He preferred that moment be private.
He captured her hand and she giggled as they climbed the dim circular stairs. The music and revelry faded. Without stopping, they raced to the bedchamber and fell, laughing, into chairs afore the fire.
Then they both quieted. The moment Archibald had waited for so long was finally upon them. Would she be a willing mate or had she been playing a role this night?
She coyly gazed from beneath ebony lasses and moistened her lips. His cock jerked in response as if she controlled the thing with a string.
Would he ever forgive her part—though he believed it trivial—in the raid?
He cleared his throat. “Let us not harbor thoughts of troubling events from our past, even if only for this night.” He clasped her hand and held it over his heart.
She tilted her head to the side and her brow wrinkled, as if trying to understand. Then her lips curved into a smile filled with, could he hope, love. “If that is your wish, then ’tis my desire also.”
He nodded. From the pouch at his belt, he withdrew a leather wrapped package. He dropped to a knee in front of Isobell and presented the wedding gift.
Her eyes misted as he placed the treasure into her trembling hand. She opened the package to reveal the ruby ring, with its large gemstone, he’d had made for her, years ago, when he prayed she’d someday become his bride.
Isobell smiled though showed little excitement. She’d kenned of the ring from the beginning. “Thank you, husband.”
He’d had other gifts made too. Ones she didn’t ken about. With the tenuous circumstances surrounding their marriage, he’d keep those locked away until—
Better to think pleasant thoughts tonight.
“Would you care for some wine?” he asked.
“Nae.” Her gaze landed on the bed then returned to him. “I would prefer to remember this night with a clear head. But first…” From a pocket sewn into a seam of the wedding gown materialized a small packet, which Isobell handed over with a shy smile. “I also have a gift for you, husband.”
He liked the way her voice emphasized the word. Perhaps they could make their marriage work. Accepting the gift, he carefully removed the wrapping. His eyes widened when a large ruby dropped into his lap. He stared at it for a might too long, swallowed hard, and then looked at Isobell.
She blessed him with a radiant smile.
“Thank you,” he said, at a loss for other words.
“’Tis for the cross section of your claymore.”
“Aye, I will be the envy of every warrior.”
“And the target of many a thief.”
Her nonchalant comment sobered Archibald. He’d added a new layer of complexity to his already-complicated life by marrying a woman who might possibly want to do him harm.
He sighed, stood, and reached out a hand. He led her to the bed where he undid the ties of her gown, allowing it to pool at her feet. The translucent chemise brought attention to the fullness of her breasts. She quickly covered them with trembling hands, hiding the desired bounty.
A chill slithered over Archibald’s skin along with a foul thought—had she been with another man or, worse, raped?
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.
“Oh, nae.” She shook her head adamantly.
Relief near made him giddy. He raised her chin with a finger. “Look into my eyes. Trust me.”
She complied, and he held her gaze while removing the hands that concealed the delectable feast from which he wished to partake and spread her arms to the side and clasped her hands. With an ache of yearning long harbored, he leaned in and sucked first one pebbled nipple through the cloth, then the other.
Isobell whimpered and swayed. “Ah, Archie?”
His heart jerked with pleasure. It was the first time she called him by his nickname since her capture. With as gentle a touch as he could muster, he slid the chemise over her head and eased her to the mattress where he dined on her bounty to the loveliest sounds a woman could make—moans of pleasure.
When the first waves of passion passed, Archibald removed his plaide and leine. Isobell watched his every move, a small smile gracing her moist lips. His cock jerked, and he rushed to rejoin her on the bed, more than glad the long wait was almost over. Raised on forearms, leaning over her, he studied her face. Rosy cheeks from the scratch of his whiskers, an impertinent nose, expressive violet eyes softened from their loving, and ebony eyebrows arched in question.
“You ken there may be discomfort?”
She answered with a hasty nod.
He stroked a finger along her soft cheek, along the front of her neck, and over a firm breast to linger on a pert nipple. She sucked in a sharp breath and arched her back, encouraging him to continue exploring. He splayed both hands on her flat belly, moved one between her legs, and teased her to a fevered pitch. When fragrant cream coated his fingers, he eased between her thighs and, edging within the slick folds, entered heaven. She stilled. “Easy, Lass.”
“I am fine. More than fine.”
The fit was tight. He moved slowly, hoping to only inflict minimal pain. As their bodies adjusted, she moved with him. Slow and gentle. When he hit the barrier of her maidenhead—thank the good Lord she was still a virgin—he thrust.
He captured her scream with an open-mouthed kiss.
His orgasm shot him to the stars. Pleasure so intense, he yelled Isobell’s name.
She yawned and promptly fell asleep. A slight stab of inadequacy furrowed his brow. He’d make it better for her next time.
Archibald rose from the marriage bed, tiptoed to the hearth, and banked the fire. He removed a goblet from the mantel. Some wine remained. He downed a good portion then gagged. Bitter. The remainder he tossed into the fire. He stumbled and the goblet slipped from his weakened hand to the floor.
Whew… He wobbled. Something was amiss. Was the wine tainted? He shot a glare at Isobell, her features innocently composed in slumber. Had she meant to poison him?
He stumbled to the side of the bed and collapsed. Panted through a wave of nausea. Clambered atop the mattress with effort. Worked his way to Isobell, hovered over her, and found enough strength to shake her awake.
Her eyes jerked open, big and round, and full of fear.
“You have poisoned me.” Vision blurring, he plunged forward and passed out.
CHAPTER SIX
Isobell jolted full awake. Archibald’s dead weight half-sprawled over her torso. She could hardly breathe. What had happened to him?
You have poisoned me.
What had she done? Memories returned in an unending wave. All the terrible things of which Da accused Archibald. Stealing cattle. Burning villages. Killing men. Raping women.
In horror, she shoved at him and tried to push him off. He barely budged. She reached back, grabbed the bedpost with both hands, and struggled to pull free. Finally, she dragged the last stuck foot from under his weight.
Scrambling off the bed, she grabbed the discarded chemise from the floor. As she donned the garment, she noted the blood on the inside of her thighs. Grrrr. A glance at the bed confirmed the proof of the consummated marriage. She’d never be free of Archibald, now.
She rushed to the table where a bowl and pitcher sat waiting. A vigorous scrub with a wet cloth and the evidence on her person was gone. The soiled sheet was another matter. She crept to the bed. Archibald snored like a drunken warrior. She tugged on the sheet, but couldn’t free it from his weight.
Damn! When he woke, he’d find the proof.
Isobell frantically twirled the ruby ring on her finger, the color of blood, like the blood on the sheet. She wanted to deny its significance. How had she gotten herself wed to the vile man? How had she ended up in his bed? No longer a virgin, and wishing to forget the deed.
She needed to leave. Now. A crumpled silver gown lay on the floor. That would be of no use. She kicked it out of the way and searched for her lad’s clothes, hoping they hadn’t been destroyed.
Thank goo
dness for busy servants. Laundry had been left in a basket near the hearth, her tattered garments included. The lad’s natty boots lay nearby. She quickly dressed and rubbed soot onto her face. Pulling the cowl over her head, she tiptoed to the door and listened.
Only muted voices coming from the on-going celebration below. Good.
She needed weapons. Not wanting to waste time, Isobell grabbed Archibald’s claymore. Too heavy. Ah, but there in a dark corner, her sword leaned against the wall.
She’d prefer to also have a dirk, or two, or three, but had no idea where Archibald stashed his blades, and didn’t have time to search. She needed to be gone before he woke.
He grunted, flailed an arm, and inhaled a gusty breath. She spared a moment to pause at the bedside table, where a piece of leather cradled the large ruby she’d gifted to Archibald. Removing the ring from her finger, she switched it for the gemstone, which she shoved into a hidden pocket sewn within her trews.
The sale of the gem would provide needed funds.
She snatched Archibald’s plaide from the floor, and made quick work of draping it like a man. Hopefully, she’d be mistaken as a visiting clansmen.
Another listen at the door, and she eased the carved panel open. No one to the left. No one to the right. She skulked along the corridor, praying she wouldn’t be recognized by the servants scurrying to attend the guests.
Instead of exiting through the great hall, she took the circular stairs to the kitchen, skirted the large prep table, and lunged for the door. The staff was too busy to pay any mind. Hand on latch, she took a bracing breath, and shoved the heavy wood panel open. Wind whipped her face. Ankle-deep snow covered the courtyard. She clung to the shadows, hugging the castle wall, dragging her feet to make the footprints look less like that of a woman.
Once clear of the yard, she ran to the beach and, with a grunt, dragged a currach across the shingle and shoved it into the icy water. The current tried to steal the boat, but she was too stubborn to let go. On the opposite shore a beacon light burned in the stable. She climbed aboard and rowed across the bay, struggling to keep the small boat on course.
Luck was with her; the stable lads snored in the hay. They’d be telling the truth when they claimed not to have seen her. She fitted Dealanach Dubh with a saddle, hoisted onto his back, and departed the village without waylay.
The heavy snow would cover their tracks, but made the going difficult. She followed a trail seldom used through the Fir-wood, wanting distance between her and her new husband.
Cursed life. She was wed to the evil MacLachlan.
He believed she tried to poison him. Though he hadn’t planned to hang her for reiving, he’d certainly see her swinging from a gibbet for attempted murder no matter the charge false.
She held no illusions, he’d search for her with unwavering determination. Her only chance was to ride for Glasgow and procure passage to France. Distant relatives lived there who might agree to harbor a fugitive.
The going was easier out of the wind, within the protection of fir trees, but she needed to guide Dealanach Dubh carefully, away from tree wells, into which he might sink and break a leg or worse. They emerged from the trees into a clearing. The blizzard had worsened.
They rode until she realized they crossed their own tracks. They’d ridden in circles and were miserably lost. Leaning forward in the saddle, she shielded her eyes, unsure which direction to travel. In the distance, a bright white light beckoned. Dealanach Dubh trudged toward the glow.
Archibald’s wool plaide pulled over her head gave minimal protection as they slogged through the blinding snow, the light guiding them to who kenned where. Isobell clung to Dealanach Dubh with fingers numb from cold. Icy flakes stung the exposed skin of her face. Yet they followed the light taking them further from Castle Lachlan and the man who would never forgive her for an act she didn’t commit.
As the storm worsened, Isobell wondered if she’d gone mad, risking life itself, traipsing over a countryside experiencing the worst weather of the season. For what? To escape a man she once loved. Was it worth killing her horse and possibly losing her life over such?
Should she go back and plead her case? If only she could curl into a ball and fall asleep in the snow and forget. Feeling drowsy, she started to slip, but caught herself before falling.
Isobell. Isobell. Fear not.
What? Who said that? She raised her head and tried to see through the blowing snow. The white light remained; drew them ever closer.
Emerging from the trees, they stepped out of the snow onto a mound of the most unusual green grass. Grass that should be autumn-brown. Above, a full moon shone bright. How was that possible? Isobell jerked a look over a shoulder at where they’d just been and gasped. The blizzard raged. Falling snow created a heavy curtain of white.
She patted Dealanach Dubh’s ice-crusted coat. “Where are we, lad?”
A place of magic.
“’Tis known as the Sithichean Sluaigh, a faerie knoll.” A golden-haired woman of inconceivable beauty sat a stunning white horse. “Dinnae fear this place.”
Isobell arched her back, stiffening in shock, and inadvertently kicked Dealanach Dubh, who reared on hind legs. “Easy lad.”
She couldn’t bring him under control. He nervously skittered sideways, until the woman sidled near and placed a hand on his neck, said words in a strange ancient-sounding language, and he calmed.
The woman dismounted, and Isobell followed suit. “’Twas you guiding us to this place.”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“To save you from a fate you dinnae want.”
“Being the wife of the MacLachlan?”
“Aye.”
What Isobell could only guess was a vision came over her. The green grass on the mound replaced by a cover of the purest white snow. Drops of blood stained the pristine surface. She remembered the bloodstained sheet in the bridal chamber. A trembling took hold of her. She already belonged to Archibald.
“The only way to avert this travesty is to leave this realm for another,” the woman said.
“What do you mean?”
“You must leave this place for another. Come with me unto the center of the mound.”
If she left she’d never see Archibald again. That thought hurt more than she would have supposed. Isobell closed her eyes, refusing to shed the tears of her heart.
When she felt strong enough to open them again and face the truths of the past night, the vision was gone. She stood with her horse on the mound of green grass. The mysterious woman had vanished.
Isobell stepped back in fear and bumped into Dealanach Dubh. The horse bolted through the curtain of falling snow and into the storm.
She darted after him but the snowdrifts had deepened to her waist. If she continued she’d surely perish. Backtracking, she returned to the grassy knoll, but stayed at its edge, afraid to venture onto the mound itself.
Rumors abounded about places such as this. Stories told by old folk. Stories Isobell had thought were intended to frighten children into behaving.
There were many such tales about the knoll in the Fir-wood. Legend claimed the place was inhabited by faeries. As a child, she’d marveled over stories of mysterious beams of brightly colored lights hovering over the hill on especially dark, starless nights. A chill skimmed over Isobell’s shoulders. They claimed that beneath the hill resided Finvarra, King of the Faeries. She’d heard stories of melodious music coming from below where the king hosted wild gatherings. Some believed he kidnapped beautiful mortal women and forced them below to spend a never ending evening feasting and dancing.
Perhaps there was some truth to the stories. The hill was definitely a place of magic. Wee twinkling stars danced just above the grass and in the single tree at the center of the mound. A tree with an abundance of verdant leaves and fragrant citrus-scented blossoms that shouldn’t exist in this place, and certainly not at this time of year.
She cautiously approached, drawn by the t
winkling lights glimmering on the unusually green grass. She touched one and it flew away on wings. She took a step back, away from the knoll, turned, and ran into the snow.
An arrow whizzed past her head. Isobell dove back onto the mound. She lingered at its edge for the longest time, chewing on her bottom lip, wondering what to do. How had the other reivers found her during such a dreadful storm? Why hadn’t they followed her onto the mound?
Walk to the center of the knoll, Isobell.
More words in that ancient tongue yet this time she understood.
She couldn’t help but stroll onto the mound and try to capture one of the wondrous dancing lights. She giggled and forgot to be afraid. She danced in a circle and laughed aloud.
When she reached the center of the mound, she looked at the sky and at the full moon, and her stomach quivered. Nausea made her sway. She grasped her belly as she fell backward into a dark well, falling as if there was no bottom.
Down, down, down, deeper into the black hole. She screamed but heard no sound.
Her body spun…or was the hole spinning? She couldn’t think. Pain exploded behind her eyes. A sharp white beam of light appeared afore her and on instinct, she followed it. What would she find there? Before she could find out, she burst into a cloudy sky and dropped ever so slowly, landing with a soft thud on snow-covered ground.
Isobell clutched the cloth covering her chest. Her heart felt as if it would gallop away.
Where was she? Nothing looked familiar. She reached over her shoulder and squeezed the leather scabbard strapped to her back. Her sword remained in its sheath. She pulled the blade free and pointed it forward, darting a gaze from left to right, searching for a threat.
She must be somewhere beneath the faerie mound. Finvarra’s enchanted world?
She stood in a noble winter garden, but none she’d ever visited. Snow still fell, but in the gentlest of ways, dusting the soil and bushes with glistening sparkles.
“What are you doing here, Isobell?”
Dawn Marie Hamilton - Highland Gardens Page 5
