“Of course, Katie. However, you like.”
Exploring with his hands, he caressed all her parts. Her breasts were like separate creatures from her, no longer attached to her body. They reacted to his caress, and both hot and cold sensations coursed through when he took one into his mouth. Without thinking, she moaned.
Moving down, his hands cupped her hips again, and she steeled against another fit of the tickles. Parting her thighs gently, he stroked her leg farther until he came to her cleft. With tentative strokes, he explored and teased her skin there.
Katie had explored those areas before. She’d discovered there were interesting sensations from such explorations. But to have someone else do it, someone whose mind she did not know, would be an anticipatory thrill. What would he do next?
Older girls had told her disgusting details about the act of making love. Even Deirdre had hinted about it. Katie’s parents would wrestle under cover of night and bedclothes. And of course, animals were constantly rutting in the spring. But the act between a husband and wife was such a private thing to her. She had never really considered the workings of it.
When Lochlann stopped his caresses and climbed on top of her, she panicked. This was it, the point of no return. She closed her eyes and stiffened.
“Katie? Are you all right?” Opening one eye, she saw Lochlann’s worried face about an inch from her own.
“I’m… I’m just nervous. I’m sorry if I don’t really know what to do.”
“It’s all right, Katie. Here, let me—” He moved his hands between her legs and pushed her thighs wide, making her feel like a wanton slut. She wanted to pull away, but couldn’t with him on top of her. More fumbling and his manhood pushed against her. It was a strange pressure. He pushed rhythmically, but it wasn’t yet going in. Then he pushed harder, and she cried out in pain.
“Sshhh, shhh, it only hurts for a little bit, they say.”
She didn’t believe him. He thrust harder now, in and out, and she tried to wriggle away, away from the hurt. His hands were holding her shoulders, keeping her in place. She had no way out of this. It hurt, and she wanted to get away. She sobbed in pain and frustration. Struggling harder, she tried to push him off, but he was stronger than she was. He stopped, shuddering, and he pulsed inside of her. Falling on top of her, he twitched a couple of times and lay, a heavy weight on her body. She tried to shift him, but he lay as if dead.
“Lochlann, I can’t breathe!”
“Oh… oh, sorry.” He pulled out and moved over until he lay next to her. When he disconnected from her, it was as if a part of her had been removed. She was slimy and messy, but she didn’t want to move. Her body ached and hurt, but at the same time, she was warm and loose. Curling onto her side, she felt Lochlann curl himself around her back. He was warm and safe. Maybe marriage had merit after all. Taking a deep breath, Lochlann put his arm around her and squeezed. The storm had passed.
“I’m sorry it went so quick, Katie. I promise, next time it will be better. It won’t hurt so much.”
The wetness between her legs became uncomfortable. Loath to move, she still needed to clean herself. She wanted to at least put her shift back on.
Squirming to get out from under his arm, she slid off the bed and went to the wash basin. Her shift lay in a crumpled heap near the bed.
Clad once again, she put her hands on her hips and glared at her husband, now snoring in the bed. A stain of red showed on the linen sheets from her maidenhead.
Katie had no idea what her new role would be, or what her new life would be like. However, this was an excellent time to establish the pecking order in her marriage. If she were to retain her soul at all, she would have to take command and make sure she kept it.
“Come on, Lochlann, no sleeping now! Get up, those bedclothes must be washed. What a mess!”
An hour later, she stood outside in the sun, elbow deep in soapy water. She ached, but she ignored it. The washboard got a good workout today. While she worked on both the blankets and her traveling clothes, as well as the men’s clothing, she heard Donald and Lochlann in an intense argument in the main room. Pausing for a moment, she strained to hear the words.
“It’s our duty, Lochlann. He expected it of us, and so does the MacLeod.”
“I’m no good as a soldier, Donald. You know that better than anyone does. It’s not the life for me!”
“It doesn’t matter. We are MacCrimmons, pipers to the MacLeod. He’s at Inverness and has called for Da. He’s gone, so it falls to us to answer it. There can be no other way.”
Lochlann mumbled his reply.
Leaving again? Would she at least stay here if they were going off to war? She didn’t relish the prospect of following an army. Soldiers led a dangerous life, and she’d heard many grisly stories. Tales of good wives being taken by the opposing army forced into prostitution or raped and left to die.
Shuddering despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun, she bent to her task with renewed vigor. Using the chore to rid her mind of frightening imaginings, she sang. One of the old working songs would do. Rhythmic and mindless, it helped her pass the time and the task.
Ceud soiridh soiridh bhuam na e hò hao oho
Gu strath m’eòlais na hi ri rirì ò
o-hi ò ‘s a-bho roho
e hò hao oho
She sang the English translation as the second verse.
A hundred greetings from me
To the strath I know
And to the little slope
With pretty birches
“What in nine holy hells is that noise? Finish up, girl, and pack things when they’re done. We’re off again in the morning.” She jumped at the sound of Donald’s voice behind her.
“They won’t be dry by then.” Her heart racing, she kept her face calm with prim assurance while she hung another petticoat. Surely he knew the day had almost gone, and a long day at that, so near to summer solstice. Still, she refused to get back on the road in dank, damp clothing.
“I don’t care. Leave them out all night, then pack in the morning, but we leave soon after first light.”
He stomped back into the house.
So much for the idea of staying behind. Pushing herself to finish, she dragged herself back into the house to make them all supper before bed. She wished she still had those foxglove leaves, but they were lost in the last few days’ flight. If Donald fell ill, he might delay the trip a few days.
PART IV
Chapter Thirteen
When the party arrived at Borreraig, they were a bedraggled mess. Éamonn’s clothing had ripped, filthy with road dust and mud. Ciaran looked like he’d been run over by a herd of horses, and Deirdre was a rag doll, not much more than a miserable lump on her own horse.
The house stood an empty shell when they arrived. The kitchen door hadn’t been latched, though, so they could get in and look around. Someone had been here recently, as the peat in the hearth still smoked. Éamonn reckoned they had left that morning.
“Damn it all to hell!”
Deirdre lifted her head when he cursed. She sat in one of the chairs in the main room, a slumped pile of filthy clothing. Ciaran paced back and forth.
“This has to be the house. I saw another of those bits of cloth outside. Clever girl, to leave those.”
“Oh, yes, so clever. Clever enough to be taken away by a husband she didn’t want to a strange country.” The bitterness sounded strong in Deirdre’s voice.
“That wasn’t her doing! You helped by not taking my message to her.” He’d had enough of her wild mood swings between simpering lust and cruel cynicism. He wished he could rid himself of the girl, but he couldn’t abandon her here.
Ciaran offered little help. His normally cheerful and joking cousin had descended into a dour, moping sot. He answered questions with single words if he deigned to answer at all, ever since they had arrived in Scotland. He seldom spoke but to offer an exclamation of dread at a bad omen. Black crows, cats, magpies landing to the left—all were ima
gined threats to their destiny.
Éamonn heartily wished he had come alone.
The house was left in disarray. An effort had been made to stock the kitchen, and then the food hastily packed away for traveling. Fresh milk remained in the springhouse. Upstairs, drawers were left open and pieces of clothing tossed on the floor. There were papers flung into the study on the one side of the main room. Idly leafing through these, Éamonn thought he might find a clue as to where the MacCrimmons had gone, taking his Katie with them. He stopped cold when he saw familiar notation.
Music. Harp music, specifically. While he had no musical talent himself, he had read his father’s papers often enough and helped copy them many times. He recognized harp music readily, and this definitely looked like harp music. In fact, his own father’s hand had created these pages.
Were these his da’s missing O’Carolan tunes? The MacCrimmons had stolen them? Why would they want such a thing? They weren’t musical, as far as Éamonn knew. Then he glanced into the corner of the study and realized he was wrong.
There, in a glass case, stood a set of bagpipes. There was room for a much larger set next to it, but the small pipes were there, dusty and long unused.
Was one of them a piper, then? Or their father? He couldn’t remember hearing what their father did.
Pipers were attached to a clan chief, as far as he could tell. Such an odd idea, going out on a battlefield with nothing but a musical instrument as a weapon. Having heard the pipes once, though, he understood being terrified of the sound on a foggy, damp morning. The mists would carry the haunting sound around you until you no longer knew where the enemy came from.
“Ciaran! Ciaran, I found Da’s music.” He brought the sheets back to the main room, as Ciaran perked up. Éamonn sat next to his cousin to show him.
Ciaran barely glanced at the sheets of vellum. “Good! At least we completed one of our tasks. Come on, Éamonn, let’s go home. There’s no way we can find out where they took the girl. I’m bone tired of this foolish journey.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
“And let you take both of them? Not on your life. You’ve always done as you pleased and let others pick up the pieces. This time I mean to be there to—”
Deirdre came in and handed him tea. She had evidently been making good use of the time while he had explored. He sat and sipped the warm liquid gratefully.
Deirdre glared at him. “Éamonn. It must be too late, anyhow. They came here to find the father, right? So the wedding would be consummated by now. There’s no legal way to annul the marriage. She’s his now. You’ve lost.” Deirdre’s words were harsh, though she said them in a wheedling tone as if she were teasing him out onto the dance floor. She took his arm and tried to pull him out of the house.
Éamonn seriously considered it. Deirdre must be right—Katie must have lain with the man by now. She would be well and truly wedded and bedded.
He had lost. He would never run his fingers through her red curls or kiss her soft lips. Failure weighed heavily on his shoulders. He hadn’t been able to rescue her from her fate.
Heaving a sigh and about to agree, a memory of his vow to Katie pushed back against the decision. With an almost an audible snap, he stood straight. He recalled the few blue strips of cloth he had spied on the journey, proof Katie still wanted to be found. Perhaps he should challenge Lochlann to a duel? He had no experience with swords or guns. If Lochlann lived in a house like this, he would be much better versed in such things. Could Éamonn even kill a man, if it came to that?
Could he use his magic to make Lochlann lose?
The notion sickened him, an illness that had nothing to do with actually exercising his power. Besides, Katie wouldn’t come with him if he murdered her husband.
If the MacCrimmons were pipers, they must have gone to fight. That might offer an opportunity. He stood so fast the chair fell with a clatter.
“They can’t have gone far by now. I’m certain they were here this morning. Surely someone in the village knows where they’ve gone.”
Ciaran and Deirdre both groaned.
Giving them a narrow look, he stalked out and headed towards the village, about a mile down the road. He didn’t care if either of his companions followed him. The bright day began to dim with grey clouds.
The village was small. It had a blacksmithy, at least, and a chapel off to one side. There were no shops, not even an alehouse. He angled toward the chapel. Priests usually knew everything going on in their parish.
The tiny stone chapel appeared empty. He walked around the back and saw a man in a dark coat kneeling, pulling weeds from around one of the tombstones.
“Father?”
The man glanced up, and Éamonn got the impression of a squat, froggy man. He wore round, wire-rimmed spectacles over enormous bushy grey eyebrows and blinked several times before his eyes focused on Éamonn in the sun.
The man spoke in a thick, Highland accent. “My, aren’t ye the tall one! And how can I help you on this fine day, my lad?”
Fine day? The priest must have a different definition of fine. The clouds were growing darker.
“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Éamonn, and I’m searching for my… sister. Her name is Katie, Katie MacCrimmon. She would have come to the house on the hill there sometime this week. I must have just missed them. Have you any idea where they might have moved to?”
He said it in a rush. He had practiced the speech all the way down from the house. It would do no good to explain the true story. He had no legal claim on Katie, as Deirdre had so harshly pointed out.
“Ah yes, the young lady with the red hair? We were surprised at Lochlann’s new bride, but they didn’t tarry long enough for us to meet her. Away they flew, just this morning, as you surmised.”
The man got up then and brushed the dirt from his knees. The cassock was too long for him, and the edges swept the grass.
“Let me see. I do recall their father had received a message from the MacLeod. It passed on to the boys, from what one of the village boys said. It may mean they’ve headed to join His Majesty’s Army.”
“Army? They’ve gone to war?” The King’s army—the priest, must mean the English king, not Prince Charles.
“Indeed. Now, I know I heard someone mention where…” He tapped his lip and glanced off to the side as if reading through an invisible book. “Ah, yes! Inverness, I believe. It’s where the MacLeod is stationed. At least, it’s where they were a few weeks ago. Armies don’t move quickly, though, so they should still be there.”
Inverness. The place name meant little to Éamonn. His confusion must have shown on his face, for the little priest chuckled and said, “Inverness is sheer on the other side of the country, lad. West and then north once you get onto the mainland from here. As I said, they just left this morning. They left their wagons, so are probably traveling fast, but if you’re determined enough, you might catch them.”
“Thank you, kind sir. Thank you so much!” He had the urge to hug the little man, but he satisfied himself with a hearty handshake and then rushed back up the hill to the house as the first drops fell.
Standing in the doorway, he stopped, panting. Ciaran and Deirdre weren’t there.
Confused, he climbed the stairs. Had they gone home?
The first room he must have been the father’s room. A huge oak bed stood in the middle, with heavy drapes. It looked invitingly comfortable. And Ciaran had discovered just how comfortable. His cousin had passed out on the massive bed, arms and legs sprawled out like a spider. With a smile, Éamonn closed the door. They all needed a rest. They got little enough sleep on the road.
Éamonn glanced into the next room, a woman’s room, with frilly white things everywhere. It looked like a lace-maker’s shop. Then he noticed Deirdre lying in the center of the soft feather bed.
She lay naked, awake, and beckoning to him.
Striking a seductive pose, she ran her hands over her full breasts. His body answered and he kept
a tight grip on the doorframe.
“What are you afraid of, Éamonn? You remember how soft they are. And the bed is so warm.” She stroked the mattress beside her, peering at him from under lowered lashes.
He couldn’t move. Katie. He must think of Katie. Katie MacCrimmon, who had likely used this very bed with her husband. He closed his eyes and tried to summon the image of her in his mind. Panicking, he couldn’t remember the color of her eyes. Were they blue? Green? Moss-green, that’s what they were. While he filled out the details of her smile and freckles in the image, Deirdre’s hand caressed his waist.
Éamonn’s eyes flew open to find the still-naked Deirdre latched onto him. Her arms were firmly around his waist, pulling him from the doorframe.
“No, Deirdre. Go away.” He tried to push power in his command and gripped the door harder, but it did no good.
Deirdre frowned at his resistance and shifted one of her hands between his legs. With a rhythmic stroke, she convinced his body of what it wanted, a primal hunger, an overpowering need to slake his burning thirst. His grip on the door eased and then relaxed.
Before he knew it, she had him undressed and under the grey woolen blanket on the bed.
Warm it was indeed, snug and soft. So was Deirdre. He surrendered at last, caressing her curves with a frantic need. He stroked her hips and along her thighs, his rough hands hard against her smooth, pale skin. Then he put his face between her breasts with a catch in his throat, and she cradled him there, murmuring as a mother comforts a crying child.
She pushed him onto his back and straddled him. She rubbed her cleft over his manhood slowly, picking up the rhythm with slow, measured movements. He could barely breathe, his need burned so strong. He tried to shift Deirdre so he entered her, but she shook her head with a half-smile. Then she moved down to put her mouth on him.
Coherent thought wasn’t possible. The incredible pulling, the warm, wet mouth on his manhood was everything in his world. She used her tongue in spirals around him, and he struggled to hold back his climax. He shuddered with need, and then, finally, she mounted him.
Legacy of Luck Page 21
