Laird of Secrets (The Whisky Lairds, Book 2): Historical Scottish Romance (The Whisky Lairds Series)

by Susan King

  “Tell me about the fairy woman.” She rested a hand on his arm. “Does she help you make the fairy brew?”

  “Fiona.” Setting his hands around her waist, he drew her even closer. She did not resist. “I do not want to talk about fairies.”

  “But I want to know. I need to know.”

  “I wonder,” he murmured, touching her cheek lightly, “why you are so keen on the fairies of Glen Kinloch.”

  “I cannot say, not yet. I am sorry.” She pulled back. “We both have secrets.”

  “We should talk of this later. You ought to go upstairs to rest now.”

  “My head is still spinning a bit, I admit.”

  He turned to pick up a candle in its brass holder, then waved her ahead of him to the door. Moments later he began leading her up the turning stone steps.

  “I will go first,” he said. “The way is steep and dark.”

  At the upper landing, she reached for the door latch and paused, glanced up. Dougal hesitated. A cool, mere good night here would abandon the promise of what was happening between them, though perhaps that was best.

  One more kiss, he thought, one more moment to hold her. Morning would arrive all too fast. They would not have this chance to be close, alone, honest.

  But they were unchaperoned, and already he should take the full blame for it. Already he knew he ought to offer marriage for the situation she was in at his home. She and her Lowland family would surely expect it. Marriage.

  Suddenly that did not seem an ill fit to him any longer. Here she was, standing so close, alone with him in his very house, in front of a bedchamber, wearing his very dressing gown. Here she was, a girl he could love, a girl special enough to sip the fairy brew and see the fairy of the whisky—he liked the name she gave it—and she had come into his arms willingly and sweetly. And he had already confided secrets to her that he would never have shared with another.

  Trusting her felt good. Right. Marriage. The word had a soft insistence. Even his uncles had suggested it not long ago. He tilted his head, watching her.

  “Goodnight,” she whispered, pressing the door handle.

  “Fiona,” he murmured. He set the candle in a niche in the wall. “Wait.”

  “Aye?” She turned, and in that instant, she moved, he moved, opened his arms. She went into his embrace silently, smoothly, looked up.

  He touched his lips to hers, and she complied, gave back. Sweet as honey, hot as the burn of whisky, a new kiss, another, blending together in a chain of kisses, tentative, then deeper. She opened her lips beneath his, curved her body snug to his. He cradled her head in his hand, fingers sliding through her silken hair, tumbling loose its curling softness.

  “Fiona,” he said, “this is madness—”

  “It is magic,” she murmured, touching her lips to his again.

  “It is the whisky,” he answered, drawing back, “and I will not—”

  “It is not all the whisky,” she whispered, sliding closer, the brocade robe slipping open, her body in a plain lawn shirt—his own—pressed intimately against him, warmth through fabric.

  “More than you know, lass,” he said firmly. Though he knew he should let go, he pulled her closer, kissed her deeply. His hand skimmed down to her waist, to her hip. Sighing, he straightened, then released her.

  “Into your room, now,” he said quietly.

  “If you think I am fou, I am not. Not any longer.” She touched his shoulder. “Would you stay with me?"

  “If you were sober, you would not ask that. Go on, now. Later for it, when we both are clear, and in agreement.Then we shall see, and we shall discuss what obligation the laird owes the lady.”

  “Obligation?”

  “Hush. Enough for now. It is rest you need, and no more talk.” He brushed his knuckle over her cheek, and kissed her again, could not help it, lips dragging hungrily over hers, his body pounding in its need for satisfaction. Mustering his will, he pushed her gently away. “Go, my girl.”

  Opening the door, she stepped backward over the threshold, watching him. “What if I see fairies again tonight, when I am all alone?”

  “That may happen, for the whisky is still upon you. I thought you wanted to see them.”

  “Not alone, in the dark.”

  “Then go to sleep quick as you can,” he suggested.

  “Tell me more about the fairies of Kinloch.”

  “A fairy story before sleeping?” He quirked a brow, amused.

  “It is important that I know. I wish I could explain. Later.” She put a hand to her head, her slim bandaged finger white in the darkness. “I am dizzy. So tired.”

  “Go on, now, and goodnight.”

  “But I do not—oh!” She looked past him. “Oh!”

  “What is it?”

  “The wee colored lights, just there, on the stair behind you.”

  He turned and saw them, the ones who flitted in that form. Sometimes they appeared at dawn or dusk, other times when something of significance was about to happen. Why were they here again, so often lately? He shook his head to clear his vision. They did not vanish. He turned back. “They mean no harm.”

  “You do see them! I thought you did, earlier tonight. Are they the fairy ilk?”

  “So my father used to say. I have seen the lights many times. There, now, I have told you another secret of mine.”

  “You have many secrets.” She stood very still, watching him.

  “As do you. When the wee lights appear, they only mean to protect us.”

  “From what, here in this place?”

  “You, from the laird? Or the laird from you,” he mused.

  She smiled, radiant, the smile he craved to see, impish and lovely. He savored it, returned it. “Are you and I the only ones who see them?”

  “My father saw them. You must have a fine bit of fairy blood, to see the lights of Kinloch. That long-ago fairy of the bejeweled cup—she has blessed you, lass.”

  “I wonder,” she said slowly, “if something special happens between us whenever we are together, since we can both see this phenomena.”

  “You are a scientific and practical thinker, my girl, even with something magical. And I think you could be right.” His heart, his breath, quickened.

  “Kinloch,” she said, holding out her hand. “I do not want to be alone tonight.”

  He watched her for a moment. Then he took her fingers in his.

  The room was small and cozy, with the humble elegance that permeated the house. A four-poster bed filled the space, carved wooden posts, dark green curtains, a mattress draped with a pale coverlet. Near a window stood a small table and two stiff carved chairs on a patterned rug thin with age, and nearby, a large chest bound with leather straps.

  Fiona turned, seeing that Dougal leaned against the door as if he was not certain he should enter. He held the candle and watched her. Shadows and light sculpted the planes of his face, highlighting the green eyes, the strong jaw, the sensuous lips that had met hers so sweetly. Her heart thudded, and she felt shy. Yet she had invited this boldly. He had not forced it on her; he indeed he seemed wary.

  She felt as if a sort of spell had been cast over her, for the decision was made in her mind, and did not trouble her. Instead, it seemed the open path, the way she must go, wanted to go.

  "You are safe here,” he said then. “I want you to know that.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, then. Goodnight, lass.” He set the candle on a table and stepped back.

  “Dougal,” she said. “Do not send me away from the glen. I want to be here. I want to be with you.”

  He began to answer—then crossed to her in two long strides, took her face in his hands, touched his mouth to hers. The kiss was tender and fierce all at once; she felt her knees weaken, moaned, grasped hold of his shoulders as his lips caressed hers. He turned to bring her to the bed, sitting with her on its edge, the mattress sinking gently beneath them.

  She cupped his cheek, the angle of his jaw, his bea
rd’s texture like soft sand. Sliding her hand to the open throat of his linen shirt, she touched warm skin, sensed the hard beat of his pulse. Groaning low, he sank back with her, pulling her to him. Even through layers of linen and wool, she felt the hard urgency of his body against hers.

  As she trailed her hands over his shirt and plaid, he traced kisses along her cheek, her throat, small, exquisite, cherishing kisses, and then she found his mouth with her own and opened to his gentle tongue. She pressed against him, her hand flat over his chest, feeling his pounding heart. He stretched out with her on the coverlet now, mattress sinking, as she felt his solid strength, her body fitting easily to his as he kissed her again, his breath warming down along her arched throat.

  She shaped her hands over his wide shoulders, needing more, wanting more from him, and as he kissed her she urged him to fierceness, catching her breath as his hand slipped over her breast, caging softly over her shirt, then tracing downward. She arched in anticipation, his fingers exquisite, his lips pliant. Trembling slightly, she gave in to the bliss of touch. She did not want to think, did not want to reason what should and should not be. She only wanted his hands upon her, his lips on hers, his body hard against hers, warm curves and hollows finding their seductive fit.

  He explored delicately over her, and her body pulsed, ready, though she knew she should stop him, she let this continue, aching for secret touches now, arching and inviting, compelled by the wildness he was rousing in her.

  Then he drew back, even as her heart slammed. He rested his brow against her own, went still, his body hard with a keen tension, his embrace tightening.

  “Not this way,” he rasped. “Not with the whisky in you. Not with so many questions, and no agreement between us. I want you—dear God, lass, I do—but not this way.” Pushing up on an elbow, he got up, stood in the shadows. “Rest,” he said, stepping back. “You need to rest.”

  “I do not want to be alone,” she whispered.

  He sighed, sat again, took her hand. Warm, solid, firm. She sensed a fine tremor there, like contained passion. “Sleep, then. I will be just here.”

  She began to protest, but curled away, not quite certain if she was rejected or protected. But she felt safe. And soon slept, falling faster than she expected.

  In the night, she woke, her thoughts foggy, to find Dougal lying beside her in the darkness. His breathing was deep and even. Asleep, then. She curled against him, and he looped his arm around her. As she slid back into sleep, she felt his lips touch her hair.

  Much later, she woke to gray light dissolving the darkness. The air was cool, and she shivered, turning. Dougal was gone, the bed cool where he had rested. She looked around the room.

  He stood in shadow by the window, parting the curtain to stare out through the old glass. Quietly, Fiona slid from the bed, drawing the robe around her, and went to him. He held out an arm silently, drawing her to him. She stood beside him looking out over the silvery fog that blurred the hills in the moments before dawn.

  “The day I met you,” she whispered, “those very hills were misted over. I thought you were one of the Fey, come for me.”

  He laughed softly, kissed her hair. At that moment, she felt a powerful magic stir between them, a spell she could not resist. She turned to him, set her hands on his shoulders for a kiss. Her head no longer spun, but her heart turned within, moved by a depth of emotion—of love. Caught between sleeping and waking, like the veiled and misty world outside, time suspended, she knew what she wanted.

  “My head is clear now,” she whispered.

  “Is it?” he murmured against her lips. “So is mine.”

  “I know what I want.” She framed his face in her hands, his whiskers rough under her fingers.

  “And what is that?” He leaned down, lips tracing her brow, her cheek.

  “Not to think. Not to talk,” she whispered. “Not to wonder what we should do, or should not do, what is proper and what is not.”

  “This is not entirely proper,” he murmured against her hair. “Highland or Lowland, you know this obligates us to marry.”

  She sucked in a breath. But she could not marry MacGregor of Kinloch. This fine, strong, wonderful man would not satisfy the conditions of her grandmother’s will. If she married him, she would risk her brothers’ inheritance. But if she gave up her own share—

  That might do. She ducked her head down against Dougal’s shoulder for a moment, thoughtful, heart racing. It might indeed do, if she withdrew her interest in the will. Then she would not be bound by its conditions.

  She could do what she wanted. Marry whom she wanted, have the life, and the love, she wanted, not dictated by others.

  “Fiona?” His voice was a deep thrill against her ear.

  She looked up, smiled. “This feels good to me. Proper. It feels right, and I do not want to talk of obligations.”

  “But my girl, if we—“

  “Hush,” she said, pressing tightly against him. His big hands warmed her waist and back, and pulled her against him; she could feel the hard shape of him. “Hush, Kinloch.”

  Her heart was beating in a strong rhythm now, her body taking on a deep, irresistible, undeniable need. When he kissed her next, sweeping his hand down over the hem of the long shirt she wore, she grabbed the hem on impulse and lifted it for him.

  She gasped as the cool air hit her skin, gasped at her own boldness as she raised up the shirt and tossed it aside. She caught her breath again, hearing his own breath catch, hearing his low growl as his hands warmed over her back, her hips. He was kissing her deeply now, hard and passionately as she tugged wildly at his shirt, wanting to feel his skin against hers, wanting to feed the urges that now made her heart pound, her body throb under every grazing touch.

  Under her hands now, the breadth of his back and shoulders were velvet smooth and muscled hard, and as her hand met the woolen edge of his wrapped kilt, more boldness came over her, so that she pulled at it, so that his own hand met hers, slid it aside as he tugged at his kilt, unwrapped it. She touched his taut stomach, his hip, slid further. His hand met hers again, moved it aside.

  “Not yet, love,” he murmured, and his lips found hers again, sudden and swift and hungry. All the while his hands shaped, teased, discovered softness and delicacy and warm readiness. Her knees faltered, and suddenly he swept her into his arms and carried her back to the bed, to the still-warm tumble of linens there. Stretching out with him in the cozy, curtained shadows, she waited as he tugged away what he wore, the cloth a muddle on the bed. She fell back into his arms, delighted, wanton, willing. All doubt had washed away as if by magic—she had hardly thought about it and it was gone, her desire and conviction certain.

  She arched, caught her breath as hands and lips touched and traced, as fingers slipped downward, he finding her ready, delving to touch, so that a swift wave of blissful sensation rippled through her. She explored him, curious and keen, shaping him, finding warm velvet sheathed over iron. Her kisses took his groan into her lips. And then he half lifted her, turned her full to her back, pausing. Not hesitation, she realized, but a question. He waited in silence, breathing hard.

  “Aye,” she whispered, and she shifted to open to him, while he pressed and moved, like hand into glove. The feeling was stunning, sharp for a moment, and she surged toward him, feeling a rhythm growing, subtle and then greater, a rocking, a swirl of joy. Without words, she felt loved. She felt loving, wanting him to feel the same wild heat and deep comfort that filled her.

  Then he rolled with her, parted, lay beside her, held her warmly, silently, in his arms. Nestled against him, his breath gentle on her cheek, his body solid and safe, hers now as she was his, she closed her eyes.

  “Fiona,” he whispered.

  “Hush.” She set her fingers to his lips. “Or the magic will be gone.”

  “Ah, but love makes its own magic.” He kissed her brow and murmured something under his breath that made her heart soar.

  “Are you going past the laird�
��s tower this early morning? I will walk with you,” Mary MacIan said. “Perhaps we will see the Laird of Kinloch when we go by.” The old woman smiled mischievously.

  Blushing, turning away, Fiona picked up her books and papers, ready to walk to the glen school for morning lessons. Two days had passed since she had lain in Dougal’s arms, but her cheeks went hot and pink at the slightest mention of him. “I am in a hurry to get to school this morning.”

  “Ah,” Mary said knowingly.

  Glancing away, Fiona felt sure Mary had guessed something had happened between the teacher and the laird. She had acted cool and detached, and had deliberately avoided seeing Dougal MacGregor, afraid that her feelings might shine in her eyes, and some might realize that she loved the glen’s laird.

  But because of her grandmother’s will, there could be no future with him. He was not the wealthy Highlander she had been directed to find in order to receive the inheritance. She had yet to explain that to Dougal, but for now, his mention of marriage and obligation was hopefully forgotten.

  For now, she wanted to treasure what was in her heart. Too soon she would lose him to circumstances. She had lost her first love and never wanted to endure that again. But their sweet affection had not been like this passionate, soul-deep feeling overtaking her. And she did not know what to do.

  “I will come with you. I must pay my rent to the laird,” Mary was saying. “It is odd that he has not come to collect it and give me a bottle of his finest stuff, which is his habit each month. I have earned nicely this month from selling my cheeses and beer to the innkeeper, and I think I will bring my fee to the laird. It is a good day for a walk. Maggie, come!” Mary called to the dog trotting behind them. “She needs a good walk, too, on such a fine morning.”