by Mariah Stone
“I never noticed anything like that.” Craig shook his head.
“Thank ye, Irvin,” he said through gritted teeth. “Go.”
When the man left, Craig turned to his wife.
“What is he talking about?” he asked, coming closer.
She kept silent.
“Were ye looking for the—” He turned and kicked the bed to stop himself from finishing the sentence.
He couldn’t throw information around.
“For what?” Amy said.
“For a way to escape,” Craig finished, lowering his voice. He turned to Amy, who looked as guilty as a thief caught red-handed. “Were ye?”
She breathed heavily, her chest rising and falling quickly.
“I was just looking for salt pork,” Amy said.
“There is no pork in there!” Craig yelled. “And why did Hamish let ye in?”
“I tricked him.”
Craig bowed his head, closed his eyes, and exhaled. “Were ye looking for an escape or not?”
She kept silent, only stared at him with her big, beautiful eyes.
“Find yer courage, Amy,” he pressed, and she lowered her head guilty. “Tell me the truth. At least once in yer life!”
She lifted her head and met his gaze, her eyes hard, full of tears.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I was.”
Craig shook his head slowly. Oh, his guts seethed with vinegar. He itched to punch something. Where was a good fight when he needed one?
“Of course. Another betrayal, just when I thought ye were different.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Well, what did you expect?” she said. “You married me and promised me freedom. And yet you treat me like a prisoner. Because I am a prisoner to you, aren’t I? Nothing but an enemy you feel obliged to be courteous to. You question my every step. If you treated me like an equal, like your real wife—”
She was flushed and bright-eyed, and her mouth was as red as late-autumn raspberries. Her hair was disheveled, her dress askew—he let his eyes travel over the curves of her breasts, down to her thin waist and round hips.
What was wrong with him? He still lusted after the woman who’d just betrayed his trust.
He must have lost his mind the minute he’d seen her in those barracks.
He suddenly became aware of the large bed, and the furs that lay on it, and the warmth of the fireplace. The image of her lying naked on those furs, the sensation of skin gliding against skin as he covered her body with his own, the taste of her mouth, her voice calling his name with pleasure.
Not anger. Not disappointment. Not hurt.
But pleasure—and affection.
Craig shook his head and walked towards the fireplace. He turned his back to her and put his hand on the stone, watching the flames dancing, trying to burn those images from his head.
“Ye fooled me,” he said. “What else did ye lie about, Amy?”
“I lie because I’m afraid of what you will do to me. I lie because I’m afraid you’ll never let me go. I lie because… Do you think I don’t want to tell you everything? But you’re not exactly the most compassionate person, either. Had you made sure I had nothing to be afraid of…”
He turned to her. “But ye should be afraid, Amy. Not of me. But of what will happen with yer family. We’re at war. And ye’re on the other side of it.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and exhaled. “What if I’m not?”
“What are ye talking about?”
“What if I don’t want to be your enemy?”
He frowned. “Then ye’d have to prove it.”
She shook her head. “It’s really hard to prove anything when you’re constantly like a hedgehog, all bristled up and ready to prick with your quills. You command me all the time. I’m not allowed to leave the castle, and even within its walls, I can’t go where I want. You don’t miss a chance to point out I’m your enemy.”
Hot blood hit his skin. “But how can I stop treating ye like an enemy when ye do shite like that?” He gestured at the door. “Just when I’d started trusting ye, ye tricked my men and tried to sneak out of the castle!”
She shook her head. “Well, that’s a chicken and an egg situation, don’t you think?”
“A what?”
“The eternal question of who was first, the egg or the chicken. You can’t trust me because I’m a MacDoguall, so you treat me like a prisoner. I try to run away because you treat me like a prisoner.”
Was he again losing his mind, or was there a grain of truth in her words?
“What do ye suggest?” he asked.
“I suggest we start anew. How about, we stop for a moment. We do something nice. Forget what our names are and just spend time together, as…”
She stopped, opening and closing her mouth, apparently unable to find the words.
“As husband and wife?” Craig suggested.
His eyes darted to the bed. That was how a husband and wife spent time together without remembering their names. She followed his gaze, and her cheeks blazed brighter than the rising sun.
“That’s not what I mean!” she cried.
“But I must tell ye, lass,” he said, his voice raspy, and approached her. “If ye want that, I am happy to oblige. I told ye from the beginning.”
He watched her eyes widen and stroked her warm cheek with his knuckles. Her lips parted and her eyelids closed.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said, her voice softer. “I meant, just go out somewhere. I love the mountains, the woods we saw yesterday—although I didn’t have time to truly admire the beauty. But I haven’t felt that good in a long time.”
Craig loved the mountains, too.
“Do ye want to go to the mountains?” he asked.
“Yes. How about we take the horses, I pack a picnic, and we make a day of it. Let me feel a bit free. Let me see the country around us. Let me show you I’m not the enemy. And allow yourself to show me you aren’t mine.”
“And if ye try to run?”
“I won’t. And if I do, lock me up for all eternity. I just want to feel a little freedom. Is that too much to ask?”
Craig studied her bright-blue eyes. Her lips, so close to him he could just lean down and kiss them. She looked earnest, but he’d fallen for that before.
Still. His instincts told him, at least in this, she wasn’t lying.
And the idea of spending time with her alone, in the mountains—which he also missed—was more delicious than he could admit to himself.
And if she began to feel more at home here, mayhap she would be his wife, truly. Mayhap, she’d let him into her bed.
His groin burned and his cock hardened at the thought. He leaned down and kissed her. She took him in, without hesitation and with a barely audible moan. Her mouth was warm and soft, and he sank into it like it were the waters of a loch. He wrapped his hands around her and pulled her to himself, pressing her into him, inhaling the scent of her clean skin and hair and a little whiff of stew from working in the kitchen. She smelled like home, like a woman, and he wanted her.
He deepened the kiss, unable to resist the hunger for her that roared in his blood. He swiped her tongue with his, and nipped her lips, and glided and tasted her.
And she answered. Her arms around his neck, her soft breasts pressed against him. He ran his palms over her thin waist. Then his hands found her bosom and he cupped it. His thumbs circled the hard buds of her nipples. She moaned and shuddered and pressed herself tighter to him. He left her mouth and kissed her chin, then made his way down her neck, the vein there beating violently against his lips.
His fingers itched to undress her, his mouth to taste the naked skin of her stomach, his tongue to lick her nipples. Locking eyes with her, he fell to his knees, and ran his hands from her hips down to her ankles, indicating his intention. The only way to relieve her of her gown would be to have her pull it over her head.
“Lass, I’ve wanted ye since the moment I saw ye,” he
said.
She blinked, her hands lay on his shoulders and dug into them.
Taking this as an invitation, he gently cupped her ankles and ran his hands up the woolen stockings she had on. He passed the garters just below her knees and caressed the soft, bare skin of her thighs. Her legs shook.
He put his hands on the sides of her hips and glided higher and higher. He cupped her buttocks and squeezed, savoring the feel of her tight, abundant flesh in his fingers. Her skin was so soft and silky, he must be scratching her with his callused palms.
But she didn’t complain. On the contrary, she tilted her head back and gave the most delicious moan.
He growled in response. He wanted to hear how she would sound once he was inside of her. He buried his head in the apex of her thighs, through the dress, nipping the fabric slightly.
He stroked her hips, his fingers making their way under the dress to where his mouth was now. When he found the soft curls of her hair, she sucked in a gasp.
And stepped back.
Lost, confused, he looked up at her face again.
She shook her head as though shaking off a dream.
“I—” She stepped back. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea right now.”
The space where she’d been a moment ago felt empty and cold. He exhaled and closed his eyes. His cock throbbed and ached for her. There was his beautiful wife. There was the bed. What was he waiting for?
But he couldn’t. There was no way he’d do anything against her will.
He nodded. “I respect yer no. But why? Are ye testing me?”
“No. No. That’s not it. It’s just, I still don’t know you, really. You’re my husband, but I have no idea who you truly are and what you’re made of. You know?”
“I am made of throbbing flesh that wants ye.” His voice shook. Desire and disappointment fought in his gut like fire and ice. “And of blood that boils for ye.”
“Look, let’s go out, take some time for the two of us, and see where this all goes. Okay?”
Okay… That strange word she liked to use.
Nevertheless, he wanted to go to the mountains with her. Aye, he was looking forward to spending some time with his wife. When they’d tracked Elspeth, when he’d watched her do her magic following the signs, he’d forgotten time, and he’d forgotten where he was. He’d enjoyed listening to her and talking to her, and he’d thought he knew back then what she was made of.
And mayhap she was just afraid of her first time.
“Aye, Amy,” he said finally. “Let us ride out to the mountains and have a picnic. Do ye promise ’tis nae a trick?”
“Yes, I promise, Craig.”
He held her in his gaze and breathed out again. His cock was just starting to calm down.
“Then I bid ye good night. I must go sleep downstairs. I canna stop myself again if we’re in the same room.”
Amy nodded, blushing.
“Good night, then,” she said.
With an effort he thought must have equaled raising the stones for the castle, Craig nodded, too, and left.
Chapter 19
“Hold yer stand!” Craig cried the next morning as he came at Killian mercilessly with his sword.
The crisp air of the courtyard was filled with the ring of claymores as three dozen men trained. Craig breathed heavily. The physical activity was the best distraction from the ache he’d had in his loins all night long.
And from thinking of Amy.
Amy, who had made a delicious porridge and added a spoon of butter and honey—just for him.
Amy, who had smiled at him during the whole morning meal.
Amy, who couldn’t have looked more beautiful, with her hair done in a long, graceful plait and her cheeks rosy from sleep.
He shouldn’t have thought about her during training because suddenly wee Killian was the one on the attack.
Bang, bang, bang. Craig blocked the sword left, right, left.
“Good, lad!” he cried, a sweaty strand of hair blocking his vision.
“Argh!!” yelled Killian and launched forward to pierce the space near Craig’s kidney.
Craig barely jumped away in time.
“A rider!” called the watchman above the gate.
Craig glanced up, and earned a hard smack of the flat side of the blade against his shoulder.
“Ouch!” Craig shouted, holding his shoulder.
Then he patted the boy’s head. “Well done, lad. Ye’re goin’ to be a great warrior one day. Find someone else to train with. I need to see about that rider.”
An ear-to-ear grin broke out on Killian’s face. “Aye, lord.”
Craig went to the southern tower to make his way onto the wall, but even before he reached the tower, the watchman announced, “He says he’s a messenger from yer father!”
Craig stopped and turned. “Let him in!” he shouted.
As he marched towards the opening gates, a man on a horse galloped in. The rider jumped on the ground, and Craig saw his red-and-weathered face. He had clearly been on horseback for a while.
“What’s the news?” Craig said.
“Yer father’s letter.” The man went into his coat and retrieved a parchment.
“Thank ye, friend. What of my father, was he well? My brother Domhnall?”
“Aye, lord. Yer father, uncles, and yer brother have all been well. I came all the way from Garioch.”
Garioch was Bruce’s estate near Aberdeen, all the way across Scotland to the east.
“Rode five days,” the man continued. “The king has taken ill.”
“What?” Craig unfolded the parchment.
But before he could read it, Owen came to stand by his side. “What’s the news?”
Craig glanced around. His men were stopping their training, watching him anxiously. He didn’t want to announce any bad news or start a panic before he knew what the message contained and what he needed to do.
He clapped the messenger on the shoulder. “Ye’re tired. Ye did well, man, coming here so hastily. Go to the great hall, find my wife, she will serve ye something to eat and drink.”
“Aye, thank ye, lord.”
When the man left them, Craig turned to Owen, who watched him with concern.
“Come,” Craig said. “Let us see what father says.”
They retreated to the Comyn Tower, to the lord’s private chamber where they’ve been sleeping. The room was empty and crisp since the fire had died, the sleeping rolls unmade. Craig opened the shutters to let more light in, and the two of them sat at the big table in the middle of the room.
Craig unfolded the parchment and read out loud.
Beloved Craig,
I write with good and bad news. With God’s will, yer father, brother, and uncles are all well and healthy. Cousin Kenneth was wounded in Urquhart but is healing.
Our king has been successful. We followed Great Glen and seized Urquhart Castle of Loch Ness. The Bishop of Moray’s forces joined us, and we took Inverness Castle and burned Nairn. The king has made a temporary peace with the Earl of Ross.
Now another Comyn, Earl of Buchan, is marching against us. Having 700 men, we are in a good position to win, but there are bad tidings.
The king has taken gravely ill. He canna walk or ride. He is very weak, and we have no food or shelter in the woods. We will carry him to Inverurie where he can rest. Pray for yer king’s health because without him, this was all for nothing.
With the Earl of Ross out of the way for now, and Great Glen under Bruce’s control, ye in Inverlochy control access to Bruce’s lands from the west, and the castle’s position is more important than ever to secure this victory. It seems the tide of the war has turned in our favor.
Now everything depends on the king’s health.
Ye’re his left hand from the west. I ken ye would rather die than let him down.
May God bless ye, Owen, and yer garrison.
Yer father,
Dougal Cambel
Craig looked up at
Owen. He was frowning, studying the parchment.
“We are the key to Scotland from the west now,” Craig said. “I should have found masons and repaired the damage to the wall right away. But it isna too late.”
“Aye,” Owen said.
“And I must have a plan of defense in case the MacDougalls or the English come.”
“Aye, brother.”
“So let me think of something. Go and get the horses ready. I’ll ride out with Hamish and a few men to find a mason and hire workmen to repair the damage. Ye will be my second-in-command, Owen.”
Owen nodded, suddenly serious. Craig hadn’t seen him like this in a while.
“When I’m out, or if I’m wounded or killed, ye must carry on the defense. Aye?”
Owen nodded.
“Ye dinna think ye can do it?” Craig said. “I think ye can. If I doubted ye, I wouldna have set ye the task. I trust ye the most out of everyone in this castle.”
Owen nodded and retreated from the room.
Watching the door, Craig wondered if he should have confided in Owen about the secret entrance.
No. If they were under attack, he would. But as good a warrior as Owen was, Craig saw the hesitation in his brother’s eyes. The signs of self-doubt on his face. He was experienced in battles but not in strategy.
Plus, his brother had always been a little reckless—Owen might get drunk and tell someone. So, as much as he trusted his brother, revealing this secret could wait.
Chapter 20
Three days later…
Amy inhaled clean, crisp air saturated with the scent of earthy moss and grass.
She and Craig stood looking out at the vast mountain range, the valleys far below, and the wind-worn rock faces and gray slopes covered in yellow-green and brown grass. Across the glen, dark clouds hung low on the tallest mountaintop—Ben Nevis Craig had called it. A patch of pinewoods darkened the slope of the mountain they were on, and silver-gray bushes grew nearby. Wind whistled along the slopes and rustled the grass.
It was freedom.
Open sky and nature whenever she looked.
