Captured Heart

by Heather McCollum

  “Beautiful,” he murmured. Caden caressed up Meg’s arms until he reached her shoulders and began to rub. After a long moment her eyelids closed like the sun setting until her dark lashes lay against her soft, pale skin.

  “Mmmm,” she breathed, as he worked down one limb again and into her palm, massaging each finger. When he was done with her digits, he laid his hands flat against her collarbone. Slowly he washed them down over her ample breasts, his thumbs teasing her erect nipples. Meg sucked in her breath and her lashes fluttered open. She watched. Downward, his hands traveled to her belly.

  He kissed the softly rounded abdomen through her shift. “Lovely.”

  Meg’s lips relaxed open as she inhaled. His hands continued their explorations lower, down to her hipbones and the crux of her legs. The bones were delicate handholds, firm yet fragile. “Mine,” he whispered as he gripped them.

  She shivered as passion played within her eyes. Caden brought his hands together over her mound, the tight curls beneath the fabric. Her breath hitched on a gasp, and she moaned and shifted on the furs.

  Caden slid his hands down and up her long legs, marveling at the softness of her skin. He inched the thin shift higher until she was exposed to the tops of her thighs. Firelight flickered across her face and he leaned in for another kiss. His lips angled across her delicious mouth, not too hard. Cool fingers clasped over his shoulders. He touched his tongue to her lip and then slid inside for a taste. She didn’t retreat. When she imitated him, he groaned.

  He left her mouth and kissed the crook of her neck. She tasted clean, womanly, and sweet. His hand gathered the shift up and, in one swoop, pulled it entirely over her head, letting it pool into a mound of white cotton. Her two perfect breasts sat perched on her chest and he lowered his mouth to one, his hand to the other. Caden suckled at the peak and Meg pressed restlessly into the layers of furs, her breath coming out in little rasps of pleasure.

  “Caden,” she said on an exhale as he switched his mouth to the other nipple while his hands massaged them. Her legs rubbed along his, and he reached down to yank his kilt from his hips.

  Slow. He had to go slow.

  He pulled back to give her time, to give him time to regain his control. She was flushed, her lips parted, her eyes dark with passion. The sight of her raged through his blood like wild energy.

  Meg’s gaze dipped. He managed to remain still, expecting fear or worry. Instead, her bright eyes warmed, melted into deep pools. She caught her lower lip between her teeth a scant second before her tongue darted out to wet that same lip.

  Raw desire filled his chest, knocking his breath out in a groan. “Och, lass, I’m trying to give ye time.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  One little word and Caden’s years of self-control nearly shattered. In that single moment he knew he could devour his wee bride and yet lose himself in the heat of her embrace. She completely enthralled him.

  He lowered his mouth to her stomach and inhaled the warm fragrance of her skin. Bloody hell, she smelled of heaven! He rained hot kisses along her skin to her navel, where he found the mark of a small dragonfly.

  Meg leaned back on her elbows, frozen, not even breathing. The passion that had been growing in her body seemed to drain away.

  What would the witch hunters have thought of the odd mark? The thought raced fury through his already taut body. He pushed the thought aside. His anxious bride didn’t need his anger right now.

  Caden lowered his mouth to the birthmark and kissed it.

  She didn’t move. He kissed it again. “Every part of ye is beautiful, lass.”

  She inhaled, her chest rising with a full, slow cadence.

  He trailed nibbles over her stomach until Meg moaned softly and flattened onto the bed. He tasted her skin in leisurely kisses all the way up to her face, where he could stare once again into her passion-glazed eyes. He’d never tire of searching those hazel orbs.

  Caden’s hand moved from her hip to the vee between her legs. His knee parted her easily and his fingers found heat.

  “Och lass, ye are so wet,” he rasped out. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he fought to control the lust and passion roiling through him. He needed to be inside her.

  “Caden,” she murmured.

  “Let loose,” he coaxed and sunk his fingers into her. Tight and wet, her body gripped his fingers, making his length twitch in anticipation. She panted, her fingers digging into the furs.

  Her hips began to thrust upward against his hand. Caden licked a hot trail of kisses up her stomach back to her full breasts, his fingers working below.

  “Caden, please, I want you!” She bucked into his palm and her hand moved downward, along his overheated body to grasp him. Light fingers wrapped around him and he groaned against her skin.

  He growled and withdrew his fingers.

  “No,” Meg said, her legs opening wider, an invitation that he would never ignore.

  “That’s it, open for me, wife.” He leaned over so that his breath rested against her ear. “Open yer sweet lips for me,” he rasped as he nudged his tip into her open cleft. He reached under her full, rounded cheeks, lifting. “Let me fill ye,” he groaned as he surged forward, sliding through the barrier and completely embedding himself within her.

  Meg gasped and Caden stilled, heart hammering, muscles rigid, holding, waiting. “There is only pain the first time,” he promised, watching her squeezed-shut eyes. She gave a little nod, but otherwise didn’t move. He held himself on his forearms that completely encased her head, careful not to rock within her tightness.

  “I won’t move until ’tis better.” Lord, it be better soon!

  Caden brushed her lips tenderly, then kissed her neck, breathing and touching the responsive skin. His hand cupped one moon-pale breast, palming it and brushing the taut nipple. His mouth replaced his hand as he licked and teased the sensitive flesh. Meg moaned and her hips moved upward, sliding along him.

  The friction almost made him surge forward, but he held still. “Better?” he gritted out.

  “Better,” she panted.

  Caden needed no other encouragement. “Open yer eyes, Meg,” he said as he leaned over her face. His body coiled below as he moved his hand down between her legs. He rubbed and she moaned, moving against him. Her eyes flicked shut.

  “Look at me, lass,” he commanded and she opened her eyes. He wanted her to see his intensity, see the honest fervor in his face, see the one who brought her exquisite pleasure.

  Passion and heat floated in those brilliant hazel orbs. Caden groaned and plunged into her. She moaned deeply, staring up into his eyes as they thrust together over and over again, giving to one another, taking from one another, sharing, building, marking each other.

  Her fingers curled into the furs. The rhythm took over and her head tipped back as she arched, thrusting her breasts high.

  He couldn’t resist. His teeth nipped down on a pink nipple moving before his mouth and he swirled his tongue around it, pulling her breast into his mouth.

  “Caden!” she cried, grinding into him.

  Her plea sparked through him. Blood rushing, heart pounding, deep slamming, shooting him higher and higher. His body coiled. How much longer could he last with her hot channel sucking along his rock-hard length?

  He feathered quickly against her sensitive nub. Meg’s eyes flew to his, fluttering shut and then open again. He rubbed faster, his body meeting her own until her body tightened around him.

  “Caden!” she screamed. With her head thrown back, she arched into the bed.

  His forearms closed around either side of her head and he stared into her eyes. “Mine, ye are mine,” he roared as he pumped into her body.

  She shuddered. He continued in and out until her body stopped convulsing. Caden lowered, careful not to crush her with his full weight. He kissed her, his hand wiping the damp hair from her forehead.

  How in bloody hell had he found such a match? Passion and spirit, beauty and courage. She w
as…everything.

  Caden settled them onto their sides. Legs and arms entwined, he pulled the furs, cocooning them as one.

  She nuzzled into his neck below his chin. Her lips tickled against his skin. “Now we are truly wed.”

  He chucked low. “Perhaps we should go again just to make certain.”

  After several minutes, when their hearts slowed back to a normal pace, Meg moved against him. Bloody hell, he was hard again already. His breath caught when her wee hand tickled a path down his chest. “Meg, ye are too tender just yet.”

  A faint blue light illuminated the furs and then blinked out again. “Not so tender anymore,” she whispered and slid her lush naked body alongside him.

  Caden grinned and groaned at the same time as her fingers found his length. Aye, her gift was indeed a blessing.

  …

  Meg rolled within the warmth of the blankets and stretched her arms overhead. Oh, what a night! Her body ached in places it never had before. She stifled a giggle and sent a brief healing wave of blue light inside and out. She opened her eyes as she basked in the decadent caress of the fur against her naked skin. The curtains of the bed were pulled back and sunlight streamed through the narrow, glassed-over windows.

  “Caden?”

  No answer. A late morning sun slanted brightly into the room. Perhaps he had to see to his men. He was The Macbain after all.

  She noticed a wooden platter with cheese, ham, and a drink. Meg pinched up the small piece of parchment caught under the mug.

  Good morning, wife. C.

  Meg’s brows furrowed slightly. Thoughtful. No mention of love, but thoughtful was a good start.

  A tapping at the door made Meg yank the furs up to her chin. Fiona peeked in. “I’ve come to get ye ready.”

  “Ready?”

  Meg dove below the covers when two of Caden’s men carried in buckets of water for a bath. Fiona directed the men, who kept their eyes averted before turning back to Meg. “Yer wedding feast.”

  The men left and Fiona helped Meg to the tub of hot water.

  Meg sank into the clean, scented water with a long sigh. “Heaven.”

  Fiona laughed. Meg was about to sink in deep and close her eyes when the woman pulled a brush through her tangled hair. “Och, but the wee folk were busy tying yer long curls into knots last night.”

  Hopefully the woman would just think Meg’s pink skin was from the hot water and not the thought of exactly what she was doing last night.

  Scrubbed clean, brushed, and cinched tightly into her gown, she descended the winding staircase with Rachel.

  “You are certainly refreshed,” Rachel said and winked at Meg. Meg focused on cooling her blush.

  They walked up to the long table in the great hall. The three council members stood when they approached.

  Kenneth bowed deeply. “Welcome, Lady Macbain.”

  Others in the hall did the same.

  Kenneth cleared his throat. “And Lady Munro,” he added, though quieter.

  “Ah, there he is.” Rachel walked toward the door where Caden stood with Colin Macleod. Ewan and Donald kicked snow off their boots.

  Caden. Meg couldn’t help but stare for a moment at her husband. Tall and straight and covered with a dusting of fresh snow. Flakes melted in his thick, dark hair. He turned, his gaze capturing hers, warming her from the inside out.

  “Colin Macleod.” Rachel again waved for them to move closer to the hearth, where they now stood apart from the bustle of preparation. Meg watched her husband stride casually toward her.

  Caden’s hand went straight to her hair, brushing it from her face. “Ah, I thought I spied a leaf,” he said, blue-gray eyes reflecting the snowy sky outside. “They seem to have a fondness for yer curls.”

  “I’ve been inside. No leaves,” she answered, her breath a bit shallow because he stood so close and smelled so good.

  Caden combed his fingers down and leaned close to her ear. “Perhaps it was a downy feather from our nest above.”

  There was no controlling the blush now. “Thank you for the food, though I would have come down with you if you hadn’t left so quietly.”

  He grinned. “Ye sleep like the departed, lass. At least when ye are worn out.”

  “Enough,” Rachel scolded. “You’ll make the girl ignite with her blushes.”

  “They are newlyweds, Rachel,” Colin said. “We should leave them be.”

  “Oh no, Colin Macleod.” She frowned. “A truth needs to be told.”

  “A truth?” Meg turned to the clean-shaven man. Without his beard he came across as much more civilized. His brown hair was shot with red and his eyes seemed familiar somehow.

  Rachel nudged him with her elbow. “Go on.”

  “I…” He rubbed a hand down the back of his neck as if it pained him. “I knew yer mother, lass.”

  “Yes. Were you close?”

  Rachel seemed almost giddy. “Meg, you aren’t blood related to a monster after all.”

  What were they talking about?

  “Isabelle,” Colin said, “and I were handfasted in the Highland way.”

  “Married,” Rachel translated.

  Meg’s breath held in her lungs as her mind whirled around what they were getting at. “You mean…”

  Rachel clasped both their hands. “Meg, meet your real father. ’Twould seem you are a Macleod.”

  Chapter Nine

  1 January 1518—Heather: green, wiry shrub, small leaves with white or purple/pink flowers in mid to late summer. Find in rocky soil on northern moors and mountains in the Highlands.

  A brew from the plant will break stones in the urine. The decoction calms nerves that plague the heart and suppresses coughs. Its fragrance sends the mind to the western sea.

  “My father?” Meg stared at the man, weighing him, the one who’d let her mother go. He was big, a Highlander for certain. His hand came up to his chin as if to pull at the beard that was no longer there.

  “I didn’t know,” he said low as if he read the hardness of her eyes.

  Was she that transparent? Meg concentrated on presenting a blank face.

  “If I’d known she was with child, I would never have let her leave despite how she begged me to let her go.” Colin’s voice had turned rough. “Isabelle was always dutiful, and when her father threatened to bring England down on the Macleods…she just gave in.”

  “I don’t think she knew she was pregnant yet,” Rachel said softly. “She would have told me.”

  “I saw ye once,” Colin said. “I came to drag her back to Scotland. I saw ye peek out the window when I found her in the garden.” He shook his head. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have left without both of ye.”

  Rachel clasped Meg’s hand. “All these years, I thought you were Boswell’s daughter. That was until I saw Colin without all that fur hiding his face.” She glanced between them. “Meg, you look exactly like him.”

  The council of three came closer, having overheard the startling news.

  “Bloody lucky for Caden, not too much,” Bruce said.

  Two men that had ridden with Colin from Macleod territory walked over, their gazes curious. Narrowed eyes studied Colin and then moved to her in unison. A slow grin broke through the beard on the tall Macleod with fuzzy red hair.

  “She is your likeness, Colin,” the man named Seonaidh said. “Most fervently.” He slapped Colin’s shoulder. “See, man? You do have a direct heir. Shame she can’t grow a beard and throw a sword, but an heir just the same.”

  “Aye, but she can shoot,” Colin boasted.

  Meg’s own happiness pulled at her lips. Colin Macleod was her father, not Rowland Boswell, traitor to the English crown and murderer of her mother, the monster who wanted to torture her.

  “I remember, I think,” Meg said, the memories hazy and mixed with fear. She slid her hand in her pocket where her key sat heavy, and she pulled it out.

  “The key,” Colin said.

  Everyone in the circle moved closer
in, heads bowed to see the intricate scrollwork etched into the handle. Jonet, Ann, and Donald had joined the group. Meg could barely see the key in her hand with everyone intent on studying it.

  “My mother left it for me,” she said.

  “Aye,” Colin said. “I gave it to her when I came to England.” His large finger touched the odd lines carved into the iron.

  “What does it unlock?” Meg asked.

  “Nothing,” he said, still staring at the piece.

  “Then what is its purpose?” Caden asked from his place behind Meg.

  Colin raised his eyes above her to Caden. “Isabelle made a map.” He moved along one line up to the right until the end. “This is the way to the cave where we handfasted, our place in the mountains.”

  “Which mountains?” Caden asked.

  “The large ones behind Druim.”

  No one said anything. Meg swallowed hard. “’Lorg an lus seo ann an uamh, an fuar uamh le moran na frith-rathaidean agus an blath cridhe anns am meadhon’,” she recited.

  “Find this plant in a cave, a cold cave with many paths and a warm heart in the middle,” Rachel translated.

  “Plant?” Colin asked.

  Meg shook her head, excitement sparking through her. “The description comes from her medicine journal.” Her gaze moved to Caden. “We are so close.”

  “The papers?” Colin asked, and everyone turned to him.

  “If ye mean the letters Meg’s been trying to find that prove Boswell planned to assassinate his king,” Caden said, “then yes.”

  Colin’s mouth opened as he stared between them. “Is that what they were? Are?”

  “You didn’t read them?” Meg asked with disbelief. First he let her mother go because she asked him to, and then he didn’t read the letters that would have shown how much danger she was in.

  “She made me swear not to.”

  “Why would ye do a thing like that, man?” Angus blustered.

  “They were in English anyway,” Colin said and reddened. “I only read Gaelic.”

  “Well bloody good ye didn’t just do what she asked,” Bruce said. “A man should know all to see what is best to be done.”