The Reiver

by Glynnis Campbell

  Brochan had never wanted anything as much as he wanted Cristy at this moment. Maybe it was because of long abstinence, but he feared in another moment he’d explode. Every inch of him was aroused. Every nerve was on fire.

  He was fast losing control. And if he lost control, he might do something foolish. Like consummate his desire with a woman who was not his wife, a woman who was probably a virgin.

  So with every ounce of fortitude he could muster, he pushed down his carnal cravings and resisted her seduction, not because it was what he wanted, but because it was the right thing to do.

  He eased her luscious legs from around his waist and loosed her arms from his neck, setting her away from him.

  He thought she’d be grateful. After all, he was doing the responsible thing. He was taking charge of their indiscretion and guarding her maidenhood.

  He couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead of relief, her face was etched with betrayal and disappointment. She assumed he was rejecting her.

  How could he explain that he was releasing her, not because he didn’t desire her—bloody hell, how he desired her—but out of honor, duty, propriety, and for her own welfare?

  Naught was going to smooth the crease of disillusionment from her brow—at least naught he could say.

  But he could do something to reassure her, something to convince her that she was worthy and desirable and seductive and irresistible.

  Ignoring his own raging lust, he engaged her again, kissing her pouting lips and caressing her ear between his thumb and finger. She succumbed almost at once, closing her eyes and leaning into his embrace.

  He let his fingertips trace the throbbing vein along her throat. He grazed her bosom with the back of his knuckles. Her breath was ragged against his mouth as she arched her back, urging him to venture farther.

  Inch by inch, he complied. Despite his unrequited arousal, he relished her increasing desire. At last, he brushed the stiffened points of her nipples, eliciting a gasp of wonder from her. He kissed her again as he cupped her lovely breasts, weighing them in his palms, stroking her wet, velvety skin.

  Then he made a trail of kisses down her throat, nibbling at the place beneath her ear until she squirmed with pleasure. When his mouth drifted down to her bosom, she held her breath in anticipation.

  Her hands tangled in his hair as he locked his lips upon her breast, feeding upon her ecstasy.

  While she reveled in that delight, he moved his hand lower, into the water, sweeping over her ribs, venturing across her stomach, and playing in the soft curls that guarded her maidenhood.

  All the while, her sounds of sensuous distress were driving him mad. With every fiber of his being, he longed to lie with her.

  So he did the next best thing.

  Lifting her in his arms, he conveyed her across the water to the shore. There he lay her down in the shallows where the water was warmer and he could rightfully worship her beautiful body. Answering the question in her eyes, he stretched out beside her, holding her hand in his and letting his free hand follow a sinuous path toward the target of her need.

  She flushed with amazed pleasure as his fingers slipped through her womanly curls and between her swollen nether lips.

  His smile was strained as his body responded with painful force to what he was touching, imagining all too well how those soft folds would feel around his rigid staff.

  Cristy felt like she was adrift in deep, uncharted waters. But though the feelings were dangerously new to her, she felt safe in Brochan’s arms. Lying back on the soft bank in the shallow waves, she was soothed by the lap of the water even as she was aroused by the lovely movement of his fingers upon her most secret place.

  She throbbed with need, and what he did was intensifying that yearning. She locked her hands behind his neck, squeezing her eyes shut as her body strained and swelled until she thought she would burst. Sharper and sharper her desire grew, centering at the spot where he stroked her with nimble skill. At last, able to endure no more, she stiffened, and the breath stilled in her lungs.

  For what seemed an eternity, she hung in silent weightlessness, like an angel soaring high above the earth. And then, all at once, she plunged downward at breakneck speed, clinging to Brochan for dear life as she thrashed beneath him in the throes of ecstasy.

  When she finally recovered, gasping for breath and glowing with relief, she opened her eyes to slits and peered up at Brochan.

  There was a look of feral hunger on his face. His jaw was clamped shut. His brow was deeply creased. Like a bull ready to charge, his nostrils flared and his eyes darkened.

  She wouldn’t have believed it possible, but his expression sent her passions rising again. She suddenly longed to quell his craving the way he had hers. And though she knew it was improper to think such things, she wondered…if he could bring her to such a lovely anguish with only the light touch of his fingers, what could the rest of him do?

  She had to act quickly, before too much reflection could make a coward of her. Having no idea what she was doing, she acted on impulse. While he was yet fully aroused, she positioned herself to accept him. Then she wrapped her legs around his hips and arched upward.

  His groan startled her, but not as much as the sharp slice of pain inside her, followed by an impossible fullness. She gasped and winced. Then she looked askance at him.

  His face was troubled. Had she hurt him? Had she damaged herself?

  “Och, lass, I’m sorry,” he wheezed out, as if it were his fault. “Are ye hurt?”

  She furrowed her brow. “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

  “Nay, but…” He squeezed his eyes closed and moaned again. She felt him pulse inside her.

  “Did I hurt ye?” she whispered.

  He broke out instantly into the most curious grin—part amusement, part disbelief, part regret. Then he shook his head. “’Tis the furthest thing from hurt,” he assured her.

  She gulped with relief.

  “But Cristy,” he breathed. “I didn’t mean for ye to get hurt.”

  She gave him a small, reassuring smile. Already the pain was fading.

  “If ye’ll let me,” he promised, “I can make it better for ye.”

  She nodded.

  He did make it better. He caressed her breasts with a delicate hand and breathed gentle encouragements into her ear as he slowly moved inside her. With painstaking patience and exquisite languor, he pushed against her until his breath grew uneven. Gradually, her pain diminished into desire. Soon, she was answering the dance, moving her hips and digging eager heels into his buttocks.

  Again, her senses spiraled upward. And she could tell, peering at him through her lashes, that he was experiencing the same unbridled yearning. They suffered together, gasping for breath, moaning in glorious torment, until they could climb no more.

  With a great primitive cry that called to Cristy and shook her to the core, Brochan erupted, spilling his seed into her with all the force of his passion. She joined him on that sensual skyward journey, and they rocked together until they fell softly back to earth.

  As Cristy lay spent on the shore, she couldn’t help but smile. She’d never been more content. The sun shone gently upon them. The loch plashed in playful waves around them. His hot breath rasped against her ear. His skin was warm and slippery against hers. And joined as they were, she felt as if she’d become one with him, as if they would never again be apart, as if she finally belonged.

  Silently, Brochan cursed his carelessness. How could he have done something so dishonorable? He’d let lust get the better of him.

  Aye, he’d never felt such pure elation, trysting with Cristy. He was ashamed to admit he’d never shared such depths of passion, even with his wife. But it wasn’t right. He’d taken her virginity, for God’s sake. Worse, he hadn’t even taken precautions to make sure he wouldn’t give her a child.

  He would never believe it was Cristy’s fault, even if she had impaled herself upon him. He knew better. He alone was responsible. He s
hould never have put her in such a risky situation.

  When he raised his head to gaze into Cristy’s eyes—her bliss-filled, shining eyes—he was filled with remorse.

  The men in her life had abused her. Her uncle beat her. Her cousins treated her with scorn. He couldn’t join the ranks of those who inflicted damage upon Cristy. He couldn’t deflower the innocent lass and turn her out into the world, a victim of his recklessness.

  He had to make things right. He had to do the honorable thing.

  And if his heart quickened—imagining her in his arms every night, waking to her beautiful face every morn—he pushed those thoughts away. He told himself it was not a matter of replacing his wife. He was only taking responsibility for his actions.

  “That was…magnificent,” Cristy sighed, gazing up at him with lust-languid eyes.

  He quirked up the corner of his mouth, but there was a guilty lump in his throat now that wouldn’t let him speak.

  He’d made a grave mistake. And decency required he pay for it.

  He convinced himself he would have done the same for any lass he’d compromised. It made no difference that Cristy had delectable brown eyes, honey lips, and a body that made him feel alive. It didn’t matter that she had a wicked sense of humor and a delightful laugh, that she was beloved by his sons and his servants, that she felt like a fresh summer breeze blowing into his world.

  No one would ever usurp his first wife’s place in his heart. He’d sworn to love her forever, and he was a man of his word.

  As he tucked a hand behind Cristy’s head, first to give her a fond kiss and then to lift her out of the water, he made a silent vow. When they got back to the tower house, he’d make things right. Though it meant yet another person to be responsible for, he would accept the burden of his sin and ask her to be his wife.

  By the time they climbed the motte, hand-in-hand, Cristy’s hair was almost dry. Her kirtle was still damp, but she felt so warm and glowing inside that she hardly noticed.

  She wondered if she looked different. She felt different—transformed, just as Brighde had predicted. Certainly if she didn’t stop smiling, Mabel would know at once what they’d done.

  Halfway to the door, Brochan stopped. He clasped her hand between both of his and cleared his throat.

  Cristy’s heart leaped. This was it. He was going to ask her to marry him.

  He’d tell her that he’d fallen in love with her, that he didn’t think he could live without her, that he wanted to give her children, and that he promised to love her forever if she would only agree to be his wife.

  She waited breathlessly.

  “I’ve been givin’ it some thought,” he said, his face very serious as he stared at the ground between them. “What will happen if your uncle doesn’t send the thirty cows? Would that be so terrible? From what ye say, there’s not much for ye to go back to as his ward. My lads are in sore need of motherin’. And there’s too much work here for Mabel to do on her own. What I’m askin’ is if ye think ye might be willin’ to stay here at the tower house.”

  Cristy blinked in displeased surprise. That wasn’t the love-struck confession she’d imagined at all. “Stay? What do ye mean, stay? Ye mean, as your servant?”

  “Och, nay,” he said glancing up at her and then returning to scowl at the ground. “I wonder if ye might be willin’ to…ye know, to live with me as husband and wife.”

  Cristy was stunned. Was that it? Was that his romantic proposal?

  What was wrong with him?

  Was it possible she’d misjudged him?

  “Do ye love me?” she asked.

  He gulped and took too long to answer. “I could grow to love ye.”

  She felt his honesty like a dagger in her chest. As much as she wanted to accept his offer and become Lady Cristy Macintosh, she couldn’t wed a man whose heart didn’t belong to her.

  So she withdrew her hand. “Then nay.”

  “Nay!” His amazement was clear in his eyes. “What do ye mean, nay?”

  “I won’t marry ye.”

  “But we trys-…” He lowered his voice, in case the servants or his sons were about. “We trysted together. I took your virginity.”

  His words only made things worse. Not only did he apparently not love her. He was only asking her to marry him out of guilt and duty.

  “Ye didn’t take my virginity,” she corrected. “I gave it to ye.” Her own admission upset her. How could she have given her virginity to a man who didn’t even love her?

  “Ye won’t marry me?” He seemed utterly astounded. “But why?”

  If he was too blind to see that she was not interested in merely a marriage of convenience, she wasn’t going to tell him. She gave him an irritating shrug.

  “But what if ye’re…with child?” he whispered.

  She suppressed a gasp. She hadn’t considered that. Was that the real reason he was proposing—because he thought he had to rescue her from shame?

  “If I’m with child,” she said with flippancy she didn’t feel, “then I’ll go back where I belong and raise it myself.” Her voice caught on the word “belong,” for she knew she didn’t belong in the Moffat household—not really.

  The shock in his face rapidly turned to frustration and then menace. “I…I forbid it. If ye’re with child, ’twill belong to me.” He crossed his arms over his chest, as if his word was final.

  Her jaw dropped. Their conversation had taken a nasty turn. “Ye can’t take away my child.”

  “My child,” he said with an imperious arch of his brow. “And I won’t allow a child o’ mine to be raised in your savage uncle’s household.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. She didn’t want a child raised in her uncle’s household either. But she wasn’t about to let cocky Brochan Macintosh order her about as if he owned her now, just because they’d trysted once. “Ye won’t have any choice. Once ye get your coos, I’ll be free to go.”

  It was a foolish statement. She knew about the missive. Her uncle wasn’t going to ransom her.

  But rather than admit her threat was empty, she wheeled and stomped off toward the door.

  Just before she slammed it behind her, Brochan got in the last word. “He’s not goin’ to send any coos! He doesn’t want ye back!”

  Chapter 10

  Brochan grimaced, regretting his words the instant they left his lips. He hadn’t meant to blurt that out. The truth was he’d panicked. And it was the only thing he could think of that might keep her from leaving him.

  And then reality hit him. He was terrified of losing her.

  But why?

  When he realized the answer, he staggered back a step, shaken.

  God help him, he was in love with her. He was in love with Cristy Moffat.

  As impetuous and improbable as it was, he’d fallen in love with the outlaw lass who’d reived his coos.

  But then who wouldn’t love her? She was sweet and spirited, playful and passionate, lovely and loving, all any man could want.

  Why then was it so hard to admit that?

  Why had he given her every reason for marrying him but that one?

  Wrestling with his conscience, he turned, slogging back down the motte and toward the byre.

  It was his wife, he realized.

  He still felt he had to be faithful to his wife.

  Of course, he knew that was naïve. His wife wasn’t coming back. She’d left this world.

  Besides, as Mabel ceaselessly reminded him, she wouldn’t have wanted Brochan to be lonely. She would have wanted him to wed again.

  That might be true, he thought, but would she have wanted him to love again?

  He entered the dim byre, noting that the milk buckets were empty. The twins hadn’t done the second milking yet. He’d send them out after dinner. He studied the sagging thatch overhead that would need to be repaired before winter. And he wondered what his wife would have thought of Cristy.

  He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up his wife’s image. Bu
t it was difficult. And that troubled him. Her face should be etched indelibly in his conscience. And yet the longer she was gone, the more indistinct her features became. Soon, he feared, she’d be but a wisp of a memory.

  Yet maybe that was as it should be. Maybe life was kind that way, gently smoothing away the edges of a person’s face, like water polishing rock, until recalling her was less painful.

  Five years she’d been gone. Five years he’d been without a woman. And though his sons had kept him from despair, giving him something to live for, they hadn’t brought him the companionship he craved, the love of an adoring wife.

  He leaned back against the byre wall.

  He decided his wife would have liked Cristy. After all, her sons did. And Mabel and Rauf, who had been his wife’s most trusted servants, liked her as well.

  Maybe it was time.

  Maybe his wife would forgive him for loving another.

  As he pushed away from the wall and ambled back up to the tower house by the fading light of day, he felt at peace for the first time in years.

  Then he remembered the strange tavern wench and her prophecy.

  Maybe Brighde had been right.

  Maybe it was time to change his stars.

  As he entered the hall, however, he first had to attend to his clamoring sons, who rushed up the instant he arrived.

  “Da! I won! I won!” Cambel said.

  “Aye,” said Colin, “Cambel got here first.”

  “Colin would have won if he hadn’t tripped o’er a dry coo pat.”

  “I did trip o’er a coo pat,” Colin admitted with a shrug.

  “But we talked it o’er,” Cambel said.

  “And we both want the same story,” Colin said.

  Brochan put a hand on each of their heads. But his attention drifted to the beautiful lass standing by the fire to dry her skirts. He could hardly believe she was the same eager and passionate woman he’d made love to at the loch’s edge. She was staring silently into the flames. Her expression was distant and elusive.