart, love. I would know yer thoughts, good or ill.”

  “Will ye grow to resent me because we canna reside at yer fine house in Edinburgh?”

  Such an idea had never occurred to him, but now that he thought about it, Isobel was right. As long as the duke hunted them, they couldn’t return to Edinburgh. He hugged her close and kissed her again. “Ye’re worth more to me than any house. I dinna care where we live, as long as we’re together.”

  “I wish we could stay like this forever,” she whispered. “Nary a worry in the world.”

  A snort escaped him. He couldn’t help it.

  “Young Connor would nay tolerate such lazing about. Ye know that as well as I.” A genuine fondness for the lad trigger
ed a deeper concern. “I must file the papers with even more haste so we might make our union legal. I will nay have the boy ashamed of us.”

  She pushed up from his chest, clutching his kilt across her breasts. “Our union is legal. It was first. Remember?”

  “Isobel.”

  “Dinna say Isobel in that tone.” She yanked the plaid free and jerked to her feet. “I’m not a fool, and I didna use that argument merely to seduce ye, ye stubborn arse.”

  “We have no witnesses to testify to the oath we made in that cave.” How could he make her understand? Unless God sent a lightning bolt into the middle of court, one that engraved the Almighty’s testimony in stone, they had no one to testify to the promise they had sworn. “We can prove nothing, and since we can’t, yer reputation is in danger.”

  “And if ye file those papers, yer life is in danger!” Isobel snatched up her scattered articles of clothing.

  “The bastard willna kill me.” He sat up, raking his hair back from his face. “We shall stay in the safety of Tor Ruadh until everything is finalized.” He thumped his chest. “I swear it.”

  “Dinna swear when ye know as well as I do it willna come true.” She tossed his kilt to the ground and yanked on her chemise. Her skirt came next and then her stockings. “How do ye propose to get the papers filed?”

  “I shall send them by messenger to my contact in Edinburgh. A man I trust. He’ll see to the filing.” Alasdair sat up and leaned to one side, recovering Isobel’s bodice out from under his arse. He held it out to her. “Thomas Abernathy would file papers with Satan himself if I asked him. The man is above reproach.”

  “No man is above reproach once Temsworth finishes with them.” She snatched the bodice out of his hand and threaded her arms through the garment. Fingers fumbling with the laces, her face darkened with sheer misery. She stomped a stockinged foot and aimed her suffering at him. “How could ye ruin our first time in such a cruel way, Alasdair? How could ye?”

  “But…” He caught the words before they escaped. He was not that large of an idiot. Far be it from him to point out that it was she and not himself who had complained about what they faced.

  He swallowed the argument, then bowed his head, and sent up a silent prayer. Give me the words, Lord. With a deep, settling inhale, he retrieved his kilt and knotted it around his waist. He moved forward and took a knee at her feet. “Forgive me, m’love. Tell me what ye wish of me.”

  Bottom lip quivering, she stared down at him for the span of several exasperated sighs. “Accept that we are man and wife and leave Temsworth to Satan.”

  Alasdair bowed his head and scrubbed a hand across his jaw. He rose and took her hands in his. “The man will not forget he has a son. His only heir. Ye know that as well as I. We must file the papers and come to an understanding about the lad. For Connor’s sake.”

  “I will never give up my son.” She yanked her hands away and retreated a step. “How could ye suggest such?”

  “I suggested no such thing.” He staunched the urge to reach out. Nay. She was about to bolt—either that or club him with a branch. “Yer husband is a cruel, heartless bastard. I’d never condemn the boy to such a fate.” He hurried to continue before she could interrupt. “But the duke is also a shrewd businessman drunk on power, wealth, and political maneuvering. I intend to offer him something he’ll value even more than an heir.”

  “Such as?” Her narrowed eyes glittered. She was not the fool either. She knew as well as he that it would take something extraordinary to take the duke’s heir.

  “I prefer to speak with Graham before I attempt to explain fully.” Mercy, Graham MacCoinnich’s wife, was goddaughter to King William. It was Alasdair’s sincerest hope that such a powerful alliance could serve them well in the permanent separation of Connor from his despicable father.

  “Graham is nay the chieftain. Why not Alexander?” She plainly believed him stalling for time.

  “Graham’s wife is goddaughter to the king.” He waited for the weight of his words to hit.

  Her immediate shift in demeanor gave him hope. That hope gained strength when she moved a step closer. “Truly?” she asked.

  “Truly.” He held out a hand. “Will ye trust me now? Ye know in yer heart there’s no escaping what must be done. I refuse to spend the rest of our lives on the run and constantly looking over our shoulders.”

  Scowl still in place, she finally placed her hand in his. He pulled her into his arms and tilted her face upward. “I am nay a coward, and I promise ye, we shall have the life we once dreamed of, aye?” She didn’t believe him. He had lost this argument. Badly.

  She proved that fact even more when she pulled herself out of his arms, bent to shove her feet into her shoes, and yanked their laces tight. “We best get back to camp, aye? I am weary and need to check on Connor before I seek my rest.”

  Alasdair gritted his teeth. How had they gone from heated passion to icy separation in the span of a few moments? He swallowed a groan, wishing he could have avoided the conversation. Maybe he was a damned fool after all. He retrieved her shawl from the ground and wrapped it about her. He squeezed her shoulders and hugged her back against him. “Tha gaol gam ort,” he whispered, then kissed her neck.

  His heart lurched as she stared down at the forest floor and remained silent. “Isobel?”

  “I love ye as well,” she snapped, then jerked away and wrapped her shawl tighter about her. Without a look back, she hurried toward camp.

  “Yer tone denies it.” He snatched up the torch and trudged after her.

  She didn’t respond.

  Hell’s fire and demon’s balls. May God deliver him from an angry, unreasonable woman. He lengthened his stride until he caught up with her. “Isobel—ye must see reason.”

  She came to an abrupt halt and turned on him like an enraged beast. “I must do nothing other than protect my son and the man I love. That is all I must do in this life, and I willna have ye nor anyone else preaching at me otherwise.” She poked a finger into his chest. “Ye be a damned fool if ye think ye can outwit Temsworth or out-bargain him. He’s not a man of his word. He’ll play at taking yer deal and then still hunt ye down and slit yer throat—even if the king himself has a part in the agreement.” She jabbed him again. “Ye canna deal with the devil and not get burned by the fires of hell!”

  He took hold of her hand before she could hit him again. “The man will not stop trying to recover his son, and I’m damned sick and tired of ye thinking I’m some helpless fool that needs yer protection. I can care for my own, Isobel, and ye and Connor are most certainly mine. Trust me, dammit!”

  She exploded with a hissing growl and yanked free of him. Fists filled with her skirts, she stormed away, plowing into the quiet camp and not coming to a halt until she stood beside her son’s sleeping form. She knelt and pulled his blanket higher as she kissed his cheek. The firelight flooded Connor’s face with a golden glow as she brushed his dark curls aside. Hands folded in her lap, she sat staring down at him.

  Alasdair tossed the torch into the fire. He glanced around, noting that Sutherland slept wrapped in his plaid, not a pace away from where Yeva had placed their pallets close to the fire. Ian was missing, but that didn’t surprise Alasdair. The man hadn’t slept well since the massacre at Glencoe. He probably stood guard out in the woods and had overheard all that had taken place. It mattered not. Ian would understand.

  Alasdair rubbed at the burning corners of his eyes. Sleep would not come easy this night. Not until he found a way to cool her anger. Never let the sun set on yer wrath. His da had preached those words many a time, but he’d not really understood their meaning ’til now. Aye, well, it was well past sunset. In fact, the wrath hadn’t occurred until stars covered the sky. What proverb applied then?

  Decision made, he spread a blanket across a layer of pine boughs that someone had supplied for just that purpose. Once the pallet suited him, he went to Isobel and crouched beside her but refrained from touching her. “Come, dear
one. Grant me forgiveness by sleeping in my arms, aye?”

  She lifted a sorrowful gaze to him. “I do love ye,” she whispered. “And it is because of that love that I fear losing ye—not because I think ye’re less a man or cowardly.” Her unshed tears reflected in the firelight. “I canna bear losing ye again.” She pulled in a hitching breath, then released it. “Not now.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Not ever.”

  He scooped her up into his arms and cradled her like the precious treasure she was. Carrying her to the pallet, he laid beside her, holding her as though he feared she’d disappear into the night like smoke rising from the fire.

  She curled deeper into his embrace, burrowing hard against his chest. He smiled as she wrapped a fist in his shirt and brushed a quick kiss to his throat. Her soft, deep breathing soon assured him she had at last found her rest.

  Watching the flames tickle through the logs, arms wrapped tight around his woman, Alasdair played out every possible scenario to free Isobel and Connor from their past. Every plan ended the same, leading him to a sobering conclusion. If the duke turned out to be as underhanded as Isobel swore, the man had to die. It was the only way.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “In my day—”

  “Auntie!” Isobel looked at the old woman. “Not in front of Connor, aye?”

  The failing of her plan still grated on her nerves, tainting her frame of mind against the brightness of the balmy day. She gritted her teeth. Last night’s battle may have been lost, but she had not surrendered. Somehow, she would convince Alasdair of the error in his thinking.

  “If it’s about last night,” the lad piped up, sitting taller in the saddle and brightening with a prideful smirk. “I already know what happened. Sutherland told me all about it.”