by Cathy MacRae
“This is the important matter?” She held the yellow blossoms to her nose, inhaling their sweet scent.
“Naught is more important than finding something which makes my lady smile,” Simon replied. “The keep will run itself for the next three days.”
“Or with Sir Garin’s intervention,” Iseabal suggested. Again, the pleased sparkle in her eyes warmed his heart clear down to his toes and sent heat streaking to his cock. He stared at her as though she was an apparition who would soon vanish.
Abruptly, he held a hand out. “Come with me. I have years to catch up on.”
He led her to his solar, closing the door behind them as they entered the cozy room. A peat fire smoldered on the hearth, nicely balancing the cool spring breezes drifting through the narrow window.
Simon took the flowers and laid them on the desk, then pulled Iseabal into his embrace. She leaned gently against him, tilting her face to receive his kiss. He accepted her offer, answering with a hunger that roared from deep inside. His hands filled with the weight of her breasts, and his groin tightened at the moan that tore from her throat.
Iseabal had never held herself from him. Not as an inexperienced young woman of sixteen summers, and not now, five years later. She was neither coy nor prudish, and he would have spread her across his desk, her skirts lifted about her waist if the clash of steel outside the window hadn’t pushed through the fog in his brain.
He stiffened, lifting his head, alert to danger. A shout of male laughter rumbled and steel rang again.
Practice. In the yard.
But the interruption cooled his ardor somewhat, or at least drove it to a manageable state. He forced his lips into a slight smile—perhaps grimace was a better description. The pain from his denied cock was slow to settle.
“I have no willpower where ye are concerned. I hope ye do not mind if Ewan spends a bit of time with your sister and his nurse whilst we become accustomed to one another.”
Iseabal raised a brow, her green eyes sparking. “How long do ye suppose it will take before we . . . before it doesnae . . . .” She shrugged helplessly, her fingertips stroking the front of his tunic as if she was loath to stop touching him.
“If we’re lucky, mayhap never,” he replied. “Yet I’m willing to risk it.”
Tempting himself with one last kiss, he then seated Iseabal before the hearth before dragging his chair from behind his desk. He placed it next to her, facing away, and straddled the seat, forearms resting on the high back.
“Tell me about Ewan. I want to know everything. Was he an early babe? Big? Small? When did he walk? Speak? What was his first word?”
Iseabal laughed, easing Simon’s tension. He could tell she was pleased with his questions about their son, but his curiosity went far deeper.
Tell me what I need to hear about Ewan. Tell me he reminded ye of me every single day. Tell me ye do not regret his birth.
“Ye may ask questions one at a time,” she teased. “I cannae keep up with ye otherwise.”
“Will ye answer me simply?” he countered.
“Nae,” she breathed, her love for the lad shining from her face. “I’ll likely blather on until supper if ye dinnae halt my words.”
Simon eyed her lips, slightly parted after speaking, and considered the alternatives. He was fine with listening to her tales of Ewan and the alternative of kissing her until she could no longer speak. Stopping with just a kiss didn’t seem reasonable. He rested his chin on his forearms.
“Tell me about my son.”
Iseabal fell into bed exhausted, yet at peace. Her doubts, long plagued by the consequences of loving her English knight and fueled by an uncertain future with a child who could claim no father, had disappeared during the long hours as she regaled Simon with tales of their son.
I’m glad ye will get to know him, Simon. Glad Ewan has such a good man to call father.
Ripples of unrest kept her from dropping into sleep. Throughout the evening, Simon had claimed her with light touches to the back of her hand, a knuckle softly brushing her cheek, igniting sparks of anticipation along her skin. The press of his thigh against hers through chemise, gown, and surcoat had kept her shivering with need. He’d played the smitten swain well.
And left her at the door to her chamber with a chaste kiss and bid gentle night.
She hugged her pillow against her chest, imagining the warmth of Simon’s body next to hers.
“Sheep bollocks. ’Tisnae the same.” She flung the pillow aside then flopped onto her back to stare at the canopied hangings above the bed. Footsteps tramped the short hallway outside her room, then were silent. The fire crackled on the hearth. Moonlight shifted through the narrow window as clouds gathered. Iseabal sighed deeply and resolutely closed her eyes. The light, sweet fragrance of the yellow iris in a pitcher near the bed teased her nose.
Flowers. He gave me flowers. Iseabal smiled, remembering the tiny sprig of gorse he’d presented her five years ago, his fingertips bruised and scratched from grasping the thorny leaves.
Had I known it carried thorns, I would have left it to its shrubbery. His voice rueful, he’d shaken his head and handed the pretty yellow flowers to her, then stuck his thumb in his mouth.
Iseabal moaned and flopped onto her belly, burying her face into her crossed arms.
Deep breaths. Slow, deep breaths.
Heated thoughts of Simon faded.
How peculiar it is to have a bed to myself. To not share with a wean who kicks and sprawls across the mattress. She relaxed. Ahh. A forgotten luxury.
One she’d trade for the weight of Simon next to her.
’Tis my decision. He’s nudged me all evening to tell him aye, yet he wouldnae force my agreement.
She rolled slowly to her side and stared at the pulsing embers on the hearth, diverted by the plight of the serving lass, Rosaline.
Poor lass. Her betrothed killed these few days past by James and his men. And her the eldest of five lasses. Sent here weeks before her wedding to get her out of the way of the others.
Now, unwed and unwanted by her betrothed’s bereaved parents, she had nowhere to turn. Choices were being forced upon her. To linger as an impoverished servant at North Hall, or to accept the offer of a middle-aged crofter with three young children.
My choices are much better.
Simon. I truly never thought to see ye again. And for a time, I rather hoped I would—though ye may not have liked the result.
She sighed again. I have a chance for a home, a family, and a man I love—and who is doing his best to court me.
Warmth rolled through her, sending her surging to her feet. She swept the confining blankets away and stomped them into submission beneath her bare feet. Taking a moment to pull a thick robe about her shoulders, she walked to the door and pulled it open, then stepped into the hall.
Simon paced the floor before the hearth. The peat fire blazed, pushing the cold night air to the corners of the chamber. It scarcely registered with Simon as a different fire burned inside, consuming him, demanding he march to Iseabal’s room and remind her how the passion had flared between them. How she’d once melted in his arms and made him forget he’d been sent to capture Scottish reivers, not seduce Scottish lasses.
Not just any lass. His lass with hair the color of a starless night, skin the color of palest pink roses, and a forthright kindness that went straight to his heart.
He wanted her. Now. But damned if he was going to force her to accept him. The memory of the chaste kiss he’d given her at the door to her chamber mocked him.
He strode purposefully to the door and gripped the latch, every muscle straining to take him to Iseabal’s room. He halted. Stared at his hand. Releasing the latch, he drew his hand away, shoving his fingers through his hair in exasperated frustration.
The latch wiggled. Simon stared at it as if it was a snake. It wiggled again then clicked. With a sigh of well-oiled hinges, the door opened.
Glittering green eyes met his. Iseabal bl
inked as if startled to find him at the door. A smile tugged hesitantly at the corner of her mouth, a brow raised as if questioning her acceptance in his room.
Simon’s blood thickened, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. With a small nod and a sweep of his arm, he invited her through the doorway. The hem of Iseabal’s robe trailed behind her, twitching provocatively with each gentle sway of her hips.
Simon licked his dry lips and dragged his attention from Iseabal’s sweetly rounded bottom. She halted near the hearth and faced him. He waited, wondering what had brought her to his room. Hoping she planned to stay. He wasn’t certain he would allow her through the door again before morning.
“I dinnae wish to sleep alone.”
Simon’s eyes widened. With exaggerated calmness, he untied the laces of his tunic at cuff and neck. He released his belt and let it fall to the floor. Iseabal’s gaze followed his actions, and as he hesitated, she slid her fingers through the loose ties of her robe, then pushed it from her shoulders, the cloth mirroring the fall of his belt.
“I wish to spend the night in yer arms, Simon.”
Breath whooshed from Simon’s lungs. He quickly shed his boots and linen undergarments, leaving only his tunic which hung nearly to his knees. The cloth, soft as a woman’s breath, slid across his erect cock. He stifled a groan.
Once committed, Iseabal’s fingers flew, raking open the neckline of her thin night rail, sending it to the same fate as her robe. Simon stripped his tunic over his head and tossed it onto the growing pile of clothing.
Iseabal stood naked before him. “Remind me how good we were together.”
Firelight silhouetted her body, turning her pale skin to a dusky shade of gold, hiding and flaunting her contours at the same time. Simon stepped before her and took her hands, turning her so the smoldering embers cast their glow onto her, proving his memory a poor match for the reality of the woman before him.
He cleared his throat. “Ye do not have to do this. No matter if ye accept my offer or not, ye and Ewan will always have my protection.”
Iseabal drew a groaning, shuddering breath and touched a forefinger to his lips. “Hush, Simon, and kiss me.”
Chapter Seventeen
’Twas better than she remembered. She’d been naught but a lass five years earlier, frantic with the need to convince Simon to take her with him. Full of impossible expectations gleaned from innuendos and whispers she had not understood. She’d been so young, unprepared for the overwhelming wholeness of giving herself to Simon. The devastation she’d experienced when she’d woken to find him gone had effectively buried the memory of the pleasure they’d shared.
This time he was hers. He’d offered her more than a single night—he’d offered her himself, his love, and his name. Her belly tightened, wanting him again, wanting to wake him with caresses that explored every inch of him and brought him to the brink of passion. She wanted to push him over that edge, hear her name on his lips as he surrendered to the power that never ceased to surprise her.
How naïve to believe their kisses of yesterday signified the bond between them. This hunger to possess him and to have him possess her was completely unfathomable. Yet it ignited a hunger she could not deny.
“I want ye again,” he whispered, turning on his side to press against her.
Iseabal gasped as Simon’s cock burned against her thigh. His fingers sought the curve of her breast, the rough pad of his thumb flicking across her sensitive nipple.
“I do not wish to hurt ye, but I do not believe I can get out of this bed until I have ye once more.”
Iseabal rolled to face him and scooted close, draping a leg over his hips. He hitched forward, touching her core gently, seeking entrance and groaned as he slipped slowly inside her. Iseabal shifted, helping him sink deep. Her eyes closed as she gave herself to the ancient rhythm that fired her blood and sent her breathless to her release.
Simon shifted in his chair, half-annoyed with the discomfort of a seemingly perpetually hardened cock. Just the thought of Iseabal sent heat flooding his groin, and sitting across the small table from her as she placed a piece of bread in her mouth was enough to challenge his intent to allow her to finish breaking her fast before whisking her off to bed again.
“I’d thought of taking ye riding today to see the land around North Hall,” he said, averting his gaze for a moment to give himself a chance to batten down his randy response every time he looked at Iseabal. He grabbed a mug of ale and took a sip.
“That might not be the best idea,” she murmured. “Not that I dinnae love riding and miss my pony at Eaglesmuir something fierce.”
Simon glanced up as she shrugged. Her cheeks pinked and she shifted beneath his gaze.
“I dinnae believe I could sit long in a saddle this morn.”
He wanted to feel remorseful, but the twinkle in her eye told him she’d enjoyed the night’s activities as much as he had. A grin slipped across his face and Iseabal laughed.
“A shame yer cock isnae sore this morn,” she complained. “From the way ye’re leering at me, I can tell ye would have me on my back in a trice if ye thought I’d stand . . . er, lay still for it.”
“From what I recall, ye did not lay still last night.”
Iseabal’s cheeks flamed. “’Twasnae possible.” She shifted in her seat. “Ye like it when I move—like that?”
“Faith, woman!” Simon exclaimed, shocked she seemed to have no notion how her movements and sounds affected his pleasure. “Ye have no idea?”
Of course she does not know. Though she was not a virgin last night, she was all those years ago, and I’d bet my war horse she’s not slept with a man since.
He rose and stepped to her side. Taking her hands, he drew her to her feet.
“Everything about ye pleases me, my heart. And especially when I have ye so twisted up ye cannot help yerself.” He leaned closer. “I feel the same about ye, Iseabal. I cannot imagine not waking next to ye.”
“Aye. I need to be next to ye, as well. I will marry ye, Simon.”
“And give me a wee daughter with eyes the color of emeralds and hair like black silk?”
Iseabal’s eyes danced. “Or mayhap with golden curls like her da?”
“Hmm. Mayhap. Are ye ready to try?”
“Faith, Simon! We’ve already tried a half-dozen times!” She tilted her head, her fingers curling against his palms. Yet a tentative smile dimpled her cheeks.
With a snort of laughter, Simon hugged her close.
“Nae, we do not have to put all our efforts into enlarging our family this day. My heart is full of you and Ewan. We can certainly find other diversions.”
Iseabal tucked her head against his shoulder. “In less than a day I have discovered my heart has been ever in yer keeping these past years. With ye I am safe; my home is where ye are.”
“I swear I will never fail ye again, Iseabal. My life and my future are yours to command.”
“Time to wake up, Master Ewan.”
The soft voice reminded Ewan of his ma, but he knew his ma wasn’t here. Aggie should be close by, but he didn’t hear her snores. He reached for Shep, burrowing his hand in the dog’s thick, soft fur. Shep licked his face and whined. The bed curtains were still drawn, and Ewan could see little more than the faint glow of the dog’s white ruff.
“I’ll have Cook make an extra pasty for ye if ye come along like a good boy.”
A corner of the bed curtains parted and Ewan recognized the face of a woman Auntie Marci didn’t like much. She was pretty, with yellow hair almost the color of his da’s. But Auntie Marci had not spoken with her much the day before, and had given her one of the adult stares he knew meant she was displeased. A bit of sympathy tugged at Ewan’s heart. He’d been in trouble before and knew how sad it made him. Mayhap she only wanted a friend.
He sat up, still a bit wary, but liking the promise of an extra pasty. And before breaking his fast. His tummy rumbled.
The woman smiled. “There ye are, sweet
child. And already awake.” She stood, pulling aside the curtain, a finger to her lips.
“Be as silent as ye can. Your nurse is still sleeping. I’m to play with ye until she wakes.”
Ewan rubbed his eyes then leaned forward, accepting the soft hand the woman offered. He wiggled down from the bed, and Shep leapt down beside him, pausing to stretch first his front then his back half. A toothy yawn and shake of his head and shoulders that rippled all the way to his bushy tail, and Shep was ready to go. Ewan smiled and gripped Shep’s ruff.
“Let’s leave the doggie with Aggie,” the woman whispered. “That way he can help her find us once she wakes.”
Ewan balked. “I dinnae wish to leave Shep.” His fingers tightened in the fur and Shep whined. “He’s my friend.”
“I will be your friend this morn. Do not worry. He’s going to help your nurse.”
A frisson of unease slid through Ewan. He jerked his hand from the woman’s grip. “Nae! I want Aggie!” His voice rose and he darted across the room to bury his face in Aggie’s lap as she sat beside the fire. She was not there. Ewan halted, confused. Afraid. Aggie was always there.
A hand grabbed Ewan’s shoulder and jerked him backward, burying him in layers of cloth. Dragged across the floor, Ewan found himself outside his room. The door slammed against Shep’s angry barks, reducing the noise to only faint protests.
Ewan wiggled furiously, trying to find his way out of the woman’s grip. He shouted, but the sound was lost in the woman’s skirts. She yanked his arm, spinning him about, and shoved a wad of cloth into his open mouth. His eyes widened, meeting brown ones sparkling with malice. He kicked, meeting her legs with nothing more than his bare feet. Tears of pain sprang to his eyes. He froze, terrified, unable to understand what was happening.
With a deft turn, his captor spun him about once more, tying a strip of cloth about his face, holding the wad in place behind his teeth. He gagged. He reached up to grab it, to yank it away, but she wrapped another strip about his wrist, pulling a knot tight with a single tug.
