No Law Against Love

by Deborah MacGillivray

  “Then why?”

  “Use your mind, lass. The same reason my grandfather didn’t leave you the castle, despite promising your Gran―money. The lack of it. You’ve done nothing but huff and glower since you learnt the castle wouldn’t be returned to the Grants—”

  “He promised―”

  “Aye, he did. He also comprehended you wouldn’t have enough money for taxes. Then what? You’d sit in the castle while the roof leaks like a sieve? I’ve money. Not enough to see the castle saved. Am I to sit in that bloody monster while it crumbles around my head?”

  Her face brightened. “What about the treasure?”

  “Och, you buy that cock ‘n bull story?”

  “No story. They couldn’t take it with them. Cumberland’s men would’ve gone through their belongings and stolen anything of value. They had to hide it in the castle.”

  “I’ve heard the legend. We all have. Why my back pasture is full of holes. Why vandals and potholers broke in, ripping out walls and floorboards in Dunnascaul, searching for treasure. You stubborn Grants wanted a last laugh on the Mackinnons. They started nonsense about a fortune in gold and gems hidden inside Dunnascaul. For centuries they’ve sat on their arses and laughed while Mackinnons ran themselves ragged, trying to find that blasted gold.”

  Gillian put down the teacup. “If you’d only believe, I bet we’d find it.”

  “We?” he prodded, with an arched brow.

  “Yes, we.”

  Cian eyed her from behind hooded lids so Gillian couldn’t tell what he thought. She had to focus on the argument, not get lost in those beautiful pale eyes that were neither green nor blue, but aquamarine, shade of the water around the Isle of Lewis on a bright sunny day.

  “You, me and that dilapidated excuse of a feline?” He chuckled as Basil waddled in.

  Gillian touched his hand, then yanked hers back as a blush tinged her cheeks. “If we applied ourselves we’d figure out the riddle.”

  Cian’s long lashes flicked over those mesmerizing eyes as he stared at the hand she used to touch him. “The riddle says none shall see the gold until the castle once more is in possession of a Grant.”

  “Why your grandfather should’ve left Dunnascaul to me. I’m the last Grant from the attainted Dunnascaul line.”

  He nodded. “I’m the last of the Mackinnons that Dunnascaul was given to after Culloden.” Though he placed no value in it, he knew the riddle by heart.

  Until a Grant comes home to Dunnascaul,

  Secrets remain unearthed.

  Some search far afield.

  Some smarter look closer to hearth.

  Clever is the lad or lass who can

  wisely riddle, to see something others cannot…right in the middle.

  ~~~

  Gillian leaned forward to close the distance between them, putting a hand on his thigh for balance. “Surely, it cannot be that hard.”

  A lowly male, blood rushed from his brain and went south at the touch of her fingers on his leg. He struggled to focus, wanting to reply, yes, it could be that hard. With effort, he dragged his mind from below his belt. “Who says the Grants haven’t found the treasure centuries ago?”

  She laughed. “We might not have told the Mackinnons, but you can bet if a Grant discovered the treasure, they’d have bragged to other Grants. The treasure waits for us to discover it.”

  As he stared into her brown eyes, he felt like a warrior of old, ready to slay dragons and to topple kingdoms just to win his lady’s smile. Hell, if she was underfoot, rummaging through his castle, it’d give him time to build a bridge over the centuries of hatred that lay between them.

  He exhaled resignation, feeling this lass just slipped a ring through his nose. “When do we start?”

  With a small squeal of glee, Gillian wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. Not a peck, but a big thank you smooch. Seizing the moment, he wasn’t letting her go. He wrapped an arm about her waist and dragged her across his lap. Cradling her, he savored the taste of tea and lemon, nibbling her soft lips, using his tongue to outline their seam until she opened for him. Images of sending the tea and biscuits crashing across the room while he took her on the oak table flooded his mind.

  Hell, they wouldn’t disturb Basil!

  Her perfume was a hint of jasmine and heather. It did nothing to mask the scent of the intoxicating woman underneath. Man had lost many animal instincts, depending too much on sight as a primary input to his brain. Only, as he held Gillian, something dark and primeval rose within his blood, of a man wanting to claim his mate.

  Pulling back, he stared into the amber eyes, caught in the wonder of Gillian. He was lost. No hope for rescue.

  As he drank in the image of her silken hair, he wanted to see it loose. Reverently, he slipped off the elastic band and untwined the coil of the honey-coloured braid.

  Cian admitted being pole-axed. Shifting his fingers through the golden mass, mesmerized, he figured this was the real treasure of the Grants.

  ~~~

  Exhausted, Cian dropped to the sofa before the massive fireplace. For a week, Gillian and he searched Dunnascaul from top to bottom. He still lacked an accurate room count. This time he blamed Gillian. Somewhere around forty-to-fifty, he became lost, watching her body move, the way her braid brushed against her derrière as she rapped on walls, how her eyes often were upon him as much as searching out a hiding spot for treasure.

  Gillian came in, an on-the-rocks glass in each hand. She handed him one and gently clinked her lead-crystal tumbler against his. “Cheers, Mackinnon.”

  “Sorry, lass, I warned there’s no gold.” He wasn’t saying I-told-you-so as much as admitting defeat.

  He never believed in the treasure. It would’ve been nice to find the cache. He could undertake a total restoration of Dunnascaul instead of piecemeal efforts he planned over the next few years. What irritated, he felt he’d let Gillian down by not finding the hidden fortune for her―old warrior’s instinct to slay dragons for his lady.

  “Sorry, I put you through all this searching.” She leaned against him, staring into the fire. Slowly, her eyes roved about the huge library. “I love this room. The heart of the castle. I like how the platform runs around the second level, leaving the room open. What a beautiful place this will be decorated for Christmas.”

  The vision shimmered before his eyes, of evergreen and holly with Mackinnon and Grant tartan ribbons lining rail of the upper level. Over where the stairs turned ninety-degrees, the tallest tree imaginable would be tucked up in the curve. More importantly, he saw Gillian, mistress of Dunnascaul, hosting an open house Christmas tea for the Blue-haired Go-Ins, wrapping gifts for under the tree, or tying a tartan bow on Basil.

  Making love with him before the fireplace.

  “So, you’re back to Blue-hairs trooping through the castle twice weekly,” she grumped.

  He wrapped an arm about her, shifting so they stretched out on the soft sofa. Leaning his head against hers, he kissed her temple. “Would that be such a hard life, lass? Sharing the history, the wonder of Dunnascaul for a few hours. Rest of the time it’d belong to us.”

  Her hand holding the glass trembled. “Us?”

  Basil waddled over and tried to hop onto the sofa. So fat, he landed on his belly, hind legs kicking in the air. Cian leaned over and grabbed him. “Yes, us. You, me and this worthless furball.”

  “Are you―” Gillian paled.

  “I am.” He took the glass from her hand and set it on the coffee table next to his.

  She jumped on him. He laughed, liking how her body felt draped over his. Wrapping her arms around his neck she kissed him hard. He kissed her back. She tasted of the Malt Whisky, tasted of Gillian.

  “Two ways this can go, lass, fast and wild or slow and torturous.” He nibbled along the curve of her neck. “I’m thinking slow…”

  She sighed. “I’m up for suggestions.”

  “Up for suggestions? Hmm…so am I, lass.” He smiled, but then yelped. />
  Gillian frowned. “Cian?

  He shifted to pull the fat cat out from under him. “We’re squishing this moth-eaten excuse for a pussycat. Why didn’t he fuss before?”

  “That’s Basil. Only immanent suffocation could make him stir.”

  Dropping the fat feline on the floor, Cian took hold of Gillian and rolled so she was under him. “Ah, have you where I want you, lass, wanted for the past five weeks. Five weeks gives a man a powerful hunger. One that could take a lifetime to satisfy. Is that a yes, cushla mo fuil?”

  “Pulse of my blood…” Gillian echoed the translation in wonder. “Oh, aye. You know―”

  “Right now there’s not enough blood in my brain to know much of anything, lass.” His grin felt wicked. “My hand is up under your sweater and I’m heading to first base fast. You should ken better than to expect a lad to think at times like that. Shush, and kiss me. You just said yes to a marriage proposal.”

  ~~~

  Basil twined around the legs of the man. Leaning his arms on the balustrade, running around the second level of the library, her David watched the couple sleeping on the sofa below. Anne’s eyes lit as she studied the man and animal. Fondly, she recalled owning a dilapidated pussycat just like this one, recalled when the pet died and how she cried. David had been there, holding her, rocking her through the night.

  She smiled to think much of her still lived on in her granddaughter. As David lived on in Cian. The love she saw growing between these two bode well for the Mackinnons and Grants. Peace between the two Dunnascaul clans would reign, first time in over two centuries. Cian would give her Gillian beautiful babes. The castle would ring with laughter and love.

  When she linked arms with David, he asked, “Where did you disappear to, mo gràdh?”

  She leaned her head against his. “My love? Do you ken that never stops making my heart flutter? After all these many years?”

  “Same as when you tell me you love me forever.” He rubbed his shoulder against hers. “Told you the lad would see the real treasure of the Grants, that Gillian would get the castle. I promised.”

  “Aye, you just didn’t tell me she’d get Dunnascaul―and Cian.”

  “They’re the best of you and me, lass. They were destined to come together. With Maeve carrying her off to the States to spite you, I needed to play cupid in my fashion.” His eyes roved over her face. “You dinnae answer, lass, where did you go?

  Anne smiled, but a glint of sadness flickered over her countenance. “I needed a moment alone.”

  He sighed and slid his arm around her. “Out with it, Annie, it’s too late in our sojourn to keep secrets.”

  “It’s just…” She exhaled a sigh of regret.

  “What, my bonnie lass?”

  “I envy them. They have it all before them…” A tear sparkled in her eye. “They’ll have each other in a way we never did.”

  “We loved each other, Annie Grant, don’t be forgetting that. We had responsibilities we couldn’t walk away from. No matter what life threw at us, we always had our love.” His chide faltered. “Oh, Annie, we have so much more than many people ever have. I would’ve loved for you to be my wife. You wouldn’t leave John Grant and I couldnae leave poor Janet. The cancer destroyed her over time, but by then you decided it wasn’t right to take Maeve from her father. Life wasn’t fair with us. Seldom is life fair.”

  “It comes full circle.”

  He gave her a squeeze. “Aye, with a Grant in Dunnascaul, part of the riddle’s fulfilled. Maybe they’ll find that ruddy treasure.”

  Anne pushed away her sadness. “Do you think there’s really a treasure?”

  “I believe Cian agrees with me―the real treasure of the Grants is their women.”

  ~~~

  Gillian woke, the chill of the library touching her as she shifted.

  Mrs. Cian Mackinnon. Hundreds of Grants must be rolling in their graves. Divinely happy, she wiggled her toes, then scooted her body against Cian. Oh, think of waking up every morn wrapped in those beautiful arms! Who needed a fireplace blazing when she could cuddle to this sexy bod?

  The lids lifted over those sea-green eyes, a lazy half-smile spreading across Cian’s sensual mouth. Cian pulled her under him, his weight pressing her down in the soft sofa. His hot mouth nibbled along her collarbone, and up the column of her neck, sending prickles of sexual anticipation snaking over her skin. As he latched onto her earlobe and sucked, she about melted.

  Tilting her head to the side to give him better access, her unfocused vision half-saw the portrait of the braw Highlander in a kilt over the fireplace. Cian’s ancestor two-hundred-years ago. Breeding ran true, for Cian could’ve posed for the painting. Beautiful Mackinnon men.

  Something attracted notice at the edge of her peripheral vision. With Cian’s hands moving on her body, it was hard to pinpoint what bothered her. It would be too easy to surrender to the power he wove around her. She finally pinpointed it.

  The scroll of the stone fireplaces. There were seven saucer-sized discs across the face of the mantle. Each depicted a scene of Highland life, all related to harvest themes. The one in the centre showed men drinking. Underneath, was the word Meadhoney. Mead was made of honey, so it struck her as odd to have it said in that fashion. Wouldn’t it be two words?

  “Cian?”

  “Hmmm,” he murmured as he slid down her body, chaining kisses across her stomach.

  “Why would they paint mead and honey together as one word?”

  “What?” He raised his head. “You’re asking a man with his tongue in your bellybutton to hold a reasonable conversation?”

  “Put your randy thoughts on hold, Mackinnon, I’m on to something.” She tried to sit up, but he pinned her to the sofa with his weight.

  The sexy man flashed a killer smile. “No, I am on to something.” He slid his hand around her breast, cupping it. “Something I find absolutely amazing.”

  She slapped his hand. “It thinks you’re amazing, too. But I need your mind in gear and not on shagging me.”

  Cian sighed and sat up as she slithered out from under him. Pulling a grumpy face, he ran his hand through his hair as Basil tried to drag his tonnage onto the couch. Holding his palm up to his mouth he blew into it, then made a face. “Think it was the dragon breath, Basil?”

  “Basil’s not much of a conversationalist.” Feeling the chill since she wore only Cian’s T-shirt, she dropped a couple peat bricks on the fire and poked it. Then she rose to examine the tableau. Just a carved scene of men drinking from horns. “Why meadhoney?”

  Lifting Basil on the sofa, Cian patted the kitty. “Woman’s gone barmy on me again. Mead is made from honey. What’s the deal?”

  “Why one word?”

  Shrugging, he came to stand beside her. “Lass, you in nothing but my T-shirt is more than my poor beleaguered brain can handle. Besides, I don’t think about anything until I’ve had my tea.”

  “Cian, this is important. Think. What is middle in the Gaelic?”

  “Basil, now she wants me to converse in the language of warrior kings.” He chuckled as Basil laboriously rubbed against his leg.

  “Cian!” she growled. “Some smarter look closer to hearth. Clever is the lad or lass who can wisely riddle, to see something others cannot…right in the middle.”

  “Gor, she’s henpecking me already and I haven’t gotten the ring on her finger. Mead―” he paused as the reality hit him. “―hon.”

  “Precisely. It was there all the time. Right before their eyes. It was soooo simple. Meadhon means middle. This is the centre tableau. The room is the centre of the castle.” She leaned over examining the bottom rim. “Cian, look. There’s a tiny groove here. You have a flat-headed screwdriver we can use to pry?”

  Sliding into his shirt, he tossed her slacks to her. “Hide that tush if you want me to concentrate on treasure hunts. Don’t get your hopes up lass,” he cautioned, not wanting to see disappointment in her brown eyes.

  “I’m not, b
ut this is the only one with the groove. They told us right in the middle of the hearth. So simple. Everyone expected a difficult puzzle to solve. Told you I was good at riddles!” She shimmied into her black trousers, excitement nearly more than she could contain. “See, Basil, these hardheaded Mackinnon men needed a Grant lass in possession to figure it out.”

  Gillian shook her head as Basil keeled over in one of his death-faints. Pushing him aside with her foot, she examined the plate-size carved, green marble. There were no grooves on the other six and they appeared mortared in place.

  Cian returned, shirt still not buttoned. If he thought she was distracting in just his T-shirt, she found it near impossible to concentrate on ancient riddles when flashes of that wonderfully sculpted chest tantalized her with visions of giving him a tongue bath. She buttoned the two lower ones, earning a kiss. Well, she left three undone. It’d be a sin to hide that chest completely.

  “Sorry, lass, no having your wicked way with me. I think you solved the Grant’s Riddle.” He held up a foot-long screwdriver. “I think this’ll do.”

  Gillian chuckled. “That thing’s obscene.”

  “Stand back, Gillie, I’m very good with my tool.” Scooting the limp cat to the side so he had room to work, he frowned. “I see pussycat’s playing dead again.”

  “The excitement’s too much for Basil.”

  “Breathing’s too much for Basil.” He inserted the screwdriver and used it as a lever. “I feel it give, but it’s not coming out. Damn, I thought we were on to something.”

  “Ye of little faith. Let a Grant at it. It was under your Mackinnon noses and none figured it out.” She saw it wiggle in place, but it wouldn’t let go. She’d hoped they’d pry the face off and out would pop the treasure. “It jiggles.”

  “So does that sweet arse of yours, but it doesn’t detach either.” Sitting on the arm of the sofa, he watched her. His brow furrowed as he considered the problem. “Maybe it doesn’t come out.”

  “Then why wiggle?”

  Coming to the mantle he examined it. “Okay, right or left, lass?”