Trying to keep her attention off Alasdair and any female who might be touching him or gazing at him with adoration, she focused on the male clan members who were setting a blaze to a giant cartwheel of straw. Once it was well afire, they rolled it down the hill toward the loch below. When it reached the bottom, still burning, a cheer went up. “A fruitful harvest!”
Did their superstitions know no bounds?
A short time later, a few of the older clan women started rounding up the tired and yawning children.
“’Tis time for stories and bed,” Great Aunt Matilda said.
The children whined and moaned.
“’Haps we will even find some comfits inside.”
The promise of sweets hastened their steps.
“I’ll come with you,” Gwyneth told Matilda, glad for the excuse to avoid watching Alasdair court any more ladies. She helped herd Rory and the other children toward the barmkin and castle.
“You cannot be going in now,” Alasdair said behind her.
Surprised, she stopped and turned.
“You’re not one of the children. And you’re far too lovely to not enjoy a night like this.”
She fought down her unreasonable irritation at him for the attention he’d shown the young lady. “I’ve enjoyed it, but I’m tired.”
“I was hoping for another dance or two, if it would please you.” That wicked gleam in his eye was too charming for her comfort. ’Twas time for her to face reality—nothing could ever exist between them. Nothing but the secret trysts…all in the past.
“As I said, I’m tired, but there is something I wish to speak to you about.”
“Very well.” He watched her with curiosity.
“I’ll return after I make sure Rory is safely inside with the other children.”
He bowed. “I’ll be waiting.”
She expected to find him dancing with another lass when she returned, but he stood alone just outside the barmkin gates.
“I’m glad you came back,” Alasdair murmured.
Glancing around, she noticed that fewer people were present around the bonfires. “Where is everyone?”
“The women are most likely running naked through the heather.” He grinned. “Will you be joining them?”
Naked? Through the heather? “Certainly not!”
He laughed. “Jumping the balefire, then? A wee bit more dangerous, but arguably more effective.”
“Oh, gracious! No.” She stalked toward the barmkin.
He followed. “Are you not wanting to strengthen your fertility?”
No, indeed, she did not want strengthened fertility. Trying to ignore his teasing, she focused on the reason she’d wanted to talk to him. But now that it was time to ask for the letter of recommendation, she hesitated to speak the words that would take her away from him forever.
“’Haps I can do it for you, then,” he said.
“What—”
He smiled like a devil bent on sensual mayhem. No, she didn’t want to know what he’d meant. She turned to go.
He grasped her hand, stopping her. She didn’t even know where she’d been fleeing to. The barmkin was almost empty, though she did see a couple kissing in the shadows.
Before she could determine who they were, Alasdair tipped her face toward him. “I’m hoping you won’t leave me out here alone, Gwyneth. ’Tis too early to go to sleep.” With his fingers, he traced her cheek and chin. Tingles spread in the wake of his touch. “Do you ken, tonight is when fairies roam the earth, looking for mortals to pull mischief on.”
She shook her head, suppressing a grin.
“Don’t tell me you don’t believe in fairies, for I won’t be hearing it.”
“Are you never serious?”
“Aye, ’tis serious I am about wanting to kiss you,” he said in a deep, low tone.
Heavens! Could she not find the strength within herself to resist him? She put her hands before her, to ward him off, but he pressed firmly against her with his hard chest. Her fingers yearned to stroke over him and beneath his clothing, to absorb the feel of his muscles. But she couldn’t.
“What of Paula?” she blurted.
“Who?”
“The young lady you spent so much time dancing with.” And laughing with. Oh, I am daft. I should not have said anything.
He lifted one brow and stared at her for a long, tense moment. “I don’t want to kiss her.”
Did he mean it? She concentrated on his ornate falcon brooch near his shoulder, the blue and red jewels sparkling in the dim light.
“Gwyneth, ’tis glad I am that you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous!” How mortifying he saw through her words.
“Och, nay. You’re not.” He grinned and held her with one hand around hers, his grip gentle, his thumb rubbing her palm.
She could’ve easily pulled away, but his warmth, the way her whole body and mind focused on the spot where his skin stroked hers, gave her pause.
“Will you not gift me with another kiss in the garden?” He advanced, and she retreated.
She did crave the profane decadence of his mouth upon hers. Her lips burned in anticipation. Her breasts tingled, craving his attention, before the hot excitement slid down through her body.
When her back came up against the garden gate, he unlatched it. She stumbled backward through. With quick reflexes, he caught her against his body, so hard and solid. A buzz of spellbinding need swept through her.
A groaning sound came from the garden. “What is—”
“Shh,” Alasdair breathed against her ear, and she shivered. After their entrance, he eased the gate closed and urged her behind an evergreen shrub. The balefire lit up the sky and reflected off the gray stone castle wall to cast a soft glow down into the flower garden.
The sounds came again, a soft male groan. Was someone hurt? And then an answering giggle. Oh, dear lord, two people were…making love in the garden. Gwyneth’s face grew hot as the fire crackling outside.
“We must go,” she whispered.
“Nay. They will leave soon enough.”
His hand rested heavy on her waist, his fingers stroking through her corset. Her nipples peaked and ached for his touch, for his wet mouth, licking, sucking.
She tried to draw in fresh air to clear her mind, to fight the effects of the spell he cast over her, but instead inhaled the smoke that had seeped into his clothing along with his clean male scent.
His hot breath fanned her hair. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth. She gasped but he placed his thumb over her lips. The thrill of him coursed through her, possessed her. She flicked out her tongue against his thumb, then surprised herself by sucking it into her mouth. She didn’t know why she yearned to do that, but she wanted some part of him within her. Wanted to taste him.
Alasdair hissed against her ear, moaned her name. Shocking herself, she wondered what that other, very hard part of his body would feel like against her lips.
Though she could scarce think, she knew the other couple nearby in the garden continued with their mating, oblivious that anyone was near. Their sounds of pleasure escalated. The woman cried out. Was that how Gwyneth sounded when Alasdair made love to her? She could only remember experiencing him in a most earthly, carnal way that sent her flying toward the heavens.
As the man in the garden groaned with his release, Alasdair pressed his lips against Gwyneth’s throat and trailed his tongue downward to her collarbone. The way she had taken to sucking his thumb put lascivious images in his head. Moving his sporran aside, he pressed his erection firmly against her stomach.
He craved the woman in his arms more than he craved spring in the midst of winter. And though it made him a traitorous Scot, he yearned to cast his gaze upon her more than the bonny hills surrounding him. He wanted to savor her and drink her slowly like the finest whisky.
Her skin smelled of smoke and woman. Her hands, fisted on his doublet and tugging him closer, spoke of unfulfilled hunger. He knew of hunger, aye, in
deed. The kind that made his soul yearn and set his body afire.
The other couple in the garden finished their tryst and left, but he was happy to see Gwyneth hadn’t noticed. He enjoyed being the sole focus of her attention. And he reveled in her earlier jealousy.
She melted and swayed against him with sighs, inciting his arousal to yet a higher level. Taking his thumb away from her mouth, he kissed her, full and deep, fed her erotic kisses, and she ate. She flicked her tongue against his. Her whimpering little gasps and moans made the aching pleasure in his erection intensify, and he wanted naught more than to slide into her tight, wet heat.
Loving the way she held him close, he yanked up her skirts and petticoats. With his fingers, he relished the softness of her thighs, the curve of her hip. Her silky skin stole the last of his rationality.
Discovering the stone bench nearby, he sat and tugged her to him, straddling his lap, facing him. He raked her skirts up to her lap.
“Oh, Alasdair, I cannot,” she whispered in a desperate tone.
“You must only do what you wish.” Please let me make love to you right here. “I’m dying to have you, a shùgh mo chrìdhe.”
He spread his hand on her thigh, above her stocking, and stroked it upward. He rubbed his thumb across her mound, her soft curls and lower, gently through her moisture and swollen female lips that made him ache. She gasped and jerked against him.
With his thumb he massaged her wet, swollen nub. She fell to his shoulder and moaned incoherent words. Aye, she was loving that. But no more than he did. He was ready to ignite like gunpowder.
She strained toward him, closer to his shaft. He yearned to bury himself forcefully deep inside her, but he wanted her to be the one to initiate the action, so she could not deny how much she wanted him.
She tugged at his kilt beneath her, then lifted herself off his lap, shoved his kilt up and captured his hard shaft in her cool hand.
“Oh, saints, Gwyneth!” He barely curbed the primal urge to thrust. “Take me inside you,” he whispered against her lips.
By slow degrees, she lowered herself onto him. Trembling with restraint, he forced himself to remain still as he slipped deeper into her hot, drenched passage. Had he made that growling animal noise? She took his humanity and control. He wanted to ravish her like a rutting beast takes its mate, with wild immoderacy.
She covered his face with kisses. Emotion ached in his chest, and suddenly with bright clarity, he knew what it was.
Mo dia, I love her.
He froze for a moment, savoring the realization. How had that happened? He knew not. The only thing certain now was he would never let her go. Never.
He drew her upward, then lowered her again. Her tight body clenched and caressed him.
Watching her eyes, drifted closed in bliss, he taught her the rhythm. She placed her feet on the ground and rode him with eagerness and abandon as if she could not stop. Sweet heaven, she desired him.
Marry me, Gwyneth. Nay, he could not say the words again. Not now. Her mouth would tell him no, even as her body said yes.
When she cried out in release, she squeezed him so tightly he near lost his mind. He took her mouth with a deep kiss.
His patience and control at an end, he picked her up easily. Still buried inside her, he wrapped her legs around his waist and leaned one arm against the high rock wall. His other hand beneath her hips, he held her steady and thrust up into her, slow and gently at first, but with increasing need and strength, as his body demanded. Waves of heat and pleasure coursed through him.
He breathed against her mouth, watched her eyes half-closed with female bliss. She gasped and whimpered her encouragement. When she flicked her tongue against his lips, he lost himself. His release crashed down upon him with the force of a boulder. But instead of unbearable pain, unimaginable rapture sang along his nerve endings. It went on and on, spun out and ricocheted in echoes.
For a moment, he feared they might both sink to the ground. Still holding her, he stumbled backward and dropped to the bench. “Dear God, Gwyneth, you have taken away my strength.”
She held his face between her palms and, in the dimness, gazed into his eyes with a most solemn expression. “And you have taken away my control.”
He smiled.
“Give it back,” she whispered.
“Nay. Never.”
“Then I shall keep your strength.”
“Delilah.”
Loving the affectionate grin that spread over her face, he kissed her once again, slow and deep and sweet.
Shouts, running footsteps and a commotion erupted outside the garden gate.
“What the devil is going on?” Alasdair helped her stand, and their clothing fell back into place. Taking her hand, he led her to the small garden gate and opened it.
All manner of clan members ran through the main barmkin gate.
“Alasdair!” Fergus shouted and strode toward him. “Some MacIrwins slipped in, but we don’t ken to what purpose.”
“Where were the guards?” he asked.
“I’m thinking there were too many people here for the festival, strangers and people in costume.”
“We caught this one, trying to escape!” Angus and Busby dragged a struggling captive through the gates and into the barmkin. They threw a hood back to reveal a woman.
“They took Rory!” Matilda shouted from the castle portal. “’Twas one of the mummers in a mask.”
Chapter Thirteen
Someone took Rory? Cold steel scraped down Alasdair’s spine.
Gwyneth looked like a lost specter. In a trice, she dashed out the barmkin gate.
“God’s wounds. Gwyneth!” By the time he reached the open gates, she approached the hill’s edge. “Crawford, stop her!” he yelled to the guard. But she had already passed him.
Thank God, Crawford caught her halfway down the hill. Gwyneth screamed. Her arms and legs flailed as she fought and kicked. Damnable woman! Could she not think before she acted? The burly guard hauled her off her feet and carried her back toward Alasdair.
“No! They took Rory!” Gwyneth screamed.
The guard set her on her feet. Alasdair grasped her upper arms with a strength he feared was too harsh. She, at least, was safe. If Gwyneth ran onto MacIrwin land, death was sure to follow. He could not lose her.
She jerked against his hands. “Bastards! They took Rory!” The tears streamed down her face.
“Gwyneth. Listen to me.”
She latched her fists onto his doublet and tugged. “They’re getting away! We must get him back!”
“And we will. Just calm yourself.” In truth, he wanted to charge onto MacIrwin land himself and bring the lad back, but he had enough rationality about him to realize it would be suicide without a plan and a large force of men.
“We don’t ken yet who took him, Donald or Southwick.”
Gwyneth sagged against him and sobbed. “Southwick,” she said almost incoherently. “I wager it was the knave.”
“If Southwick took him, he won’t kill him. He’s wanting an heir.”
“He’s my son! Not his! He will hit Rory. I’ll kill that bastard if he harms my baby.”
“Aye, and I’ll help you. But first, we must go back to the tower and question the MacIrwin woman who was captured. Then we shall round up a party and go after him.”
She nodded and wiped her eyes.
Guiding her steps, Alasdair helped Gwyneth back to the barmkin. Every ten seconds she glanced back over her shoulder through the darkness toward MacIrwin land. His soul ached for her for he knew what it was to lose a son, and he intended to do everything in his power to return hers to her arms.
They passed the still-burning balefire, then strode through the gates. Gwyneth tore herself away and ran toward the MacIrwin woman, whom Angus and Busby still held near the castle wall. Alasdair caught up with her.
“Who took my son?” Gwyneth demanded.
The woman hung her head.
Gwyneth grasped her hair, yank
ed her head up and stared into her face. “Ruth? Your name is Ruth, is it not?”
“Aye.”
“Who took my son?”
“Answer!” Alasdair bellowed at the woman when she remained silent too long.
She shrank back and gaped at him, mute and wide-eyed.
“Do you ken what it feels like to have a noose around your neck?” he asked.
The woman’s face scrunched into a horrid expression, and she collapsed into blubbering tears. “’Twas the MacIrwin. Don’t kill me! I beg of you, don’t kill me.”
“Why was he taken?” Alasdair demanded.
“A fancy Sassenach lord said the lad was his son. He paid us to rescue him.”
“Oh, dear lord!” cried Gwyneth.
“Southwick. ’Tis as I suspected. Where are they meeting the Sassenach with him?” asked Alasdair.
“At the south border. He was wanting to be away, toward London, afore the morn.”
“London. I will kill him.” Gwyneth wiped a hand over her tear-drenched eyes.
“How many men were traveling with the Englishman?” Alasdair asked.
“A half dozen or so.”
Alasdair glanced around to find most of the clan gathered behind them. “I need five able-bodied men ready to ride south within the hour to recover Lady Gwyneth’s son.”
He was proud to see two dozen of his strongest men step forward.
“I cannot believe you would do this, Ruth,” Gwyneth said. “You have a son of your own. How would you feel if a vile man stole him away from you?”
Ruth hung her head.
“Take her to a cell below,” Alasdair told Busby. “Tell the guard to give her bread and water twice a day until I return.” He turned to the group. “I need to see all the men in the hall now.”
Once inside, he noticed Gwyneth disappearing up the stairs. Where the devil was she going?
When the clan was assembled, Alasdair motioned his cousin onto the dais with him. “Fergus, I’m leaving you in charge.”
My Fierce Highlander Page 21
