His Scottish Bride - Shelly Thacker

by Thacker, Shelly

  Aileen blinked in confusion, truly not grasping his meaning, just for an instant.

  Then suddenly her heart started beating too hard.

  A muscle flexed in his bearded jaw. “I have not been entirely truthful about the reason I have returned to Scotland.” His emerald gaze darkened, his voice becoming husky. “I came back for you, Aileen MacLennan MacFarland. I came to ask you to be my bride.” He dropped to one knee before her, taking her hand in his. “I am asking you to return to France with me…as my wife.”

  Her mind whirled madly as if one of the stones above had just fallen on her head. “You…” She stared down at him. “You canna…you dinna mean this! Are you jesting?” During his previous stay in Scotland, Henri had been known as a young man who rarely took anything or anyone seriously. “We have…you and I…we have not even seen each other in five years!”

  That irresistible smile curved his lips. “But I feel as if you have been with me, through your letters. Every detail you wrote about your days was so vivid. The softness of the Scottish fog on an autumn morning. The colors of the seashells you found along the shore on the Isle of Mull. The scent of the heather you gathered on your walks. The troublesome wildcat your nieces tried to adopt as a pet. The sound of the rain pattering against the windows of the library here at Glenshiel.” He rose, still holding her hand. “Aileen, your letters made me feel as if I were right there beside you. I read them many times, and carried them with me, always. They were…” He swallowed hard. “They were sometimes the only thing that helped me endure the long nights during those battles in Angouleme and Chalon-sur-Saone and the mountains on the Spanish border.”

  Her eyes suddenly filled with dampness. Never had she imagined that her letters had meant so much to him. “But if you…I dinna understand, Henri. I-I wrote you all of that…and so much more. But you rarely wrote back. And then you…then you stopped. I wasna even certain you received my letters—”

  “I did. Every one. And I did write back.”

  “A handful of times.” She looked down at their linked hands. “And I can recite your replies by heart: ‘Siege of Saint-Junien successful. The men’s morale is strong. We ride for Veyrac on the morrow.’ They were more like…like military dispatches than the sort of missives a lass might mistake for…for wooing.”

  “Aileen, though I possess some skill with sword and crossbow, I lack your talent with words. And parchment and ink were not always readily at hand on the battlefields.” He sighed. “Food was not always readily at hand on the battlefields. Or a dozen other necessities I could name.”

  “I didna think about that.” She shut her eyes, not wanting to imagine how he must have suffered. By not telling her about his experiences, he had been trying to protect her. “When you stopped replying at all, two years ago, I…I thought your silence meant that…you didna care for me.”

  “Two years ago was when King Philippe’s campaign on the Spanish border began.” His voice became rough. “There were days when I was not sure I would live to see another hour, never mind live to see you again.” He tightened his hold on her, drawing her closer. “Aileen, do you not understand? I could not make promises to you when I was not sure whether I would live to keep them.”

  She looked up at him, a tear sliding down her cheek as she realized just how much danger he had been in. “Merciful saints,” she whispered. He had not stopped writing because he was rejecting her…but because he had not expected to survive. “Thank God you are all right. And now…now things have changed?”

  “Now the battles are won.” His smile flashed again. “King Philippe has vanquished the warlords in the southern regions of his realm, secured the borders to the east…and forged France into a nation. There will always be disputes and skirmishes, of course. I may be called into service again, if trouble breaks out in the Loire region.” His smile widened. “But my chances of living a long life have much improved.”

  Her pulse quickened, her relief that he was no longer in danger getting all tangled up with her most heartfelt wishes and dreams. “Henri, after all these years, I-I had lost any hope that you might return my…” She stopped herself before she could say it aloud.

  “Your affections?”

  She let go of his hand, abruptly realizing that she had forgotten a few rather important facts. “Nay, I…” She shook her head in denial, wishing her heartbeat would slow down. “This proposal, Henri…’tis too sudden. And too late! I am already betrothed.”

  His dark brows slanted down over his eyes. “Laurien and Darach told me when I arrived last night. But they said your betrothal was only recently and rather hastily arranged. I thought—”

  “That it could be undone?” Aileen turned away, picking up the mistletoe that she had somehow dropped on the floor without noticing. “Nay, I am to marry Lord Alsh of Murlaggan on Loch Arkaig—who is mayhap the wealthiest and most powerful lord in all the north. He asked for my hand, my father agreed, ’tis settled. Lord Alsh is not the sort of man who changes his mind. Ever.” She continued walking down the corridor, her steps a bit faster than before.

  “I remember Alsh.” Henri followed her. “He was a snappish old crab, as sour as vinegar. And that was five years ago. I doubt he has improved since then. And he is more than twice your age.” Disbelief filled Henri’s voice. “Aileen, you cannot tell me that you would freely choose him over me.”

  “Freedom has rather little to do with it.” Aileen quickened her pace. “And his age doesna matter. Lord Alsh already has three grown sons, and several grandsons, so he has no need for heirs. He wrote to my father that he is ready to hand over his holdings to his eldest son, while he enjoys his sunset years. He simply wants a charming companion to cheer him by the hearth.”

  Henri muttered a French curse under his breath. “That sounds ever so nice for him—and awful for you.”

  She stopped trying to escape Henri and turned to face him. “’Tis an advantageous match for the entire MacLennan clan,” she said defensively. “To have a marriage alliance with so powerful a lord will offer my family protection and security—”

  “And you have always done what is best for your family.” Henri’s expression held both pain and admiration.

  “Aye.” She nodded. “Aye, I must protect them as they have always protected me. I…I canna just toss their needs aside and selfishly run away to France.”

  “But why must you be the one to marry the old toad? There must be some other MacLennan lady he could wed. One of your dozens of cousins?”

  “’Twas me he offered for. I dinna know why. But to break an agreement with Lord Alsh…” She shook her head. “It could put the entire MacLennan clan in peril. I canna do that.”

  Henri looked stricken, genuinely stunned that he might fail in his quest to win her hand. Unable to accept that after waiting so long and traveling so far…he might be returning to France alone.

  She looked down at the mistletoe she still held. “Oh, Henri…’twould seem we have missed our chance, you and I.” The thought filled her with misery. “If you had declared your intentions sooner—”

  “I could not declare my intentions until I was certain I would live long enough to marry you. I knew that losing your first husband in battle broke your heart, Aileen. I could not do that to you again.” He moved closer, reaching out to touch her. “I did not wait so long because you mean naught to me, my sweet lass…I waited because you mean so much.”

  His fingers were so gentle as he caressed her cheek, she had to close her eyes, trying not to cry.

  She had never told him the truth about her marriage: ’twas not losing her husband in battle that had broken her heart.

  Her heart had been broken from the day she wed Sir Cael MacFarland.

  “Henri, I-I dinna want to become a warrior’s bride again,” she said firmly, knowing the lie would sound believable. “Lord Alsh—my betrothed—is mature and settled—”

  “Elderly and dull,” Henri bit out.

  She opened her eyes. “Elderly an
d dull is a perfectly sensible choice for a lass like me.”

  “What do you mean, a lass like you?”

  She pulled away from his touch. “You know what I mean.” She gestured to the mark on her left cheek. “I mean this. People who have never seen it before stare at me, Henri. They gasp when they catch sight of my face. Some are even frightened. I have seen strangers make the sign of the cross and avoid my path.” She took a deep breath. “’Tis better that I stay here, in the Highlands, where most everyone knows me. Where I am…accepted.”

  “Where you are shut away from the world? Kept in a dusty keep with a doddering old toad as a husband? Like a prisoner? That cannot truly be what you want. You are more courageous than that, Aileen. You are stronger than that.”

  Her nervous fingers tied the ribbons on the mistletoe into knots. How was it that he could believe in her so fiercely, when she sometimes found it so difficult to believe in herself?

  “My sweet lass, there is a whole world you have not yet seen,” he said quietly. “Do not just read about it in your books. Let me show it to you.”

  “I…I dinna care to discuss this any further, milord,” she said as calmly as she could manage. “You and I may have had feelings for one another, once, and we may have exchanged a few letters—”

  “It was more than a few letters. It was three years of letters,” he reminded her. “We also shared a few kisses. You have not forgotten?”

  “’Twas five years ago.”

  “But you have not forgotten.” He stated it with absolute confidence.

  She couldna deny it. She would never forget. Henri’s kisses had been the most memorable of her life.

  The only memorable kisses of her life.

  Desperate to change the subject, she looked away and fastened her attention on an arched doorway just ahead of them on the left, the opening so high even he couldna reach it. She walked over and pointed to an iron hook that had been permanently driven into the lintel stone at the top, years ago. “I believe that is where mistletoe is meant to hang. But we will need a ladder to reach it.”

  She hoped to send him off in search of a ladder.

  Which would give her a chance to escape to her chamber before he returned.

  But instead of leaving, he took her by surprise, walking up behind her and catching her waist in both hands. He lifted her up—as if she weighed no more than the mistletoe. She felt her heart skip, startled by his strength, and by the heat of his hands. His touch burned right through the heavy velvet of her gown, as if he were touching her naked skin.

  The extraordinary awareness only became more intense when he perched her on his shoulder, the curve of her derriere resting against his hard, solid muscles. Stunned by the intimacy of the alarming sensation, she went still, like a bird teetering on a high ledge.

  “Are you not going to hang the mistletoe?” he teased.

  Her hands awkward and fumbling, she reached up and secured the knotted ribbons to the iron hook. “There. ’Tis done. You…you may let me down now.”

  “As you command, milady.”

  But instead of lifting her down quickly and setting her on her feet, he allowed her to slide down…ever so slowly. She grabbed onto his shoulders, afraid she might fall, but his hold on her was secure, keeping her body pressed to his the entire way…inch by slow, deliberate inch, down his chest, his ribs, his hips.

  By the time her slippered toes touched the floor, she felt as if she had been set afire, blazing like the Yule log on the hearth in the great hall. She might have swooned right off her feet, but he kept one strong arm around her back.

  “In France,” he murmured with that irresistible grin, “it is traditional to test the mistletoe after one hangs it.”

  “I-I have never heard of any such tradition,” she accused breathlessly. “’Tis a tale entirely of your own ma—”

  He covered her lips with his, and the fire he had lit with his touch cascaded through her entire body, searing her all the way to her soul.

  The sensation of his mouth covering hers, claiming her, demanding a response, was somehow arrogant and arousing all at once. She could not deny that his boldness excited her, even as it made her temper flare.

  He tasted of spiced wine, hot and sweet. Every inch of her suddenly felt too sensitive, flooded with awareness of him. His beard, silky and rough against her jaw. His hard body, so angular and male. His scent—woodsmoke and leather and winter wind. His arm flexed around her back, drawing her in closer. His other hand slid into her hair.

  She trembled in his embrace, felt like she was drowning in this, in him…and yet she was utterly unwilling to save herself.

  He lifted his mouth from hers. “You taste sweet, ma chere. So sweet.” He nuzzled his cheek against hers. “Oranges are still your favorite?”

  She blinked, realizing that he had brought the rare treats, from France…for her. “You remembered?”

  “I remember everything.” He joined his mouth to hers again.

  She scarcely had a chance to gasp for breath, for sanity, before he kissed her again, deeply, pressing her back against the stone wall. She flattened her palms against his chest, but instead of pushing him away, she slid her hands beneath his heavy cloak and held onto him, craving his heat, wanting to be closer. She wanted this, needed him, in a way she had never wanted or needed anything in her life. The sweet, hot pressure of his mouth on hers. The strength of his arms around her. The spicy taste of him. Her lips felt swollen, tingling, sensitive…and she wanted more.

  His fingers threaded through her hair and he took complete command of her, tilting her head to allow him to deepen their kiss. She parted her lips beneath his, welcoming the thrust of his tongue, and he groaned. She melted against him, her every muscle turning to warm honey. The friction of his body against hers made the tips of her breasts tighten to hard pebbles.

  Another groan wrenched from deep in his chest. Her breathing became fast and harsh. The sounds were uncommonly loud in the silence of the darkened corridor. Merciful saints, they should not be doing this. The danger was too great. They could be discovered at any moment. They… needed to… stop.

  But she did not want to stop. Never had she known anything as delicious as this man’s kiss. He shuddered with male hunger, exploring and claiming her in a way that left her shivering and burning all at once. She abandoned herself to the blaze, did not care if she burned to cinders, so long as their embrace did not end.

  An unfamiliar sensation fluttered to life low in her belly, an ache she had only ever known years ago, with him.

  Like wings of fire.

  When he finally lifted his mouth from hers again, she moaned his name. “Henri…” The sensual sound of her own voice shocked her.

  He nibbled a tantalizing path along her jaw, down the side of her neck. “You do not want to marry Lord Alsh,” he said confidently.

  “This…this is madness.” It sounded more like a plea for more than a protest.

  “Sweet madness.” He angled his mouth toward hers.

  But before he could kiss her again, she broke free and darted out of his embrace. Being held in his arms was far too intoxicating. It robbed her of her reason, stirred her most cherished memories, ignited her most secret dreams.

  But his kisses offered her a taste of a love—and a life—that could never be hers.

  “Henri, please, you…you must listen to me. Even if there were no Lord Alsh, if you asked my father for my hand, he would never give his blessing.”

  Henri rested one hand against the stone wall, breathing as hard as she was. “I am not the same heedless, high-spirited young knight I was when I left Scotland five years ago.”

  “Nay, but you are still French. My father doesna approve of foreigners in general—and he doesna approve of you at all. During your first stay in the Highlands, you acquired a reputation, Henri—and not only for your valor and your taste for adventure. I was not the only Scottish lass that you kissed.”

  He gazed at her over his shoulder, hi
s eyes burning. “I forgot all the others after you and I became close.”

  She gave him a dubious look.

  “It is the truth. Whether you believe me or not, woman, it is the truth.” He turned to face her, clenching his jaw. “No other lady—on either side of the English Channel—has ever meant to me what you mean to me.”

  Aileen felt herself trembling, afraid to allow herself to believe that it could be true. That after all this time, his feelings for her could be so genuine and so deep.

  There was no denying that he was not a heedless youth anymore. He was every bit as bold and confident as he had been five years ago, every bit as irresistible—but he was a man fully grown now, a warrior tested in battle. Commanding. Determined.

  And he was standing here asking her to marry him.

  All at once, her eyes clouded with tears she refused to shed. Falling in love with Henri d’Amboise again would only lead to heartbreak—for both of them.

  “You canna possibly want a wife like me. I would not make a proper bride for a viscomte.” She tried to make him see reason. “I am a widow, not a maiden. And I am older than you—”

  “What does it matter that you are slightly older than me? Three years is naught.”

  “But I have a mind and opinions of my own—”

  “If I wanted some giggling, empty-headed maiden, they are readily available in France. I want someone much finer than that. I set sail from Calais to marry an extraordinary lady.” He closed the distance between them. “A beautiful, wise, spirited Scottish bride.” Reaching for her, he cupped her face in his hands, brushed a strand of her hair back from her cheek. “I like that you are strong and intelligent and unafraid to speak your mind. That is precisely the sort of wife I need by my side, now and for all the years to come. Aileen, you may abandon your arguments.” He shook his head, chuckling. “You are only creating a list of everything I admire most about you. You, my sweet lass, are the only woman I want.”