by Jayne Castel
A chill night settled over Duntulm, bringing with it a seeking wind that shrieked across the bare hills outside, rattled the shutters, and moaned against the walls. Despite the keep’s thick exterior, the wind still managed to push its way inside. A draft feathered across Lachlann’s face as he mounted the stairs to the chamber that he and Adaira would share tonight.
As man and wife.
He opened the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. Adaira was there, awaiting him. She stood before the fire, dressed in a sheer léine that reached her ankles. He could see the outline of her lithe form against the orange glow of the flames behind her. Adaira’s long brown hair was unbound and brushed. It fell in heavy waves down her back.
Wordlessly, she turned from the fire, her gaze meeting his.
Lachlann pushed the door closed and leaned against it, drinking her in.
Adaira’s loveliness took his breath away. He noticed then the large bed that dominated the chamber; he’d not even seen it when he opened the door, for his attention had been wholly upon Adaira. A bank of candles burned in one corner of the room, bathing the space in golden light.
“The Devil take me … ye are a bonny sight,” Lachlann murmured finally. His gaze left her face, noting the sensual smile that curved her lips, and moved down her body. He could see the outline of her nipples through the léine’s thin fabric.
“Come here, Aingeal,” he rasped.
Her smile widened, her eyes glowing in the firelight. Still not speaking, Adaira padded barefoot across the flagstones toward him. Lachlann noted then that someone had scattered rose petals over the floor.
When she drew close, Lachlann reached out and hauled her into his arms. His mouth slanted over hers in a deep, possessive kiss. One hand slid up her neck, tangling in her hair, while the other splayed across the small of her back.
Adaira moaned against his mouth. Her fingers dug into his chest through his léine, and she kissed him back with abandon.
Lachlann spun Adaira round and pressed her up against the door. Then he reached down and grabbed the hem of her léine, yanking it up, and stripping it from her. His mouth never leaving hers, he ripped off his own clothing.
Adaira’s fingers fumbled as she aided him. And then they were both naked, pressed up against the door, savaging each other’s mouths as if they’d been separated for weeks. Need pulsed through Lachlann, made his blood catch fire. His ache for her drove all other thought from his mind.
Their first coupling on the journey here had ignited a hunger within him that he felt would never be sated.
He could never get enough of this woman.
Adaira trailed kisses across his face before gently biting his earlobe. A thrill of pleasure knifed through Lachlann’s groin, intensifying the ache there till it was almost unbearable.
Lachlann’s hands explored her nakedness: the long length of her back, the plane of her belly, and her lush high breasts that strained toward him.
Slipping his hands under Adaira’s buttocks, Lachlann picked her up and stepped away from the door. Then he turned and carried her over to the bed before lowering her down onto it.
Positioning himself between her legs, he parted her trembling thighs and thrust deep, seating himself fully inside her. Adaira gave a hoarse cry, bucking hard against him as she wrapped her legs around his hips and drew him closer still. The sensation, the heat of her, almost undid him; he threw back his head and groaned.
Slow down.
He needed to pace himself or this would be over too quickly. He wanted to savor this moment, their first coupling as man and wife.
Adaira arched back, her lips parting. “This feels too good,” she moaned. “My heart could stop from it.”
He laughed softly. “I hope not, Aingeal, for I have plans for ye.”
He gazed down at Adaira as she lay upon the soft woolen coverlet. Her hair fanned out like a cloud around her, and she stared up at him with such naked want in her eyes that Lachlann almost forgot his resolve to go slowly.
He took hold of both her legs now and raised them so she could hook her knees over his shoulders. Then he rocked against her, taking Adaira in long, slow thrusts, and watching her face as he did so.
Adaira’s chest heaved with each movement. Her high pink-tipped breasts, full for such a slender woman, bounced with each thrust, straining toward him. Later, he’d suckle them until she begged for mercy, but right now he just wanted to watch the pleasure that dilated her pupils and made her cheeks flush.
He wanted to make her lose control and cry his name as she did so.
“Lachlann!” Adaira arched up against him and brought him deeper still. Her mouth opened in shock as the angle touched a sensitive place deep inside her. Lachlann watched, drinking her in as her body shook from the force of it. Heat enveloped his shaft, and he felt her contract against him.
Pleasure slammed into him. It was too much. He’d tried to hold back, but he wasn’t made of stone. Lachlann gave a hoarse cry and drove into Adaira once more, giving himself up to it.
Adaira sighed and rolled onto her side. She reached out, her hand sliding down Lachlann’s sweat-slicked torso. That was the third time they’d made love that night, but it had barely taken the edge off the hunger she felt for him.
She rested her head upon his chest and listened to the thunder of his heart. She stroked the hard planes of his chest and belly, her breath catching as she did so.
Was this what Rhona felt for Taran?
She remembered their kisses, the heated looks she’d seen pass between them, when they thought no one was looking, and the expression on Rhona’s face the day after their wedding: a blend of serenity and excitement.
Adaira had never known such pleasure could exist; magic lived after all.
“Are ye well, Adaira?” Lachlann asked.
Adaira heard the rasp of exhaustion in his voice and smiled, lifting her head so she could meet his gaze. “Aye, very … but are ye? I haven’t worn ye out already have I?”
He huffed, feigning offense. “Already. Just let me have a breather, ye saucy vixen, and we’ll see who’s worn out.”
Adaira laughed. “It was an innocent question.” She reached up and stroked his chin. He’d shaved that morning, but she could feel the rasp of new stubble under her fingertips. Continuing her exploration, she traced the sculpted lines of his face: his straight nose, full mouth, and high cheek bones. The first time she’d ever set eyes on him, she’d been struck by Lachlann Fraser’s comeliness. Now her attraction to him went far deeper than that.
“I’m so happy,” she whispered. “I never thought such happiness was possible.”
His green eyes darkened, gleaming as he stared back at her. “I never thought so either … but here we are.” His voice turned husky. “I’ve never been in love before … but that all changed with ye, Aingeal.”
Adaira smiled. She’d once hated him calling her his ‘Aingeal’. She’d found the name mocking. She no longer thought so. The endearment was sweet, heart-felt.
He reached out and cupped her cheek tenderly. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for ye, my darling Adaira.”
Tears pricked at Adaira’s eyes, and her vision swam. The intensity in his face as he spoke, the way his voice shook slightly, filled her with a surge of love so fierce that she was momentarily struck speechless by it. A surge of protectiveness filled her; the bond they shared went both ways.
When she finally found her voice, it trembled from the force of her feelings. “I know,” she whispered.
Chapter Thirty-one
Secrets
LACHLANN WAS SHOEING a horse when he saw Malcolm MacLeod lumber across the bailey toward him.
Letting down the horse’s hind leg, Lachlann straightened up. The grim look on the clan-chief’s face made him wary. A couple of days had passed since Lachlann and Adaira’s handfasting, and although MacLeod had been civil to Lachlann, relations between them were still strained.
“Afternoon, MacLeod,” Lachlann greeted him
. He kept hold of the iron file he’d been using. Surrounded by MacLeods and MacDonalds at Duntulm, he liked having a weapon in his hand.
Frasers weren’t well liked here.
Malcolm MacLeod stopped, his iron-grey eyes narrowing. “I’ve just received word from the south. Yer father’s men have been searching my lands.”
Lachlann tensed. He shouldn’t be surprised, for he knew his father wouldn’t let things lie, but he still didn’t welcome the news. “And?”
MacLeod’s frown deepened to a scowl. “We’ve sent them back across the border with their tails between their legs.” He folded his thick arms across his chest. “Now … why would Frasers be riding across my lands?”
Lachlann shrugged, feigning confusion even as his pulse quickened. “Maybe they’ve heard I escaped Dunvegan dungeon and have come looking for me.”
“And how would they learn that?”
“It’s been two months … folk travel and tongues wag. News could have reached Talasgair.”
MacLeod snorted, although the suspicious look in his eyes ebbed.
“Was my father with them?” Lachlann asked, keen to steer MacLeod onto a safer topic.
The clan-chief’s heavy-featured face screwed up. “After the wound I dealt him, I’d be surprised if he still breathes, and he certainly won’t be traveling far again.”
Lachlann swallowed the impulse to tell MacLeod that the last time he’d seen Morgan Fraser the man could ride a horse and was about to wed. He wisely held his tongue. There were some facts it was best Adaira’s father remained ignorant of.
Instead, Lachlann frowned. “So ye think he’s dead?”
MacLeod’s lips compressed. “I hope so. I skewered the bastard like a boar.”
Lachlann let out a slow, measured breath, fighting annoyance. Despite that he’d broken with his kin, he didn’t appreciate MacLeod’s insults. Blood was still blood after all. He wondered if MacLeod was deliberately baiting him.
The cunning light in the clan-chief’s eyes confirmed his suspicions. “I don’t understand why ye didn’t return to Talasgair after ye left Dunvegan,” he said after a pause. “My daughter must have wielded quite an influence on ye.”
“She did,” Lachlann replied. He didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken again; they were now skirting the truth MacLeod could never learn.
“I’d heard that Morgan Fraser’s eldest was as ambitious as his sire,” MacLeod continued. “But ye gave it all up … for a woman?”
Lachlann could hear the genuine puzzlement in the older man’s voice. He resisted the urge to smile. “I did.”
“Why?”
Lachlann held Malcolm MacLeod’s gaze, his own steady. “Because some things are worth more than land and titles. Yer daughter is more valuable to me than my inheritance.”
It had taken Lachlann a while to learn that—so long he’d nearly condemned Adaira to a miserable life—but her father didn’t need to know that either.
MacLeod snorted. However, his expression had softened, his gaze gleaming with pride. “Aye, she is.”
“The wind is getting up. Shall I take Eoghan indoors, milady?”
“Aye, thank ye, Sorcha. We’ll follow shortly.”
Adaira watched the dark-haired hand-maid relieve Caitrin of the bairn and carry him away, leaving the three sisters alone on the shore. A fresh wind gusted in off The Minch, foaming the water. Adaira drew her cloak around her, her feet crunching on fine pebbles as she followed Rhona and Caitrin along the strand. The weather was definitely getting cooler; it reminded her that she wouldn’t be able to stay at Duntulm much longer.
“When will ye leave for the mainland?” Rhona asked, as if reading her thoughts. Her sister’s wild auburn hair blew into her eyes, and she pushed it aside impatiently.
“I don’t know,” Adaira replied. Her belly contracted as she spoke these words. Although she was ready to confront an uncertain future, she was also nervous about it. Where would she and Lachlann end up?
“Ye can go to Argyle as ye had first planned,” Caitrin spoke up. Unlike Rhona, who let her long hair fly free in the wind, Caitrin’s hair was tightly braided and wound around the crown of her head. She regarded Adaira with a gleam in her eye. “Ye didn’t hear it from me, but Da has sent word to our uncle and given his blessing for ye and Lachlann to reside at Gylen Castle.”
Adaira halted abruptly, turning to her sister. “Really?”
Caitrin smiled. “Aye … he’s planning to tell ye soon, and ye are to act surprised when he does.”
Rhona snorted. “It’s not like ye to spill a secret, Caitrin. Remind me never to tell ye any of mine.”
“I could see that Adaira was worried about the future,” Caitrin replied with an irritated look at Rhona. “I wanted to allay her fears.”
Adaira reached out and took Caitrin’s hands, squeezing. “And I appreciate it.” She frowned then, as something occurred to her. “Morgan Fraser knows I intended to go to Gylen Castle … what if his men come asking questions?”
“Our uncle won’t say anything,” Caitrin assured her with a smile. “But if ye are worried, ye can have a quiet word to him after ye arrive.”
Adaira nodded, her brow smoothing. Caitrin was right—her uncle had no reason to betray them.
Relief filtered through her. She felt happier knowing they could go to Gylen Castle, and that her uncle would welcome them and keep Lachlann’s identity hidden. Life had been so eventful of late, all she wanted now was a little peace.
“Come on, let’s turn around,” Caitrin replied, pulling the collar of her fur cloak up. “This wind is unpleasant.”
“Aye,” Rhona agreed. “My hair will look like a rat’s nest by the time we reach the keep.”
The sisters began to retrace their steps along the beach, before they left the shore and took the road through the village. It was late morning and the aroma of baking bread and stewing vegetables greeted them.
Many villagers called out to them, greeting Caitrin, who waved back.
Adaira cut Caitrin a sidelong glance. “Do ye like living here?”
“Aye,” her eldest sister replied. “Much more than I did initially.”
“I’m glad Baltair’s dead,” Rhona spoke up. Never one to mince her words, Rhona wore a fierce expression now. “He was a tyrant.”
Caitrin loosed a sigh. “I know a wife shouldn’t wish her husband dead … but I did. I felt nothing but relief when I saw him laid out in Dunvegan’s chapel. When we buried him in the kirkyard here,” Caitrin motioned to the peaked roof of the kirk rising to the south. “I stood there dry-eyed and feared the folk of Duntulm would judge me for not weeping.”
“And did they?” Rhona asked.
Caitrin shook her head. “They’re good people,” she said softly, “and have made me feel very welcome here.”
Adaira studied Caitrin’s face and saw that her expression was suddenly shuttered. Even with her sisters she didn’t often speak openly. Adaira sensed she was pulling back from them, putting her shields back in place.
Caitrin hadn’t always been this way. Before wedding Baltair, she’d been a carefree lass with a sharp wit. But looking at her now, Adaira realized that lass was gone forever.
Perhaps she just grew up, Adaira reflected, like I had to. She glanced over at Rhona then and saw that she looked thoughtful. Rhona was easily the most resilient of the three of them. Even as a young lass she’d had a knowing edge to her, an understanding about the ways of the world, that both Adaira and Caitrin had lacked. Yet she’d changed too in the past months. Taran had tempered her wildness.
The three sisters fell silent and made their way up the incline to the keep. The walls of Duntulm rose against the windswept sky, the MacDonald pennant snapping and billowing.
They crossed the drawbridge and entered the bailey to find a large mob of men amassed in the center of it. They were jostling to get a view of something occurring in the heart of the crowd.
Caitrin turned to one of the guards at the gate. �
�What’s going on here?” she demanded, her gaze narrowing.
“Fraser and MacKinnon are going at it, milady,” he answered her. “Sounds like a great fight … I’m sorry to miss it.”
A loud grunt echoed across the yard then, followed by a man’s curse.
Adaira’s breathing hitched. Lachlann.
Picking up her skirts, Adaira rushed to the edge of the crowd. She went up on tip-toe, straining to see over the broad shoulders of the men in front of her. Yet it was impossible—they were all much taller than her.
“Let me through!” She elbowed her way through the fray, Rhona and Caitrin close behind her. The men gave way reluctantly, their attention focused on the fight before them.
Adaira reached the edge of the crowd to see Lachlann and Taran, both naked to the waist, battling with blades.
She let out the breath she’d been holding, relief flooding through her. It wasn’t a fight to the death—they were sparring with wooden swords.
As the panic drained from Adaira, she found herself studying her husband with frank admiration. He moved with a dancer’s grace, easily holding his own against Dunvegan’s best swordsman. Adaira had watched Taran fight many times over the years in the practice yard of her father’s keep. He was a big man, but he was light on his feet. His scarred face was tense with concentration as he fought.
“Get under his guard, MacKinnon!” Malcolm MacLeod bellowed. The clan-chief stood a few feet away, at the edge of the crowd, his gaze tracking the fight with predatory intensity. “Beat the bastard into the dirt! Wipe that smirk off his face!”
“Da!” Adaira put her hands on her hips, her anger rising. “Don’t say such things!”
MacLeod spared his youngest daughter a glance before grinning. “Don’t look so fierce, lass. It’s just a bit of fun.”
Indeed, Lachlann looked like he was enjoying himself. His eyes gleamed and a smile stretched his face. However, his attention didn’t shift from his opponent. Sweat poured down his naked chest, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he lunged for Taran.
