A huge, glorious piece that—he’d learned—had taken three of Mungo MacGuire’s sons, two of his own men, and also William Wyldes to assemble. Crafted of heavy black oak, the wood was smooth and satiny to the touch. The four bedposts, the headboard, and even the ceiling board were carved with thistles, sheaves of heather, galleys, mermaids, and heraldic shields so old that whatever family they’d once honored could no longer be discerned for the wood was so age-worn.
Roag didn’t care.
The bed was grand enough for royalty. And though he’d gladly sleep naked on the cold stone floor, Gillian deserved better.
Stepping closer to the bed, he would almost swear it had been made for her. The mermaids that appeared to frolic about the tops of the bedposts and also across the bed’s curved ceiling had bold looks about them. Their tempting eyes, flowing hair, and lush breasts, reminded him of Gillian. She loved to stretch across the covers. Bare-bottomed as the bed’s aquatic seductresses, she’d then open her arms to him, and—on nights when he was particularly lucky, she’d spread her legs as well, offering herself to him, invitingly.
His lady, he’d learned, was insatiable.
He deemed himself the most fortunate of men, for he loved nothing more than satisfying her.
He might not have a chiefly name to offer her, or a true claim as the isle’s keeper, but he did love her fiercely. And he meant to dedicate his life to pleasing her, keeping her happy in heart, soul, and body.
Just now her body was naked.
And she was on her back with her long, lithe legs parted just enough to give him a tantalizing glimpse of the tender bits of her that he couldn’t sample often enough. Worse, or perhaps better, depending on one’s view, moonlight fell across the bed, gilding her silver so that she might well have been one of the sea sirens she claimed sang on the reefs when the waves broke high and white across the jagged, half-submerged rocks.
“Odin’s balls,” he swore, his own danglers aching as he started forward.
Unable to help himself, he leaned over her and stroked his hands lightly along the inside of her thighs. “I have to taste you, sweetness,” he breathed, lowering his head to follow his hands with his mouth. He kissed his way up her legs, making for the triangle of red-golden curls that beckoned him so powerfully.
“Roag!” Her eyes snapped open and she pushed up on her elbows, staring at him through the moonlight. “What are you doing?”
“Can you no’ guess?” He gave her a bold smile, summoning all his strength not to pounce on her and sink himself into her, loving her fully.
But he knew she was tired.
Their guests hadn’t yet left and the tower wasn’t outfitted to host so many visitors.
Wonderful as it had been to have her family and also his own Stirling friends on the isle, he secretly yearned for the return of the deep quiet that usually cloaked Laddie’s Isle. It was a tranquility and peace that he’d known nowhere else, and that he’d come to need and appreciate.
“I thought you were sleeping.” Gillian’s eyes glittered in the silvery light—and to his immense delight, she didn’t pull her legs together.
“Skog needed to go out,” he told her, skimming his fingers up and down her hip.
“It was good of you to take him.” She glanced at the nearest window, the tall, arch-topped opening dark save for the glow of the moon.
“It was better of you to greet me so finely.” He looked down at her parted thighs, his arousal hard and heavy. “You are too tempting to resist.” He tore off his plaid and then pulled his tunic over his head, tossing it onto the floor. “I’ve a ferocious need to taste you.”
“Roag!” Her cheeks flamed, but she teased him by parting her knees a bit more.
“I see you dinnae mind.” Now as naked as she was, he climbed onto the bed, settling himself between her thighs. He lowered his head, opening his mouth over her, kissing her deeply. Then he drew back, using his tongue to rouse and pleasure her.
She lifted her hips and thrust her fingers into his hair, clutching at him, pulling him closer. Her need spurred him on, firing his own passion as he kissed and licked her, taking his time before swirling his tongue round and over the tiny bud of sensation that he knew would send her spiraling over the edge of her release. His own didn’t matter, for he really did want her to rest, something she hadn’t been able to do in days.
Yet having the tower so filled with family and friends was a pleasure unto itself. It was also one he’d never thought to experience. He wouldn’t say he was regretful that he’d been bastard-born, for he’d had a good life all the same, most especially of late, with Gillian at his side.
But he did understand her better.
He admired her devotion to kith and kin, the Isle of Sway that was her home.
He suspected he’d always hunger for the taste of her. Wanting to brand her essence on the back of his tongue, he drew deeply on her, licking the very center of her until she jerked beneath him, her hips rising to press against him. Then powerful tremors ripped through her and she cried his name, clutching him to her.
When she finally went limp, he stretched out beside her, pulling her into his arms. She rolled against him, sliding one leg up and over his hips and reaching to trace her fingers gently through his chest hair. Resting her head on his shoulder, she gave a contented sigh.
“I do believe your kisses are even more magical than your hands, hard as that is to believe,” she teased, lifting up to smile at him.
“You, sweet, are the enchanted one. You have brought me more joy than I have ever known.” He curled a hand round behind her head, bringing her to him for a soft, gentle kiss. “I am more glad for you than I can say. Dinnae you e’er forget that.”
A short while later, or so it seemed, another horn blast woke them. The sound was long and shrill in the morning quiet. Startled, Gillian scrambled from the bed, pulling on her clothes as she ran to the windows, darting into the nearest embrasure.
“Roag!” She pointed as he joined her, still throwing on his plaid. “Another ship—anchored this time.”
“Looks to be an Irish galley.” He leaned out the window to see better. “No’ a warship, but a trader by the fat-bellied hull and the men aboard.
“They aren’t warriors.” He stepped back from window, ran a hand over his hair.
“Perhaps they slept there and our lookout only now spotted them?” Gillian kept her gaze on the ship, the idea making sense. “Ships often moor off Sway, taking refuge for the night. They move on at first light, doing no harm.”
“Aye, like as no’ that is the way of it.” Roag turned back to the room, making for the door. “I will tell my men no’ to fash themselves, though I’m still for taking a look from the shore.”
“I think they’re already leaving.” Gillian watched as the men onboard stirred, oarsmen taking up positions on the rowing benches, others crowding along one side of the ship where, she thought, they might be trying to pull in the anchor. “Come look, I’m not sure what they’re doing…”
Roag joined her again and in that moment it was clear what was happening on the Irish galley. Someone had lowered a skiff over the side and a huge man in mail and with a wild mane of black hair and an equally wild black beard was already in the small boat, reaching up to take someone in his arms, helping that person into the skiff.
“Roag…” Gillian gripped his arm, her eyes widening. “That’s a woman!”
“So it is.” He frowned, staring down at the pair.
Whoever they were, the big man now had the woman in his arms and was settling her carefully in the little boat. He then claimed the other bench and took up the oars, pulling strongly as he turned the skiff away from the Irish galley and toward Laddie’s Isle, rowing sure, coming fast.
“It would seem we are to have yet more visitors.” Roag glanced at her, his lips twitching.
But when he turned back to the window, his jaw slipped. “By Thor, that’s Grim!”
Gillian blinked. “Who?”
“A friend,” he told her, his almost-smile vanished as he now frowned down at the sea.
“You don’t look pleased,” Gillian observed, worried by the way his brow had furrowed. “If he is a friend—”
“He is, but he aye turns up when trouble is afoot.” Roag narrowed his eyes, clearly straining to read the big man’s expression. “He’s a Highlander, a Mackintosh from Nought territory in the Glen of Many Legends. I havenae seen him in a while. He’s manning a garrison deep in the Highlands these days, standing up as captain for an aged chieftain named Archie MacNab.”
“You know him well then.” Gillian looked away from Roag to again peer down at the skiff.
It was closer now, nearly ashore. It was easy to see the big, fierce-looking warrior Roag called Grim. Gillian even caught the flash of beard rings braided into the fullness of his beard. The woman she’d first suspected must be Grim’s wife proved older. Maybe his mother?
She appeared to be a slight, somewhat frail lady with hair as dark as Grim’s, though the morning light glinted on streaks of silver that fanned away from her brow. Even from a distance, it was clear that she’d once been very beautiful.
Gillian couldn’t see more because Roag’s men and her family were already hurrying down the cliff stair and crowding the beach, waiting to help the little boat and its passengers ashore.
“I wonder what they want.” She glanced at Roag as they, too, quickly descended the tower stair, hastened through the hall, and then down the narrow steps that made a path from the top of the cliffs to the rocky shore. “Did you have business with this Grim?”
“Nae.” He shot a glance at her, giving her his hand for the last few steps to the cove. “He is a friend only, no’ a Fenris man.”
“Well, he seems welcome,” Gillian smiled when a great cheer rose ahead of them.
It wasn’t possible to see past the crowd gathering round the skiff, which was surely on the beach by now. The friendly greeting had been a courtesy, she knew—her family loved company. And if Roag knew Grim, so would his men.
But as she and Roag neared, everyone went silent.
Eerily so, and their faces were oddly expectant as they turned to watch Roag and Gillian’s approach. They also parted, opening a path for them.
Grim Mackintosh stood at the path’s end, not far from the skiff. He’d put an arm around the woman, the gesture almost protective although he surely knew that no one here would harm her. Equally interesting, the Irish galley was beating away, leaving them there.
Whatever their purpose, they expected to stay, at least as guests, on Laddie’s Isle.
And with each step closer, the fine hairs on Gillian’s neck lifted more and more. Far-flung as it seemed, she couldn’t shake the notion that she knew why they were here.
Indeed, she was certain.
The beautiful older woman before her had the answer in her dark, shimmering eyes. The worry clouding them was telling. More than that, it was her face that gave her away—it was one Gillian knew well and loved dearly.
“By all that’s holy!” She reached for Grim’s hand, squeezing tight. “Do you see her?”
“Aye,” Roag said, his voice oddly thick, strained. “I do, but I dinnae believe it.”
Then, before either of them could say anything else, the woman swayed and pressed a hand to her breast, her eyes flying wide as she stared at Roag.
“Such a big man!” she cried then, slumping to her knees.
Chapter Thirty-One
Roag rushed forward across the landing beach, hurrying to help the woman who’d fallen, but Grim was closer and already had her on her feet again, his arm once more clamped tight about her waist.
The woman’s eyes were still round as she stared unblinking at Roag, her hand now over her mouth in shock.
Roag stared back at her, a loud buzzing in his ears. The world around him blurred, swimming so crazily that he almost believed he’d wakened in the middle of a terrible dream.
Gillian and her fanciful notions were getting to him.
Because of her and her ancients and faeries and mermaids, he’d almost seen his own face looking back at him from the old woman’s before him.
He did see Grim’s ugly countenance, though the lout was just as hazy as the woman and everyone and everything else.
“Ho, Grim!” Roag greeted him roundly, wanting to prove that if his eyes were mysteriously damp and burning, there was nothing wrong with his voice. “This is a fine thing—seeing you here so early of a morn, and your lady mother with you!”
“You err, my friend,” Grim spoke plainly. “She is Lady Liana MacLean, late of the Isle of Doon, and she is your mother, no’ mine.”
Roag’s heart stopped, and then slammed hard against his ribs.
He opened his mouth to say that was not possible. That such a claim was as absurd as if the night sky darkened to reveal ten moons and not one. But no words left his mouth.
He could only stare. And his burning eyes now damned him by leaking hot tears down his cheeks.
Beside him, he heard Gillian gasp—leastways he believed so. He couldn’t say for sure because, although he was still standing, he felt as if Grim’s pronouncement had blown him full off his feet.
He blinked a few times, then shook his head, his gaze still on the woman.
No, the lady.
Roag pulled a hand down over his beard, sure the world had run mad.
“I dinnae have a mother,” he finally managed. “She died birthing me, she did.”
“Nae, she didnae.” Grim stepped away from Lady Liana to clap a hand on Roag’s shoulder. “She might well have, for she was young and had you torn from her arms before she could set you even once to her breast.
“That is a terrible fate for any woman,” he added, watching Roag carefully.
“I’m no’ saying it isnae.”
“She was banished, my friend,” Grim reached behind him, grabbed the woman’s wrist, drawing her near. “Given the choice of hieing herself from Stirling and never seeing you, or even speaking of you, or being made to watch as you were dashed against a wall, killed before you were an hour old.”
“That’s rot!” Roag broke free of Grim’s grasp and scowled at the friends and family who were again closing in around him. He tried not to look at Gillian, Grim, and the lovely, fine-boned woman who couldn’t possibly be his mother. “No one at Stirling would e’er have done such a deed. No’ now, no’ even a hundred years ago. I’ll no’ believe it.” He folded his arms, the matter settled.
“They might no’ commit such a heinous act, but there are some who would threaten the like.” Caelan was suddenly at his side, Andrew close behind him.
“Remember last year, when Grim rooted out that our own Sorley’s father was a Highland chieftain, Archie MacNab.” Andrew edged closer, glancing first at Roag and then briefly at Lady Liana. “He told us he’d heard all kinds of tales about the miseries Sorley’s mother endured. Sadly, she never lived to meet him.”
“Be glad you have the chance, lad.” Mungo joined the argument. “Family is everything, I say you.”
Andrew and Caelan exchanged glances, went to flank Lady Liana. They’d clearly taken sides, were fair falling over themselves to appear as gallants. Rarely had Roag seen them act so foolishly. Some men weren’t meant to be courtiers, and their rough edges only stood out the more if they attempted to be what they were not.
Roag had aye been fine just as he was.
So he frowned at his friends. “The lot of you are crazed, I swear it. Next you’ll be telling me old MacNab is my sire as well!”
Silence answered him.
“O-o-oh, it is wonderful!” Gillian spoke first, hurrying forward to embrace the older woman.
Up close she truly was striking, with her raven hair and the sweeping streaks of silver that winged back from her brow. Her skin was clear and smooth, the lines of her face noble, giving testimony to her gentle birth. A few creases at the corners of her eyes and lips revealed her years,
but didn’t detract from a beauty that would surely stay with her through life. But her eyes were her most remarkable feature—the same thick-lashed, peat-brown eyes as Roag.
“Humph.” He couldn’t say more. He was having a dreadful time just trying not to trip over his tongue or shuffle his feet like a lad.
“We never thought to see this day.” Gillian spoke up, her tone encouraging.
“Nor did I, my dear,” Lady Liana gave her a tentative smile. “I always hoped. But there seemed little chance of ever even catching word of my wee lost bairn, sequestered away on Doon as I’ve been all these years. My clan, the MacLeans—”
“So you’re Hebridean?” Gillian flashed a triumphant look at Roag.
He tried not to see and hear her.
The implication—that this Isleswoman was his mother—meant that Hebridean blood flowed in his veins. He might not have been aware of its being there, but it was. Its presence would explain why he’d felt such an inexplicable pull to these isles.
“Aye, I am,” Lady Liana was telling Gillian, her voice soft and sweetly musical, just like Gillian’s own. “In younger years, I journeyed with my family to court where”—she glanced at Grim, who nodded reassuringly—“I came to the notice of the late King. One does not refuse such a man. So I remained at Stirling, even with the blessings of my family.
“Later, I fell from favor, as also happens so often at court. About that time, a young Highland bard would sing to me, lifting my spirits…” She didn’t finish, but there was no need.
Roag knew who she meant.
His pounding heart, the heat inching up his neck, and the awful tightness clamping round his chest, all told him the man’s name—as did the glances exchanged by Grim, Caelan, and Andrew.
If Liana MacLean of Doon was his mother, his father was none other than Archibald—Archie—MacNab of Duncreag in the Highlands. That made him not just a Hebridean and a Highlander, but also Sorley the Hawk’s true brother.
It was beyond belief.
Looking at Liana MacLean now, seeing his own eyes staring back at him…
To Desire a Highlander Page 29
