by Amy Jarecki
Even raising her arms was difficult, but Ian lifted her up and pulled her shift from under her, then made swift work of tugging it over her head. The day was warm, and Merrin felt not a twinge of embarrassment sitting on the stool completely nude.
She closed her eyes while he dipped a cloth in the warm water and ran it over her face. It was invigorating. He cleansed her fingers and up each arm, then moved to her back with languid swirling motion. Merrin closed her eyes and melted into his gentle touch.
“Does it feel good?”
“Mm hmm.”
Ian’s cloth ran over her chest, the warmth soothing with the slight chill after tingling preventing her from completely drifting into slumber. Merrin sucked in a quick inhale when he cleansed her breasts. Instantly heavy, desire shot through her core. Only moments ago, she didn’t think she could manage lovemaking, but now her body ached for it.
Ian suckled her while he bathed her belly.
“Ye’re torturing me.”
“Am I?” He sounded none too concerned, and circled the cloth over her womanhood. “Open your legs.”
“But—”
“There too.”
She opened her eyes long enough to give him a knowing look. Hot fire burned in her loins, but he didn’t linger. Slowly, he continued down her legs and forced the warm water between her toes. She reached for him and pulled his body close. The column of his erection pressed between her breasts. All she needed to do was hike up his kilt, and she could suckle him too.
But Ian patted her hair and stepped away. He pulled his shirt out from his kilt and over his head. “Put this on. I’ll go wash your things.”
She held the linen against her naked body, a tad disappointed. “But I can do that.”
He picked up her clothes. “Aye, ye can.” In a blink of an eye, he was gone.
Merrin tugged Ian’s shirt over her head and exhaustion returned full force. Inhaling Ian’s masculine scent, she headed for the pallet of straw they’d made at the back of the workshop.
Ian would be along soon. He had to be every bit as tired as she.
***
Well rested, Ian took one last swing with the axe. The gnarled birch tree crashed to the ground.
Merrin clapped her hands. “Ye did it.”
Did she think he couldn’t? Ian chuckled. “Only ten to twenty more to go.”
“That many?”
“Ye want the roof sound, do ye not?”
“Aye.”
He gestured to the small grove of trees. “These are not the best for building, so we’ll need plenty of them.”
Merrin used a hatchet to chop off the limbs while Ian started on another birch.
After felling it, he wiped his brow with the back of his shirtsleeve. “I’ll need to go to Brochel and fetch the galley and me inheritance soon. It is our key to a better life. We will be able to sail to Glasgow and trade for seeds and plants—mayhap even start a grove of cinchona trees.” He laughed. “Do ye ken how rich we’d be if we invented a surefire cure for ague?”
He watched her lovely hips as she bent to cut off another limb. “I’ve no idea, but I do no’ care about wealth so long as we’ve a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs and food in our bellies.”
They’d made love all morning, but he still could go another round with Merrin—or forty. “That’s no’ the only thing I want in your belly.”
She held up her palm. “Oh no, Ian. We’ve a roof to build afore bairns come.”
He swung the axe to dissuade his errant thoughts. “I want ye to go with me.”
“Where?”
“To fetch the galley.”
“Nay.” She shook her head firmly. “I’m no’ going back to Brochel.”
He took a swing at another tree. “I do no’ want to leave ye here alone.”
“Why? Da left me alone plenty.”
“Aye, but that was afore half the clan wanted to see ye burned.”
Merrin snapped up straight. “Do ye think they still want that?”
“Nay.” Ian slammed the axe into the trunk so hard the tree crashed to the ground. “I just do no’ want ye to be alone. Not ever.”
Merrin’s hands found her hips in a defiant pose. “I—”
Gar’s bark resounded from the direction of the cottage. It wasn’t one bark, but a barrage of hysterics.
Ian picked up his scabbard from the ground and drew his sword. “Ye stay here.”
“I thought ye didn’t want me out of your sight.” She always chose the damnedest times to argue.
“Ye kent what I meant.”
Merrin hastened to his side. “Ye’re no’ going without me.”
The back of Ian’s neck burned. Why couldn’t she understand this was different? “What if it is a mob?”
“I’ll stay hidden.” She urged him forward with a flick of her hand. “I’ll creep behind ye until we reach the coop. I’ve a bow and some arrows hidden there.”
Holy Mother, he could have used those when they ran from Rewan. “Ye’re full of surprises.” He hastened forward, mindful of his footfalls. He didn’t want to snap a twig and make undue noise. “Do no’ forget ye promised to stay out of sight.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Gar’s barking grew nearer while Merrin marched behind Ian until they reached the chicken coop. He placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “I meant what I said. Stay out of sight.”
Though she didn’t like it one bit, she nodded. “Can ye no’ stay here and wait for whomever it is to come up the hill?” Yapping, Gar barreled around the corner. “Wheesht.” She grasped the deerhound’s collar and pulled him to her side. He yowled and tugged. Merrin shook her finger in front of his nose. “Stay.”
She turned to Ian, expecting a hug, but he was already twenty paces beyond the coop. Her gut clenched. “Ian,” she whispered as loud as her voice would allow.
He snapped his head around and held up his palm, commanding her to stay. But he didn’t miss a step.
Merrin’s stomach roiled. She should be by his side, not hidden. She slipped behind the coop door and found the bow and arrows she’d placed there years ago. Honestly, she’d completely forgotten about them until Gar had launched into his maniacal barking. She grabbed the dog’s collar. “Come.”
Pulling Gar beside her, Merrin crouched behind the rock wall and made her way up to the stony crag that overlooked the caol. She crawled onto the moss-covered crag—the one where she’d often sit and stare across at Raasay, dreaming of what it would be like to visit the big castle. On her belly, she pulled herself to the edge and looked back at her dog. “Down.” Gar dropped and crawled beside her. “Stay,” she growled with her lowest, fiercest voice.
Her hands shook. She didn’t care for facing death daily, weekly or ever—how men went to war, she couldn’t fathom. She spread a clump of heather with her hands and peeked down to the shore. God no. She could never in her life mistake the sleek lines of Rewan’s galley.
He promised to leave us alone. He took Ian’s dirk. What more does he want? Merrin clenched her teeth. Rewan MacLeod had to be the lowest backstabbing bastard she’d ever come across. He was in a league with the hideous pirates from Rona.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Ian creeping toward the crest of the bluff. She opened her mouth to warn him, but before she could utter, Ian bellowed a sound so frightening, Merrin thought he’d been skewered. Then he ran ahead full tilt, braying like a mad bull.
Gar growled. Merrin yanked down on his collar. “Wheesht. Stay. I mean it.”
Men poured over the side of the galley, all roaring their battle cries, hellbent on murder.
Ian didn’t stand a chance against so many. Merrin snatched an arrow from the quiver. Niall had taught her to shoot well, but her lessons were eons ago. Still on her stomach, she tried to steady her shaking hands and aim. Releasing, the string grazed her arm. Worse, the blasted thing missed her man by ten feet. He ran through the surf without noticing an arrow hit the water behind him.
Gar whined and stood.
Merrin grabbed another arrow. “Stay.”
This time she rose to her knees. Her hands steadied. She could do this—she must help Ian. Merrin pulled the bowstring to her ear and eyed her mark. The arrow darted through the air faster than peregrine falcon dives. In a blink, the evil man hurled backward. The arrow lodged in his chest.
She’d killed a man. She wanted to vomit. Her hands shook violently.
Ian’s sword clanged. Merrin’s resolve returned with full force. Rewan got to him first, with five men behind. Merrin snatched another arrow, and another, each one hitting its mark with more accuracy than she’d ever had at target practice. Three men down.
Ian spun, his claymore catching the light. It clanged as he fought Rewan and the other two warriors, all at once.
Gar stood and whined. Merrin snatched an arrow and glanced at him. A trained war dog? He could save Ian. Making a quick decision, Merrin pointed to the skirmish. “Go.”
Gar bounded ahead, snarling. He latched on to a warrior’s arse and dragged him from the circle of swinging blades. Ian swung his sword, fighting like a machine. Rewan and his man encroached upon him. Ian constantly stepped backward as he fought. Merrin held her bow to her cheek, but had no clear shot. If she released, there was every chance she’d hit her dog or Ian.
Things moved so fast, she could only glimpse flashes of Ian and Gar. Merrin’s mind raced. Ian couldn’t fight them off much longer.
Gar yelped and staggered out from the center of the fight. “No!” She tried to run, but hands grabbed her from behind.
***
Ian’s muscles burned. Gar’s yelp knifed at his gut. If the dog was in the middle of the fight, where was Merrin? He couldn’t avert his eyes, else Rewan’s sword would lodge in his gut. Why was the bastard here, damn it all? He’d ask, but couldn’t stop gnashing his teeth and grunting with each deflection. Ian could scarcely blink. In fact, he didn’t.
He could take Rewan man to man, but the two other warriors flanking him proved deadly. He couldn’t see around them, but prayed an army of men wasn’t pouring out of the galley moored in the caol.
Every sinew in Ian’s body strained to defend an attack by a battleaxe from the right. He didn’t recognize the beast hacking his blade with the strength of a warhorse. Ian swung his sword across his midsection and deflected Rewan’s thrust. The brute to his left raised his weapon over his head. Ian used the momentum of his sword, levering it into the exposed gut. Thank God seafaring men didn’t wear mail. Ian’s blade tore through flesh as the stunned fighter fell forward.
Ian yanked his claymore free and spun around.
Christ. As if three weren’t enough, the battle cry of an entire army roared from the shore.
Ian girded his loins, praying they’d treat Merrin well. He’d fight and defend her with his last breath, but no man could take down an entire army with nothing but a sword and a dirk. Savagely, he wielded his weapon. Muscles burning, he had no idea how much longer he could last. Rewan hacked at him, eyes blazing, every jab targeted for a kill.
Spinning, Ian flinched to dodge a blow from the battleaxe. Rewan’s sword clashed with the downward thrust of the axe. Ian’s eyes snapped to the henchman. What? The brute just defended me from being cut in two?
Ian found his breath. “Why are ye here?”
“A spy saw ye at Brochel, ye bastard.”
Ian shoved the man with the battleaxe to the ground and circled Rewan. He had an inkling men were fighting along the shore, but couldn’t take his eyes off the Lewis henchman. His mind clicked. Why are so many fighting each other and not bearing down on me? He tried to glance to the caol, but Rewan lunged in with a sparring move.
“Ruairi cut me loose.”
“Then why are ye trying to murder me?”
“Because he’s in the galley. If I kill ye, he’ll let me live. If ye fall by another’s blade, I’m a dead man.”
Ian slashed downward with a move that could kill if he let his sword slice close enough, but he held it back. “Is that it? Life or death?”
“Aye.” With a toxic roar, Rewan lunged. Ian jumped aside, but not fast enough. The blade nicked his flank.
At Eilean Donan, Ian had held the milk-livered bastard’s life in his hands. He chose not to take it because he rued killing a man who’d been a friend. He had no choice now. Either he killed Rewan or he’d risk losing Merrin. Ian bore down and spun, leveling a blow to end it all. Rewan dropped to his knees. Ian’s blade hissed over the henchman’s head.
Expecting Rewan’s offensive attack, Ian swung his sword back to defend a strike. No blow came.
Rewan fell face first into the dirt. Ian looked up. Sir Bran grinned beneath his embattled helm with a crooked nosepiece, his face splattered with blood. The big man had knocked Ruairi’s henchman unconscious with the pommel of his claymore.
A slow smile spread across Ian’s face as he lowered his sword. “Where the hell did ye come from?”
Bran moved in beside him, training his weapon across the scene. “I thought I might receive a warmer welcome, considering I just saved your arse.”
Only men from Brochel remained standing along the shore. Ian breathed a sigh of relief. “Och, I’m glad Ye’re here. More than glad, but what brought ye?”
“After all ye and Merrin did for the clan, Alexander thought he’d pay ye a visit.”
Merrin’s shriek fired like an arrow on the wind. Gar yelped. With effort, the dog stood, favoring his front right. He barked and bounded, as if unscathed, toward the caol.
Leaving Rewan writhing on the ground, Ian and Bran ran. Old Ruairi stood at the helm of the galley, beckoning two men to carry Merrin to the ship.
She twisted and struggled against her captors. “Get your hands off me.”
Ian bellowed his war cry and raced ahead, his chest heaving He’d risk everything to save her. He’d never wanted to cut a man down so vehemently. Any man who touched his betrothed would pay in blood. Water splashed in all directions as his feet plunged into the surf. He barreled between Merrin and the ship. Sword held level, ready for a killing blow, he faced them. “Release her.”
Ruairi’s grating voice crackled behind. “Me wife-stealing nephew has risen from the dead.”
Gar latched on to the arse of one bastard and whipped his head from side to side. The man yelped with pain, but Gar held on. He dropped to his knees, reaching for his dirk. Gar shuffled away. The man started after him but fell to the ground, rubbing his backside.
Ian kept his sword trained on the guard who had his hands latched to Merrin’s arm. He could kill him just for touching her.
Ruairi chuckled behind. “Lower your weapon, nephew. I’ve an archer aiming at your back.”
Bran barreled behind Ian and held up his targe. “Nay. Tell your men to stand down, or Alexander will blast your wee boat out of the water.”
Ian snapped his gaze to the sound and back. God bless his brother. The Golden Sun was moored in deep water with all eighteen of her guns at the ready. Alexander had lowered a skiff and two men manned the oars, rowing him ashore with Friar Pat astern. The Raasay chieftain stood in the boat with fists on his hips.
Alexander mirrored the fierce image of their father. “Uncle, ’tis time ye stop this madness,” he hollered over the roaring surf. “I’ll stand beside ye through the bowels of hell, but Ye’re no’ killing me brother or Miss Merrin.” He pointed back to his ship. “I guarantee me cannons are aimed at your galley. Ye do no’ stand a chance.”
Ruairi’s eyes darted across the scene. He motioned to his man. “Ye may have won for now, but do no’ forget, I have more guns and men. I’ll be back.”
Alexander shook his finger. “Do ye really want to start a feud between our clans? All because of a wayward woman? A woman you’ve divorced and ruined before all the world?”
Ian pushed Ruairi’s man aside and pulled Merrin into his arms. Closing his eyes, he squeezed until she might break. Her warm body molded to his side. He never wante
d to let her go—never wanted to see another man touch her in any way. “Are ye all right, my love?”
She drew in a ragged breath and nuzzled against him. “Aye.”
He held her by the shoulders and met her gaze with determination. “There’s one thing I must do. Stay here with Gar.”
She nodded.
Ian grasped the arse-bitten man by the shoulder and marched through the thigh-deep water to his uncle’s galley. He grabbed the guard by his bleeding backside, hefted him into the boat and faced his uncle. “Before ye leave, I’ll have me dirk returned.”
Ruairi folded his arms. “Ye do no’ deserve it, ye thieving bastard.”
Ian’s nostrils flared, heat flushing through his blood. “Ye call me a thieving bastard?” he yelled. “What about ye? Ye’re a wife beater, and gloat about it. I’m ashamed to call ye kin.”
Ruairi launched himself over the side with Ian’s dirk aimed to kill. Ian snatched his uncle’s wrist and twisted. The dirk dropped into the shallow water. Grasping his uncle by the crotch, Ian hefted the old man back into the galley. “Get him out of here afore I lose me temper.”
He bent down and fished his dirk out of the sea. Rotating it in his hand, he shoved it in his belt and he turned. Merrin stood on the shore, her arms reaching out to him. He’d fight all of Scotland to have those loving arms surround him.
***
Sir Bran tied Rewan to a post rather than send the bastard back to Stornoway to face certain death.
After the Ruairi’s galley sailed out of the sound, Merrin rushed to Gar. The dog wagged his tail and spun in a circle as if nothing had happened. She pulled him to a stop and examined his shoulder. He was cut, but not too deep. “I’ll need to stitch that up once I take ye to the workshop.”
“I’d be proud to have him fighting beside me any time.” Ian gave him a scratch behind the ears. “Ye are a war dog, are ye not?”
Alexander cleared his throat and pointed to the caol. “They’ve all come to help rebuild your cottage.”
Merrin’s jaw dropped. Ian’s galley and three others sailed into the sound. Aside from Bran’s men, who already lined the shore, she could have bet the entire clan was standing in the boats waving at them. “What on earth?” She shot a panicked grimace to Ian. “We’ve not even a roof.”
