Taming His Rebel Lady

by Jane Godman

  With that, she moved her mouth up to meet Edwin’s lips and pressed her body close into the contours of his. Her lips were soft, yet firm. Powerless to resist, he moved his mouth against hers. Iona ran her tongue over his bottom lip then bit lightly down on it. He gave up any vague idea of resistance. If this was fear, he craved it. Might even be addicted to it. His hands grasped her hips, and he backed her up against the wall. Threading his fingers through her hair, he tugged on its length, using it to tilt her head and deepen the kiss to something urgent. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth. The fear and danger they had faced that day gave a new edge to their passion.

  Iona drew back so that she could whisper it. “Quickly, Edwin. Please.”

  “You are hurt.”

  “I don’t care. I need you now and I need it to be fast.”

  Lifting her skirts, Edwin found her instantly wet and wanting. He plunged two fingers between her legs and inside her. Holding her up with his other arm around her waist as her knees quivered, he drove his fingers relentlessly in and out of her. The sound of him probing her wetness and the scent of her arousal was stoking the furnace of his own frenzy. Iona sensed his need and quickly freed his cock from his breeches. Edwin lifted her so that she could wrap her legs around his waist. A second later he thrust into her, and Iona’s body clenched around the thickness of his erection. Edwin paused, buried to the hilt inside her with his fingers digging into her buttocks, and looked down at her face. Iona’s head was thrown back, her good eye half-closed and her cheeks flushed. Despite her bruises, she had never looked more beautiful. Edwin thrust his hips again, moving deeper. Iona’s mouth opened ready to scream, and he silenced her with a kiss. Edwin pulled partway out and thrust back in hard, causing her shoulders to slam against the wall. Iona cried out and he paused.

  “Did I hurt you?” The words were a grunt as he tried to restrain himself.

  “Yes. Do it again. Harder this time.” She dug her nail into his shoulders, urging him on.

  Edwin needed no further encouragement to pound wildly into her. “Is this what you wanted?”

  “More.” Although she held his gaze with her own, Iona’s open eye was becoming unfocussed, her breathing was shallow and fast.

  Edwin could feel her starting to come undone around him, and he drove her onward with his unrelenting thrusts. As her body began to buck and writhe, Edwin felt a tear slide down her cheek, and, mindful of her injuries, he turned his head to kiss it away. He rocked deep within her a few more times, forcing her along with him until his own release shuddered through him, the muscles in his back and shoulders rock hard and straining before finally relaxing.

  When Edwin had carried Iona to the bed, he lay next to her and drew her into his arms. With one long finger he traced the lingering remnants of her tears.

  “Why? Is this because of Sir Garwen? I swear he will not hurt you again.”

  She shook her head. “’Tis because of you, Edwin. When we are together, when you are inside me, ’tis the sweetest, most powerful thing I have ever felt. So much more than the physical joining of our bodies. I never knew such an emotion could exist.”

  Edwin did not reply. He didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that she felt it too. It was a connection that transcended lust. On the whole, he decided he was sorry. He couldn’t let her get too close. To do so would be to risk her discovering the truth. Sooner or later he would have to let her down. That shouldn’t be a problem. He’d had plenty of experience of letting women down. Although the sexual attraction he felt toward Iona might be more intense than anything he had experienced before, he had to have confidence that would fade eventually. It always did. Why should this time be different?

  Even as he tried to force his thoughts along their familiar dispassionate track, the warm, sweet weight of Iona’s body mocked his efforts. God help him. This time was different. He was going to have to find a way of dealing with that.

  “How long have you known that Jack is alive?” Iona faced her brother at the highest point on the castle battlements. Here they could be completely alone with no risk of being overheard. The wind whipped her hair across her face, and she pushed it away with a hand that shook slightly.

  Fraser leaned his forearms on the solid wall of the medieval keep. His expression was unreadable as he surveyed the loch and the glen beyond. “Not long,” he said at last. “I did’nae know when we last spoke of him at Cameron House. I would’nae dissemble so wi’ ye, Iona. Believe me, I do know how much ye loved him.”

  “How did you find out? Was it through your own dealings with the Falcon?” When he didn’t speak, she gripped his forearm and shook it impatiently. “Don’t try to protect me from this, Fraser. I’m no fool. The Falcon rides with three other men. Are you one of them?”

  “Aye.” He raised his chin proudly. “Ah, lass. I’ve tried to stay out of the fight, but I can’nae. When I see what the English are doing to our people, to our way of life, I can’nae sit idly by. So I nod and smile and play the part of Cumberland’s lapdog by day. By night I can win back a wee snippet of my self-respect by riding out with the Falcon and putting some of the English atrocities to rights.”

  “Does Martha know you do this?”

  “She guessed. You know Martha, she has an uncanny knack of reading me. She does’nae like it but she understands.”

  Iona thought of her own nighttime raids. How could she criticise her brother for doing exactly what she herself had felt compelled to do? She couldn’t even ask him to promise he would be careful. They were too alike. He would throw himself into danger with the same alacrity she would. “And Jack? What of him?”

  “He was badly injured on the field at Culloden right enough. Although Cumberland ordered his men to murder all the wounded Jacobites, some were rescued from the fray by the Falcon. Jack was one of the lucky ones. He was taken to France and cared for there, but his memory was gone. It was several months before it returned and even longer before he could return and assist the Falcon with his efforts here against the English. Once I threw my lot in with the Falcon, Jack was forced to tell me the truth. We were to be working closely together. I’d have guessed it soon enough.”

  “Could he not have told us before?”

  Fraser shook his head. “His care was for the family name. Think how ’twould look if word got out that Lord St. Anton was not dead, but was one of the Falcon’s accomplices. And there is Rosie to think of. She had wed Sir Clive by the time Jack’s memory returned. ’Twas best all round for Jack to remain dead.”

  “I cannot believe Rosie loves Sir Clive Sheridan. Jack was her life. She would want to know he did not die that day.”

  “’Tis not our secret to share, Iona,” Fraser warned. “Ye’ll keep this quiet?”

  “Of course I will…if that is Jack’s wish.”

  “And my part, can ye keep that? Will it not be hard for you to keep such a secret from your husband?”

  Iona felt a blush warm her cheeks at his probing gaze. She turned to look out across the glen. “No, I’ll not find that a hardship.”

  “Is all well there? I’d not usually seek to pry into a marriage but these are not normal days.” Fraser persisted in watching her profile. Curse him. He knew her too well.

  “And there is nothing of normality about our marriage. How can there be when our worlds are so far apart?” Iona sighed. And when I know nothing of him except how he makes me feel. Oh, and the fact that since I met him, I have been unable to think of anything but him. She decided against giving voice to her thoughts.

  “It could have been worse. Cumberland’s whimsy might have led him to give your home to Sir Garwen or his like.”

  She shuddered. That aspect of the situation had not occurred to her. Throughout everything, Edwin had behaved with chivalry toward her. “English or not, Edwin is an honourable man.” She said it with absolute certainty. If nothing else, the ring on her finger was proof of that.

  “Ye may be right. While I din’nae understand his motives in the m
atter of our bargain, however, I can’nae say for sure that I trust him.”

  They stood together a while, Fraser with his arm about her shoulders, Iona leaning her cheek against his chest, as they looked out across the loch and beyond to the Great Glen. Iona and Edwin were to depart the next morning, and she was glad of these precious moments with her brother.

  “What next for our highland hame, Fraser?”

  “Culloden was to have been the culmination of the storm, but instead it unleashed a new fury upon us. So great was our defeat, it allowed the English to kick us further into the mire. The harrying of the glens—the mass looting, burning, raping and killing—seems to be coming to an end, thank God. It appears there has been some backlash in England. ’Tis said that Cumberland’s own brother, the Prince of Wales, has questioned his policies toward the Scots. Even so, there have been one hundred and twenty Jacobites executed with another thousand transported to the colonies. Rebel chiefs who eluded capture have had their estates confiscated. Cumberland’s efforts to abolish the clans cannot be undone.”

  Iona swallowed the hard lump his words brought to her throat. “Are you admitting defeat?”

  “They have left us little to fight for. The ancient tradition of the highlands is gone, Iona. We’ll not see it back. We must go on, but what we strive for now is very different.”

  “Tell me.” She lifted her face to his.

  “’Tis said that Cumberland’s sights are back on the Continent. He will soon return to Flanders and seek further military glory there. Even if his harrying orders are reversed, he leaves behind him a legacy of violence. Men like Sir Garwen will not lightly give up their new games. There will still be a role here for the Falcon in the coming months. It will not involve moving a whole village onto a ship—” he laughed at a memory, “—but the highlands will need a protector for a wee while yet. The biggest task will be to adapt to the changes from within.”

  Iona’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “I din’nae understand.”

  “Those highlanders who are left don’t want to fight, Iona. Either because they were loyal to the king all along, or because they’ve not the heart for it. They want to keep their lands and their homes. And who can blame them for that? Let’s not forget that in the Scottish lowlands there was great rejoicing over Culloden. Cumberland received more acclaim this side of the border than ever he did in England.”

  “Lowland bastards.”

  “Nay, they are Scots, Iona, as are we. Do we even know who our enemy is any longer? What I’m trying to say is that perhaps ’tis time for what is left of these clans to find peace. To heal our wounds, to tend our cattle, to see to our land.”

  She slid her arms around his waist. “To care for our families.”

  “Aye. That too. We’ve both of us a new family, Iona.”

  The smile in Edwin’s dark eyes when they rested on her came into Iona’s mind. A new family? Fraser might be right. It might be time to adjust to a new way of life. As much as it pained her to accept it, perhaps the time to stop fighting had come.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I do wish you’d stop fighting me, Iona.” Edwin’s voice held a note of complaint, but his eyes were full of laughter. It was this fact, more than his high-handedness, that roused her to temper.

  “I might do that…if it was’nae for the fact that you are wrong!” Iona blazed back at him. Determinedly, she evaded his reach, knowing from experience that, if he managed to catch hold of her, she was lost. It was very difficult to sustain an argument with someone who had the ability to melt her whole body with just a touch of one fingertip.

  They had been back at Cameron House for a week, and Edwin’s first task on their arrival had been to have his belongings moved into the master bedchamber. Iona, whilst secretly delighted at this change in their marital relationship, had been unable to resist grumbling that his clothing took up too much room, leaving her with insufficient space for her gowns. She had been shocked when Edwin had responded by hauling all her dresses from the wardrobe and throwing them onto the floor.

  “If you do not have room for them all, choose which you will keep and burn the rest. Because—” he had come to stand very close to her, so that the angry rise and fall of her breasts just brushed his chest, “—I am here to stay, my lady.” When she protested, he picked up a dress—one of her favourites—and carried it to the fire, holding the wide, embroidered skirts over the flames. “Shall we start with this one?”

  Iona had regarded him stubbornly for a second or two. The dress had made a downward journey, coming perilously closer to the flames. She had made a lunge for the gown and ended up in Edwin’s arms as a consequence.

  “Perhaps you might reconsider your stance, Iona?” His lips on her ear had driven all rational thought from her mind. “With a little reorganisation, I’m sure we can contrive to occupy this room in harmony together. Don’t you agree?”

  She had melted against him. Damn the man! The gown had been rescued, a compromise struck. And making love on the floor, on top of the pile of rich velvets and slippery silks had been a very satisfactory conclusion to the incident. That occasion had been one of many since their return in which it was becoming increasingly clear to Iona that her husband was a force to be reckoned with. Accustomed to the docility of Sir Donald, who had acceded to her every whim, she was not prepared to accept this change in her circumstances without resistance. It had occurred to her once or twice that Edwin was deliberately setting the boundaries of their relationship. Yet, as always, she felt there was an invisible barrier between them. It was there even when he held her in his arms and seared her body inside and out with his hands and his tongue.

  “Your definition of ‘wrong’ is somewhat flawed, my love,” he said. “It is not simply a useful word you can hurl at me whenever I disagree with you.”

  Edwin brushed a lock of unruly dark hair that flopped onto his forehead away with one hand, and as he did, the fact that he looked tired penetrated Iona’s anger. Hard on the heels of that thought, came the realisation that, since their return from Lachlan, he had hardly slept. Some of that could, she knew, be attributed to her. A reminiscent flush suffused her whole body. But there was more to it than that. She had fallen asleep each night in Edwin’s arms, her body warmed and satiated from loving him. No matter the lateness of the hour, however, if she wakened and opened her eyes, she would find him tense and alert. On a few occasions, she had awoken and—without pausing to examine how quickly she had come to depend upon the peace of mind his comforting presence provided—been concerned to find herself alone in the vast bed.

  “Oh, you are there.” The first time it had happened, she had made out his silhouette in the meagre light thrown out by the dying fire. He had been seated in a chair drawn close to the bed, and she had not been able to see his face. “Come back to bed and hold me.”

  Without a word in response, he had complied. It occurred to Iona that on each of these occasions, whether he was lying next to her or seated in that chair drawn close beside the bed, Edwin had been watching over her as she slept. The thought chased her current anger away. She could barely remember what had caused her annoyance in the first place. Something to do with him countermanding her orders over the care of the horses. The reason was trivial. Edwin had the most remarkable ability to fan the flames of her irritation so they ignited her temper. The man could rouse her to passion with a mere look…in more ways than one. Yet he remained an enigma to her.

  She came forward to where Edwin was seated at what had quickly become “his” desk in the library. A letter had been delivered that morning from Fort William, and it lay, still unopened, under his hand. “Is aught wrong?”

  He looked sharply up at her. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because ye can’nae close your eyes long enough to catch a wink of sleep at nights. And—” she leaned over, tracing her fingertip under his lower lids, “—ye’ve shadows here like a prize fighter’s bruises.”

  He caught her hand, pressing a sw
ift kiss into her palm. “Bless you for your concern, fond, bonnie wifie.” His tone was light. “I’m not yet used to the strange bed, that’s all.”

  It was on the tip of Iona’s tongue to retort that accounts from London implied that he was well used to strange beds. She swallowed the acid comment. It would not do to let him know she had enquired so closely into his lifestyle. He might think she cared. She nodded instead at the letter. “What is that?”

  “It is from Sir Garwen. I suppose I should open it and discover what the black-hearted scoundrel is about.” He picked up a letter opener and sliced through the seal on the document. After a quick perusal of its contents, he looked up at Iona. “It is an invitation. He requests the pleasure of our company at a garrison ball to be held a week from today at Fort William.”

  “Must we go?” A shudder of revulsion ran through Iona at the thought of encountering Sir Garwen again.

  “We are not obliged to do so. But I believe in keeping my enemy in plain view. I want to know what Sir Garwen is up to. I sense a challenge in this invitation. After what you told me of his humiliation at the hands of the Falcon, I expected him to lie low and lick his wounds. This, on the contrary, would seem to be a declaration of sorts.” He ran a finger lightly over the flowing script of the invitation. His next words were spoken in a low voice, almost to himself. “And the date of this ball is significant. It is one I would rather forget. I fear Sir Garwen knows that and is taunting me with his knowledge. I must discover what he knows.”