Pride of the Clan

by Anna Markland

  The sweet aroma of female arousal drifted into his nostrils. Taking his time was killing him, but his life depended on it.

  She fixed her gaze on his manhood as he kissed his way up her body. “Yer skin is soft,” he told her.

  She whimpered in reply and needed no coaxing to open her mouth when he arrived at her lips. Their tongues swirled and mated. He tasted the tang of Fion’s fine ale, and himself.

  She pouted when he pulled away to kneel between her legs, but the frown left her face quickly when he put his lips to her womanhood and licked. Her hips arched off the bed. He curled his toes into the mattress and his arms around her thighs.

  He suckled her, drinking in the sweet, hot juices, flicking his tongue over the swelling nub until she writhed, calling his name over and over. Her cries of fulfillment echoed in his shaft. She stopped breathing as he slid one finger inside her pulsing sheath, then choked out, “More, I need more.”

  He loomed over her, plunging his swollen manhood inside her silky heat as she opened her eyes and smiled. His hips pumped. She was tight, tight, tight. It was glorious. He was probably squeezing her too hard, thrusting too vigorously. He felt her maidenhead tear and knew he was hurting her. But his fevered brain told him it was supposed to hurt. If it didn’t he wasn’t doing it right. He had to do it right.

  He prayed she relished the discomfort as a rite of passage. Elation surged through him when she wrapped her legs around his hips. “Garg‘nuair dhùisgear,” he yelled as his essence erupted inside her and he fell into an abyss of bliss, collapsing on top of his panting bride.

  He had come home.

  ~~~

  Margaret’s fear it might prove impossible for Rheade’s rather prodigious manhood to fit inside her had been for naught. Once the pain of her maidenhead tearing had subsided the sensation of his maleness filling her had been wonderful.

  He must have enjoyed the bedding because she was sure he’d fallen asleep atop her, though his shaft still pulsed inside, or mayhap it was her own muscles causing the lovely feeling. She seemed to have lost control of them.

  She savored the softness of the bed and the utter joy of being one with the man she loved. She was a woman now, Rheade’s woman. The awesome notion had her stretching like a contented cat.

  Then she wished she hadn’t as Rheade stirred. Her neck was wet. He must be drooling. His manhood slid from her and curled up at her opening, warm and sticky.

  He flipped his body and lay on his back next to her. “Sorry. Too heavy,” he said hoarsely.

  She cuddled into him, savoring the warmth of his big body. “Nay, I liked ye covering me.”

  He put his arms around her and held her tightly. “Was it verra painful?”

  His question took her by surprise. “Only for a moment. Then it was wonderful.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Only wonderful?” he teased. “Not magnificent, thrilling?”

  “It was, and more,” she agreed with a smile. “Fierce when roused, as ye declared.”

  He laughed. “Did I shout the Robertson war-cry?”

  “Is that what it was?” she asked. “Did ye win the battle?”

  He smoothed a hand over her breast, sparking renewed desire in her suddenly sensitive nipple. “Aye, lass, victory was mine,” he quipped.

  “And mine,” she whispered, curling her hand around his shaft. “How often can we do this?”

  His manhood responded to her touch.

  “Keep that up, wench and we can do it as often as ye like,” he growled.

  “I like it a lot,” she confessed, licking the tip of his shaft. “Am I a wanton?”

  He raised up on one elbow, his face serious. “Margaret, how can I explain this to ye? It’s every man’s dream to marry a passionate woman. Ye can be as wanton as ye like in our bed.”

  “I can do whatever I like to pleasure ye, and ye willna mind?”

  He rolled his eyes to the rafters as he lay back and spread his arms wide. “I’ve died and gone to heaven. Have yer way wi’ me, woman.”

  DISCOVERY

  “Wait,” Margaret exclaimed.

  Rheade might have known it was too good to be true. Women were unpredictable creatures. He peeled open one eye to see what had come between him and whatever erotic fancies Margaret had in mind.

  She still gripped his shaft, but her gaze was on his chest, her eyes wide.

  “I ken I’m a braw laddie,” he quipped. “But—”

  To his disappointment she let go of his manhood and leaned forward to smooth her fingertips over the inside of his upper arm. “Ah! Ye like the feel of my muscles,” he said, reaching for the tempting globes hanging like lush pears before his eyes.

  She sank back on her haunches. “Nay,” she replied, then blushed. “I mean, I do, but I just noticed this mottled patch of skin under yer arm.”

  He turned his arm to get a better view. Some of the candles had burned out and there wasn’t much light. “I’d forgotten it,” he admitted. “I was born with it. Logan has the same mark.”

  She gaped at him. His gut knotted. Surely a slightly discolored, scarcely visible bit of skin wouldn’t render him unlovable. He needed to explain. “We discovered Da had the same mark when we were swimming in Loch Bhac. I suppose we inherited it from him.”

  Margaret looked like she might swoon. His mind raced. Some people believed such marks to be the handiwork of the devil. “What ails ye, wife? Can ye not love me because of it?” he asked desperately.

  She shook her head vigorously. “Nay, nay. I’ll always love ye. But ’tis the map of Loch Tay,” she babbled.

  He worried mayhap she’d fallen under some enchantment. “I dinna ken—”

  She put a finger to his lips. “Tannoch has the same mark,” she whispered.

  ~~~

  Rheade frowned then leapt from the bed. He retrieved her nightgown and yanked it over her head, then swirled the plaid around her shoulders.

  Her heart broke. Was her husband banishing her from their bridal chamber because she’d looked upon his brother’s arm? Surely not. He’d given leave for her to tend Tannoch.

  Did he believe she was lying? Why would she?

  She watched, afraid to speak as he hastily pulled on his trouzes.

  Then he put his hands on her shoulders, and smiled, a strange glint in his eye.

  Her fears melted away, but still the words refused to come.

  Suddenly he grasped her hand and led her into the corridor where he took a torch from a wall sconce.

  Her head had earlier swum with fanciful notions of what might happen on her wedding night, but she’d never considered she’d be traipsing around the castle barefoot with a madman.

  They reached Logan’s chamber. Rheade barged in, dragging Margaret with him.

  “Mayhap he’s still in the Hall,” she protested.

  Rheade raised the torch.

  Logan’s head appeared from behind the closed draperies of the four poster, his normally well groomed hair completely awry. He blinked rapidly, shielding his eyes against the light.

  A female squealed.

  Logan stumbled from the bed, completely naked. “What the fyke? Is this my reward for controlling yer bawdy friends?”

  Sweating under the weight of the plaid and the embarrassment of the situation, Margaret had averted her eyes, but Logan seemed to now notice her. He picked up a léine from the floor and shucked it over his head. “I was busy, brother, as I foolishly imagined you would be this night.”

  Rheade ignored him. “Come with me,” he shouted, heading for the door.

  Margaret cast a backward glance at Logan as he followed them down the hallway to Tannoch’s chamber.

  “What’s going on, Margaret?” her brother-by-marriage hissed between gritted teeth. “This isn’t like Rheade.”

  She had an inkling of what was about to happen, but there wasn’t time to explain matters to Logan. And it wasn’t her right.

  They burst into the laird’s chamber. Glenna almost fell out of the
armchair where she was sewing by candlelight. She shrieked, then seemed to realize who had entered. She threw her needlework to the floor, struggling to her feet. “By the saints, ye scared me half to death. What’s amiss?”

  “Where’s Tannoch?” Rheade demanded to know.

  Margaret privately deemed this an unnecessary question since the sounds of loud snoring were coming from inside the drawn draperies of the bed.

  “He’s sleeping,” Glenna replied, her face tight with annoyance. “The wretch is exhausted and I dinna want—”

  Rheade threw back the drapes and shook Tannoch’s good arm. “Wake up, brother.”

  Glenna flew at him. “What are ye doing? Leave him be.”

  Margaret understood nothing would deter Rheade. She gently drew a protesting Glenna away. “He has something to tell Tannoch. Something that canna wait,” she murmured.

  Glenna stared at her as if she were an apparition. “Why aren’t ye abed? ’Tis yer wedding night.”

  Before Margaret had a chance to explain why she was wandering around in an indecent nightgown and plaid, Tannoch sat up in bed with a loud roar.

  Fion rushed into the chamber, flanked by several men-at-arms. Time stood still. The auld servant’s gaze travelled from the wild-eyed Tannoch to the half dressed individuals who had invaded his chamber. “What’s happening? I feared our laird was under attack.”

  “I am under attack,” Tannoch bellowed. “Can a man nay get some sleep?”

  Rheade took a deep breath. “My laird, I apologise for disturbing yer rest, but there’s something I must tell ye. Now.”

  REVELATION

  A grumbling Tannoch allowed Rheade and Logan to assist him from the bed to the armchair, where Glenna fussed, heaping plaids on him.

  Scowling, Logan stood beside Tannoch, arms folded across his chest.

  The guards lingered near the doorway, evidently unsure if their presence was still required, and obviously uncomfortable at being in a chamber with the chieftain’s family in varying states of undress.

  Fion stared hard at Rheade, who suddenly teetered on the edge of a precipice. He’d deliberately left off his shirt, but now felt naked. He wished the guards hadn’t arrived with enough torches to light up the chamber. Mayhap the skin mark meant nothing. Many people had such markings on their bodies. Simply because—

  Margaret squeezed his hand and leaned into him. “Yer doing the right thing,” she whispered. “For all of yer sakes.”

  He thanked God for the intelligent, giving woman he’d married, then strode over to Tannoch. He stretched his arms wide. “I’ve a birthmark on my upper arm.” He leaned close to his brother to make sure he could see the discoloration.

  Tannoch narrowed his eyes. “Ye woke me in the middle of the night to tell me this?”

  Rheade straightened and turned to his younger brother, whose face now showed a glimmer of understanding as he shoved up his sleeve. “Logan has the same mark.”

  Tannoch’s eyes darted to Logan’s bare arm.

  Glenna gaped. “Tannoch has it. So what?”

  Tannoch shook his head. “Means naught. We share the same mother.”

  Rheade recognised life would never be the same after his next words. He waited until he had Tannoch’s full attention. “We inherited it from our Da.”

  The guards shifted their weight from one foot to the other, plainly having no idea what was transpiring.

  Fion stared at Tannoch.

  Tannoch stared at Rheade.

  A tic twitched at Tannoch’s right eyebrow. Rheade doubted anyone else would notice it, but he was anxious to witness his brother’s reaction to learning the truth.

  Tannoch stole a cautious glance at Glenna. Rheade happened to follow his gaze. Her puzzled frown was like a blow to his gut. She knew nothing of the doubts surrounding her husband’s parentage.

  His intention had been to honor his brother, not shame him in front of his wife.

  He slapped his thigh, then swayed as if off balance, leaning heavily on Margaret. “Forgive the interruption, my laird, I imbibed too much of Fion’s ale at supper. Ye canna blame a man for overindulging on his wedding night. My poor bride. What must she think of me?”

  Logan frowned.

  “And I dragged poor Logan away from—” He hiccupped for effect. “—From something, or should I say someone.

  “Margaret, my darling. I apologise to ye. Come let us return to our nuptial duties.”

  They left arm in arm, not exchanging a word until they regained his chamber.

  “She has never known,” Margaret exclaimed once they’d cocooned themselves within the heavy draperies of their own bed.

  He gathered her into his arms. “Nay. I suppose I shouldna be surprised. I only found out recently myself. But Tannoch knows the truth now. That’s the important thing.”

  “One thing is for sure,” Margaret whispered.

  “What?”

  “Ye certainly made this a night I’ll ne’er forget.”

  ~~~

  A loud banging woke Rheade. The light seeping through the draperies indicated it was well past dawn. Margaret still slept, tucked into his body. Despite the revelations of the previous night, or perhaps because of them, Rheade had made love to her again when they’d returned to their chamber. He’d gone slowly this time, his heart more at peace than it had been for many a year.

  He nuzzled Margaret’s nape and decided to ignore the knocking.

  A moment or two later, the draperies were thrust open, waking Margaret. Irritated, he drew the linens over her nakedness. “Get out, Logan. I’m nay in the mood for reprisals. I plan to lie abed with my bride all day.”

  His brother snarled. “I’d like to accommodate ye, but our chieftain has summoned us.”

  Margaret smoothed the backs of her fingers over the stubble on his chin. “I’ll give ye a shave before ye go.”

  The notion of Margaret shaving him was appealing. “Mayhap in the bath,” he suggested.

  “No time,” Logan insisted. “Get dressed. I’ll wait outside.”

  His younger brother’s unusually abrupt demeanor was perturbing. “I suppose I’ll have to go. Tannoch’s likely mad as a bull I woke him last night. Did I actually do that?”

  She kissed his nose. “Aye, but it was the right thing to do, and when it dawned on ye Glenna was ignorant of the suspicions, ye were masterful in yer withdrawal.”

  He rose and set about seeing to his needs while she slipped into the blue nightgown.

  “Logan wore his best plaid. Ye must wear yours too,” she said.

  “Aye,” he agreed, feeling more awake once he’d donned a clean léine and trouzes.

  Margaret helped him put on his plaid, then handed him the trefoil pin he’d given her. “You must wear this. One last time.”

  He inhaled deeply. “What did I do to deserve a wife like ye, Margaret. Ye’re a treasure.”

  “Go,” she said. “Greet yer brother.”

  RECONCILIATION

  Rheade tapped lightly on Tannoch’s door, but didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. He and Logan were expected.

  He’d thought their brother would still be in his sick bed, but a freshly shaved Tannoch stood with legs braced in front of the cold hearth. He and his raiment were clean and his unruly hair had been tied back in a tight queue. He looked like a stern chieftain about to dispense judgement on two juvenile miscreants—like their father.

  He didn’t invite them to sit, but Rheade sat anyway, deliberately choosing his mother’s favorite armchair when she’d been Mistress of Dunalastair. He’d made the first move last night. The tennis ball was in Tannoch’s court now.

  Visions of the king’s last moments flashed behind his eyes. Seemingly trivial things sometimes resulted in monumental changes—the decision to stop up a drain, an insignificant birthmark, the betrothal of a young lass from Oban many years ago.

  Tannoch nervously smoothed his good hand over the folds of the plaid concealing his stump. He cleared his throat. “I ken ye wer
e both surprised to discover I am yer brother.”

  Rheade glanced at Logan, but said nothing. What was there to say? Tannoch was right, but he wouldn’t apologise for it.

  “Truth be told,” Tannoch continued, “I was a mite surprised myself.”

  The scowl hadn’t left his face, yet Rheade sensed a shift in his demeanor. He tried for humor. “Fion was too.”

  “Huh!” Tannoch replied. “The auld bugger has never treated me with anything but respect, despite his belief I was a bastard.”

  “Well, that’s water under the bridge now,” Logan offered.

  Tannoch shot him a lowering glare. “Nay. There’s much remains to be said about the past.”

  Rheade worried his brother might be spoiling for a fight when the chieftain fixed his gaze on him again.

  “First off, I thank ye, Rheade, for sparing Glenna. It dawned on ye quickly I’ve never shared my suspicions with her. Ye might have made hay with the knowledge, but ye didna.”

  A thousand thoughts assailed Rheade. If he’d been in Tannoch’s boots, he couldn’t conceive of not sharing his deepest fears with Margaret. Or mayhap his brother cared naught for Glenna’s opinions in the matter. Or was he genuinely glad she’d been spared the nagging doubts? Whatever the case, he didn’t wish to embark on an argument on that front, so all he said in reply was, “Aye.”

  “I hafta say ye do a poor impression of a drunken sot.”

  Rheade shrugged, relieved the tone seemed to have shifted. “I havna had much practice.”

  Tannoch scowled. “Unlike me, ye mean.”

  Rheade got to his feet and stood nose to nose with his brother. “Listen. I see no point in recriminations. Until a short while ago, it never occurred to me ye might not be my father’s son. We’re different. Always have been and I dare say always will be. Ye’ve done things in the past I havna approved of, but yer my brother, and I love ye.”

  Tannoch gripped the mantel over the hearth, but said nothing.

  Rheade unpinned the trefoil brooch from his plaid and fastened it to Tannoch’s. “Ye made sure this came to me because ye had doubts about yer parentage. Now I’m returning it to its rightful owner.”