by Mary McCall
Moreen gasped as he crossed the hall. “Is the lady all right, laird?"
"She fainted. I do not want her disturbed for the rest of the afternoon.” Duncan carried her to their chamber and lowered her onto the bed.
Her eyes opened, and she looked anxiously up at him. “What happened?"
"You fainted.” He sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her brow. “How do you feel?"
"Very tired. You look like a heathen, all painted up, and I do not like
it.” She closed her eyes then flashed them open. “You yelled at me."
He looked at her with a sheepish expression. “Aye."
She clutched his hand with both of hers and brought it to her chest over her heart. “You asked me how I could not know you loved me."
"And how could you not?” He frowned as if hurt. “I tell you that you are mine all the time. I even announced it to the clan at the wedding. You're the one who snorts and throws my love back at me."
"Let me get this straight.” She cupped his jaw and sarcasm laced her words. “'You're mine, Alera,’ means you love me?"
"Of course.” He turned his head and kissed her palm. “You would not be mine if I did not."
"And you mean it.” She sounded dazed. “You really love me?"
"How can I convince you if you'll not believe the words?"
"But you do not trust me. You thought I tried to poison you after the wedding."
"'Twas a moment of foolishness. You deplore suffering too much to inflict any unless protecting someone you care about."
"I am glad you love me. I was afraid you would grow tired of me and not want me long."
"I'll never stop loving you."
She gifted him with a tired smile. “I do not know what is wrong with me today. I usually have much more energy than this."
"Mayhap you overdo.” He caressed her pale cheek. “Sleep for the rest of the afternoon. I have—"
"I cannot. I have much to do.” She covered her mouth for a big yawn. “I promised Megan that I would play with her and I am suppos—"
He placed a finger over her lips to silence her. “Megan can come with me to see the crofters. And aught else will wait for the morrow. Now tell me about this celebration you have planned."
"You're not supposed to know.” Her tone sounded annoyed. “'Tis a surprise for your birthday, and everyone will be disappointed if they learn you heard of it."
"Then I will act surprised. Now get some sleep.” He kissed her forehead and headed for the door.
"Duncan?"
He turned back and looked at her.
"You ah... would not wish to help me get completely exhausted before you leave, would you?"
He raised a brow.
Her cheeks blazed. “Well you do know that you married a wanton woman."
Duncan unbelted his plaid, let the material fall from his shoulder, and came down full length on top of her. “Then ‘tis a good thing I am the one who found you, because you're married to a very randy man."
"A blue randy man.” She giggled.
After a thoroughly exhausting and passionate interlude, Duncan gazed into the bonniest blue eyes and grinned. “You've blue smudges all over. Are you completely exhausted, love?"
"I do believe I am,” she answered on a purr.
"Then I guess you will not want to hear about my hunt."
She patted his back and closed her eyes. “I want to hear all about it."
"It was a successful hunt."
"That is nice. What did you catch?"
"An English baron."
Alera would have tumbled headfirst down the stairs in her rush if Duncan hadn't wrapped a restraining arm around her and hauled her against his side.
"Damn it, Alera. If you do not slow down, you will crack your skull."
She clutched his hand and glanced at him, a bubble of happy laughter on her lips. “I cannot help it. I am so excited. Do I look all right? Did I get all the paint off?” She halted midway down the stairs and tugged on his arm. “I should go back and comb my hair."
"You look fine.” He tucked a stray curl behind her ear then caressed her cheek with a knuckle.
"Only fine?” She frowned. “I am a mess. I should wear the blue gown. Papa always liked when I wore blue.” She turned to head back up the steps.
He caught her arm and pulled her against him then nudged up her chin so he could look in her eyes. “Alera, you are beautiful, and you're father will have no complaint. I know you want to go to him, yet I see worry in your gaze. What holds you back?"
"Oh, Duncan, I am afraid he will want to take me back to England.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him tight. “I do not wish to disappoint him, and I do not wish to leave you."
He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “So the barbarian has grown on you, has he?"
"He keeps me warm at night.” She sighed and turned a rueful expression upon him. “I am being ridiculous."
"Aye, you are.” He grinned down at her, a twinkle in his emerald eyes. “Your father knows I would kill him if he tried to take you from me, and he knows that would disappoint you. Now let's go to him. He is anxious to set sights on you."
When they reached the bottom step, her father stood near the hearth with her uncles. He appeared thinner, and his brown unruly hair was liberally sprinkled with gray that hadn't been there when they were last together. She clung to Duncan, for some reason unable to let go, and her feet felt like lead
weights.
Leonce nudged the baron's shoulder, and he turned. The smile that spread across Robert's face was all the urging Alera needed. She broke free of Duncan and ran into her father's open arms, laughing and crying and chattering nonsense. She was acting daft, but she didn't care. Duncan joined them, and she turned and threw herself into his arms, sharing her joy with him.
Father and daughter remained up late into the night, relishing their reunion. Robert's approval of the marriage brought Alera much needed relief from what she admitted were inane fears. A mutual respect between her father and her Highland uncles was much in evidence, and Alera longed to drag out the evening, feeling a sense of family unlike any she had felt in a long time. Megan joined them for a short time and was cosseted and praised by her new grandpa, who immediately charmed the young girl.
When Alera's yawns became so fierce that she quit trying to hide them, Duncan insisted it was time she retired for the night and assured her that she would have more time with her father before he returned to England.
As the company broke up for the evening, Alera approached Julien and bestowed a kiss on his cheek as she bid him good night.
He frowned and turned a suspicious gaze on her. “What was that for?"
She chuckled at his expression and turned a radiant smile on him. “Why, Uncle Julien, surely you know. ‘Twas for giving me away."
Duncan stood halfway down the front landing of the keep and gazed out at his clan. A feeling of contentment he hadn't known in a long time buoyed his spirits. The discord that had plagued his people since his father's death seemed to have vanished as they gathered for the celebration Alera planned.
Juices rolled from roasting swine with each turn of the spits. The embers crackled and sizzled. The mouthwatering aroma of succulent pork permeated the air on a gentle breeze beneath a cerulean blue sky. Clanswomen blanketed the mountainside with plaids and quilts. Tables strained under the weight of filled crocks, jars, and pots. Children raced about in exuberant play while most of the men congregated at the base of the keep steps with Struan and several kegs of ale and whisky.
Julien and Kevin set up an open-sided tent over a raised pallet while Baron Robert played lift and twirl with Megan, Angel, and Hope. Megan delighted over her new grandfather, and the twins succumbed to his charms as well.
Marcail rubbed tiny circles over Logan's nape as he carried her to the open-sided tent. A tiny sigh slipped from her lips, and she gazed at him through adoring eyes.
"What has that look on your
face, love?” Logan asked his wife.
"I am just thinking how strong and wonderful my husband is and how lucky he is to have me."
"Minx.” Logan smiled at her backhanded compliment and tightened his hold on her. He entered the tent and gently lowered Marcail on the pallet.
Leonce, who followed carrying a crib containing the bairns, set his burden beside Marcail. He straightened and received a scorching glare from Hope, who had just returned with Toril from the keep where they had been helping Alera with a surprise for Duncan.
"Zounds, Logan! What do you men think you're doing?” Hope called, her hands fisted at her side. “'Tis only Marcail's tenth day, and she should bloody well stay abed for five more."
Marcail rolled her eyes. “Calm down, Mam. It has been over two weeks, and you never stayed abed for more than five days with any of yours. I'll be resting on the pallet the whole time I am here, but I refuse to miss Duncan's day."
"I still say—” Hope cut off and grinned as she caught sight of her niece exiting the keep.
The mountain grew quiet as one by one the clansmen and women turned to stare at their lady. Duncan noticed the change in the atmosphere and turned to see what had caught his clan's interest.
Alera's beauty stole his breath away. She wore his plaid, and his colors had never graced another so bonny. Her complexion glowed. Her hair flowed in golden-brown swirls down to her hips, and tiny braids held the tresses back at each temple. She smiled and damn if her brilliance didn't make the sun seem dim.
"Duncan Ranald, I have something to say to you. Would you please join me?"
He ascended the steps and stood facing her.
She took hold of both of his hands and cleared her throat. “I would like to add to my vows that I will love you and wear your plaid."
"And?” he prompted when she didn't go on.
Mischief filled her eyes and she laced her fingers through his. “You are mine."
"And?"
"And what?” she asked innocently.
He favored her with a stern frown. “You will obey me."
Her brow furrowed, but her grin grew impish. “You may be my destiny, Duncan, but I am afraid I cannot pledge that. If I did, your dear brother would have nothing to roast you over. I cannot give in until Marcail does. But I have one more thing to say to you."
He raised a suspicious brow as she stroked his cheek then brought her hand to rest on his chest.
"I would like to thank you for making me fruitful, but if you try to confine me to the keep, I am taking all my other vows back."
Duncan stared at her in silence as her words sank in. He glanced down at her belly then back at her radiant smile.
"Are you sure?” he asked in an awed tone.
"Aye.” Her hands moved to her abdomen and she flashed him a saucy grin. “I have a wee barbarian growing inside me. He is surly destined to be a big handsome brute like his father, and he will probably plant his seed in some poor, unsuspecting maiden who will not be able to resist his charms. Fate wins, and thus the clan lives on."
He let out a whoop then lifted her in his arms, turning full circle.
Giggling, Alera wrapped her arms around him. Then she groaned. “Put me down. You are making me dizzy, and when I get dizzy, I get sick."
Duncan set her on her feet and kissed her much to his clan's delight. Then he moved his mouth next to her ear and whispered, “You are a blessing to me, love, but I'm giving you one order now that I expect you to obey. Do not get sick until after you have finished my toes."
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Epilogue
Three arrows hit the center mark of three separate targets at the same time.
Duncan's chest swelled with pride. His wife had proven her boast. Most of the clan had assembled for the display of skill, and their whoops and cheers resounded loud enough to shake the mountain.
Alera tossed him a sexy smug grin that stole his breath away. He wondered if he'd ever get used to her earthy, sultry charms. He admitted to himself she had good cause for smugness. With a bow, her skill exceeded his. Of course, he would never admit that to her.
With a grin, he rescinded her father's order. “Alera love, you have my permission to compete with your aunts at the MacPherson's harvest festival."
Several blazing swishes zoomed over his head. Along with his clan, Duncan turned and stared in amazement at six unfamiliar arrows gracing the center marks of six separate targets. Two displaced Alera's outer arrows. One spliced her center arrow in twain. Blue and green ribbons fluttered proudly from its tail.
Alera shrieked and turned, glancing around. “Spartan!"
"I'm up here, Curse,” came the distinctly Roman-accented reply in perfect Gaelic.
A petite woman stood silhouetted against the sun on the roof of Laidirkin. She replaced a bow at her shoulder. With his warriors present, Duncan decided she posed no threat, and Alera did seem to know her. But how the hell had she managed to get past his defenses without raising an alarm?
Placing her fists on shapely hips, she assumed a position that exuded confidence. “Tell me now, Sister, am I here for a wedding or a killing? Just say the word, and I'll take you from here."
Joyous laughter bubbled from Alera. “I am staying and we are already wed."
The lass nodded. “Bene! I did not relish the notion of killing my brother."
The woman then turned and climbed down the outer wall of the keep as nimbly as if she used a scaffold. About one story up, with all the grace and prowess of a springing feline, she did a twisting back flip and landed on her feet facing them.
Duncan couldn't believe his eyes. Despite being a half head shorter than his wife, this petite beauty held an aura of authority—the kind that came from years of rule. Her dark brown eyes sparkled with mischief from delicately chiseled features framed by raven-black hair that was secured behind her. The sun had kissed her flesh to an exotic bronzed hue. Garbed in a scanty black toga-type gown that fell to mid-thigh, she wore long soft black leather boots that rose upon sleek well-tapered legs to meet the hem. Her belt held four daggers, a sling, two rock pouches, and a long, coiled black leather whip. Sword hilts arose above each shoulder at an angle suggesting the scabbards crisscrossed her back. Her bow and quiver holding additional arrows rested snuggly in place. She looked like a wee Venus—or maybe Minerva was a more apt description, because she looked like a warrior goddess from ages past.
As amazing as her appearance was, what gave Duncan pause was the plaid sash across her chest and anchored at her waist. She couldn't be... Could she?
The lass removed black gauntlets, slipped them over her belt, and took a step toward Alera.
Six clansmen drew swords and closed ranks in front of their lady.
In a flash, the lass drew two daggers and twirled them to fighting grips.
"Come on, laddies! Show me what you've got,” she said in a throaty Roman accent so lyrical it actually enhanced her Gaelic. Her choice of weapons surprised Duncan, considering she faced six long-swords.
"Do not dare hurt them, Chris!” Alera ordered.
"Do not interfere with our fun, sister. I promise not to kill them, but for the insult of daring to draw arms in my presence, I really should mangle and maim them a mite."
Alera placed her fists on her hips and glowered. “You will spoil our reunion. I will be forced to spend the evening and the morrow mending the many injuries you inflict. These men are among my husband's best, but they have never fought a virago and know not your ways."
"What ways?” Duncan asked, unable to hide the offended edge to his tone that his wife would so insult his warriors.
"I mean it, Chris,” Alera reasserted, deliberately ignoring Duncan.
A disappointed sigh slid from the lass. “Duncan, if we are to appease your wife, I cannot fight your men today. I shall forgive the insult if you order them to sheathe their blades. I will not disarm until they stand down."
Duncan tilted his head and studied the lass. He had to
consider the insult she dealt by showing up uninvited and drawing arms against his clansmen.
Alera turned away from her friend to face him. She placed a hand against his chest and raised beseeching eyes. “Please, Duncan, do this for me. Chris is a seasoned virago, raised on warfare. She commands over two-hundred thousand troops, and I have seen her take down a seven-foot-tall Highlander with her bare hands. Your men do not know who they are up against."
His wife couldn't know the interest her words sparked. Now he wanted to see the lass fight. With a sigh he realized his wife's anxiety mattered to him more. “Men, stand down and sheathe your blades."
As they did so, the lass slipped her daggers back in her belt. Alera worked her way through the throng and threw her arms around the smaller woman. “You came!"
"I promised I would,” the lass replied, returning the embrace. Then she moved back to gaze intensely at Alera. “I sense a new soul grows within you."
"Aye, we expect a new wee Ranald come spring,” Alera replied happily.
The woman kissed Alera on each cheek. “May our Blessed Lord shower many graces upon you, your husband and your child as you embark on life's journey together."
Anchoring an arm around their guest, Alera turned. “Duncan, I would like you to meet my sister. Christina is Queen of Arturia, the leader of the Sons and Daughters of Sophia, and Tribuna of the First Alpine Legion of the Holy Roman Empire."
As he stared in the lass's big brown eyes, it hit him in the face. “Good God, you are Mi—"
"Do not say his name in my presence,” the lass ordered irately, holding a hand up, palm outward. “Until the imbecile does his duty, he is dead to me."
"Then you are here for me and not to see your imbecile?” Alera asked, blue eyes dancing with mirth.
Christina released a derisive snort. “You should know I wouldn't come for him. I am here because you have made the sacrifice and proven worthy. Tell me of your father."
"Duncan found him like you said,” Alera admitted. “Daryl arrived last week and took him home."
"Bene." The lass released an ear-piercing whistle. From around the keep came hundreds of mounted warriors and viragos.
