He settled back to look at her. With her hair unbound and her beautiful body revealed to him, it stole his senses to think that she was now his wife. He broke off a spring of purple heather from the wreath and brought it to her body. With the rough sprig in his hands, he traced patterns upon her skin.
‘What are you doing?’ she whispered, gasping when he drew the blossom over her erect nipple.
‘You taught me to write,’ he answered. ‘I thought I should practise.’ Swirling the blossom around her breast, he added, ‘The letter S was always hard.’
‘I know something else that is hard,’ she answered, reaching for him.
When her palm closed over his shaft, he inhaled sharply and let the heather fall to the linen sheets. Lowering his mouth to her skin, he began to kiss her, over her shoulders and up to the sensitive place upon her throat. She wanted him. He could sense it in the way her pulse pounded beneath his lips.
He kissed the column of her throat and brought his hand lower. She tightened her grasp upon him and he wanted her so badly, he fought to control his lust.
‘Slow down, sweet.’
‘Perhaps I don’t want to.’ Her thumb moved over the crest of his erection, and she sent him a wicked smile. ‘I was abducted this night by a Scottish warrior. I hope to be ravished by him.’
He removed his clothing, sitting beside her on the bed. ‘If that is your wish.’
He took her breast in his mouth, suckling hard against the taut nipple. A shocked breath escaped her, along with a sigh of pleasure. Marguerite’s face transformed with need, colour rising in her cheeks. She rolled to her side, whispering against his mouth, ‘You’re a temptation I never could resist, Callum.’ She ran her fingers over his back. ‘Let me touch you for a moment.’
He stilled, letting her do as she pleased. She guided him to rest upon his stomach and she straddled him, her damp womanhood touching his lower spine. With her hands, she touched the scars of his past, trailing her fingers across his back.
‘I remember the day I found you. I was so afraid you might die.’ She bent and touched her mouth to his scars and the motion grazed her breasts against him. It was torment, having to remain still and not touch her, while she caressed him. ‘I think, somehow, I knew we would be together.’
‘I thought you were an angel of mercy,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps you were. Because I swear, on my life, this is my heaven.’
He rolled her over, needing to pleasure her, to worship every part of her skin. He filled his palms with her breasts while, below the waist, he nudged himself between her legs. Marguerite raised her knees up, welcoming him. She gasped as he rubbed against her cleft while his fingers coaxed and fondled her breasts.
‘Tell me how you want to be touched.’
Her breath caught in her lungs when he warmed her skin, awaiting her response. She guided the head of him into her moist passage and he pressed forward within her slick flesh, filling her up.
He tasted her, nibbling the curve beneath her breast. Her nipple hardened, showing him that she liked his kiss. ‘Tell me, Marguerite.’
She moved against him, pulling him deeper inside, murmuring in French as she tried to make him move.
‘I don’t speak French, a ghràidh.’ But he acted on instinct, thrusting within her until she cried out with shivered ecstasy. Slowly, he moved her hips to the edge of the bed and he stood, still sheathed inside her. With her legs around his waist, he drove inside her, penetrating from a higher angle.
Her fingers dug into the bed, her eyes wild as she submitted to his thrusts, arching hard. Her walls clenched his shaft and she trembled at the force of his lovemaking.
‘I love you, my wife,’ he said, filling her again.
‘Je t’aime,’ she responded, reaching for his hips. Callum ground himself against her and saw the renewed look of arousal in her eyes. The intense contact made her shudder. When he began to plunge with a rhythm, pressing his body harder against her centre, she began speaking words of encouragement.
‘There,’ she pleaded, telling him how much she loved the touch of him deep inside her.
The exquisite pleasure of watching her reach for release, her body trembling with need, was making him grow harder within her. She was so wet, so eager, he couldn’t stop the shout that roared from him when her legs tightened around his waist, grasping him with all her strength as the release flooded through her.
He kept up the pulsing rhythm until his own satisfaction came hard and fast. And when he lay down on top of her, their bodies were merged together as one. Callum held her close, his heart beating so fast, he couldn’t believe she now belonged to him.
‘You were mine since the moment I saw you,’ he murmured against her hair.
She smiled up at him and in her blue eyes he saw the unspoken promise of every tomorrow they would spend together.
No other words were needed.
Epilogue
Four years later…
A group of messengers rode into Glen Arrin, wearing the insignia representing Edward of Caernarfon, the King of England. When Marguerite saw them, she clutched her young infant daughter protectively. From the serious manner of the men, she could not imagine that they bore good news.
‘Stay back,’ Callum warned, transferring his bow into his left hand. His three-year-old son Ailric gripped the child-sized bow in his own hand, mirroring his actions.
‘Do you want me to take the children away?’ Marguerite asked, unsure of whom the messenger had come to see.
‘Not yet. They didn’t come to fight.’ Callum nodded behind him. ‘But keep your distance. Go with your mother,’ he warned Ailric.
‘I help,’ Ailric offered, raising his miniature bow. Callum ruffled the boy’s hair, pushing him back to Marguerite.
‘Do as I say, son.’
The men remained outside the gates and Callum walked closer to them. Marguerite held the baby and gripped Ailric’s hand, her heart pounding with fear. Though they had done nothing wrong, she couldn’t guess why the king’s men would be here.
A few moments later, the men entered the fortress, led by Dougal. The young adolescent had grown into a handsome young man and Marguerite hoped that one day he would find a good woman to wed. He spent far too much time tending the animals instead of sharing time with people.
‘Why have you come?’ Callum asked, still keeping his bow in one hand.
‘We wish to speak with Lady Marguerite de Montpierre, daughter of the Duc D’Avignois, wife of Callum MacKinloch,’ the first man said.
Marguerite stepped forward. ‘I am she.’
Callum remained in front of her, and she didn’t miss the subtle tension in his stance. If needed, he could release half-a-dozen arrows, defending them.
‘And you were once betrothed to Peter Warrington, the Earl of Penrith?’
She nodded. ‘Has something happened?’ Fear rose in her stomach. Lord Penrith had been a good man, one she’d been fond of, even if she could never wed him. After her marriage to Callum, he had written to her from time to time and seemed especially pleased that she’d birthed a son so shortly after she’d wed.
The messenger came forward and inclined his head, acknowledging Marguerite. ‘The Earl of Penrith is a good friend of His Majesty’s.’
A blush coloured her cheeks, for she now understood who it was that Lord Penrith had been fond of. And it was no wonder he could not share in the life he’d wanted.
‘What does this have to do with me?’
‘His Majesty wished to bestow more estates upon the earl, as gifts. There are lands here that were seized by the king. It is his Royal Wish that peace be restored in Scotland.’
Marguerite waited, still not understanding what the messengers were speaking of. ‘But why—?’
‘His Majesty, out of favour and love for Lord Penrith, has agreed to grant the earl’s request. The land in Scotland will be given to your firstborn son.’
Shock rendered her speechless and she could think of no reply. The earl
had wealth enough of his own and needed nothing further. That he had passed the land on to her son was a gift she had never expected.
The messenger’s gaze fell upon Ailric and he added, ‘The King has honoured the bequest. You and your husband shall guard the land until your son comes of age.’
Marguerite dug her fingers into Callum’s arm, hoping he would understand what this meant. He exchanged a look with her and nodded. Covering her hand with his own, he asked the messenger, ‘Should we plan a visit to court, in order to offer our thanks to the king?’
The messenger inclined his head. ‘That would be most wise. And Lady Marguerite may wish to spend time with Her Majesty, Queen Isabella, since they share the same homeland.’
The man began speaking of land rights, but before he could go on, Callum interrupted. ‘Where is this land that will be granted to our son?’
‘It is a few days’ journey from here.’ He shrugged. ‘The keep burned to the ground, I fear, and it isn’t a large fortress, by any means.’
A strange premonition sank within her blood and Marguerite suspected where this was leading. ‘Who owned the land before?’
‘The Earl of Cairnross,’ the messenger admitted. ‘You may have heard of him.’
Marguerite nearly choked at the mention of the man who had killed her maid and caused torment to so many prisoners. To own the land, rebuilding a fortress upon the blood of so many men, seemed like a cruel jest.
Callum gripped her hand to keep her calm. In his eyes, she saw the reassurance.
‘Come inside and you may take shelter with us before you return to England,’ he offered to the messenger. To his younger brother Dougal, he instructed, ‘See to it that Laren finds a place for these men.’
The messenger withdrew a gold ring and handed it to Marguerite. ‘This ring is to be given to your son. It belongs to the earl and is a sign of the king’s favour.’
She smiled and thanked him, concealing the ring in her palm. Her daughter began to fuss and Marguerite handed the infant over to Callum, where she calmed instantly.
The men followed Dougal back to the fortress. When they had gone, she turned back to Callum. ‘Will it be painful for you to return to Cairnross?’
He shook his head. ‘The memories of that place will never be gone from me. But we’ll rebuild it and make new ones.’ Leaning in, he stole a kiss from her. ‘I always wanted to give you land and a castle. I suppose I finally can, thanks to the earl.’
With their children between them, she rested her forehead against his. ‘I never needed them, Callum.’ Smiling at their son and daughter, she added, ‘For you’ve already given me treasures beyond price.’
* * * * *
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Chapter One
China, Tang Dynasty—AD 824
Fei Long faced the last room at the end of the narrow hallway, unsheathed his sword and kicked the door open.
A feminine shriek pierced the air along with the frantic shuffle of feet as he strode through the entrance. The boarding room was a small one set above the teahouse below. The inhabitants, a man and a woman, flung themselves into the corner with nowhere to hide.
His gaze fixed on to the woman first. His sister’s hair was unbound and her eyes wide with fear. Pearl had their mother’s thoughtful features: the high forehead and the sharp angles that had softened since the last time he’d seen her. She was dressed only in pale linen underclothes. The man who was with her had enough daring to step in between them.
Fei Long glanced once to the single wooden bed against one wall, the covers strewn wide, and his vision blurred with anger. He gripped the sword until his knuckles nearly cracked with the strain.
‘Bastard,’ he gritted out through his teeth.
He knew this man he’d come to kill. This boy. At least Han had been a boy when Fei Long had last seen him. And Pearl had been a mere girl. Now she was a grown woman, staring at him as if he were a demon risen from the underworld.
‘Fei Long.’ Pearl’s fingers curled tight over her lover’s arm. ‘So now you’ve come.’
The soft bitterness of the accusation cut through him. Pearl had begged for him to come back a year earlier when her marriage had first been arranged, but he’d dismissed her letters as childish ramblings. If he had listened, she might not have thrown herself into ruin and their father’s spirit wouldn’t be floating restlessly between heaven and earth.
The young man stretched himself before Fei Long, though he failed to match him in stature. ‘Not in front of Pearl,’ he implored.
Though he trembled, the boy fought to keep his voice steady as Pearl clung to him, hiding just behind his shoulder. At least the dog managed to summon some courage. If Han had cowered or begged for his life, he would already be dead.
‘Step away, Little Sister,’ Fei Long commanded.
‘No.’
‘Pearl.’
‘I’d rather die here with Han than go to Khitan.’
She’d changed in the five years since he’d seen her. The Pearl he remembered had been obedient, sweet-tempered and pleasant in all things. Fei Long had ridden hard from Changan to this remote province, expecting to find the son of a dog who had stolen her away.
Now that she stood before him with quiet defiance, he knew she hadn’t been seduced or deceived. Zheng Xie Han’s family lived within their ward in the capital city. Though lower in standing, the Zheng family had always maintained a good reputation. His sister had turned to Han because she’d had no one else.
The tension drained out of Fei Long, stealing away his rage. His throat pulled tight as he forced out the next word. ‘Go.’
The two of them stared at him in disbelief.
‘Go,’ he repeated roughly.
Fei Long lowered his weapon and turned away while they dressed themselves. Shoving his sword back into its sheath, he faced the bare wall. He could hear the shuffle of movement behind him as the couple gathered their belongings.
The bleakness of the last few weeks settled into his gut like a stone. When he’d left for his assignment to the north-western garrison, Fei Long had believed his home to be a harmonious place. Upon news of his father’s sudden death, he’d returned to find his sister gone and debt collectors circling the front gates like vultures.
His father’s presence had been an elaborate screen, hiding the decay beneath the lacquered surface of their lives. Fei Long now saw Pearl’s arranged marriage for what it was: a desperate ploy to restore the family honour—or rather to prolong the illusion of respectability.
When he turned again, Pearl and Han stood watching him tentatively. Each of them had a pack slung around their shoulder. Off to face the horizon with all their belongings stowed in two small bags.
Han bowed once. ‘Elder Brother.’
The young man risked Fei Long’s temper to deliver the honorific. Fei Long couldn’t bring himself to return the bow. Pearl met his eyes as they started for the door. The heaviness of her expression struck him like a physical blow.
This was the last time he would ever see his sister.
Fei Long took his money pouch from his belt and held it out. The handful of coppers rattled inside. ‘Here.’
Han didn’t look at him as he took it.
‘Thank you, Fei Long,’ Pearl whispered.
They didn’t embrace. The two of them had been apart for so long that they wouldn’t have known how. Fei Long watched their backs as they retreated down the stairway; gone like everything els
e he had once known to be true.
* * *
‘Jilted lover,’ the cook guessed.
Yan Ling’s eyes grew wide. The stranger had stormed up the staircase only moments earlier with a sword strapped to his side and the glint of murder in his deep-set eyes. She’d leapt out of the path of his charge, just managing to hold on to her pot of tea without spilling a drop.
She stood at the edge of the main room, head cocked to listen for sounds of mayhem upstairs. Her heart raced as she gripped the handle of the teapot. Such violence and scandal were unthinkable in their quiet town.
‘Should someone stop him?’ she asked.
‘What? You saw how he was dressed.’ Old Cook had his feet in the kitchen, but the rest of him strained as far into the dining area as possible. ‘A man like that can do whatever he wants.’
‘Get back to work,’ the proprietor barked.
Yan Ling jumped and the cook ducked his head back through the beaded curtain that separated the main room from the kitchen.
‘Worthless girl,’ her master muttered as she rushed the pot of tea to its intended table. She pressed her fingers against the ceramic to check the temperature of the pot before setting it down. Cooler than ideal, but still hot enough to not get any complaints.
It was late in the morning and the patrons had thinned, but that was never an excuse to move any slower. Lately it seemed nothing she did was fast or efficient enough. She’d never known any life but the teahouse. The story was she’d been abandoned as an infant in the room upstairs, likely the very same one where a new scandal was now unfolding.
She paused to stack empty cups onto a tray. At that moment, the young woman and her companion hurried down the stairs, leaving not even a farewell behind as they swept out the door. Yan Ling expected the sword-carrying nobleman to come chasing after them, but only an uncomfortable silence followed their exit.
The patrons began to whisper among themselves. Her master should be happy. This incident would have the townsfolk lingering over more than a few extra teapots worth of gossip.
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