Fiona on the other hand had found another cause for laughter. ‘Jean has a sweetheart, a beau. Last night I looked out the window and saw them kissing.’ She grabbed Beth, puckered her lips, pretending to kiss her until they both giggled. ‘Remember that word, Sellie. Kiss, it’s what sweethearts do.’
She nodded, and repeated slowly, ‘Jean kissed her sweetheart,’ all the while wondering what she had been doing kissing outside when Niall had warned them against leaving the Keep. But then she had not been alone, so Celestina thought to ask, ‘Who?’
‘We dinnae ken, it was too dark to see. Should we ask her?’
Jean had been nice to Celestina, and she always made sure the lasses were well served, ready to tend to their every wish. But Celestina could not help remembering the way Jean had reacted to the news of the dead men found up the coast. How would she feel about being spied on?
Niall
He could feel the weight of Inverbrevie sitting on his shoulders—every single roof tile, each block of granite. He had believed the worst day in his life was the one of his return from France, finding Flora long since dead and his poor motherless bairns without a protector.
Today had exceeded aught he could have imagined.
The Keep had been dark and everyone abed when he returned from the bonfire, exactly the way he’d planned. He strode through the Keep by the light of the lantern left for him by Aileen, which wasn’t fair on her. He needed to hire a proper steward. Never again would he settle for another’s leavings.
Niall reached the muniment room. No one ever disturbed him there. It should have been the steward’s workplace, but Gordon had said he found the place with its centuries of dust-coated scrolls uncomfortable to work in. Flora had managed to persuade her new young husband to find another space for the man her father had chosen to take care of her dowry—a dowry that might have made certain all their daughters were also well dowered.
Too late now—his late wife and her lover had squandered his lasses’ future. And he was the fool who had let them.
He opened a door and pulled out a glass flagon of Uisge beatha, water of life—a right bit of irony if he had ever heard one. He removed the stopper and lifted the flagon to his mouth.
Wrong again. The slow burn in his throat was proof enough.
He eased his plaid-covered arse into the green leather chair, head resting against the high back—throne-like; but then it had been made for his father’s father, and he had always had aspirations. Sentiment had been Niall’s reason to transport the chair to Inverbrevie. He lifted the flagon again to his lips. The local whisky had a unique favour; it tasted of heather, peat and salt spray. With each mouthful, he gradually slumped farther down in his seat, legs splayed, head full of thoughts he couldn’t shed. He lifted the flagon to eye level. The crystal clear amber liquid inside would be a temptation to any man, even if, like Niall, they were aware of its potency. That’s why he let the flagon rest on the floor and shoved to his feet while he could still stand.
The three-quarter moon almost made the lantern redundant, but upstairs its light couldn’t reach the windowless dressing room he had camped in. Temptation, like the Uisge beatha glistening behind the glass, lurked in the chamber next door where the Selkie slept, and one impulse led to another—led to the opening of the chamber door.
The moon didnae disappoint. Its light played over pale green muslin bed curtains that had replaced the scarlet silk he’d burned with the rest of the whorish decorations. Instead, the soft green muslin floated about the posts, a facsimile of the sea he had rescued her from; and white linen sheets gathered in folds like a froth of salt around her hips.
Mayhap he was still under the influence the Uisge beatha warming his belly, but in the moonlight, he almost believed in the magic, the Selkie magic. He felt its pull curling round innards, sending the blood pulsing into male sexual parts that had begun forgetting what they were made for—aye, since well before he had last left for France.
Was it selfish to feel happy that Aileen hadnae seen fit to include any of Flora’s extravagantly flounced night-rails with the clothes she had supplied the Selkie? The fine linen shift the lass wore left naught to Niall’s imagination—or should that be memory, since he had seen the lass in much less when he lifted her off the sands.
She lay on her back, black hair loose and gleaming in the moon’s rays where it spread across her pillow. Her left hand curled against her pillow, and her face turned toward him. He enjoyed the way her eyelashes formed silky dark crescents high on her cheeks and, lower, her small nose sat straight and pert above lips full and dark red. In his most perfect dreams he never imagined such a delight.
Her own particular scent tangled with the warmth of sleep—a heady, sensual aroma. That’s what drew him closer, tempted him to draw a fingertip down the soft velvet skin of her inside arm until he touched the centre of her palm and watched, fascinated as her fingers curled, capturing his much larger digit.
He didnae move, couldnae … froze, even, as she opened her eyes and looked up at him, a pout on her bonnie lips. ‘Mmmh,’ she sighed and sleepily blinked up at him. ‘Oh, Niall, you want me?’
A smile he had nae control over twisted his lips. His Selkie was learning to speak. ‘Aye, bonnie lass, I want ye, but then I’ve already told ye that.’
Did she ken what that meant or was she reading the heat in his expression. That kind of instinct was born, not learned.
He hitched his hip onto the edge of the bed, depressing the mattress, making her roll toward him. Flustered, she dug her heels in and pushed back against the pillow. Grasping the linen sheet, she attempted to pull it with her and might have if he hadnae been sitting on it. Instead, her thumb caught in the chain he had given her.
She looked delightful when confused. ‘Did I thank ye for the bonnie chain, Niall?’ she asked, lifting it away from the curves pressing against her shift. The chain sparkled, the aquamarines shining bright as her eyes when the clouds parted, letting the moonlight spill across the bed. He quirked an eyebrow, amused yet delighted to find Aileen was making his task easier by teaching his Selkie to speak. Nae doubt the magic helped. He was about to question the sudden improvement in her speech when she took his breath away, saying, ‘Mayhap I should kiss ye again. Would ye like that?’
He hadnae drunk that much whisky, yet his head spun at the thought—nae the memory of kissing, and of holding her in his arms.
Leaning closer, his bonnie wee Selkie pushed up until she was lifted higher by the pillows with the coverlet draped around her hips. She squinted at him, her eyebrows drawn into the middle as if to ask, ‘Well?’
Aye, well indeed. He was never a man to resist a challenge, especially one as inviting as the lass next to him.
Sitting on the side of the bed, close enough for him to feel the heat from her body lick across his chest, he took the chain from her fingers and demanded, as the aquamarines twinkled betwixt their bodies, ‘Is it Selkie magic, then, that makes it easier for us to converse?’
‘The lasses have been teaching me to speak. Am I doing it right, my lord?’
His daughters was it? He hoped they never found out that they had assisted him into the Selkie’s bed. He tugged on the chain until there was nowhere left for her to go. Her breasts pressing close, nipples unmistakably hard against his chest, made his voice low and husky. ‘I’m called a Laird, not lord; that’s because I’m Scottish.’
Her breath whispered under his chin as she lifted her face close. ‘A Laird—is that good, huh? So we can kiss now?’
‘Aye.’ Only one word was needed as Niall cupped the back of her neck tilting her mouth closer. Taking a deep breath, he sucked in her special perfume, now tinged with an added hint of musk—a hint that started his heart racing. ‘Mind you,’ he murmured against her mouth, ‘it’s not guid I’m looking for, but I wouldn’t turn my nose up at a wee sup of wicked.’
Celestina
At a gathering in Spain, Celestina had once heard someone say, ‘Needs must
when the devil drives’, and had not understood its true meaning until now. Niall was very attractive. It would be nay hardship to give him her virginity. She had heard that men prized such a gift, and if it meant she might end up with a home—a family—feel safe again…
She would be whatever Niall wanted.
Si, she intended being wicked. She had listened to Aileen’s tales of Selkies and was well primed to carry out her role. Just as she had leapt from the San Miguel in an effort to save her life, now she determined to win Niall.
What else was left for her?
At the great age of twenty-one, Celestina had tearfully decided she was far too old for the appellation ‘orphan’. Nay, instead she had spent the last few nights coming to the conclusion that she would rather be called ‘wife’ and, God forgive her, she was not above taking advantage of Niall’s slightly bosky state. Of course it might just be that she had never actually been kissed before Niall—that she was truly naïve—but she could honestly say she had never experienced such feelings, thrills, as when his lips touched hers and his hands caressed her body.
Why would she not yearn to experience that again … and again?
It would be nay sacrifice.
So when Niall’s lips covered her mouth, she put her all into the response, opened her mouth and let his tongue plunge inside to dance with hers and draw her soul up her throat to twine with his. At least that’s how it felt to a naïve Spanish señorita.
Celestina.
Niall lifted his head. ‘‘God help me lass, I could swallow ye whole, ye taste so guid.’ He drew back to look at her, hands on her shoulders, slipping her shift down her arms, holding her a willing prisoner as his gaze held her immobile. ‘The moon silvers yer skin, yet I would wish to see ye washed in gold by the sun with yer ebony hair agleam.’
A shudder thrilled though her as he dipped his mouth and closed his teeth on the juncture of neck and shoulder with just enough pressure to hold her still, as his hands grasped the neck of her shift, parting it with a force that made Celestina’s heart race. Niall was a real man, hard and rough—no polished hidalgo with a cold facade of impenetrable politeness and a will of steel as society and the church demanded.
The firm edge of his teeth was more pleasure than pain, and the sweep of his tongue across the skin he had bitten felt like a kindness, a tender lick that calmed her racing heart yet still managed to heat her blood. A flush washed beneath her skin and burned as he leaned away and looked down at her bared breasts.
‘Ach, bonnie lass, yer beauty turns my heart over in my chest.’ His palms followed the path of his gaze, both making her skin quiver around her bones with need and, yes, desire—an emotion completely foreign to her Spanish heart, an emotion that struck Celestina dumb lest she respond in her native language. Instead, she kept her thoughts behind her lips and pulled at the plaid lying in folds over his shoulder.
The rough, manly laughter that burst past his lips reached deep inside Celestina, thrilled her from breast to belly, rippling in her most private place that not even Rosalina had glimpsed. The spasm took her by surprise, but no more so than the touch of his lips closing over the peak of one breast while she arched her back, giving him greater access. Celestina was shaking by the time he had done and lifted his head. ‘Ach, lass, yer sweet as honey and as heady as Uisge beatha. If I wasnae quite drunk before I touched ye, I am now. Yer like nae other, Sellie. Yer taste rushes through my blood as strongly as the finest whisky, the kind we used to send to the Stewart kings.’
His palm cupped the soft weight of her breast, his thumb rubbing the tender peak where his mouth had licked and sucked. Celestina felt it shrink, tightening as he ministered to her uneducated nipple until she could not hold in the moan that ripped from her throat with his name. ‘Niii-aaall.’
Lifting her eyes, Celestina peered at Niall through her lashes, his mien shocking. She might be a virgin, but she recognised an undeniable satisfaction in the shape of his lips. The indecipherable silvery glitter in his blue eyes made her heart flutter with a new sensation. For a moment she thought it was fear until she realised it was more, much more, and very soon she might discover the truth of what was written in his expression.
Niall
He couldn’t remember the last time—any time—he had felt this fierce rapture spinning through his veins, so fierce he had to hold himself back; it wouldn’t do to frighten the lass.
‘Did ye enjoy that lass? Did it make ye feel guid?’ He had eyes in his head that made a reply to his question superfluous, but it created a breathing space, necessary for the lass’s sake. And for him, proof he wasnae an animal, though the thrum of blood in his heart and in his head and in his loins almost gave the lie to that notion. His hand itched to twist a silky swatch of her hair around its palm, a need to keep her close, make her his and his alone.
Was it magic? He found he didnae care a jot.
The shift sat low on her arms, the chain hanging betwixt breasts that stood out proud in the place where he had ripped the linen apart. Her nipples were rosy from his ministrations, a truth that made him feel twice the man he had been when he sat in the muniment room with the flask filled with the water of life. Now it dawned of him that this encounter with the Selkie was a much better way of feeling alive.
Niall lifted her hand and pressed a kiss in the centre—the heart—of her palm. ‘I’ve not the slightest notion whau sent ye to me, but I want ye to be aware I accept the gift.’
That said, he dipped his head and captured her mouth once more. Tenderness segued into want, into a need she appeared to share as she hauled at his shirt, trapped by his belt. He had to unfasten his buckle to make it easier for the lass to pull it out from the waist of his kilt.
Even so, she was mumbling under her breath, half words that spoke of frustration. ‘Let me help ye, Selkie lass, then we can both can seek satisfaction.’
Grasping the tail of his shirt with crossed hands, he dragged it up and over his head and from there to the floor. That was when she laid her hands on him.
Her hands quivered, moved gently across his chest, soft as a butterfly’s wing; and her breath as she whispered, ‘Does this feel good to ye?’ was like to make him shake. Then his heart slammed as if dropped from a great height as she leaned closer and licked.
Necessity—a life fighting either the McDonall enemies or those of the French—had made sure he kept fit, his muscles as hard as the metal breast plate he wore on the field of war, yet as soon as her wee hungry-like mouth latched onto one of his nipples, he melted. A groan he couldn’t disguise burst into the air as he pulled her closer, fingers sliding into her hair and lips spilling kisses all over the top of her head.
Once his lungs nae longer seized with her potent Selkie magic, he managed to heave out a sigh and a response: ‘It feels excellent, and I’m willing to submit to the feel of yer hands and mouth for as long as ye have a mind.’
She took him at his word, and he stood it as long as he could, until he could do naught but take over. Niall wasnae sure why she should taste better now, but she did, and if he had more time he might have tried to put a name to it, but he had his mind’s eye on the end of the road, and it was looking better every minute. He slid his fingers into the hair at her temple and tilted her face with a thumb under her jaw. ‘My turn,’ he murmured against her lips before slanting his head to take her mouth.
As they kissed, he found the partly torn neck of her shift and slowly made it of nae use for aught but a floor cloth. The sound of it ripping seemed to make her hips squirm against him and the moment the tear was complete, he realised that therein lay the problem, his worsted kilt, though now beltless, still surrounded his hips. Fortunately, the kilt was easily removed; he merely needed to be certain she was ready. Aileen’s stories were one thing, but he couldn’t see it being so easy.
She had to be a virgin, a maiden born when she left the sea and shed her skin, a skin that Aileen had wisely buried where nae one would think to look.
He had to
admit he enjoyed himself, working from her mouth to neck, shoulder to breast, all with his wee Selkie’s cooperation—aye, for he had already decided to lay claim on her. Niall loved the way she moved, encouraging him to kiss here, taste there, each place sweeter than the last as he moved lower. At her navel she began to shudder, dug her fingers into his scalp, arching her back to let him feed from the hollow with a swirl of his tongue.
‘Easy lass,’ he told her, discovering the sweet damp slit betwixt her legs with the tip of one finger, soothing her with swipe of his tongue low down on her belly as she jerked away with nae place to go.
‘Is that done?’ she asked. ‘Oooh…’ she moaned, squeezing her thighs together, trapping his finger.
He slid his hips over the side of the bed and his kilt slipped away of its own accord. While he teased, gently, he leant across her thighs and nipped her hip enough to distract her. ‘I’m going to pleasure you, Sellie. Soon you’ll not care what I do as long as I dinnae stop, be assured of that bonnie lass. Let me show ye.’
And he did.
Celestina
Once, a long time ago, when Celestina had almost married, her mother had explained what would happen on her wedding night, and she had to admit, the description had not sounded in any particular like this. Of course her mother had said that when she loved her husband she would want to do everything she could to please him. She had loved Matias, at least she had believed it was love, and he must have loved her since he had died in a duel fighting for his betrothed’s honour. That was when she had discovered the stigma that came with the part of her that was English. Now the threat came from the half of her that was Spanish—the part she had not known was capable of such emotions back then. She did now.
Celestina had not jumped into tempest torn seas to simply give up when matters took a course that her mother had not warned her of when she was seventeen—a girl, not the woman she had grown into since then. The truth of the matter was, she did not love Niall, but she liked him well enough and thought him the type of man who would continue to save her, the way he had when he lifted her from the beach and into his arms.
Bride From the Sea Page 7
