by Connie Mason
Graeme appeared amused rather than disappointed. “As you wish, lass. I have no problem with taking a mistress or two.”
The thought of Graeme bedding another woman caused Blair an unwelcome pang. Why did she even care? She knew little about the Campbell laird. What she did know had been gleaned only from her recurring dreams. And they had been more erotic than informative. However much she tried to deny it, the spirits had proclaimed him her future.
“So be it,” Blair said. “I will wed you on my terms, Graeme Campbell.”
“And I will wed you to repay a debt to your father,” Graeme answered. He offered his arm. “Shall we tell him our good news?”
They returned together to the bedchamber, where Douglas anxiously awaited them.
“Did ye settle it between ye?” Douglas asked.
“We have,” Graeme announced.
“I knew ye would not let me down,” Douglas said, “so I sent Gavin for the priest. Ye must take Blair with ye to Stonehaven immediately after the consummation.”
“Consummation?” squeaked Blair.
“Is that necessary?” Graeme asked.
“Aye. There must be no grounds to dissolve yer marriage. Naught must be left undone. Ye will consummate your vows immediately following the ceremony.”
“Nay!” Blair cried.
“Ye will obey me in this, Daughter,” Douglas insisted. He fixed his gaze on Graeme. “I will have yer vow, Graeme Campbell. Will ye wed Blair?”
Graeme glanced at Blair, moved by her beauty, yet uncomfortable with what and who she was. Neither he nor Blair wanted the marriage, but he did not have the heart to deny the dying laird.
“I will honor your request, Douglas,” Graeme agreed. “I will wed your daughter and take her to Stonehaven with me when I leave. And I swear to protect her with my life.”
Chapter Two
A discreet knock on the door announced the priest. Graeme watched with little enthusiasm and a great deal of astonishment as a rawboned Scotsman wearing the MacArthur plaid over his black cassock strode into the chamber. Graeme stared at the priest’s flame-colored hair and beard; he looked like one of the wild Vikings who had invaded their lands long ago.
“Gavin said ye were ready for me,” the priest said in a booming voice.
“Thank ye for coming, Lachlan. Graeme Campbell has agreed to the marriage,” Douglas said. “Ye can begin.”
Lachlan searched Graeme’s face, then thrust out his hand. “I’m Father Lachlan MacArthur. Is my kinsman correct? Have ye agreed to wed Blair?”
“Aye,” Graeme answered.
“And ye, Blair? Will ye have Graeme Campbell?”
“Of course she will,” Douglas snapped.
Blair nodded jerkily. Graeme thought she looked like a trapped doe looking for a way to escape. “Aye, I will have Graeme Campbell.”
As if on cue, Gavin and an older woman Graeme had never seen before entered the chamber. Father Lachlan acknowledged their presence with a curt nod and began the ritual that would bind Graeme and Blair forever.
The ceremony was blessedly brief. In a matter of minutes it was over, leaving Graeme with a queer feeling in the pit of his stomach. Blair was not the wife of his dreams. Nevertheless, she was his to protect until death parted them.
“The bedding,” Douglas gasped. “Get on with the bedding.”
Blair sent Father Lachlan a pleading look, but he shrugged off her mute appeal. “Yer father has the right of it, lass. ’Tis for yer own protection. The Campbell is yer husband now, there is nae shame in it.”
“Now I can die in peace,” Douglas said, shooing them off. “Lachlan will comfort me in my final hours.”
“I wouldna leave you, Father,” Blair sobbed. “Let me stay with you.”
“Nay, Daughter. My soul is at peace now that I know ye will be safe from Niall’s machinations. If I am still alive on the morrow, come bid me goodbye. If I have already passed, dinna mourn me overlong, for I have lived a full life. Know that my last wishes are for yer happiness, so do as I say, lass, and go along with yer husband. As for ye, Graeme Campbell, dinna let a dying mon down. I will arrange for Blair’s dowry to be transferred to ye.”
Sensing that Douglas was at the end of his endurance, Graeme grasped Blair’s elbow and ushered her from the chamber. “Where is your chamber?” he asked gruffly.
“Surely you dinna mean to . . . to . . .’Tis full day, and my father lies dying.”
Graeme stiffened. “ ’Tis what your father wants, Blair. We’ve no time to delay. There will be a bedding.”
While not fully resigned to the fate her father had chosen for her, Blair realized there was no escaping the fact that she was now Graeme Campbell’s wife. Though they had privately agreed to an unconsummated marriage, her father had thwarted their intentions by imposing his will upon them.
“I will do this for Father’s sake, but just this one time,” Blair insisted.
“Agreed,” Graeme replied. “I prefer my women willing and eager.”
Ignoring his cutting remark, Blair proceeded along the gallery and turned down a long corridor. Pausing before a closed door, she hesitated but a moment before flinging it open.
“Allow me time to . . . prepare myself,” Blair said.
The soft tread of footsteps in the dark corridor alerted Graeme, and he whirled in the direction of the sound. “Who goes there?”
Glancing over Graeme’s shoulder, Blair saw Alyce approaching. “ ’Tis only Alyce, my tiring woman.”
“I’ve come to help prepare Blair for the bedding. Leave us, Laird Campbell. I will fetch ye when Blair is ready for ye.”
“Have you a bathing room?” Graeme asked.
“Aye, beyond the kitchen. Ask Gavin—he will show ye the way.”
“Aye, then. I will avail myself of a bath while waiting for my bride.” Turning on his heel, he strode off.
“ ’Tis not so bad,” Alyce clucked when she noted Blair’s stricken expression. “Yer husband is a fine, braw lad. He will please ye well and give ye strong bairns.”
“Think you I care about that?” Blair cried. “Have you forgotten the Prophecy? As fine as Graeme Campbell is, I canna let him into my heart. Graeme Campbell loves another and will never return my love should I grow to care for him. ’Tis best I harden my heart, for to love in vain will bring the end of my powers.”
“Och,” Alyce scoffed. “That doesna mean ye canna enjoy the marriage bed. Yer husband is a virile man. Ye canna expect him to live like a monk.”
“I know. I gave him permission to take a mistress, and he agreed. Tonight is for Father, because he demanded a consummation, but this night will be the first and last time I will be a true wife to Graeme Campbell.”
“Foolish lass,” Alyce muttered. “Come along. Let me prepare ye lest yer husband become impatient and arrive before ye are ready.”
Refreshed from his bath, Graeme returned to the hall and sprawled in a chair before the hearth. When a serving girl approached, he requested uisge breatha. He felt in need of something stronger than ale before bedding an unwilling virgin.
Graeme was staring into the flames, brooding about his fate, when his cousin Heath joined him. “Will ye wed the lass?” Heath asked as he pulled a bench up beside Graeme.
“Aye,” Graeme replied, reluctant to say more.
Heath groaned. “Och, mon, ’tis a bloody shame. Have ye seen her? Is she as ugly as they claim?”
Graeme sighed and took another sip of whiskey, savoring its smoothness as it slid down his throat. “She looks more like an angel than a witch.”
“ ’Tis just as I feared,” Heath sighed. “She has bewitched ye. ’Tis what witches do. Let us leave now, before ye get in deeper.”
“Yer bride is waiting for ye, laird,” Alyce said as she approached the two men.
“Bride!” Heath gasped. “Never say ye wed the witch.”
Graeme rose and stretched, his expression grim. “Your advice comes too late, Heath. My bride awaits me in our bridal be
d.”
Shocked beyond words, Heath froze with mouth agape as Graeme slowly made his way from the hall.
Graeme’s feelings were mixed. He had taken a wife against his better judgment to please a dying man, and he didn’t look forward to the bedding. Blair had made clear her objection to intimacy between them, and he knew he wouldn’t enjoy bedding an unwilling woman.
Not that Graeme found Blair undesirable. Any man in his right mind would want Blair in his bed. It was the damn witch thing that put him off. Blair herself confessed to possessing powers, and while he wasn’t a superstitious man, he was a cautious one.
Graeme reached the bedchamber and paused with his hand on the door latch. Calling himself foolish for hesitating, he opened the door and stepped inside. The day had turned stormy, and the room was deep in shadow, an eerie reminder of just whom he had wed. At first he didn’t see her. When his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he spied her standing near the window, her arms raised as if embracing someone he could not see. A chill ran down his spine.
She must have heard him, for she spun around, and the ability to speak left him. She was dressed in something white, flowing and nearly transparent. Her arms were bare; the blond hair trailing over her shoulders seemed like a gleaming halo about her head. She was wraithlike and fragile, poised as if ready for flight. As his appreciative gaze roamed freely over her figure, he felt a definite stirring in his groin.
Blair MacArthur was womanly and feminine and had the curves to prove it. Witch or nay, he would have no trouble making love to her. A buzzing began in his head as he felt himself grow rigid with need. Slowly he advanced toward her, flinching when he saw her cringe away from him.
“Dinna fear me, Blair MacArthur. I willna hurt you.” Blair’s chin went up. “I fear no man. The Prophecy—”
“Forget the Prophecy. We are wed. Your father’s dying wish must be fulfilled.” He held out his hand. “Come to bed, lass.”
Avoiding his hand, Blair carefully skirted him as she scooted toward the bed. Touching Graeme Campbell was not a good idea. Her dreams of him were still too vivid, too real. She knew from her visions how strong and virile his body was beneath his clothing, how he would feel inside her and the way her body would respond to his touch. She swallowed hard. This was reality. Far more potent than her dreams.
Blair had encountered Graeme in her dreams and visions so many times that she felt she knew him intimately, every hard-muscled plane and sculpted inch of him. And therein lay the danger.
It would be so easy to love Graeme Campbell.
Graeme watched Blair climb into bed with a great deal of anticipation, more than he would have thought. Eagerly he removed his vest and began unbuttoning his shirt, tossing both garments onto a nearby bench. Then he began unwinding his plaid. Like most Scotsmen, he wore nothing underneath, and when he whipped it off he heard her gasp.
He knew he was going too fast for an innocent maiden whom he had met mere hours ago, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. She averted her gaze as he climbed onto the bed.
“Blair, look at me.”
When she refused, he grasped her chin and turned her toward him. “Dinna be shy, lass. If this is to be our only time, I want to make it pleasurable for you.” He stretched out beside her. “Relax.”
Before she realized what she was saying, the words she had spoken in her dream escaped her lips. “I canna love you.”
“I dinna ask for love.”
Blair knew that. He loved another. “I am sorry for you, Graeme MacArthur. You were trapped into marriage by my father and had little choice in the matter.”
“Nevertheless, we will make the best of this marriage once we get the bedding out of the way. You do understand why this is necessary, do you not?”
She nodded jerkily, understanding but still unwilling. She knew well enough what would happen to her once Niall became clan chief, but marriage to Graeme seemed a drastic step to take. Her visions, however, had clearly pointed to a future with the Campbell chieftain.
Her thoughts skidded to a halt when Graeme gently began to remove her shift.
“What are you doing?”
His hands stilled. “I want to see all of you.”
“Is that necessary?”
“You’re only delaying the inevitable, lass. Do you know naught of mating?”
She knew how it felt to mate with him. “I know enough.”
He touched her breast, squeezing gently. She was so distracted, she was scarcely aware that he had bared her breasts and was pushing her shift down her hips with his free hand. She made a desperate grab at the material, but it slipped through her fingers. He lifted the shift off and tossed it onto the pile of discarded clothing.
Graeme’s hands moved with slow deliberation over Blair’s body, savoring the satiny feel of her skin, his own body reacting strongly to the soft female beneath him. She made a small, inarticulate sound and shifted restlessly. He smiled, aware that she wasn’t totally immune to him. Her mind might be unwilling, but her body’s need was unmistakable. He had known enough women in his lifetime to recognize desire, unproven though hers might be.
His own need was quickly escalating. It was as if he were touching someone familiar, someone he had known intimately in the past. But how could that be? Her flesh beneath his fingertips quivered, yet he sensed no fear in her. He gazed into the mesmerizing violet of her eyes and felt a jolt of something he could only describe as recognition.
When she shifted beneath his questing hands, rational thought ceased. Driven now by raw lust, he lowered his head and captured a pink nipple that seemed to be begging for his attention. He suckled gently, his tongue lapping at the puckered bud until she cried out and pushed herself deeper into his mouth.
Then the urge to kiss her, to commit her taste to his memory, overcame every other need. His mouth left her breast to settle over her full red lips. He groaned his pleasure into her mouth, deepening the kiss as he probed the inner sweetness with his tongue.
Naught in his life had prepared him for Blair MacArthur. What he’d felt for Joan the Maid was innocent adoration, while this witch-woman writhing beneath him tasted of mystery and dark, forbidden secrets. Abruptly his mouth left hers and he reared up, staring into her eyes.
“What are you?” he asked in a strangled voice. “Who are you?”
Her expression dazed, Blair gazed up at him. “You know who I am.”
“Mayhap I do and mayhap I dinna. If you plan to cast a spell on me, lass, forget it. It willna work.”
Blair wanted Graeme to get on with it. The longer he lingered over the consummation, the more involved she became in the process. Something she had vowed to avoid. She didn’t want to feel pleasure. She wanted to feel naught, but Graeme Campbell was making it difficult. Hot blood surged through her, and her body thrummed with the need to experience the pleasure she had found with Graeme Campbell in her dreams.
But somewhere deep inside her, voices whispered of danger, of lost powers and pain. However, heeding those voices while Graeme was kissing her was virtually impossible. Why could he not be selfish like other men? Why didn’t he just spread her legs and take his pleasure? She didn’t want her body to thrill to his touch.
Graeme’s words about spells brought her abruptly back to reality. He believed she was a witch and would always feel that way, no matter how vehemently she denied it.
“I canna cast spells,” she explained defensively. “I am a healer. People who do not know me call me a witch, but I am not. What I do harms no one.”
He muttered something she didn’t understand, then took her lips again in a soul-destroying kiss that sent her senses reeling. Willing her mind elsewhere, she wasn’t prepared when he slid his hand between her legs and touched her intimately. She felt her body swell, felt moisture gathering, and shrieked when he inserted a finger inside her.
Her legs shook and her body literally exploded with feeling as his finger moved deep inside her tight passage, preparing her for his entry.
Blair resisted for a moment, then realized the futility of it and let her knees fall open. He moved over her, his demanding shaft prodding against her. He felt hard and swollen against her tender flesh . . . and hot. She stiffened slightly, preparing herself for his entry.
She heard the commotion at the door before Graeme did. She pushed at his chest, but he was so intent on consummation that it took several desperate attempts to alert him before he became aware of their unwelcome visitor.
“Who is it?” he roared loud enough to be heard through the closed door.
“ ’Tis Gavin, Laird Graeme. I must speak with ye.”
“Now? God’s nightgown, I am with my bride.”
“Sorry, mon, but ’tis important,” Gavin persisted.
Blair was already scooting from bed and reaching for her chamber robe. “Father needs me. I must go to him.”
Graeme wrapped his plaid around his waist and stomped to the door. “What is it?” he growled, none too pleased at the interruption.
“The laird is dead,” Gavin said. “He died peacefully. Father Lachlan was with him.”
“Father,” Blair choked out on a sob. She pushed past Graeme before he could stop her. Graeme followed close behind.
Father Lachlan was performing last rites when they arrived at MacArthur’s bedchamber. Blair knelt beside the bed while the priest anointed Douglas with holy oil and placed coins on his eyes. When he was done, he stepped back and placed a comforting hand on Blair’s shoulder.
“Douglas’s last words were for ye and yer husband, lass,” he said. “He insisted that ye and Graeme should leave Gairloch immediately.”
“Now?” Graeme questioned.
“Just before Douglas passed,” Gavin explained, “a messenger arrived from Niall. The new laird will be home tomorrow, and Douglas wants ye both gone before he arrives.”
“I canna leave before Father is laid to rest,” Blair cried. “ ’Tisna right.”
“ ’Tis yer dying father’s wish,” Lachlan reminded her. “Douglas was a canny mon. If he sensed danger to ye, then ye had best heed his warning. Alyce has already been alerted and awaits ye in the hall with yer trunks. She wishes to travel with ye to Stonehaven, if Laird Campbell has no objections.”
