by Ranae Rose
“Nae, let me have it. I dinnae like to go without it. ‘Tis a fancy I took as a child, that I might remember my mother by wearing a green ribbon in my hair as my father said she had always done.”
Another subject that a wiser woman might have left untouched, but Isla thought of her own mother, buried in the earth behind the modest cottage she’d made a home, and felt compelled to seize the subject before it passed.
“Ye lost your mother, then, when ye were a young lass?”
Lady Gordon nodded as she took the ribbon, holding it against the coverlet in her lap. “Aye, she died in giving birth to me.”
“My own mother died when I was but a few years old.”
Lady Gordon nodded. “Aye, my husband mentioned it to me, having learnt it from Alexander. At the time my heart wasnae moved.” She looked up from her lap, where she was threading the green ribbon through her fingers, and met Isla’s eyes. “But now I find I must reconsider how I’ve treated ye. I ken well enough that I owe ye my life.”
Isla’s throat tightened again, though not from nausea this time. Images of her mother and thoughts of her own unborn child were still dancing through her head as she soaked in Lady Gordon’s unexpected words, and the three proved too much to think about at once. Tears stung her eyes, but she fought with every fibre of her being to restrain them. Being with child was already pulling alarmingly at her heartstrings, she was sure of it. The last time she’d cried had been at the spring, in front of Alexander. She had no desire to lose control of her emotions in her mother in law’s presence, despite the strange new understanding that had sprung up between them.
“I could hardly have watched ye die.” She managed to keep her voice steady. “I did what anyone would hae done.”
“A crueler lass might hae turned a blind eye. From now on ye may call me by my Christian name, Coira, and I’ll be glad to share my home with ye. If ye hadnae come, I might well be dead.”
As she spoke, it was as if Lady Gordon—Coira—had indeed become a different woman than the one Isla had known since her arrival at Benstrath, and all thanks to a grubby ribbon and a temperamental pig.
“I thank ye, Coira.” Silently, she thanked the pig, too.
She slipped from the room before anything else could be said, afraid she’d break under the strain of trying to suppress her needless tears.
Out in the hall, she breathed a sigh of relief. Still thinking of her mother, she let a tear slip down her cheek and hastily wiped it away with the corner of her apron just as a shadow spilt from a nearby doorway and a man stepped out in a quiet flourish of tartan.
It was Alpin. Isla’s heart leapt, then sank as she met his cold blue eyes. How long had he been there? Coira’s bedroom door had been partially open during their entire conversation. Had he heard? The look he was giving her obliterated any warmth Coira’s words had inspired, chilling her to the bone.
Chapter Eight
“‘Twas like lookin’ into the eyes of a devil,” Isla said, pressing her palms against Alexander’s chest.
The day had been long, and he hadn’t come in from his work until a rainstorm had chased him indoors that evening. Thunder rumbled now, echoing the foreboding feeling that settled over Isla as she remembered her brief encounter with Alpin in the hallway.
“I dinnae think he will ever stop hating me, regardless of what his mother feels.”
Nor could she forgive him for murdering her brother, but if tolerating his haunting presence was the price of being Alexander’s wife, she’d pay it. Still, she would have preferred to ignore him, and he her. Instead, his gaze always seemed to find her, full of ice and malice.
Alexander frowned, idly tracing the exposed curve of Isla’s spine with his fingertips. His arms were wrapped around her, and they’d tensed at Isla’s mention of his brother. Her own muscles relaxed against his and she sighed. Here, she knew she was safe. If only she never had to leave his arms.
“He’s a wicked soul if there ever was one,” Alexander said. “Do ye ken if he overheard your conversation?”
“Nae, not for sure. He may have.” Isla’s stomach flip-flopped at the thought. She would have pressed a protective hand against her belly if it hadn’t been fitted safely against Alexander’s lean muscle.
Would her child grow up under the shadow of Alpin’s hatred? She frowned. It was unfair—no more fair, in fact, than her brother’s death had been. Alpin was a curse upon her family, it seemed. She tightened her hands into fists that rested against Alexander’s chest.
“Och, how I wish your brother wasnae such a wicked bastard.”
Alexander didn’t reprimand her for her language, only took one of her hands in his and slowly unwrapped her fist, interlocking his fingers with her own. His grip was tight, his voice low. “That makes two of us, but Isla…”
She sensed his gaze on the top of her head and looked up to meet his eyes. “Aye?”
He squeezed her hand even more tightly. “I willnae let him harm ye. Ye ken that, don’t ye?”
She nodded, her throat tightening for what seemed the hundredth time that day. Being with child was turning her into a sop. She never knew when something was going to bring her to the point of tears.
“Aye, I ken that. I amnae scared, only angry.”
At least, that was how she felt at the moment. Her emotions were prone to change as often as a summer sky lately, and sometimes fear crept into her heart when she thought of Alpin’s burning gaze, of the wicked blade he’d used to send her brother to the grave. Above all that, though, she trusted Alexander. He’d been nothing if not a magnificent protector since the day she’d met him.
“I can see that he troubles ye,” he continued, his blue eyes searching hers, “more than ye let on. I amnae opposed to turning my blade against him, Isla. For your honour, and so that ye may have peace.”
She stiffened against him, the tension that had drained from her muscles returning immediately. “Not this again. Please dinnae even speak of it.” The discomfort Alpin inspired was nothing compared to the threat of losing Alexander. And as much as Isla detested Alpin, she couldn’t stomach the thought of how devastated Coira would be if her cherished son were killed. She would never encourage violence between the two brothers, ever.
“As ye wish,” Alexander said, the softness of his voice belying the hardness of his tensed muscles.
It was easy enough to sense he hadn’t abandoned thoughts of the subject, even if he’d agreed not to speak of it. Fortunately, distracting him wouldn’t be difficult, as there was more hardness to his body than just his muscles. She lowered a hand to his groin, where she caressed his stiff cock beneath the sheets.
For a brief moment he was still, then he responded by relinquishing his hold on her free hand and caressing one of her breasts instead. Her nipple sprang up hard beneath his thumb, and the rest of her body flushed with anxious heat. Making love with him would be more than a simple diversion from dark thoughts. It would be wonderful. She’d wanted him since he’d walked into the house, soaked to the bone with rainwater and looking just as he had on the day she’d met him.
“I love you, Alexander.”
She gripped his shaft, thumbing the slit at the tip and thinking of when she’d first felt it, in the damp, lonely woods by the edge of the spring.
He squeezed her breast and pressed his lips against her temple, sending a light shiver down her spine. “I love you too, more than my own life. I wasnae speaking idle words when I said I wouldnae let any harm come to ye.” He paused, pulling his hand from her breast and pressing it against her belly instead. “Or the child.”
“I ken that well enough,” she replied, warming her palm with friction as she stroked him harder. His words were sweet, but his cock was throbbing, and she didn’t need to be convinced, only reassured.
He shuddered against her and rolled on top of her, easing his way between her thighs. She lost her grip on his cock as he entered her, gliding smoothly past her damp folds. Her channel tightened immediately arou
nd his shaft, grasping him as tightly as she had done a moment ago. Warmth blossomed in her belly and her nipples hardened to tiny buds.
“Ye feel so good,” he groaned, flexing his hips against hers and stretching her in a way that made her want to squirm and arch against him. She gave in to the latter urge, thinking she would have said the same if he hadn’t taken her breath away with the first stroke.
She moaned and wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him tight and close as he continued, settling into a rhythm that was as steady as the rain falling against the windows.
* * * *
Isla was used to waking to the feel of Alexander slipping away from her, rolling out of bed and into his tartan, ready to start the day. This morning, she awoke instead when the bed shook, startled from sleep by a rasping cough.
“What do ye think you’re doin’?” she asked, when Alexander threw back the sheets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Rising at the same hour I always do,” he replied. “I’ll leave sleeping past dawn to that lout, Alpin.”
Isla cast a cursory glance at the window, but the sky was too dark with clouds and rain to tell the time. Likely it was the exact hour Alexander claimed, though—he had a remarkable internal clock. He was already pulling a fresh shirt from a chest of drawers and over his head. She decided to cut to the chase. “I heard ye cough.”
His reply was a sort of indecipherable half-grunt that she translated as, ‘aye, and what of it?’
“Ye dinnae need to be goin’ out into the rain in such a state,” she said. “I expect ye made yourself ill by stayin’ out so long in it yesterday.”
He mumbled something about having work to do, but the argument was weakened by another cough. “My throat tickles, that’s all. I amnae ill.”
“Oh, aye? Then ye willnae mind if I feel ye for a fever?”
He looked warily at her as he swathed his hips in tartan and prepared to don his belt, though his reply was an admirable attempt at nonchalance. “Not at all.”
Isla swung out of bed, shivering slightly at the chilly air, which was in stark contrast to the comfortable warmth of the bed sheets. Her nipples tightening beneath her shift, she glided to Alexander’s side and reached up to press a hand against his forehead.
“Ye feel warm.” Not burning hot, but as if he had a slight fever.
“Of course I do. It’s so cold in here a dead man would seem hot to the touch.”
Isla placed her fists on her hips, ignoring the goose flesh that had sprung up on her sides as she did so. “Dinnae play stupid with me, Alexander. You’re ill, and I’ll be damned if you’re goin’ out into the rain again to catch your death.”
He grinned. “There’s the spitfire lass I met along the road. I thought ye said she was gone?”
“Aye, well, that was before ye started actin’ like a fool again.”
His grin widened. “And here I’d thought it wouldnae be anythin’ but sweetness and kisses from here on out.”
She reached out and seized the end of his belt, pulling it from his hand. His kilt fell to the floor in a flurry of tartan, leaving his legs bare beneath the hem of his shirt.
“You’ll not step a foot outside this room ‘till the fever leaves ye.” Sensing the defiance in his gaze, she decided a little logic couldn’t hurt. “Ye cannae ride in such weather anyway. The horses will have to wait until tomorrow in any case.” No need to mention that if he still had a fever the next morn she’d tie him down to the bed to keep him there, even if the sun was blazing.
When he gave another noncommittal grunt, she smiled sweetly up at him. “I’ll give ye a kiss if ye come back to bed.”
When he’d finally slipped back between the sheets, she joined him, pulling him close and pressing a kiss against his lips.
“What do ye think you’re doin’?” he asked when she rose, just as she’d asked him a few minutes ago.
“Going to help Mrs Mary with breakfast,” she replied.
Gavin trundled out from his bed of rags beneath the wardrobe as she spoke, perhaps sensing a trip to the kitchen. He blinked his large, dark eyes sleepily, but his round little bottom wriggled as he wagged his tail ferociously.
“I’ll bring ye some on a tray, dinnae worry.”
He frowned at her from where he lay on his side, an elbow propped on a pillow. “Ye promised me a kiss.”
“And I gave ye one,” she said, arching a brow. “You’re not so ill that ye cannae remember what happened just a moment past, are ye?”
“Nae. It’s only that I thought ye meant…more.” He flexed his hips suggestively, drawing Isla’s attention to the sheets that had tented nicely over his crotch.
She was torn between exasperation, amusement and a desire she didn’t dare to acknowledge. The last thing she intended to do was cause him to overexert himself while he was supposed to be recovering, however tempting the bulge of his hard cock looked beneath the linens.
“The purpose of bein’ in bed is to rest,” she said, managing to keep any traces of desire out of her voice.
Still, she leaned in to press another kiss against his mouth. She couldn’t see his cock, but its hard outline was on prominent display, straining against the sheets. The urge to reach down and caress it seized her, but she was saved from its tempting grip by a sudden bout of nausea that it seemed no early pregnancy morning would be complete without.
She reached frantically under the bed for the chamber pot, struggling to simultaneously push her loose hair out of her face. Just as she leaned over the porcelain container, Alexander’s hand brushed the back of her neck, scooping her hair neatly up and out of the danger zone. He held her locks at the nape of her neck until she had finished. She blushed and shoved the chamber pot back beneath the bed.
“That wasnae exactly the reaction I’d hoped for,” he said, releasing her hair and tucking a wayward strand of it behind her ear.
Heat flushed her cheeks, and she thought she wouldn’t have minded if her sleep-tousled hair had hidden her face entirely. Vomiting in front of Alexander wasn’t exactly the picture of romance, even if it had been mostly just water she’d risen to sip during the night.
“Me neither,” she mumbled, “though I dinnae suppose you’ll trouble me for any more kisses for the rest of the morn.”
He fell back against the pillows in mock despair. “Aye, it’s hopeless. Unless…” He reached out and ran a hand suggestively over the curve of Isla’s hips, dipping his fingertips into the hollow between them and brushing her folds through the fabric of her shift.
“You’re hopeless, Alexander,” she said, taking a step back before he managed to rekindle her desire. Still, she grinned. “Now get some rest.”
She turned to the wardrobe and hurried to pull out a fresh gown and petticoats, eager to dress herself against the chill. The thought of the warm kitchen with its large fireplace was more inviting than usual. She only hoped Mrs Mary hadn’t broken out the garlic this early in the morning. If that was the case, she’d have to retire to the bedroom with Alexander, and she didn’t think she’d be able to convince him to lie still if she had to share the bed with him.
“Are ye warm enough?” she asked as she finished dressing. “Shall I fetch ye some extra blankets?”
He shook his head, which he’d finally dropped against the pillows. The tired look in his eyes made her doubly glad she’d convinced him to stay in bed. A good breakfast and some tea might do him a world of good—or at least she hoped so. With that thought in mind, she slipped from the room, Gavin trailing behind her like a tiny shadow.
* * * *
The kitchen proved a cosy if heavily scented sanctuary against the chill of the fireless corridors and the still-rainy outdoors. Earlier that morning, Isla had covered Alexander with an extra quilt, after she’d brought him breakfast and seen how he’d shivered beneath the bedclothes. After sitting down on the edge of the bed to eat with him, and checking him once again for fever, she’d returned to the kitchen. He hadn’t seemed any
warmer than before, and Mrs Mary had yet to use any garlic in her cooking, so the day seemed to be going fairly well. At least until Alpin walked in.
He strode into the kitchen, rain-soaked and dripping, shortly before noon. Rather than looking ruggedly handsome like his brother, Isla thought his storm-swept appearance made him look as if he’d been up to some crime. His eyes were as cold as ever and rain dripped from the tip of his nose, which he seemed to keep perpetually in the air. Much to Isla’s relief, he didn’t give her so much as a sideways glance as he crossed the kitchen, dirtying the floors with muddy water as he reached the counter, where he took a scone from a plate and popped it into his mouth.
“Aren’t they delicious, Alpin?” Mrs Mary asked, mopping up the puddles he’d left behind without skipping a beat. After decades of service in the house, she was surely more than used to cleaning up after him.
“They’re good,” he said flatly, taking another from the plate.
“Isla made them,” Mrs Mary said, smiling as she wiped up the last of the rainwater. “She’s been quite a help in the kitchen. Her cooking is the talk of the house.”
Alpin scowled, pausing with a scone halfway to his mouth. After a moment’s indecision, he shoved it in and chewed it harder than was necessary.
Though it was a lost cause if there ever was one, Isla couldn’t help but admire Mrs Mary’s attempt at establishing some friendliness between her and Alpin. The poor woman surely wanted nothing more than peace in the household and among its residents, especially Alexander and Alpin, both of whom she’d helped to raise from birth. A surge of guilt assailed Isla as she watched her slip into the broom closet to put away the rag she’d used to clean up Alpin’s mess. It was unlikely that she’d ever see peace between the brothers, especially now that Alexander had married Isla.
Coira’s arrival interrupted the awkward silence, though it did nothing to ease the tension. She walked carefully through the doorway for the first time since her accident, fully dressed and with her hair tied into its usual severe bun, complete with green ribbon. Isla was surprised to see her out of bed and, judging by their facial expressions, Mrs Mary and Alpin were, too. Mrs Mary hurried to hover by Coira’s side, as if afraid she might have to catch her if she fell.
