by Caroline Lee
“Aye.” He remembered that long-ago morning at the loch, when he’d imagined her bathing behind him, only to turn and find her wearing his shirt. “I wanted to bathe with ye.”
She slid forward, out of his hold, and turned over. He was momentarily disappointed that his view of her breasts was covered, until she smiled impishly up at him, her honey hair still covered in suds and dangling around her shoulders.
“I used to watch ye, and wonder what yer shoulders would feel like, ye ken,” she said.
She rested her forearms on his knees, driving his arse further into the loch’s pebbly bottom, but he didn’t mind, because her rear end bobbed to the surface behind her.
“An’ now?” He lifted a brow.
She shrugged. “They’re all right, but no’ my favorite part of ye.”
He smiled. He was doing that a lot more often these days, too. “Ye’re feeling aright? Truly?”
She just hummed and slid up against him, so he could reach her head once more. He tilted it back, and helped her run water through the strands, although he was sure she could manage it on her own.
Last night she’d told him her suspicions. Although her stomach was still flat, her breasts had changed slightly in the past weeks, and the smell of mutton now turned her stomach.
Gregor—the Sinclair Hound—was going to be a father.
As he watched his fingers thread through her hair, he tried to imagine himself holding a wee infant. A son or daughter.
“A daughter,” he whispered, knowing he’d treasure her the way he treasured her mother.
“Nay,” she was quick to contradict him, her eyes still closed as the water cascaded around her. “A son. With his father’s beautiful eyes and strength.”
His lips twitched again. No matter how much she said she admired his body, he knew the truth: if their child was lucky, he or she would look and act like Pearl. She was beautiful, kind, and loving, and their child would be blessed to have her for a mother.
Their child.
He shook his head ruefully. It was still hard to believe, and he’d spent the day in a daze. Dougal had knocked him down twice before Gregor shook himself out of it. With William home recovering, the commander had turned the training of the younger men over to Gregor, who took his responsibility seriously.
Except when thoughts of Pearl intruded.
Sighing now, she sat up and pressed herself back against his chest. His forearms rested on his knees as he gladly took her weight. He wondered what she was thinking about.
But because Pearl wouldn’t be Pearl if she stayed silent more than a few moments at a time, she didn’t leave him wondering long.
“Do ye think it’s true? Will Agata find the Sinclair jewels for our children?”
He shrugged, careful not to dislodge her from her perch. “They’ve been lost for generations.”
“Aye, and if what my sisters suspect is true, they were hidden away on purpose. But they belong to the Sinclairs.”
Gregor cupped her breasts in each hand, and sighed in unison with her, pondering his oldest sister-in-law’s plan.
The day before Pearl had left Sinclair land for Elcho Priory, she’d visited her old nurse. Elspeth was ailing now, and had given Pearl a piece of ancient tapestry, which she’d ignored in her anger at her father. It was her sisters—Agata, Saffy, and Citrine—who examined it and decided it was a sort of map to the location of the lost Sinclair jewels.
It was the reason Agata had returned to the Mackenzies, although the rest of the clan believed it had to do with the young step-son she’d left with his father’s people. The foolish quest was probably also the reason Saffy had disappeared a few weeks later. Gregor had been the first to volunteer to lead a search party, but the laird had just chuckled and dismissed the concern.
“She’s right where she needs to be,” was all the crafty old bastard had said.
And Gregor had accepted his laird’s decision, knowing if his wife wasn’t concerned about Saffy’s whereabouts, he shouldn’t be either.
“We grew up hearing stories of the jewels. It’s impossible for us no’ to be curious what happened to them, and why.”
He flicked one thumb over her nipple, liking the way she squirmed and pressed her arse closer to him. “Impossible, aye?”
“Well,” she admitted in a near-breathless voice. “I guess I’ve other things to be concerned about. I’m a wife, ye ken. An’ I have responsibilities.”
“To yer clan. An’ to me.”
“And to our baby,” she reminded him, a smile in her voice.
“Aye,” he whispered, brushing her nipple again.
She moaned. “Gregor.”
His lips curled upward once more. She was the first person in a decade to call him by his real name, and as far as he was concerned, everyone else could continue to call him Hound if she called him Gregor. Especially if she said it in that pleading tone.
He dropped his hands to her hips and flipped her around to face him, not caring at the way the movement splashed water all over them. They were alone in the private stretch of beach, and he had her all to himself.
“Wife,” he rasped, “ye’re the most important jewel in the world.”
She was smiling when her lips closed over his, and he knew the truth, he’d love this woman until the end of his days, and beyond. She was his Sinclair Jewel.
Author’s Note on Historical Costuming
Listen, I know men didn’t wear kilts in medieval Scotland. You know men didn’t wear kilts in medieval Scotland. The first record of the Great Kilt isn’t until the 16th Century, but tartans (the plaid made with specific colors) are much, much older.
So, my medieval Highlanders wear kilts, because…come on. You just can’t beat a hot Scottish guy in a kilt with a sword!
Hopefully you’ll forgive this little bit of historical inaccuracy for the delicious dude on the cover.
The Mackenzie Regent
Sinclair Jewels
Book Two
Chapter One
The Highlands, thirteenth century
“Do ye think we’ll ever see her again?”
Agata frowned down at the yellow ochre she was crushing into a fine powder when she answered her sister. “Aye. Donae fash, Pearl will find a way home to us.”
“But how?” Saffy sighed from her spot beside the open window.
Scraping the powder into a small box, Agata hoped their third sister would answer so she could concentrate on her work. The ochre was valuable, and she had no desire to waste any of it because she wasn’t paying attention. Carefully, she used the edge of her knife to ensure the last of the powder moved from the bowl to the box, then she let out a breath.
Straightening, she gave her younger sister her attention. “How, what?” she asked, a little peevishly.
Saffy’s arms were crossed on the windowsill, her chin propped up on them as she stared toward the mountains, clouded in misty rain. “How are ye so sure Pearl will return?”
Agata stretched her back and worked the kinks out of her neck. “Because she loves the Sinclair people more than anything else in the whole world. She’ll find a way back.”
“Becoming a nun is a daft idea, even for her,” muttered normally good-natured Saffy.
There was a snort from the large bed they’d shared for years. Saffy’s twin Citrine was lying there, her feet crossed at the ankles and propped against the wall, her skirts falling well down her legs. Her arms were stacked behind her head as she rolled her eyes at her twin.
“Pearl isnae any closer to becoming a nun than ye or I.”
Saffy didn’t turn when she jerked her thumb toward Agata, the oldest of them. “Aye, we’d make terrible nuns. But Agata considered it once.”
It was true. After David’s death and her return to Sinclair lands, Agata had been lost. Ladies in her position had a purpose in life, and marriage to a powerful laird had achieved that for her. But when he’d succumbed to a fever without fathering a child with her, there was no need for her to remain with
the Mackenzies, so she’d returned home.
To someone who valued order and control, it was disconcerting to be so unsure of her place in the world. A nunnery would have given her a place, but it wasn’t the one she wanted.
“I considered it,” she admitted softly. Her gaze dropped to her hands and the smudge of yellow pigment across the pad of her thumb. “But it would be many years afore they’d let me paint.”
Although there were monasteries where the nuns produced beautiful religious icons and manuscripts as well as the monks, they didn’t allow just anyone to paint. If she had managed to talk Da into sending her, she’d be far from home and years away before being entrusted with a brush again.
And she’d have to give up her dream of being Callan’s mother. Even having a place to belong wasn’t worth that price.
“Besides,” she said, absently rubbing at the stain on her thumb, “Da wouldn’t have considered it.”
“He did for Pearl,” Saffy pointed out needlessly.
That morning, they’d said their tearful goodbyes to their youngest sister. Pearl had objected strongly to the marriage alliance Da had made with Laird Sutherland, and demanded to be allowed to remain home.
Da had denied her.
One thing Pearl had never understood was their position in life. Da was the Sinclair, and as such, he needed to maintain strong alliances. With four daughters—known far and wide as the Sinclair Jewels—marriages were the wisest choices. Their duty demanded they be bartered for their clan’s future safety, and Agata had been pleased to fulfill that duty when the Mackenzies had approached Da.
But now… now she wasn’t sure where she stood. She was widowed, but her father had already mentioned another marriage agreement. Part of her was desperate with worry about her future, and the other part didn’t want to know.
What if her future husband was like David?
On the bed, Citrine snorted dismissively again, and Agata was pleased for the distraction.
“You sound like a hog,” she pointed out calmly.
Saffy smothered her laughter as Citrine rolled her eyes.
“Ye’re nae lecturing me on my behavior, are ye?”
Agata reached for the small box of yellow pigment and moved it to her shelf of precious paints. “Absolutely not. I wouldnae think of pointing out yer numerous deficiencies.”
Saffy laughed louder as Citrine pushed herself up on her elbows. As she did so, her skirts dropped further, revealing the knobby knees they all teased her about. Her chin stuck out mulishly as she frowned.
“I might not act like a fancy lady—”
“Or any kind of a lady,” Agata hastened to point out.
Citrine huffed and continued, “—But I have more fun.”
Agata closed her mouth to keep from smiling, and met her sister’s deep, golden gaze. “Aye,” she admitted. “Ye do.”
Citrine nodded forcefully and said, “Donae forget it!” before plopping back down on the bed. In the ensuing silence, Agata stood, wiping down the small desk with a rag, then reaching for her mortar and pestle. She crossed to the ewer of fresh water, moistened the rag, and began to wipe the remains of the yellow powder from the stone.
The sigh from Saffy caught her attention. The twins were younger than Agata and older than Pearl, and although they looked very similar—aside from their eye color—they couldn’t be more different. While Citrine was blunt and brooked no nonsense, Saffy was a dreamer. Citrine spent hours each day training with the men, her short stature more than mitigated by her toned muscles from wielding a sword. But Saffy was happier with an old manuscript, her mind full of stories and songs.
Now, she was back to staring out the window, the late spring air misty.
“’Tis terrible traveling weather,” she whispered, and Agata knew she was thinking of their youngest sister.
“Pearl will be back,” Agata assured her, praying it was true.
From the bed, Citrine hummed in agreement. “O’ course she will. ’Tis why Da sent her with the Hound, so he’d be sure of it.”
Frowning, Agata turned toward the bed. But it was Saffy—obviously intrigued enough to turn away from the mountain vista—who spoke.
“What do ye mean?”
Lying on her back—her feet still propped on the tapestry on the wall—Citrine managed to shrug. “Ye didn’t notice Dougal’s irritation? The Sinclair commander should have been the one to escort one of the laird’s daughters, aye?”
Agata’s lips pulled down. “Ye’re right. Why did Da nae send her to the abbey with Dougal, then?”
Citrine smirked and lifted herself up on her elbows once more. “Because…” She raised one brow suggestively. “He kens how Pearl feels about his Hound. Ye havenae seen the way she watches the man?”
“Really?” Saffy gasped, glancing between her two sisters.
Agata feigned nonchalance as she finished wiping down her tools. “Oh, aye, but who hasnae looked at the Sinclair Hound that way, hmm?” She carefully placed her mortar and pestle beside her pigments and brushes. “The man is brawny.”
“Does he even have a name?” Saffy asked. “The man doesnae speak.”
Her twin tsked. “Who cares if he doesnae speak? As long as his tongue works.”
It took a moment for the meaning of her sister’s lewd joke to set in, but when it did, Agata did her best to hold in the laughter, not wanting to give Citrine the satisfaction. Saffy wasn’t so successful.
“’Tis true! A man who doesnae speak, doesnae make demands, or tell ye what ye can or cannae do!—but still gives ye pleasure…” She sighed dreamily. “’Twould be worth his weight in jewels!”
The image caused Agata to lose her battle. A giggle escaped her, then another, until all three of them were bent over with laughter.
“I want a brawny man who’ll give me pleasure!” Saffy pretended to pout, finally curbing her giggles. She ran a hand down the side of her kirtle, “If I ask, do ye think Da would arrange such a marriage for me?”
Citrine was still grinning as she swung her bare feet off the bed and leaned forward. “I think we’d need to bargain the lost jewels to be assured of two such matches for his daughters.”
The lost jewels… Something snatched at Agata’s memory, and she wondered what had made her sister think of the missing brooch.
“Besides,” Citrine continued, “Da’s already made his marriage alliances, even if he willnae tell us who we’re to marry. ’Tis the only way to save the clan, at this point.”
Her twin nodded, sobering quickly. “I suppose Agata will be next.”
“She’s been married once, and is the oldest. Da will arrange her marriage quickly.”
The four daughters of Duncan Sinclair had been raised in this very room together. Aside from the months Agata spent as Lady Mackenzie, the girls passed their evenings gossiping and giggling about men, dreams, and irritations. Over the years, they’d turned to their eldest sister for advice and guidance, and Agata had been pleased to lead them wisely. Even in the matter of marriage, she was the most experienced, and had answered their questions about the bedding act in as much detail as they wanted.
But they also knew how close the Sinclair clan was to catastrophe. With only daughters, they’d often discussed who would follow their father as laird. That’s why their marriages were so vital to the clan’s future.
That’s why she prayed bold Citrine was correct, and Agata would be the one married first. She was the oldest Sinclair Jewel, and needed to find her place. She’d been surprised when Da had told her he’d made a match for her less than a sennight ago. As with the twins, he hadn’t yet named her groom, but Agata hadn’t stopped wondering what kind of man chose her, when her younger sisters were still—mostly—pure?
Was he a laird? Or had Da given her to someone else? A warrior? A merchant?
A man like David?
“’Tis unsettling to think of being sold,” Saffy said quietly from her window seat.
Agata forced a smile. “Donae worry.
Marriage will bring ye purpose and a place.” Order. A proper future. “And passion. And bairns.” Unconsciously, her hand fell to cover her womb, but she turned the gesture at the last moment and smoothed her gown over her stomach. “’Tis good to be married.”
Citrine didn’t even look at her when she muttered, “Ye’re no’ good at lying.”
Her twin’s clear blue eyes were sad when she nodded to Agata. “Do ye miss wee Callan terribly, Agata?”
Callan.
In the half a year since she’d been widowed, Agata had done an admirable job of returning to her old life, pretending that her time with the Mackenzies was a distant dream. But sometimes at night, she’d remember the feel of small arms around her neck, or sticky kisses on her cheek, or dirty handprints on her gown, and she’d ache to hold the boy again.
She swallowed, knowing her smile had turned brittle. “I ken he’s happy and well cared for, and that’s what matters. His uncle will…” The words caught in her throat. Truthfully, she knew nothing about David’s younger brother, only that her husband had thought him a disappointing wastrel.
Callan was only seven years old, and as David’s son, was destined to be the next laird. But he had many years before he’d be able to rule. Agata knew David’s aunt would ensure the boy was safe and happy, and with Callan’s uncle acting as regent until the lad came of age, everything would be fine with the Mackenzies.
So why did her heart ache to think of Callan growing up without her?
Saffy’s eyes were full of pity and her smile was false when she nodded. “Oh, aye. The wee lad will be fine. And soon ye’ll have the chance to be a mother again.” She shot her twin a glare. “Right, Citrine? Da will make good matches for his Jewels?”
But rather than reassure her, Citrine frowned down at the rushes. “Oh, aye,” she mimicked. “Nothing but the best for the Sinclair Jewels.”
The jewels… why were they thinking of them? Agata frowned in thought, her gaze darting around their chamber. What had made her remember?