She nestled closer to him, her own body warming with wanton desire as she pressed against his hot, rugged skin. “Lucien, are you awake?” she whispered.
“Hell, yes. I can’t sleep with your lush breasts rubbing against my back. Or your long legs wrapped in mine. Or…” His growl was low and thrilling.
He turned and rolled her under him in one smooth motion, the weight of his body a delicious crush atop hers. “Mallory, I don’t wish to hurt you. Your body isn’t used to this… this… me inside of you.”
She cupped his cheek and gave a sleepy smile. “I love this… this… you. I’ll let you know when I’ve had enough. I don’t think that will ever happen.”
He curled one muscled arm around her waist to draw her up against him.
And then his free hand slid lower.
She held her breath and closed her eyes, taking in each magical sensation. Reveling in the splendor of his intimate touch.
She saw stars.
They gleamed brightly on the lids of her closed eyes. “Look at me, my love,” he said and lightly kissed her on the mouth. “Open your eyes. I want to see all of you. The pout on your lips, the heave of your body, the passion in your eyes.”
She met his gaze and held back nothing of herself.
She was his. All of her belonged to him.
When he was done tormenting her with his exquisite pleasures, she fell back against her pillow with a sated purr.
She met his gaze and saw the wicked gleam in his smoldering blue eyes. He brushed back the wild strands of her hair and kissed her affectionately on the forehead. “Do you wish to get out of bed today, my duchess? It isn’t necessary, you know.”
He sank back beside her and then rolled her atop him so that their bodies were pressed to each other, her breasts flattening against his chest, her legs entwined in his, and every other thing between them a dank, throbbing, and wonderfully intimate mess.
“I think we must,” she said with an openhearted smile, wriggling her body against his to reach up and kiss him on the lips. “There is something important we must do.”
He frowned. “What’s more important than indulging our shameless, hedonistic pleasures?”
“I have no idea what that word means, but it sounds lewd.”
He arched a golden eyebrow and cast her a naughty grin. “It is.”
“My point is, we must take a dip together in the stream.”
“A dip? Why would we…” He finally understood her meaning and gave a groaning laugh. “But it isn’t Saint Mallory’s Day yet.”
“I am calling this Saint Lucien’s Day, for this is a day to be celebrated now and always. We shall perform the same ritual as you do for Saint Mallory’s Day. Together. Unclothed. That’s why we must do it now, before the household stirs and catches us frolicking in the water.”
“Frolicking? As in you and me naked and… there’s no tame word for what I mean to do to you.”
“Do to me? No, Your Grace. This is my day. My celebration. I shall take full charge.”
“You?” He brushed back her long, dark hair that had spilled over her shoulders and fallen across his chest. “Mallory,” he said with a soft chuckle, “I think I am going to enjoy being married to you. Who knew I’d fall in love with my neighbor’s gangly and often bothersome daughter?”
“I knew. I hoped. I’ve always been in love with that reckless boy who fell naked out of a tree. I’ve always been in love with you, the duke next door.”
THE END
Note From Meara Platt
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed Lucien and Mallory’s story. If you’re curious about James Brayden, the Earl of Exmoor, he has his own story. It’s called A Match Made In Duty, a romantic Regency novella about the wounded beast (James) who finds true love with his Sophie in a marriage entered into as a deathbed promise to her brother, but James soon realizes that his new wife is far more than a mere business arrangement.
With love always,
Meara Platt
ALSO BY MEARA PLATT
FARTHINGALE SERIES
My Fair Lily
The Duke I’m Going To Marry
Rules For Reforming A Rake
A Midsummer’s Kiss
The Viscount’s Rose
Earl of Hearts
FARTHINGALE NOVELLAS
Never Dare A Duke
Capturing The Heart Of A Cameron
THE BRAYDENS
A Match Made In Duty
Earl of Westcliff (Wicked Earls’ Club)
De WOLFE CONNECTED SERIES
Nobody’s Angel
Kiss An Angel
Bhrodi’s Angel
DARK GARDENS SERIES
Garden of Shadows
Garden of Light
Garden of Dragons
Garden of Destiny
PIRATES OF BRITANNIA
Pearls of Fire
ABOUT MEARA PLATT
Meara Platt is a USA Today bestselling author and an award winning, Amazon UK All-star. Her favorite place in all the world is England’s Lake District, which may not come as a surprise since many of her stories are set in that idyllic landscape, including her acclaimed paranormal romance Dark Gardens Series. If you’d like to learn more about the ancient Fae prophecy that is about to unfold in the Dark Gardens, as well as Meara’s humorously lighthearted, international bestselling Regency romances in the Farthingale and Braydens series, please visit Meara’s website at www.mearaplatt.com.
The Taming of Mairi MacKenzie
A Return to Kintail Romance
Sue-Ellen Welfonder
USA Today Bestselling Author
Blurb
Mairi MacKenzie can bring the dead back to life. But her fame as this special healer is a curse too much to bear, and she takes refuge in the ancient broch of Dunwynde, the Glen of Winds, her secret, well-guarded home. Many are her reasons for hiding from the world, allowing folk to believe she’s a banshee. Clan MacKenzie protects her as one of their dearest treasures. Only Mairi knows how unworthy she is of her clan’s devotion.
Sir Gare MacTaggert only desires redemption. Once counted amongst Scotland’s greatest warriors, he hasn’t lifted a sword in years because of a battlefield tragedy that broke his soul. All that is left to him is his clan and his home, and now he stands to lose them as well. Scotland’s crown wants his corner of the realm strengthened and so a King’s writ has ordered him to forge an alliance – through marriage.
Yet his honor won’t allow him to wed any woman, dead as he is inside. He seeks the aid of the Glen of Winds banshee, but before she can restore his will to live, they must face a greater challenge: the forbidden love that could destroy them.
Dedication
For my beloved Em – my brightest shining star.
A Personal Note to Readers…
Please note this is a work of fiction and not meant to reflect cold, hard reality. The following pages contain elements of fantasy such as myth and legend, curses, magic, ghosts, etc. A suspension of belief is therefore required. As this is a romance novel, there is also explicit sex. As a romance novel written by me, it does not contain the F-word or other profanity. It does include men in kilts, a mysterious old woman who wears red plaid shoelaces, and a few Highland places dear to my heart. Some of those places are written as enchanted, locations where unusual things can happen. That’s because I perceive them so. Above all, this story is filled with love for Scotland, the long-ago, and animals. Behind the ink, you may notice my fervent wish that good souls prevail. How wonderful that in fiction, they can. The real world won’t be found in this book’s pages, only a reflection of how I wish the world could be. I hope you’ll enjoy spending time there.
Wishing you Highland magic,
Sue-Ellen Welfonder
(aka Allie Mackay)
“There is no magic greater than love, but woe betide any who’d claim I said so.”
~ Devorgilla of Doon, cailleach, wise woman, Highland legend
The Banshee o
f the Glen of Winds
Deep in the most remote bounds of the Western Highlands, keen-eyed wayfarers might notice fissures in the cold, bare rock of the wild, soaring mountains. Dark and forbidding, these crevices only beckon to those of stout heart and steely will, for many tales are spun about what might dwell within such ancient, forgotten places.
Some say the openings lead to the far edge of the world. Others argue that these hills are part of Kintail, territory of the great Clan MacKenzie, reminding folk that the clan’s leader, Duncan, the Black Stag of Kintail, would cut down any man who’d dare cast a slur against the land he’s known to love and guard so passionately. Only the bravest souls then note that even the legendary MacKenzie chieftain rarely passes this way, and that he warns his people to tread gently if ever they must cross these savage and rock-strewn peaks.
For somewhere in their midst, lies the Glen of Winds, a steep-sided abyss of crags, knolls, and heather, where the ever-racing wind carries the lost souls of the damned, leaving them there to wallow in loneliness and solitude.
No one can say for sure.
And few wish to seek answers.
It’s enough to know that the wind does wail and moan here, blowing cold, dark, and endlessly.
Mist often swirls and eddies in the tiny Glen of Winds, and some have sworn earlier times can be glimpsed if one peers hard enough into the half-light. The truth is a centuries-old broch stands hidden in the glen. Known by the MacKenzies as Dunwynde, it’s rumored to be the dwelling place of a fearsome, wild-eyed banshee.
Indeed, her cries have been heard echoing off the cliffs.
Souls unfortunate enough to have seen her, claim she has hair and eyes of fire, and that her face is so bleak that if one looks upon her too long, madness descends. The banshee then celebrates, watching in satisfaction as the doomed wander away, forever lost in the glen’s sea of huge, granite boulders and whirling mist.
The banshee’s presence keeps visitors from setting foot in the Glen of Winds.
Only a fool would risk encountering her.
Or perhaps a desperate man.
For if one is tireless in the quest to learn the glen’s secrets, other fascinating tales are sometimes revealed. Stories of a beautiful, reclusive woman, bold, tempestuous, and just as wild-eyed as the banshee she’s reputed to be. She’s said to possess a strange and powerful gift, the astonishing ability to bring the dead back to life.
Her name is Mairi MacKenzie.
And she sees her talent as a curse.
Dunwynde is her refuge; the glen her secret, well-guarded home. Many are her reasons for hiding from the world. Clan MacKenzie makes certain she isn’t disturbed, protecting her as one of their dearest treasures. Only Mairi knows how unworthy she is of her clan’s devotion.
A shame one man is so determined to meet her.
And that he’s one of Scotland’s greatest warriors, even if circumstance has kept him from lifting a sword in years. Men still remember him and bards sing his praises. Women adore him, but he’s shunned them with a vengeance more fierce than his refusal to wield a blade.
All that is really left to him is his love for his clan and his home.
Now he stands to lose them as well.
Unless the Glen of Winds banshee will help him.
Knowing he must save everything he holds dear, he uses his warrior skills to find her. But dangers of the past are lurking and if Mairi gives the warrior what he needs, she will doom herself forevermore.
Prologue
Eilean Creag Castle
The Western Highlands, Autumn 1351
“There’s a dark wind blowing through your lands, that I say you.” Devorgilla of Doon, Scotland’s most revered cailleach, stood importantly before the solar’s hearth fire, and peered at her host, the equally far-famed Duncan MacKenzie, Black Stag of Kintail. “Blood will soon flow, a great evil that would smite innocents.”
A tiny, black-garbed woman with a wizened face, a whir of white-gray hair, and bright blue eyes, what truly set her apart were the red plaid laces she used to tie her black boots. And, perhaps, how spry she was, considering her formidable age. Years, possibly even centuries, that no wise man would risk mentioning.
Often referred to as simply Herself, Devorgilla commanded respect.
Here, in the heart of the Black Stag’s lair, Duncan’s own privy solar in his beloved loch-girt stronghold, Eilean Creag, that posed a problem.
Duncan ruled his territory with an iron hand.
Just now, he didn’t care for how the orange-red glow from his peat fire edged the cailleach. The lurid, flickering light gave her an otherworldly air that didn’t sit at all well with him. It also displeased him that he was certain she knew and had taken advantage.
Hadn’t she hobbled right to the hearth upon entering the room?
So Duncan frowned, something he did well.
If she thought to bedevil him with her witchy ways, he’d treat her to his infamous scowls.
In careful measure, of course.
“You have journeyed here in vain, great lady.” He used the title he knew she expected, not wishing to grieve her more than was necessary. “My lands are at peace.”
“That they are, indeed,” came a deep Sassunach voice from across the room. “Nor have there been any troublesome stirrings at my own Balkenzie Castle. I keep southern Kintail secured for you.”
“As well you should.” His mood worsening, Duncan looked sharply at the tall, scar-faced knight who’d claimed the solar’s best chair.
It was Duncan’s own, crafted of heavy black oak and richly carved. Sir Marmaduke Strongbow, Duncan’s longtime friend and brother-in-law by marriage, sprawled there now, his long legs stretched before him, his usual air of imperturbability so annoying that Duncan’s head began to ache. How typical that the lout would choose the same afternoon as Devorgilla to darken his door.
Duncan almost believed his friend also possessed crafty powers.
He just hoped Sir Marmaduke wouldn’t mention his patrols along a certain glen.
“I’ve seen no cause for concern up near the Glen of Winds either,” the fiend said, doing just that. “Even so, we should heed Devorgilla’s warning.”
Duncan glared at him.
Sir Marmaduke lifted his wine cup, sipped with irritating deliberation.
“He is a wise man, your friend.” The crone preened, sounding smug.
“No man would dare set foot in the Glen of Winds.” Duncan was certain. He made sure his mien and stance said so. Having positioned himself at one of the solar’s window embrasures, he kept his legs braced apart, his arms folded, as he met the crone’s piercing blue gaze.
He also took care not to glance at his lady wife, Linnet. She’d been silent until now, setting the room’s only table with platters of oatcakes and cheese, a few ewers of fine Rhenish wine. He knew without looking that Linnet believed the crone.
He did, too, though he wasn’t of a mind to say so.
He’d learned long ago that wherever Devorgilla appeared, trouble soon followed. Sometimes he suspected she conjured the mayhem, taking pleasure in spreading mischief. He wouldn’t put anything past her.
He also appreciated the peace that had settled over Kintail in recent years.
Quiet days he meant to maintain.
For sure, a dark wind was coming. But it wasn’t a war-band or a horde of unholy ghoulies. He made certain that every man, woman, and child, in his territory slept safely. The blackness descending was his temper and only his grudging respect for the cailleach kept it at bay.
“‘Twas the Glen of Winds I saw in my cauldron’s steam.” The crone swelled her chest, her thin shoulders squaring. “It rose before me clear as day, a narrow, steep-sided defile with jumbles of broken rock, thick heather, gorse, and bog myrtle. It was a wild and inaccessible place, unmistakable. The dark winds came from everywhere, black mists whirling about me, my ears aching from the screams and howls-”
“To be sure, you heard wailing.” He had her n
ow. “A banshee dwells there, as all men know. Nothing stirs in that benighted place except her cries and the souls of the doomed.” He didn’t say his clan spread the rumors. If she was as wise as she loved to boast, she knew.
If his Sassunach friend or his lady wife revealed the glen’s secret, there’d be hell to pay.
He flashed a look at them both.
Sir Marmaduke had helped himself to a handful of oatcakes and was calmly enjoying one, not at all looking as if the greatest cailleach in the land had just proclaimed doom and destruction was about to befall their beloved Kintail.
His lovely wife, still so desirable with her thick braid of glossy red-gold hair, and the fine heathery scent that aye wafted about her, was just stepping back into the solar, carrying a jeweled flagon of Duncan’s best uisge beatha. Fiery Highland spirits he agreed would be most welcome before Devorgilla took her leave.
What wasn’t welcome was catching the look Linnet cast at the crone.
“Did you see aught else?” his wife wanted to know, speaking in a way Duncan didn’t like.
He knew the tone well.
It meant she, too, had seen something.
As the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, she was gifted – or cursed – with the second sight; a talent that still had the power to rattle him to the bones, however long they’d been married.
She poured a small cup of uisge beatha and took it to the cailleach. “Anything at all?”
“There do be more, aye.” Devorgilla accepted the libation, slid another pointed look at Duncan as she sipped. “Your men patrol the hills about the glen,” she said, proving as always that she knew things she shouldn’t. “You’d best have a word with them. They should be aware that a ne’er before wickedness approaches.”
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