When a Laird Finds a Lass

by Lecia Cornwall

  “Don’t stop,” Ronat whispered. His caresses drove her wild. His fingers stroked her, took her to a place of exquisite pleasure, soothed her. She arched against him and drew his mouth to hers, biting and sucking at his tongue and lips, trying to make him understand what she wanted. His breath turned to grunts of suppressed desire. She stroked him through the wet fabric of his breeches. She pushed into the waistband of his breeches, cupped him. He made a guttural sound, thrust himself against her palm. He was hard and smooth in her grip. He slid his fingers inside her. “You’re so hot, lass,” he murmured. “So sweet.” The pressure built like a dam about to break, a wave rushing toward her, sure to carry her under. But when it hit her, it bore her up, took her over, and she filled the gorge with her own cry of release, holding him, her body shimmering with waves of pleasure.

  He carried her to the bank, still wrapped around him, and set her down. Her legs shook, and he held her for a moment, his hands on her waist, his eyes on hers, full of masculine pride.

  “That was—” She tried to catch her breath, but her heart hammered against her ribs. It hardly mattered—there were no words to describe what it was that she felt. It was exquisite.

  She let her eyes roam over his face, memorized it. No matter how many bumps on the head she took in the future, she would never, ever forget this man. She stood on her toes, kissed him, reached for his cock, but he caught her hand, held her away. The morning air chilled her instantly.

  He pushed a wet lock of hair out of her face, caressing her cheek as he did so, regret and temptation clear in the green depths of his eyes. “We have to stop. This can’t happen again, do you understand? No more kisses, or touching, or—” His eyes dropped to her breasts, and she knew the wet cloth faithfully outlined every curve. Her nipples tightened, longing for his touch. His eyes flared with desire, but he closed them tight. “Or anything else,” he finished, his voice raw.

  She stood very still as he stepped away from her, went to the rock where he’d left his shirt. “I’ll leave first,” he said, pulling the white linen over his head. He picked up his boots, slung them over his shoulder. “I’ll see you at supper.”

  She watched him walk away from her. Suddenly the day felt cold, and she shivered. She picked up her plaid—his plaid—and wrapped it over her sodden shift.

  He paused to look back, and hope rose in her breast that he’d changed his mind, would come back to her, but he turned away and kept walking.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Malcolm didn’t come to supper that night. She sat with William instead and felt Malcolm’s absence keenly. Later, she saw him from her window, standing on the castle wall in the dark, staring out at the island.

  She set out for the pool when the sun rose. There were no footprints in the dew-soaked grass ahead of hers, and she bit her lip. Would Malcolm be there? She would wait if he wasn’t. Till night fell and the dawn came tomorrow she’d wait . . .

  She found him standing with his back against the rock wall, staring out over the water, fully clothed and wrapped in his plaid against the morning chill. The sunlight slipped over the lip of the gorge, lit his red-gold hair, his face. He took her breath away. She cleared her throat to alert him to her presence and approached him slowly. His expression was flat, lawyerly, bland. It offered her nothing.

  “You weren’t at supper last night. I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” she said.

  “I wasn’t sure myself.” He looked so terribly serious. He looked like a Highlander, with his hair tousled by sleep. He hadn’t shaved, and the light shone golden on his stubbled cheeks. He looked manly, virile, and magical. She remembered kissing him, touching him, and she swallowed, looked away quickly, but too late. The heat rose in her belly, desire.

  She forced a bright smile. “I’m glad you are. I promised to teach you to swim, and you’ve been making great progress, and very soon—” She was babbling, and she swallowed. “Shall we get on with our lesson?”

  He nodded. He unwrapped his plaid, and set it on the rock. He took off his boots without looking at her and waded into the water in his breeches without bothering to remove his shirt, as if it would protect him against her, against lust.

  She was self-conscious as the water soaked her shift, and she kept her hands folded over her breasts for fear the water would render the linen transparent. It didn’t matter—he kept his back to her, didn’t stop walking until the water reached his chest. She ducked under the surface, swam past him, came up out of reach, the water hiding everything but her head and shoulders. For a moment, their eyes met, and she saw his throat bob, knew he felt it as well, the almost overwhelming desire to touch, to kiss. She was surprised the water didn’t turn to steam around them.

  “Today you must learn to float on your belly,” she said. “I will hold you up, and—”

  “No,” he said quickly. She raised her brows. “I mean, allow me to try on my own first.”

  She waited. He lifted his feet and went under. She swam toward him and he surfaced, spluttering. She held out her arms and waited for him to decide to trust her, to reach for her hands, let her support him, help him. The touch of his fingers sent sparks through her limbs. The wool of his breeches had molded itself to his buttocks, revealing the sleek, powerful muscles beneath. “Now take a breath and put your face into the water,” she said. He did, and she counted. He came up gasping.

  “Let go,” he said. “Let me try again.”

  She dropped her arms. “Let the water hold you up,” she instructed. She hovered beside him, just in case, but his body floated, long and strong.

  “What do I do next?” he asked her. The water sluiced over the jut of his cheekbones, caught on the golden stubble on his jaw. Her mouth watered.

  She showed him what to do, swam a short distance, kicking her legs and cleaving the water with her arms, turning her head to breathe. The familiar feeling of freedom filled her, brought joy, took away a wee bit of the terrible tension.

  “Try,” she said to him, treading water.

  He sank like a stone and came up muttering curses.

  She laughed. “I’ll show you again,” she said. She swam past him, knowing he was watching her. “Take my shoulders, float behind me,” she said, and he did, his grip tentative. She lifted off the bottom and swam, towing him behind her, pulling strongly out into the deep center of the pool to where the sunlight warmed the water. “Kick your feet,” she said, and felt his grip tighten as his body began to move behind and over her own. Her body tingled with awareness, but she forced herself to ignore it.

  “Very good,” she said, like a tutor would say to a clever student. “Very good indeed.”

  “What are they doing?” Glenna whispered to Lochie as they lay on their bellies in the bushes high above the pool.

  “Swimming,” Lochie said. “Or drowning each other. I’m not sure which it is yet.”

  “What are you two up to?” William asked behind them.

  “They’ll see ye! Get down,” Glenna whispered, waving William to a crouch.

  William knelt in the long grass and peered over the edge of the cliff. “That’s Ronat and the laird. What are they doing?” he asked gruffly after watching for a few minutes.

  “She’s teaching him how to swim,” Dougal said from behind them. “I saw him leave the castle this morning, very early, so I followed him.”

  Lochie screwed his face up. “Doesn’t he already know how to swim? I thought everyone knew how to swim.”

  “Who better to teach him than a selkie?” Glenna said.

  Ronat’s silvery laugh floated up to them, and they turned their attention back to watch as the laird swam a few awkward strokes, then sank below the surface and came up spluttering.

  “He’s getting better,” Dougal whispered. “I thought he’d drown himself before he learned to keep his head out of the water.”

  “What are ye doing up here, lying on your bellies?” Catriona asked, coming along the path.

  “Where have you been all night?”
Lochie asked his sister. She blushed and didn’t reply.

  William chuckled. “Would it have anything to do with young Hugh MacDonald?” he asked. Catriona crouched next to her brother and didn’t reply. Her fiery blush told the tale.

  “Look, the laird’s doing better,” Glenna said. “She’s not holding him up.” Ronat was swimming backward away from the laird, and he was swimming—splashing—toward her.

  “He won’t catch her at that rate,” William said.

  Someone cleared his throat, and they turned to see Fergus standing behind them, frowning. “What’s happening?” he demanded. His kinsmen shushed him, pulled him down beside the rest of them.

  “Ronat’s teaching the laird how to swim,” Glenna said.

  “Why?” Catriona asked. “Doesn’t he know how?”

  Dougal grinned. “I know why,” he said. “So he can swim out to the island, get our wish.”

  “Ah.” The sigh came from everyone’s lips at once. They ducked as Malcolm’s head came up to scan the cliff.

  William nudged Fergus in the ribs. “Perhaps Malcolm Ban will make a good laird after all.”

  Fergus frowned. “Time will the tell.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “You’re not a direct descendant of the first Malcolm Ban, but ye carry old Somerled’s blood in your veins, and that will do well enough. The rules can be changed for the right reasons. To my mind, you’re a better man than Malcolm is, and it won’t take long for everyone else to see that,” Fergus said. “If ye swim fast, ye can reach the island first on Beltane. Once ye make the wish, no one will dispute your right to be laird of Dunbronach. Do ye ken?”

  Maccus’s head ached. Fergus had dragged him from his bed early—it was barely noon—and insisted they needed to take a walk and talk about things. Apparently, a long swim was the only way to become laird of this miserable, lassless place. At this rate, the mythical sea maiden was the only female he was likely to see here, other than Beitris and Glenna and his cousin’s luscious wife. Surely all lasses couldn’t hide from him forever. He straightened his plaid. He wouldn’t allow it when he was laird—he’d take a different woman to his bed every night, and they’d be honored by his attentions.

  “’Tis barely three weeks away,” Fergus said.

  “Aye,” Maccus growled. He wanted a drink—whisky, not ale. He wiped his hand across his lips. Fergus took a flask from his belt and handed it to him with a smile. “Ye’re a good man, Fergus,” Maccus said, and drank deeply.

  Fergus nodded. “When the two of us have sent Malcolm Ban away back to Edinburgh with his tail between his legs, I’ll help ye, Laird. I’ll be your eyes and ears. Ye needn’t worry. I’ll take care of everything for ye.”

  Maccus grunted. “Will ye?” He didn’t care. There was good hunting at Dunbronach and whisky and somewhere, wenches.

  Maccus heard someone singing on the path ahead, and his ears pricked. He stopped and cocked his head to listen. The voice was sweet, the song a jaunty air about a lass and a lad in the heather. He grinned. Fergus’s smile faded and he put a hand on his arm, tried to lead him the other way. “Now, Maccus, as I was saying—” Maccus knocked him aside and charged forward.

  He could see the lass on the path ahead now. She was so busy picking flowers and singing that she had no idea he was behind her. He ran a hand over his hair and his beard, preening a little before he approached her. Folk used to say he was a handsome, charming lad, at least when he wasn’t drunk. Whether that was still true or not, he didn’t know, since he was drunk most of the time. But he could smile, couldn’t he?

  “Feasgar math, fair one. Good afternoon,” he said, grinning as he came up beside her, close enough to touch.

  She let out a shriek that blistered his ears, and the flowers went flying in every direction. She stared at him in utter horror.

  “Don’t hurt me!” she begged, fumbling with her sleeve.

  “Maccus, let Annie be,” Fergus said, hurrying up behind him. Maccus swatted the old man aside like a fly.

  “Annie, is it?” Maccus said. He took a step toward her, and her eyes widened with terror and she screamed again.

  That was when Maccus felt a slight weight hit his back. He spun, assuming it was Fergus, but Fergus lay behind him on the path, stunned. The thing on his shoulders clung tight—it was a cat perhaps, or a wee dog that had him, Maccus thought. He fell to his knees, and tried to bat it away. Then he felt a stab of pain in his neck, and he roared and threw the creature off.

  Annie screamed again, longer and even louder this time but with despair instead of fear. She raced past him and dropped to her knees. Even Fergus was staring at something on the ground in horror, his eyes wide. Maccus spun.

  Glenna MacDonald lay still, her dirk still clutched in her hand, the blade stained with his blood. Or was it? There was blood on the rock under her head, and she wasn’t moving. Maccus felt a shock of terror. I’ve killed her . . .

  Annie’s shrieks filled the air, and he heard footsteps as others came running. Maccus reached for the child, but hands grabbed him, pulled him away. There were angry shouts, and his arms were yanked behind his back. Wee Lochie was hitting him, the blows from the boy’s fists painful. Then Iain—one of his own guards—pulled Lochie off. “Go get Diarmid,” he commanded, and turned back to Maccus, his face like thunder.

  “Help me up,” Maccus demanded. But Iain’s face was black as the devil’s own, his fury a living thing. With a curse, he swung his fist, and Maccus saw the white knuckles heading for his face with Iain’s full might behind them. He hit him in the nose with a sickening crunch, and blood spurted from his nostrils. The next punch caught him under the jaw. There was a bright bolt of light, then only darkness.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  There was pain when Maccus woke. He was slumped on the floor in Dunbronach’s hall, and most of the clan was gathered in the room around him. The lasses were here now—half a dozen of them—and all sobbing. The men, including his own tail, glared at Maccus, their eyes hard, their fury barely restrained. He groaned and put a hand to his eye, found it swollen shut. His nose was crusted with blood, and his jaw ached.

  “So you’re awake at last, are ye?” Beitris stood over him, her arms crossed over her chest. “You’re a brute and a bastard, Maccus MacDonald, chief’s son or no. How could ye do such a thing to a wee lass like Glenna?” she demanded. The woman’s harangue hurt his head, and he winced.

  “Is she dead?” he asked, his voice thick, his mouth as swollen as his eye.

  “No, she’s not. Nor has she woken yet. Diarmid and Peggy are with her.”

  “I don’t mean any—” Maccus began, but Beitris wasn’t finished.

  “How could ye do it, with that child, yer own—”

  “Beitris MacDonald! Hold your tongue!” Fergus bellowed. “Fetch some water and see to Maccus’s injuries.”

  His own what? Maccus tried to make sense of that. His own kin, perhaps? He supposed that might be true enough. They were all related.

  “I won’t help him,” Beitris said. “One of his men can clean him up. Or you can do it, Fergus MacDonald.” But Fergus didn’t move.

  “’Twouldn’t be proper for me to do it.” Fergus said. “And I’ve got things to see to. I’m going to have a word with Malcolm Ban.” Maccus watched the old man stalk out of the hall. Maccus’s men looked on, frowning, but none of them rose to help him.

  “I’ll do it.” Ronat said, rolling up her sleeves. Her face was grave but calm. Better her than Beitris—the old woman would probably poke his last good eye out for spite. He tried to grin at his cousin’s pretty wife, charm her, but his lip split again and began to bleed.

  Ronat took a cloth and dabbed at his eye, and he drew a sharp breath at the pain. He grabbed her wrist, looked at her with the other eye. “I didna mean to harm her. It was an accident.”

  Ronat simply pulled free and kept wiping.

  “Will she wake?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did th
e old woman mean—she’s my own what?”

  “I don’t know that either.” Her tone was crisp, her eyes cold.

  He felt blood seeping down his throat from his broken nose. He turned away from the cloth and spat into the rushes that covered the floor. He pushed her hand away. “Fergus,” he said. “Fetch Fergus back again.”

  Ronat dropped the cloth and rose. “I’ll go and find him,” she said, and Maccus watched the sway of her hips as she walked away.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Ronat found Fergus in Malcolm’s solar. The two men were talking, and she stood outside the half-open door to wait. Malcolm was leaning against the desk while Fergus sat before him in a chair.

  “Glenna is badly hurt. Diarmid says she might not wake. What am I to do with Maccus, then?” Malcolm asked. “What do your Highland rules say in that case, when a man kills a wee child? And if he is a chief’s son and an honored guest, what then?” His tone was dark and sarcastic, full of restrained anger.

  Fergus’s eyes were small and sharp. “Ye wouldn’t know, would ye? You’re an outsider, and ye don’t belong here. Ye should never have come to Dunbronach. We don’t need ye.”

  Malcolm folded his arms over his chest and ignored the comment for the moment. “I thought Glenna was my Cormag’s daughter. Is she?”

  Fergus was silent for a long moment. “No.” he finally admitted. “There are things about Cormag no one knew.” He got to his feet and poked his finger into his own chest. “I know. I knew Cormag better than anyone, even Archie.”

  “What things?”

  Fergus looked away. “The man’s dead. It doesn’t matter now.”

  Malcolm stepped in front of Fergus. “It matters when it affects the living. Why did you summon Maccus, Fergus? Why choose him to be laird over me?”

  The elder’s face twisted with hate. “Ye know why. Ye don’t understand this place, these folk. Ye shouldna have come.”