A Laird for Christmas

by Gerri Russell

  “About your past. Your darkness.” Their gazes met, locked. She could not breathe. She could not look away.

  “What about it?” His voice was low, filled with sudden tension.

  She reached up and cupped his stubbled chin with her palm. His eyes held a thousand emotions, making her ache all the way to her toes.

  “Why did you come to Bellhaven in the first place?”

  “Because I had to get away.”

  “Away from what?”

  “It matters not.” He pressed his hand to her cheek, then let it travel down her neck, to her collarbone, her shoulder, her arm. His lips followed the same path. “This is all that matters,” he whispered against her neck.

  A soft burr sounded in his voice as it did when he was aroused; she had learned that last night. A primal shudder ran through her at the thought. Her nipples hardened, pushing against the soft linen of her dressing gown.

  He pulled back and looked in her eyes. He was waiting, watching her, allowing her to make the decision if they moved forward or back. His eyes said it all; desire dwelled there, with no barriers, no walls, simply stark and hopeful.

  He reached for her hand but did not draw her to him. Again he waited for her to respond. His eyes locked on hers as he brought her fingertips to his mouth and kissed each one. He let his lips linger just long enough for her to feel their heat.

  Jane closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation. Without her vision, her senses sharpened. The scent of cinnamon, bay leaves, and maleness wrapped around her. The sound of the fire crackling and popping in the hearth came to her ears. Warmth from the flames bathed her flesh.

  Jane knew she should not fall into his arms again tonight. It was getting harder and harder to pull herself away and act like she did not care. She tried to focus on anything other than the sensation of his lips as they moved from the back of her hand to her wrist. Her pulse leapt wildly at his soft caress. His lips moved over her skin, not with expectancy, but with a gentle promise of more to come.

  He drew her closer still, not seducing, but luring her closer to what her head might protest, but her body desired above anything else. When she made no attempt to step away, his lips came down.

  Soft kisses rained upon her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her chin, before he captured her lips. Heat flashed through her, a welcome heat, a heat that had become a part of her existence.

  “Tonight, let us throw logic to the wind and let our passion be enough.”

  She opened her eyes and studied him. “Will that be enough?”

  He kissed her again, a light, sweet, tantalizing touch that made her senses soar.

  He did not answer her.

  She let the question go unanswered as she slipped her hand inside his shirt and splayed her fingers across his chest, each finger as hot as a brand on his chest.

  She deepened the kiss and let the passion she always tried to rein in when he held her spill unbidden into her every response. Lovingly, he pulled her against him, deepening their kiss degree by degree, until a tide of longing swept them both away, swept away all restraint, all thought, until there was only sensation to cling to.

  He was hers for tonight, for forever, if she only said the words. No matter how much she tried, she could not hold herself apart from him. She wanted to bury herself deep inside him, so deep that she could not tell where he began and she ended.

  Slowly he lowered himself to his knees on the rug near the fire, and she followed him, her fingers still exploring the hard surfaces of his chest, his shoulders, his back that lay hidden from her beneath his soft linen shirt. Then, suddenly, she grew restless as the fabric became a barrier to her desire. She unpinned the brooch that held his plaid on his shoulder. Released from the binding fabric, she easily worked his shirt up over his head.

  He found her lips and kissed her again, slowly, hungrily as he lowered his hands to her dressing gown and released the tie. He slid the garment over her shoulders, down her arms, down her body until it slithered over her hips and down her legs to pool at her knees, leaving her naked.

  His kisses grew hungrier, more demanding, as he held her close enough for the peaks of her breasts to brush against the soft hair of his chest. She shivered at the sensation and tried to pull herself against him, but he held her back, staring down at her as he never had before.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice a throaty whisper. In the glimmer of firelight, he bent down and kissed the soft swell of one breast, then the other.

  She shivered and released a tiny moan, then arched slightly toward him. He took a nipple in his mouth and rolled the sensitive bud with his tongue. He claimed first one, then the other, until her senses reeled on the outer edges of a vortex of pleasure where only he could take her.

  He lowered her from her knees to recline on the rug, then stretched out beside her. His lips returned to her lips, her neck, ignited a trail of sensation from her chin, across her neck, and over her shoulders. His hands slowly traced her waist, her hips. He claimed every inch of her skin, slowly, sculpting her with languid thoroughness, as though he were taking his time to learn every nuance of her body, every intimate detail. His fingers traced the outline of her buttocks and her back.

  Her hands were on his shoulders as he stoked the heat rising within her to a fevered pitch until sensation after sensation rocked her.

  She gazed into his eyes, watched their color grow darker, stormier as he shifted above her. Jane moaned at the feel of his hard, lean body on top of hers. Heat from the fire encircled them, warming them as she wrapped her legs around his hips.

  He was all sinewy power, and it rippled from his body into hers. She ached to feel him inside of her, ached to claim him as her champion. She could do no such thing just yet. If she showed her heart, revealed her intentions, Nicholas would be at risk. And she could bear almost anything except losing him again. Perhaps this time to death.

  Slowly, carefully, he worked his way down her body again as he held her gaze, looking at her with a raw possessiveness that stole her breath. His hands burned her as he ran them beneath her buttocks. He slid his tongue down her hipbone to her thigh. He spread her legs wider and slowly kissed his way up her inner thigh. She held her breath, writhing in anticipation of his touch as his hands slid beneath her, gripped her bottom, shifted her up and he set his mouth to her most secret core.

  On a half gasp, half moan, she let her head loll back. He tasted her there, everywhere. Jane cried out as a wave of heat rose, then broke over her, and ecstasy rolled through her. She lay there consumed by the heat of passion. When she could take no more without giving in return, she reached for him. He rose upward, his hungry gaze feasting on hers. “Look at me, Jane. I need to see you when I take you as mine.”

  Consumed by passion, she could only nod.

  He moved his swollen shaft toward her opening, pressing into her body inch by inch until they were one. Slowly, with his eyes on hers, he moved back and forth. The gentleness of his thrusts was agonizing, exciting, intense. She arched up into him, wanting more, but he continued his slow, methodical pace, exploring every nuance of her body as they came together and parted.

  The intensity built, sensation rippled across every nerve as he filled her, igniting her senses with an all-consuming fire. Passion surged from deep within and finally wrenched all control from him.

  He thrust harder and faster and longer and stronger, stroking her body until the flames wrenched out of control, broke over them, dragging them down into a vortex of pleasure that was hot and white and pure. It broke over them in glory and thrust them into a void where only fulfillment existed.

  As they drifted back to reality, they lay together, their bodies entwined, a seamless whole wrapped in the golden warmth of the firelight.

  Jane sighed her contentment. Her hands roamed freely over his back, then paused. She moved them slowly over the rough surface. He laid completely still as she trailed one finger up, then down the ridge of a scar, then another, then another. “Nichola
s,” she whispered, realizing what the puckering skin meant. “Who did this to you?” She sat up, staring into his face.

  His lips thinned. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Your father?” she asked, incredulous.

  He nodded. “He thought it would cleanse me, or him. I was never certain which.”

  She touched one scar that crept across his left shoulder. Her eyes swam with tears. “He filled you with pain. Merciful heavens, no wonder…” She let her words trail off.

  No wonder he took Jacob sending him away so hard. It was but another rejection from people he had allowed himself to care about. He had carried his scars throughout his life, always hurting, always wanting, always alone.

  “So much pain,” she whispered.

  “Nay, Jane,” he said. “I let go of that pain the day I met you. The day I knew love, I knew no one could ever send me into that darkness again.”

  She leaned down and captured his lips with her own. He cupped her face in his hands while he returned the kiss. And Jane could feel him all the way to her soul, with every fiber of her being.

  She brought her lips to his left shoulder and kissed the remnant of his scar. No man should be hurt the way he had been hurt. No man should have to suffer what he had been forced to endure at the hands of a parent; someone who should protect you from harm, not cast you into it.

  She drew breath, preparing to put into words what she felt in her heart when a rap sounded on the door.

  They both turned toward the sound.

  The rapping came again, stronger this time. “Lady Jane, I must speak with ye.” Angus’s voice sounded from the other side of the door.

  “One moment, please, Angus.”

  Nicholas gained his feet. He pressed her dressing gown into her hands a moment before he hastily donned his plaid and boots. “This can be nothing good.”

  Jane nodded as she heard the tension in Angus’s voice. A shiver walked down her spine.

  Jane drew a fortifying breath and opened the door.

  Angus stood, looming in the doorway, his features pale and pinched. “Milady,” he said in an odd, thick voice. “The castle is under attack.”

  Jane’s heartbeat slowed. Time seemed to stand still as the news pierced her brain. Her worst nightmare was upon her.

  A wholly unexpected loneliness washed up from the depths of her soul, painfully intense. In that moment she mourned the loss of her father and her brother all over again. This was their fight. Their castle. And yet now that duty fell to her.

  Except, this time, she was not alone. She had Nicholas and five others to help her fight this battle. Despite the danger, Jane drew a slow, deep breath and her heartbeat quickened. Time returned to its proper place. “Who attacks?”

  A momentary surprise flared in her servant’s face before worry once again creased Angus’s brow. “The MacGuires. I recognized Seamus MacGuire leadin’ his clan from the tower lookout.”

  Nicholas drew his sword. “How many men?”

  “Nearly a hundred, I’d venture to guess.”

  “A hundred to our sixty,” Nicholas said. “My men and I have fought worse odds.”

  Angus’s expression grew stark. “That’s not the worst of it.”

  “Tell us,” Jane demanded, her panic rising as she met Angus’s anguished gaze.

  “They’ve two siege weapons, and they’ve already breached the outer wall.”

  Jane clenched her fists at her sides. “Secure the inner bailey.” She turned to Nicholas. “Prepare the men while I dress. I will meet you in the courtyard shortly.”

  Outside, beneath the dying of the sun, her five suitors and Lord Galloway, their men, and her remaining few servants gathered. The men were wrapped in their plaids, weighed down with weaponry that made them fearsome foes.

  In the distance the rumble of the siege weapons hitting the inner wall mixed with the roar of the attackers and the skirling, soaring melody of the bagpipes. The music of war.

  The weight of what she must do settled upon Jane like a yoke. These men before her were her army. They might be a misfit bunch brought together to help her cause, but they were more than she ever dreamed she would have.

  Gratitude filled her voice as she said, “This conflict is far more than any of you bargained for. I would understand if you were to turn away from the battle ahead.”

  The six men exchanged glances with one another, then Nicholas stepped forward. “Each of us came here for you—to fight for you to the best of our ability, and in any way possible. We are prepared to see this through. To death if necessary.”

  “To the death,” they all echoed, lifting their swords toward the sunset with a shout for victory.

  Nicholas’s warm eyes searched hers with an aching need that nearly brought her to her knees.

  Then he was gone, leading the men to battle.

  Jane swallowed the lump in her throat as she turned back toward the keep. The men would defend the castle, but it was her responsibility to see to the safety of the few women and even fewer children that still remained in her care. She would see them ensconced in the great hall where they would wait out the battle. And, if necessary, Jane would hide them in the newly discovered tunnel above stairs. If the men failed—Jane reached down and patted the dagger on her calf—then she was prepared to defend those in her care until the bitter end.

  Inside the castle, Lady Margaret aided Jane in gathering the women and children. “I believe that is everyone,” Margaret said with a tired smile as she settled near the hearth to wait. She picked up Angel, who was scampering nervously at her feet, and set the puppy in her lap, stroking her gently.

  The animal did not close her eyes as she might have had the danger not been so prevalent. Instead, Angel sat there, eyes open, ready to protect her mistress.

  With a soft smile at the dog’s heroics, Jane searched the small group that filled the chamber for a familiar blond head. Her smile slipped a moment later when she did not see who she searched for. “Where is Clara?”

  Lady Margaret frowned. “Curious, she was right behind me when I brought the other maids down here from above.”

  Jane reached for her dagger and handed it to her aunt. “Take this, just in case. I will go find Clara.”

  Margaret accepted the weapon with a frown. “Do you truly think I will need this?”

  “I pray not.” Jane hurried across the hall and up the stairs. She headed for the north hallway. “Clara?” she called. “Clara, where are you?” She hastened down the hall. All the doors were closed except the one to Jane’s room.

  Frowning, Jane walked inside. “Clara?”

  The door swung shut behind her. Jane gasped in alarm. She reached for the latch. To her horror, it refused to move up or down.

  Her heart hammered in her chest as she searched the room for alternative ways out. The door Nicholas had found. Jane hastened to it and, following Nicholas’s instructions, she soon found the hidden mechanism that opened the passageway. The door swung open. She would head to Bryce’s room. There she would be able to open the door. She stepped into the cool, dark space.

  She took two steps when suddenly that door snapped closed behind her, leaving her in pitch darkness. Jane’s heart pounded in terror. She took the few steps back to the false wall and searched for a similar latch on the inside of the wall. There had to be some way to spring herself free. Finding nothing, she pressed against the stone, trying to force the panel open.

  No response. She groaned in frustration and turned back toward the tunnel. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the inky blackness turned a shade of darker gray. Refusing to give in to the panic knotting her stomach, Jane drew a deep breath of the musty air and pushed herself forward, feeling her way along the wall. Up ahead a glimmer of light appeared. Had she reached Bryce’s chamber already?

  Silence surrounded her, pushed in upon her. Only the sound of her breathing came to her ears as she followed that sliver of light. Four steps more and the tunnel opened up off to the right as we
ll as continuing straight ahead.

  Judging by Nicholas’s description, Bryce’s room would be straight ahead. So what was off to the right? Her curiosity got the better of her as she shifted toward the right. She could still feel the cool stone of the castle wall beneath her fingertips, felt the floorboard beneath her feet as she counted her steps—five, six, seven, eight.

  With each step the light grew brighter. Then she saw it—an open doorway. Her heart hammering, she entered the open space and stepped into a secret room.

  The space mirrored her own bedchamber, from the tapestries covering the walls, the knotted carpet on the floor, the bed frame and linens, to the wooden chair in the corner near the window. At the sight of the chair, Jane’s breath stilled. Folded across the back was her father’s standard, and leaning against the wall was his missing sword.

  Jane’s gaze shifted to the bed, to the exact needlepoint bed curtains, coverlet, and bedside table with a brace of candles that sent a warm glow across the room. The only difference in the chamber, other than the stolen items returned to Jane by the MacGuire clan, was a small pewter frame near the bedside that held a miniature painting of her own father with a woman and child Jane did not recognize.

  Her heart lurched at the sight. A million questions crowded her mind as she drew her finger across the image of her father’s face.

  Gooseflesh stippled her arms as she realized she was no longer alone. Jane twisted around and froze.

  The flaxen-haired woman from the hunt. The one who had approached Nicholas and her in the cottage. “We meet again, Lady Jane Lennox.”

  “Your name is not Clara, is it?”

  “Nay. I lied.”

  This time, beneath the light of the candles, Jane studied the woman before her. She was tall and thin, with a frightening hardness in her light gray eyes—eyes so very much like Jane’s own father’s. “Then who are you?” Jane asked, although she already suspected the answer.

  “Amelia MacGuire. Your half sister,” she said in a low, ominous tone.

  Her sister. Swallowing, Jane stared at the girl. “What is this place? Why did my father never tell me about you?”