When a Laird Loves a Lady (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 1)

by Julie Johnstone

  Her ruse to keep Froste from joining with her had finally run its course. His watchwoman had reported Marion’s flux had come and gone, and he’d appeared like a nightmare. Froste’s mouth found her neck as he roughly tugged her clothing higher and higher. There was no fear in her, only a deep disgust and fierce boiling anger. She tried to buck away, but he crushed her between the wall and his body. Frantically, her gaze darted around the room, praying there was something to kill the man with that her father’s knights had left behind.

  Her heart lurched with excitement. The maid who’d come in with Froste not long ago had left a tree branch by the fire that she must have used to tend to it! If Marion could reach it, she could hit him in the head and flee.

  The man pressed a slobbery kiss to her neck again, and she flinched, in spite of knowing she had to feign to like it long enough to get him to release her. “Be at ease, Marion. This can be pleasurable, I assure you.”

  That was it! She’d play up to his arrogance and pride!

  “I don’t want to fight you, but I’m afraid,” she whispered. “It was never pleasurable with my husband,” she added, trying to instill a sense of shame into her tone. “And I’ve never seen a man’s body. He always joined with me in darkness.”

  Froste pulled backward and stared at her with astonishment, then his mouth curved into a smirk. “I should have known a filthy Scot would not know how to please a lady. And what a fool the MacLeod was not to see your body clearly by a blazing fire—or better still the daylight,” Froste added while running his gaze over her. She clenched her jaw against her revulsion. “Tomorrow, I’ll join with you in the daylight, but tonight”—he looked around the room—“go tend the fire.”

  She had to bite down on her cheek to stop herself from showing any relief as he released her. This dim man was used to giving orders, and this time was no exception.

  Nodding, she stepped around him and ambled to the hearth, thinking on how to take him unawares. She grimaced as she realized unclothing was the best way to distract him, but she was prepared to do anything to escape that man joining with her. She slowly turned in a languid motion, met Froste’s stare, and pulled her clothing up over her head. She let the garment drop in a puddle at her feet, her stomach roiling violently.

  “Do you like what you see, William?” she asked, using his Christian name. Her voice didn’t hold the slightest tremble. Iain would have been proud.

  A lecherous look came to Froste’s face. “Very much.” He started toward her, and as he did, she bent down, picked up the thick branch, and stuck the tip of it into the fire as if she meant to tend to it. Her pulse raced as she heard him draw near.

  She gripped the wood tightly. If she didn’t kill him, or at least cause him to swoon, he’d surely kill her, but she could not—could not—stand meekly by and let him take her.

  “Marion, face me so I can see you again,” he said in a low voice that made her stomach churn. She stood and turned toward him, swinging the branch hard. It smacked him in the face. He howled as the fire singed his flesh and the wood made a deep gouge across his cheekbone. Blood poured from the wound, but when his feral gaze locked on her, she knew with terrifying clarity that she’d not hit near hard enough to kill this man. Bellowing his rage, he raised a hand to hit her, and she scrambled to lift the wood once again to defend herself but he swatted the branch away from her. The branch fell to the floor at her feet.

  His hand clamped like a vise around her neck. “You bitch,” he snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. “You will pay for that dearly.” His grip became tighter and tighter until specks dotted her vision and the room spun. He was going to kill her, but still she wondered if death would not be better than his touch. Sluggishly, she remembered Iain. She would live for him. She began clawing at Froste’s hands, even as someone pounded on the door.

  “Froste, open the damn door! The Scots are here!” her father roared.

  Froste released her, and she fell to the floor in a heap, so close to the fire that heat consumed her. Instinctively she shoved her body away and curled into a ball, holding her neck as she gasped for air. His hard footsteps pounded across the room, and then the sound of the door banging open reverberated around her.

  “We’ve a problem,” her father said, but Froste’s reply was muffled by their footsteps as they walked away…leaving the door open!

  Marion didn’t waste a second. She crawled to her gown and jerked it on as she ran to the window that pointed out to sea. Like spots in the ocean, ships peppered the water, and hope and fear both bloomed within her. She was sure it was Iain, but she was also sure that she had to do something to help him win the battle. She hurried out the door, paused to make sure there was no one to see her, and then continued down the stairs toward the front entrance. If she could somehow get to the drawbridge, perchance she could lower it.

  The main keep was deserted, which didn’t surprise her as everyone would have been ordered to take up arms. As she burst outside, the sounds of men and horns filled the twilight. As far out as she could see, the moat and the bailey below teemed with knights. She started to make her way to the stairs that led to the bailey, but a hand clamped on her arm.

  “Lady Marion, get back inside to safety. The Scots are already winning the battle!”

  “What?” Marion gasped turning to look in Peter’s face.

  “Don’t worry!” he rushed out. “We will triumph!”

  He’d misunderstood her. She jerked out of his hold. “You’ll not triumph, Peter,” she said, raising her voice over the deafening noise. “My father is trying to take the throne from King Edward, and the king is my husband’s ally. Even if Father wins now, King Edward will come for him. You must take me to my husband and join with him.”

  Peter gaped at her. “Baron de Lacy means to overthrow the king?”

  Marion nodded. “With Froste’s help. Please, Peter. Feign that you’ve captured me and help me find my husband. I love him!”

  Peter was a good man, and she could see him battling between his vow to her father and his duty to the king. “Edward is your king,” she nudged. “Your duty to him comes before any vow of fealty to my father.”

  Peter nodded. “Come.”

  He took her by the arm, and they made their way down the stairs and through the crowds of knights and servants. No one questioned them, presuming, she was sure, that Peter had her in hand.

  Her heart raced as they came to the inner bailey, where chaos reigned. Everywhere she looked, knights fought Scots, sword to sword. The drawbridge had been lowered, and Scots poured forward into the bailey. Yet there was something else—or rather someone else—coming to their aid. She squinted but could not make out the banner, until Peter exclaimed, “It’s the king’s men!”

  Iain did not let anyone who got in his way slow him down. He cut Froste’s and de Lacy’s men down as they came toward him. Most men fell with one easy blow, but a few of his enemies required two. Lachlan was by his side, and Lachlan ended as many lives as Iain did. Around them, Scots from the MacDonald and MacLean clans, along with King Edward’s knights, fought alongside Iain to destroy the potential usurpers and rescue Marion.

  Iain battled his way into the bailey, searching the sea of faces for Marion. Was she out here? Or was she locked in her room or worse, the dungeon? All Iain wanted was to find her, and as he finished fighting yet another knight, he turned in a circle, trying to determine where Marion might be in this melee. And as he did, he caught sight of the one man he was certain would know—Froste.

  Froste strode directly toward him, sword in hand and a snarl on his face. Blood covered one side where a deep gash was. Froste sneered at Iain. “You’ve proven to be a worthy opponent.”

  “Ye’ve nae,” Iain responded. “Where is my wife?”

  Froste circled his sword in readiness to fight, and when Iain saw one of his men move toward Froste, Iain ordered him back.

  “Where is Marion?” Iain demanded again, his rage flowing through him like a river.r />
  Froste’s mouth twisted into a lecherous smile. “Your wife is naked in my bedchamber where I left her after enjoying her body and killing her.”

  Reason left Iain in a blinding flash of red. He charged Froste, as if he’d waited a thousand lifetimes to kill the man. Their swords met in a loud clash, swiveled down in an arc, and then drew upward once more. As Iain surged forward and then was driven back, he had to fight not only Froste but himself. He could not let his anguish consume him and defeat him. Froste drove him back ten paces before a deadly calm finally descended and Marion’s face faded in his mind, along with all noise. He defended every strike Froste offered and then turned the tide and unleashed his rage with one brutal blow after another.

  Marion could not see Iain anywhere in the crush of bodies, and then suddenly, there he was. To her right, near the newly built stables, Iain battled Froste.

  “Peter, come!” She grabbed his hand, and they dashed around fighting men as they made their way toward Iain. Marion gasped at the sight of her husband in a frenzy of fury, delivering repeated blows to Froste. Her breath caught in her chest in horror and relief as Froste staggered and then fell to his knees after Iain sliced through the man’s chest plate with his sword. Froste’s sword clattered from his hands, and as the man looked up at Iain, Iain lifted his sword.

  “For Marion,” he shouted, bringing his sword swiftly back down and ending the man’s life with a clean cut.

  When Iain dropped his own sword and fell to the ground, looking up at the sky with his eyes shut, Marion called out. She ran to him and fell at his knees as the battle continued around them.

  He gazed at her in clear wonder and reached out a shaking hand to touch her cheek. “Are ye real?”

  Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her face. “Yes,” she choked out.

  Iain crushed her to him, and she could feel the violent thundering of his heart and trembling of his body.

  “Watch out,” Peter shouted, and Iain jerked up, bringing her with him. He shoved her behind him, withdrew a dagger, and killed the knight attempting to kill him. Wordlessly, he bent down, retrieved his sword, and looked at her. “Stay by my side.”

  “I will,” she replied as he pressed through the battle, Peter beside him, until they got to the wall.

  “Dunnae move from the wall. I will nae leave ye,” he promised.

  She nodded and pressed her back against the wall, then watched in almost fascinated horror as King Edward’s banner was raised and cheers erupted from the Scots, Edward’s knights, and even some of her father’s. Yet the battle raged on until bodies lay thick across the bailey, Iain defending her all the while, alongside his brother Lachlan, who had joined him and Peter.

  Finally, a trumpet sounded and cheers rose again. Iain turned, dropped his sword, and strode toward her. As he helped her to her feet and she looked out at the castle grounds, she saw her father with his head hanging, kneeling before the king.

  “It’s over,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” Iain said. Then his brow furrowed and he reached out to touch her bruised neck. “What did he do to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” she replied through her tears, and then she remembered about the Fairy Flag. Had he flown it? Surely, there had been no need.

  “Iain,” she said, “the Fairy Flag… You didn’t fly it, did you?”

  He frowned at her as several of his men came to surround them. “Nay. I did nae even bring it. I had nae a doubt I would triumph.” With those words, he pressed his lips to hers and kissed her deeply to the cheering of his men.

  Twenty-Four

  It was a long time before Marion was alone with Iain. When daylight had dawned and silence had finally mostly descended over the knights and Scots camped in her father’s—or what had been her father’s—inner bailey, and Iain’s talks with King Edward and the other lairds finally ended, Iain came for her. She’d elected to sleep in the stables rather than in the keep in her old bedchamber. She never wanted to go in the keep that held so many bad memories again.

  Clutching Iain’s plaid around her, she sat alone with Lachlan, their backs against a stall and the stable door open wide. A breeze blew strands of her hair across her face, and she pushed them away as she watched Iain approach. Her heart swelled with happiness that he was alive, but a sadness dulled the joy. Her father was to be put to death, and though he’d not loved her, he had been her father.

  With the darkness gone, she could clearly see myriad cuts on Iain’s face, arms, and parts of his chest. He’d pulled his hair back and tied it at the base of his neck, making him appear even more foreboding with the hard lines of his face and the way he’d set his mouth in a grimace.

  She searched his gaze as he neared, and while she saw the gentleness she knew there, something else dwelled in the blue depths. It appeared to be wariness, and the idea made her breath catch in her throat. Whatever could be wrong?

  “Brother,” Lachlan said, as if a silent command had been given and understood. Lachlan rose quickly and departed without a word, shutting the stable door behind him.

  Marion’s heart pounded nervously as Iain kneeled down before her. He started to reach for her hands and then stilled, as if unsure. What was this strangeness in him?

  “Will ye let me touch ye?” he asked.

  She frowned, her heart tripping in her chest. “Why would I not? I’ve longed for nothing but you since the day I was taken from Dunvegan.”

  He scrubbed a hand across his face. “Then ye’re nae fearful?”

  “Not of your touch, but I am worried about this strangeness between us.”

  “Ah, a ghràidh,” he choked out as he gently enfolded her in his arms.

  She pressed her cheek to his chest and listened to the frenzied beating of his heart. Something was troubling him greatly. She pushed away from him until he loosened his arms so she could look up at him.

  His eyes filled with an odd understanding and sadness. “It’s too much, then? To be held?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Is it too much for you to hold me?”

  “Of course nae!” he said, his tone forceful. “It does nae matter to me. I want ye to ken that. All that matters is that I have ye back alive. We’ll take what’s to come together. If”—he inhaled sharply—“if ye have Froste’s bairn in yer belly, I’ll raise the child as my own. I swear it. The bairn would be a part of ye, as well.”

  Shock ran through her, followed swiftly by overwhelming love. “Iain.” She grasped his hand and pressed her cheek against it. “I didn’t think I could ever love you more than I already do, but you’ve proven me wrong.”

  “I feel the same, a ghràidh. I—”

  She set her finger to his lips. “Froste never joined with me, Iain.”

  He brushed her hand away. “But—”

  “No.” She stopped his words yet again. She could only imagine how Froste must have taunted and lied to Iain before they had fought. “I don’t know what he said to you, but it was a lie. He wanted to take me, but I pointed out to him that if he did before I’d gotten my flux and then I had a bairn, he’d not know if it was his or yours.”

  A dark look of rage swept over Iain’s face. “If he was nae already dead I’d kill him.”

  Marion wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist, and this time, when he enveloped her, it was in a crushing embrace.

  “He tried to force me right before you came,” she said, “and I hit him with a tree branch. Then Father came to tell Froste you’d arrived and they left me alone. When I next saw you and you asked me what he’d done, I thought you meant had he tortured or hurt me. I would not have said it didn’t matter had I known. I’m so sor—”

  Her apology was smothered under the hot assault of Iain’s mouth on hers. His lips parted hers in a soul-reaching message: mine. And she was. Each slant of his mouth over hers demanded an answer, and soon they were running their hands frantically over each other’s bodies, ripping at the meager clothing between them. When his hands to
uched her bare skin, he branded her with every touch, every caress down her belly and swirl over her breasts. He kissed a path across her neck and over each shoulder, whispering his love and need for her between each kiss. He kneaded her back as his mouth burned a trail down her stomach to press a kiss on each trembling leg. She wanted him to take her. She needed him inside her, to feel him as she’d not felt him in so long.

  “Iain,” she gasped as her desire became almost unbearable with each slide of his finger into her body. When he didn’t answer, she grasped his hair and tugged.

  He gazed up at her, his eyes dazed with his own fierce need.

  “Take me!” she demanded, passion pounding the blood through her veins to her heart.

  “Gladly, a ghràidh,” he growled, and in one sweeping motion, he laid her back on the straw and plunged inside her.

  Their joining was unlike anything she had experienced before. It was raw and primitive, fueled by the exhilaration of surviving battle and laced with a potent need to assure each other that the connection between them could never be broken. They reached their climax together, their screams likely putting smiles on many Scots’ faces. When their frenzied joining was over, Iain took her again, slowly and gently. This time, they came together in calmness and gently explored each other, bringing each other to slow, torturous climaxes. When they were both utterly spent, they lay on Iain’s plaid and simply stared into each other’s eyes until they fell asleep.

  Hours later, Marion awoke to find Iain was gazing at her in awe. She smiled at him. “Have you slept at all?”

  “Nay.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was listening to yer breath and watching yer face. Ye smile when ye sleep, and ye do this little thing with yer lips where ye suck on the lower one.” He rolled toward her and brought her into the cradle of his arm.