by Amy Tolnitch
His gaze held hers for a long moment. He knew as she did that this would be the last time for them. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head, thinking that cold was about the furthest way to describe the heat unfurling in her belly. His gaze drifted down and Iosobal realized her breasts were half out of the water, her nipples hard and erect.
He smiled. “No, I suppose not.” Iosobal watched as he removed his clothing, willing her mind to embed this sight into her memories for the years to come. Her powerful Highlander clad in nothing but the gold of the setting sun.
He strode through the water, sinking down when he reached her side and pulling her atop his thighs. “You are a creature of water,” he said as he kissed her.
She wrapped her legs around his loins and kissed him back. Deep, passionate, hungry, she met the thrusts of his tongue with hers, taking as much as giving, gripping the hard swell of his biceps with both hands, and rubbing against his arousal with her own sensitive flesh.
When he entered her, she moaned in blessed relief. Yes, this is what she wanted, needed. But he stopped, sunk deep inside her and kissed her softly on the mouth. He gazed at her as if she were a touch of magic, brought to Earth for him alone.
“I was not talking just about Ailie in my toast,” he said softly.
Iosobal gazed at him and her heart leapt.
“I was also talking about you.”
“Lugh—”
He silenced her with a kiss, then carried her to shore. He lay her down on the sand, following her with his big body, covering her in heat. He bent and took a nipple in his mouth, sucking and licking as he began to thrust. Iosobal surged up to meet him, her body clamoring for more.
“Easy, love,” he whispered.
As the sun faded from the sky, he loved her, at first sweet and slow, and then with the force of a thunderstorm, sweeping her away into a place where only pleasure existed. Pleasure and the potent force of Lugh MacKeir.
When she felt the tension in her body build and build, she gazed into his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Give yourself to me.”
Her release took her by surprise in its intensity, more than ever before. She cried out again and again as just as when it ended, and his knowing fingers stirred her to the heights once more.
They collapsed onto the sand. Iosobal trembled and Lugh gathered her close, soothing her with soft words. She was so caught in the wonderment of what had just happened that it took her a moment to really hear him.
She met his steady gaze.
“I love you, Iosobal. Come to Tunvegan with me.”
“Tunvegan?”
He smiled and caressed her lip with his fingertip. “Aye.”
“I belong here,” she said, her heart crying out at the words.
“You belong with me. We can return to Parraba whenever you wish once I secure Tunvegan.”
“Lugh—”
“I love you,” he said fiercely, his hands gripping her shoulders.
“I—”
“Say it, Iosobal. I know you love me.”
She had to smile at his arrogance even though her heart was being rent into too many pieces to ever be made whole again.
“Tell me that you love me.” His touch gentled. “I see it in your eyes, taste it in your passion.”
“Brigid save me, I do love you,” she finally said in a broken voice.
His expression was smug. “I told you.”
“But I cannot go to Tunvegan with you.”
Smugness turned to disbelief. “Why not?”
She gestured helplessly around her. “I am the Lady of Parraba. This is my home.”
“Your sanctuary. You are hiding every bit as much as Saraid was. At least she has the courage to follow her heart.”
“I am sorry, Lugh. More than I can say.” She struggled to her feet. “But I cannot go.” Before she dissolved into tears, she turned and sent herself into her chambers.
Alone.
Chapter
XX
The next morning dawned gray and cloudy, with a cool breeze blowing in from the sea. Branor and Lugh stood on the beach, packing the boat.
Branor looked pointedly at the sky. “I take it the lady declined to come with us.”
Lugh gazed out over the sea, watching the clouds roll in. “Obviously. Stubborn woman,” he swore, kicking a clod of sand.
Piers walked over, having already bundled his, Gifford’s, and Saraid’s possessions in their craft. “Are you ready?” He appeared eager to set off.
“Nearly.”
“Odd, this weather,” Piers commented with a glance toward Lugh.
Lugh gritted his teeth. All though the night, he’d tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The image of Iosobal walking away would not leave him. Damn the woman. He’d never thought to love again, had assumed one day he’d find a companionable woman who would give Ailie a loving touch. Instead, he’d fallen deeply in love with the Lady of Parraba. He knew of no more arguments to sway her. Either she loved him enough to forsake her lonely existence and brave the world or not.
The answer was clearly not. He could barely withstand it.
“’Twill clear once we are off,” he told Piers.
Piers gazed curiously at him, but thankfully offered no blithe comment for once. “Shall we fetch the others?”
“Aye,” Lugh said. “I’ve a battle to win.” Focus on Tunvegan, he told himself. You are returning with Ailie healthy, and you’ve a duty to your people to see that Lachlann is sent on his way to Hell.
With the exception of Gifford and Saraid, blissfully unaware of anything but their newfound love for each other, it was a somber group who gathered on the beach.
Iosobal was the last to arrive.
Lugh had to marvel at how completely she cloaked herself in the remote mantle of the Lady of Parraba. It was as if the last days had never happened, her manner the same as when she first received them. Niamh and Hemming flanked her, and even Hemming’s usually taciturn face looked saddened to see them go.
Iosobal’s expression revealed nothing until she bent and gave Ailie a tight hug. “Godspeed, child,” he heard her whisper. The dog wound around them in circles, wagging her tail and licking Ailie’s face.
Ailie started crying, fat tears rolling down her face. “I shall miss you.”
“And I you. Perhaps you shall return one day.”
“I love you,” Ailie said. The piteous tone of her voice lanced through Lugh’s heart.
He walked toward his daughter and took her hand. Iosobal’s gaze met his, cool and composed. “Thank you,” he said, unable to get any further words out of his throat. If she were not able to easily escape, he would be sorely tempted to toss her in the boat. But it had to be her choice. She had made it.
She smiled down at Ailie, but when she lifted her gaze, her expression was blank. “You are welcome.”
Before Lugh did something utterly foolish like kiss Iosobal until she forgot everything else, he gave her a short nod and turned Ailie toward the boat. He felt as he was swimming through thick, foggy water, his feet shuffling through the sand. By the saints, he was leaving and she showed not a shred of sorrow, as if all they’d shared meant no more than a passing amusement.
The thought struck him that perhaps the women he’d bedded in the past had felt the same way. But no, he had always made it clear that they were in his bed for mutual pleasure, naught more. With Iosobal …
He clenched his jaw, ignoring the look of sympathy Branor sent him. “Let’s go,” he told him as he lifted Ailie into the boat.
“Where are Amphitrite and Poseidon?” Ailie asked.
Lugh didn’t answer, but climbed into the boat and motioned Branor to push them off.
The boat slowly slid over the sand, bobbing in the water once they moved past the shallows. Branor waded out and swung himself into the boat. Beside them, Piers did the same.
Lugh grabbed an oar and began paddling the boat away from shore in strong, jerky strokes. I will not look at her, he t
old himself. I will not think about her kindness to Ailie, the sweetness of her kiss, the glow in her eyes when she comes apart in my arms.
A whistle rent the air, and he glanced up. Beside the boats, Amphitrite and Poseidon swam, clicking their goodbyes. Ailie put her hand over the edge of the boat and skimmed their sleek hides, smiling.
And Lugh found himself looking to the shore.
Iosobal stood there staring at him, her hand held against her mouth. Her mask of indifference had disappeared, and even from the distance, he could see the anguish in her gaze. “Hold,” he told Branor as he slowly stood.
“Father?” Ailie asked.
“Iosobal,” he bellowed.
He saw her flinch, and Hemming put a hand on her shoulder. Her gaze held Lugh’s, and he realized that he had never seen her look so tormented, so exposed. It was there in her eyes, eyes he had once found disturbing. Now they were the only ones in which he wished to lose himself until the end of his days. Slowly, his lips curved into a grin and he flung his arms wide. “Come with me,” he shouted.
She mutely shook her head, but took a step forward. Hemming said something in her ear.
“Take a chance, Iosobal! On life.”
Tears trickled down her face, and she took another step.
The other boat had stopped. “Keep after her,” Gifford called.
Well, hell, Lugh thought. There was nothing for it but to bare his soul. “I love you, woman! Come with me. I love you,” he finished in a softer voice.
Ailie beamed a smile toward him, but he barely saw it, his breath caught, his gaze fastened on Iosobal.
Though he’d hoped, prayed that she would change her mind, he was still stunned when she laughed and plunged into the water, dragging her skirts behind her, her heart in her eyes.
Gifford and Saraid started clapping.
Once she cleared the shallows, Amphitrite and Poseidon towed her to the boat, clicking and whistling as if they approved. Lugh hauled her into the boat, and kissed her until he dimly realized that everyone was cheering.
He leaned back and grinned at her. Her hair had come loose from its plaits and her gown was drenched, but the joy in her gaze warmed him to the soul. “I do love you, you know,” she said softly.
“I told you that you did.” He laughed and lifted her, twirling her around so much that the boat tipped.
“Arrogant man,” she said with a gasp.
“Aye. But one who loves you, all of you.”
For a moment she looked stunned; then she slowly nodded. “I believe you.”
He cocked a brow. “The MacKeir does not lie.”
Ailie squeezed in between them. “Will Lady Iosobal be a MacKeir now too?”
“Aye. She is part of us now.”
“What of the dog?” Branor asked, motioning to Artemis, who was swimming toward the boat.
“Father, we must take her too!” Ailie exclaimed.
“I suppose we must.” He waited until the dog neared the boat, then bent down and grabbed her up. She landed in the keel, and shook all over, spraying them all with droplets of water.
Iosobal put her hand in Lugh’s. “Thank you.”
He just couldn’t help himself, he kissed her again.
WITHIN A SENNIGHT, BRANOR RODE THROUGH THE gatehouse at Tunvegan. For a few minutes, he had thought the guards would refuse him entry, but an old guard by the name of Feargus had called them “simpkins” and waved him in. As he rode under the guards’ watchful eyes, he thought he glimpsed a gleam of support. He had the feeling they might need it.
Both Lachlann and Maura were waiting for him in the bailey. Lachlann stood with arms crossed, frowning at Branor with clear suspicion. Branor could not bring himself to cast a glance at the treacherous bitch by his side.
He handed his horse off to a groom and walked toward them.
“Where is MacKeir?” Lachlann asked, his stance combative.
“Dead, the poor fool.” Branor looked around, pretending to be confused. “Where is Einar?”
“Dead as well. It has fallen to me to take charge of Tunvegan.”
Branor blew out a breath and wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead. “Let us continue this discussion in the hall. It has been a long and arduous journey.”
“We wish to hear the whole tale,” Maura said in a solicitous tone. “Do we not, Laird?”
“Come,” Lachlann said, before turning and striding toward the hall.
Branor followed, noting with contempt how the whore clung to Lachlann’s arm, whispering to him. He would not be surprised to learn this was her idea from the first. As he crossed the bailey, the people grew quiet. He felt their worried stares follow him, but strove not to meet anyone’s gaze, fearful that his expression would reveal too much.
Triona brought them wine, and before she could conceal it, Branor caught the look of bald hope on the woman’s face.
“Hurry up, wench,” Lachlann snarled as he seized the jug. “I am thirsty.”
“I am sorry, Laird.” She set down cups and scuttled away.
“Are you hungry, Branor?” Maura asked sweetly.
“Aye.” He took a cup of wine from Lachlann, but waited for the other man to drink first.
“Triona!” Lachlann yelled. “Bring food.” He tossed back a drink of wine, put his beefy hands on the table, and stared at Branor. “So, MacKeir is dead.” He did not bother to conceal his satisfaction.
Branor nodded, affecting an expression of disgust. “Aye, God rest his troubled soul. His quest for the isle became an obsession. He could not accept that it was naught but a fable. Our food and water had nearly run out, and still he would not cease roaming the sea in hopes of finding it.”
“How did he die?” Lachlann’s eyes gleamed.
“We ran into a powerful storm. Lugh did nothing but rail against it, as if it was God himself damning him. I couldna control the boat. We tipped and both Lugh and wee Ailie were swept away.” He took a drink of wine. “I was lucky enough to grab hold of a broken plank. For days I floated, lost in the middle of the sea with no land in sight.” He pounded his fist on the table for emphasis. “Cast adrift by my stupidity in not seeing that the laird had lost his wits.”
“A sad story, to be sure,” Lachlann said smoothly. “But how did you survive?”
“A fisherman finally spotted me, and took me to shore. If not for him, I would be naught but food for the fish by now.” Branor shook his head. “And to think I believed in the laird.” He smacked his forehead, hoping he was not overplaying it. “A fool I was.”
“None of us wanted to admit that Lugh had gone mad,” Maura said and laid a hand on Branor’s arm.
He fought the urge to toss his wine into her face.
“’Tis fortunate we were to have Lachlann, or who knows what might have befallen us,” she continued in the same honeyed voice.
Branor began to think the MacCaoigh was too good for her.
Triona set down a platter of bread, cheese, and cold meat.
“Thank you, Triona,” Branor said with a smile. “I vow I could gnaw on the table leg.” He stabbed a chunk of cheese with his dagger and brought it to his mouth.
Lachlann eyed the blade before saying, “We are, of course, pleased that you were able to return to Tunvegan, Branor.”
“No more than I,” Branor responded around a mouthful of cheese.
Lachlann took out his dagger and flipped it from hand to hand. “All here have sworn their loyalty to me. Can I expect the same from you?”
Branor barely managed to swallow the cheese. Deceitful bastard, he thought, relishing the image of Lugh cleaving the man’s head from his shoulders. “You are laird now.” He stood and drew his sword, then went to his knees. “I swear to serve you as you deserve.” His gaze caught Triona’s, who hovered just out of Lachlann’s reach. Her eyes widened at his words, though neither Lachlann nor Maura appeared to note the qualification of his oath.
“You may go,” Lachlann said, with a wave of his hand. “Take the food with you
. I am sure you are fatigued from your travels.”
“Aye. Thank you, Laird.” Branor grabbed up the platter and jug of wine. As he passed Triona, he murmured, “Find me.” He made himself walk slowly out of the hall, feigning weariness, while inside he longed to turn and thrust his sword through Lachlann’s chest. Not yet, he told himself. But soon.
He had a small dwelling against one of the inner walls, and he retired there with his provisions to wait for nightfall. Though he was indeed weary, he did not sleep, but watched the activity in the bailey from the shadows of his quarters. The typical sounds of life in the castle came to him: the strike of steel, the neighing of horses, the barking of dogs—but the usual din of voices was muted, as if the entire castle dwelled under an ominous cloud.
In the late afternoon, he heard a scratching at his doorway. He became alert, palming his dagger. “Who is it?”
“Triona,” a voice whispered. “May I enter?”
He sheathed his dagger. “Aye.” Triona appeared in the doorway, glanced around her, and dashed inside.
“Is it true? Is the laird dead?”
“Come closer,” he told her.
She inched into the depths of his dwelling.
Branor studied her. If Triona could not be trusted, then Branor knew he would be slain before he had the chance to provide any aid to Lugh. It was a risk they must take. “No,” he said softly.
Triona let out a breath and put her hand to her chest. “Thank the good Lord.”
“He needs your help.”
“Anything.” Her face twisted in hate. “Lachlann is a pig.”
Branor whispered their plans into her ear. When he finished, she sent him a hard smile. “’Twill be my pleasure.”
“LET ME DO THIS FOR YOU,” IOSOBAL PLEADED.
“No.” Lugh barely looked up from polishing his sword.
“I can pretend that I am a traveler who was attacked and lost her way.”
His gaze was amused. “No one of able mind would mistake you for a simple traveler.” He scowled. “And I would not risk you alone with Lachlann.”
“What if the henbane is not enough? What if you—?”
