* * *
Geneva had never been more certain of anything in her life, especially now that he’d done the hard part with his fingers. She’d already crested twice but she still needed something more—him, filling her. Nothing else would take away the empty ache inside her.
His lips covered hers and he pressed slowly inside. A small whimper escaped her as he slid the widest part of him into her and another bit of tissue gave way. Still, she pushed back with her pelvis, drawing him deep and refusing to let him falter. When he was fully seated, she twined her legs around his.
“Are you all right?” His deep, normally steady voice trembled.
“Better than I’ve ever been.” This was what her body had been made for. Much of her life, she’d felt mannish and ungainly because she was tall, sturdy and interested in science. With Magnus, she was pure woman, and that sensation was almost as blissful as the feel of his body lodged so deeply inside hers it seemed he’d filled her very soul.
Then Magnus began to move, and bliss didn’t begin to express the tidal wave of sensation. All she could do was hold him, lift her hips to meet his and lose herself in the rhythm.
Her third climax took her by surprise, crashing into her with the force of an avalanche, to the point where she nearly swooned—or perhaps she did, for a second or two. Magnus groaned and thrust deeply, holding himself at her core while his body shuddered. Several long moments later, he rolled to the side, pulling her with him, limp and sated, to drape across his broad chest.
“That,” he rumbled a bit later, while she was still dazed and blinking, “was worth waiting four years for.”
“Four years? You’ve been celibate since your wife died?” It touched something in her heart that she was the one with whom he’d broken his sexual fast.
“Longer—since the day she confirmed she was increasing. Isobel wanted no more to do with me after that.” He laced his fingers through hers where they rested on his ribcage. “Unless you count my own hand as a partner, then yes—it’s been years.”
“About the same for me, actually.” She didn’t say out loud that she’d learned to pleasure herself. “Since medical school.”
Magnus gave a snort. “Don’t try to cozen me, lass. I know a maidenhead when I breach one. You’ve never been down this road before.”
“Not all the way down the road—but around the first bend or two.” This was something she’d never even told her sister. “There was a boy in school. We were engaged for our last year, and we…experimented a little, learning how to give one another relief with our fingers and mouths. I thought we’d marry, set up practice together, and everything would be perfect. Until the day he mentioned that I’d make a wonderful assistant and be a great asset to his medical practice. Because of course, a mere woman couldn’t be a real physician.”
“The man was a fool.” Magnus kissed the top of her head. “You’re a brilliant doctor. You don’t need to have ballocks to treat the sick.”
“Ah, what a nice way to put it.” Even lying sweaty and naked together, Magnus could make her laugh. “I’ve always believed that, at any rate. Slowly, I’ve built up a practice of patients who trust me—when I’m not haring off on missions for my father.”
“Ah, the mysterious Sir Fergus MacKay. Don’t you think, lass, it’s about time you tell me who he is and what all the secrecy is about? You know any confidence is safe with me.”
“I do. It’s difficult, because in this case, the secrets aren’t my own.” If anyone deserved to know about the Order, it was Magnus. She drew in a deep breath. “You know how sometimes there’s more truth to old tales than modern scholars believe? Like Viking berserkers, perhaps. You know about bit about those, don’t you?”
“Aye. That’s the origin of the Findlay line, as you guessed. Even the name means ‘fair warrior,’ if you go back far enough.”
“While Torkholm is named for Thor, a god of war.”
“Aye.”
She squeezed his hand. “Think about the name MacKay. What does that bring to mind?”
“MacKay. Son of Kay. Kay…” He thought for a moment. “Good lord, Sir Kay. Arthur’s seneschal from the Knights of the Round Table.”
“Aye.” She smiled into his chest. “You remember, I mentioned my friend Amy Lake, the photographer? What would her last name be in French?”
“Lac.” He sat up and gazed at her, his eyes wide, incredulous. “Du Lac. Lancelot.”
She sat, pulling the sheet with her over her chest. “You’re quick. Tom’s name is Devere—for Bedivere.”
“You mean the Round Table—all the stories were true?”
Geneva nodded. “Not all the tales, but the gist of some of them, anyway. The Order still exists, working in secret for the Crown. The Duke of Trowbridge, Amy’s father-in-law, is the leader. Almost all the members are descendants of the original Knights.”
“Most or all of the descendants have innate magick, to some degree or another, don’t you?” His face was lit with curiosity and awe.
Again, she nodded. “Some of us more than others. Only the strongest, and only men, become Knights.”
Magnus beamed. “Amazing. What brought you to me?”
“Alice. She knew my father when they were young. When she found you, she sensed your magick and teletexted him for help. You know the story from there.”
“That explains a great deal. The airship, the guns, why your brother and his friend are such well-trained fighters despite their youth.” He tapped her on the nose. “Your Order wants to know about the kraken, don’t they? That’s why the others came.”
“Of course. Keeping an eye on strange happenings in the kingdom is part of their mandate.” She wrinkled her nose. “They wanted to know about you, too, I must admit. Unknown magicks bother the people in charge. Connor and Tom were probably also tasked with making sure you weren’t a threat.”
“I’m not sure that’s true, now that I’ve had my way with one of their own.” His lopsided grin tugged at her heartstrings. “At least they might not think so.”
“I’d say it was as much the other way around as anything.” She chuckled. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m tired of talking and wouldn’t mind having my way with you again.”
“You’re not too sore, lass?”
Of course she had twinges, but she didn’t care. She suspected it was too late to save her heart from breaking over Magnus, but she wasn’t about to waste whatever time they did have. She pulled him down to the mattress. “I’m fine, but if you’re too sore, I promise I’ll be gentle.”
Chapter Seven
“Genny, wake up.”
Geneva groaned when her sister bounced on her bed the following morning. She’d lied to Magnus about not being sore. Right now it felt like she’d been ripped in half. She still wouldn’t change a thing about last night. It had been the most magickal experience of her life—nothing like her frustrated fumbling with…oh yes, Johnny Austen. Damn, she could barely remember the boy’s name. Magnus, she would never forget.
“Genny, come on.” Melody tweaked a strand of her hair. “We’re supposed to be at a funeral, remember?”
“Of course.” She’d forgotten to set her alarm clock when she came back to her bedroom last night. Missing the funeral for the man whose body she’d tended would be a horrible insult to his family and friends, not to mention a potential embarrassment for Magnus. She sat up and batted away her sister’s hand. “Go away. I need a bath.”
“It will have to be a quick one. I can’t believe you overslept. You never oversleep.” Melody stood back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you ill?”
“No, just cross.” Geneva glowered at the clock. She had perhaps a half hour. There went her hopes for a long hot soak to ease her aches. “Now go away and let me dress.”
Eventually Melody did, and Geneva hurried through a bath, glad she’d taken the time to wash before sneaking back into her bed. To be more specific, Magnus had sponged her clean in the lavatory of the infirmary. The
re had been remarkably little blood, but the poor man had seemed horrified by even that. Thinking of him heated her skin and accelerated her heart rate. It was going to be very difficult to face him today and maintain the illusion that nothing had changed between them.
Geneva only had two skirts and two shirtwaists with her, so choosing her wardrobe didn’t take any time. Each morning, she put on whatever she hadn’t worn the day before. At least now, Flora was making sure her alternate clothing was clean and pressed. As if Geneva had conjured the maid’s name by thinking of her, Flora tapped on the door, in time to help Geneva with her hair and her tidy brown bonnet.
“I found a bit of black netting.” Flora tacked a small piece to Geneva’s bonnet, creating a demi-veil before basting a black armband over her jacket. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find a black gown.”
“This is perfect, thank you.” Since Geneva hadn’t known the deceased crofter, these tokens of mourning would show sufficient respect when coupled with her staid tweed suit. “Will you be attending the funeral, Flora?”
“Aye.” She bit her lip and looked at the floor. “Dugall’s da came up to the castle and asked me to walk with him. What am I going to say? Should I tell him about the bairn?”
“What’s he like?” Geneva shepherded the maid out the door and walked with her to the lift, in blatant disregard for the rules associated with servants. “Will he be glad to know he’s to have a grandchild, or will he be angry that you and Dugall anticipated your vows?”
Flora shrugged. “I don’t know. Dugall meant the world to his da. It’s been only the two of them for a long time.”
“If you’re going with Alice to Mull when we leave, I see no harm in telling him.” Unless Magnus already had, which she suspected. “Would you like me to be with you?”
“Aye, miss. Thank you.”
The other guests waited in a sitting room off the hall, Rannulf, as always, near to Alice’s side. Since the chapel was on the castle grounds, they were all to walk the short distance, no chore on such a bright summer day. Connor was handsome in his MacKay kilt, and Tom dapper in a gray chalk-striped suit, while Wink and Melody both wore subdued gowns and black-veiled bonnets. Even the airship crewmen were spit-shined and polished, with the requisite black armbands. Geneva looked at them with pride. The Order was well represented, although no one but Magnus knew who they were.
“’Tis time.” Magnus poked his head in the door, Quentin hovering close at his side. He extended his arm. “Doctor?”
Magnus looked stunning in his formal Findlay kilt, with Prince Charlie jacket, fly plaid, and fur sporran. His gillie brogues were polished to an ebony shine and his knee-high hose molded around his muscular calves. Geneva ignored the tiny thrill that coursed over her skin as she took his arm, feeling like a plain brown hen in comparison. They left via a side gate, followed by the castle servants in clusters. As soon as they stepped out of the castle, the skirling of the pipes floated mournfully on the breeze. At the gate, a weary-looking man waited, his eyes brightening when he laid eyes on Flora, who kept close to Geneva’s heels.
As soon as they were out of the gate, the man approached, holding out his arm. “Daughter?” he asked softly.
Magnus and Geneva paused, watching as Flora blinked. “Sir?”
“Aye, you heard me.” His voice was gruff, but his blue eyes were misty as he smiled. “Daughter. To my mind, you and Dugall were handfasted. That’s as good as a marriage in the Highlands. You’ll come live with me, you and the bairn. No need to work your fingers to the bone in the castle when you ought to be taking care of my grandson.”
Flora looked to Geneva and Magnus, and Geneva gave her a slight nudge. “Go to him.” Her own eyes were suspiciously damp.
“Thank you, Da.” Flora sniffled and took the older man’s arm. “What if ’tis a granddaughter?”
“I’ll be a lucky old man.” He patted her hand, turned to Magnus and tipped his cap. “My thanks, laird, for reminding me of the handfasting.”
Magnus inclined his head. “Dugall was a good man, and he’ll be missed. The vicar won’t give you any trouble, and I’ll stand witness to their vows, if you need me to.” With that, their little party continued toward the chapel. He leaned over to whisper in Geneva’s ear. “I hope that’s sorted out to your satisfaction. Of course, now I suppose I’ll need to find you a new maid.”
“You’re a good man, Magnus Findlay. I promise, I won’t tell any of your people how kind you are.” It was all she could do not to kiss him, right then and there. Flora hadn’t said a word about a handfasting, which wasn’t technically legal, but still accepted by most here in the Highlands. If the islanders believed and supported it, however, no one would give Flora’s child a bit of grief about possible illegitimacy, and Magnus had made that happen.
At the chapel, Geneva got to see far more of the island population than she had at any time before. Most greeted her warmly. Word of her treatment of the injured had obviously spread. The only ones who snubbed her were a few women, gathered closely around Edda, Catriona and Quentin, who sat in the front pew opposite Magnus’s. The vicar was a typical dour Highlander, the ceremony the traditional Church of Scotland ritual. Geneva shared a hymnal with Magnus, and tried not to tremble when her fingers brushed his, feeling his warmth even through her thin kid gloves.
When the service ended, she was introduced to the vicar and his wife. The vicar was another distant cousin of Magnus’s. His wife, a MacDonald of Skye, sniffed in disapproval when she heard that Geneva, Wink and Melody all had professions, but graciously welcomed Alice, immediately inquiring after her husband’s kin, attempting to determine if they were related.
Geneva shared a private grin with her sister and friend, and fell into step behind the two older women as they made their way back to the castle. The vicar’s wife would preside over tea, while the men would go with the funeral procession to the cemetery, located on the far end of the island from the village. After the burial, the men were to join the women for the funeral breakfast. There was plenty of grumbling about there having been far too many of these of late, renewing Geneva’s determination to find the reason behind the attacks.
Before she could sit down in the ladies’ parlor and take her tea, the housekeeper pulled her aside. “Doctor, you must come quickly.”
Geneva followed Mrs. Campbell out into the hall. “What is it?”
An unfamiliar woman with a plaid shawl thrown over her head waited by the servant’s stair. “My sister is in labor, and things aren’t going right.”
Geneva drew in a breath. “Let me get my bag.”
“There’s no time.” The woman grabbed her hand and tugged. “I’m afraid she’ll die.”
Geneva looked to Mrs. Campbell. She had to know who the woman was and where the sister lived. “Send Alice with my bag, right away, please.” With that, she turned to follow the woman at a run.
Geneva had longer legs, so swhe caught up to the other woman easily enough and was able to keep pace at a fast walk to the other woman’s trot. They moved too quickly over the hillsides for Geneva to ask any questions. Corsets and rapid movement didn’t leave enough oxygen for conversation. As they moved farther from the castle, she began to wonder if it might have been a better idea to bring a cart. Apparently the woman didn’t live down in the village, but somewhere on the rocky southern shore. The path narrowed, winding around a bluff, with a steep drop-off to one side, where the surf broke and foamed on the rocks below. Geneva hoped to hell no one came around one of these bends in a cart—she didn’t want to have to jump.
As they rounded another bend, the woman—still unnamed—slowed and turned to Geneva. When Geneva paused to catch her breath, the woman gave a malicious grin and stepped to the side. “Good riddance.”
Geneva’s reflexes were keen, and she had time to spin, time to see the man who had waited in a natural alcove on the bluff. A burled wooden staff hurtled toward her head, clutched in thick, meaty hands. He smelled of whisky and fish.
; She dodged, but there was nowhere to go. Even though she’d been trained to fight alongside her brother, she was hampered by her clothing, and unable to prevent the second blow from landing. The best she could manage was to turn, and take the greater portion of the force on her shoulder instead of her skull.
Then she fell, scrabbling with one good arm and her feet, while blackness seeped into her field of vision. She was sure she screamed, but the darkness closed in, rendering her unconscious before she struck the ground.
* * *
“Where the hell is Genny?” Connor frowned at the empty space between Magnus and him at the funeral breakfast.
“I don’t know.” The question had been bothering Magnus, too, since they’d returned from the cemetery. He occupied his normal chair as host, but the widow and her kin filled the right half of the head table, leaving Magnus’s guests more cramped than usual on the left. Still, he’d left instructions for Geneva to be seated beside him, with her brother on her other side.
After the previous night, Magnus couldn’t even lie to himself about his reasons. He simply didn’t want any other unattached males anywhere near Geneva. Wait. “Genny?”
Connor shrugged. “A pet name. She quit using it at University because she thought it made her seem less serious.” He looked to the other female guests. “Do any of you know where she went?”
Magnus pondered the nickname, deciding he liked it. He might use it the next time they were alone. It was soft and sweet, suiting the private woman, if not the level-headed physician. Meanwhile, Connor ascertained that the only one who’d seen Geneva leave the ladies’ parlor was Alice, who with Rannulf had moved to one of the side tables, to make more room for the bereaved family.
“I saw her step aside with your housekeeper. When she didn’t return, I asked Mrs. Campbell if there was a medical emergency, but she assured me all was fine. She said Geneva had taken a walk in the garden to speak to someone.”
“She isn’t in her room,” Melody added. “I went up to check on her—she was acting a bit odd this morning, and I wanted to make sure she wasn’t ill.”
Editor's Choice Volume I - Slow summer Kisses, Kilts & kraken, Negotiating point Page 9
