Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (19 page)

Noticing her
wide-eyed expression, Iain chuckled. “Ye look like ye’ve just seen a ghoul.”

“Nay, I simply
— That is to say—”

“That I am not a wee man,” he finished for her, clearly at ease
with his mammoth size.

“There is nothing wee about you.”

Iain’s smile broadened. “Aye. I am the MacKinnon.”

“Yes, you are,” Yvette murmured as he stepped toward the bed
and stretched out beside her.

Uncertain what, if anything
, she was supposed to do, she lay motionless.

Bracing himself on his forearm, Iain leaned over and began to rain feather
-soft kisses along the curve of her shoulder, while with his free hand, he gently stroked her breast.

“Look how perfectly ye fit into the palm of my hand,” he husked as he gently knead
ed her.

Yvette sighed with pleasure
when he began to lightly trace circles around her nipple with the tip of his finger. “That feels . . .
exquisite
.”

“
Now watch what happens when I touch ye like this,” Iain whispered as he plucked her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Spellbound, she did watch
, unable to take her gaze from the almost lurid sight of Iain fingering the hardened stub. It was a brazen, startling contrast of male and female.

But not
nearly as startling as the sight of Iain’s lips clamped around that same nipple.

Guided by womanly instinct
, Yvette arched toward him.

Groaning,
Iain’s lips bore down that much harder on the rigid nub, causing a moist heat to pool between her legs.

As though
he’d suddenly become aware of that fact, Iain’s hand began to roam lower, Yvette nearly swooning when he raked his fingers through her nest of sable curls. Raising herself on her elbows, she watched the progression of that bronzed hand, her desire kindled by the twin flames of sight and touch.

“Bend yer knees and open yer legs for me,” Iain instructed, his voice little more than a throaty whisper
.

No sooner had she complied than Iain
took his forefinger and slowly eased it inside of her. Rhythmically, he pushed and pulled, giving her time to adjust to the intimate invasion before inserting yet another finger.

The
increased pressure caused her to whimper softly.

“Does that hurt?”

“Yes . . . no!” she gasped, pain quickly giving way to pleasure.

Iain pushed deeper, but not so
far that he pierced her virginal barrier. Closing her eyes, Yvette reveled in the sweet agony, her body tightening with each stroke.

Surely, this
is the ‘woman’s pleasure’ that he’d made mention of, this ever increasing tightness.

“O
pen yer eyes,” Iain whispered. “I want ye to watch me as I pleasure ye.”

As h
er eyelids fluttered open, Yvette was shocked by the sight of her hips shamelessly writhing against his hand. Uncertain how it would end, she knew only that she teetered on the edge of a perfect pleasure, her body wound tight as a gyre.

When, in the next instant, Iain ground his hips against her outer thigh,
allowing her to feel the full measure of his erection, every muscle in her body suddenly tensed . . . just before she felt an intense spasm radiate between her hips.

Gasping, Yvette
reflexively lifted her hips off of the bed as she felt yet another tight pulse. And another still.

S
o this is pleasure
, she thought dazedly.
’Tis the sweetest bliss imaginable.

Once
her crises had finally subsided, Iain removed his two fingers from her woman’s chasm and smeared a hardened nipple with the glistening moisture. In shocked disbelief, Yvette watched as he then fastened his mouth onto her wet nipple and suckled her, the suction inciting another pleasurable spasm.

Letting
her nipple slip out of his mouth, Iain said, “Did ye enjoy yer woman’s pleasure?” When she mutely nodded her head, he said, “Good. Now it is
my
turn.”

Hearing that
, Yvette worriedly stared at the fully erect organ that rode high on his muscled belly.

“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed, more than a little intimidated.

“Touch me . . . like I touched ye,” Iain said as he rolled onto his back.

Thinking the instruction somewhat vague, she took a deep, steadying breath
before placing her hand on his chest.

At f
eeling the shudder that coursed along Iain’s body, she smiled, her confidence instantly buoyed. Moreover, she took an unseemly delight in knowing that
she
caused that response, awestruck that the mighty MacKinnon was hers for the taking.

As she continued to caress his chest and abdomen,
Yvette stared at the pulse that beat at the base of Iain’s throat. Her gaze then roamed to the cleft in his chin, the thin, high-bridged nose, the hooded blue eyes.

Have I
ever beheld a more perfectly fashioned man?

Emboldened,
Yvette moved her hand lower still.

Iain watched Yvette’s expressive brown eyes suddenly widen as she passed her hand over his erection.

“It’s both smooth
and
hard,” she marveled. “How should I . . .?”

“Like this
.” Taking hold of Yvette’s hand, Iain securely wrapped it around his cock as he taught her the rhythm.

Finally releasing his
hand, he luxuriated in the erotic vision of Yvette milking his manroot. It was a dream come to life before his very eyes, Iain fighting to keep his climax at bay.

“Is that your man’s seed?”
Yvette innocently inquired when she saw a single moist drop glisten on the blunt tip.

Ia
in bit back a strangled laugh. “No. But it means that I’m verra close.”

“Close to what?”

“Close to—
Sweet Jesu!
” he groaned in the next instant, violently shuddering as his seed suddenly spewed from his body, coating Yvette’s hand with creamy dollops.

As he lay panting
in passion’s aftermath, Yvette, a look of avid curiosity on her face, raised a tapered finger to her nose. “It smells . . . tangy.”

“
It has its own unique smell,” Iain agreed, still trying to catch his breath.

Yvette
put her finger to within a hairbreadth of her lips. “Can I . . . ?”

“Aye,” he whispered, his
voice catching in his throat. Mesmerized, he watched as she proceeded to delicately lick her finger. Like a cat lapping at a bowl of fresh milk.

“Yes,
it’s very tangy.”

“Let me be the judge of that
.” Raising his torso off the bed, he kissed her. “Ye’re right,” he said a moment later. “’Tis tangy.”

Content,
Iain pulled Yvette into the curve of his arm, enjoying the feel of having her soft body nestled beside him. And while he would have enjoyed the experience more if he could have sunk his cock into her warm chasm, what they shared was a pleasure worth having.

Yvette shifted slightly, proppi
ng her chin against his chest. “Thank you, Iain.”

Turning his head, he
smiled at his wild English rose. Although she was still a virgin, she now exuded an alluring sultriness.

“
’Tis me who should be giving thanks to ye, Yvette.”

For taking from him the last vestige of sadness.

And leaving a newly minted joy in its place
.

A single gray arrow of early dawn light shot t
hrough a crack in the shutter. Although meager, it was enough to rouse Yvette from her slumbers.

Such wondrous pleasure,
she thought with a languid sigh.

Under Iain’s tutelage, she’d learned how to receive
and
give passion’s sweet gift, the degradation she’d suffered at Roland Beauchamp’s hand relegated to a dim memory. In truth, it had been the most glorious night of her life. And though it nearly didn’t come to pass, when viewed from morning’s parapet, the night just ended had a certain fated sheen to it.

Casting off
the last dregs of sleep, Yvette rolled toward Iain’s side of the bed . . . only to discover a vacant pillow, the still warm indentation the only trace left of him.

Alarmed, she bolted upright and anxiously peere
d around the shadowed chamber.

“Iain?”

When her query met with a deafening silence, Yvette threw back the sheepskin coverlet and lunged out of the bed, worried that Iain had already left Castle Maoil in answer to the summons that he’d received from the Lord of the Isles.

Espying her
chemise and cloak neatly folded on a wooden chest, she shook her head in wonderment, surprised by Iain’s fastidiousness. The last time she’d seen her linen undergarment it had littered the floor, flung there by the same man who later went to the trouble of picking it up and putting it away.

Proving that she still had much to learn about
Iain MacKinnon.

Admittedly, she’d made many a misjudgment about
him, their relationship not yet rooted despite the intimacy so recently shared.

With h
er cloak pulled tightly across her torso to hide the fact that she was attired in only a simple chemise, Yvette scurried to the door. She hoped there was still time to bid Iain farewell and wish him a safe sojourn.

When she reached
the great hall, it was a veritable hive of activity, Iain’s men-at-arms boisterously breaking their fast. Relieved that they’d not yet departed, she grabbed Eara by the arm, the scullion having just entered the hall bearing a pot of steaming almond-milk porridge.

“Have you seen the laird?”
Yvette anxiously inquired, belatedly realizing that not only were her feet unshod, but her hair hung about her shoulders in tangled disarray.

Which no doubt explained the kitchen
maid’s wide-eyed look of shock.

“No, mistress. I ha’ no’ seen the MacKinnon.
Although ye may want tae ha’ a peek in the chapel.”

“
Thank you, Eara,” she said with a grateful smile before turning on her bare heel and hurrying from the great hall, relieved that she wouldn’t have to make her farewell in front of a gawking crowd of onlookers.

As she approached the chapel, Yvette put a hand to her left breast, her heartb
eat having suddenly quickened. Slipping through the entryway, she discovered Iain on bent knee in front of the altar. Admittedly nervous, she wondered at the reception she would be given now that their fevered passions had cooled.

Coming to a standstill,
she unabashedly stared, the golden glow from beeswax tapers bathing Iain in an evocative light.

He looks like a Celtic king of old
.

Dressed in battle regalia, his claymore sheathed in a scabbard strapped across his back,
Iain exuded a raw power tempered with an innate nobility.

As he caught sight of her shadow,
Iain turned his head toward the doorway. Trapped in his riveting gaze, Yvette stood motionless, suddenly besieged with uncertainty.

Now that morning
has shined its glaring light upon last night’s ardent revelry, will he think me a harlot?

Yvette dismally realized that she certainly
looked and smelled the part, her lips kiss-swollen, her body fragranced with passion’s scent.

Swiveling his head back to the altar, Iain made the sign of t
he cross before rising to his feet.

Furiously blushing,
Yvette stood silent as he approached her.

“How fa
res my lady love this morning?”

The tender greeting made her smile, all of her
fears and doubts instantly vanishing. “I am well . . . and pleased that you have not yet departed,” she added. “For I would regret not wishing you farewell.”

Taking hold of her right hand
, Iain brought it to his lips. “I am pleased as well for it may be long months before I return to Castle Maoil.”

She made no reply, well aware that it
was a woman’s lot in life to wait for her warrior to return home. Ever hopeful that with the next dawn, her beloved would appear on the horizon.

“Will ye miss me?”
Iain asked with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Or will ye dance with joy as ye watch the dust kicked up by my steed when I take my leave?”

Equally lighthearted,
Yvette gave him a teasing smile and said, “I cannot answer with any certainty, my lord, as you have yet to depart.”

“
Ye guard too closely the contents of yer heart, sweet Yvette.”

“As do you, Iain.”

“Me?” Iain’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “Why I am an open book.”

“If that
is true, why will you not tell me what happened to your brother Kenneth at St. Ives’ kirk?” Yvette unthinkingly blurted.

Iain’s gaze immediately narrowed
. “That
is a closed chapter. I have already told ye that I willna speak of that day.”

“Yet you spoke o
f it last night in your sleep,” she informed him. “And there was much pain in your voice when you called out your brother’s name.” Recalling that pain-wracked cry, Yvette’s voice thickened with emotion. “I would have you tell me why you seek vengeance against my father. For if you do not return, I shall never know what foul deed brought us together.”

Iain
chortled humorlessly. “Ye mean the foul deed that compelled me to take ye hostage.”

“Yea, that is what I mean.
Although last night something was born of that strife . . . something precious,” she shyly confessed. “I pray thee, Iain, do not leave me in darkness. ’Tis a lonely place to be. If you confront your demons, it might then be possible to slay them. Last night I confronted a demon that had long haunted me. And this morning the memory does not hold me in so tight a grasp. I could not have—” Yvette stopped suddenly, afraid to say more, the emotions too new, too fragile.

Iain’s chest heaved
with a weary sigh as he took Yvette by the elbow and led her over to the stone window seat in front of the stained glass window. It was the only glass window she’d seen at Castle Maoil, and she assumed that it had cost Iain a vast sum.

For several long moments they sat side
-by-side. And though separated by only a few mere inches, neither peered at the other.

“Kenneth’s abduction was a mistake,” Iain
said finally, breaking the silence. “It should never have happened.”

Surprised by how he qualified the admission, Yvette turned her head in
his direction. “Why was it a mistake? ’Tis a common practice for noblemen to kidnap other noblemen and hold them for ransom.”

“Aye, but it was
me
that Lyndhurst wanted, no’ Kenneth,” he clarified. “Three years ago, soon after we battled the English at Roslin, Kenneth was kidnapped by Lyndhurst and his knights, yer father mistakenly believing that Kenneth was the MacKinnon.”

S
he gave him a questioning glance. “Forgive me, but I am baffled as to why my father would have thought thusly.”

“
He thought that because Kenneth and I were twin brothers.” As he spoke, the muscles in Iain’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. “We were mirror reflections of one another. As I was the elder by several minutes, I became the laird when our father died.”

“Sweet Mary!
” Yvette gasped. “I did not know that you and Kenneth were twins!”

“
Not even our own parents could tell us apart. Which is why Lyndhurst erroneously believed he’d captured the Lord of the Isles’
ceancath.
”

At hearing the unfamiliar Gaelic word, she
shook her head and said, “What is a
ceancath
?”

“By right of birth
, the MacKinnon is the Lord of the Isles’ war leader.”

“
A great prize, indeed,” Yvette murmured, suddenly understanding her father’s motives.

“’Tis the reason why the wily bastard set the ransom at two thousand pounds. But the Lord of the Isle
s refused to pay it because the wrong twin had been abducted,” Iain said bluntly.
“When the mistake was discovered, Lyndhurst reduced the ransom to a mere pittance as an insult to Scottish honor.”

A chill silence fell over the chapel
. In that quietude, Yvette could feel the rage that simmered behind Iain’s impassive gaze.

“Did you pay it?” she
gently prompted.

Starin
g straight ahead, Iain nodded his head. “As stipulated in the negotiated terms, I took the ransom to St. Ives’ kirk where the exchange was to be made. When I arrived, the kirk grounds were deserted. But I knew Lyndhurst had been there because he’d planted his standard in front of the kirk.”

Yvette’s mouth went dry,
suddenly reluctant to hear how the story ended. She feared that in the telling of it, Iain would once again blame her for his brother’s death.

“I’ll never forget the eerie silence
. There wasna a twitter of birdsong to be heard.”

“Where was
Kenneth?” she asked, bracing herself for the answer.

“In the kirk . . . his dead body sprawled across the altar,” Iain
intoned, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. “When Lyndhurst found out that he had the wrong brother, the treacherous bastard never had any intention of returning Kenneth alive.”

Gasping aloud,
Yvette put a hand to her throat, devastated that her own father had perpetrated such cruel brutality. And that he’d done so simply because he lost his coveted ransom.

Without being told, she knew
that
was the real reason why Iain had set her ransom at the outrageous sum of two thousand pounds.

Muttering in Gaelic, Iain suddenly lurched to his feet and stood with his back to her, his broad shoulders throwing a wide shadow onto the st
one floor.

“We were two sides of the same coin,” he
rasped, his back still turned to her. “That day in the kirk, I lost my better half . . . and I have felt like half a man ever since.”

“I am very sorry,”
Yvette whispered, the condolence so inadequate, the sentiment so paltry, it shamed her to even utter the words aloud.

“
’Tis no’ yer fault.”

At hearing Iain’s absolution, tears filled he
r eyes. Validating what she’d known for some time now – that the laird of Clan MacKinnon was a far better man than her father, the illustrious Earl of Lyndhurst, could ever hope to be.

“Truly, I . . . I
despise
him!” Yvette hissed, her fists clenched, her body shaking with an impotent rage. “To the very core of my being, I despise my father for his perfidy and his . . . his cruel brutality.” For too long a time those words had been bottled inside of her. Ever the dutiful daughter, she’d kept silent, refusing to decant the bitter truth. But now, in the face of a most horrendous tragedy, she could no longer feign familial love. “What my father did was unforgivable and I now understand why you wanted to kill me.”

Still standing with his back to her, Iain pushed out a dee
p breath. “I deeply regret all that I said and did that day at Glencova. I wanted naught but vengeance for Kenneth’s death . . . for all the good it would do me. Avenging Kenneth’s death will no’ bring him back to the land of the living.”

When he turned his head toward the altar, Yvette saw
a wet glimmer on Iain’s face. Choking back a sob, she quickly got up from the window seat and rushed over to him. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she pressed her face to Iain’s chest. She could feel his heart pound against her tear-soaked cheek, beating in syncopation with her own heartbeat. As if it was one heart beating between them.

“When my mother died, I learned that the grief of the living is part of death’s legacy,” Yvette whispered, hoping her words might bring some
small solace. “But her death also taught me that while our loved ones may not be with us physically, they are in our hearts and in our memories . . . and in that way they are with us always.”

R
emoving her arms from around his waist, Iain took hold of both her hands and laced their fingers together. Thus posed, they stood silent, the moments slipping one into the other.