It was wondrous beyond all imagining and she started to say so, but then the world tilted again and she gripped his shoulders, holding tight so she wouldn’t slide off. But she couldn’t have anyway, because in that moment, he’d somehow moved up on top of her, sliding one arm beneath her to hold her as he urged her legs to part even more.
Then he was pushing into her, gently at first, the hard, full length of him gliding into her, filling her inch by inch, until he’d claimed her entirely. It hurt, even pinching her deep inside. But the hot stinging was only a momentary discomfort and then he was also kissing her, taking her lips with the same, deep, open-mouthed kisses that had brought her such pleasure earlier.
Delicious sensation slid through her and she forgot all else except him. How much she loved and desired him, and how beautiful it was to lie with him—as she had instinctively known from the first moment they’d met.
She now suspected that knowing was why she’d rebelled so fiercely for so long.
Because accepting such a potent, powerful love was a total capitulation. It was a surrendering of her heart, leaving her vulnerable. He could shatter her so easily now. For the truth was, he’d made clear that theirs could only be a union for a time, and then he’d be gone.
But those worries faded quickly as he rode her, his smooth, rhythmic thrusts firing her blood, thrilling her. Then the glory of it turned almost unbearable and she felt him stiffen, his entire body going rigid as he broke their kiss to stretch upward and throw back his head in pure, male triumph.
“Gillian!” he called her name, the sound of it beautiful in his passion.
She couldn’t speak, simply clung to him as yet again, the same deliciousness swelled and broke inside her. As before, the pleasure washed through her like a sweet molten tide of exquisite heat and tingly sensation.
Then she knew no more, only that she was lost, both falling and soaring in a glittering whirl of sensual delight. An enchanted place that welcomed her and that she didn’t wish to leave.
But even as she drifted, tiny doubts resurfaced. She cracked her eyes, not having the strength to open them fully. Her breath was uneven, her heart beating rapidly. He was still sprawled atop her, his wide, muscled shoulders sheened with sweat. His breathing was as ragged as hers, his thundering pulse as notable. Gillian closed her eyes again, surprised how pliant her body was when he rolled off her and drew her tight against his side, even settling her head on his chest, softly stroking her hair. The sweetest sensations slid through her again, but of a different, more gentle sort.
She felt more than saw his smile as he caught her hand, twining their fingers. He didn’t say anything, but he did squeeze her hand.
Then his breathing eased and she suspected he slept. Indeed, a snore confirmed her guess. Gillian remained still, savoring the comfort of simply lying beside him, held so securely in his arms.
She imagined she should feel shame, guilt, or regret, but she didn’t.
She only knew an overwhelming contentment, a love she could never deny. And as it filled her, claiming not just her body, but also her heart and soul, her worries returned. They nibbled at the edge of her every thought, reminding her that this joy was only fleeting. And that Roag wasn’t truly hers.
Much as she wished he was.
For herself, she was certainly his. He’d wakened desire in her and he’d made her a woman. She didn’t want to cling to this memory in her later years, she wanted to spend her life reveling in many such nights. So many that the feel of his big, strong body naked against hers became as familiar as the tread of her own feet on the ground, as dear and natural as her every breath. All that she craved, aware that she’d be an empty shell without him.
He was, she knew, the only husband for her. She didn’t want another. Indeed, she’d refuse one, no matter what her father and brothers said or did. She let her eyes flutter open again, watched the slow, steady rise and fall of his slumbering breath. Dear, sweet gods, what was she to do? She couldn’t bear the thought of him taking a different wife.
If she must, she’d insist on the powers vested in her clan’s Horn of Bliss. No matter his denials, she knew from the hammer amulet at his neck that he respected the old ways.
By whatever name he’d bonded with her, their union was now real.
And whether it pleased him or not, she was keeping him.
Roag the Bear was hers.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Moments later, it seemed, though in truth it was hours, the blare of a horn shattered the early morning quiet. Roag slit an eye, still deep in the dregs of sleep. The sweet bliss of having slumbered on his plaid before the still-smoldering driftwood fire, Gillian wrapped snugly in his arms, her lush body warm and soft against him.
They’d loved once more in the smallest hours. It’d been a slow and tender coupling. Less desperate than their first, but powerfully intense. Afterward, Gillian had gone limp in his arms. She’d swiftly slipped into a deep sleep, her head cushioned on his shoulder. And he’d known then that he’d never before felt so strongly about a woman and never would again. He’d not wanted to think of letting her go, wasn’t even sure that he could.
It was a prospect that chilled him to the bone and filled his chest with a sharp, throbbing pain. But he’d tamped down those concerns and spent the hours trailing his fingers gently up and down her side, over the soft, round fullness of her breasts. He’d not wanted to waken her, but he hadn’t been able to stop touching her.
In truth, he suspected he’d never have enough of her.
Holding her through the night had brought him a peace he’d never thought to experience. An almost terrifying sense of rightness, as if she’d been meant for him and they both belonged here, in this high tower room, on this isle.
Not just this past beautiful night, but always.
He’d wanted to lie with her forever, half afraid that if he even moved, one of the ancients or faeries she believed in would swoop in from the morning mist and snatch her away. Stealing her before he’d had a chance to tell her how he felt, if even he should.
He knew fine that a binding with him wasn’t good for her.
She was a lady, by all the hounds!
And what was he?
Roag frowned, felt his entire body tightening with frustration, even anger—but at himself for letting this happen. He should never have touched her.
But he had, and now…
He bit back a groan, but couldn’t stop his hands from fisting. If he cared for her at all, and he did, powerfully so, he’d do what he’d told his men. He’d find a good husband for her amongst his acquaintances in Highland society. He knew enough clansmen to locate a kindly chieftain or laird needing a wife for himself or his heir. She deserved a man who would equal her in station and treat her well.
He would arrange such a match.
Then he’d spend the rest of his days missing her.
He’d curse himself for the first time ever for his lowly birth—the fate that had never bothered him at all, but tore him to pieces now.
He couldn’t believe he’d ruined her.
Yet…
How could he have resisted her? And now these last blissful hours were ending, some weird sea creature taking it upon itself to while away the time beneath his tower, wailing and moaning as only strange denizens of the sea could do.
Roag shifted on the cold stone floor and drew Gillian closer against him, taking care that his plaid covered her. Gods pity him, but he was not yet ready to let her slip from his arms. With luck—if he had any remaining—the whale or whatever it was would swim on, leaving them in peace.
But the blaring came again, this time accompanyed by the pounding of running feet.
Someone was racing up the tower stair and—he leapt to his feet, awake at once—the “whale” wasn’t a sea creature at all but a horn.
It was a warning that something was badly amiss.
“What is it?” Gillian woke then, blinking as she glanced about the still dark bedcha
mber.
“My men.” Roag’s voice was muffled by the tunic he was pulling over his head. “One of our lookouts on the bluffs is blowing a signal. There’ll be trouble at sea,” he told her, reaching for his heavy mail shirt, donning it with the ease of years of practice, for he’d aye shunned the help of a servant.
“You will stay here, and bar the door after I leave.” His words were terse, hard. But she needed to heed him. “Dinnae open to anyone but me—or Conn or Big Hughie, if I am unable to return.”
“Don’t say that—of course, you’ll come back!” She was already on her feet, pulling on her bed-robe as she hurried to the nearest window. “I see nothing, not toward the west, anyway.”
Before she could dash to the next embrasure, a loud hammering on the door brought the surety that something was indeed terribly wrong.
“Heed my words, lass!” Roag ran across the room, buckling on his sword belt as he threw the door wide.
One of his men stood there, his chest heaving from charging up the steps. “There’s a sea battle to the east,” he panted, his gaze flicking once to Gillian before he rushed on. “Three ships, but we cannae yet see well enough through the mist to ken whose they are. Could be thon dragon ship we chased, returned with friends. By the clashing, we think the ships are ramming.”
“Conn? Big Hughie?” Roag felt Gillian clutch his arm, so he reached to grip her hand, squeezing.
“They’re down on the beach, readying the Valkyrie,” Roag’s man told them.
“Aye, right! We’ll be away at once.” Turning to Gillian, he grabbed her face and kissed her hard. “We’ll leave enough men here to guard the tower, dinnae you worry. But stay here and do as I said. Bar the door and dinnae answer save for me, Conn, or Big Hughie.”
“But—”
“Nae buts.” He kissed her again, swiftly. “You ken we must go—I’ll no’ leave till I hear you’ve thrown the drawbar. Do it now,” he stepped through the door, joining his man on the shadowy landing.
He pulled the door shut before she could argue. Then he heard the heavy drawbar slide in place. For good measure, he tried the door, but it was soundly locked.
“We’re off!” He nodded once at his oarsman, then tore down the tower stair, his man behind him. They didn’t slow in the hall, sprinting past the men Conn and Big Hughie had ordered to stay behind and guard Gillian.
Then they burst outside, into the chill, mist-hung morning. The noise of the sea fight hit them at once, the clanging of steel and the knocking of shields, the hiss of water and the great splashing of oars as galleys wended and clashed on the waves.
And as Roag and his oarsman dashed down the cliff stair to the landing beach where the Valkyrie already rocked in the water, her great oars raised for a swift launch, Roag knew that his reason for coming to Laddie’s Isle was about to be met.
It’d be a resolution that would also end his time here.
Damn all the gods!
High above the sea, in the tower’s laird’s chamber where she’d lost her innocence and won the knowledge that she truly did love Roag the Bear, Gillian stood in a window embrasure and stared out at the horror unfolding below her. One of the worst ship clashes she’d ever seen. As the morning mist began to thin, she saw that it was also the most terrible.
And she wasn’t just worried about Roag and the Valkyrie.
Unless her excellent vision had soured, her father’s ship was also in the fray!
“Oh, Skog, be glad your eyes are so milky.” She threaded her fingers in the fur of the dog’s bony shoulders. “But you know, don’t you?” She glanced down at him, sure he could hear the dreadful fight, the shouts of men and the screams, the constant lashing of oars on the waves, the splashing of water.
Skog hadn’t left her side since she’d barred the door, and he leaned into her now, giving her the only comfort she could find in a world turned so dreadful.
Why her father’s ship, Sea Dancer, was involved in such a battle stumped her.
Her father wasn’t a fighting man and had no enemies. The MacGuires weren’t known for warring. Even her brothers, though protective of her, bore no grudges and had only friends. The voyages her family made were to fish or sail for supplies.
Yet her eyes weren’t deceiving her.
Four ships clashed not far from Laddie’s Isle. One was the Valkyrie, now spinning in a tight circle, churning the water, as she flashed after another ship, a galley Gillian didn’t recognize. She didn’t think it was the MacDonald warship. Sea Dancer and a fourth galley sped round the two other ships, the furious beating of their oar blades whipping the water to a seething froth of white. Great plumes of spray rose everywhere, making it hard to see what was happening in the center of the watery circle. The Valkyrie was bearing down on the second unknown ship, clearly intent on racing along her side, shearing away the oar strakes.
It was the swiftest and most sure way to damage a galley.
Destruction sure enough to send a ship to the bottom of the sea, for the splintering of oars usually killed the oarsmen. Either the impact sent them into the water, where they drowned, or the jagged shards of the broken oars ran them through, spearing them like a jouster’s tournament lance.
“Oh, dear gods…” Gillian bit her lip, not wanting to watch but unable to look away.
She was relieved that the second unknown vessel seemed a friendly one.
A fine galley manned by mailed warriors who looked as fearsome as Roag and his crew. The ship worked in tandem with her father’s, circling round the Valkyrie and the other ship so that the enemy vessel couldn’t veer away.
The sea boiled and Gillian’s heart raced. Pressing closer to the window, she leaned out, straining to see through the whirling mist that was again thickening.
Then she was glad for the lesser visibility, because a terrible shattering of wood filled the air, joined by the screams of men who, from the sound of it, were finding their deaths. The Valkyrie—now fitted with a long iron-headed ramming spear—had raced down the side of the other galley, shearing away her oars and rendering the ship useless.
At once, her father’s ship and the fourth galley whipped about and shot forward, joining the Valkyrie as the three vessels crowded round the damaged ship.
The men would fight now, Gillian knew. She could see the flash of steel, so many drawn swords and axes. She shook her head as she pressed a hand to her breast, felt the wild hammering of her heart.
Beside her, Skog began to howl, his aged body racked with trembles.
“Oh, sweet, please do not worry.” She dropped to her knees beside him, gathering the old dog into her arms, pulling him against her. She comforted him as best she could. She needed his warmth and familiarity as well. “It will be over soon, I promise.” And I hope to all the gods that no one we love will be lost!
She didn’t say the words aloud, knowing, as did everyone who ever loved a dog, that Skog would understand and fret the more.
She needed to be strong for him.
The heartache that would come with a defeat was a horror she refused to accept.
She couldn’t.
She did force herself to push to her feet again, almost wishing she hadn’t when she saw the scene below. The four ships had crashed together and grapnel chains strained between them, holding them bound to each other and making the deck of each galley into an awful, red-slicked fighting platform.
Men from the three friendly ships were pouring onto the damaged galley. They leapt from one bow to the next, weapons drawn and clashing as the warriors shouted and fought, swords and axes glinting everywhere. Unfortunately, the whirling mist didn’t let her pick out faces. All the fighting men were huge, mailed, and clearly furious. They attacked in a rage that would’ve terrified her even more if she hadn’t known they were good men. Equally unsettling, the decks weren’t the only thing stained red now. She could see the gleam of blood on the men’s swinging weapons, and a great film of red was spreading across the water, a ghastly tint that she knew wasn�
��t from the rising sun, because the day was an overcast, misty one.
For a moment, she caught a glimpse of Roag and her heart leapt to her throat. He fought in the middle of the enemy ship, towering above the other men, his sword arcing again and again, the blade shining crimson and terrifying her.
Then something else chilled her to her soul—a woman’s scream pierced the mist.
And her cry ended abruptly, hinting at a grisly end.
Gillian swayed, felt her own blood draining. She forced herself to lean out the window as far as she dared, but the wind was picking up and it was beginning to rain. Icy pellets struck her face, making it difficult to see. The mist blew hard now, drifting in sheets past the tower, sealing Laddie’s Isle and the ships from view.
But not before she saw the dark shapes of the three victorious galleys wending away from the fourth ship. Pulling back, she knew, to allow the defeated warship to die in peace.
Or perhaps to lend the ship a quicker end, because one of the retreating galleys began shooting fire arrows at the floundering vessel. The sparks must’ve caught despite the rain, for the ship’s square sail and mast ignited in a burst of orange flame, dooming the ill-fated ship.
The sea fight was over.
Relief such as Gillian had never known swept her. “By all the ancients, thank you!” she breathed, sagging against the window arch.
She reached down, stroking Skog’s head again and again, hoping to soothe him the same way seeing the three ships beating toward Laddie’s Isle calmed her own racing pulse.
She knew Roag would be well—she couldn’t make him out, or even tell which ship was his, for the mist was swiftly turning to thick sea fog. But she knew in her heart that he’d be unscathed, victorious against his foes.
Her father and brothers…
She bit her lip, a shiver of trepidation rippling through her. She prayed to all the gods and ancients that they’d be well. She refused to think about why they were even involved—or that Roag might insist that she return to Sway with them.
To Desire a Highlander Page 27
