Bride for a Knight

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Jamie angled his head and narrowed one eye at her, skeptical. “Are you saying the sun slipped down into St. Bride’s well this e’en and is sleeping in its waters? Even now as we sit here?”

  She smiled and kissed his nose. “I am saying that the ancient ones believed it, aye. Were they here, they would tell you that it is the underground sun’s power throbbing in the earth beneath us, its warmth taking the chill out of the ground we are sitting upon.”

  “Because we are sitting so near to the well? The well where the sun is now sleeping?”

  She nodded again.

  Jamie did his best not to snort.

  “And you think we feel this warmth and earth-shimmying because Bride is blessing us?”

  “To be sure,” she said, her eyes lighting with a warmth even a thousand suns couldn’t match.

  Sleeping or otherwise.

  “Bride is pleased by our union and showing us.”

  Jamie humphed. “’Tis you I’d wished to please this night.”

  She smoothed her hand down his arm, then laced her fingers with his, squeezing lightly. “Are you still hungry?”

  Jamie hardened at once, his entire body tightening.

  “Och, aye, I have a ravenous hunger,” he admitted, putting Bride and her sleeping sun from his mind. “And I think you know what it is I’m craving.”

  Her lashes fluttered and a quick flush swept into her cheeks, telling him she knew indeed. The sudden catching of her breath and the flash of excitement in her eyes giving him the permission he needed to indulge.

  “Aye, I know—I think,” she said, banishing any lingering doubt.

  Jamie grinned.

  “Sweet lass, you willna be sorry.” He grabbed her face between his hands and kissed her deeply, a hard and hot tongue-tangling kiss, slaking and furious, sizzling in its intensity.

  She returned the kiss with equal fervor, winding her arms around his neck and pressing close, so close he could feel her tightened nipples rubbing against his chest, a sweet torment that only increased his hunger for her.

  Breaking the kiss at last, he pulled back to look at her, his breath coming hard and fast. He was fairly certain the whole of his heart must be standing in his eyes, staring right at her.

  Trumpeting how much he wanted and adored her.

  How deeply he’d fallen in love with her.

  And he had.

  Truth was, he’d barter his soul to know her safe, make her happy and see her rise each morn wearing naught but a smile and ne’er even a single care.

  He drew a deep breath, certain cares of his own throbbing too insistently for him to wax romantic. That could come later, after he’d slaked his need to taste and savor her woman’s wetness. And after he’d done so often enough to leave her sleeping the whole morn through. Just the time he figured he needed to return to Hughie’s and also take a good look at the Garbh Uisge.

  But first he’d look his fill on her.

  “This, sapphire eyes, is what I meant by other ways for us to pleasure each other,” he said, doing just that as he pushed up her skirt. He slid his hands behind her knees, caressing the tender flesh there, then exploring higher, his breath catching when his fingers skimmed across dampness on the smooth, hot skin of her inner thighs.

  “O-o-oh, that is sweet,” she breathed, lying back and arching her body for him. She even parted her legs, instinctively giving him greater access. “Don’t stop touching me.”

  “Och, lass, I haven’t begun to touch you yet—no’ the way I mean to.” He looked down at her, deliberately letting a fold of her skirt dip down to shield her nakedness.

  And she was naked beneath the modesty of that one wee skirt fold.

  Her rich musky arousal drifted up between them and he could feel the melting heat of her. Even just kneeling on the plaid, gazing at her.

  Och, aye, without doubt Aveline Matheson wore nothing but her own tender flesh and woman’s curls beneath her gown and he wasn’t quite ready to look fully on such sweetness.

  He’d spill when he did. Leastways he suspected he would. Especially when he touched his mouth to her. So he kept her covered for the now and simply savored the sleek, smooth feel of her naked thighs, relishing how each time he slid his hands up and down them, they fell open just a wee bit more.

  He wanted her opened as wide as possible when he settled himself between her legs and licked and nibbled his way from her knees up to the soft, fragrant center of her.

  A center suddenly freed completely to his view when a particularly soft and warm-feeling wind swept across the glade. Sweet and fragrant as spring sunshine, but brisk enough to lift a certain skirt fold until the moon shone fully on the silky-curled triangle between her legs.

  “O-o-oh, lass.” Jamie stared at her, incredible heat surging into his loins. “You leave me breathless!”

  Not taking his gaze off of her, he reached to touch her, tracing a wondering finger down the very center of her, finding her sleek, slippery, and moist as sun-warmed honey.

  Certain she’d taste as delectable, he urged her to lie back on the plaid, then bent her knees, spreading them until she was even more fully exposed to him. The whole of her female sweetness completely open, hot, wet, and glistening.

  Her beauty stilled his heart and for several long-seeming moments, he could only sit and look at her. Everything else in the night lost importance. Nothing existed but the lure of her silver-shimmering female curls and the strange warm wind swirling over and around them. A fey wind, it riffled their hair and tugged at their clothes until, somehow, they were both quite naked and the gently swaying grass and the dark ring of trees sheltering the glade sighed in approval.

  “Keep touching me,” she pleaded then, arching against him when he withdrew his hand, thinking only to cup and knead her breasts for a moment, perhaps tease a bit at her nipples.

  She looked at him, her eyes passion-glazed. Needy. “Keep touching me there, where you have been,” she urged again. “I can’t bear it if you do not.”

  And so he did, returning his hand to her sweetest heat, stroking, probing, and swirling his fingers, teasing caresses across her wet and eager flesh, rubbing and circling until even his most skilled touches weren’t enough and she lifted her hips off the plaid, her body begging in a silent, urgent cry as elemental as the sacred ground beneath them.

  But when her writhing and gasps of pleasure began growing frantic, he did lift away his hand, quickly positioning himself there where he’d burned to be all night.

  “Ach, dia!” she cried when he opened his mouth over her, sucking gently. Then his large hands slipped beneath her, his fingers splaying across her bottom, cupping and lifting her, drawing her even deeper into his seeking mouth.

  White-hot pleasure shot through her, the intensity of it almost too glorious to bear.

  Especially when he looked up, locking gazes with her as he began doing just what she’d hoped he’d do.

  And so wondrously, his eyes never leaving hers as he dragged his tongue over her, again and again, each sweet, slow lick enflaming her, making her twist and wind on the plaid, certain she would soon splinter into so many bright-sparkling pieces she’d ne’er be able to gather them.

  His tongue plunged into her then, and the shattering began. A slow, free-falling glide into blinding bliss as his tongue dipped in and out, mirroring the most intimate of acts, then withdrawing to swirl over her again, each luxurious, sweeping glide of his tongue making the earth beneath her tremble and sigh, the very hills around them quivering, crying out with the darkness of her need.

  Until his laving tongue found that place and she realized the tremors and cries were her own, each hot, fluttery flick and swirl of his tongue on her most pulsing, sensitive spot, hurtling her deeper into the glittering madness, the silent little glade and the whole of the cold, moon-washed night spinning wildly around her.

  And still he ravished her. Now grazing his teeth ever so lightly on that tiny, hot-throbbing place, nipping gently. Then drawing back to
blow softly on her trembling flesh, cooling her before he lowered his head again, burying his face deeper into her sweetness, losing himself in the heady, saturating taste of her.

  He feasted on her, some lone, still-thinking corner of his mind certain he’d ne’er get enough of her. That she was a Sithe maid indeed and had ensorcelled him, making him crave her scent and taste. The intoxication of her hot, wet, and slippery femaleness.

  “Lass, I canna stop,” he groaned, licking her harder, his hunger for her only intensifying.

  He looked up at her again and saw answering passion heating her eyes. Her hair spilled all around her, her rosebud nipples were thrusting at him through the silvery blond strands. She looked so beautiful that his edge raced closer, a wild, tumultuous release almost breaking when she reached for him, pulling him up on top of her.

  Crying out, she arched her hips and clamped her legs around him, rubbing against him in a way he couldn’t refuse. Already her body trembled, shuddering and tensing, her pleasure seizing her, sweeping over him, too, as he plunged inside her, sliding deep.

  So deep into her sleek, drenching heat, it was as if the earth split beneath him, revealing the sleeping sun and he’d slid right into its fire, the licking flames consuming him, the glory of her almost bursting his heart.

  His passion did burst, the hot seed streaming into her even as the first spasms of her own release rocked through her and she clung to him, thrusting her fingers into his hair and pulling him close for a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

  A rough and savage kiss so wild and uninhibited, he jerked inside her, the endless-seeming flood of his release still pouring into her. The hot-blazing sunfire licked at them, its heat turning the cold, silent glade into brightest summer.

  And only later, when he collapsed against her, full-sated and his breath ragged, did Jamie begin to notice the night’s chill. They hadn’t been transported to some long-past pagan fire festival, Beltane, or the even greater Midsummer revels, but still lay hotly entwined on their plaid, St. Bride’s enchanted glade quiet now. The earth no longer warm and humming, but cold and damp with the wetness of the grass beginning to seep through the plaid’s wool.

  The prickles at the back of Jamie’s nape returned as well. The unnerving sense that they weren’t alone, and that whoe’er or whate’er lurked near, their purpose was not to wish them well.

  The glade seemed smaller now. Dark and more shadow-filled. Even the well and its outcropping had slipped from sight, the stones and the hoary altar hidden by the night’s encroaching mist.

  A Druid’s mist some might say.

  Deep, gray and impenetrable, its shimmering silence surrounded them as they dressed for the ride back to Baldreagan. A silent ride through thick, swirling mist that blotted the hills and slipped through the trees, its luminous, rippling curtains shielding them as they rode. Guarding them, too, from a certain hooded figure’s prying, malevolent eyes.

  Eyes that had seen far too much.

  Not that the galling images couldn’t be wiped from memory.

  They soon would be.

  Banished and forever erased, the cries and writhings forgotten as if they’d never been when shock and recognition replaced blazing passion and cold, deserved death claimed its own.

  And all the saints, holy wells, pagan glades, or Highland mist wouldn’t save them.

  This insult had been too great.

  It was time, the figure decided, for the last of the Macphersons to meet their fate.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Early the next morning, it scarce mattered whether the sun slept in St. Bride’s Well or elsewhere. It certainly hadn’t yet bestirred itself when Jamie slipped from Aveline’s arms. Kendrick’s painted shutters were still tightly fastened against the cold and the thin smirr of rain that had started sometime in the small hours of the night, and the bedchamber was yet in deep shadow. Scant illumination came from the hearth fire for it had burned low, its one-time warmth and bright reddish glow, little more than a memory.

  Even the thick night candle had guttered out, but a single wall sconce yet flickered, its feeble light slanting through the parted bed curtains and across his bride’s nakedness.

  Her slumbering nakedness.

  Jamie stood looking at her, branding her beauty on his heart, the sweetness of her in his mind.

  The image of her sleeping, her vulnerability, would strengthen his purpose. Not that he wasn’t already more than determined and able to put an end to bogles-that-weren’t and other mysterious doings.

  Perhaps then he could turn more of his attention to winning a certain cantankerous heart. Or at the very least, see the fear leave his father’s eyes.

  That, too, would be a victory.

  Naught would please him more than if the clan’s famed Horn of Days remained in its place on the wall above the high table for a good many years to come, Munro once again lairding it in high style. Mayhap with a bouncing grandbairn or two on his knee.

  Jamie’s heart filled at the image and he reached for his bride, pulling back just before he stroked her lovely hair. This morn, simple looking would have to do.

  And she did make a fetching sight, sprawled so wantonly across the great four-poster bed, her sweet thighs opened just enough to make it nigh impossible to leave her. The tumbled masses of her luxuriant hair spilled across the pillows, each gleaming strand looking bright and silky even in the half-dark of this early hour.

  A devil-damned hour, good only for mewling bairns, graybeards, and those sorry souls unable to appreciate the benefits of deep and restorative sleep.

  He certainly did.

  Little good that it did him this particular morn.

  Other, more pressing matters took precedence, so he stretched and looked round, searching for his strewn clothes. It wouldn’t do to stumble and cause a ruckus.

  Or worse, step on poor Cuillin’s tail. A distinct possibility given the room’s darkness and the old dog’s penchant for plopping down in the most inconvenient places.

  Jamie scratched his elbow and frowned.

  Saints, but he loathed rising before cockcrow.

  Even if the strictures of his world often required it. At the thought, he almost snorted and would have, did he wish not to disturb his sleeping bride.

  Truth was, he crawled from bed so early almost every morn.

  But rising before the unholy hour of prime when he hadn’t slept a wink was an unnatural evil.

  A very great evil.

  Though the reason for his lack of a good night’s rest had surely been worth it.

  Grinning, he slid another look at the bed.

  A lingering look, and focusing immediately on the sweet triangular tangle of curls he’d spent so much of the night enjoying. Still damp and fragrant from hours of vigorous love play, those silky-soft curls beckoned irresistibly.

  But he’d drained himself at least eight times in the long endless night and the saints only knew how often she’d found her like satisfaction, minxie and insatiable as she was proving herself as a bedmate, much to Jamie’s delight.

  But he’d pushed himself for another reason as well, needing to get away before she rose and attempted to accompany him about his morning’s business.

  Manly business.

  Doings he hoped to shield from her.

  He also didn’t want Cuillin trailing after him. The dog’s heart and spirit far exceeded his strength and abilities, so he, too, had been treated to extra care the previous e’en, receiving a generous and rich meal. As well, an especially well-fleshed meat bone waited near the hearth. A precautionary measure to content and distract the dog if he stirred before Jamie had a chance to exit the room.

  Blessedly, that didn’t seem likely; both bride and dog slept deeply.

  And if the saints were merciful, he’d have time to see everything tended and be back at Baldreagan, breaking his fast with his da in the great hall before Aveline or Cuillin even opened their eyes to the morning.

  Willing it so, he finished dressing a
nd latched on his sword belt, tucking his trusty Norseman’s ax into place as well, just for good measure.

  If aught was truly amiss at Hughie Mac’s, he’d be prepared.

  Though he hoped Aveline had the rights of it and the old rogue had only been enjoying a tryst with one of his female admirers last night.

  Aye, he’d much prefer to arrive at the cottage and find Hughie fit and hale, perhaps seeing to his sheep or tossing seed to the broody hens e’er running in his wake.

  However he found him, Jamie would insist on an explanation for the discarded crummock he’d tripped over in the grass in front of Hughie’s cottage. The size of the thing nagged at him as did something else … something he’d thought about his da recently but couldn’t recall just now. Jamie pressed his lips together and scratched his elbow again.

  That was another reason he so disliked early mornings; they befuddled his wits.

  Wits that came spiraling back a short while later as he rode through the empty woodlands toward Hughie’s cottage and, by necessity, passed near the great out-thrusting shoulders of the steep, rock-strewn slopes that formed the deep gorge of the Garbh Uisge.

  Jamie shuddered. The roar of the rushing water filled his ears, even a safe distance from that dread, lonely place.

  But louder than the boiling white waters of the cataracts, his own words slammed into him—words he’d thought when he’d made farewell courtesies to the MacKenzie lasses.

  Then when he’d not wanted his da to hear his reason for denying Aveline a springtime visit to Eilean Creag, fearing the travails of the journey and, especially, the rigors of the anticipated sailing adventure on one of the Black Stag’s galleys, would prove too strenuous for Munro.

  Och, nay he hadn’t wanted his da to hear such concerns. Yet, he’d suspected he might.