Highland Belle

by Patricia H. Grasso

  “Please do,” Iain said, amused at being threatened by so small a creature as she. “I assure ye, yer virtue and my health are safe.” For the moment, he thought to himself, then stood and helped her rise.

  * * * *

  Iain went fishing alone the next morning. With his horse grazing a few feet away, he stood at the water's edge and pondered the weighty problem of what to do with his wife. Should he return to the lodge and tell her the truth? No, the seduction must come first.

  Hearing a sound behind him, Iain turned to see Percy dismounting. “What's the news from Dunridge?” he asked.

  “As usual,” Percy answered. “Black Jack wants to know when ye'll be returnin’ and Antonia is anxious to meet yer bride.” Then he added, “Ye displayed tremendous control yesterday. A feat, ye might say."

  “I dinna ken."

  Percy grinned wickedly. “Jamie says any earl who'd hump his countess beneath a tree is a good mon to follow."

  “Ye were watchin'?"

  “We were guardin’ ye, no’ watchin',” Percy returned indignantly, but his eyes sparkled with humor. “Is she so hot ye canna wait for the bed?"

  Groaning, Iain turned away, but Percy grabbed his brother's arm and studied his pained expression. “She's a virgin still?” Percy roared with laughter. “Good God, mon! Yer losin’ yer touch wi’ the lassies."

  Without warning, Iain struck, his fist connecting with Percy's jaw, sending the younger man sprawling on the ground. “Yer tongue and yer brain are losin’ touch wi’ each other,” he growled. “Open yer mouth aboot this, baby brother, and yer a dead mon."

  Iain mounted his horse and left, but the echo of Percy's laughter followed him back to the lodge.

  4

  “Percy!” Iain exclaimed. “What are ye doin’ here?"

  “Good mornin’ to ye also,” Percy said cheerfully as he dismounted in front of the lodge. His eyes quickly scanned the area. “Where is she?"

  “Pickin’ early berries.” Iain frowned, adding, “Ye shouldna’ be here."

  “Have ye breached her yet?” Percy asked baldly.

  “That isna’ yer business,” Iain snapped, his anger flaring. “I'll thank ye to leave now."

  “Black Jack sent me,” Percy said, ignoring his brother's invitation to depart. “It's August, ye ken? Our crops and cattle are growin’ larger, and Menzies has become more visible."

  “Trouble?"

  “The northwest sector, nearest the Menzies land. The crops were torched and a substantial number of our cattle were lifted. And that isna’ the worst of it. Several of the crofters died protectin’ their few possessions. Their women and children were burned in their cottages!"

  “Sweet Jesu!” Iain was horrified by the atrocity. Murdac Menzies was worse than an animal. Only an unspeakably evil man could order the burning of helpless women and innocent children.

  “Black Jack needs ye,” Percy was saying as he took up the reins of his horse and mounted, “and expects ye home."

  “We'll return in the mornin',” Iain assured him.

  “Iain?” Percy looked down at his brother and smiled. “Have yerself a grand day and an even grander night."

  Almost wearily, Iain entered the lodge and sat in the chair in front of the now-darkened hearth. He was glad for the opportunity to sit and think before Brigette returned.

  Always, Iain had taken what he desired from women and had given nothing in return. Brigette was different. She was young, very young. She was his wife, but unprepared, he felt, to learn the truth.

  Since she'd arrived, his life had been a purgatory of sexual frustration, but Iain was loathe to bed her and chance ruining the easy relationship that had sprung up between them. He wanted Brigette's love and affection and respect, not just her body, much as he wanted that too.

  The world outside Dunridge Castle was dangerous and cruel. Iain needed a wife with whom he could live in peace and harmony, a wife to create a haven from warfare and political intrigue. But how could that be if his wife despised him?

  I've seen what a bad marriage can do to a man, he mused. When Malcolm passed so untimely on, he was probably glad to escape his wife. Antonia! There's a bitch—as are all women! What a sorry state the world is in; half of humankind are lying, deceitful, and treacherous ... except Lady Brigette. My Bria is a liar like all the others, but a delightfully charming one. I'm certain she's only been lying to protect herself. And she's beginning to love me. No, he corrected himself, she's beginning to love Ross.

  When the door swung open to admit Brigette and Sly, Iain stood and faced her, then grinned. “Put those berries on the table, lassie. We're goin’ out ridin'."

  “Where?"

  “I dinna know, but this day is ours to do wi’ as we will."

  Brigette grinned.

  “Yer lips and teeth are purple,” he said, chuckling.

  “We've been devouring berries.” She giggled. “Sly's tongue is the most vivid purple I've ever seen."

  Iain chastely kissed her lips. “Well, ye taste delicious."

  * * * *

  “Last evenin’ I discovered several pieces of meat floatin’ in my bowl,” Iain teased as he lifted Brigette onto his horse. “Yer stew is improvin'."

  “It was unintentional, I assure you."

  They rode together through the glen that led to the stream, a place they frequently visited. It was a secluded spot, a private place where they need not fear discovery by the MacArthur warriors.

  Brigette was bewildered by the odd behavior of the MacArthur men-at-arms. Occasionally, she saw them while passing through the glen with Ross, but the men turned away each time without acknowledging their presence. Brigette felt certain the MacArthurs should have recognized her. It was wholly puzzling, but she refused to dwell on it, preferring to enjoy whatever time remained for Ross and herself. Perhaps, she thought more than once, Ross would be willing to leave with me. Brigette knew she was in danger of falling in love with him and was almost certain he had a fondness for her, even when he was gruff, which strangely enough happened each night at bedtime. More than anything else, Brigette yearned to be with Ross MacArthur, but they were doomed. She belonged to that heathen from Dunridge! Unless...

  A smile flitted across Brigette's face and she relaxed against the object of her thoughts. A marriage is not actually legal, she schemed, until consummated. Iain MacArthur has certainly not consummated his marriage to me—yet! If I gave myself to Ross, would Iain still insist on the marriage? Would he release me from the vows or slay us both? It's worth the risk....

  “I suppose, bein’ a Gypsy and all, ye've traveled to many places,” Iain said, picking up a stone and skimming it across the stream. “Do ye like the Highlands?"

  “Yes, I do like the Highlands."

  “Do ye think ye could be happy livin’ here, I mean, on a permanent basis?"

  “I suppose,” Brigette answered coyly, “a woman could be happy anywhere, as long as she's married to the right man.” He loves me! she decided, but then her face dropped in dismay. With my husband in the vicinity, how could Ross and I live together as man and wife?

  Smiling, Iain turned to Brigette, but saw the shadows of sadness clouding her expression. Gently, he forced her to look at him. “What's makin’ ye sad, lassie?"

  “Nothing."

  Her tender feelings for Ross made her sad, Iain decided. When she learned that he was her husband, Brigette would be overjoyed. If only she would confess the truth about who she really was!

  “I dinna believe that frown is for nothin',” Iain said. “If ye've a need to share yer troubles, I'm a good listener."

  Brigette forced herself to smile brightly. “There, you see, the frown and the thought are gone."

  “Would ye like to see me tickle a fish?” he asked, thinking to cheer her up.

  Brigette stared blankly at him. Iain removed his boots and hose, then waded into the stream, calling over his shoulder, “Ye must be absolutely quiet and still. Ye ken?"

  Brigette nodded her
head like a child.

  Bending over, Iain slowly, ever so slowly, submerged his hand in the cold water, then stood statue-still. A respectable size fish approached, swimming around and around Iain's legs, investigating. Gingerly, his long finger reached out to stroke its belly, lulling it.

  “What are you doing?” Brigette shouted just as he was about to flip the fish to shore. “I can't see!"

  The fish darted away. Iain scowled and glared at Brigette, who, being a reasonably intelligent person, read the displeasure stamped across his handsome features.

  “Whatever I've done, I'm sorry,” she apologized. “May I try?"

  “Come on, then."

  Brigette removed her shoes and hose, then immodestly hiked her skirt up, affording Iain a superb view of her shapely legs. She waded into the stream, squealing all the while at the water's coldness.

  “Bend over,” he instructed, “and slowly place yer hand in the water."

  “Now what?"

  “Ye wait. When a fish swims close, gently tickle his underside with a finger. When he's paralyzed with pleasure, flip him onto the shore."

  Brigette waited, and Iain admired most appreciatively the fetching backside she presented to him. A fish approached, drawing closer and closer. She reached out to touch it.

  "Yuck!" Brigette jumped back, and the fish darted away. Iain reached to catch her as she staggered off-balance. Too late! With a loud splash Brigette sat in the stream and Iain hooted with laughter.

  “This is your fault!” she accused. “You made me touch that scaly thing!"

  “I didna’ do any such thin'. Ye wanted to try."

  Brigette smiled sweetly and held out her hand. “Help me up?"

  When he grasped her hand, she yanked with all her might, catching him unaware. With an even louder splash, Iain sat in the stream beside her. Brigette laughed uproariously.

  “Why, ye wee bitch!” he roared. “I've a mind to set ye over my knee and give ye the skelpin’ of yer life."

  Giggling, Brigette leaped up and ran, but Iain gave chase. As she reached the shore, a powerful hand caught her arm and spun her around, none too gently. She slammed into his broad chest, and his arms encircled her, keeping her from falling.

  All thoughts of punishment fled as Iain became lost in the fathomless pools of Brigette's green eyes. “I've a mind to skelp ye,” he whispered huskily, “but I believe I'll kiss ye instead."

  When she lifted her face so he could more easily reach her lips, Iain groaned. His lips swooped down and claimed hers in an endless, devouring kiss.

  Finally drawing back to look at her, Iain stared at Brigette's dazed expression and knew the time had come to make her his wife in truth. The most tender of smiles touched his lips. “Let's go home, hinny, and get warm."

  * * * *

  Sly gave the shivering couple the warmest of greetings when they arrived at the lodge. Brigette laughed at the fox, delighted by his joyful squeals. Iain smiled at Brigette's happy expression and hoped she'd be equally happy the following morning, after they'd settled what was between them.

  “Disrobe and wrap yerself in this,” Iain ordered, thrusting a blanket into Brigette's hands, then added, “It will keep ye toasty until a fire's started and the chamber warms."

  Brigette stood motionless, waiting for him to leave, but Iain turned away and knelt in front of the hearth. “Will you leave, please, so I may change?"

  “No,” he answered, his back turned away from her, “but dinna worry. I willna’ peek."

  Unwilling to start an argument, and feeling very cold, Brigette quickly discarded her wet clothing and wrapped herself in the blanket. Then she sat upon the fur rug and called Sly to her side.

  Soon, Iain had a fire burning, then stood and began removing his own clothing. Brigette snapped her eyes shut, but then peeped curiously from beneath her thick, coppery lashes. Her breath caught raggedly in her throat at the sight of his magnificent, well-muscled physique. Leaving his broad, hairy chest bared, Iain wrapped himself in another green and black plaid.

  “Drink this,” he urged as he sat beside her on the rug and placed a flask of whiskey in her hands. “It will warm ye."

  Together, they shared the whiskey and gazed at the hearth's hypnotic flames. Idly, Brigette stroked Sly's sleek coat and relaxed. Iain nonchalantly placed his arm around her bare shoulder and drew her close. She raised her eyes to him so innocently that he was reluctant to do what he must. But there were no more tomorrows.

  “Did I ever tell ye, Bria,” he said, “of the grand and glorious history of the MacArthur clan?"

  Brigette smiled and shook her head.

  “In olden times,” he began, “the MacArthurs were Scotland's premier family—second only to the royal Stewarts—and chiefs of what is now called clan Campbell. However, through a series of bitter reversals durin’ the past two hundred years, the MacArthurs are not now clan chiefs, but we still retain our earldom and the special privileges bestowed upon our family so long ago."

  “What privileges?"

  “A long, long time ago,” Iain warmed to his subject, and the hand resting upon Brigette's shoulder began a slow caress, “King Malcolm conferred special privileges upon the MacArthur and his posterity. On any occasion when the royal standard is unfurled, the MacArthurs lead the Scottish army."

  “To be first in battle doesn't seem like a privilege to me."

  “It isna’ if yer a coward,” Iain replied, pressing an affectionate kiss on her forehead, “or a woman, but the MacArthurs have long been known for their bravery. There are other privileges, though. Whenever a king or queen is crowned, the MacArthur, now the Earl of Dunridge, places the crown upon the anointed head. When Queen Mary was a baby, my father placed the crown upon her head."

  “Really?” Brigette was impressed.

  “The Earl of Dunridge,” he continued, “retains the privilege to sit without permission in the presence of Scottish royalty. Whenever a new monarch is crowned, the earl exercises this privilege, lest the royal Stewarts forget. It's now somethin’ of a joke among the noble Scots and Highland chiefs."

  “Why?"

  “Well, as I said, whenever a new king or queen is crowned, the verra first thin’ the MacArthur does is sit in his or her presence; and whenever there is a new Earl of Dunridge, the verra first thin’ he does is attend the court to sit in the royal presence."

  Brigette giggled, then asked, “If the MacArthurs were once clan chiefs, why are they not now?"

  “We are the original stock of the mighty clan Campbell,” Iain answered. “Ye might say the Duke of Argyll's ancestors were my ancestors’ puir relations. John MacArthur, a verra great mon and the leader of a thousand warriors, was the clan chief durin’ the reign of James the first. Although John was the king's mon and lived his life accordin’ to the MacArthur motto, ‘Faithful in Action,’ he was much too powerful to suit the jealous King James."

  “What happened?"

  “The king ordered him beheaded, and the chieftainship of the clan passed to the Campbell side of the family."

  Sitting so close that their bodies touched, Brigette turned her head to look at him. Without forethought, she pressed a light kiss on his cheek.

  Iain stared into incredible eyes of green, which glowed with love for him. Through an emotion-constricted throat, he vowed, “I love ye, lass.” His lips covered hers, pouring all the love his heart contained into that single, stirring kiss. Like a flower opening to the radiant sun and basking in its warmth, Brigette returned the kiss in kind, and then some.

  They fell back to the rug. Iain sprinkled kisses upon Brigette's eyelids, temples, nose, and throat. With his lips hovering above hers, he whispered, “Open yer eyes, sweet.” When she obeyed, he asked, “Can ye return my love?"

  “I do love you."

  Gently, Iain kissed her again, then unwrapped the blanket, baring her flawless body. He smiled with tenderness when she blushed. “Yer verra bonnie, my lady.” Iain pulled the plaid from his own body, and his lips swooped
down to capture hers.

  His hands roamed freely, reveled in the silky texture of his wife's skin. He caressed her breasts, teasing their pink-tipped peaks to aroused hardness. Brigette, feeling a throbbing heat ignite between her thighs, squirmed with desire. When Iain lowered his head to her breasts, licking and nursing upon their sensitive nipples, Brigette's breath caught raggedly in her throat.

  Iain's hand slid lower to caress her wildly fluttering stomach, then dipped to the enticing slit between her thighs. Brigette tensed.

  “Relax, hinny,” he whispered hoarsely, his lips returning to hers. His powerful hand with its gentle touch remained where it was, caressing the soft skin of Brigette's inner thighs. Iain stroked her tiny button, and a bolt of hot sensation burst from that tiny center of her being. Brigette trembled, nearly delirious with the pleasure of it.

  “Ye ken what I'm goin’ to do?” he asked huskily.

  Glazed with desire, Brigette's eyes opened, and Iain was certain that at this precise moment his wife was unable to recall her own name. He kissed her deeply and at the same time positioned himself between her thighs, the scarlet knob of his manhood poised at the opening of her moist, virginal tunnel.

  “I love ye.” He plunged deeply, breaking the maidenly barrier in one kind but powerful thrust.

  Brigette cried out, and tears of surprised pain sprang from her eyes. Iain's mouth covered hers, his tongue thrusting as his manhood pierced. In spite of his desperate need, Iain lay motionless, allowing Brigette a moment to acquaint herself with the feel of him inside her.

  My God! he marveled. The ultimate female—soft, hot, and tight! He moved then, in and out, gently and slowly. Brigette's breath came in shallow gasps, the valley between her thighs heating with each sweetly tormenting movement.

  “Wrap yer legs around me,” he ordered. When she obeyed, his thrusts came deeper, faster, harder.

  Innocence vanished and instinct emerged. Brigette arched her hips to meet each maddeningly wild thrust, building the tension that would surely kill her. She climbed a mountain of ecstasy and then peaked in screaming pleasure, floating gloriously back to earth as if riding a billowy cloud.