Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (28 page)

Iain slowly nodded his head.
“Aye, ’twas very different.”

Hearing that,
Yvette feared that her union with Iain paled in comparison to the one he shared with his first wife.

“I couldna spe
ak to Fiona like I speak to you,” Iain continued. “Dinna get me wrong; the woman was like a magpie. But she had no interest in things beyond her ken. She didna care what name the ancients gave to the stars. Or that there were even stars in the sky. And she couldna be bothered with Scotland’s fight for independence. To her it mattered naught who ruled the country. But ye are different from Fiona. Ye are an educated woman, yer wits quick and facile. When we speak, we are of an equal mind.”

Yvette
didn’t know how to respond, her ‘quick and facile’ wits stunned into silence. Indeed, she had never had a man pay her so great a compliment. And though it thrilled her to know that Iain found her beautiful and desirable, to be of ‘equal mind’ was a far greater compliment. For it meant that Iain found her worthy of his respect.

Mayhap, in time,
that respect will blossom into a deeper regard.

Then
Iain would tender the words that Yvette longed to hear and meet her in the place where love abided. Although she knew it would not come to pass that night. For now, the most she could hope to garner was her husband’s passion.

And there is joy enough in that,
she silently chastised, knowing she would suffer a bitter disappointment if she dared hope for anything more.

Unlocking her legs from around Iain’s waist,
Yvette scooted away from him, modestly pushing her chemise back over her thighs. On the pretext of needing to stretch, she rose to her feet, turning her back on him lest her face reveal the secret desire that refused to lie dormant.

“I hope you
don’t mind that I asked about Fiona,” she said over her shoulder.

Iain shoved h
imself upright. “’Tis only natural,” he said. Standing behind her, he wrapped his arms around Yvette’s waist, nestling his face in the crook of her shoulder. “Had ye no’ asked, I would have— Sweet Jesu!”

Suddenly pulling away from her, Iain spun on his heel and charged over to the door th
at led to the circular stairs. Yanking the door wide open, he shouted into the stairwell, “Diarmid! Come quickly!”

Concerned, Yvette ran over to him.
“What is the matter? Why are you shouting for Diarmid?”

His expression grim, Iain extended his arm and pointed to the moo
nlit mountain in the distance.

“God’s mercy!”
Yvette gasped, placing a hand to her throat.

Emblazoned like some hellish
aberration, a gargantuan cross affixed to the top of the mountain blazed brightly against the night sky.

When finally she caught her breath, she fearfully stammered, “
Wh-what is it?”

“
’Tis a fiery cross.”

“I can see that, but . . . who put it on top of the mountain
? And to what purpose?”

Staring at the mountain with narrowed gaze, Iain said,
“It was put there by order of the Lord of the Isles. An urgent gathering of the clans has been called.”

In the next instant,
Diarmid rushed through the doorway. “Ach, Christ! ’Tis a fiery cross,” he exclaimed when he caught sight of the burning monstrosity. “An emergency war council has been convened.”

“Aye, I thought the same thing
,” Iain said with a terse nod. “Mayhap the MacDougall Clan has landed on the western coast of the isle and is searching for the Bruce.”

Diarmid cast a furtive
glance in Yvette’s direction. “Or mayhap the English fleet has landed.”

“A
ye, ’tis another possibility.”

Grim-faced,
Diarmid said, “I’ll inform the men-at-arms that we leave at dawn.”

Iain gainsaid him with a
shake of the head. “We will leave tonight. There is enough moonlight. Wake the king and have the men make ready.”

“Given that the Bruce
is anxious to battle Longshanks’ army, he should be overjoyed,” Diarmid muttered as he made a hasty retreat down the circular stairs.

Stunned, Yvette stared at her husband
whose gaze was still fixed upon the burning cross in the distance, his thoughts having roamed to a place where she was loathe to venture.

T
his is all happening too swiftly.

One moment a warm summer breeze had caressed their fevered flesh
; and in the next heartbeat, the winds of war did blow. Given that Iain might soon be charging into battle, Yvette feared what form the zephyr would next assume.

Knowing
that food had to be packed and supplies gathered, she turned despondently toward the door. She’d taken only a few steps when she came to a sudden halt, her attention arrested by the two shadows cast onto the oversized wooden door.

Mesmerized, Yvette stared at the two shadows that
distinctly outlined the separate figures of a man and a woman. There was no Scottish laird. There was no English noblewoman. There were simply two silhouettes that were remarkably free of the encumbrances that could sever and divide their fleshly counterparts.

Iain put a hand on her shoulder, startling
Yvette out of her maudlin reverie.

“Ye stare at that door as though ye’ve
just been visited by a vision.”

Not wanting his last memory of her to be a sullen one, Yvette tried to smile .
. . but the effort fell flat.

At a loss for words
, she inanely murmured, “We cast long shadows, do we not?”

‘Shadows long enough to bridge the chasm between England and Scotland
,’ Iain longed to reply, but could not.

As with all shades, he knew
that the two eloquent shadows cast upon the wooden door were doomed to perish with the dawn.

Pushing the thought
from his mind, he reached for his elusive shadow woman and pulled her toward him, nestling himself against her warm backside.

Unable to put thoughts into words, he held Yvette close, his arms wrapp
ed over and under her breasts. There were so many things he wanted to say. So many things he wanted to do. He wanted to make love to her, yes, but more than anything else, he wanted to remain with her till the end of his days.

Fourteen days
. That’s all they’d been given.

It was
a cruel punishment, indeed, to be given such sweet succor. Only to have it forcefully snatched from him.

Silently
, Iain cursed his duty, war lurking so close, he could taste it. And even though he’d known for weeks this day would come – Robert the Bruce having made no secret that he intended to lead a Scottish army against Longshanks and his hired mercenaries – that didn’t lessen the sting from the moment’s arrival.

For many nights now he’d p
rayed that when war did finally erupt, it wouldn’t be fought on his beloved misty isle.

Those prayers, alas, had been in vain.

God willing, even if the great armies of Scotland and England kept to the mainland, the human toll on his clansmen would undoubtedly be heavy. Men he bantered and brawled with might soon be lying dead on some faraway battlefield. When that happened, the isle’s mist would carry with it the keening wail of mourning women.

Just a few
moments ago, his and Yvette’s tomorrows had stretched before them, shiny and untouched. A green mountain glen that held the promise of a sweet repose. But it’d taken only one fiery instant for that sylvan dream to vanish before their very eyes.

To his
despair, he could not divine what the future held for them.

This place, this moment, may be
our last shared memory.

“You’re trembling,” Yvette
said softly.

“Aye.”

It was because he was afraid of losing her. Of being forever separated from the woman he wanted above all others.

Driven by that fear, Iain spun Yvette toward the merlon directly behind t
hem and shoved her against it.

Ignoring her startled gasp, he yanked her
chemise to her waist, bunched his kilt, and pressed his erection between her legs. Mounting her like a stallion would a mare, he thrust into her, stretching her wide open, completely embedding his manroot in her warm, welcoming body.

“I need this, sweet Yvette . . . God forgive me for being so brutal
. But I have need of ye. Like this.”

“I know,” she whispered as she braced her hands on top of the merlon.

For several heartbeats Iain savored the warmth, the sweet bliss of their total and complete union. Then, because Yvette was wet and tight and he could wait no longer, he grasped her by the hips. Seized with an urgent need to mate, he set a fast, furious pace. He wanted to possess her, within and without. To pillage her warm, pliant flesh. To leave naught in his wake but smoke and ash. To thrust. Moan. Heave. Do violence. Bring pleasure.

To that end, h
e entangled the fingers of his right hand in the silky curls between Yvette’s legs. Rhythmically he rubbed against the small, swollen nub hidden at the apex of her sex.

Yvette
frantically grabbed his hand. “Please, stop,” she panted. “I can bear no more of this.”

“You can take it,” he muttered against her ear,
refusing to relent.

Suddenly,
Yvette arched her back, slamming herself against him as she cried aloud. Iain watched, transfixed, as she began to climax, her moans following one after another, her fingers clawing at the stone merlon.

It was then
Iain knew that he would never be able to get his fill of her. He wanted Yvette, not only at that moment, but for all the moments, days, years that were to follow.

Furiously, he pumped his hips as n
eed, desire and, yes, even fear, all got shoved into the one desperate act.

His race
nearly run, Iain thrust deeper.

“Yvette . . . I
want—” he gasped, abruptly silenced by the powerful eruption that burst through him and into her woman’s body.

Completely drained,
he sank against Yvette’s soft body. Unable to speak, Iain wanted to linger until the shadows waned in the pale light of a new day. To forestall, if only in his mind, time’s winged passage.

But he could not.
His wants, his needs, were no longer of consequence.

Reluctantly, Iain pulled away from his wife of
a fortnight. He no longer belonged to her.

He now belonged to clan and country.

Unable to find solace in her lonely marital bed, Yvette wandered to the parapet to await the sunrise. Iain had been gone for two days. During which time, she’d thought of little else save for his return.

Leaning against a merlon
– the same one that she and Iain had made love against – Yvette gazed at the shadowed horizon.

All was
tranquil on the misty isle, the winds somnolent. On the western sky, a sliver of moon dangled, the new day still holding the old one in its arms, nighttide having yet given sway to the dawn.

Although faint, Yvette caught a whiff of Iain’s unique
male scent. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply.

Come to me in my dreams, husband, for I do miss
you so.

Unthinkingly, she swayed
toward the merlon, pressing her hips against the hard surface. In her mind’s eye, she could see again the passion, the animal frenzy of their last coupling.

Desolate, she opened her eyes, acutely aware that
her fevered imaginings were made of nothing but stone and air. She would rather have the man. His animal heat. The press of his hard body against hers. Even when vividly rendered, a dream could never replace the man she loved.

Blinking to clear the wanton image from her mind’s eyes, Yvette stared at the gray
-shrouded bay in the distance. To her surprise, she saw what looked to be twinkling fairy lights bobbing on the water. An otherworldly scene, it was as if the lights gleamed betwixt and between the veil of time.

Long and hard she stared . . .
until she belatedly realized that what she saw was not some ghostly illumination, but lanterns swinging from the prow of a score of boats, the small flotilla headed directly for the isle.

“
God’s breath!” she gasped aloud. “They’ve come for King Robert.”

Fr
ozen in place, Yvette feared what the marauders would do when they discovered that the king was no longer at Castle Maoil.

“To arms! To arms!
Raiders approach by sea!”

At hearing
the alarm sound from the gatehouse, Yvette rallied into action. Pivoting toward the door, she charged down the circular staircase. Despite the fact that her feet were unshod, and her hair unbound, she didn’t return to her bed chamber. If the castle was attacked, shoes and a wimple would matter naught. Dawn was only a few minutes away; and with it, the raiders would make landfall. Once they disembarked, it would only be scant minutes before they arrived at the castle gates.

A weapon!
Yvette thought frantically as she raced down the steps.
I need a weapon!

At the bottom of the
staircase, pandemonium had broken out in the great hall, men-at-arms running pell-mell, women screaming, dogs barking wildly.

D
read fear made Yvette hasten her step.

When she reached the kitchen, the scene was no differen
t than that in the great hall as the usually unflappable Eara ran toward her, wailing loudly.

“Lady Yvette!
The MacDougalls ha’ come tae murder us all!”

“Rest assured, they will not get past the curtain wall,” Yvette
told her, hoping to pacify the contingent of kitchen gillies who had gathered around her. “Our walls are strong and our archers aim true. There is naught to fear.”

The stridently issued assurance was intended
to quell not only their panic, but hers, as well.

“If only the laird
was here,” Fergus lamented.

“He is not.
But that is no reason for you to succumb to fear,” Yvette reproached the quaking manservant. “Together, we must present a brave front in the face of this dangerous challenge. To that end, I have need of your largest knife. Procure it for me. Quickly!”

“Aye lady,” the chastened servant murmured, scurrying to retrieve what turned out to be
a very sharp, deadly-looking weapon.

As she
took the knife from Fergus, Yvette fervently hoped that she would not have to use it. Although she was fully prepared to do so, if need be.

Knife in hand, she turned to
Eara and said, “I am going to the gatehouse. As soon as I leave, I want you to bar the door to the keep. You are to permit no one to enter until the danger has passed.”

“Aye,
lady . . . and God be wi’ ye.”

“And with you
, as well,” she replied, reaching over to squeeze the teary-eyed scullion’s arm.

Lifting the hem
of her
léine
, Yvette hurriedly made her way to the main door of the keep.

Moments later, t
error bombarded her anew as she stood on the top step and surveyed the tumult in the bailey below. In the pale gray of early dawn, she watched as the last of the men-at-arms ran toward the gatehouse, all wielding sharp blades and deadly weaponry.

T
here are so few of them,
she thought fearfully.

Because Iain had been entrusted with protecting the king of
Scotland, he’d taken most of the men-at-arms with him. With the king’s departure from the castle, it was assumed the danger had gone with him. Little did Iain know that danger had a will and mind of its own.

As she wended her way across the bailey toward the gat
ehouse, Yvette glanced skyward. The advancing foe brought with them a sudden chill wind, the burgeoning sun eclipsed by sinister clouds that boldly strutted across the morning sky. Ignorant in such matters, she didn’t know if the encroaching foul weather favored those within the castle walls or those without.

Girding her courage as best she could,
Yvette climbed the stone steps that led to the battlements. As she pushed her way past the gathered men-at-arms, there was many a furtive and surprised glance cast in her direction.

Malcolm MacKinney, a longbow clutched in his right ha
nd, stepped toward her. “The laird would ha’ ye kept safe.”

“And I trust that you will do just that,”
Yvette replied, hoping the tremor in her voice wasn’t too noticeable. She hadn’t come to the battlements, armed with a well-honed butcher knife, because she wanted to be there. She’d come because as the lady of Castle Maoil it was her duty to negotiate with the marauders on her husband’s behalf.

Although Malcolm
opened his mouth to argue the point, he, and everyone else on the battlements, suddenly fell silent upon hearing the deafening roar of horses’ hooves pounding the turf, the marauders making no attempt whatsoever at stealth.

Just then,
as though ordained by Lucifer himself, a dagger of lightning plummeted to the earth, the very ground beneath the stalwart gatehouse shaking in the aftermath.

“English mongrels!”
Malcolm snarled when the contingent of riders came into view.

Yvette feared
his enmity was justified as there wasn’t a single Scottish plaid among the mounted horsemen that galloped over the rise. Rather, the riders were clad in chain mail, black surcoats and great helms.

Choking back a frightened whimper, she stared, awestruck
, as the riders came to a halt, stretching in a line three score long.

At a glance
, it was obvious that the armed contingent was no unruly band of raiders.

This
is an army
, she realized with escalating alarm.

“
They are knights of the realm,” she informed Malcolm, telling him what he, undoubtedly, already knew.

One of the helmeted knights kneed
his warhorse into a slow trot. As he advanced toward the gatehouse, Yvette intuited that he wished to communicate with them; if for no other reason than to issue demands.

She cast a quick sideways glance at Malcolm
and Robbie MacKinney. While both were deadly accurate archers, there were only the two of them. They would not be able to shoot arrows fast enough to halt the onslaught should the cavalcade of well-armed men storm the main gate.

“Hold your fire,” she ordered, the two archers having a
lready drawn their bowstrings. “I will converse with the knight in the hopes that violence can be averted through reasoned discourse.”

Unconcerned that the two archers had their bows trained on him, the black-clad knight reac
hed up and removed his helmet. As he casually slung it over his back, the helm dangling from a thick chain attached to his shoulder, Yvette’s jaw slackened.

God in heaven
! What is Sir Galen de Ogilvy doing on these shores?

“Ah, Lady Yvette!
I trust that you are well,” the dark-haired knight drolly called out, his attempt at good-will circumvented by a mocking sneer.

“Sir Galen!
I am surprised to see you.”

“And why is that? You are betrothed to my uncle.
As the earl’s
chevalier
, it is my duty to see that you are safely returned to Glencova.”

So
this is my father’s plan – to refuse to pay the ransom and instead send Sir Galen to abduct me from Castle Maoil!

Yvet
te stared at the mounted knight, suspicious of Sir Galen’s motives for participating in the duplicitous scheme. As the Earl of Angus’ only heir, the surly knight had made no secret of the fact that he opposed Yvette’s arranged betrothal to his uncle.

Thinking it prudent, at least for the time being, to withhold the fact that she was handfasted to the laird of Clan MacKinnon, Yvette said,
“Surely you stand to lose title and fortune if I return to Glencova and wed the earl.”

“You dare to impugn my honor!” Sir Galen roared
contentiously as he held aloft the wavy plait of Yvette’s hair, along with the strip of MacKinnon plaid, that Iain had tacked to a linden tree the day he abducted her. “
This
is an insult to the noble de Ogilvy family. One that I shall take great delight in avenging!” the affronted knight exclaimed, steely determination writ large on his face.

Yvette’s chin lifted defiantly as she recalled every slight, every unkind cut the knight had issued during her brief tenure at Castle Airlie.
“I care naught for your honor, Sir Galen. Your presence here is most unwelcome and it would behoove you to return from whence you came.”

“I have no intention of departing this isle unti
l you are safe in my custody. And you, fair lady, do not have the men-at-arms to make me leave,” Sir Galen challenged. “I know full well that Castle Maoil is defended with only a handful of archers, a few gillies with pitchforks, and a gaggle of useless women.”

“You are gravely mistaken for
—” Yvette’s breath suddenly caught in her throat.

With a gasp
, she watched as Laoghaire MacKinnon, unbound copper tresses blowing in the wind, ran full speed across the battlements, a lance confidently held at her shoulder. Intuiting her sister-in-law’s intention, Yvette frantically waved her arms to stop her.

“
This
is what we, the women of Castle Maoil, think of ye and yer band of cutthroats!” Laoghaire yelled, her magnificent red hair whipping about her face like tongues of fire.

“Laoghaire, do not
—”

The command came too late, the fearsome Scotswoman hurling
the deadly lance at Sir Galen, the knight still mounted on his war horse.

Yvette watched, horrified, as the lance soared through the air, accompanied by the raucous che
ers of the assembled clansmen.

Without so much as blinking, Sir Galen raised his shield and easily intercepted the lance, knocki
ng it asunder with lithe ease. As near Yvette could tell, he’d expended no more energy than if he’d swatted a fly.

“You red-headed hellion!
Pray thee I don’t get my hands on you.”

“H
ah! ’Tis unlikely ye’ll ever get yer hands upon me. Or any woman at Castle Maoil,” Laoghaire belligerently countered. “Heed me well, English knave: I can kill ye just as easily with a pitchfork as I can a broadsword.”

“Bold words for a woman.”

“Bold, mayhap, but true!”

“And what does a Scottish harlot kno
w about truth?” Galen taunted. Looking very much like a man transfixed by a vision, he stared at Laoghaire MacKinnon, a hungry gleam in his gray eyes.

Fearful
that the exchange between the two combatants would degenerate further, Yvette sternly shouted, “Sir Galen! I bid you show respect when you speak to the laird’s sister.”

“Ye called him by name!”
Like an enraged Celtic goddess of old, Laoghaire imperiously raised an arm and pointed to the mounted knight. “Do ye mean to tell me, wife of my brother, that ye
know
this whoreson?”

Sir Galen visibly bristled.
“You dare to call me a whoreson! By God, I have killed men for giving lesser offense!”