Amanda Scott (16 page)

His hands were warm and firm, and he lowered her slowly, gazing into her eyes as he did, his expression unreadable. Setting her down, he released her, his fingers brushing lightly against her breasts as he did, sending tingling heat waves through her body. Apparently unaware of the sensations he had stirred, he turned away and gazed out over the loch.

“This is a lovely, peaceful place,” he said.

“It must look much like a hundred other lochs you have seen,” she said.

“Seil has no lochs.”

“Mayhap it does not, but you have traveled, sir, even to France. Moreover, your father holds land on Mull, which boasts many lochs.”

“Aye, but the scents and sounds are different here, don’t you think? Mull is more heavily laden with trees.”

“I love the Isle of Mull,” she said. “Duart Castle is my favorite amongst my father’s many fortresses, because it boasts the most spectacular views.”

As they talked, he set a light hand against the small of her back and guided her toward the left shore of the loch, choosing a route above the rocky shoreline across the grassy, tree-dotted slope. As they neared the opposite end, they had a clear view of the sea miles to the north and of the twin Paps of Jura, jutting into the sky to the east. No one else was anywhere in sight.

Reminded of their isolation, Mairi pulled her cloak more closely about her.

“Art cold, lassie?” he said, putting an arm around her and drawing her near.

Telling herself that to pull away from him might stir him to take even greater liberties, she stood still, saying nothing.

“What is it, Mairi?” His voice was gentle and kind, with the softly beguiling undertones that she had begun to recognize.

“It feels lonely here,” she said.

“How can it be lonely when we are together?”

“But for me to be alone with you like this is unseemly, sir.”

“Would you prefer to have others about?” he asked, turning her to face him.

“You know that is not what I mean,” she said, looking up and then wishing she had not. But when she would have turned her head, he caught her chin and held it. He was too close, too warm, too . . . too everything!

“I may know what you mean,” he said in that same gentle tone, “but I prefer to be alone with you, without a host of prattling tongues to watch over us.”

Stifling a bubble of laughter, she said, “Tongues cannot watch people.”

“You know what I mean,” he said as he bent to kiss her.

Her body leaped in response, and although a stern voice in the back of her mind shouted at her to stop him, she did not try. She could not be sure he would stop if she asked him to, but her body was singing in response to his touch, and she knew she did not want to find out, either way. She also knew, although she would tell no one else, that she had been waiting, hoping, for just such a kiss.

His arms slipped around her, his hands caressing her shoulders and back, and hers sliding beneath his cloak to his waist. The cloth of his jerkin felt rougher to the touch than the velvet doublet he had worn before, but its roughness suited her mood, and she clutched the material tightly, holding him close.

The kiss began softly, as the one at Loch Gruinart had, but his lips hardened quickly against hers, and she could tell that his passions were stronger than before, his yearning more dangerous to her. Still, she could not find it in her to protest. She had never known caresses like his, never known a man like him, and had never known that her body could take fire as it did when he touched her.

She kissed him back, teasing his tongue with hers as if the two were soft-edged swords, and when he moaned, the sound sent a thrill through her stronger than any she had felt before.

How they came to be sitting atop his cloak on the ground with hers in a bundled heap beside them she would never recall, for her senses were filled by the sensations his hands stirred as they caressed her breasts and belly. When he hugged her tight, she gloried in the warmth of his body pressed so closely to hers, little realizing that his fingers were busy with her laces until her bodice relaxed its tight hold on her body and chilly spring air touched bare skin.

Holding her gently away from him by her shoulders where the material had slipped down, he said, “I want to touch you, lass, to stroke you all over, to see if what I cannot yet see is even softer to the touch than what I have already felt. I want to kiss your breasts, to suckle them like a bairn.”

Fighting the astonishing sensations sweeping through her in response to his words, she said in little more than a whisper, “You mustn’t.”

“You don’t want me to?”

She bit her lip, unwilling to lie, but unwilling to admit the truth.

“If you do not tell me to stop, I will assume that you want me to continue.”

Mairi said nothing. She could scarcely breathe, let alone talk.

His movements as gentle and as mesmerizing as his tone had been, he pulled her closer, loosening her laces more until he could slide her kirtle all the way off her shoulders. She wore only her thin shift beneath it, and that too was easily untied and lowered, baring her breasts first to the sun’s kiss and shortly thereafter to his.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured as his lips skimmed over her right breast, pausing near its nipple, his breath as soft and warm as a summer breeze. Then his lips closed around the nipple and his tongue teased it, creating wondrous ripples of pleasure that spread through her body.

Raising his head only to claim her lips, he kissed her thoroughly while his hands roamed at will, making her squirm and moan with pleasure. Pausing, he smiled down at her and said, “I want to make you my own—now, this moment.”

“We mustn’t,” she said, feeling a sense of urgency as she said the words but feeling so much at one with him that she was unable to put any of that urgency into her tone. As a second thought, she added, “I am as good as promised to Alasdair.”

“‘As good as’ is neither a promise nor a betrothal, sweetheart. As to your father’s saying we should not marry, leave that to me to mend afterward. Do you believe I cannot do it?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but I have never before known anyone able to persuade him to change his mind after he’s made a decision. In any event, I do think we would be wiser to stop before truly coupling.”

“And I believe we’d be wiser to couple at once and often,” he said gently. “I want you for my wife, Mairi of the Isles, and I believe the only way to achieve that now is to present your father with the accomplished fact of our union.”

She was silent, trying to imagine what would happen if she let him seduce her. She knew only what she had gleaned from the few women who spoke freely of men and marriages in her presence, despite her maidenhood.

He said, “I’m thinking you want me as much as I want you, and boldness is necessary if we are to persuade your father. Do you want me for your husband?”

She nodded, feeling uncharacteristically shy. “Aye,” she murmured. “I do, for I have never known a man like you.”

“There are no others like me,” he said with a sudden grin as he reached for her and pulled her close, capturing her lips and kissing her hard.

Forcing herself to ignore her body’s instant response, she put both hands against his chest and pushed hard.

He raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“No,” she said, sighing with both relief and disappointment at her success. “I want to. I would not lie about that even if I thought you’d believe me. But not here, like this, and not until I can think more sensibly about what I’d be doing.”

“Then we should return at once,” he said, getting to his feet and moving to pick up her cloak and shake it out.

“Are you angry?”

He shook his head. “Nay, sweetheart. Disappointed, yes—more even than I thought I’d be—but if we must stop, ’tis best we stop at once. I have a strong will, but strong passions as well, and I’d not trust myself to stop later, or you. And, too, I’ve heard tales about that temper of yours. The last thing I’d want is to stir it.”

“I imagine that’s why they call you Lachlan the Wily.”

“I should perhaps tell you,” he said, “that I prefer ‘Lachlan the Astute.’”

She cocked her head thoughtfully. “And what would you name your brother, if not Hector the Ferocious?”

He chuckled. “Hector the Stubborn, I think, and doubtless you will find as many to agree with me as with those who dub him ferocious.”

As they talked, she slipped her shift and kirtle back into place. Standing now, she turned so he could tie her laces, and thought as he did that he was the first man ever to do so. When he smoothed the material over her shoulders and turned her toward him again, she had all she could do not to fling herself back into his arms.

He held her away, inspecting her from top to toe.

“You look just as you should,” he said, kissing her lightly on the lips and then cupping her elbow as he added, “See if you can keep up with me.”

The pace he set as they returned was faster than before, but she held up her skirts and trusted his firm hand to keep her from stumbling on the uneven terrain.

When they reached the horses, he lifted her onto Hobyn and mounted the bay. She led until they reached the sloping meadow with the burn tumbling down through it to the River Sorn. Then he rode up beside her, saying, “You’d best ride to back to Finlaggan alone, sweetheart. And mind you be wary of strangers.”

“There are no strangers on Isla,” she said, savoring the endearment but raising her chin. “I’ll talk to anyone I please.”

He shook his head. “I’d as lief you don’t stop to talk to any men, that’s all.”

Cocking her head again, but with a teasing smile, she said, “Why not?”

“Because most of us cannot be trusted,” he said more sternly. “You should consider that when you think about me.”

“How arrogant you are,” she said, “to imagine that I should waste my time thinking about you at all.”

With a grin, he wheeled the bay and rode off toward Loch Indaal.

Chapter 9

M
airi’s return to Finlaggan was barely noticed at first. Council members and onlookers were still meeting on Council Isle. Lady Margaret was with the children in the nursery, and when Mairi found her, said only that she hoped she had enjoyed her morning ride and suggested that she change quickly for the midday meal.

However, Elizabeth met her as she was returning to their bedchamber to change, and said with a relieved sigh, “I’m so glad you’re back. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“What’s amiss?”

“One of the lads dropped a tray of manchet loaves in the bakehouse, and Niall says they cannot serve them for dinner. We shan’t have enough without them, Mairi, but I dare not tell Niall to go and wash his head.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mairi said. “Just let me tidy my hair first.”

Elizabeth hurried away, and after a cursory attempt to smooth her hair and tidy herself, Mairi went to the bakehouse to find the plump little baker near tears.

“Any other day, mistress, we’d brush off them loaves and set them out,” he said. “’Tis no as if they fell in the dirt, or worse. Well scrubbed my floor be, I swear t’ ye, but Niall Mackinnon were a-standing right in yon doorway when Sym tripped over his own feet and pitched every one o’ them off his tray.”

“I thought Niall was at the council meeting.”

“Aye, sure, and as one o’ his grace’s chief councilors, he should ha’ been there,” the baker said indignantly, “but that man pops up like one o’ the wee folk, making mischief just when he’s least wanted.”

“What did you do with the loaves?”

“Faith, what d’ye think? They be in yonder basket, ready t’ go out t’ the lower tables. Them folk will be thinking they’ve moved above the salt, having such fine bread for their dinner. But I’ve no time t’ let new loaves rise afore they’ll be wanted, so what I’m t’ do about his grace’s noble guests I dinna ken.”

“You’ll simply give them the new loaves you’ve baked.”

“What new loaves?”

“Why, the ones in yonder basket, of course,” she said, grinning.

He stared at her for a long moment and then smiled. “Aye, then, I’ll do that, my lady. But willna Niall Mackinnon—”

“Never mind that,” Mairi said. “Bread is more to be desired now than perfection. Slip them into the oven to warm, and then serve them as usual. I’ll tell his grace that your great talents allayed disaster, and that will be that.”

Cutting short his thanks, she left the bakehouse, looked in on the laundry- and dairymaids, and the cooks in the kitchen, and then went into the great hall, where she found the trestles up, cloths spread, and all in readiness for their guests. The servants had departed, all except one young gillie who had lingered to encourage the fire in the great fireplace.

More than an hour remained before her father and his councilors would return to Eilean Mòr for the midday meal, but she would require much of that time to make herself presentable. Deciding she should go at once, she hurried off the dais into the side aisle toward the door, but as she passed the archway to the minstrel gallery stairs, a hand shot out, caught her arm, and pulled her through the opening.

Recognizing Lachlan before the shriek at her lips could explode into sound, and noting with a hasty glance over her shoulder that the gillie by the fireplace was too engaged in his task to have paid any heed, she let her captor pull her farther into the dusky stairway.

“What are you doing?” Fearful of being overheard, she barely whispered the words, but her indignation was clear.

Grinning, he put a finger to his lips and drew her up the first few steps until they were out of sight from the hall. Then he pulled her close and kissed her hard.

With a sigh of pleasure, she melted against him.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured against her curls, free yet of any headdress.

“I thought you were riding to Loch Indaal,” she said, keeping her own voice low. “You must have returned not long after I did.”

“A nice ride, I’m sure, but I grew bored after you left. ’Twas a rare penance.”

“You sent me away,” she reminded him.

“Aye, for I did not trust myself. Now hush, sweetheart, or that gillie may hear us,” he said, kissing her again. “Come up here with me for a time. Or will his grace be wanting his minstrels to play,” he added as a clear afterthought.