Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (20 page)

“Ye are a wise woman,” Iain said at last, the bit
terness having left his voice. “I dinna know if I slew any demons, but I do feel . . .
lighter
.”

Yvette tipped her h
ead so that she could meet his gaze. “It is a beginning, is it not?”

“Aye . . . ’tis a beginning
.” Releasing her hands, Iain walked over and lit a votive candle. “For the lost soul of Kenneth MacKinnon,” he murmured, crossing himself as he spoke.

Yvette
took her place beside him. Using the same taper, she, too, lit a candle. “Rest assured, Kenneth is no longer lost . . . He
has
found his way home.”

“I pray God ye’re right.
Come,” Iain said, snatching hold of her hand and pulling her toward the door. “I must be leaving. We can say our farewells in the bailey.”

“I can not possibly go to the bailey in my current state of dishabille,”
Yvette balked as she tried, unsuccessfully, to pull away from him. “Should your kinsmen see me dressed like this, they will know that I have shared your bed.”

Iain came to a sudden halt.
“Are ye ashamed of what we did last night?” he asked, his glance nearly as sharp as the claymore slung across his back.

“I am not
the least bit ashamed.”

“Then, come
. If we stay in the chapel, I might well do something that will jeopardize my mortal soul. Yours, too,” he added with a teasing smile.

Not giving Yvette a chance to
lodge another protest, Iain dragged her down the torch-lit corridor, out the door, and down the long row of stone steps that led to the bailey . . . where a good many of his kinsmen, already mounted, waited for their laird. As the two of them descended the stairs, knowing winks and nods were quickly exchanged, putting a heated blush to Yvette’s cheeks.

“Iain, could ye no’ ha’ let the maid at least shod her feet before ye dragged her out of yer bed?”
one of the horsemen called out to him.

“Aye, I could have,” he shouted back.  “But that would have cut short my time wi’ the lovely lady.”

Humiliated, Yvette punched him in the arm. “Mayhap you should tell them that our time was spent in the chapel and
not
in your bed,” she hissed under her breath.

Still grinning
broadly, he turned to her and said, “And deprive my kinsmen of their lurid speculations? They would never forgive me.”

“
I
might never forgive you.”

“
Seeing as how the harm is already done, I think I’ll steal a wee kiss from ye.”

It was all the warning Iain gave Yvette before he wrapped one arm around her waist,
slung the other around her shoulders, and pulled her to him, kissing her with an almost shocking hunger. Shocking because she could feel his burgeoning arousal pushing against her belly.

Sweet Mary
! Did the man have no sense of propriety?

Embarrassed by the raucous laughter and ribald jests that suddenly erupted all around them, and annoyed that Iain had not considered her feelings in the matter, Yvette wedged her hands between them and shoved ag
ainst his chest.

Although he eased his mouth away from her lips,
Iain refused to relinquish his hold on her, his arms like iron bands as he pressed her tightly to his chest.

“I would have ye sl
eep in my bed while I am gone,” Iain whispered in her ear.

“I cannot!”

“Ye can and ye will. I am the MacKinnon and I order ye to do so.” Then, with an amorous gleam in his eyes, he said, “And when ye lay yer head upon my pillow, I want ye to breathe in my ‘unique’ scent, and remember all that we did last night.”

Before she could reply, Diarmid approached and clap
ped a hand on Iain’s shoulder. “While there’s no’ a man among us who would deprive ye of yer pleasure, we must take our leave.”

“Aye,” Iain said with a resigned nod as h
e loosened his hold on Yvette. “We have a long ride to Duntulum.”

As he turned to mount his steed, Yvette impulsively grabbed Iain b
y the arm. “I will pray each day that you . . . that you return safely to Castle Maoil,” she said awkwardly, still embarrassed that so many people were privy to their farewell.

Giving her a warm glance, Iain
briefly cupped her cheek in his hand before he swung himself into the saddle.

Amidst shouted commands and boisterous laughter,
the assembled riders trotted toward the gatehouse.

Grabbing her
chemise and mantle, Yvette quickly charged up the stairs toward the stout door that barred the keep, almost knocking over a servant as she barged through the entry. Still holding her garments aloft, she ran down the corridor and headed straight for the circular stairs, nearly making herself dizzy as she climbed the two flights to the top.

A few moments later, p
anting from her exertions, she swung open the door to the parapets and raced to the opposite corner. Leaning against the cold, unyielding stone, she caught sight of Iain riding at the head of the mounted column as he emerged from the gatehouse.

Tears stinging her eyes,
Yvette stood watch until he disappeared from sight.

“Fare thee well, Iain MacKinnon
,” she whispered forlornly.

Until you return to me.

Iain came to her, Yvette sighing with delight as she moved her hands across his bare chest. She wanted to learn his body, as one would learn a musical instrument.

Glancing at him, she saw that h
is lips were parted, his chest heaving ever so slightly with his quickening breath.

Lost in a world of pure sensation,
she rained kisses down the strong column of his neck. Becoming more daring with her caresses, she flicked her tongue over his small flat nipple. With a groan, Iain gripped her shoulders.

“Touch me,” he husked, tightening his hold on her.

A wanton’s smile hovered on her lips as she bit into his pectoral muscles. “But I am touching you, my lord.”

Iain shuddered.
“Take hold of my rod.”

“Is that an order?”

“Aye, ’tis an order . . . and a fervent plea.”

“I do not like to take orders from a man
. But being a compassionate woman I shall answer your plea,” Yvette whispered just before she snaked her hand beneath Iain’s kilt and lightly rubbed his woefully swollen manroot.

Shoving the woolen plaid to his waist, she star
ed at his throbbing member, utterly enthralled. Then, gracefully sinking to her knees, she took him in hand as she angled his manhood toward her lips . . . .

Reveling in the dream’s aftermath, Yvette remained supine upon her lumpy oat mattress as she stared at the stone ceiling.

With a wistful sigh, she replayed
the erotic scene in her mind’s eye, carefully committing each intimate detail to memory so that she could later take pleasure in it anew. In the week since Iain had departed from Castle Maoil, she’d discovered that reliving her nightly dreams during her waking hours helped to mitigate the yearning.

And she did yearn for Iain.

There had been several times, late at night, when she’d fallen victim to a bittersweet longing, tempted to steal down the corridor and sneak into Iain’s bed chamber. And though she’d been ordered to do just that, she could not bring herself to be so brazen.

Because of her timidity
, she nightly suffered; her dreams so vivid, she could
hear
Iain’s deep, husky voice whispering her name; could
feel
him hold her in his arms; could
taste
his kisses upon her lips; and could even
smell
his manly scent.

Perhaps
this yearning is naught but bodily lust.

However,
if that was true, how could her intimate interlude with Iain have enlivened both body
and
mind? And her spirit, as well, Yvette certain that she’d forged an intangible bond with Iain MacKinnon. One that she was loathe to break.

Throwing back the wool blan
ket, Yvette rose from the bed. As she did each morning, she smoothed the rough linen sheets and blanket over the mattress before stepping over to the basin. Pouring water from a clay ewer, she used a cloth to cleanse her body. Once her ablutions were complete, she braided her hair and twisted it into neat roll, securing the heavy coiled mass with bone hairpins. After dressing herself in a linen
léine
and plaid
arisaidh
, she rolled stockings onto her legs and slipped her feet into a pair of plain brown leather shoes.

Ready to go to the great hall and break her fast, she
pulled back the curtain that closeted her oriel from the main hall. As she hurriedly made her way to the circular stairs, she had a change of heart, impulsively
ascending
the stairs.

S
urrendering to a sudden urge to greet the new day, she stepped through the doorway onto the parapet. As she pulled the cloak-like
arisaidh
over her head, her breath caught in her throat.

’T
is a glorious morning
, she marveled as she gazed upon the rising sun, its rays of crimson madder staining the nearby hillocks.

Since arriving on Iain’s beloved
eilean a’ cheo
, she’d observed the ‘misty isle’ through leaden eyes, blind to its green motions – the flutter of leaf, the waver of grass, the roll of the sea. Today, however, she felt as though she’d just awakened from a deep sleep, able to see the landscape with new eyes.

In the
near distance, a feathery chorus heralded the break of day. Enchanted with the winged madrigals, Yvette closed her eyes and listened to their sweet song.

No sooner had she closed her eyes than
an all too familiar image appeared in her mind’s eye – Iain, naked, his muscled torso gilded with firelight.

God’s heart! I can not put him from my mind.

Hearing a loud commotion, Yvette opened her eyes and swung her gaze toward the gatehouse. For several moments, she watched as the men-at-arms who’d been left to defend the castle clamored onto the battlements to relieve the night watch.

With a resigned sigh, she turned toward the door.

’Tis time to start my day as well.

The
morning sun gleamed through the open shutters of the solar as Yvette industriously plied her fingers to spinning. With a distaff of wool braced under her left arm, she deftly manipulated a drop spindle, twisting the wool fibers into a long strand.

Once
an adequate amount of wool had been spun, she would order Fergus to ready a cauldron with woad leaves, boiling water, alum and wood ash, the spun wool to be dyed a deep shade of blue. To match Iain’s eyes.

He
will look quite handsome in a blue tunic. Mayhap I will even embroider the cuffs with—

“The devil take ye!
This is
my
solar! I did not give ye leave to be here!”

Lost in thought,
Yvette yanked her head toward the doorway, the angry exclamation having shattered her silent reverie.

Standing a few feet away, balled fists on her hips
with a scowl marring her face, was Laoghaire MacKinnon. Yvette sighed, the belligerent Scotswoman having become a thorn in her side.

“Are ye deaf, Sassenach? I said this is
my
solar!”

Where you
undoubtedly spend many a pensive hour engaged in embroidery and other ladylike pursuits,
Yvette silently mocked as she eyed the mannish tunic and trews that garbed the statuesque beauty.

No sooner
did the unkind thought germinate than Yvette inwardly berated herself. Although Laoghaire wrongly blamed her for Kenneth’s death, she knew the other woman’s fury was born of a deep sadness.

“I beg of you sincere pardon f
or the trespass,” Yvette said, hoping to extend an olive branch. “But I have much wool to spin and the light shines more brightly on this side of the keep.”

“Not nearly as bright as it shines in hell!”

Ignoring the jibe, Yvette said, “I intend to make Iain a tunic, and I would be happy to spin enough wool to make you a kirtle, as well.”

One side of
Laoghaire’s mouth curved upward. As if she was greatly amused by the offer. “D’ye no’ approve of my manner of dress?”

“I do not disapprove so much as I do not
comprehend why you choose to dress like a man. Unless you are attempting to take your dead brother’s place.”

To fill the gaping hole created
by Kenneth MacKinnon’s death. And thus become the brother that Iain lost.

“Damn ye!
” Laoghaire furiously exclaimed. “Ye have no right to speak of Kenneth.”

“I would have you know that I condemn
what happened at St. Ives’ kirk.”

The Scotswoman eyed her suspiciously.
“And how do ye know what happened at the kirk?”

“Iain told me.”

“Ye’re a lying bitch! He would
never
speak of that day with the likes of ye,” Laoghaire accused, her face flushed with anger. “And he willna rest until the blood debt is paid . . .
Nor will I!
”

Knowing
that she had to tread lightly, Yvette said, “If there can be no peace between us, is it too much to ask for a truce?”

“
A truce?!
”

“Ye
a, a cessation in hostilities,” Yvette elaborated. “I grow weary of all this bickering. I would have us treat one another with a small measure of courtesy.”

“Is that an English custom, to speak in a civil tongue to one’s enemy?”

“We are not enemies,” she affirmed.

“Aye, we are.
For I am Scottish and ye are English. And never the twain shall meet.”

“And I
will have you know that I am not your enemy,” Yvette steadfastly maintained, fast losing her patience with the ill-tempered young woman.

“No doubt
, ye think that with your peaceful overtures, you can better curry favor with my brother,” Laoghaire sneered. “But I’ll have ye know that it willna succeed. Aye, Iain lusts after ye. ’Tis plain to see. But no matter what lengths ye go to, he will
never
love ye.”

At hearing that, Yvette’s head immediately jerked, her fin
gers tangling in the spun yarn.

“I said
nothing
of love,” she sputtered, at a loss to know how the subject even arose.

“Maybe
no’, but ye were thinking it. Why else would ye spend yer days spinning wool so ye can gift Iain with a new tunic?” Laoghaire prodded. “And why do ye tend to Iain’s keep as if it were yer own? D’ye think I can’t hear yer breath catch every time ye speak his name? Why ’tis laughable to think that Iain would ever
abide, let alone love, a bloody Sassenach.”

Horrified that she’d made the
‘laughable’ mistake of falling in love with Iain MacKinnon, Yvette’s fingers stilled, the weighted spindle falling to the floor with a loud clunk
.
In the next instant, as she gracelessly lurched from her stool, dun-colored tentacles of yarn fell at her feet.

“I rue the day
that I first heard of Clan MacKinnon!” she unthinkingly blurted as she tossed aside the wood distaff, the apparatus snapping in two when it hit the floor.

Assailed by the sound of
Laoghaire’s mocking laughter, Yvette lifted her skirts and ran from the solar.

And
she kept on running, all the way down the circular stairs, through the keep, and out to the bailey; not stopping until she reached the postern door.

Fumbling with the keys that dangled from her girdle, she finally managed to fit the right key
into the lock.

Iain
is gone! There is nothing to stop me from escaping the isle.

Her mind made up, Yvette darted down the rutted
path that led to the headland. It would be simple enough to hail a fisherman. If need be, she could bribe a boatman to row her to the mainland with the jeweled-handled knife that hung from her girdle. Once she was on the opposite shore, she would trade her emerald betrothal ring for a horse, supplies, and the services of a guide to take her back to Glencova.

Why
did I not think of this plan sooner?

Even though her legs burned, her sides ached, and she could barely pull air into her lungs,
Yvette quickened her pace. When she reached the bottom of the path, she scurried to the strip of rocky ground that jutted into the strait, overjoyed to see a fishing skiff bobbing on the water not too far distant.

Raising her arms in
to the air, she frantically screamed, “Save me!”

As
she listened to the echo of those two words reverberate in the ethers, Yvette instantly regretted her impetuous decision.

Despondently lowering her arms, she
fell to her knees, hit with the sudden realization that she did not want to leave the isle. She wanted only to be saved from the heart-wrenching torment of unrequited love.