by Karen Ranney
She kissed him, held his head still so that she could deepen the kiss, her tongue exploring his mouth. Her hands speared through his hair, nails sliding along his scalp, fingers linking at the back of his head. His hands moved to explore her as he mouthed her breasts. He surged within her, hungry for her capitulation, demanding her surrender.
What choice did she have? The feeling was in her, part of her, submerging her beneath a powerful wave of sensation. A single spear of bliss so powerful that she felt faint with it.
Long moments later, she felt him carry her to the bed. She turned toward him, content when he curved an arm around her.
Epilogue
J ames toyed with a tendril of Riona’s hair. Curling around his hand, it seemed to welcome his touch, summoning a stroke of his finger. Soft, almost like silk.
The day was fully advanced, but Riona slept deeply, only occasionally moving. Even the movement of the coach as it traveled over ruts in the road didn’t disturb her. They’d remained in Inverness for a day or two, in order for him to complete those errands entrusted to him by Iseabal and Alisdair. The nights, however, had been reserved just for them.
She’d not slept much the night before.
Smiling, he traced the edge of her bottom lip with the tip of his finger, thinking that kissing her awake was a temptation.
Bending his head, he breathed softly against her lips, smiling again when she moved her head restlessly. One hand brushed at her cheek, and he kissed the spot she’d rubbed.
“Riona.” A gentle whisper that had no effect on her.
Finally, he kissed her, laying his lips gently on hers. Another kiss to incite her to wakefulness. Then another.
She made a sound deep in her throat, her arms stretching out to wind around his neck.
“We’re almost there,” he said gently. “At Gilmuir.”
She woke gradually, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “We’re here?” she said sleepily, peering beyond him. “It’s very large. You never told me it was quite so big.”
He bent and kissed her on the cheek as she looked at Gilmuir. “It’s a castle,” he teased. “What else would a castle look like?”
“Less imposing,” she said, evidently awed by the sight of the MacRae ancestral fortress. “What are those wooden structures?”
“Scaffolding. Gilmuir’s being rebuilt from the ground up. The walls are almost finished, but the masons are adding the finishing touches. The interior will take much longer, however.”
“Why were you at Tyemorn, James?” she asked suddenly.
“I was wondering when you would ask,” he said, smiling.
“Surely you’ll tell me now?”
“Your mother’s idea, I’m afraid. I was to investigate a series of thefts.”
“Thefts?” she asked, frowning.
His smile deepened at her look. “Supposedly, some of the livestock were missing.”
“We’ve never had any missing livestock at Tyemorn.” She began to yawn, then quickly held her hand over her mouth.
“Yes, I know.”
Pulling back, she gave him an arch glance, one filled with humor. “You had only to ask me and I would have told you.”
“But then there would have been no reason for me to remain.”
“True,” she said, and gave him a kiss.
He glanced at Gilmuir, smiling faintly. “I’ve only been gone a few weeks and already I feel like a stranger.”
“That’s because you have your own home,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. He immediately covered it with his hand, looked down at their linked fingers.
“Yes, I do. And my own place in the world.”
“Somewhere safe where gales don’t threaten and shipwrecks never happen.”
“And where there’s a lass with short hair who waits near an abbey wall for me.” He reached up and fingered the ends of her hair resting on her shoulders.
Another kiss and then they sat close together, watching as they neared Gilmuir.
“You’ll have to tell them about Rory.”
“They’ll miss him, but I need him too much.” Even now, his former cabin boy was beginning to mark out the foundation of their new house. A home that needed a name. Before she’d fallen asleep, he and Riona had toyed with ideas, but nothing had seemed right.
A moment later, she spoke again.
“Do you think they’ll be surprised that you’ve married?”
“Dumbstruck,” he said, beginning to smile again. “All the MacRaes will be. I’m known to be a solitary sort.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “I doubt all the women of Gilmuir feel that way. I am certain there will be a great many tears shed at the news.”
He laughed at her look. Didn’t she realize she was a beautiful woman? He’d felt his own share of jealousy.
He glanced out the window, narrowing his eyes. The loch he viewed was long and narrow, deeply blue and topped with white frothy waves.
“I think you’ll have a chance to meet more than Alisdair and Iseabal,” he said, turning to her.
She looked where he pointed. There, on the horizon, were two ships in full sail, heavy bellied like the ocean-going vessels she’d seen often in Cormech.
“My brothers,” he announced, his grin widening as he stared.
“Gilmuir and all the MacRaes.” She sounded bemused.
“You’re one of us, my love. You’re a MacRae now.”
“I am, aren’t I?” A moment later she spoke again. “Dachaigh,” she said, the word just now popping into her mind.
At his look, she smiled. “That’s what we should name the house we build. It’s a perfect choice.”
“Dachaigh,” he repeated.
“Home,” she said simply, smiling as he pulled her closer.
Author’s Note
T he village of Ayleshire is actually a compilation of three Scottish villages, all of which have their unique characteristics. In one small hamlet stands a Celtic cross. At its base is an inscription listing the name and date of the woman who was burned as a witch on that spot. As with Annie Mull, the actual tale remains a mystery.
Lethson is a word I unabashedly created, from several Gaelic words meaning half year. The actual ceremony of Lethson, or Midsummer Night, or St. John’s Eve, was taken from similar observances in the northern part of Scotland where Viking influences were the strongest.
During the American Revolution, the English were very concerned about the French invasion of Scotland. Therefore, several Fencible Regiments were called up, their sole duty to patrol the Scottish coastline. After the end of the war, they were disbanded.
About the Author
KAREN RANNEY began writing when she was five. Her first published work was The Maple Leaf, read over the school intercom when she was in the first grade. In addition to wanting to be a violinist (her parents had a special violin crafted for her when she was seven), she wanted to be a lawyer, a teacher, and, most of all, a writer. The violin discarded early, she still admits to a fascination with the law, and she volunteers as a teacher whenever needed. Writing, however, has remained an overwhelming love of hers. She loves to hear from her readers—please write to her at [email protected] or visit her website at www.karenranney.com.
Karen Ranney lives in Texas.
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Other Avon Romantic Treasures by
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE IRRESISTIBLE MACRAE. Copyright © 2002 by Karen Ranney. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Microsoft Reader March 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-137707-5
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