A Promise of Love

by Karen Ranney

  Alisdair could not prevent the grin that touched his mouth. The normally quiet courtyard was marred by hissing, spitting, and barking.

  "If you will look to that green trunk, Malcolm," he called out with a broad smile, "you will find a store of brandy and other spirits which once belonged to Judith's father." He didn’t bother telling Malcolm he’d bought the lot, somehow purloined brandy tasted better.

  Malcolm brightened, his ire transformed magically into rapture. Aye, things were looking up after all.

  Alisdair had been home five hours before he was able to be alone with his wife. There was a welcome to be had and that small matter of a rounded belly to investigate. But Elizabeth needed to be settled, and while Judith took on that responsibility, Alisdair apportioned the supplies, then reported to the elders as to their profits. When, finally, every question had been answered, every duty either performed or delayed, Alisdair went in search of his wife.

  He found her in the laird’s room, bending to fluff the covers on the bed. When Judith saw him standing framed in the doorway, she straightened, the sheet still clutched in her hand. The dazzling sun entered the windows, shone brightly over the large bed, the chair in the corner. The air wafted in from the sea, forever chilled, laden with heavy moisture and a salt taste.

  He did not coax her into his arms, but pulled her there impatiently. She laughed as he jerked her closer. She raised her face and drank in the sight of him with wide eyes. Her hand smoothed over his bristly cheek, her palm gently abraded by the touch of it, He closed his eyes at her touch, and that one small gesture deepened the blue of her eyes and caused her tremulous smile to shift a little.

  Her tears made slow, delicate tracks down her cheeks.

  She touched the line of his neck, up to where it met his jaw. His skin was soft there, then turned rough with a day's growth of beard. The tip of a finger brushed against his feathery lashes, as long and as black as a crow's plumage. Two fingers brushed across his brow and down the arched expanse of his nose to that jutting chin with its cleft. She reached up and placed a tender kiss there, right at the spot where it stubbornly faced the world. She mapped his face with her fingers, and her wide, wide eyes.

  She angled her head, clasped her hands around his neck and brought his mouth closer to hers. He lapped at her tears, and the roughness of his tongue brought a smile to her lips. A smile that soon vanished under the tender onslaught of his mouth.

  "Alisdair," she whispered, "oh, Alisdair." It was a litany of love.

  Her other hand entwined in the hair at his nape, but he needed no urging. He brushed his lips against hers, tasting the moistness still there, the salty remnants of tears and kisses. His tongue traced the outline and her lips opened spontaneously.

  His hand brushed back her hair, that glorious mane of red and gold and brown which swirled around her face. He placed his lips on her forehead as if in benediction.

  How they disrobed, she could not remember. It somehow did not seem important, the only reality in the world was the touch of his naked body against hers. She did not demur as he carried her to the great bed in the middle of the room.

  They both knelt on the bed, equals in love. Her palms slid up his forearms and he cupped her elbows in his hands. They sat only inches apart, her

  breath exchanged with his, his smile a broad echo to her own tremulous one. He did not imagine the pulse racing beneath her skin.

  It would be hours until it was dark in the room, but she said nothing as he studied her, made no protest as his brandy eyes burned a path from shoulders to hip. She was as avid in her own exploration, eyes and fingertips, as if searching for a sign that the weeks apart had changed him in some detectable way.

  He placed his hand against her rounded belly, his eyes filled with wonder, joy, fear.

  “You did not tell me.” His fingers traced a path across her skin. His child.

  “I did not know.” She bent her head until her forehead nestled into the space between shoulder and neck. “I am supposed to be barren, Alisdair, “ she whispered. ”I am not supposed to be full with your child.” She leaned back and smiled at him. There was no more beauty in the world than Judith in love.

  “It’s all the practice, Judith,” he said with a grin. “And being Scots.”

  He leaned down to touch her breasts with his fingertips, and then his lips, and she moaned softly as he caressed the delicate curve beneath one breast.

  His hands reached around her waist and slid down her hips. One of hers strayed to his back, feeling the taut strength of those firm, long muscles. He lowered his lips to hers and she traced the outline of their warm wetness with her tongue.

  He spread her hair across her breasts, to where it ended at her knees. She stroked that pelt of hair on his chest and smoothed both palms across it.

  He slid his hands up from her knees to the tops of her thighs. Where they parted, she was wet, and it was that wetness his fingers sought even as his tongue delved deeper into the grotto of her mouth. She leaned weakly into him, and he became her support.

  He placed both hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer until her head was leaning against his chest. His heart was beating in hammer strokes against her cheek. When he pulled back, she protested, a slight whimper of negation. He only smiled and kissed the tip of her nose.

  He left her then and she watched him as he walked to the other side of the room, not as curious as to his errand as admiring of his form. Was there ever a man more gloriously made? The bright sunlight would have exposed any flaw, but as she studied him, she could see none.

  When he returned to his position on the bed, his smile was rakish.

  "Would you like me to turn around, so you can complete your inspection?"

  "I've seen enough," she said, smiling softly, "and there is nothing I would change."

  "Be certain of that, my love," he said, his easy teasing replaced by a more somber tone, “I’ll not give you another chance.” With one hand, he opened her palm, in the other he held Granmere's ring.

  "Alisdair, what are you about?" she whispered.

  “Something I should have done a long while ago. Judith," he said gently, "there are four ways to wed in Scotland. Since I do not see a Kirk nearby, and since we have already been wed by declaration, and lived together as man and wife, I feel that we must seal the deed again by marrying thrice over." He smiled. "Therefore, my sweet and lovely wife, we are performing the last way of marriage left us. Declaration of intent followed by coupling."

  She smiled tenderly.

  "Will you live with me and be my wife? Will you love me, my clan and my home? With no regrets and of your own free will?" he asked softly, the rasp in his voice betraying his emotions.

  She nodded her head, her heart too full of love, and her throat too choked with tears to speak. He slid Granmere's ring onto her finger.

  He lowered her onto the bed, and stretched out beside her, one hand gently resting on her breast, the other supporting his head. He did nothing else for a long moment, as if creating a space for her to breathe.

  She wanted no respite.

  She pulled his head down, trying without words to thank him for his tender care of her. Small sounds, not quite words, punctuated their kisses, each soft stroke of finger, of mouth. In those moments, they created a cocoon of comfort, bathed in yellow sunlight, a perfect delicacy of feeling, carved from life itself.

  When her liquid warmth flowed around his fingers, Alisdair slipped slowly into her, filling her so full that he checked his movement to give her time to adjust. Judith had other ideas. She clasped her arms around his hips and pulled him into her. With his invasion, she became neither the conqueror nor the conquered. She was simply loving.

  Each separate step of this dance of love had been ordained from the beginning of time, yet it felt fresh and new between them now. He arched his hips back at the same time his tongue began to stroke hers. She lifted her hips up against his, a tender tyrant, imploring him to fill her again. A gasp slipped fr
om her lips as he reached down with one hand and stroked her open wetness. Faint tremors of need shook her as she clutched his back.

  Her fingers traced weak patterns on his flesh, her mouth opened against his skin, tasting, licking, gently scraping with teeth and tongue. He traced her full lips with one finger, then traced his handiwork with his tongue, savoring her winsome smile. Her hands roamed from his wrists to his shoulders, to the corded muscles and their strength.

  Through it all, he moved slowly, gently, coaxing her to soar with him, invading, relinquishing, moving, creating a sweet and unbearable feeling of need within both of them.

  Why was it possible to feel his exhilaration as she felt her own, a thrumming that began in her core and sparked outward into a dozen small fires? Judith gasped, crying out his name as she sank into oblivion for moments, unafraid, even now aware that he held her and protected her. Aware, too, that he followed her into bliss, his own cry muted by their kiss.

  His smile melted into hers.

  "Alisdair," she whispered.

  "Yes, my love?"

  "Although I admire most of Scotland's customs, and not that I doubt the finality of this sort of wedding, I'd just as soon settle for a parson."

  He chuckled, thinking she would be surprised at the arrival of the visitor from Inverness. The minister would be here in a few days, to celebrate their fourth, and final, bonding. No couple would be more wed than he and Judith.

  She sighed finally, holding him close when he would have pulled away.

  "Do not leave me, Alisdair," she murmured when he moved. Since he was intimately joined to her, he only smiled, and held her close. She raised her face and drank in the sight of him with misty eyes.

  "Never, my love," he said gently, and she smiled at the way he framed that word, a tender and gentle endearment.

  EPILOGUE

  "You look like a young girl readied for bed," Alisdair said, smoothing his hand over the silky length of her hair, newly brushed. She was dressed in a clean gown and the sheets had recently been changed. He smiled at the sight of her, propped up in the bed like a little girl, instead of a lovely, but tired woman who had just given birth.

  He had not wanted Judith to see the depth of his anxiety, but she'd discerned it anyway, which is probably why she'd not told him she was in labor until their son was nearly born. He'd no time, towards the end, to recall either Anne or Janet, or any other birthing tragedies. He'd been too busy asserting his rights as laird, physician and husband - although not necessarily in that order - in order to remain in the room with his wife. He should not have worried - Judith excelled in childbirth.

  "It's being a Scot," she said, smiling at him when he said as much.

  Judith leaned back against the pillows and sighed. She was exhausted, and it would be only moments until she succumbed to the deep sleep which beckoned.

  She knew that her presence as mother of the heir was superfluous at this particular moment. Over the last two years, Judith had discovered that the industry of the Scots was expended in merrymaking as much as it was backbreaking labor. Right now, they were doubtless waiting for Alisdair's presence in the great hall for the celebration to begin. Elizabeth was there, excited beyond measure by the smiles and laughter. She was performing those chores given to her by the women of the clan, looked after and coddled, and forever loved.

  Gerald Malcolm MacLeod had been born during the wee sma' oors, which meant, according to Grizzelle who seemed to be an authority on the subject, that the MacLeod's son was expected to be as intelligent and stubborn as his father.

  His first journey must not be down towards the warmer rooms, Judith had been told, and since the lord's room was the top most habitable room, Alisdair proudly took his son on his first journey up the steps of the wheel staircase, to where boards prevented further passage. Only then was he taken to the warm kitchen, where he was washed, and readied for his first suckle. His right hand was left untouched, so that he would never know poverty, and each visitor was required to place a coin in his hand for good luck. Her son gripped the coins tightly, and the women laughed, saying that he was to be a tightfisted, wild, intelligent man.

  Judith only sighed and hoped she was up to the challenge.

  Gerald was returned to the cradle beside her bed, where she turned and watched him with such love that it shined in her eyes. It was Janet’s cradle he rested in, because on no account, must his first sleep be in any but a borrowed bed. Alisdair had, during her labor, walked seven times around the perimeter of Tynan, or as much as was possible due to the presence of the cove, to safeguard the child and protect him from being stolen by fairies. A knife was placed at her son's feet, for the same purpose, and each of the women who attended her knew not to carry fire out of the house until her son was at least a week old. She, herself, must never leave the house after sunset for at least a month lest she be stolen to nurse an ailing fairie child who could not return to health unless suckled on human milk.

  Judith thought that the superstitions surrounding the birth of her child much more difficult than the actuality.

  She had felt little real pain at first, which had changed drastically towards the end of her labor. She had felt constrained by the interested faces of the women of her clan, who had watched to see if she was a soft English woman at this critical juncture, or a stoic Scot. She had been a stoic Scot, and she wasn't going to let them forget it.

  Their son was worth all of the discomfort and pain.

  While Alisdair held her tenderly within his arms, they both kept vigil over the newest MacLeod.

  "I did not realize I could bear a child, Alisdair," she admitted, "until I came to Scotland. I did not know a great many things about myself."

  "Like what?" he smiled tenderly at her.

  "For example, I seem to have a bit of a temper."

  "Aye, Judith, that you do." He didn't care if she saw his smile. She had the devil's own temper when she was riled.

  "Yet, you've always let me speak freely."

  "We Scots are like that," he said, brushing back the tendrils of hair from her face. "We appreciate independent thinking." Aye, and courage, and pride. She had all these qualities and more, his wife.

  "Shall I ever be a Scot, Alisdair?" she wondered, her cheek against his chest, feeling in that one perfect moment all the joy she’d never expected to feel.

  Alisdair closed his eyes against the power of the emotion which swept through him then.

  "I think you've always been one, love," he said softly, and held her gently within his arms.

  A few minutes later, he sighed and kissed the top of her head. "I wish to build you a home, my Scots lass," he said tenderly. "A small home with two floors and a neat, thatched roof."

  "We would leave Tynan?" She raised herself up and looked at him in the light of the candle. He had scandalized the women by refusing to sleep apart from her, even in the last stages of her pregnancy, and was planning to sleep next to her tonight. It was spring in the Highlands, he had complained, and he needed her warmth. None of the women were taken in by such a flimsy story.

  Judith would always remember the sight of him, then, his face softened into tender lines, the somber gleam of his amber eyes overlaid with one of mischief.

  "I seek a home without the scent of burned wood, Judith. A place to begin again." He looked at her seriously. "Will you miss being the mistress of a castle?"

  "The incessant scrubbing, and the sounds of mice? I think not."

  "We do not have mice at Tynan," he grumbled.

  "Of course not, Alisdair," she said, smiling gently, and curled up in his arms, feeling as if she had always belonged here.

  ****

  Judith would sometimes come to Tynan in search of her children, a wild Scots-English hoard led into mischief by their elder brother. Gerald loved playing Robert the Bruce, using the castle as a place of made up stories, while his sisters and younger brothers were relegated to minor English parts.

  She would stop sometimes and glance i
nto the empty cavern which used to be their kitchen. Stone dust lay inch thick upon the floor, undisturbed except for tiny mouse footprints. She would smile and wander into the room Sophie had called hers, now stripped of its heavy French furniture and delicate lace. No ghosts lingered here, even though the silence sometimes echoed with the click, click of an ivory handled cane.

  The steps were still uneven and steeply canted, but Judith took them slowly, passing Ian’s room, and up one landing to the laird’s chamber. It was empty, now, and dusty, filled with long-ago memories that seemed to whisper in the swirling light from the open windows.

  In the silence and perfect peace, Judith would feel the greatest serenity and comfort, as if a golden blanket of warmth had been placed around her shoulders. The air itself was rife with solemnity and a curious benediction, almost tasting of forgiveness. In those moments, she felt touched by tenderness, humbled by the sensation of it. It was as if Heaven answered her many prayers, promising a future filled with joy, laughter, and love.

  About the Author

  New York Times bestselling author Karen Ranney was first published in 1995. Since then, she’s gone on to write dozens of historical romances, most of them set in Scotland.

  Her books have been described as evocative, intensely romantic stories featuring characters who leap off the page.

  She currently lives in San Antonio with her antique collection of dust bunnies.

  Visit her at:

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/KarenRanney

  Blog: www.karenranney.wordpress.com

  Website: www.karenranney.com

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6