by Gwyn Brodie
He knelt beside her on the bed. "Remember, lass? I told you that when I made love to you, 'twould be in a bed with nary a stitch between us?"
"Aye, I remember," she said, wondering what mischief he was about, both eager and anxious to find out.
"I meant it then and still do. Let's rid you of this." He wore a most wicked grin as he tugged the shift over her head and tossed it onto the floor, before allowing his gaze to leisurely travel over the length of her.
Taken with a sudden bout of shyness, she covered herself with her hands, but he gently took them away and placed them on the bed beside her.
He slowly shook his head. "Nay, lass. I want to look at you," he said hoarsely, his eyes filled with passion and need.
Her breath quickened, and her heart pounded beneath his heated examination. She waited with nervous anticipation of what he might do next, as desire sprouted inside her like the hottest fire.
Never, in all his days, had Drostan seen anything quite so perfect as Isobel, with her full rounded breasts, flared hips, and long shapely legs—and she was his for all eternity. He slowly moved his hand over her flat stomach and small waist. "You're beautiful, lass."
She smiled nervously. "I'm most pleased you think so, husband."
He chuckled. "Aye, I do, wife." Moving over her, he reminded himself she was untried. He meant to take his time with her, appease the want he saw in her eyes before taking his pleasure. But time was not on his side, for his hunger for her spurred him on to satisfy his own need. "I'll try not to hurt you, lass."
"I ken you will, but no matter. I've been waiting a lifetime for you, Drostan Mackintosh." She drew him down for a passion-filled kiss, adding fuel to the flames already roaring through his veins.
He lowered himself onto his elbows and slowly entered her. Thankfully, her body offered little resistance. He stilled, allowing her a moment to grow accustomed to their physical union, as he pressed his mouth against her ear and whispered words to soothe her. Gradually, he began to move, taking pleasure in her tightness. She wrapped her legs around his waist and was soon arching beneath him, meeting his every thrust, driving him mad.
She called out his name, clawed at his back and shoulders as he dove deeper and deeper inside her, taking her higher and higher, refusing to find his own release before she found hers. And when she did, she started to scream, but he covered her mouth with his, praying that his brothers next door had not heard.
She clung to him, trembling, her breaths coming in small gasps.
When he finally climaxed, his pleasure was raw and explosive, shattering the world around him into a million shards of light, as he yielded to the intense need that no one but she could satisfy. Never had he felt anything close to what he had with Isobel. He collapsed onto the bed beside her.
"That was remarkable!" she said breathlessly.
He grinned. "Liked it, did you, lass?" His breathing and heartbeat slowly returned to normal.
"Aye." She yawned, then snuggled back against his chest, curling into his body, and was soon deep in slumber.
He slid his arm about her waist and drew the covers over them, still not believing she was his. Isobel was unconventional, passionate, brave, and she loved him. His father had been right—his life would never be the same.
Chapter Fourteen
A short distance outside of Inverness, raindrops pounded against Marcus's back as he and his two guards stepped inside The Devil's Bridge Tavern. He closed the door and squinted into the dim light of the run-down establishment, well known for its unsavory patrons, before taking a seat at an empty table.
Six disreputable-looking characters—most likely highwaymen—sat in a corner laughing and tossing back drink after drink. Marcus waved over the middle-aged proprietor.
"What can I get fer ye, sir?"
"Bring us a bottle of your best whisky and send the same to those gentlemen." He nodded toward the other table, before placing a generous amount of funds onto the deeply-scarred oak tabletop.
A grin broke across the owner's plump face as he gathered the coins into his pudgy hands. "Aye, as ye wish." He scurried away.
Cam frowned. "What is it ye're doing, Marcus?"
"I was wondering that m'self." Dougal eyed the knaves at the other table.
"I'll tell you then. I need these unpleasant characters to take care of Mackintosh so that we might steal Lady Isobel away. 'Tis all planned out in my head." He tapped his right temple with his index finger.
Cam snorted. "I hope ye tell us your plan ahead of time."
Marcus sneered at the balding guard. "Dinnae, I always?"
The two men nodded.
The landlord soon returned with three cups and a bottle of whisky, then delivered a second bottle to the other table.
One of the scoundrels spoke to the proprietor, then looked over at Marcus and grinned. A wide gap showed where his front teeth had once been. "Thank ye kindly fer the whisky," he said before filling his cup.
The others at the table did the same.
"Stay here," Marcus ordered Cam and Dougal. With his drink in hand, he left the table and crossed the room. "Mind if I join you, gentlemen?"
"Ye're welcome to." The toothless man drew another seat up to the table.
Marcus sat down and took a sip of his whisky. "Might you lads be interested in a business proposition? I can assure you, 'twould be most profitable."
A man with grey peppered hair and a beard to match was the first to speak. "What is it ye wish us to do?" His eyes narrowed to dark slits.
"This very morn, my betrothed was kidnapped, and the man who took her has four brothers who are aiding him. The whoreson is holding her somewhere in Inverness. With your help, I intend to find them and return her to her family so that we might be wed."
The toothless man leaned forward. "And the knave who took the lass?" he whispered.
"See that he meets his death, and you will be well rewarded." Marcus took a handful of coins from his sporran and placed them in the center of the table, watching their eyes widen as the candlelight flickered across more wealth than they had likely seen at one time. "There'll be more for you once the deed is done."
"The scoundrel deserves no less," said the man with a scar across his broad forehead, his gaze fastened on the coins.
The others mumbled their agreement.
"I'm Irv," said the man with the missing teeth, that's Owen, Gus, Jim, Willie, and Fin." He pointed a grimy finger at each man in turn. "And who might ye be, mister?"
"There's no need to tell you that." He wanted no one associating his name with these fools.
Irv grinned. "Very well. I can tell yer a shrewd man. We'll call ye mister then."
Marcus smiled and again motioned to the proprietor, who hurried to bring another bottle of the amber liquid to their table. Let us seal our agreement with another whisky. "Slainte' mhath." He drained his cup.
"Slainte' mhath," the others said in unison before emptying their own.
Marcus shoved his chair away from the table and got to his feet. "'Tis time to go. I must find the lass afore he has his way with her."
The six ne'er-do-wells got up and followed him and his guards out the door.
The rain had stopped sometime before they left the tavern, and the sky had cleared. As the nine rode ever closer to Inverness, Marcus worked out his plan, detail by detail. He could not afford to have anything go wrong.
It was nearing dawn when they rode into Inverness, and Marcus cursed beneath his breath, wishing he had caught up to them sooner, as Isobel had now been with the knave for a day and night. Rage pumped through his veins, as there was no doubt in his mind that Drostan had bedded Isobel once they reached their destination, if not before.
He drew his horse to a halt near the town center, as did the others, and looked about. The waning moonlight illuminated the buildings lining both sides of the street. "Check every inn until you find where they're lodging. Once you do, meet me back here. I'll draw the bastard outside, then he's all you
rs. But keep out of sight until then, especially you two, Cam and Dougal, as you are well kenned by him and his brothers. Let the others take care of them."
"Do ye wish us to kill the brothers as well?" Owen was seemingly excited at the prospect.
Marcus chuckled. "Do with them as you will. I care naught what happens to any of them."
"Ye havenae told us who to look fer yet," Irv said.
"Drostan Mackintosh." It gave Marcus great pleasure knowing Drostan would soon be dead—then he could do with Isobel as he saw fit. "Now, listen closely, the lot of you, once Mackintosh is found, this is what I want you to do..."
DROSTAN AWAKENED TO the soft light of dawn coming through the window and across the bed. He raised himself onto one elbow and looked down at his sleeping wife, not wishing to believe how close he had come to losing her to Marcus. Unclothed, she lay on her stomach; the bed covers tangled around her long shapely legs. Drostan's gaze traveled over her, admiring the graceful curve of her back and slim waist that flared into rounded hips—she was perfection itself. He pressed his lips against her shoulder blade, savoring the taste and delicately feminine scent of her creamy skin. Desire rushed over him. He wanted her, but after their most enthusiastic love-making the previous night, she needed her rest. Besides, they would be sharing a bed for the remainder of their days. Reluctantly, he slipped out of bed and pulled the covers over her.
Even though 'twas yet a while before the morning sun would crown the mountain tops, the delicious aroma of the meal being prepared in the kitchen below filled the room. He was starving, as he was certain Isobel would be as well, once she awoke. They had eaten only a few bites of the bread and cheese Iva had left for them the night before. He grinned. At the time, they had had more urgent things weighing on their minds, and he would not be surprised in the least if a bairn was already on the way. He would have the innkeeper send a well-laden platter up to their room, once it was ready. This morn, they would, for the first time, break their fast as man and wife before returning to Willowbrae to begin their lives together. With his heart nigh to bursting with happiness, he quietly pulled on his boots.
He had just finished dressing when he heard heavy footfall on the stairs.
"A battle is taking place outside the inn," a man shouted.
The door of his brothers' room slammed back against the wall, and their running footsteps pounded on the floor.
AFTER MAKING CERTAIN no one was about, Marcus entered The Falconer Inn through the kitchens and quietly slipped up the servants' stairs. 'Twas Irv who had found out in which room Mackintosh and Isobel were residing, but it had taken him shattering the innkeeper's hand with the hilt of his sword and threatening to do the same to his wife to find it out.
Outside the inn, shouting and the clashing of steel on steel filled the air as he reached the upper floor. Keeping out of sight, he waited until Morgan and Robbie had gone downstairs, then crept along the corridor, his gaze fastened on the third door to his left.
DROSTAN PRAYED HIS brothers would not be harmed, as he grabbed his broadsword and targe to go after them, then turned to wake Isobel to secure the door behind him—only moments before it crashed back against the wall.
Isobel jerked awake and screamed, then scrambled out of bed toward him, dragging the covers along with her.
Drostan shoved her behind him.
Marcus stood in the doorway with his broadsword raised. Even in the dim light, the rage on his face was evident. "Isobel and her dowry were mine. Once I've done away with you and wed her, they will be once again."
Drostan glared at Marcus and snorted. "Isobel was never yours. She was mine the moment I laid eyes on her, whether I realized it then or not. Our declaration of marriage has been registered, and, as you can see, been well consummated. We are husband and wife, bound body and soul."
Marcus growled through clenched teeth, then came at him.
Drostan blocked the strike with his targe, then delivered a blow of his own that sent Marcus staggering back toward the door. Drostan had to fight his way out of that corner. If Marcus managed to get the upper hand, he would kill him for sure. And where would that leave Isobel? Alone with a madman.
Drostan rushed him, swinging his sword, forcing Marcus back out into the corridor.
SHAKING UNCONTROLLABLY, Isobel pulled on her shift, grabbed her cloak, and hurried out of the room, where the clang of steel on steel reverberated through the inn.
For the moment, Drostan appeared to be in control of the situation, as Marcus was fending off his blows while backing down the stairs. They fought through the dining room, out the front door and into the street, where four strangers battled with Robbie, Morgan, Ailig, and Taran. Isobel prayed they, nor Drostan, would come to any harm.
Then two more men came from out of nowhere and raced toward Drostan with swords drawn.
Isobel screamed, knowing it would be hard for Drostan to fight off three men at the same time.
Beside him, Morgan dropped to the ground in a heap and lay still, blood darkening the front of his white shirt.
"Morgan!" Drostan shouted, blocking a strike that would most surely have finished off his brother. He was now no longer doing battle with three men, but four. May God help him.
With fighting all around her, she raced to Morgan's side, fell to her knees and pressed her hand against his chest wound, hoping to staunch the bleeding.
Marcus suddenly stopped fighting and ran toward Isobel. "You'll be coming with me." He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.
She elbowed him hard in the stomach.
His grip loosened, and she jerked free. Then she ran.
Marcus's legs were much longer, and he quickly overtook her, wrapping his arm around her waist and lifting her from the ground.
"Leave me be!" she screamed, kicking and flailing.
Ignoring her pleas, he tossed her over his shoulder and carried her to his horse, where he pitched her across the saddle, knocking the breath from her chest. As he mounted behind her, she tried to get off the horse, but he seized a handful of her cloak and shift, dragging her back up.
"My father will have you killed, as will Drostan's," she spat, her nails digging into his forearm.
He cursed and knocked her hands away. "Who will there be to tell what happened? No one. Mackintosh will be dead, as will his brothers, and if you say a word about any of this, you seal the fate of your mother and father, for they'll meet certain death at my hands. That I'll promise you."
Terror gripped her chest, making it hard for her to breathe. Marcus intended to wed her, and these outlaws would slaughter the man she loved and his kin. Tears ran down her face as they rode away, leaving Drostan behind, fighting for his life.
ISOBEL'S SCREAMS HAD cut Drostan like a sharp blade, but he could do naught to help her. When he had turned to see what Marcus was doing to her, he had nearly lost his head to the edge of a sword. He had to stay alive, for if he died... Drostan would not allow himself to finish the thought, for he had seen the bastard's handiwork for himself.
To his right, the morning light glinted off a blade, and he quickly jumped out of the way, drawing his broadsword across his opponent's chest.
The man collapsed onto the ground and moved no more.
Two others rushed him, and he fought hard to keep them at bay.
"Ye killed Owen," one of them shouted.
Drostan snorted. "'Tis what happens in battles. Men die." So far, he had managed to keep the scoundrels at bay and had killed one, leaving five of Marcus's hired killers and his two guards, who had suddenly decided to join the fight. Doing battle with four men at once was challenging. The moment he showed any sign of exhaustion, they would be on him like a pack of hungry wolves on a wounded deer.
Ailig and Taran fought to keep Morgan and Robbie from being killed, as they lay on the ground bleeding—one from the chest, and the other, the shoulder.
With a Mackintosh war cry, Ailig rushed his adversary, driving his blade deep into his chest, killing him ins
tantly.
The edge of a broadsword slashed across Drostan's thigh. He staggered under the impact, but continued to fight, forcing back the intense pain and ignoring the blood streaming down his leg and filling his boot.
"The bastard willnae go down, Ivr," one of them shouted.
"He will, sooner or later. Just keep at him until he does."
Drostan suddenly realized he could no longer see Cam or Dougal—a moment before a blow to the back of his head left him face-down on the wet ground, blood gushing down his back and shoulder. He tried to move, but his body refused to obey.
"Ye've killed him," declared Cam.
"'Tis what Marcus wanted us to do," said Dougal.
"We need to rid ourselves of the body and be on our way."
"Over there's as good a place as any, Dougal."
"Aye. A coffin is a perfect place to hide a body."
Nay! Drostan tried to call out, but the words would not come. He was as helpless as a newborn bairn as they dragged him by the arms through the mud, then roughly tossed him into the stone coffin he had observed the day before behind the coffin-maker's cottage. As the stone slab slid into place, he tumbled into darkness.
DROSTAN WOKE WITH A start, slamming his forehead against the hardness of stone. He clenched his teeth against the pain while trying to make sense of his surroundings. As his head cleared, so did his memory. Marcus had taken Isobel, and he had been left to die in a coffin, while his brothers fought for their lives. He prayed they still lived.
Splaying his palms against the stone slab, he pushed, but it refused to budge. If he could but move it to the side enough to get his hands through, then he might be able to...the panic that had possessed him as a lad of nine summers, when he had been locked inside the chest, suddenly seized him, squeezing the breath from his lungs, dragging him into madness. But he fought back with every ounce of strength he possessed, for he had to find a way to free himself and rescue Isobel.
