Betrayed (21 page)

Fiona struggled from the water, furious. “These are the only clothes I have, ye fiery-headed oaf!” she shouted at him. “How the hell am I supposed to get them dry by morning?”

“Then ye'll ride wet,” he shouted back, “and next time don't use yer claws on me, Fiona mine! I'll not be marked again by ye!”

Nelly was appalled. “Ye have to get out of these things, my lady. Ye'll catch yer death if ye don't. Ye've another chemise, and we'll dry the rest by the fire. Ye'll not travel damp, I promise.”

Fiona's glare of fury silenced the chortling clansmen. “Since I'm soaked through,” she said to Nelly, “I might as well bathe. I stink of the horses.”

“Thank God ye didn't have yer cloak on,” Nelly said. “The skirt will be hard enough to dry, and yer wool stockings as well. Come along then, my lady. Just down the shore we may have a wee bit of privacy.” She turned to the men about the fire. “And don't any of ye skulk along after us!”

They grinned, and Roderick Dhu said blandly to
his master, “They be two strong wenches with blazing tongues, my lord.”

The MacDonald of Nairn grinned back at his companions. “Aye, and ye'll all treat them with respect. The raven-haired lady is to be my wife, lads, and wee Nelly, as her servant, must be esteemed, too.”

The two women could feel the men's eyes upon them as they moved down the shore, but shortly a large clump of greenery obscured them. The ground beneath their feet was sandy. They stopped, and Nelly helped Fiona out of her wet clothing. She spread the garments over the bushes and emptied the water from her lady's boots. Then she laid her mistress's cloak upon the ground and seated herself upon it, watching as Fiona entered the water.

“Ye braver than I am, my lady,” she said with a small giggle.

“’Tis cold,” Fiona admitted, “but I'm beginning to smell the horses less and less.” She paddled about. The water in the loch was so clear that she could see her legs and feet just above the sandy bottom. “What will I dry myself with, Nelly? We have no toweling.”

“We'll use yer wet chemise, my lady. I've wrung it out. ‘Twill do no more than take the droplets away, but wrapped in yer cloak, ye'll soon be warm and dry again. When ye are, I have yer other chemise for ye to put on.”

Fiona stepped from the water. As she did, Colin MacDonald came upon the two women. Fiona grit her teeth in annoyance, saying to Nelly, “Pay him no heed, lassie, the oversize oaf!”

“I came to see what was keeping ye,” he said. “Ye haven't been swimming, have ye?” His eyes swept over her naked body.
Jesu! Mary!
he swore to himself. She was absolutely magnificent! He hadn't realized it until
now, for his passion had been for the woman herself, but by the rood she had a wonderful body!

“I told ye I am accustomed to bathing daily,” Fiona said loftily, finishing her drying and wrapping her cloak about her lush form. “Since we carry no tub for me to bathe properly, I have made my ablutions in the loch. Nelly, lass, run back and fetch my dry chemise for me, please.” She looked critically at the man before her. “Twould not hurt if ye would wash yerself. Ye, too, reek of the horses.”

“Wash? Every day?” He sounded slightly horrified.

“Twill not harm ye, my lord,” she told him sharply.

“Yer a verra high-handed wench, I'm thinking, Fiona Hay.” He stood before her, back to the water, hands upon his hips, legs spread wide in a show of authority.

Fiona met his gaze, thinking at the same time it was just too delicious an opportunity not to take. She let her cloak fall open and walked toward him. He tried valiantly to maintain eye contact with her, but the temptation to look upon her luscious breasts and white, white body was too strong. He succumbed, and in the moment his eyes left hers to fasten hungrily upon her bosom, Fiona shoved him hard backward into the waters of the loch, laughing so hard that she almost collapsed as he scrambled to his feet in the knee-deep water, sputtering with outrage. “How the hell am I supposed to get a wool kilt dry by the morrow?” he roared at her.

“Ye'll simply have to ride wet, my lord,” she mocked him, disappearing into the greenery to come face-to-face with the startled Nelly. “Quick!” she said, “Give me my chemise, lass!” She flung off her cloak, slipped on the chemise, and drew the cloak back about her shoulders.

“What have ye done to him?” Nelly asked, hearing a string of colorful oaths from the beach behind them. “He sounds as if he would kill ye if he could but get his hands about yer neck, my lady.”

“I just gave the bastard a taste of his own medicine” Fiona laughed. “I pushed him in the loch, and he's verra wet, I fear. Offer to dry his kilt for him, will ye, Nelly? I don't want to kill him-at least not yet.” She smiled. She might not like the task the king had set her to, but there was no reason she couldn't have a little fun while she was about it.

Reaching the comfort of the fire, she gratefully accepted a plate of oatcakes from Roderick Dhu. When he handed her a steaming cup, she looked surprised. “What is it?”

“A wee bit of wine mixed with water and heated in the fire, my lady. Ye must be chilled after yer swim,” he told her, the ghost of a smile hovering about his lips.

“Ye had better fix a similar draught for yer master,” Fiona said sweetly. “I fear he, too, fell in the loch.” She turned away, sipping the heated drink thankfully, for it was strong, and set her blood to warming beneath her cloak.

She sat herself on a small outcropping of rock, daintily eating the oatcakes and sipping her wine, Nelly beside her. Colin MacDonald came grimly into the clearing, taking the cup of hot wine from Roderick Dhu. He was soaking wet, his hair hanging lankly about his shoulders, the droplets sluicing off his kilt. He drank the wine down in several gulps, accepted his portion of oatcakes, and ate. He was stonily silent, speaking to no one.

Finally, when he had finished eating, Nelly dared to approach him. “If ye like, my lord, I'll dry yer garments by the fire with my mistress's.”

“Aye,” Nairn answered her, standing up. He beckoned to the two women. “Follow me,” he said shortly. “Roderick Dhu, ye have the responsibility of Nelly's virtue until we reach Nairn.”

“Aye, my lord,” the clansman answered, looking menacingly at his companions.

Fiona and Nelly followed Nairn back to the little beach, where he stripped his garments off, heedless of Nelly's gasps and blushes. Handing them to the serving girl, he said, “Your mistress and I will sleep here tonight, lassie. Lay yourself next to Roderick Dhu. He will protect you.”

Dismissed, Nelly hurried back to the campfire.

“We'll sleep wrapped in your cloak,” The MacDonald told Fiona.

Mesmerized, she stared at his big, naked body. Everything was large, arms, legs, torso. His back and shoulders were very broad. His buttocks were rounded and tight. She was unable to prevent her gaze from dropping to the fiery red bush between his thighs from where his male member hung, a thick, pendulous length of pale flesh. Even chilled from the water of the loch, it was a formidable and impressive sight.

He pulled her chemise-clad form against his nudity, nuzzling her ear. “Fiona mine,” he murmured, “do you know how very much I desire you? How difficult it is for me not to possess you?” His teeth gently worried her earlobe.

She could feel the maleness of him against her; she could tell how much he strained to curb his fierce lust. She swallowed hard, saying, “It really makes no difference to me when you effect your rape of my person.”

“When we finally couple,” he told her evenly, “you will be my wife.”

“I will be unwilling nonetheless,” she hissed at him.

“Truly?” he whispered, pulling her down to lie with him upon the sandy beach. “How old are you, Fiona Hay?”

“Seventeen this Lammastide past” she told him. “How old are ye, Colin MacDonald of Nairn?”

“Twenty-seven,” he said. ‘Jesu, yer sweet,” he said thickly, holding her ever so tightly against him. His hand smoothed slowly down her back. It swept over the curve of her buttocks again and again while he nuzzled into the tender curve of her back, murmuring unintelligibly. Then, suddenly, he sat up, drawing Fiona with him.

“Loosen yer hair, sweeting,” he said low.

Fiona drew the pins from her tresses, unplaiting the braid and combing the dark locks with her slender fingers. “Does that suit ye, my lord of Nairn?” she queried him.

“Aye,” he said, drawing her back down, taking a bit of her hair in his fingers and sniffing it. “Ye wash yer hair with heather soap,” he noted. “When we return to Nairn, I shall take ye to Inverness one day and buy ye a silver comb, sweeting. Then ye shall sit by the fire in our hall on a winter's night and comb yer raven tresses. Ye must never cut yer hair, for it is beautiful. I watched the sun shining off it yesterday as we rode.” Then, pressing her lightly back, he kissed her, softly at first, but with growing ardor that did nothing to mask his lust for her.

Fiona, curious, allowed herself to taste and savor him. He was not at all unpleasant, she discovered. She found herself unable to keep from yielding to those kisses, from kissing him back just a little before a wave of guilt overwhelmed her, and she tried to draw away from him.

He immediately sensed the first breach in her defenses, and pressed forward eagerly. The tip of his tongue ran along her lips. Fiona turned her head, but he instantly drew it back and repeated the gesture. She shivered, but whether from cold or her rising excitement, he was not certain, but her lips softened beneath his. He was able to push his tongue into the dark cavity of her mouth. Their tongues began to touch, and it was as if she had been struck by lightning. Fiona wanted to flee him but suddenly realized she could not.

His lips left hers and began to wander across her face. They sought her throat, feeling the pulse in the base of her neck beating a wild tattoo. He moved on to her chest, whispering to her, “Ye want this, sweeting. I can tell that yer own lust has been engaged.”

“Nay! Nay!” she denied.

He laughed softly, his lips brushing the hillocks of her breasts. They were swollen with their longing, and as firm as two round apples.
“No?” he
mocked her, and his tongue licked teasingly at a nipple through the fine lawn of her chemise.

“Ohhh, don't do that!” she moaned, squirming nervously.

His mouth closed over the nipple, and he began to suckle upon her. Fiona's body arched up. Cradling her with one arm, he let his other hand caress her torso. Her skin was fiery to his touch. His mouth drew fiercely upon her flesh until her belly felt cramped and knotted. He moved to her other breast, and it was torture. Aching, sweet torture, and to think she had believed only Angus Gordon capable of such power over her. His long fingers slipped beneath the chemise, moving up between her nether lips. Finding her little jewel, he worried it and worried it until she was gasping with her own desire. How, she managed to think in a clear
moment, could she work effectively for the king if she was filled with all this passion? She needed release, and this man offered her that release. Letting go of all her common sense, Fiona soared.

The sudden knowledge that she was yielding to him drove him onward.
“Fiona mine!”
He groaned into the softness of her perfumed hair.

The moon was risen now, lighting the waters of the loch, making dark shadows from their fair bodies lying upon the sandy beach. He reached for her hand. It felt small in his, but not helpless. He was proud that she was a strong woman. He drew her cloak over her and said only one word, “Sleep.”

Colin MacDonald awoke to find Fiona swimming in the cold silver waters of the loch. He joined her, but neither spoke to the other. Nelly came along the beach with their garments. They dressed, returning to the campsite to eat the oatcakes and drink hot, watered-down wine again.

For the next few days they rode across the wilderness of Scotland, avoiding settlements. Finally they reached the west coast and crossed to the island of Jura. Here the land was very mountainous, and covered with deer forest. The island was bisected by Loch Tarbert. Finally they reached the far side of Jura facing upon Islay Sound, a narrow stretch of water. A small cockle was drawn up upon the shore.

Colin MacDonald directed two of his men to cross over and inform the Lord of the Isles that his brother of Nairn was waiting to pass over the water to Islay. The men were eagerly off, for this end of their journey meant hot food, good ale, and willing wenches.

“How will we cross?” Fiona asked.

“A barge will be sent for us and the horses,” he
told her. “Ye must ask permission, however, to enter my brother's domain. Islay has never been taken by strangers or our enemies, or even the Irish.”

“Yer brother behaves as if he were king.”

Colin MacDonald laughed. “He is a king, Fiona mine. The Lords of the Isles have always been kings. That is why James Stewart is so eager to have their fealty The northern clans will not pledge to him without the approval of the Lord of the Isles.”

“Scotland can only have one king,” she wisely told him.

“This is not Scotland. These are the Isles,” he explained patiently. “It has always been this way. It was only in the time of The Bruce that the Isles became of interest to the Scots kings. We prefer being left to our independence.”

“But ye don't even live in the Isles.”

“True, I live near Inverness on the opposite side of Scotland, but I am a MacDonald, sweeting,” Nairn said proudly. “And from the time I was six I lived here on Islay with my father and my siblings. I visited my mother only once a year until I was sixteen. Then my father sent me back to Nairn so my grandsire might teach me to govern my own lands, small as they are.” He smiled. “I was already a seasoned warrior, having earned my spurs at Harlaw fighting with my father and brothers. My father knew I was competent at sixteen to rule Nairn, though I did not inherit it until I was twenty, and my grandsire died.”

She was amazed. He had been a mere lad of fourteen when he fought in one of the bloodiest battles in Scotland's history.
And he had survived!
“Ye loved yer father, didn't ye?” she asked softly.

“Aye, I did,” he admitted to her. “I was fortunate to be here last year when he died. Almost all of his children
were here. Donald MacDonald had a great heart. He loved all his offspring no matter which side of the blanket they were born on. His own mother was Princess Margaret, a daughter of King Robert II. She taught him kindness and duty to family, he always told me.”