She stroked his buttocks as he settled into a slow, languorous thrusting.
He nuzzled her ear, tightening his embrace as he rocked into her. “Lord Almighty, woman—even in my weakness, I canna get enough of ye.”
Arching to meet him, Tilda moved faster, urging him to thrust harder. “I, as well, love. Even after ye’ve sated me with bliss, as soon as my senses return, I need ye even more again.”
He shifted up to his knees. Hands wrapped around her waist, he draped her legs over his shoulders, and hammered into her, jamming hard against her, driving ever deeper.
Maddening delight searing through her, Tilda thrashed until blessed relief exploded and ripped a cry from her throat.
Duncan’s roar followed as he slammed her hard against him and spilled within her. With a shuddering groan, he collapsed atop her, propping himself on his elbows so she might breathe. Still inside her, he flexed his hips with another sliding in and out. With a wicked nuzzling of her ear, he rocked his hips again. “All winter, love. All winter.”
“Aye,” she whispered, locking her legs around him and arching to meet him. If they kept this up all winter, surely, God would answer her prayers, and she’d be pregnant by spring.
*
If he ever laid eyes on Fennella Mackenzie again, he’d snap that woman’s neck with his bare hands. Duncan closed his eyes and lifted his face to the cold, harsh winds whistling across the battlement. The sea crashed against the rocks below, adding its fierce amen to the turmoil storming within him.
The weighty comfort of a fur cloak settled down around his shoulders.
“Ye’ll catch yer death standing out here staring at the sea. Do ye wish a return of yer fever?”
Lifting the cloak to envelop Tilda inside its warm folds, Duncan hugged her close. “Ye should be inside, love. Resting.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, breathing in her comforting scent. Her continued pallor worried him. Agnes said it could take quite the while before Tilda’s emotions healed and allowed her body to finish healing as well. Duncan knew the toll dark emotions could take on a body. How long Tilda would need, Agnes hadn’t known. And with the return of each regular cycle of Tilda’s courses and no sign of a seeded bairn, his precious wife’s health seemed to become even more frail. He hugged Tilda tighter. God have mercy, the poor lass had endured more suffering and loss than many could stand.
“I needed a walk.” Tilda snuggled against his chest. “Once winter sets full upon us, there’ll be time enough for resting.”
Duncan understood. “I, too, needed a bit of air and time away from the coddling.”
Matheson Mackenzie meant well. The man had ordered the surly Mrs. Fyste to see that every servant tended to anything Duncan or Tilda might even think about needing. Their fretting ways stifled him, especially since one of them had to be a spy for Fennella Mackenzie. At least, with the bitter cold of winter setting in, sending messages from the remote reaches of Cape Wrath would soon become nigh to impossible.
“Turn around, cousin, so I might see with me own eyes that ye do, in fact, still live.”
Tilda eased back a step. A knowing smile danced across her lips as she gave a reassuring pat to his chest. “Surprise, husband.”
“Alasdair?” Duncan turned, unsure if he had heard a voice he’d never thought to hear again.
“Aye, man.” Alasdair grabbed hold of him by the forearms and squeezed hard. “I would embrace ye, cousin, but the Mackenzie warned me of yer injury.” Mouth tensed in a tight line, Alasdair squeezed his arms again. “Damned, it’s good to see ye alive. We feared ye dead for certain this time.”
“Aye. Been close a time or two of late.” Closer than he cared to admit. Duncan held out a hand to Tilda. “Meet my lovely wife, Tilda.” Pulling her closer, he nodded to Alasdair. “This be my closest cousin and brother-in-arms, Alasdair Cameron. The only one of the MacCoinnich clan to have never succumbed to a fit of rage.”
“Impressive.” Tilda gave Alasdair a subtle nod, then squeezed Duncan’s hand. “I met him when he arrived. Introduced himself as Clan MacCoinnich’s solicitor.”
Alasdair shifted with an apologetic shrug. “Forgive me, Mistress Tilda. What with all the rumors regarding the two of ye, I had to tread with care until I knew ye to be the fine folk ye are.”
“Dinna relax yer guard, Master Alasdair. I fear not all of us within this keep’s walls are as fine as we should be.” Tilda pulled her cloak closer about her throat and touched Duncan’s arm. “I shall leave the two of ye to yer visit, aye? I believe it’s time for a wee lie down after all.”
“Shall I walk with ye, love?”
“I be fine, husband.” Tilda patted his arm again, then nodded at Alasdair. “Dinna let him stay out here long. The infection weakened him more than he admits.”
“Aye, m’lady,” Alasdair said with a proper bow.
Duncan poised himself for Tilda’s swift correction that always came when anyone called her m’lady. His worry for her wellbeing grew even more when all she did was smile and leave them on the balcony overlooking the sea.
“A lovely lady,” Alasdair remarked as his gaze followed her departure. He turned a studious scowl on Duncan. “Alexander said ye had left for Skye, then traveled on to Inverness to take up smuggling with the MacDonalds. Said ye had tired of the boring life at the keep and hungered for adventure. Came near to hanging. Reported lost at sea. Drowned or eaten by sharks for all we knew. Then came news ye’d been shot and died yet again. Alexander received confirmation of yer death at least three times that I know of, and then here I arrive and find ye mending, with a new wife at yer side, and ye’re considered a son to Chieftain Mackenzie—the MacDonald’s greatest rival.” He rolled his shoulders and gave a frustrated shake of his head. “Has yer hunger for adventure abated yet, cousin?”
“Ye canna comprehend how much,” Duncan said with a heavy sigh. He gathered the fur cloak tighter around himself and returned to his perusal of the sea. “And I fear the end of this worrisome adventure is nowhere in sight.”
“Alexander fears the same. ’Tis why he sent me.” Alasdair joined him at the battlement. “He tires of receiving word that his brother has died.”
“My enemies are relentless, and traitors shadow my every step.” Duncan cast a wary glance in Alasdair’s direction. “Hie yerself back to Tor Ruadh, cousin, afore winter sets in and ye find yerself trapped inside this cruel game with no hope of escape.”
Alasdair shifted with a short huffing laugh, not taking his gaze from the white-capped waves stretching up from the sea to kiss the low-hanging clouds. “I am here on the official business of Clan MacCoinnich’s solicitor. Here to settle yer estate with yer grieving widow.” He grinned and twitched a knowing wink in Duncan’s direction. “The chore could take quite the period since it is our intent to see her well taken care of and settled somewhere safe from harm.”
“Safety is a rare thing these days.” Duncan doubted its existence at all anymore. “And the traitors of which I spoke are within this keep.”
“The Mackenzie seemed genuine enough.” Alasdair scrubbed a hand across the dark stubble of his close-clipped beard. “Is it servants ye dinna trust?”
“Aye—but I’ve yet to discover which of them is keeping Fennella Mackenzie apprised of my every move.” Duncan pulled in a deep breath and snorted it out. Whilst the keep appeared to have been a safe haven over the almost three months they had been there, Duncan refused to drop his guard. Worry nettled his every waking hour.
“Who is Fennella Mackenzie?”
“Tilda’s mother.” Duncan fisted both hands atop the battlement. “Vile, wicked wretch of a woman, bent on my destruction even at the cost of her own daughter.”
“Indeed?” Alasdair sounded surprised. “She seemed kind enough and quite fond of Tilda, protective even.”
Duncan turned and faced him, unable to believe the words spilling from Alasdair’s mouth. “When the hell did ye meet Fennella Mackenzie?”
Alasdair jerked a thumb back tow
ard the door leading inside. “I met the woman herself downstairs. She and Tilda were sitting together beside the hearth in the great room, tending to their sewing. She nay offered her name, but a more motherly woman toward yer wife ye’d be hard-pressed to find.”
Realization of who Alasdair had met hit Duncan. Time to set his cousin straight. “Ye met Agnes Cafflecary. She’s not Tilda’s mother.” Determined not to break Tilda’s confidence about her father and Agnes, Duncan struggled to define the woman who had taken up residence at Cape Wrath in Fennella’s absence. “She is…a friend of the family, ye might say.”
“A friend?”
“Aye. Quite the healer, as well. Why do ye sound so confused?” Duncan turned them toward the door. Time to go inside. The damp bite of the cold pained him worse toward the end of the day.
Alasdair yanked open the keep door and held it for Duncan. “Yer wife and this Agnes woman favor each other. Physically. Mannerisms, too. Same smile. Same look about the eyes. Ye canna tell me ye havena noticed the resemblance?”
“Tilda has her father’s eyes.” Duncan led them down the narrow corridor and into the tower steps leading down to the main hall. “The clearest blue-green ye’ll ever see.”
“Aye,” Alasdair agreed as he followed him down the steps. “The color might match the Mackenzie’s, but the set of them match this Agnes woman’s looks. At least to me.”
Duncan spared a glance back at him. Alasdair had gone barmy with the cold. “So, now that ye know me alive, ye shall return to Tor Ruadh, aye?”
“Nay.” Alasdair clumped down the last step and took a stance beside Duncan in the archway leading into the hall. “I mean to bring ye both back to Tor Ruadh. ’Tis time ye came home, man. We can hide ye from the British and outsmart the MacDonalds well enough. Have ye forgotten the system of caves within Ben Nevis?”
If only they could. Duncan almost choked on the wistfulness in his heart. “Winter is most nigh upon us. November, it is. Alone, ye will most likely make it back with little trouble. But a journey with three—and with two of us still healing.” Duncan left the rest unspoken, just shook his head. “We would never make it, cousin, and I willna risk losing Tilda.” He searched the benches and seats scattered throughout the large meeting room and clustered close to the hearths. Tilda was absent as she said she would be. She had gone to their chambers and sought their bed before having her supper. Again. She’d done that oft of late. The Mackenzie and Agnes both worried about her doing such as much as he did.
“I refuse to put those at Tor Ruadh at risk.” He shrugged the heavy fur cloak from his shoulders and handed it to the annoying maid flitting about him like a worrisome midge. “Cape Wrath shields us enough through the winter. The remoteness and the weather protect us. Once spring comes, Tilda and I will move on before the British or the MacDonalds decide to visit here again.”
“Move on to where?” Alasdair’s troubled look touched his heart. Alasdair had always been more brother than cousin.
Duncan glanced around, choosing his words with care. The damned walls of this keep had ears. “Who’s ta say?” He motioned Alasdair closer and lowered his voice. “Once we’re settled, I swear I shall send word in the old way.”
“The code?” Alasdair accepted a tankard from a passing servant. “Aye, ’tis wise of ye to use it.”
While mercenaries, the MacCoinnichs had devised a form of coding messages that none had yet to decipher other than themselves. ’Twas the best method Duncan could think of for sending word to his brothers.
A shrill ahem silenced them both and turned them toward the source of the annoying sound. Mrs. Fyste, Cape Wrath’s housekeeper, stood with her pale, thin hands clasped tight together in front of her spindly waist. With a hitch forward, she proffered an insulting half-bow and peered at both men as though they smelled of fresh shite. “Forgive me for the interruption,” she said in a whining, nasal voice that Duncan had always envisioned as quite fitting for a water rat. “Master Cameron?”
“Aye?” Alasdair scowled at the woman with the leeriness one would grant a rabid dog.
“Mister Murtchison bids ye come to the stable at once. Some issue with yer horse.” She ended the message with a curt sniff, her eyes narrowing into dismissive slits.
“What issue with his horse?” Duncan didn’t care overmuch for Grady Murtchison, the man in charge of the Mackenzie stables. He’d talked to the Mackenzie for quite the while about replacing the man and felt sure he had Tilda’s father convinced of the stable master’s ineptitude. “Master Cameron just arrived. How the hell could Murtchison already have issues?”
“I am sure I dinna ken. I received the message, and now I have passed it along in the best interest of Master Cameron and his mount.” Mrs. Fyste jerked her chin higher and squared her bony shoulders. “I now leave ye to choose how ye address it. ’Tis none of my concern.”
Duncan raised a hand and snapped his fingers at a passing servant. “My cloak.”
Alasdair waved a hand as he headed toward the doorway leading to the bailey. “Nay. Stay inside. I can tell the cold pains ye. I shall be but a moment.”
“Ye shall hold fast whilst I come with ye. My pains are none of yer concern.” Duncan swung the fur cloak about his shoulders and took the lead.
With a shove through the main double doors into the bailey, Duncan came to a halt. For the first time since he had arrived, the inner courtyard was deserted. Cleared of both carts and horses, not a single soul loitered about. Even the chickens that wandered about pecking at the ground had disappeared. A warning tingled across the back of his neck. Duncan scrubbed a hand across his nape whilst scanning the area. Aye, dusk was upon the place, but it wasn’t so late that no one should be about. He pulled his cloak closer. Mayhap, the cold bite to the air had driven everyone to their hearths.
“What?” Alasdair glanced around the area.
Duncan rolled his shoulders, doing his best to shake free of the ominous sensation. Perhaps it was merely tricks of his mind and nothing more. Ever since his trust of everyone had disappeared, dire imaginings plagued him daily. He shook his head. “Nothing.” He waved Alasdair forward. “Come. Let us see what this fool has done to yer horse.”
“I’ll kill the bastard if he’s harmed him.”
They strode into the quiet peacefulness of the dim interior of the stable. The only noise was the occasional shifting of straw, crunching of grain, or the low grumblings of animals.
“I see nothing but contented beasts,” Alasdair said, his voice low and cautious.
Duncan walked deeper into the building, slipping into the aisle between the stalls, and easing about with every sense perked. Something was amiss. He didn’t know what that something might be, but even the air of the place didn’t feel right and this time, it was no foolish imagining. He held a finger to his lips and waved for Alasdair to follow.
Alasdair drew his pistol, reminding Duncan he’d been fool enough to leave the confines of the keep without a proper weapon. He clenched his hands so hard, he popped his knuckles, then drew his sgian dhu out of his boot. It made him feel some better to at least have a bit of steel in his hand.
They made their way to the stall in the farthest corner to the left, the one housing Alasdair’s mount. Even in the low lighting of the lanterns scattered among the posts, Duncan could tell the stall was clean and the horse well brushed, fed, and watered for the evening.
“What the hell does that woman play at?” Alasdair whispered, moving in a slow circle and peering into the surrounding darkness.
“I dinna ken.” Duncan inched forward, checking the stalls to their right. All appeared calm. “Murtchison!”
No answer came, just the gentle shifting of the animals.
“She wanted us out here for a reason.” Alasdair kept his pistol readied, even clicked back the hammer.
“Stable is clear,” Duncan said, resorting back to the speech of a mercenary. He studied the shadows flitting across the ground in front of the opened doorway at the head of th
e building. “Perhaps we should exit a different way.”
“Lead on.” Alasdair waved him forward.
He crept along close behind without a sound.
Duncan retraced their steps to the rear of the building. He swept his hand across the wall, searching in the darkness for the door used when mucking out the stalls at the back. His fingers found the wooden bar and the peg handle. He lifted the latch and pushed the door open, pausing to listen for any sound of movement before stepping out the door. All appeared quiet. “Seems clear enough,” he said in a hushed voice as he stepped forward.
Alasdair followed.
He edged around the building, dagger at the ready. He stopped as they reached the corner closest to the skirting wall and peered around it. The sun had wearied of its battle with the gray murkiness of the day and retreated below the horizon. Clouds still blanketed the night sky, hiding the moon and stars from view. The only light breaking across the darkness of the bailey were the torch stands burning on either side of the keep’s doors and in front of the guard tower. Even the faint flickering of lights from within the keep did little against the fog settling in for the evening. All was quiet. Too quiet.
Heavy footsteps scrabbled across packed dirt, and a muffled thud yanked Duncan’s attention around. Several dark forms clustered around Alasdair. They beat him into silence, knocking him to the ground. Two of the cloaked men broke away and dove toward Duncan.
Slashing and stabbing, Duncan made to shout the alarm, but another assailant attacked from behind. The fiend jammed a wooden baton into Duncan’s mouth. The man held fast, yanked him sideways, and slammed his head into the wall. A roaring grunt escaped Duncan as he struggled against the bastards, damning the weakness of his slow healing as they overpowered him. Two other men grabbed his wrists, forced his blade out of his hand, and twisted his arms to his back. They lashed his hands together with some sort of strapping.
“Saints bless us,” hissed one of the men as he fought to catch hold of Duncan’s kicking feet and tie them together at the ankles. “I thought ye said this bastard was nay strong enough to put up a fight?”
The Warrior (Highland Heroes Book 2) Page 21
