“Caty, my Caty…” he murmured into her hair, delivering wild pecks across her ears and forehead. “The gift you give me… I always knew you were mine.”
He rested fully sheathed, holding himself firmly inside of her. She knew she left welts on his back. And yet, he allowed her to do it, as if he actually liked it. He was giving her time to relax, to allow her body to accommodate a proper fitting. She nuzzled him. For as many times as she had imagined this, she had never expected it to be real. He knew what a gift he had been given.
Finally, as the tension left her limbs, he began slow, long thrusts, groaning, kissing, clenching her hair and undulating his body into hers. She rocked with him, arched against him. He kissed his approval, deepening his thrusts in response to her silent offer. His movements sped up, became harder, more commanding. Her hands stroked his back, roved onto his rear, and palmed each side. He responded in kind, giving her more forceful plunges.
She moaned. She couldn’t help it. Her limbs were liquid and her breathing irregular. His pace increased further, faster—faster, harder—the intensity burgeoning, before it blossomed and erupted. She felt heat pool between her legs. Her eyes fluttered shut. She could only feel the rush of pleasure that rolled over her in waves.
“Eachann, my love…” she crooned as she floated upon the euphoria.
Feeling her release, he shoved up on his arms for leverage, threw back his head, driving madly. A guttural exploded from his lungs. She felt warm seed expel within her, felt him plunge hard into her. His arms shook as he spent himself, then he collapsed upon her, sweating.
Their hearts hammered against each other’s. Eachann finally rolled to the side so that he didn’t smother her beneath his weight. His heart felt full. He pulled her to him, wrapping his plaid around them both and feeding his arm beneath her head.
She curled into his chest, placing her ear to his heart.
“I love you, Eachann,” she said, her hand snaking around his waist.
“I love you, too, lass,” he whispered, trying to master his lungs.
He had no other words. No description could do justice to the contentment he felt just lying in the hay fully sated and warm, their limbs intertwined. They might have little in the way of possessions, but they had enough. Together, they would build a life. And though he hadn’t the privilege of being raised by a family, he would rear one of his own, and truly, nothing could be much better than such a simple life with the lass he had always been drawn to, and who he had finally made his.
Chapter 9
Fourteen years later
Catriona held up the screaming babe, born to a castle maid. She handed the child off to her daughter and oldest child, Esther, a lass of three and ten years, who took the slippery infant to a stack of rags and began washing and swaddling the healthy boy.
After Catriona cleaned the woman of her afterbirth, the maid sank back into the pillow propped against her wall in the small chamber above the solar of Laird MacLaren’s castle keep. Catriona draped a blanket over her legs, then wiped the exhausted woman’s brow with a cool cloth.
“You labored for many hours, but you’ve done so well. Your son appears healthy. You’re to rest, and nurse the lad, and allow the other servants to bring you food and assist your regular chores. Laird MacLaren grants you a month of rest.”
“A whole month?” the young woman said, astonished.
So young, Catriona thought of the maid, barely six and ten, the age my sister was when she married Stephen. And the maid’s son was bastard born. Sadly, such wasn’t uncommon for a peasant or servant. Catriona found it hard to believe she had delivered the maid, herself, when she was just a fledgling midwife of six and ten. Still the maid had delivered well, without complication, and that, in itself, was cause for celebration. And it made Catriona appreciate her husband and father of their children all the more, for remaining devoted, generous, and hard-working.
Esther, her dark hair wrapped in a wimple, walked carefully to the pallet.
“Your son, Miss,” she said quietly, holding the bundle now swaddled tightly and gnawing at his fist. “He is so sweet,” she added, nuzzling the child before placing him in his mother’s waiting arms.
Catriona watched proudly as her oldest child and only daughter helped the babe latch hold to the maid’s heavy breast to take his first meal. Esther was tender-hearted and had the makings of a fine midwife. She was already a reliable assistant, and since her own feminine courses had started the year before, was well on her way to womanhood herself and understanding the complexities of childbirth.
“Go and let in the others,” Catriona said.
Esther rose to comply.
As Catriona washed her hands in a wooden basin, the castle maids entered to begin collecting the soiled linens, bringing food and drink. She collected her basket of supplies, bid all to make haste for her should the new mother’s health take a turn, and took her daughter’s hand to lead her out.
“It never fails to fascinate me,” Esther babbled all the way down the stairs into MacLaren’s great hall, out into the bailey, where a cart awaited them.
Catriona smiled dotingly. The lass came across as so shy and quiet sometimes, but once they were alone, she was full of chatter.
A MacLaren guardsman helped Catriona and Esther into the cart bed. The cart jostled as the driver exited the bailey, riding beneath the portcullis constructed of heavy wooden beams. They wound down the main road, through the village they had once called home when Esther was but a bairn herself, and over a stream to a neighboring tract of land. Upon it sat a simple but finely crafted manor of stone and timbering with a view across the rolling hills to the MacLaren castle in the distance.
The house contained a small hall with a single board for the expanding family, a kitchen, a buttery, not to mention a smithy and three out buildings providing the staff sleeping quarters.
The main door opened as the cart ground to a halt.
“Well, go on, lads, there she is,” Eachann said, shooing a swarm of five boys into the yard.
He exited as well, his proud Donnachaidh tartan draped across his torso as he strode into the day’s glowing sunshine setting low on the horizon. He wore a linen tunic, untucked and flowing around his leather trews, a look that always set Catriona’s pulse aflutter. His physique was so fine, even after all these years. His hair was shorter now, with flecks of grey at the temple. Catriona felt a hitch in her breath, watching her husband approach her, the Baron of Blackwick, a title once held by his father and reinstated upon him.
His scar upon his cheek was still pronounced, offsetting the regal brooch upon his shoulder with a feral look, but it was a look Catriona adored more and more with each passing year. He might look menacing to others, but she knew so well the gentle heart he hid within his muscled chest.
She was so proud of him. He had given up the opportunity many years ago to return to England, to take up service for Lord Reginald de Lough, and had worked tirelessly for Laird MacLaren. Their laird had used his clout to negotiate the honor bestowed upon Eachann, reinstating Eachann’s succession to the heraldic records where his father had been stripped. He deserved the barony, even if his father had failed him and Stephen.
Eachann approached the cart and lifted his daughter down, placing a kiss to her head and offering an affectionate greeting, then offered his hand to Catriona to help her down, too.
“Careful, lass,” he cautioned, as she tapped the stepping stool for her footing.
Her sons teemed around her, cheering her return, and speaking of their father doing all the tasks that she would normally do wrong in her absence. She laughed and greeted each of her sons, her oldest son being eleven years and already surpassing her in height, before sending them on their way to return to their chores. Goodness, they would be as tall as their father. Where had the time gone?
Esther disappeared indoors with their servant girl who was more like a companion, no doubt to gossip and chat about the successful birth, and Eachann cupped
his wife’s cheeks. He placed his lips to hers.
“The lads and I are happy you’ve returned,” he smiled. “Another day of me ordering them about and they might have turned mutinous. They wanted their mither home, and if I’m to be selfish, I missed me wife’s attentions.”
She sighed dreamily in spite of her fatigue. “Ah, man, I still love your kisses, after all this time.”
The maid’s birth had been long and arduous, and it had been two nights and a day since she had been called away in the wee hours. She stifled a yawn.
“You’re exhausted. Come to bed and have a nap,” he said, running his hands down over her rounded belly to hold it, feeling the life within kick.
In a month’s time, she would be due to deliver their seventh child, and lo, but Eachann was always so doting upon her in this condition. She swayed on her feet, stifling another yawn. Now that the rush of the childbirth was over, fatigue was threatening to make her fall asleep right there, in the sun-drenched yard.
Eachann shook his head and tsked her, then swept her up into a cradle, carrying her over the threshold. He walked straight above stairs, pushing through the doorway to their bed chamber and to the bed, a wide mattress atop a sturdy, wooden frame with a smoothed and polished headboard. Such was an extravagance for a low liege, but Eachann had insisted upon crafting all of their furniture himself.
He laid her down, propping pillows behind her. Then he removed her basket from her arm, and set it aside.
“Rest, wife, and wake refreshed. I’ll have our maid bring a trencher from the kitchen for you.”
“You’re always so wonderful to me,” she smiled, reaching out to catch his hand as he made to stand.
He paused, sat back down, and gazed at her. She watched him inspected how her hair splashed across the pillows with the evening glow filtering through their glass window. After fourteen years, he still found pleasure in such an image, and often told her so. She thought back to that first night, so long ago now, as they curled together in the old cowshed.
They hadn’t even one single pillow in their tiny cottage. But now, they had four, just for themselves, not to mention enough for all of their children and servants. And glass windows. And it was thanks to the man beside her, holding her hand in return.
“You’ve always been wonderful yourself, lass. ’Tis impossible to be any other way in return.”
His thumb rubbed circles on the back of her hand and he lifted up the corner of his mouth. “But I suppose, if ye wanted to repay me for my generosity…”
She giggled at his mischievous grin and the implication in his words. He leaned down over her, his hand resting on their unborn, and placed another chaste peck to her lips, then another, and soon, they were no longer chaste, but suggestive and sensuous. She knew this man inside and out, and yet, her desire for him never dulled with time. It aged closer to perfection with each passing of the sun through the sky.
“How is it, that me wife, after bearing me six bairns and another on the way, still manages to look so tempting?”
In spite of her fatigue, the familiar warmth of his words spread through her limbs and made her body restless for him. She bit her lip, a natural reaction to his seduction, and yet, she knew the sight of her doing so never failed to ignite his lust. His eyes landed on her lip, watching her pinch it in her teeth, and he swallowed. Then, his hand left her belly and began dragging her skirts up her legs, encased in stockings.
“I suppose there’s a reason I’ve gotten an army of bairns on ye,” he teased further, his hand now sliding up her thigh. “And yet, I still have only the stamina of a green lad when I get betwixed these fine legs.”
She giggled further. “I should say seven bairns does demonstrate well your enthusiasm.”
He chuckled at her jest, then his smile softened and he placed his lips to hers and swallowing the sigh that escaped her.
“I have to return to Laird MacLaren, love. We travel to a gathering to discuss the English king’s new policies toward Scotland, and how we should react. William Wallace will be there. We leave in the morn. Forgive me if I want to make the most of my time with you before my departure, for a man needs memories to keep him warm when he’s away from home, and I’ve already missed two nights of your favors.”
She knew he jested to lighten the mood, but she grew serious, closed her eyes, and basked in the touch of his hands roving over her legs, massaging away the aches of pregnancy. He would be gone for at least a sennight, if not more, should discussions grow heated or if coming to a consensus should prove challenging. She had accompanied him on such talks before. Scottish chiefs could be the loyalist of friends, and yet, they could be contentious and stubborn, too. Discussions didn’t always go as planned.
It was because of his loyalty to their laird and his hard work that they had the life they had. She would endure his absence with a smile on her face, and she stroked her hand up and down his forearm as he continued to give her gentle massages. Her acquiescence to his touch was answer enough for him. He always waited for a sign that she was willing, even if it was his right to have her body when he pleased, another thing she loved about him.
He drew back, untied her bodice so that her breasts relaxed and unfastened her skirts, sliding them down beneath her. He drew down her stockings and undergarments, revealing the juncture between her legs.
He exhaled, pushed her chemise down her shoulders and off her arms, and took in the view of her. He shook his head in disbelief. He reached out to continue his roving massage, skin to skin. His gaze, heavy with lust, connected with her own.
“Always so willing for me…” His words trailed away.
She smiled and reached to cup his cheek.
“Always so good to me,” she replied. “It’s impossible to be any other way.”
He smiled tenderly. Then he climbed into bed beside her, took her hip, and rolled her onto her side so that her back rested against his chest. He untied his trews and fed himself between her legs, bracing her hip to hold her close, and pushed her hair off her neck so he could litter kisses on her nape. Their joining was familiar, comforting, and steady, and when it was finished, Eachann didn’t separate from her, but remained joined and wrapped his powerful arm around her.
And as she dozed, her mind relaxed from the euphoria induced by their love-making, dusk settled on the horizon, and she felt his hand slide protectively onto the life he had rooted in her womb. She smiled with both affection and humor.
“Pray it’s a lass, for my husband is indeed much too talented at breeding lads.”
He chuckled and pecked her ear. “Aye, a man has to be proud of such a feat. Still, all the more men to guard their beautiful mither. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She nestled into him. “Nor would I.”
Thank you for reading my medieval novella, One Scottish Knight! Make sure to visit my website at: www.eelizabethwatson.com for information on my books, upcoming releases, public appearances, and giveaways.
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One Scottish Knight: A Medieval Novella (Perthshire Series) Page 9
