“I canna drink more, sir,” she said, setting down the chalice, the honeyed softness of her voice fair unmanning him.
Fighting to quell the desire she so unwittingly unleashed in him, Duncan snatched the chalice off the table and downed its contents in one hefty swig. A loud roar of approval went up from his men when he plunked down the empty chalice.
Despite the look of alarm on her face, he refilled the large drinking vessel and emptied it again before Fergus could launch into the marriage stone ceremony. As if the disobedient lout had read Duncan’s mind, his seneschal grasped the curved horn he wore around his neck, brought it to his lips, and gave a sharp blast.
At once, the feasters fell silent. Those who sat, leaned forward, and those who stood, inched closer. “The tale, Fergus,” someone yelled from the back of the hall, “tell us the tale!”
Lachlan handed Fergus a cittern, and as he strummed a few chords to test it, Duncan overheard the Sassunach whispering to Linnet.
“Fergus acts as the clan filidh, or fili,” Marmaduke told her. “He never studied the bardic arts, so can’t claim the true title, but he is a born storyteller and deserves respect. At every MacKenzie wedding, he tells the legend of the marriage stone.”
Duncan glared at his friend. “Aye, and dinna forget that is all it is… a legend. Naught but words.”
“Then you canna be harmed by it, can you, milord?” his lady said, displaying another glimpse of the fire he’d admired on the journey from Dundonnell.
“I do not fear the stone or its silly legend,” Duncan snapped.
“’Tis glad I am to hear it,” Marmaduke countered, a mischievous gleam in his good eye, “for then you have no reason to deny us the pleasure of watching you and your fair lady wife perform the ceremony.”
Another blare from Fergus’s horn silenced those still speaking and spared Duncan from responding to Marmaduke’s cheek. “’Twas long ago,” Fergus began his tale, his gnarled fingers deftly strumming the cittern. “Old gods still ruled and their ways were yet respected. A proud Celtic king lived not far from where we sit this night. He was a powerful man, and none dared defy him. He feared no man or creature, and some say neither did he fear the gods.”
Fergus paused to sip from a brimming cup of ale. “This king had four daughters, and being as wise as they were beautiful, they, too, feared him. All save the youngest daughter… his favorite.”
As Fergus recited the legend, Duncan leaned back and folded his arms. Folded his arms and closed his ears. He knew the foolish prattle by heart, and the most annoying part of the story was almost upon him.
“… so certain was the fair maid of her father’s love, she saw no reason to be secretive about having lost her heart to a young man she knew would not meet her father’s approval. Though a braw and bonnie lad, strong of muscle and pure of heart, he was without means or prospects. The proud king became outraged upon learning his favorite daughter desired a man so unworthy.”
The words flowed over Duncan, seeping into his ears despite his best efforts to ignore them. Saints, he wished the old fool would finish so they could have done with the rest of the ceremony.
The part he dreaded… the hand-holding and kissing part.
“Aware her father would never allow the marriage,” Fergus went on, “but unable to deny her heart, the lass and her true love ran away to the marriage stone. A swearing stone, ancient even then. Its magic was strong and true.” Fergus paused and took another sip of ale. “But the father was warned, and he caught up with them just as they thrust their hands through the opening in the stone’s middle.”
Pausing again, Fergus looked around the hall, his sharp eyes wise and knowing. Duncan closed his own eyes before the wretched graybeard’s piercing gaze could reach him.
“… The king’s fury gave him more strength than a mortal man should have and he ran at them, tore the stone from its base and cast it into the sea… the young man with it.” The seneschal’s voice rose as he neared the legend’s climax. “Shocked, for he hadn’t meant to kill the lad, the king fell to his knees and begged his daughter’s forgiveness. But her loss was too great. Without even glancing at her father, she walked off the cliff, joining in death the love she was denied in life.
“… So angered were the old gods by the king’s disrespect for the stone’s sanctity, they repaid him in kind, destroying his stronghold so thoroughly, none can say where his court truly stood.”
Duncan opened his eyes as the seneschal finished the tale. “But all was not lost,” Fergus’s voice rang out. “Many years later, the marriage stone washed ashore on our fair isle and has been at Eilean Creag ever since. Its power is stronger now, and all newly married MacKenzies who grasp hands through the stone’s opening and share a kiss afterward, are blessed by a powerful bond no man can destroy, for the old gods themselves shall favor and watch o’er them.”
The hushed silence seemed to deepen, broken only by a sniffle or two from the few womenfolk present. Then deafening applause erupted, soon joined by the inevitable chant: “Bring on the stone! Bring on the stone!”
Fergus’s chosen buffoons paraded the stone thrice around the high table, finally halting behind Duncan’s great chair. Other clansmen, grinning like dimwits, yanked Duncan and Linnet from their seats and pushed them before the stone.
“Take her hand!” a voice rose above the babble. Others quickly joined in. “Aye, take her hand!”
Duncan blew out a furious breath and thrust his hand through the hole in the stone. ’Twas his duty, he supposed, and nary a soul present would cease to bedevil him until he’d done his part. But then his wife placed her hand in his and Duncan no longer heard his men’s fool prattle.
Her hand was surprisingly warm and strong, yet her touch unsettled him. Saints, but her warmth stole into him. It sprang from where their clasped hands touched, making its way brazenly up his arm to flow through him like warmed mead.
Before she could bewitch him further, Duncan shouted the words he must, “See, all here present, we are joined! Honor to the old gods, may they bless our union!”
To end this part of the ceremony, he laced his fingers with hers and gave her hand a light squeeze. She gasped, a tiny breathy sound, but he heard it. Even above the hoots and foot stomping of his men. Following his lead, she tightened her fingers over his and Duncan’s heart slammed against his ribs.
“The kiss! The kiss!” his men roared.
Spurred on by his wish to have done with this spectacle and an overwhelming desire to do just what the men urged him to do, Duncan released her hand but grasped her arm and drew her close. “We must kiss,” he told her, taking hold of both of her arms. “Afterward we shall have our peace.”
Something indefinable sparked in her eyes, but she lifted her chin to await his kiss. With a low groan that couldn’t possibly have come from him, Duncan caught her hard against him and pressed his mouth against hers in the most possessive kiss he’d given a woman in years.
When, in her innocence, she parted her lips and the tip of her tongue fleetingly touched his, a burst of raw desire flared in Duncan, and his loins tightened with pure, heated need.
The sort of need he did not want to be burdened with.
At once, he broke the kiss and set her from him. “’Tis done,” he vowed. Lifting his arms above his head, he turned in a circle and raised his voice so all could hear him. “Let no man claim we have not asked the old ones’ blessing.”
“May they e’er watch over you!” his clansmen answered the ritual chant. Still hooting and full of themselves, those who’d crowded round made their way back to their places, those still seated reached for jugs of ale or wine and refilled their drinking cups. At last, the clamor died down as the celebrations turned to the more serious amusements of supping and imbibing spirits.
Back in his own seat, Duncan purposely turned his attention to the delicacies and great platters of succulent meat spread upon the table. He didn’t trust himself even to glance at his bride, for beneat
h his braies, his body was still uncomfortably aroused. Saints, even the soft sound of her breathing and her sweet, feminine scent were enough to keep him stirred.
Nay, ’twas wiser to concentrate on the feast before him. Fergus had outdone himself, bringing forth a wealth of finer victuals than Duncan had seen in longer than he cared to remember. The old seneschal had set a table good enough for the Bruce himself.
Duncan reached for the hippocras. Mayhaps if he partook of enough of the potent brew and ate his fill, a sound sleep would help him forget he’d bound himself to another wife this day.
A wife whose purpose was not to quicken his loins.
“Make haste and eat, will you? You’ve not touched a morsel,” he admonished her, nodding to the choice pieces of roasted stag he’d carefully selected for her. “The sooner we’ve had done with our meal, the sooner we can be gone from this table.”
“I am not hungry, milord.”
“Then I shall eat for you,” Duncan said irritably, lifting a succulent piece of meat off their shared trencher and popping it into his mouth.
Anything to take his mind off the conflicting emotions whirling through him, driving him near mad.
Anything to steer his thoughts away from his manhood, still fully charged and pressing hard against the confines of his hose.
He’d wanted naught more than a docile and plain bride who would but answer the question that burned ceaselessly in his mind. He’d gotten a maid who fired his loins without trying and who’d defy every rule he’d laid down in his household.
A maid whose sight was likely little more than Highland gossip… a minstrel’s exaggeration.
And he’d fallen for it.
A maid whose purity his clansmen roared, at this very moment, for him to take.
And, by St. Columba’s holy bones, he burned to do so.
But he’d learned a burning in the loins is fast quenched and forgotten whilst a searing of one’s soul lasts an eternity.
Once more, Duncan refilled the enormous wedding chalice and downed its contents in one long gulp.
If his men insisted on a bedding, they could have one.
But without him.
He intended to sleep through it.
5
’twas nigh onto midnight as Linnet paced the length of her chamber, naked save the linen sheet she’d snatched off the bed and wrapped around herself like a shroud.
In the distance, even through the heavy oak door, she could hear the retreating footsteps of her new clansmen as they noisily made their way back to the hall after unceremoniously depositing both Linnet and her husband atop her bed.
Her cheeks flamed with indignation at the way the tumultuous merrymakers had cheerily divested them of their raiments.
To her dismay, even Elspeth had participated, clucking like a mother hen, calmly reminding Linnet that such was the way of things, as she’d deftly peeled off each and every layer of Linnet’s clothing—not even leaving her the modesty of her undertunic.
Ignoring Linnet’s protests, her trusted old nurse had stripped her bare, leaving her fully unclothed, as unprotected as she’d been on the day her mother had birthed her.
Totally exposed.
Elspeth had even snatched Linnet’s precious arisaid as she’d exited the chamber. Someone had also locked the large chest containing Linnet’s new gowns.
Not that it mattered to aught but the walls and few scant pieces of furniture, for her husband appeared to have fallen into a deep slumber the moment his dark head hit the pillows.
Still, being locked in a room, without a stitch of clothing, with an equally unclothed man, was a bit disconcerting.
She was cold, too.
Freezing.
“Do you intend to stalk back and forth all night?” her husband’s deep voice boomed from the bed, startling her so much she nearly dropped the sheet she held clutched to her breast. “’Tis more noise you’re making than my fool clansmen below.”
“I’m moving about to keep warm, sir,” Linnet snapped, angry at the way her heart responded to the sight of him sitting upright in the bed, his bare chest broad and powerful-looking. Too late, she wished she’d drawn the bedcurtains, thus hiding his masculine splendor from her view!
Faith, but he was magnificent.
MacKenzie or nay.
Cold-hearted or not.
“’Tis a pity none among your men thought to stoke the fire,” she ventured, pulling the sheet tighter about her breasts. “’Twould appear they were too intent on undressing us to think about such a minor thing as our comfort.”
She regretted the sharp words the moment they passed her lips, for her husband threw back the coverlet and sprang to his feet. “Then I shall do it.”
Handsome and breath-stealing as a pagan fertility god come to life, Duncan strode across the room, as comfortable with his nakedness as she was uncomfortable with hers.
Light from a brace of tallow candles burnished his skin, casting dancing shadows up and down his well-muscled back as he knelt before the hearth.
Like a lovestruck damsel from a French romance, she gawked helplessly at his noble form, her heart beating faster the longer she stared.
Then, as if the angels above wished to save her the embarrassment of having him catch her ogling him like a brazen bawd, a chill gust of sea wind swept through a window, extinguishing the candles and plunging the chamber in darkness.
The sharp tang of brine and the darker scents of a damp night laid heavy in the air as Linnet stood perfectly still, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
She fair jumped out of her skin when strong, warm fingers curled about her elbow and something even warmer, nay, hot, brushed lightly against her hip.
Her breath caught in her throat at the brief contact. ’Twas that part of him, she was sure.
What else could fair scorch her through the linen sheet she’d wrapped around herself several times over?
What else would send tingles all the way to her toes?
What else indeed but that mysteriously masculine part of him he meant to keep from her.
“Come,” he said close to her ear, his breath warming her cheek. “I’ll guide you to bed,” he added, his voice steady and firm… normal.
As if he hadn’t realized what part of him had just touched her so intimately.
Or, mayhap closer to the truth, he simply didn’t care.
Linnet yanked her arm from his grasp. “I canna yet sleep.”
“And neither can I if you dinna cease poltering about,” Duncan grumbled, snatching back her arm and pulling her forward.
Linnet dug her heels into the rushes. “Then I shall sit in the chair by the fire.”
“By the Rood, wench, ’tis cold, I am weary, and my head aches. Dinna rile me further.” Fair dragging her to the bed, he flung back the covers. “Climb in. I willna touch you if that’s what’s bothering you.”
She bristled at his harshly spoken words, but scrambled onto the bed, quickly scooting to the far side and drawing the coverlet to her chin.
To her surprise, rather than getting into bed himself, he hastened to the wall where he took down one of the hanging tapestries. As she looked on, he spread the heavy cloth on the floor and began rolling it up.
“What… what are you doing?” Linnet asked from the bed, although his intentions became humiliatingly clear as he carried the unwieldy column closer and plunked it down in the middle of the bed.
“Naught but assuring myself an undisturbed night’s rest,” he said, then settled himself onto the bed… on the other side of the tapestry barrier. “After this night, I shall sleep in my own chamber, and you will not be disturbed.”
Feeling chastised and as insignificant as if he’d just informed her he found her less appealing than a gray mouse, Linnet lay stiff and quiet, fearing the slightest movement or sound would only serve to further inflame his ill humor.
Merciful saints, did he think she’d fall upon him in the night?
Would that she had
the courage to flee.
Exit the chamber and seek refuge elsewhere.
She would, too, were it not for the boy.
For his sake, she remained motionless, not daring to even take a deep breath lest she disturb her husband.
If she meant to help Robbie, she must achieve some semblance of a relationship with his father.
Even if that meant suffering through such indignities as knowing he’d likely prefer taking a ewe to bed than her.
Aye, her own feelings mattered scarce little.
Besides, she was used to being unloved.
But for the good of the lad, she must be strong. Duncan MacKenzie could bully her to the gates of hell and beyond, she wouldn’t reveal what she knew about Robbie unless he softened toward the boy.
Until then, she’d maintain a firm stance, anger him if need be. His opinion of her wasn’t of consequence.
’Twas the lad who needed him, not her.
Linnet swallowed the long sigh that almost escaped her lips. Could she e’er bring her husband to accept Robbie?
To admit his love for the child?
Afore he learned the truth? Her husband should love Robbie for himself… regardless of whether he’d sired the lad or nay.
Such was her goal, but could she achieve it?
She did not know, but she meant to try. Even if the effort cost her last breath.
Outside, wind caught the shutter of one of the windows, slamming it against the tower with a mighty bang that echoed and reechoed in the shadowy chamber.
Linnet sat up with a start, coming instantly awake and realizing she must’ve fallen asleep despite her doubts of being able to do so. Pearly gray moonlight shone through the one unshuttered window, bathing the room in a silvery glow.
She shot a glance at the man beside her, half-afraid the loud noise might’ve startled him awake, too, but he slept soundly, his breathing deep and regular.
Indeed, he appeared completely at ease, without a care, as he lay sprawled in resplendent nakedness across his side of the bed.
Despite herself, her gaze sought and rested upon his sex, relaxed now, yet no less imposing in its dark virility. As she stared, an exquisite warmth began to curl languidly through her belly.
Devil in a Kilt Page 8
