Highland Sacrifice (Highland Wars Book 2) (7 page)

What had the games done to her? She was weakened. Unworthy of holding her title and ruling.

She glanced at Macrath, could see the pain creasing his face. He yanked his claymore from the scabbard at his back, and two-fisted, he arched it, and brought it swiftly across the struggling man’s neck, severing it in one swipe. The crunch of bone and sickening sound of flesh splitting echoed in Ceana’s mind. She watched his head fall. Saw the blood spurting from the burning stump.

His head tumbled through the flames, rolling out of the pyre and coming to stop, eyes on his burning body, watching the macabre sight of his own death.

Victor leaned close, only adding to her nausea. He brushed against her, and she shivered with disgust.

“When Macrath is unseated, I shall have the choice of a wife. Is it a sin to marry your brother’s wife? Mayhap, but I do not believe the Bastard is my brother. His mother was a lying whore. And you shall be mine.”

Ceana’s belly was cold and knotted. She turned, her hands fisted, to stare into Victor’s soulless eyes, letting the disgust run off her in stormy waves.

“I will never be yours. Sìtheil will never be yours. The only thing you possess is your misplaced pride and false beliefs. And the only thing you’ll ever rule is your fantasies.” She brushed past him. “If you’ll excuse me, or if not, I do not care either way, for I make my own choices.”

Her feet were numb as she walked toward Macrath. She kept her eyes steady on him, not looking at the burning body, nor the head that lay there. Blood spattered her husband’s face, and his teeth were clenched tight. His eyes were wild, as his gaze locked on hers.

“Come, husband. If you will, I’ve need to speak with you in private.” Her voice was strong despite how weak she felt.

Macrath nodded, wiping the blood from his sword onto Gowp’s burning, headless body.

She led him inside.

“Wine and a meal to our chamber,” she ordered a passing servant, who ran off to see it done. To Merric, who appeared to be keeping guard of them, she said, “Inform the people we shall hear the remainder of their grievances on the morrow, and tell Cook she is to provide the clan with a meal.”

“Aye, your ladyship.”

Chapter Eight

THEIR chamber was quickly becoming a sanctuary for them.

Macrath went first to the water basin and dipped his hands into the frigid liquid, splashing it on his face and wiping away the blood.

Away from the gruesome execution, and tucked inside, the chill of the room quickly surrounded them.

“I’ll light a fire,” Macrath said, his breath coming out in a little puff. He’d not realized how cold their chamber could get. Nor how cold he’d be after taking the life of Gowp. He’d tried to shut the screams from his mind. But they’d only brought on visions of those dying in the woods, of the victims drowning. And then he’d looked at Ceana and known he had to make them stop.

Severing Gowp’s head had been instinctual and he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

“I’ll close the shutter.” Ceana’s voice sounded far away. She walked to the window and closed the wooden slats.

Instantly the chill breeze that had been blowing inside ceased.

“We have to remember to close that when we leave,” he said. “The fresh air is nice, but cold.”

“Mmhmm,” Ceana murmured, grabbing a thick wool plaid blanket off the bed and wrapping it around her shoulders. She curled up in a chair by the hearth and watched him with tired, pain-filled eyes.

The domesticity of the two of them sitting there, the small talk, her little body curled in the chair—it was striking, startling. He wanted it to be that way all the time. To never leave this room again. Except the weight of what they had to do—vanquish the council—was heavy. As much as he wished he could give up the castle, the title and move to some far off little croft to live out their days, they had a duty to the people of Sìtheil and Scotland.

Macrath gathered the wood and peat from a basket beside the hearth and stacked it on the grate. He struck the flint, watching the spark catch life on the peat and glow into a flame. The fire licked its way over the logs, consuming everything in its path until it burned bright. Much like it had burned outside, but this time without the screaming. Without death. It was cleansing. Warmth ebbed from the hearth in subtle waves.

“That feels nice,” Ceana said. She uncurled her legs and put her feet out toward the heat.

Still kneeling, Macrath gripped one of her feet. He unlaced her boot, slid it off and tossed it, her cold petite toes falling against his palm. He rubbed them and the arch of her foot.

“We need to warm you up,” he said, knowing full well they were completely skirting the issues they should discuss.

But they needed that distraction. They needed some semblance of normalcy. A mind bombarded with thunderous pain and attitudes became swiftly unhinged. Perhaps, without realizing it, each of their minds had chosen to first be calm.

Macrath rubbed her toes until they were warm and then repeated his actions with her other foot. He tickled her along the arch and she squirmed, giggling like a lass with no cares in the world. It made him smile. One of the first of the day. ’Twas nice to forget about all the horror they’d endured.

The fire quickly warmed their chamber, and his breath no longer steamed with each exhale.

“I like sitting here with you,” Ceana said. “It feels…”

Macrath glanced up at her. She was chewing on her lip and staring at him, her eyes crinkled at the corners.

“The way it should be?” he asked.

She nodded. “I feel awful for liking it. For wanting to stay here like this forever, when so many of our people are suffering.” She leaned forward, placed her hand on his cheek, her fingertips playing with the short bit of stubble that had grown since that morning. “And then there is a part of me that feels so distant from this place. I don’t know these people. I don’t know this land. I am sick with grief. I miss my people.”

Macrath crawled forward on his knees, pressing her thighs open with his middle so he could be closer to her. They were at eye level. He touched his forehead to hers, closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. When he opened his eyes, their gazes locked. He wrapped his arms around her back and tugged her closer.

“Wash away your guilt, lass. We did not do to these people what has been done. We are here to make it better.”

She let out a slow breath, tears brimming in her eyes. “I know. But I can’t help but feel ashamed at my happiness.”

Macrath took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He pressed his lips gently to hers. “We will make it right.”

“Tell me I’m not crazy,” she whispered against his lips. “Tell me we’ll be all right.”

“Och, love, you’re no more crazy than I am.”

Ceana laughed and gently nibbled at his lip. “Does that mean I am completely and utterly mad?”

Macrath tickled her ribs, pushed her back a little on the chair and kissed her harder. “Only if you are mad for me.”

“I am, desperately.”

“Let us forget for a little while. I need to feel the goodness in this world. I need to wash away the filth of today, and the only way to do it is when I’m one with you.”

“I will make you whole again,” Ceana promised. She nudged him on his chest, and when he scooted backward, she stood, taking his hand in hers. Her gaze was intense, heated and made his blood run hot with potent desire.

He rose and followed her to the edge of their bed, but he couldn’t help pulling her into his embrace and claiming her mouth for a kiss filled with as much promise as her gaze.

Ceana sighed into his mouth, her tongue swirling seductively over his. Her body, crushed against him, was lush, curvy and warm. Every part of him stiffened. His cock throbbed to be inside her, but their last coupling had been rushed—even if it was very satisfactory. He wanted to take it slow. To savor her. To make her climax again and again. To erase the day. To banish the past two weeks from their minds. To climb into paradise and remain there until the sun rose and they were forced to come down.

Macrath ran his hands over her ribs, to her hips, her arse. He gripped her tight and lifted, hands sliding over her thighs as he wrapped them around his waist. A soft moan escaped her lips. She gripped tight to his shoulders, clinging to him the same way she had when he first kissed her in the forest, the way she did every time he kissed her. Enough to make him believe that she really needed him, that she couldn’t live without him.

There was a deep fear inside him that one of these days, she would wake up, realize she’d married the Bastard of Argyll and never speak to him again. That at the end of their five-year term as rulers of Sìtheil, she would push him away instead of remaining with him for life. All of it stemmed from his past, he knew that. He believed her when she said she loved him. He believed that she needed him, that she wanted him. That she wanted to be with him for eternity. But he also believed that she’d been through a lot—hell, he’d been right there with her, and before that she’d witnessed her brother’s death. He wouldn’t blame her for having a reawakening, if she did.

“I love you,” she whispered into their kiss.

Gods, but her words couldn’t have come at a better time. “I love you so damn much,” he answered.

Macrath took one step forward until his knees hit the mattress. As he lowered her to the bed, planning just what he would do to make her cry out first, a swift knock sounded at the door.

They ended their kiss abruptly with equal groans.

Macrath lay still, his body overheated and fiercely protesting the interruption. Another knock. When he felt he could stand and answer the door without his cock stabbing the person in the corridor, he regrettably climbed away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing Ceana on her nose.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” She worked to smooth her hair and her gown, but no matter how much she fussed, whoever was behind that door would know she’d been thoroughly kissed. That he’d been about to make love to his wife.

Her lips were still plush, swollen red, her cheeks rouged and her eyes hazy with desire.

“You are so beautiful,” Macrath said.

Her cheeks colored all the more. “Thank you, husband.”

Another knock.

“We come anon,” Macrath growled, marching toward the door.

He wrenched it open to find a line of servants six deep.

“We have brought your supper, my laird.”

Macrath nodded, trying to smile, for he’d been a bear a moment before. They filed in, bowing and curtsying to Ceana before setting up the table with a newly pressed cloth, trenchers, eating knives, goblets, jugs of wine, freshly baked bread, and several platters of delicious-smelling food.

His stomach growled and he realized it had been quite some time since his last meal. But dealing with death and evil tended to wipe one’s appetite away, and then the warmth of Ceana’s body had pushed it even further from his mind.

“Will there be anything else?” a servant asked.

Macrath shook his head, and Ceana inclined hers in gratitude.

“Should we stay?” One of the maids fidgeted. “Lady Beatrice always asks us to stay.”

“You will find us much different from anyone who has been here in the past,” Ceana said. “There is no need for you to stay.”

“We’ll likely need nothing else until the morning,” Macrath added.

The servants looked a little taken aback, but Macrath ignored their questioning glances. Words meant nothing without action. He ushered them to the door. “When you’ve completed your duties for the night, take your leave. We will require nothing more of you this day.” On those words, he shut the door and barred it.

“I think you gave them a fright,” Ceana said, a small smile curling her lips.

“Sadly, I do not think these people have had a day to relax, or even pray to the gods, in years. Fright is all they know.”

Ceana sauntered to the table, plucking an almond from a bowl. He watched her chew, finding how enthusiastic she was about eating refreshing. She picked up two more and popped them in her mouth.

“Will you not come eat with me?” she asked.

“I will gladly eat with you, my wife.” In two strides, he was beside her, pulling out her chair. “Your seat, Princess.”

Ceana smiled. “I do not think I will ever get used to being addressed as a royal. I do not feel royal. I’m not sure I even want to be royal.”

“Neither do I.” Macrath dragged his chair from the opposite side of the table so he could sit beside her. “And I do not think I will ever get used to sitting right beside you either—nor will I ever be able to sit without you again.”

Ceana picked up another almond and held it to his lips. “This is the first time we’ve eaten a meal alone.”

She was right. During the games—when there were meals—they were surrounded, always watched. Even the last few days, after they were crowned, they were required to take meals in the great hall, or with servants flowing in and out of their room.

“’Tis a much-needed reprieve,” Ceana said. “I think we might make a point of having a meal,
alone
, in our room at least once a sennight.”

Macrath opened his mouth, allowing her to gently push the almond inside. He crunched down through the sweet nutty meat. Never had a nut tasted so good as it did, because she’d fed it to him.

“I quite agree, though I wouldn’t mind if it were every day.”

“Wouldn’t that be heaven?” she asked.

Macrath lifted one of the jugs and poured them each a goblet of red wine. He lifted one and handed it to her and then lifted the second. “Let us say a toast, to our reign, to our people, to vanquishing the council and most importantly, to us.”

Ceana smiled. “To freeing the land of tyranny. And to love.”

Macrath winked. “Especially to love.”

They clinked their goblets then brought them to their lips. The wine was dry and potent. Aged well.

“We’ve not had a wine as good as this yet. This must be from the Chief of Sìtheil’s personal reserve—
our
reserve.” Ceana took another sip. “I like it.”

“Aye, I think you’re right.” The wine was different from the mourning wine—that dark, thick liquid with its superior taste but which was only served when mourning the dead. They’d been served the drink just after the mass burial of all the men and women who died in the Drowning, and he’d been hurled back in time to remember when his stepmother tried to poison him with it when he was a child. He hated the mourning wine. “We must burn the hated liquid.”

“Burn it?” Ceana asked.

“Aye. We must rid the land of any drink that is only consumed when people die.”

“Let us give it to our people to drink. Then we won’t be wasting it, and gods knows they could use something to lighten their mood. We will rename it. Instead of mourning wine, we shall call it simply hope wine.”

He raised a brow. “You are so cunning, wife. How ironic that the mourning wine shall lighten their moods.”

“I find it rather fitting.” Ceana sipped her wine. “Beatrice will be so angry.”

Macrath took a long gulp. “I will do anything to see her displeased.” And he would. He hated Beatrice with a passion. Simply recalling her name brought him back into that room where she’d violated him. Aye, he wanted to punish her every way that he could.