This is love. This is how things should be, she thought as she opened her eyes to find Alex staring down at her, his own gaze filled with burning adoration.
He’d released his manhood from his breeches, and with perfect precision, he positioned himself at her entrance. On one smooth glide, he seated himself fully inside her.
Her inner muscles rippled, welcoming the powerful, rigid length of him and he groaned.
‘Sweet Jesus, Sarah. You feel so good.’
She curled her hands around his granite-hard shoulders. ‘Love me, Alex.’
‘Always.’
***
Alex bent his head and tenderly claimed Sarah’s mouth, hoping his kiss would clearly demonstrate all of the love he felt for her, deep in his heart. She kissed him back, threading her fingers through his hair, pressing her naked breasts against his chest, stoking his need and setting every nerve alight until his entire body was ablaze with desire.
Sarah’s need must have been acute too; moaning into his mouth, she tilted her hips, rocking against him, and he was overwhelmed by the urge to move, to take his pleasure as she had invited him to earlier.
He set up a slow, steady rhythm, sliding in and out of her with long, sure strokes, holding her gaze, loving her with his eyes. Even when he increased the tempo, thrusting harder and faster, steadily driving them both towards release, she kept up with him. She gripped his shoulders, her rhythmic pants and moans pure music to his ears.
When the warm sleek satin of Sarah’s inner passage clenched around him and she cried out, he knew she’d found ecstasy again. His heart swelled and his own orgasm began to gather, the pressure building deep in his spine and his balls. He pumped harder, his cock thickening, his blood pounding until he couldn’t hold back any longer. With a hoarse cry he let go and blinding pleasure crashed through him. His body quaking, his chest heaving, he collapsed on top of Sarah, boneless with a satisfaction that bordered on profound.
Dear God, he was the most fortunate man alive to have Sarah. And to think she loved him back, that was the true miracle.
Reluctantly, he pulled away from his love. As much as he wanted to undress her slowly and make love to her again, they had to make plans for the morrow and the coming days. And they needed to sleep.
He called for hot water and supper, and once they were washed and their hunger sated—Alex couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten—they snuggled together on the settee before the fire. Sarah, wearing his dark blue velvet banyan with a cup of chocolate in hand, looked utterly content as she leant against his chest. With a sigh—he didn’t want to dispel the peace surrounding them—he asked Sarah to go through the events of the afternoon and evening in greater detail so he could better assess the situation.
When she described how Tay had threatened to disfigure her, he tightened his grip on his tumbler of whisky so much, he was surprised the glass didn’t shatter in his hand. The fact that Sarah had been able to think so clearly and cleverly and then take decisive action to extricate herself from such a terrifying situation made his chest swell with admiration.
He kissed the top of her head when she’d finished her tale.
‘We will need to leave Blackloch in the morning and make ourselves scarce for a little while, just to be safe,’ he said.
‘I know I knocked Malcolm out, but I’m still worried about what he will do. He wants me back. And I’m sure he wants to punish you.’
‘I agree, we do need to be careful. But we are safe for tonight. And I have the support of the dragoon captain here. Malcolm cannot do much at the moment.’
Sarah put down her hot chocolate and frowned. ‘But the dragoon captain doesn’t know you’re Alexander MacIvor. What if Malcolm goes to him come morning and tells him who you really are?’
‘Ah, you see Captain Hamilton does know who I am, my love. And he doesn’t care.’
‘Is that part of your “arrangement” with him?’
‘More or less. As I mentioned, he’s very grateful that I’ve been working with him to end the lawlessness that had been plaguing Kinloch and the whole area. Tay would have to convince another dragoon commander much farther afield to come and arrest me. So for tonight, I trust we are not in any danger. I’ll send word to Captain Hamilton at first light, letting him know he may receive a visit from the irate Earl of Tay.’
Sarah smiled and rested her head against his shoulder again. ‘That is a relief to know.’ She curled her fingers around his; it was a simple gesture that spoke of how close they’d grown in such a short space of time. He put aside his whisky, intending to kiss her but she spoke again. ‘You haven’t told me how your visit to your friend went. You said he might be able to help you gain a pardon.’
Alex grimaced with guilt. ‘I’m sorry. In all the excitement of having you back here safe and sound, I have neglected to tell you the good news. I have the support of another earl, one who is highly connected, the Earl of Strathburn. I’ll be meeting with him and the Lord Advocate of Scotland in Edinburgh next week. All going well, I will be granted clemency.’
‘You will?’ Sarah turned in his arms. Her blue eyes were alight with hope, and her smile was the brightest he’d ever seen. ‘Why, that’s wonderful.’
‘Aye, it is,’ he murmured. ‘Very soon you will be Sarah MacIvor, Lady Rannoch. And on that day, when I see you walking down the aisle, I will be the happiest man alive.’
Chapter 18
Kinloch, Loch Rannoch
27 February 1757
Malcolm slowed his exhausted horse as the rising sun cast pale rays through the mist enveloping the tiny village of Kinloch and the dark loch.
The dragoon barracks wasn’t hard to find. The two-storey thatched stone dwelling—more a house than anything resembling a decent base for troops—lay in the deep shadow of a looming granite hill.
Malcolm dismounted inside the yard with care, holding onto his horse’s saddle for a moment as bile rose in his gorge and a wave of dizziness washed over him. Thanks to Sarah, his head pounded with the steady beat of a battle drum.
The vicious blow she’d struck had rendered him unconscious for a good half hour. With the help of Reverend Lennox, he’d returned to Taymoor Castle to regroup. But between his aching head, and the writhing anger in his gut, he’d eventually given up on sleep and had decided to surrender to the overwhelming urge to wreak bloody vengeance on Alexander MacIvor. And to reclaim Sarah. As much as he despised the bitch, he needed her money.
The light-headedness passed and when Malcolm looked up it was to discover a pair of young, red-coated dragoons eyeing him with suspicion from the shelter of a covered portico. It probably didn’t help he carried a sheathed sword at his waist. If he removed his greatcoat, they’d also see he carried a brace of pistols at his back. After the Rebellion, weapons had been proscribed in the Highlands, but because he was a nobleman loyal to the King, the ban had never applied to him.
One of the lads greeted him as he approached. ‘Good morning, sir. May we be of assistance?’
‘Aye.’ Malcolm wasn’t fooled by the soldier’s cordial tone. Not when both men had tightened their grips on their muskets. ‘And it’s “my lord” as far as you are concerned.’ He removed his tricorn hat, and after tucking it beneath one arm, pulled off his gloves and slapped them against the palm of his hand. ‘I want to speak with your commander. Tell him the Earl of Tay is here.’
The taller, slightly older soldier—a Sassenach judging by his accent—gave a deferential bow. ‘Of course, Lord Tay. Follow me.’
Malcolm was ushered through the entry hall to a small but scrupulously neat office; a bright fire burning in the grate illuminated the gold-embossed print on the spines of the books in a pair of bookcases and a brass candelabrum on the matching desk of polished oak. Malcolm winced and clenched his fist when he saw the candlestick.
The soldier—a corporal—invited him to take a seat in the brown leather wing chair in front of the desk before disappearing. Within a few minutes, a connecting d
oor at the back of the room opened and the dragoon captain emerged.
Malcolm rose as the athletic-looking captain greeted him. ‘Lord Tay, good morning to you. I’m Captain Hamilton. You’ve journeyed a fair way to see me. What can I do for you?’
He indicated they should both take seats so Malcolm reclaimed the wing chair whilst Captain Hamilton took the straight-backed Jacobean chair behind his desk.
Malcolm flicked a piece of non-existent lint off the braided cuff of his greatcoat. ‘I rather think it’s a case of what we can do for each other.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out his silver snuffbox. ‘Would you care for some?’
Beneath his perfectly dusted periwig, the captain raised an eyebrow. ‘Thank you, but no. Let me tell you something about myself, Lord Tay. I am not fond of snuff or beating about the bush. Perhaps you could speak plainly.’
Malcolm bristled at the Englishman’s condescending tone. Nevertheless, he put away his snuff case and got straight to the point. He really wasn’t in the mood to practise false civility either. ‘Alexander Price of Blackloch Castle is not who he says he is. He’s really Alexander MacIvor, a wanted Jacobite. He fought in the Forty-five, as did his father, Baron Rannoch. I want you to arrest him for treason.’
Captain Hamilton’s expression didn’t change. ‘I’m afraid you are mistaken, my lord,’ he said coolly. ‘I’ve seen Mr Price’s papers and everything is in order. The man I know is above reproach. And by all local accounts, Alexander MacIvor perished in the great fire at Blackloch Castle over ten years ago. I’ve also heard his mother, Lady Rannoch, his younger sister, Anne MacIvor, his affianced, Lady Margaret Stewart, and a good many of the castle’s servants, and defenceless crofter’s families around Loch Rannoch were murdered… by you and your men.’ The captain cocked an eyebrow again. ‘So I think I know everything I need to.’
Malcolm leapt to his feet and planted his fists on the table. ‘Why you puffed-up toadeater. What’s MacIvor paying you? I’ll have you stripped of your rank for this. Court martialed.’
Captain Hamilton also rose and looked down his nose at him. ‘I rather think you won’t. Do you really want everyone to know what you did, my lord?’
Malcolm’s face was hot and his head felt like someone was pounding it with a hammer. ‘I was within my rights.’
‘Yes. Quite. Some indecent souls might believe that but many won’t. How old was young Anne MacIvor again?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Not today.’ Hamilton’s gaze shifted to the door. ‘Corporal Jones will see you out. I trust your journey back to Taymoor Castle will be a pleasant one.’
Malcolm remounted his horse and spurred the beast into a gallop, heading towards the bridge over the Tummel River. But it wasn’t Taymoor Castle he was bound for.
It was Blackloch.
***
‘Are you almost ready, my love?’ Alex cast a glance at Sarah as he buckled the leather strap on the satchel containing documents he wanted to take to Edinburgh.
‘Yes. I think so.’ She tucked the slim volume of poetry she’d been perusing into her own satchel and glanced towards the library window. ‘I’m pleased to see the weather is holding fair. How far is it to the inn at Moulin?’
‘About thirty miles. I’m sorry to make you ride so far again after yesterday’s ordeal…’
‘No, it’s all right.’ Her face was pale and her eyes shadowed with fatigue but she smiled nonetheless. ‘It must be done. I’d rather be safe than sorry.’
Alex rounded the desk and kissed her. ‘My brave lass. Tomorrow you will be able to luxuriate in a carriage with soft blankets and furs and warm bricks at your feet.’
‘And foot rubs?’
‘You can have as many of those as you like. Or any other kind of caress, for that matter.’
Her blue eyes danced with amusement and another emotion he rather suspected was desire. ‘That’s very obliging of you.’
His hand slipped to her lovely round bottom and he whispered, ‘I promise you, you won’t be interested in that book of poetry for long.’
A knock at the door had Alex inwardly cursing. It was Dobson. ‘Sir, you said to let you know when the horses were ready.’
‘And is the portcullis raised?’
‘Aye, sir. Just now.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Sir. About Isla… If you had the time to have a quick word… She’s waiting to see you outside…’
Alex frowned. Dealing with Isla right now was an added irritation he could do without. ‘Miss Lambert and I have given the matter some thought and we think it’s best that my original plan still stands. She can work at the Boar’s Head. I do not have time—’
Alex broke off as the sound of Bandit barking madly echoed up the stairs from the Hall. He opened the library door wider and took a step into the Long Gallery. What the deuce?
And then his blood turned to ice. There was a shout below and then a shot rang out followed by a scream.
Christ, no. ‘Dobson, stay here and protect, Miss Lambert.’
Fear flickered in Sarah’s eyes. ‘Oh, God. Is it Malcolm?’
‘I think so.’
At that moment, Tay’s voice carried up the stairs. ‘Wherever you are, I’m coming for you, Alexander MacIvor, you bastard.’
‘My lord, take this.’ Dobson tossed Alex his basket-hilted sword.
‘Get my pistol.’ Alex shrugged out of his coat. ‘It’s in the desk. Top drawer. Load it. Don’t hesitate to use it.’
‘Aye, my lord.’
‘Don’t worry, Sarah.’ Alex turned back and gave her a swift kiss. ‘Stay here with Dobson.’
Heart hammering, the lust for vengeance coursing through his blood, he stepped back into the Hall as Tay reached the top of the stairs.
The earl’s face was contorted with anger. In one hand he brandished an ornate basket-hilted sword. In the other he held a pistol. ‘You fucking arsehole!’
‘My lord. Watch out!’ Isla appeared as if from nowhere and launched herself at Alex at the same moment the pistol discharged.
Oh, God no. The maid’s eyes widened for an instant and then she slumped to the Turkish hall runner at his feet, a crimson stain blooming on her back. Before Alex could even blink, Tay was charging towards him, red-faced, sword raised.
White-hot anger seared through Alex, stirring him to action. Praying God would forgive him for his neglect, he stepped away from Isla, sword at the ready, muscles braced for the onslaught. As much as he wanted to help the lass, he needed to draw Tay away from Sarah. And to dispense with the sick bastard once and for all.
The games were over. The day of reckoning had arrived.
With a roar, Tay lunged, slashing wildly, but Alex easily parried his move and then drove him back towards the staircase with a series of quick thrusts. Moving down the Long Gallery in a macabre dance of advance and retreat, thrust and parry, Alex quickly ascertained that Tay might be tall and well muscled, but he was less skilled. His reflexes were slower, his countermoves less sophisticated. His unbridled anger—whilst it might lend a certain recklessness to his moves—was also likely to be a hindrance rather than a help. His offensive strokes were more aggressive, which meant he would probably tire sooner rather than later.
Clearly incensed he’d started to lose ground, Tay leapt backwards then twisted with an agility that took Alex by surprise. The cur’s blade sliced through the sleeve of his cambric shirt, nicking his left bicep, and Alex swore. He barely had time to suck in another breath before Tay lunged at him again. Alex ducked, the blade missing him by a whisker, and then Tay lost his balance, his forward momentum making him stumble.
He crashed into a chair but before Alex could strike, Tay spun, hurling the piece of furniture in his direction. Alex leapt out of the way but as he landed, Tay slashed out at his thigh.
Shit. The hot sting of the cut fired Alex with renewed purpose.
The clash of steel and the sound of their ragged breathing and grunts filled the air as Alex continued t
o drive Tay away from the library. At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the second floor, Tay pushed forward, the blade of his sword sliding down Alex’s until their weapons were locked at the hilt. For several fraught moments they grappled each other for the advantage; Tay’s eyes burned with murderous rage as his nostrils flared and his chest heaved. ‘I’m going to gut you… like a fish,’ he panted.
‘When it’s a cold day in hell, Tay.’ His arm and thigh muscles shaking with the strain, Alex gave an almighty push and threw Tay off.
Tay staggered back but he swiftly regained his footing and bolted up the stairs to the next floor. When Alex gave chase, Tay turned and lunged wildly again, his blade flashing through the air with a hiss. Alex neatly ducked and spun low, kicking out at Tay’s knee, knocking him into the panelled wall with a crash.
Now was his chance. Launching himself forward, Alex tried to catch Tay on the defensive; however, he darted away into the centre of the corridor again.
Fucking hell. Harnessing his frustration, Alex gave chase.
Lungs burning, sword flashing, he made cutting stroke after cutting stroke, forcing Tay down the second-floor gallery, past the morning room and his private study, the guest bedchambers and his own suite. Tay’s reaction time was slowing, his stamina failing, his parries growing weaker. It wouldn’t be long until Alex had Tay right where he wanted him—skewered by his sword, the blackguard’s heart cleaved in two.
Tay suddenly swung around but his feint failed and he tripped on the rug. As he parried Alex’s next blow with an upthrust arm, their blades locked again and they crashed against each other. ‘Where’s… Sarah?’ Tay panted as they wrestled, chest to chest. ‘When you’re dead… I’m going to fuck her… so hard. Just… like your mother… and your Lady Margaret.’
Alex saw red. Blood-red. Baring his teeth in a feral snarl, he shoved Tay away then slashed his sword downwards with all his might. The blade struck the basket-handle with such force, Tay lost his grip and his weapon went flying.
Shock flashed through Tay’s widened eyes. And then he spun and fled down the last few yards of the gallery, heading for the door leading to the battlements.
The Laird Of Blackloch (Highland Rogue) Page 26
