The Captive Heart (30 page)

“Damn you, Colm, aye!” she cried.

“Beg me for it,” he taunted her.

“Never!” she swore as he rubbed himself tantalizingly against her.

He laughed. “Beg!” he repeated.

In reply she pushed him from her and rolled away from him. He followed her onto the bed, reaching for her, but Alix eluded him, laughing. “Now ’tis your turn to beg, my lord,” she teased him wickedly.

They rolled back and forth across the large bed until finally the laird caught his bride. He forced her beneath him. “Now beg!” he told her fiercely.

“You beg!” she insisted. “Do you not want to sheathe yourself deep inside my warmth,
Husband
? Do you not yearn to take your pleasure?”

“Aye!” he told her, and pushed just the head of his cock inside her. “And you,
Wife
, do you not long to feel this thick and lengthy peg throbbing within you?”

“Aye!” Alix agreed.

“Then as we are of the same mind,” he said, and he thrust hard.

The breath went out of her as she felt the denseness sliding into her. He loomed over her, taking her legs and pressing them as far back as he could without harming her. Then he thrust hard a second time, and plunged deep over and over again until Alix was indeed begging him not to stop. She squeezed thick flesh probing her hard. He groaned and she smiled, for she realized that they were gaining equal pleasure. And then her head began to spin, and she saw stars behind her closed eyes. She heard herself calling to him, “Please! Please! Oh, Colm, please!” And then she was spinning and falling even as she felt his juices exploding to flood her with his essence.

When she finally came to herself again Alix found herself in her husband’s arms. “And it isn’t even noon,” she half whispered to him.

He laughed softly. “Understand, madame, I don’t intend letting you out of this chamber until the morrow. And if it rains on the morrow we will remain here.”

“But I’m hungry,” Alix said.

“Food will be brought to us,” he promised her.

“You have schemed all this out beforehand,” she accused him.

“I have,” he admitted freely. “I love you, lambkin, and now that you are my wife I do not have to pretend. All in the keep knew it. But we are newly wed and shall have this day, and perhaps another, just the two of us.”

They had three days, for on the seventh of December it rained an icy rain, and on the eighth it snowed. And while on the morning of the ninth it was still snowing Alix insisted on leaving her bedchamber for Fiona’s sake. The laird, while grumbling, knew she was right. His daughter was bright and lively, but she was also fragile. She had become very used to both Alix and her father being there for her. She greeted them almost with relief when they entered the great hall.

“Where have you been?” she demanded to know. “I was afraid, but Fenella said it is the custom for a bride and groom to be alone for some few days. She said you would be back when that time was over. What were you doing?”

“We were doing what a bride and groom do when they are alone, and one day you shall learn that for yourself,” her father said.

“Have you enjoyed your holiday from your lessons?” Alix asked the child.

“Father Donald came when you were not here, except on the wedding day,” Fiona grumbled. “He is not as much fun as you are, Al—Mama. All he wanted me to do was read my Latin with him. He said I didn’t need to know how to do mathematics. That my husband would do all that was important one day. But I like mathematics.”

“And we shall do some this morning,” Alix promised her. “Iver, send to Father Donald and tell him I have returned and will take up my daughter’s schooling now.”

“At once, my lady,” the steward said.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Fiona told them. “I missed you. I was afraid you had left me, Da. Alix is now your best girl.”

“Nay, Fi,” her father assured her. “Alix is my lady, but you will always be my best girl, even when you have brothers and sisters to play with, my bairn.”

“When will I have brothers and sisters?” Fiona wanted to know.

“Alix and I are working very hard to make them for you,” the laird told his daughter, who clapped her hands with delight. “That is why we were away.”

“But we need not go away again,
ma petite
,” Alix assured her. “We shall make your brothers and sisters right here at Dunglais, won’t we, my lord?”

“Aye, madame,” he told her with a grin. “We most assuredly will.”

And Fiona was satisfied. The days grew very short as December progressed. As Alix had told Fiona the year before, she would be in charge of Christmas decorating this year. The two, in Fenella’s company, ventured out from the keep one morning to cut pine and other greenery. Over the next few days the hall was festooned with all manner of greenery and holly, along with many beeswax candles.

The Twelve Days of Christmas began on the twenty-fifth and ended on the sixth day of January. They had had a wonderful time just the three of them. Malcolm Scott couldn’t ever recall having had such a glorious celebration as he did that year. And he realized he was unbearably happy. Really and truly happy for the first time in all of his life. He wondered if Dunglais had ever seen a happier time.

His father had been a hard man, but then it was a hard world in which they lived. His mother had been loving and patient. He was his parents’ second child. His older brother had died at birth. And when he had been Fiona’s age, his mother had given birth to a daughter who lived but several months. His father loved his mother and, oddly, had been satisfied with a single son even after Colm’s mother died and he might have taken a young wife to assure his line.

Times were particularly difficult when he was growing up. The king, James I, had been an honored captive in England since he was a boy of eleven. The last heir of Robert III, his father had sent him into the custody of the French king to keep him safe. But the boy’s ship was captured by pirates and the young Scots heir taken to the English king. Although his elderly father had died upon learning of his heir’s fate, James I was not able to regain his throne until he was twenty-nine. He returned with an English queen, Joan Beaufort, the great-great-granddaughter of King Edward III of England.

Queen Joan bore her husband eight children, but unfortunately six of them were daughters. And then twin sons, Alexander and James, were born at Holyrood Abbey in the midautumn of 1430, but only James survived as his father’s heir. When James I was murdered at Perth during the Christmas season seven years later, his son, James II, took the throne. The queen had been injured attempting to save her husband. She saw to the executions of his killers quickly and without mercy. Two years later she remarried to one of her husband’s cousins, James Stewart, known as the Black Knight of Lorne. They had three sons, but though others were now responsible for her first son, the young king, Joan Beaufort at least was able to give him a few companions who were not part of the squabbling factions running the boy king’s life.

Malcolm Scott smiled to himself, remembering. He had been called to become the king’s companion at the age of nine. The king was two years his senior. Oddly, the lad from a not particularly distinguished border family and the young king had become fast friends. While the other boys had either dropped away, or at their family’s urgings allied themselves with those controlling the king’s life, Malcolm Scott had remained loyal to James II. It had not brought him wealth or prestige once the grown king took charge of his life and his kingdom, but the two men had remained good friends. He had been happy then, but not like he was now with Alix.

January passed, and on the second day of February Alix brought Father Donald a supply of fine beeswax candles that would last the Dunglais church for the year. The day was called Candlemas. The ewes were once again lambing, and the days were growing longer again. Their lives had taken on a comfortable familiarity. Fiona was suddenly growing taller, and the nights were long and sweet as the laird and his bride worked to make a child. March came and went.

And then one late April day, the snows finally gone from the moors and the hillsides, the watch on the tower called out that a party of armed men was approaching the keep. At once the drawbridge was pulled up and the gates closed behind it. They did not appear hostile, and there were but six of them who rode with a gentleman. It was the gentleman who came forward and waited to be challenged.

“Who goes there?” came the expected query.

“I am Sir Udolf Watteson of Wulfborn Hall. I seek to speak with your master, and I request shelter for my men and me this night.”

“You must wait,” the man-at-arms called down, and the visitor nodded.

“Send to the hall,” the man-at-arms said to one of his fellows. “Tell the laird Sir Udolf Watteson asks to speak with him and begs shelter for the night. He’s an Englishman, but he seems peaceable enough.”

The soldier nodded and ran off to the great hall, where the laird and his wife were seated. The man bowed to the laird. “There is an Englishman at the gates, six men-at-arms riding with him. He asked to speak with you, and he begs shelter for his party this night, my lord.”

“Does this Englishman have a name?” the laird asked.

“Sir Udolf Watteson of Wulfborn Hall,” the man replied.

Beside him the laird heard the sharp intake of Alix’s breath. He turned to see she had gone pale. Very quietly he said, “Go to our chamber and do not come out unless I send for you. I will send Fiona to be with you.”

She did not argue, but arose and almost ran from the hall.

“Fenella,” the laird called, and the housekeeper came from another part of the hall. “Find Fiona and take her to my wife. They are to remain abovestairs until our guest has departed. It’s the Englishman she fled.”

“Right away, my lord,” Fenella replied, and hurried to fetch Fiona.

“Go back to the watch,” the laird said. “Sir Udolf is welcome at Dunglais. Put his men in the stable to sleep. They can be fed here in the hall, but make certain we outnumber them. Do you understand?”

“Aye, my lord,” the man said, and hurried out.

“Iver, go and bring our guest into the hall,” the laird instructed his steward.

Iver bowed to his master and went from the hall. He knew who their guest was, for Fenella had told him of Alix’s history as she had told the housekeeper. The laird was right to keep his wife from the hall. There was less apt to be difficulty if Sir Udolf was unaware of her presence at Dunglais. Iver entered the courtyard as the Englishman was slowly dismounting his horse. “My lord, I am Iver, the laird’s steward. Welcome to Dunglais. If you will follow me, I will take you to my master.”

“Aye, thank you,” Sir Udolf said. He had almost bypassed this keep, for it was small and certainly undistinguished, but he could not be satisfied that he had lost Alix until every nook and cranny had been investigated. But he was weary and sore from his days of riding. He had to admit to himself that he was not the young man he once was. He was surprised to find the great hall of the house warm, clean, and quite pleasant. A woman lived here, he was quite certain.

The laird came forward, his big hand stretched out in welcome. “Sir Udolf, I am Malcolm Scott, the Laird of Dunglais. Since our two countries seem to be at peace with each other I welcome you. What brings you to my keep?” The laird cast a quick glance at Iver, who, snapping his fingers at a serving wench, brought her quickly forward with a tray containing two goblets of wine that she offered with a curtsy to her master and his guest. “Come and sit by the fire,” the laird invited. And when the two men had settled themselves and taken their first sip of wine, Malcolm Scott looked expectantly to Sir Udolf Watteson. “You have ridden far?” he asked.

The older man nodded. “I have been back and forth across the border for some months now, my lord,” Sir Udolf said. “I seek a young woman who is my betrothed wife.” He sighed. “She was wed to a blood relation of mine. When he died tragically, I decided to take her for my own, as my wife was long dead. The lady in question is of good family and sweet nature. What better woman with whom to spend my later years? While I waited for the dispensation from York so that we might wed, she grew discouraged and departed my house without my knowledge. I have sought for her ever since.”

“A sad tale indeed,” the laird said. “But why do you think her in Scotland?”

“Her godmother is here,” Sir Udolf replied. “I have already visited her and gained her permission to wed her godchild, as she has no other living family.”

“How fortuitous,” the laird murmured.

“I have visited many keeps these past months, but no one has seen or heard of my betrothed. I am almost ready to give up,” Sir Udolf said.

“If the lady was traveling alone,” the laird began. “You are certain she was traveling alone, aren’t you?”

“Most assuredly!” Sir Udolf replied, his tone slightly offended. “She was a lady of the highest moral character.”

“A woman traveling alone could easily have been attacked and killed for her horse and any valuables she carried,” the laird said.

“She was a-foot,” Sir Udolf answered him. “She had her own mount in my stables, but such was her good character that she would not take the beast.”

“A-foot!” the laird exclaimed. “Why, then, it is certain, my lord, the lady is long dead. A woman alone and out upon the moor would be vulnerable not only to wicked men, but vicious beasts as well. Only five years ago the bones of a woman were found out on the hillside.”

“But how did you know it was a woman if there were only bones?” Sir Udolf wanted to know.

“There were scraps of her clothing amid the bones,” the laird replied. “If your lady did not go to her godmother, which was undoubtedly her destination, and no one has seen her, it is likely the poor soul is dead.”

“So I fear,” Sir Udolf said, “but as soon as the snows left the hills I thought I must look one more time.” He sighed, and then said, “Your hall is a fine one, my lord. Your wife and her servants keep it well.”