But of course, she knew why. In two days they would be leaving, and she would never see Beathan again. They had made each other no promises or statements of affection, had voiced no desires to continue things beyond the fortnight’s end. It was foolish to give him something of herself when their relationship would soon end. It would lead only to the heartbreak she had so assiduously avoided thus far.
Yet despite this, despite the week drawing to a close, and her departure near, and the certain knowledge that if she gave herself to Beathan fully, she would only head toward heartbreak, Kirsteen did not care. Lust and longing had consumed her, rendering her insouciant and uncaring of the consequences of her actions. Loving Beathan, even for a night, would be well worth a lifetime of heartbreak, she had decided.
She was never going to be able to show him that love, however, if the players did not stop singing. Checking her watch again, Kirsteen saw that five more minutes had passed. It was only twenty minutes to midnight, and she still needed to change into a different frock and fix the plait that was fast uncoiling from the ribbon she had secured it in. All this took time, time which she was rapidly running out of.
How do I get them to stop? she wondered. One of the perils of the entertainment profession was that it tended to bleed into the rest of the player’s lives. Nights were spent singing and dancing, days spent acting, and it was sometimes hard to remember that life itself was not a performance.
Kirsteen was getting ready to douse the fire and the troupe with water like some harridan and order them all to bed, when, praise be to God, Blanche suddenly yawned, stretching her arms over her head and closing her eyes, letting her face slacken into a drowsy expression as she slumped into Fred at her side.
“Fred, my love, let us stop the singing and retire to bed. I need my beauty sleep, and you must rest your voice,” she said, laying a hand on Fred’s cheek and stopping him mid-tune.
Fred had been in the middle of belting out the chorus of a song, his hand on his chest, the other raised in the air, as though beckoning some imaginary audience to pay attention to him. But one word from Blanche, and he stopped, dropping his hands and wiping his face of the expression he always took whenever he burst into song. It was an expression of euphoric joy, and any other night, Kirsteen would be happy to see it. But tonight, she was more concerned with her own joy than Fred’s.
“Very well, my love. Let’s go to bed, ladies and gentlemen!” he said to the rest of the group, taking Blanche’s hand and helping her up from the log on which she had been sitting.
Kirsteen heaved a sigh of relief.
Ten minutes later, the whole of the troupe was tucked up in their beds, in their respective tents. Kirsteen had stuffed her cot with pillows that, when glanced at, did a passable job of representing her shape. Blanche hardly ever looked in on Kirsteen’s tent; she was a deep sleeper and rarely got up in the middle of the night. But if she happened to peak into Kirsteen’s tent, then she could return to her own, safe in the knowledge that her fille was curled into bed and fast asleep, safe and sound.
Kirsteen dressed quickly, nearly ripping her stockings in her hurry to change frocks. Her plait was no doubt a mess, but she hoped, an attractive one, for she did not have time to fix it. It was nearly midnight when she snuck out of her tent.
Gathering her skirts in one hand and lifting a lantern with the other, Kirsteen crept toward the woods, stepping slowly and carefully in case there were unseen obstructions in her path. She saw Beathan before he saw her. His back was turned, his arms laced behind him as he gazed up at the moon. At his side on the ground was a basket, which Kirsteen found curious.
What could be inside? she wondered, hoping there was a blanket or two in there. It was rather cold without her cloak, but she’d wanted to leave it off, to put her best dress to advantage. It was a deep aubergine velvet frock that she had picked up at a street market in Rome. The color brought out the pink tones of her skin, and she always felt regal wearing it, like a queen from years past.
“Beathan?” she whispered, his name soft on her tongue.
He whipped around, his face breaking into a smile the moment he saw her.
“Kirsteen,” he breathed her name sounding like a benediction. He looked at her like he hadn’t seen her in years, rather than hours, scanning her face as though trying to memorize every feature.
With his long legs, it took him but a few strides to get to her, and then she was being raised up in his arms until she had to balance herself on his shoulders, her face perched just above his, angled perfectly so that when she bent down, her lips met with his.
They grew lost in the feel of each other’s kisses for a few moments, and moans and groans of pleasure and the pain of desire were exchanged, until finally Beathan pulled away, setting her back down on the ground but keeping his hands tight on her hips.
“I’ve somethin’ to show ye, lass, and I think ye‘ll like it.”
Beathan stayed alert as he led Kirsteen by the hand into the woods. The path to the waterfall followed the outer banks of the river, and the trees surrounding the path were bare enough that moonlight guided their way, allowing them to blow out their lanterns.
Beathan was glad of it, for he knew that any excess light would only draw attention to them. He did not feel the nagging sensation that they were not alone, but he could not be too careful. Especially when he was with the lass. He didn’t want her hurt again. He cared more for her safety than for his.
“What is that sound?” Kirsteen asked a few minutes later when they were nearing the waterfall. The sound of falling water was faint, but growing stronger with every few feet they walked.
“Ye‘ll see soon enough, me bonnie,” he told her, smiling to himself.
He could not wait to see the reaction on her face when he showed her the spot. And Beathan was not disappointed when they reached the waterfall finally, for Kirsteen gave a gasp of surprise, covering her mouth with her hands as she gazed at the natural beauty before her.
The water cascaded down from a height, flowing over large rocks before flowing into a pool that was bordered on all sides by trees with leaves of pure golden yellow. With the moonlight shining down on it, the water almost seemed to glitter as it fell, looking like a liquid diamond surrounded by golden accents. It was truly breathtaking.
Beathan led Kirsteen to a flat rock near the edge of the pool, on which he spread out the blanket he had packed earlier that night in the basket. He also lit the single candle he had brought, and poured them two glasses of claret from a bottle he had taken from his own collection earlier that evening. It was an older vintage, said to be better for its age, and Beathan had been saving it for a special occasion. This certainly seemed worthy of the drink.
When they had seated themselves and taken sips of their drinks, Beathan finally asked the question he was dying to know the answer to: “What dae ye think, lass?”
“Oh Beathan,” Kirsteen said, shaking her head and smiling as she looked around them. “It’s beautiful. Perfect. It’s the most wonderful place I’ve ever seen. I feel like I’m in a fairy tale. Like this can’t possibly be real.”
“Well, for both our sakes, I hope it is not a Scottish fairy tale, lass,” Beathan said with a laugh.
“And why is that?” Kirsteen asked, taking another sip of her claret.
“All of them end in death or tragedy!” Beathan said, laughing again. He felt positively giddy now, so happy he could dance a jig if it wouldn’t thoroughly embarrass both him and the lass.
“Really? Tell me some, then. Scare me with your Scottish stories,” Kirsteen said, posing the request like a challenge.
But Beathan did not want to scare the lass. It would not serve his purposes to frighten her, not with the declaration he had planned to make later. And so he told the least scary of the tales he knew, one his mother had told him when he was a young boy. It hadn’t much scared him as a wee bairn, and so he doubted it would scare a strong lass like Kirsteen.
“Well, there’s o
ne about a man who was fishin’ out on an island in Orkney. He was not a good fisherman, ye ken, and never headed out as early as the rest of his kind. He was far too busy drinkin’ and gamblin’ away all his earnings.
“One day about noon, he finally got his boat into the water, but just as he was about to start rowin’ out to sea, he caught sight of a beautiful lass sunnin’ herself on the beach. The man couldn’ae believe his eyes. But as he drew nearer to her, he realized what she was.”
“And what was she?” Kirsteen asked.
“She was a selkie, a mythical creature who can change between woman and seal at will. The man was so taken with the woman that he knew he had to make her his wife. He had longed for a lass to take care of him, to do what he was too lazy, too selfish to do for himself: the cookin’, the cleanin’, the chores that make a life.
“But selkies are partial to the sea, ye ken. They daenae like to be separated from it for long, so this man did something truly awful. He stole the selkie’s skin, forcing her to come find it.”
“And then he trapped her?” Kirsteen asked.
Beathan nodded solemnly.
“How horrid!” she exclaimed.
“Aye, indeed. The man dragged her to the church the next day and they were married, since ye ken that banns need not be called in Scotland. The lass had no say in the union, of course, but that was no matter to the vicar. He was one of the men in the fisherman’s gamblin’ circle, and was more than happy to marry them in exchange for a bit of coin.”
Beathan shook his head, still filled with disgust for this mythical man, even after all these years. As a child, he remembered asking his mother if “men like that are only in stories, or do they exist in life, as well?”
His mother had nodded sadly and said that yes, bad men existed everywhere, in literature as well as life. It was the first time Beathan realized that people truly could be evil.
Continuing with the story, he told Kirsteen, “The selkie spent the next fifteen years toilin’ away as a fisherman’s wife, bearin’ his children, cookin’ his meals, doin’ the cleanin’. The man continued to gamble away his earnins, often leavin’ naught for her to buy food and the like with.
“And yet the selkie in time, despite this misery, grew to accept her life, even love her children, her husband, for all his shortcomins. She forgot all about the sea. Until the day she was cleanin’ the little cottage, and found the place where her husband had hidden her skin.”
Beathan looked up to find Kirsteen leaning her head on her hand, totally engrossed in his story.
“The day she found her skin was the last day she spent on land. She slipped back into her skin, turning herself back into a seal, and disappeared into the sea. The man and their children never saw her again. She couldn’t forgive him for lyin’ to her, ye ken. All the love between them was lost, and with that, all love for their children, as well.”
“Because the sea was always her first love, and he had taken that away from her,” Kirsteen whispered.
“Exactly,” Beathan nodded. “The fisherman was unable to see the power of her love for the sea. The power of the lass herself. I’m sure it was a mistake he never forgave himself for, for the rest of his days. Legend has it he spent the rest of his life prowling all over the beach, hopin’ to catch sight of her again. But he never did.”
“Yes, well, he’s not the first man to underestimate the heart or the woman who holds it, and he won’t be the last,” Kirsteen said contemplatively, leaning back on her hands and tilting her head up toward the stars.
“I dinnae count myself among those men, lass,” Beathan said, suddenly serious.
Tell her now, he goaded himself.
“Oh?” Kirsteen said, her eyes still on the sky.
“Aye. I know the strength of ye, lass, and the strength of yer heart as well. It’s why I want it for me own. It’s why I want to give ye mine in return.”
At this, Kirsteen sat up, suddenly alert.
“What do you mean? What are you saying, Beathan?” she asked.
“I’m sayin’ I love ye, lass.”
Kirsteen’s eyes widened in shock, and her mouth hung open, speechless.
Beathan was not sure if this was a good sign or bad, so he waited, giving her time to accept his words and think up a response.
“You…” she sputtered. “You love me?”
“Aye, I dae,” Beathan nodded.
“But you hardly know me! We’ve only known each other for a few days! This is preposterous! It’s madness! It’s –”
“It’s right, lass, it is what it is. It doesnae matter how long we’ve ken each other. I ken my own heart, lass. I ken how I feel about ye, and a few days less or more willnae change that. I love ye. Dae ye love me?” he asked, and he had never felt so nervous in his whole life as he felt asking that question. His stomach did flips inside him, and he could feel his skin prickling with anxiety.
Kirsteen’s mouth began to form a word, and Beathan hoped and prayed with everything he had that word would be “yes.”
Please, Lord, let it be yes, he pleaded.
“Yes,” she whispered, and he was on her a second later. The claret was knocked over, the liquid spilling out onto the rock as Beathan flattened the lass on her back and began showering her with kisses, but he did not care. Spills were of no consequence to him right now, not when the woman he loved had just told him she loved him in return.
He kissed her all over her face and neck, until Kirsteen took his head and held it still, so that she could return the kisses on his lips.
Her kiss quickly deepened, her tongue sliding into his mouth and making his body sing with desire. Gently, and so subtly that at first he did not notice, she began to spread her legs, until Beathan could feel her heat rubbing against his.
“Lass,” he rasped, unable to say anything else, but hoping that one word was enough to convey how truly pleasurable this situation was for him.
“Beathan,” she replied, her voice tickling the soft hairs on his ear. “Take it.”
“Take what, lass?” he asked, his mind having gone blank as she began to kiss his jaw, her perfect little mouth making him feel those kisses on every inch of his body.
“Take my virtue, Beathan. Take it. It is yours. I am yours.”
Beathan sat up, staring down at Kirsteen with shock.
“Are ye sure, Kirsteen?” he asked, because he needed to know that she was certain. Once she gave him this, it could not be taken back. He needed to know that her words were true.
“Yes, I am sure. I’ve waited my whole life to find a man who deserved this gift, and I’ve found him in you. You’re the man I want to teach me how to love, how to make love. Please, Beathan. Love me. Make love to me.”
What could he do then but lean back down and kiss the lass, showing her with nips and bites to her lips and neck how truly grateful he was for such an offering.
Breaking away again, he whispered, “Thank ye, Kirsteen. Thank ye for trustin’ me. I promise not to disappoint.”
“Oh, I know you won’t,” she said, and while he knew she meant the words to be saucy, he could see a speck of anxiety in her eyes. It was her first time, after all.
“Dae ye…dae ye ken what goes on, between a man and his lass when…when they…” he stuttered, suddenly unable to voice the phrase “make love.” They were such intimate, important words, and he almost did not feel worthy enough to make use of them.
But the lass clearly did, for she said, “Make love?” with a grin on her face that told him she found his hesitance pleasing.
Thank God for that, he thought.
“Yes. I do know what goes on between a man and woman when they make love,” she continued, emphasising the last words and earning a smile from him. “I know it can hurt, and I am prepared for that. All I ask is that you make me feel good, and show me how to do the same for you.”
Beathan smiled, amazed at the amazing woman before him. She was so fearless, so strong. He was lucky to love her. “I think I c
an manage that, me bonnie.”
They kissed again, then, but Beathan quickly moved his lips down Kirsteen’s face to her neck and down further until he was touching the sweet, soft skin of her bosom. The frock Kirsteen was wearing exposed a very hearty portion of her bosom to the open air, and Beathan took full advantage of this. He lavished the exposed skin with attention, running his nose along its softness, kissing it with the reverence it was due.
Eventually, her skin wasn’t enough. He needed more, needed to touch more, kiss more, feel more of her. And so Beathan grasped the lace lining the bodice, tugging it and the rest of the fabric down as far as it would go.
It was hard work, as the lass’s ample bosom meant the fabric was stretched tight across her chest, but Beathan was nothing if not a diligent man, and with effort and more than a few huffs of frustrated breath, he had the fabric pulled down to expose one beautiful nipple to the night air.
He’d been dreaming about Kirsteen’s nipples for days, wondering what color they might take. Dusky rose? Ruby red? A brown to match the freckles on her face? Looking down at the little nub now, Beathan smiled to himself. Ruby red, just like her lips.
He gazed at the pebbled nub for a few seconds before he exhaled a short, hot breath on it that had Kirsteen arching her back and crying out. He did it again, and again, and one more time before he finally leaned down and captured the nub in his mouth.
Her skin was sweet, just like the lass herself. She tasted of honeysuckle and pine, and Beathan could not get enough. While he devoured her nipple with his mouth, licking and suckling it just until pleasure bordered on pain, he used his other hand to lift the lass’s skirts up her thigh.
Her skin was smooth beneath his hand as he raised the skirts to her hips, letting his fingers trail over the soft, down-like hairs of her upper thigh until he reached what he was looking for. Her crevice, wet and tight and pulsing for him. Beathan rubbed his fingers through the coarse curls bordering this special place, and smiled to himself when Kirsteen gave a gasp of surprise.
Highlander's Untamed Bride Page 8
