Sue-Ellen Welfonder

by Master of the Highlands

  “The ghost, a woman, instructed me to speak to you.” Chillbumps broke out on Iain’s flesh. “A woman?” “Aye, sir, and a very beautiful one, if in a rather delicate, gentle way,” she said, and Iain’s blood curdled. “She bid you to speak to me?” He wasn’t about to ask what the ghost wanted of him. In particular since it sounded like his late wife’s shade.

  Lileas.

  But Nella was bobbing her head, clearly about to reveal all. “She said she was your wife, sir, and that I ought assure you that she is well and wishes naught but your happiness… even if that be at another woman’s side.”

  Iain’s stomach dropped to his toes.

  His knees turned to jelly, and he near embarrassed himself in a way he wasn’t about to admit. Not to anyone and not in a hundred years!

  He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice failed him.

  And in that moment, he decided to become Iain the Doubter again. “I do not believe in ghosts,” he asserted, feeling a wee bit better already.

  “She also said that although she enjoyed her time with you, it was her own choosing to go… that she was needed elsewhere and had her own path to follow.”

  “A spirit told you all that?” Iain the Doubter cocked a brow. If shades did make an appearance, he couldn’t believe they held such long discourses.

  “Aye, sir, that was about the whole of it.”

  “Nothing else you wish to impart?” Iain couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice. It made a fine shield against the horror marching up and down his spine.

  “You do not believe me,” Nella said, hurt in her voice. “I do not lie, good sir.”

  “Did she tell you her name?” he probed, pleased when she shook her head.

  “Nay, she did not, and truth is, I was too frightened to ask.”

  “Did she say anything about how she died?” Now he had her. If she said the ghost claimed to have died in childbed or of a fever, he would sleep easier that night.

  But Nella shook her head again. “She did not mention her death, sir, but I imagine she must’ve drowned.”

  Iain’s heart stopped.

  He could feel the blood draining from his head.

  “Drowned?” Saints, he was afraid to ask, but had to. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because she was dripping wet and had seaweed tangled in her hair.”

  “Wet and with sea—” Iain got no further.

  The great and newly styled Master of the Highlands fainted dead cold on the floor of Cormac MacFie’s undercroft.

  Chapter Fifteen

  STILL SHAKIER THAN HE’DE’ER BEEN in the entirety of his life, Iain sat on a rough-hewn long bench at Cormac MacFie’s high table and clenched his fingers around his wooden ale cup. Nella of the Marsh’s flustered revelations swirled through the bluish haze of smoored peat smoke, each blessed word spilling more light into the darkness in his heart than all the brightly flaring pine torches in his unsuspecting host’s well-lit hall.

  Her own choosing.

  Needed elsewhere.

  Wishes naught but his happiness… even at another woman’s side.

  Closer and closer they came, teasing, ethereal wisps of the spoken words. Disturbing and exhilarating in one, their portent curled round his neck, slipped down his spine, and finally slid lower to slither round his chest and squeeze his ribs until he could scarce draw a single breath.

  Nor could he touch the succulent roast boar and other savory viands Cormac’s well-meaning wife had piled upon his trencher. Grateful to be off his feet, he cast a cautious glance down the table to where his lady’s friend conversed quite calmly with Gavin and their host.

  She seemed to have recovered from having seen a ghost.

  Iain’s brow furrowed. He couldn’t be sure if he’d e’er recover from having heard from one!

  Even given the special circumstances.

  Sensing his stare, Nella looked his way, gave him an almost imperceptible nod… her sincere affirmation that, as she’d promised belowstairs after he’d come to, no one would e’er learn from her what she’d revealed to him.

  Or that he’d passed out cold on the stone flagging of Cormac MacFie’s undercroft.

  Despite his jellied knees and still-quivering innards, gratitude coursed through him. He, too, bore no desire to air the matter. Not with anyone, ne’er again. So he returned her nod, pleased to know their pact was sealed.

  He just hoped she recognized the magnitude of his relief and appreciation, for Nella of the Marsh had not merely shared an experience that had truly unsettled her. Nor had she merely imparted a message. She’d banished the last of his lingering doubts and gnawing guilt.

  The generous-hearted lass had breathed sweet life into his soul again, and the saints knew he could fall to his knees and weep with the wonder of it.

  For the moment, though, he contented himself with raising the wooden drinking cup to his lips, draining the frothy brew, a fine heather ale, and hoping no one noticed how badly his hand shook.

  Or that he hadn’t partaken of a single morsel of the sumptuous array of savory victuals spread before him.

  Truth to tell, he’d lost his appetite for meat and drink.

  He only hungered for his lady.

  She sat beside him, her hip and thigh grazing his, and saints but he reveled in the sight and scent of her. He craved the feel of her.

  Fire glow from the many resinous torches caught in her hair, gilding the braids she’d coiled above her ears and glossing each and every delightful curl that escaped her plaits to rest sweetly against the smooth curve of her cheeks.

  Already garbed in a new gown of finest linen, the simple kirtle’s low-cut bodice dipped just enough to give him a tantalizing peek, through the opening of his sister’s borrowed arisaid, at the shadowy cleft between the lush upper swells of her breasts.

  And it was the arisaid that made his heart smile, warmed him through and through. Held in place at the shoulder by a fine, round brooch of smooth-polished green and amber pebbles, the soft-flowing folds of the MacLean plaid was a gentle caress against her curves.

  And looked so right on her, the sight of it stole his breath.

  By the Mass, but she undid him.

  And unlike the untouched victuals spread before him, he did hunger for her.

  Hungered for her with a ravenous, all-consuming need. A crushing ache to leap to his feet, sweep her into his arms, and carry her abovestairs, mounting the winding steps of the turnpike stair two at a time, claim whate’er bed their host provided, and make her his at last.

  Naught else would sate him.

  The saints knew he’d waited a lifetime for her.

  And now he was free.

  Truly and wholly.

  And he burned to love her. To lay claim to her so thoroughly, so fiercely, he’d brand her with his heat, not stopping until they were both so satiated that neither could lift a finger, and his name was stamped all over her, inside and out.

  He wanted to touch her in ways that went far beyond the physical. Love her until their breaths mingled and became one, their hearts beat in tandem, and their very souls melded.

  Pulling in a ragged breath, he allowed himself another sidelong glance at her breasts as he replenished his ale cup and took another long, restorative draught of the potent brew.

  Och, aye, he wanted her. For truth, he needed to be so close to her neither one of them would be able to tell where one ended and the other began.

  That was what he wanted, and he’d make it happen, too.

  This very night.

  If he could stop shaking long enough to properly ravish her.

  “A ruse it must be, I say!” Cormac MacFie’s booming voice shattered Iain’s lusty reverie, banishing each sweet image like so many faint ripples against an incoming tide.

  None too ready to relinquish them, he glanced toward Cormac. Half-rising from his chair, the garrulous MacFie chieftain held court at the far end of the table. “A proper taking of Bernhard Logie with or witho
ut a sizable host would prove harder than making rain fall upward!” he cried, sweeping all present with a keen eye as if challenging them to deny his claims.

  Iain cleared his throat, hoped his voice would prove strong enough to carry the length of the long table. “You ken the pernicious bastard?”

  Cormac MacFie snorted, dropped back into his chair. “Enough to say he is a cunning fox washed with all the devil’s own deceits,” he declared, and tossed back the contents of his ale cup.

  Slamming it down, he dragged his sleeve o’er his mouth and chin. “God’s death, but I wish I didn’t ken the snake! But he is known in most quarters hereabouts.” He leaned forward, his meaty hands gripping the table edge. “See you, his own holding isn’t far from here—or what was his holding until the Bruce took it from him for his support of Balliol and the Sassunachs. The place is in ruin now.”

  “And ne’er was worth a passing glance as keeps go even before he lost it,” someone else put in.

  A swell of hearty agreement rose from the others assembled round the table.

  “Ohhh, aye, Logie’s hall was less grand than my own,” Cormac said, falling back against his chair. “But he had dungeons cut so deep into the living rock beneath it, ’twas said one night in such a hellish place would curdle the devil’s own blood!”

  “Pits, he had, and used ’em, too,” another voice joined in from the next table.

  “He even put a woman or two to rot down there,” Cormac’s wife said with a visible shudder.

  “Rumor was he did that just because he didn’t like the color of their eyes!” Cormac added, shaking his bearded head.

  “He ought fret o’er the color of his own eyes and worry if the demons in hell will approve, for he’ll soon be standing face-to-face with them,” Gavin called out from where he now stood across the hall, his deep voice rising above the general ruckus. “The man’s hours are numbered.”

  Iain tossed him a quick nod of thanks. He knew why the lout had predicted Logie’s doom. And a quick glance at Madeline confirmed it.

  No longer eating, she sat stiff and rigid, her gaze fixed on some distant point across the smoky hall.

  It was time to see her abovestairs.

  Time for lots of things.

  Iain eyed their host. He burned to ask the MacFie chieftain to spare him a few good men. They needn’t even be prime sworders. Those he hoped would cause a disturbance—a distracting ruckus—at Abercairn’s rear wall needed but a good set of lungs and the will to clash together any bits of metal that would make a hellish din.

  But Gavin had forewarned him that, although e’er bold in spirit and eager to welcome any and all to his table, Cormac MacFie and the few who abided beneath his humble roof had suffered a spate of horrendous hardships in recent years.

  Fever, flooding, and failed crops had taken a toll on his numbers and strength.

  So Iain stared up at the smoke-wreathed ceiling for a moment and counted his own blessings. They were growing by the day, and he was indeed grateful. Then he pushed to his feet, knowing inexorable relief that his knees no longer felt like wobbly jelly.

  He looked down the length of the high table, caught his host’s eye. “It has been a long and strenuous day, and my lady grows weary. I would see her abed now,” he said, and lifted his glass, nodding to their host.

  “Thanks be to you and yours, Cormac MacFie, for making us so welcome,” he said, and downed what ale remained in his cup. “We shall be long indebted to you.”

  Cormac heaved his bulk to his feet. “The pleasure’s been mine, MacLean,” he declared, and thrust his own ale cup high in the air. “May God go with you on the morrow!”

  Madeline stood as well. “I thank you, too, good sir,” she offered, her voice sincere if quiet. “The finest of blessings on you and your house for your warm hospitality.”

  “Your lady wife kens the chamber I’ve given you for the night,” Cormac called after them as they crossed the rushes, making for the turnpike stair. “’Tis humble, but clean and with a fine rope bed big enough for two. Aye, you ought sleep well… if you can manage to do so with such a bonnie sweet lass a-gracing your bed!”

  “Pay him no heed,” Iain whispered above her ear, his voice just loud enough for her to hear above the ribaldry and guffaws brought on by the chief’s parting words. “He is deep in his cups.”

  “Ho, MacLean! Wait you!” Cormac MacFie boomed, halting them before they could mount the winding stairs.

  He sounded anything but befuddled.

  Iain turned. “Aye?”

  Still on his feet, the big man indicated his kinsmen with a arcing sweep of his arm. “See you, my friend, we are but a few and I cannot field many, but I’m of a mind to help you tighten the noose about that son of perdition’s throat,” he announced, looking mightily pleased with himself.

  “You wish to send along men?” Iain put the question bluntly, hoped he hadn’t misread the other’s intent. “Do I understand aright?”

  Cormac MacFie flashed a bearded grin so like Gavin’s own that Iain’s gaze flew to where that particular MacFie stood near the simmering peat fire, conversing with a few other cousins and kin.

  “God’s shame on me if I meant otherwise!” Cormac crashed a fisted hand onto the high table. “When you leave here, my best men ride with you.”

  “My thanks, good friend,” Iain said, his voice thick. “I shall use them well.” The excited buzz of Cormac Mac-Fie’s kinsmen followed in his wake as he escorted Madeline up the narrow stone turnpike stair, and from the stir of their eager voices, it was apparent they’d lain idle too long and would relish even the thinnest whisper of a good fight.

  Iain’s heart leapt, his pulse quickening.

  He, too, had idled overlong. Lain inactive, withered, and bored. But unlike that of Cormac MacFie’s fired-up kinsmen, his relief would come before the morn.

  At least he hoped it would.

  Oh, how he hoped.

  “Will you be sleeping naked again?”

  The sweet and bonnie Bane of his MacLean heart posed the question the instant he closed the bedchamber door behind them, the tremulous note in her voice snatching his own carefully prepared words right off his tongue.

  Iain scowled, his brows snapping together before he could stop them.

  She’d discarded the arisaid with unbelievable speed, and stood watching him in expectant silence, the top rims of her coral-tinted nipples peeking at him from the edging of her new gown’s low-cut bodice.

  And the instant he spotted them, his loins quickened in urgent response. Sharp need coursing through his veins, he stared at her, rendered speechless by two crescent-shaped slivers of sweetly puckered flesh.

  His best-laid plains came to naught, thwarted by her pert nipples and the multitude of subtle undercurrents rippling between them.

  He sighed, struggled against the frustration mounting inside him. She warmed him like a golden sunrise after a cold, dark night, was what he’d been about to say— sakes, he’d even rehearsed the words a time or two throughout the evening.

  And now he’d probably start spouting tripe again. But his wits, e’er sharp and alert, leapt upon the truth behind her innocent-sounding query.

  Something had changed.

  Or, better said, something had intensified into a swift-flowing current no longer willing to be contained.

  “Sir?”

  There it was again.

  The slight tremble threading her voice, the unmistakable hitching of her breath. An invisible dividing line crossed, its breached boundary forever forfeit… if only he reached out and claimed it.

  “Do you mean to…” The tremulous quality stronger this time, her unfinished words shimmered between them in the cool night air.

  Their gazes locking, Iain crossed the rushes to where she stood beside the sturdy, feather bed. “I always sleep naked,” he reminded her, finding his voice at last.

  His voice, and his courage.

  His nerve, too, for if the fates chose to be unkind
, this could be their last night together.

  The one chance he’d e’er have to know the kind of soul-melding contentment he knew he could have enjoyed with her if his life path had been a different one.

  So he summoned all the seduction skills he liked to think he’d once possessed, and lifted her hand to his lips, brushed a featherlight kiss across her knuckles. “Mayhap you ought sleep that way as well?”

  Her eyes widened at that, and a visible shiver slid through her. He knew because he’d seen it.

  She liked the idea.

  That, too, was apparent. Her own arousal stood winking at him in the quickening of her breath, in the dewy look of her softly parted lips, and in the increased rise and fall of her glorious breasts.

  “I might enjoy that,” she said, confirming his assessment. Her frank gaze riveted on his as she brought her hands to her bodice, let her fingers play with the lacings.

  He burned to play with those nipples!

  Lavish sweet attention on them until far into the night. A low moan rose in his throat, and for once he didn’t try to disguise such an expression of his need through the ploy of a hastily summoned cough or sudden clearing of his throat.

  He wanted her, and meant to have her.

  Now, this night.

  “This, good sir, is what I meant when I told you I feared myself.” She glanced at the feather bed, drew a trembling breath. “It is madness, but I want to lie unclothed this night. And I want to be that way with you.”

  His heart lurching, Iain captured one of her hands and dropped a kiss into the cup of her palm. “Nay, lass, it is not madness,” he said, releasing her hand to shove nervous fingers through his hair. “It is… unusual, but not madness. It is…” He let the words trail off, once again unable to find the right ones.

  The words that would explain their connection and why it was so right for her to want to lie skin to skin with him, to burn to lose herself in the deep bond that had brought them together. The strange ties that bound them so irrevocably to each another.

  He scarce understood it himself.

  “It is…” he tried again, this time ramming both hands through his hair. Agitation made his heart thud hard against his ribs. “You are—” He broke off again, scowling this time.