Somewhere My Lass (17 page)
He slipped his fingers through her hair. “Oh, but I do.”
She wove her fingers in his and clasped his hand. “Then do not, I beg ye, deny me a night of love. Pour yerself into me as ye said.”
Everything in Neil wanted to act on her soul stirring plea, and he couldn’t believe he had any lingering hesitation. “You might conceive.”
“I pray I do.”
If he were blotted from existence tomorrow, a child might be the greatest comfort he could leave her. Pray God he would live to see it grown.
Without another word, he slipped her shift down over her shoulders and tossed it aside. By the faint glow of firelight, he marveled at the wonder of Mora. All soft curves and smooth skin, that long hair flowing over her in a shining auburn wash. Too exquisite for this earth, yet, here she was…his seductive angel, sensuous bride to be, all that and much more.
She took his breath away. He’d thought that only an expression, but by heaven, she did. His heart galloped as he gulped in air. Pent up far too long, molten desire flowed through him. He might dissolve in its wake. He was, after all, only a man and not superhuman.
Forcing himself to slow his fervor and not rush this hallowed union, he took her in his arms. Like an age-old song, known only to lovers, a melody drummed inside him as he kissed her mouth, her tearstained face, and pressed his lips down over her silken throat. Her sighs sounded in his ears. He whispered against the nape of her neck. “You are all to me.”
“And you to me.”
He slid his lips down over the creaminess of her shoulders dusted with freckles. Such delicate beauty. He kissed each adorable spot and drifted to her breasts, white and round in the pale light. Both nipples were flawless. Closing his lips around a ripened bud, he suckled lightly. Her sighs grew louder and she arched her back.
****
Delicious tingles shimmered through every inch of Mora. A world of pleasure lay in Neil’s mouth. She savored every kiss, each press of his lips. Her joy mingled with pain in the acute awareness that this might be their only time together.
No. Not possible. Mora wanted more of his touch, gliding over her arms and shoulders, smoothing her back, cupping her chilled bottom, her breasts. She filled his palms perfectly, as if her breasts were meant to fit there. Then his lips followed his hands, eliciting gasps from her unlike any she’d ever given voice to before. Never had she known such pulsing sensations. And if he didn’t survive the morrow, she never would again.
Cradling his head to her chest, she stroked his hair, pressed her lips over his strong neck, inhaling his unique essence. She nibbled his ear lobe, giggling when he did the same and blew lightly in her ear. She blew in his, evoking a chuckle. Back came his lips over hers muffling her soft laughter. She circled her arms around his muscular shoulders, locked in his kiss, his embrace. A divine seal that might have to last an eternity.
Once more tears blurred her vision in the tumultuous blend of emotions running through her. “I could no bear to lose ye.”
“Shhhhh,” he soothed. “I will give all my strength to keep us together.”
“And I pledge all of mine.”
“Hold to that and to me. You’re the strongest woman I know, Mora fair. My love, my own.”
She was his, and wanted all of him in return. And the only way to escape the dread that she might lose this man was to draw ever closer to his hard warmth. But there was no clasp close enough to satisfy her need. Only by taking him inside her could she begin to achieve the oneness she craved…and rock with him to a dance more marvelous than any on earth.
All too soon those cherished hours of richest passion and utter contentment with Mora flew by. Like melted pearls, the precious night Neil spent in her arms dissolved into cold gray dawn. After a few hours of slumber, the bitter day was upon them and he found himself riding away from Donhowel on his father’s swiftest stallion. Already the castle was little more than a distant smudge, veiled by the glaze of snow.
Neil rode Barbary, so named for his fierce Pagan nature. White powder kicked up from under the big chestnut’s ground covering stride. Like the most stout-hearted warrior, Barbary tore into battle. But the spirited charger was also steadfast to those he regarded as his own.
Barbary had readily accepted Neil in place of his old master, offering yet another affirmation that he belonged at Donhowel. Now Neil must lay claim to that birthright, or fade into oblivion. He refused to go down without an all-out, to the death fight.
No need for a guide to the MacDonald’s chapel. The grim trek was seared in his mind like the stripes marking Niall in that crypt. Past pain, past wrongs, drew Neil back to an appointment with destiny. Whether or not it was a fatal meeting remained to be seen, but if he were about to die, he’d never felt more alive.
One of them had to survive to love and care for Mora. She mustn’t be left alone. Even as he thought this, Neil knew if the union of both men wasn’t possible, then only the old Niall could be with her. Neil had until the last rays of the setting sun before his final moments expired. His former self was fading fast. More and more, he felt Niall’s pain.
He glanced back through the fine flakes at Mora mounted astride the stout mare, Awin, trained to bear either men or women on its broad back. Steady, strong, fast, the gray mare would see them through to that fateful crypt.
Both horses’ breath blew white in the air, but these animals were well adapted to the wintry chill. The mare also bore Fergus who hadn’t the faintest notion how to ride and wasn’t about to begin now. He sat behind Mora, hugging her for dear life. Despite his uneasiness, Fergus was the image of gritty determination.
Mora, cloaked in a blue green arisaid over several petticoats, was so covered only part of her face peered out. But Neil had no need to look into her eyes to see her unflinching resolve. She’d put aside the bridal
Gunne Sax
gown from Mrs. Fergus to wear for the wedding she’d insisted would take place upon their return. With his whole being, Neil prayed this joyous event would come to pass.
All their wills were bent toward fulfilling their quest. Before more than a servant or two had stirred in the household, the three of them had dressed, downed a cold breakfast, stolen into the stable to pack provisions in their saddle bags and mounted up, a particular feat for Fergus who detested early rising. And so, their most unlikely trio had ridden off into the Highland hills.
Thankfully the wind had calmed, but the raw wet cut deep and snow powdered the rugged landscape. Not yet heavy on the ground, but drifts covered the ridges rising high above them. Neil would’ve thought he needed to rely on natural landmarks to guide him or directions from the occasional craftsman if he lost his way.
He didn’t. Niall’s suffering—now his—pulled him back to that place of torment like a strong tide.
Blinking against the snow, he cantered Barbary through a glen between the white hills. The sacred vial tucked in an inner pocket of the coat Betty Fergus had given him. One of the servants had darned the tear in his wool pants, and he wore them with stockings and leather riding boots. A singular combination, he supposed, but it worked for him.
As to weapons, the dagger rode in another pocket and the sword he’d used yesterday protruded over his left shoulder from the leather back scabbard fitted around his chest over the black coat. He liked the feel of that blade. It had served him well in the duel with Calum.
A duel with Red MacDonald would be even more challenging. He doubted Fergus would succeed with his light tricks again. No, Neil must face the savage Scotsman alone when he appeared, and Aunt Margaret seemed to feel he inevitably would. Mrs. Fergus couldn’t keep him bound in the future forever, if that’s what she’d done.
Likely The MacDonald was already on the prowl. Where might he attack, and when? Would it be an open challenge or a sudden ambush?
A young roebuck darted from some brush and fled across the path in front of them. Barbary snorted at the deer’s sudden flight. The edgy horse shared Neil’s guardedness, ears pricked, alert to any sound or movement.
He reined in the stallion. Mora drew up behind him on Awin. “Do ye see anything?”
Knowing she meant anyone, he shifted his narrow gaze at the stones on either side of the snowy path, some as big as boulders. Frosted tree trunks also offered ample cover, as did bends in the path. Treachery lurked anywhere and everywhere.
“No. Difficult to be certain. The snow is both to our advantage and disadvantage, all depending on whether or not we’re detected.”
“Surely not.” Mora’s voice was slight in the moisture laden air.
“We can barely see each other in this wretched stuff,” Fergus muttered. “Unless Red MacDonald has heat seeking goggles, how can he spot us?”
The bridle jingled as Neil held in his impatient mount. “I put nothing past him.”
“He’s not Superman,” Fergus argued.
“Near enough.”
“Well, we’re the dynamic duo, make that trio. Cripes,” he interjected. “It’s freezing out here. Don’t suppose there’s any chance of coming across a café. I could do with some coffee.”
Neil’s stomach rumbled and the chill had seeped into his bones. “Couldn’t we all.”
Mora wrinkled her nose. “Coffee tastes bitter. Hot spiced ale is far more desirable.”
“Fine,” Fergus mumbled. “Got any?”
“Not at hand.”
“Rather a moot point then.”
“I have a flask in m’ saddle bag. Kindle me a fire, Angus Fergus, and I’ll heat it fer ye.”
Neil smiled slightly at the banter between them. They’d have to pause for a hasty lunch soon, but he was eager to get on. “No time for a warming blaze, not to mention the unwanted attention a fire might attract.”
Nudging Barbary in the side, he urged him on into the white curtain. He and the horse remained alert. The MacDonald had an uncanny way of predicting their movements. Almost as if he, too, were some sort of seer. If that were so, Neil prayed the Scotsman foresaw his own doom and not Neil’s. Not that this was likely to discourage the madman. His ego and thirst for revenge superseded all.
Maybe Neil should’ve brought Calum with him. A contingency of MacKenzie’s would also be useful, but he’d decided the fewer of them slipping into MacDonald land, the better. The success of their quest lay not so much in the number of arms, but stealth, and the blessing of the Almighty. And if he didn’t make it back, he’d rather Calum and his mother remained in ignorance as to why.
He hadn’t revealed the full extent of his mission to anyone at Donhowel. Only that he must face the Red MacDonald. The bitter knowledge of his former failure in that contest and the consequent suffering gnawed at him. For his sake, for Mora and Fergus, for all their sakes, this time he must prevail.
****
Ahead of them beyond the copse of leafless trees and pines lay the MacDonald castle. Smoke from the great hearths tinged the air. Neil judged the distance to Domhnall to be about a mile, but he didn’t need to see inside the castle. The image of a weathered door stained with age, set in gray stone, and secured with a thick black lock burned in his mind. The portal to the past.
His past. The nearer he came to his former place of torture, the more distinct the memories grew. And with them, the anguish.
Niall’s suffering threatened to overwhelm him. What transpired in the past was now the present, and the two so intertwined that Neil found it increasingly difficult to differentiate between them. He’d never known the bite of the lash, yet his back stung from the stripes. He ached all over from punching fists and kicking boots. Several ribs were cracked, had to be.
Despite adequate food, he hungered as though he’d not eaten in several days. He’d had sufficient to drink, yet thirst tormented him. His mouth was dry, his lips swollen. Worst of all, was the weakness wearing him down.
Attempting to conceal his rapidly deteriorating state from the others, Neil trudged, each step a misery, through the small woods. They’d left their mounts loosely tethered among the trees to snatch at whatever vegetation they could crop beneath the snow. Both animals were trained to await the signal, a whistle. If MacDonald men came upon the horses, Barbary would pull free and rear up, defeating any efforts to seize him. The mare would follow his example.
Every foot Neil advanced toward the castle only worsened the appalling sensations. He was under assault. Was it bruising alone, or had his spleen ruptured? His medical training told him he couldn’t long live with a ruptured spleen. The severe ache in his upper left abdomen might only be from deep bruising, but he fought the mounting urge to double over.
Biting back a guttural groan, he poked his head around a whitened trunk and squinted past the sheen of flakes. His twisted middle knotted even more tightly.
There stood Domhnall on a mound, built not for luxury but defense, as Neil’s castle home had been. But unlike Donhowel, this rocky fortress possessed no majesty or beauty. Its imposing aspect announced to all who passed that here was an impregnable structure. Built centuries ago from blocks of stone, the massive castle had a square keep and thick walls in the Norman style of architecture. Such castles were generally dark, cold, and brooding. Domhnall couldn’t have appeared more so.
The snowy grounds surrounding Domhnall had been cleared of trees and shrubs. Even the grass and heather were kept short to prevent trespassers from gaining furtive access to the walls, and from there, surging through the gate into the inner ward, the bailey.
Mora paused beside Neil and peered beyond the trees. “Nary a man is about in this foul weather. But they may watch from the wall or windows.”
He spoke through gritted teeth. “No one is on the wall.”
Fergus slapped his snow-covered fedora against his side and focused on what lay ahead. He gave a low whistle. “Damn, Neil. How do you propose we cross this open area then get through a barred gate in the castle wall, let alone into the chapel, without being seen? I’m guessing we won’t be given a hearty welcome. Where exactly is the chapel, anyway?”
“It doesn’t adjoin the keep, but stands in the bailey.” Neil pointed, singling out the stone structure, its steep gabled roof worn by wind and weather. A marked tremor shook his gloved hand. And it wasn’t only due to the cold, but the growing weakness spreading through his body. “There, between the two walls in the outer ward.” His chest rose and fell with his words as if he’d run hard.
Mora swiveled her head at him. “What ails ye?”
He labored to reply. “More and more, I feel as Niall does. Hear what he hears. At first, it was like murmurs on the wind, now louder.”
The jeering resounded in Neil’s head. Was it one man, two, three? He couldn’t tell. The voices ran together. Harsh. Unbearable. He covered his ears to shut them out, but couldn’t deafen the goading. “Do you not hear them?”
White-faced, her eyes pools of alarm, Mora shook her head. Fergus surveyed him with pity in his gaze, also the look he wore when scheming.
“What of Red MacDonald? Did you see or hear him?” he asked.
“Not among these men.”
“So, he could be anywhere?”
How long Niall had undergone this torment, Neil didn’t know, but it was coming down on him now at its zenith. He struggled to shake it off, to fight back, and seize the upper hand. But this wasn’t a duel. He had no chance. Niall was losing the battle, again, and taking Neil with him.
Unable to bear the suffering one single moment longer, Neil sank down, moaning, onto his knees in the snow. The sun was already low in a shrouded sky. Impossible to gauge how long he had before sunset. He must get up and make his way to the chapel, but the crushing weight held him down.
The force that was Mora knelt beside him and circled her arms around his aching shoulders. “Ye mustn’t stay here—” Her voice cracked. “We’ve come so far. Neil, please. Do not give up.”
Her plea reached him as if in a noisy throng, but her entreaty needed no words. For her, he would sacrifice all. Taking a breath, he reached deep inside to summon the fortitude to see this task through. It was as though stones were heaped on top of him.
He struggled to rise and sank back down. Fergus bent over and gripped Neil’s sore arm. “Mora, give me a hand. We’ll see Neil through if we have to carry him.”
Between the three of them, Mora tugging, Fergus pulling, and Neil, drawing on more strength than he thought he possessed, he staggered to his feet. The thirst was terrible. His voice little more than a croak, he asked, “Have you anything to drink?”
Fergus fished in his pockets and produced a juice pouch. “Pomegranate.”
Not a flavor Neil normally savored, or Fergus either. Probably why it remained untouched. He reached for it like manna from heaven. His fingers shook so hard Fergus stuck the mini straw attached to the packet through the tiny hole. He passed the pouch to Neil, who sucked it down, squeezing to get every last drop from the partly frozen juice.