When a Laird Finds a Lass

by Lecia Cornwall

  “Then why did you ask me? You came all the way to Edinburgh. You brought me here just to make a wish?”

  Fergus sat down again, slumped in the chair as if he was tired. “I thought Cormag would make a good laird. As I said, I loved the lad like my own son. Archie knew he wouldn’t.

  “Archie knew he was going to die when the Sickness struck him down. He called us to his bedside—Dougal, William, and myself. He named ye to be laird after him.” He looked accusingly at Malcolm. “His last word on this earth was your mother’s name, but he left no word at all for Cormag.” Fergus raised his chin. There were tears in his eyes. “I was sure Cormag would recover, but he didn’t. He died in my arms.”

  Fergus took a moment before he spoke again. He looked up at Malcolm with hatred in his eyes, his lips twisted. “I wouldn’t have even bothered to write and tell ye yer father was dead, but Dougal and William insisted we go to see you, bring ye home as Archie asked.”

  “So why did you send for Maccus?”

  “Ye wanted to change things, refused to do as ye were told. Ye can’t expect a clan to do things differently than they’ve done for three hundred years. Besides, your father didn’t rule here. He was a broken man from the day yer mother left. I ruled.”

  “And you thought if you kept Maccus drunk, he’d let you make all the decisions, do as you pleased,” Malcolm said, his back straight, his eyes on Fergus.

  Outside the door, Ronat swallowed, her eyes on Malcolm. He looked calm, powerful, in full control, every inch the laird of Dunbronach. But Fergus didn’t see it.

  “I know what’s needed,” the old man insisted. “Can ye say the same?”

  Ronat held her breath. “Yes,” Malcolm said. “I do know. Better than you, even. This clan needs a future. What is a wish but a hope for a better future?”

  A good answer. Ronat’s breast swelled with pride.

  “And can ye do it? Can ye swim all the way to the sea maiden’s isle and speak the wish?”

  Malcolm stepped toward the elder. “Yes.”

  “Yes?” Fergus said, surprised.

  “Yes,” Malcolm said, his tone strong and sure. “There will be no more secrets, no more lies. I am laird, Fergus, not you. Is that clear?” He waited until Fergus nodded reluctantly. “Go and see Maccus is put to bed.”

  Fergus came toward the door and Ronat stepped back into the shadows. The old man paused and looked back. “There’ll be questions in the hall, about what Beitris said. Some know the truth, or suspect. Most don’t. What will you say to that? Would ye besmirch yer own brother’s reputation? And how would Glenna feel, if they knew the truth? She hates Maccus. It would destroy her. And there are those who would shun her, wonder if she carries bad blood.”

  Ronat held her breath, but Malcolm remained silent.

  Fergus laughed bitterly. “Not so easy to be laird, is it? What will ye do? Tell her and destroy her, or keep the secret to protect Glenna, her poor dead mother, and your own brother? Is it even your secret to tell? Which will it be, Malcolm Ban MacDonald? If you’re so sure, go and tell everyone the truth—but ye’d best be sure ye can live with your choice.”

  Ronat stepped into the open doorway. Both men looked at her sharply.

  “Maccus wants you, Fergus,” she said, giving no indication she’d overheard their conversation.

  “I’ll go see him. We’re done here. The laird has some choices to make.”

  She moved aside to let him pass and kept her eyes on Malcolm. He rubbed his hand over his eyes, looked shaken. She longed to go to him, touch him, put her arms around him.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked. He looked up at her, let his eyes travel over her, his expression unreadable once again. He stopped at the smudges of blood on the sleeve of her gown where Maccus had grabbed her arm.

  “Good God, are you hurt?” he asked.

  “No, it’s Maccus’s blood,” she said quickly. “From his wounds. No one else would tend him.”

  His eyes were cold. “I see no reason why you should either. Especially you.”

  “He’s a guest here—”

  “As are you.”

  She blushed at the reminder. It was the responsibility of the lady of Dunbronach to care for guests in her home. But she wasn’t really Malcolm’s wife. She was an outsider.

  “Will you tell Glenna that Maccus is her father?” she asked boldly.

  “Did he tell you he was?” He stood with his arms folded over his chest, his chin high, his expression stern. He looked every inch the imperious Lowland lawyer now—or a hanging judge.

  “No. I overheard Fergus,” she admitted. She waited for him to scold her for listening at the door, but he simply shrugged.

  “There’s no reason for her to know.”

  Ronat stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “Don’t you think she has the right to know the truth?”

  “The truth is that she hates Maccus. She’d be devastated to know he fathered her, that she owes him any kind of respect or loyalty. He’s her enemy. The secret has been kept too long. To tell her now . . .” He turned away.

  She took a step toward him, but stopped. The forbidding set of his shoulders did not invite even a sympathetic touch. “Secrets have a way of coming out, Malcolm. Glenna is the chief’s granddaughter. What if she could have a better life at Dunscaith, an education, position?”

  He turned his head to look at her. “Do you think the chief will welcome a child of rape, one more reminder of what kind of man his son truly is? And at Dunscaith, everyone would know she was Maccus’s bastard. And how will she feel, being sent away from the only home she’s ever known to live among strangers? Nay, she’s my responsibility. Glenna is my half-brother’s child,” he said stubbornly.

  She folded her arms over her breasts and raised her chin. “And me? My past is as secret as Glenna’s, as much of a mystery. If you knew, you’d tell me, would you not?” He flinched, and she read it as guilt for Glenna’s sake. It made her rush on. “I understand how it feels not to know your past, or where you come from. Can you truly intend to do that to Glenna?”

  He shifted his gaze away. “Glenna isn’t like you. She knows where she belongs,” he said in clipped tones. “Maccus will leave in the morning, and I will forbid his return.”

  Outside, a storm was brewing. The thunder rumbled angrily in the distance, and lightning split the sky over the water. She felt her own frustration rise like the sea. “Even if it’s not my place, I must say it—I think you’re wrong, Malcolm.”

  She saw pain in his eyes, indecision, and longing. He loved Glenna, she thought. He’d do anything to protect her and everyone else at Dunbronach. He was a good man, and it was his nature. Deception, even for the kindest of reasons, did not sit well with him. While she didn’t agree with his decision, she felt the pain it was causing him.

  She crossed to him after all, reached up and touched his cheek, offered comfort. His eyes met hers, heavy lidded, his feelings hidden. Except desire. She saw that flare in the green depths. She felt it echo in her own veins, gathering inside her like the storm. Her body heated, and her lips parted as she stared up at him, unable to tear her eyes away. He scanned her face, stopped when he reached her mouth. She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. He stood without moving, stiff, unyielding, so she kissed him again and again, soft, gentle pecks, meant to absorb the pain he felt, the indecision that clung to him like a shroud. She felt a shiver of need go through him, and he groaned softly.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered against his mouth.

  He gripped her arms but didn’t push her away. “To see if you remember? It’s a dangerous game.”

  She shook her head. “No. This time it’s not a game, or a test. I don’t want to think about the past or the future or anyone else. I just want now, with you.”

  His hands tightened, and for a moment she thought he meant to push her away. He held her as he looked into her eyes, tormented. “Be sure, Ronat.” He put one hand under her chin, ran his thumb over her l
ower lip.

  She cupped his hand in hers and kissed his palm. “I’m sure.”

  “But if—” he began, and she put her finger over his lips, silencing him.

  “No, Malcolm. Tonight you are not a lawyer or a laird. I am no one’s wife, or a selkie, or even your pretend bride. I am a woman, and you are the man I desire.”

  He made an inarticulate sound in his throat and pulled her into his arms. The sensitive peaks of her breasts brushed against his chest, and she felt the evidence of his arousal against her belly. He lowered his head and kissed her, plundered her mouth with his tongue. He broke off, held her tight in his arms, his heart pounding against her own. “Oh, lass,” he murmured.

  “Take me to bed,” she whispered.

  He didn’t need a second invitation. He swung her into his arms and strode down the hall to his chamber the way he’d done before. This time he stopped a dozen feet from the bed. “Are you sure, lass? You can ch—”

  She cut him off with another kiss, and he crossed the last small distance and tumbled onto the bed, still holding her in his arms, bracing his weight above her, kissing her fiercely. She wanted all of him. She swiveled her hips restlessly, pleading for more than kisses. She wanted to touch his skin, feel it pressed to hers. She reached for the laces of his shirt, fumbled at them with fingers made clumsy by lust. He ran his fingers along the edge of her bodice, across the slopes of her breasts. Desire flowed through her, liquid and hot, pooled in her belly, her breasts, and between her legs. Her fingers tangled themselves in the half-open collar of his shirt, and she couldn’t recall how laces were managed, how they opened. She grabbed for the hem of his shirt instead and tugged it upward. He helped her, pulled it over his head, tossed it away. She gazed at the naked planes of his chest. She’d seen him this way before, in the water, but now, she let her fingers explore, caress the warmth of his flesh, the hardness of bone, the flex of supple muscles under warm skin. She followed each touch with her lips, kissed him over and over again. She felt the beat of his heart under her mouth. He was much more skilled at undressing her. She felt his hand slip inside her open bodice to caress her breast, and she sighed and arched her back as he teased her nipple, rolled it between thumb and fingers, made it swell and ache. Oh yes, this is what she’d wanted . . .

  “Malcolm,” she murmured. It turned into a moan as he bent to take the tight bud in his mouth. She tangled her fingers in his hair, held him to her. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded. She moved her hips, her legs. She was tangled in her gown, and she wanted rid of it, leaving no barriers between them.

  She reached down to cup the hard ridge under the straining fabric of his breeches and worked at the buttons. “Now I can see the true value of a kilt,” he muttered. He came free in her hand, long, hard, and hot. She caressed the length of him, and he put his hand over hers, stilling her questing fingers, his teeth gritted. “Go slow, lass,” he begged.

  She slipped off the bed and pulled her gown down over her hips and let it drop. The dirk slipped out of her sleeve, fell with a clatter. She peeled away her shift, let that fall as well, and stood before him, naked. She pulled the ribbon from her hair and dropped that too. Her hair cascaded down over her shoulders He watched her, his head propped on his elbow, his green eyes dark with desire as they roamed over her. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  She swallowed, suddenly shy. “Have there been . . .” She had no right to ask. Not about his Nancy, or any other woman. He was a handsome man. He must have had dozens, hundreds, of women in his bed.

  “Two,” he said.

  “Two?”

  He nodded.

  She swallowed. “May I—will you—take off your breeches?”

  He got up, kept his eyes on her as he slid the tight garment down over sleek, muscular male thighs, and stepped out of them. She followed the V of golden hair down over his flat belly, past the jut of his hip bones, and stopped at his magnificent erection. “I . . .” She was breathless. “I think you’re beautiful too. The most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

  He smiled faintly. “Have there been many?” he echoed her question.

  She tilted her head ruefully, blushed. “I don’t know.”

  He flushed and came to her, drew her into his arms. “Then we will make a new memory,” he said. She sought his lips as she ran her hands over him, learning him, memorizing him. She wound her legs around his hips, and he held her up, his hands under her bottom. He groaned low in his throat as he carried her the few short steps to the bed. He kissed her with agonizing slowness, going over every inch of her face, her throat, her breasts. Her hands caressed him, until they were both gasping, but still he held himself above her, teased her, drove her wild. He smoothed his hands over the curves of her body with agonizing slowness, her ribs, her belly, her hips, her thighs. His mouth trailed after his hands, his breath hot on her skin. He parted her legs until he hovered above the apex of her body. She closed her eyes, clutched the sheets as he slid his fingers between the soft curls there, and caressed her, slipped his finger into the heat of her. That pleasure was sweet enough, but then his tongue followed, and she cried out. Sweetness turned to heat. Every kiss, every caress was ecstasy as wild as the storm outside. The whole universe centered on this bed, this moment, a secret, delicious realm of pure pleasure. The sensation created by his mouth and his fingers rose higher still, spread through her limbs until she cried out, felt the night explode into shooting stars as thunder burst, echoed through her. She rose and soared, floated, her body weightless, borne up on a different tide, swept away by a swirling current that was centered deep inside her body.

  He kissed her, and she could taste her essence on his mouth. “More,” she sighed.

  “Aye,” he said, and she felt his cock nudging the place where his mouth and fingers had been. He hooked her leg over his hip and slid into her slowly. Waves of pleasure still rippled through her, and she wanted—needed—more. She panted with desire, dug her nails into his shoulders, tilted her hips up to his. “Please,” she said.

  “You’re so tight, so hot,” he murmured, hovering above her. He sank deeper, entering her fully. She cried out at the quick, sharp sting, and he froze. She opened her eyes, met the surprise, the horror, in his gaze. He began to withdraw, retreat, but she clasped him tighter with her legs, dug her fingernails into his shoulders. “Don’t you dare stop now, Malcolm Ban MacDonald!” She tilted her hips, took more of him. The pain was gone, and there was only heat and fullness and longing.

  “God help me,” he groaned. “God help us both.” He began to move, his powerful thrusts filling her, plunging deeper with each stroke.

  She felt her own climax building again, and she cried out as he thrust into her over and over, groaning her name, whispering endearments. He pulled free as he found his release.

  She reached for him, filled with a warm glow of satisfaction, but he rolled away, lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “What have I done?” he muttered.

  He did not look like a man basking in the glow of anything.

  She felt as if a wet blanket had been thrown over her. She folded her arms over her breasts.

  “You’re a virgin. Or you were. You aren’t now.”

  He sat up, his elbows resting on his knees, his back to her.

  She swallowed. “At least I know I’m no man’s wife.”

  He looked at her over his shoulder. “Don’t joke, Ronat. Not now.” His gaze turned concerned. “Did I hurt you?”

  The lump of disappointment in her throat made it impossible to speak, so she shook her head. Had it meant so little to him? She wanted to throw herself into his arms, kiss him again, hold him, be held, but he got up, found his shirt, and pulled it on over his head in sharp, angry motions, his expression carefully blank.

  She watched him, her body still tingling from his touch, his kisses. Her heart ached. She loved him—she was sure of that now. She loved him—but he was done with her, couldn’t even look at her.

  She sat
up and pulled her knees to her chest, hugged them. “What happens now?” she asked.

  “I need to think.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and leaned against the bedpost, looking miserable.

  Pride and anger made her rise to her feet. “Aye, you do.” She picked up her gown and her shift and put them on with quick, angry movements of her own.

  “You don’t understand, lass. It’s more complicated than you know.”

  She pinned him with a sharp glare. “Is it?”

  He flushed and made to come toward her, but she held up her hand to stop him. She felt tears prickle behind her eyes. She had to leave or she would cry, and her pride refused to allow that, not now, in front of him.

  “I think I’ll go and check on Glenna,” she said.

  “Do you mean to tell her that Maccus is her father?” he asked.

  Her heart fell like a dead bird. Was that all he cared about? She raised her chin. “I? Of course not. It’s not my place. But secrets have a way of getting out, Malcolm. There are folk here who know, and someday Glenna will learn the truth. If it were me, I’d want to know, to be told by the ones who love me, care about me, even if the truth was ugly.”

  She went to the door. When she looked back at him, he was standing where she’d left him, his fists clenched by his sides, his expression dark and unreadable. “You needn’t worry, Laird. I won’t say a word.”

  Lightning crept through the shutters, lit the room, illuminated Malcolm’s golden hair, cast his eyes into dark hollows of misery. She picked up her skirts and hurried down the hall on legs that shook. She didn’t stop when she reached the room where Glenna lay on a cot, with Diarmid and Beitris keeping watch beside her.

  Malcolm made it clear that she was an outsider. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong anywhere. She hurried down the stairs and out into the night. The wind shoved her backward, caught at her unbound, love-tangled hair, stole her breath. The rain soaked her to the skin in an instant and made her gasp. She fought against it, took the path that led to the beach. She had no idea where she was going, just away from Malcolm. She had her own thinking to do. The waves threw themselves high up the beach, reaching for her, clawing the pebbles out from under her feet. Clouds scudded across the sea toward her like bunched fists. Sharp needles of the ice-cold rain drove into her skin, tried to batter her to the ground. The force of it, the cruelty, stunned her. She had to find shelter, or perish. Still, she ran on. Ahead, lightning lit up Diarmid’s sturdy little hut, the place she’d awoken so many weeks ago, lost, injured, and afraid. She’d found care and comfort there, a new beginning.