“I love ye.”
Raibeart could hear the hint of uncertainty in her voice and pulled her into his arms before rolling onto his back. In his eyes, Una was beautiful, strong, clever, and all else a perfect mate should be, but he realized she was still a little uncertain of him. She needed to know what rested in his heart as badly as he had needed to know what rested in hers.
“I love ye, too.” He tensed when he saw the glint of tears in her eyes. “Nay, no crying. ’Tis what ye wanted, aye? I cannae take it back. I can ne’er take it back. Ye are mine.”
“Hush, ’tis but the shine of happiness, Raibeart.” She laughed softly when his body heaved from the strength of his sigh of relief.
“We are mated now, but ye can have a proper wedding, a blessing by a priest and all that.”
“Ye have a priest?”
“Aye, a cousin. Do ye want me to fetch him?”
“Raibeart, this”—she touched the mark on her neck—“is enough for me, but I would like a priest’s blessing. Nay for me but for the others saved from Dunmorton. A wedding between us, with a wee celebration, will be perfect for giving them that last feeling of being home, I think.”
“Aye, ye are right and it will be done.” He reached up to stroke her cheek, idly wondering what he had done right to deserve such a gift. “Are ye sure, Una? Are ye verra sure?”
“Verra sure.”
“I think I loved ye from the moment I saw ye. It would have been wiser to find a way around the trouble I saw that night, but I couldnae. Told myself it would be a good thing to do before I had my rest, but I could never have ridden away from you. I accepted that ye would be mine in the cave and ne’er wavered.”
“I think I loved ye from that day as weel. I didnae run away, did I?”
He thought of all she had suffered and suddenly realized that she was right. She should have tried to escape him, especially since she had just come from being chased down by five men. He had been a stranger until they had realized they were alike, a stranger she had the wit to know could have snapped her neck in a heartbeat, but she had stayed.
“It was fate,” he murmured.
“I believe it was.” She kissed him. “I stayed and never thought to do anything else.”
“And now ye are mine.”
“As ye are mine.”
“Forever?”
“And a day.” He kissed her when she laughed, thinking that he was a very lucky man to have claimed that music for his own.
A KNIGHT BEYOND BLACK
Jackie Ivie
Chapter One
She felt him before she saw him. As if the ballroom suddenly went off-kilter without warning. Tira stumbled, feeling oddly light-headed.
“Forgive my step, Miss Coombs. I over-rotate at times.”
Her partner’s words had a slight edge to them. Everything Sir Robert Graves said displayed a distaste of the eldest Coxton-Coombs sister. He preferred Ophelia. Most men did, for no visible reason. The elder sister was renowned for her beauty, although she’d never have Ophelia’s blond curls and blue eyes. Perhaps it was the russet shade in her warm brown locks they didn’t find attractive. It might be the glint of amusement in her green-tinged eyes. Perhaps it was the hint of lines about those eyes further evidencing her age; maybe a perceived lack of grace.
She was flirting with spinsterhood, but tonight she was determined not to think of it. But flirting wasn’t even accurate. She was so close she was standing at the precipice and looking right over it. Speaking of looking over . . .
Tira looked across and down at Sir Robert Graves and felt the slide of curls along her shoulder with the move. He didn’t meet her eyes, but he rarely did. It drew attention to his lack of stature, showing the balding pate, weak chin, colorless eyes. That was before the thin shoulders, white, limp hands, and smallish . . . Tira stopped. There wasn’t much about Sir Graves to eulogize. But she guessed he probably most disliked her because his mother favored an heiress and made no secret of how few would accept his suit, should he offer it. Tira shook off the dreary thought again. Time enough for that later.
After this incredibly horrid ball.
“Could we . . . sit now, Sir Graves?”
He didn’t finish the rotation before turning, unaware of Tira’s quick glance toward the entry doors where she’d felt something or someone. She’d actually hoped it might be the man portended by Christa; a man of such presence he’d alter her entire world. It was against all reason and advice to listen to her maid, and now it felt foolish as well. Christa claimed to be fey. Tira swallowed disappointment at the empty portal designed by Robert Adams.
Tira tightened her lips, looked back, and froze. Everywhere. Even her toes in the too-tight slippers designed more for elegance than comfort.
“I’ve come for our dance.”
It was a man: large, well bulked, and Scot. Even without the brogue attached to his speech, she’d have known. He was full Highlander and not averse to showing it. Dressed in attire that looked barbaric and harsh: a knee-grazing kilt, tasseled socks, a plaid sash scoring what looked to be a massive chest, a black velvet jacket, lace-touched jabot, silver canteen hanging at his hip, while what could only be a sword hilt could be glimpsed over his shoulder.
A sword? In Coombs Court ballroom?
Tira cracked open her fan and started fluttering with it. They’d never allow a weapon at this ball. But she instantly knew no one would stop it. The newcomer defied argument. He looked readied for trouble and sure of victory. She’d never seen anyone so completely sure of himself. Masculine. Immense. Brawny. Impressive.
Exactly as Christa foretold.
Reaction was happening as musicians and dancers limped to a halt, stared, and whispered. Tira sensed it. She didn’t hear it. Her heart was giving her issue with how it moved to clog her throat and then fill her ears. If her jaw hadn’t loosed, opening her lips, she’d have had trouble breathing.
There was more. And it was worse. This man was handsome, easily eclipsing those she’d seen or imagined. His features went right into the realm of beautiful; enough to cause swooning. Lengthy dark hair was pulled back, highlighting a face made for sculpting. She’d never seen such a man. Her knees trembled, pings of sensation sent moisture to her hairline, and her lips opened even more. And he knew it. All of it. It was in the coal dark eyes meeting hers over the top of everyone’s head. That was another thing about him. The newcomer dwarfed her. He did the same to everyone, including the trio of clansmen at both sides of him.
“I—”
Her voice ended. She sounded breathless. Anticipatory. She should argue. Demure. Tira fluttered the fan faster, lifting wisps of hair from her forehead. She hadn’t many names on her dance card, but for certain his wasn’t one of them.
“ ’Tis time we met. This night.”
“To-to-tonight?”
“Are you na’ a score and one on the morrow?”
Tira’s lips snapped shut with the same motion she used on the fan, releasing it to dangle from the cord about her wrist. Of course she was twenty-one tomorrow. Everyone in the household worried over it with the possible exception of her father. And he’d just announced it to her lone suitor, Robert Graves.
“Sir Graves.” The Highlander nodded toward Robert, as if reading her thoughts.
“Your Grace.”
Sir Robert released her hand and left. Tira didn’t see it. She couldn’t move her eyes as the newcomer put out an arm, tipped his chin, and favored her with a pulse-stopping look. That’s exactly what happened, too. Her heart dove right to the pit of her belly to pound from there, sending a flush to every single portion of her.
“You’re . . . a duke?”
“It matters?”
He stepped closer, taking up space, teasing her nose with male scent before he took the hand Sir Robert released. It must be cold outside for the temperature of his skin chilled. But that was ridiculous. She was nearly overcome with heat.
“No,” she replied, since he seemed immobile
, awaiting it.
“Verra good. Come. We’ll dance.”
There wasn’t any music, but that changed as if by magic. The moment he moved with her, strains filled the room: lilting, haunting, and sweet.
They played a waltz. Tira got pulled effortlessly but stopped before connecting with him. It didn’t matter. Her breasts sensed him and reacted, both nipples tightened from a rivulet of shivers she couldn’t stop. All of it totally foreign.
His thumb outlined her knuckles, running along ridges of the hand he’d captured. That sensation was heightened by the texture of his velvet jacket on her other digits. She barely touched him and it still overwhelmed her. He rotated easily and gracefully while her knees weakened. She stumbled. The arm at her back tightened, pulling her right into him, where an immediate loss of air collided with a total impression of flesh-covered iron. She really did risk swooning. Her knees sagged. Her vision dimmed. This was much worse than Christa warned.
And much better.
“I’m told you’re christened Tira?”
His rumble of voice went through her. Tira blinked once. Again. And as many times as it took to get the man’s shirt back into focus and her limbs from their disembodied state.
“Pardon?”
“ ’Tis Gaelic. And proper.”
“Oh no. None of this is proper.” Tira glanced up, touching her chin to the white lace at his throat. It was insane. They hadn’t even been introduced.
“Iain.”
“Iain?”
“Iain Duncan Evan James Alexander MacAvee. The fourth.”
He was reading her mind again. Tira stiffened and spoke her next words to his upper chest. “This won’t do. Not at all, and I’ll thank you to—”
He interrupted her with more rumble of voice, completely ignoring her protest. And that wasn’t at all normal. Or acceptable.
“There’s more that I’ve nae desire to state. Unless you require it.”
“I don’t require a thing.”
“I’ve titles to add. The newest being Duke of MacAvee. Afore that, Earl of Glencairn and Blannock, chieftain of Clans Avee, MacGruder, and two other clans. I doona’ wish to bore you with them at present. Mayhap later. After another dance.”
Another? Oh no. And another no. And a third and fourth one as well. It would create gossip and speculation, and those Tira couldn’t afford. Not with imminent spinsterhood facing her. She moved her gaze, met his, and everything on her reacted with a jerk into the band of arm behind her. She stumbled again, and this time she got lifted. And then held. Close. She couldn’t gain breath . . . not with his cheeks narrowed, putting a kissable shape to his lips, and she didn’t even know what that would look like. Her body had the weight of a feather, the consistency of a cloud, and the stamina of a puff of air.
“You dance verra strange, lass.”
The voice rumbled through her again. She couldn’t miss it, not with her breasts crushed against him. If anyone noted how closely he held her, Tira would hide in embarrassment. What was she thinking? Of course they noticed! It wasn’t possible not to.
“You . . . need to set me . . . down. Now.”
As an order, her whisper didn’t have much impact. As inducement, it seemed to work perfectly. Tira’s eyes widened as he simply raised her farther, bringing her eyes level with his chin. Then his cheek. His entire frame vibrated against hers with the most alluring hum, while a heady sensation bubbled through her, increasing her heartbeats. And that just seemed to elevate his.
“Do I?”
“This . . . is creating . . . comment.” And then, to her absolute horror, she giggled.
His trembling increased, apace with the tightening of everywhere she touched, while a nerve throbbed at the side of his jaw. Tira watched it as he focused somewhere into the throng of dancers about them. And then he complied. Tira found her feet back on the floor during a spin and then held until the floor ceased swaying. His arm loosened, releasing her. Tira couldn’t face him. She watched the silver of his brooch for a bit to gather her wits. Tira Mirabelle Coxton-Coombs was known for her intelligence, her conversation, her sense of propriety, etiquette. This sort of reaction was irresponsible. Incredible. Unseemly. And entirely thrilling.
Patience.
Iain ran the word through his mind until it worked. It took all his concentration and strength to ignore how every beat of her heart tugged his into ragged rhythm with it. But it was difficult! He finally had her, right in his arms. His mate. Near-forgotten needs and urges flickered into being, pumping desire and lust where he’d long ago tamped. Hardening. Stiffening. Elongating.
Soon, Iain. Soon.
The lass had no idea how close she was to getting lifted over his shoulder, taken from the trappings and frippery of this ballroom, and then ravished within a scream of her life. He never wanted her to know. It was enough that he did. The vestige of civility had slipped, but he’d caught it. That should make him proud, rather than locking his jaw in an agony of frustration and want, while all of him ached and trembled. And lusted.
He’d waited for her to reach the proper age. He could wait another night. He forced the urges away, blinked, and looked back down at the woman.
Chapter Two
Tira smiled slightly and ducked her head to hide any reaction. It wasn’t possible, but just about everywhere she went this incredibly dark, dreary, and rain-filled morn, she’d glimpsed something that reminded her of him: that Scot. Massive. Incredibly handsome. Iain Duncan . . . James. And more names she couldn’t recollect . . . MacAvee.
She hugged her shawl closer to her as she led first Ophelia, dressed in a yellow day gown that seemed to wilt with every step, then Ophelia’s maid with Christa, and behind them came two Coxton-Coombs footmen, whose duties were carrying any purchases the sisters made. They made quite a retinue as Tira chose which shops to patronize and which to pass. This expedition was her birthday present to herself, but the inclusion of Ophelia and her maid were a decided curse. Especially given the girl’s acidic remarks on Tira’s lack of decorum last eve. As if she could have prevented the duke from dancing two times with her.
Two times? More like five . . . in succession. Tira puffed her cheeks out and then blew the sigh. Dancing before an introduction was decidedly improper. And then doing little more than watching as he’d bowed over her hand and exited? Without one word to anyone else? All of it was beyond bad form. It was enough to get her ostracized.
Tira forced her shoulders back. She was grateful to live in this enlightened age. Why, a generation earlier, she’d have hidden in shame at such behavior. Now, although it was a chore to force a bright smile to match the tinkling bell as she entered a dress shop, it was still done. But then she had to keep her expression as Lady Higginswale met her glance. The woman must still hold out hope that stays could be manufactured to cinch in her bountiful shape. Nothing could be done about her gossipy tongue, however.
“Lady Higginswale.” Tira greeted her and waited. The woman made it a long wait, too.
“Mistress Coombs. You look lovely this morn.”
“Love-ly?” Tira’s voice reflected surprise, despite being prepared.
“Your ball was a great success. I vow, I’ve not been so entertained in weeks. I do hope you’ll soon have another. Thank you, Mistress Elsie. I’ll be back for a fitting on the morrow. Good day, ladies.”
“We’ll see you at the recital this eve?” Ophelia spoke up as Lady Higginswale passed her.
“This eve? Of course, Miss Ophelia. I look forward to it.”
Ophelia’s expression did more than show disbelief. It was comical. She’d expected outright social censorship. Especially after spending a good part of the morning pointing out how improper Tira had acted with that Scotsman. Tira watched her sister’s gushing conversation with Lady Higginswale as she walked with her to the door, passed out onto the walkway, nodded to passersby. Nothing made sense.
Tira fully expecting and deserved to be gossiped over and then sent home to the country with h
er cheeks burning. She didn’t know how Ophelia would manage, but Tira hadn’t worried. Much. Four seasons without an offer for her hand was good training on surviving social gossip. It always passed on as something more interesting and scandalous happened. But to emerge unscathed from her outrageous behavior of last eve was unsettling and odd.
A bolt of seafoam-shaded silk caught her eye. Tira grazed her fingertips along it. There was something sensual about the material. She blushed at the idea of such a fabric touching her in an intimate manner and what might happen if a certain Scot gentleman was there to see it . . . and then she looked up at Iain MacAvee’s chest—right across the table of fabrics from her. Without one bit of warning. Not even from the little bell atop the door.
He hadn’t shrunk since last eve. If anything, he’d increased in size and presence and impact. He was clad in the same pattern and shade of Highland plaid, although it looked a bit more casually tossed on, he had the black mass of hair pulled back in a queue again, and he still had a sword hilt peeking over his shoulder, as well. In a ladies’ dress shop. As if he belonged there.
And actually looking like he did.
Tira faced the rawhide lacing of his shirt for the count of eleven heartbeats, holding her hands to her bosom and wondering not only where her wits had gone, but why Ophelia hadn’t even noticed and reacted.
“You take forever to select, lass.”
“I . . . beg your pardon?”
Her words came with an exhalation of breath. He matched it. His chest filled with air, exhaled, moved the rawhide lacings apart with the move. Tira’s lips parted.
“You. Flitting about from shop to shop. Looking over wares, yet selecting naught.”
“I have not been flitting.” Tira thinned her lips as a sign of reprimand. It didn’t seem to work.
“You fancy this?”
He reached forward, across the table of fabrics, to place his fingers where hers had just been. She didn’t dare look up.
Highland Hunger Page 10
