Haunted By A Highland Curse: A Steamy Scottish Medieval Historical Romance

by Emilia C. Dunbar

  Before she could recognize what had happened, Caoimhe’s knees had been shifted apart, her thighs and hips exposed. Niall had fallen to rest in the cradle of her body, and Caoimhe suddenly panicked at what she could not see. Niall’s tunic was still in place, now lifted from his waist and settled between them on her stomach; rolls of fabric blocking her understanding of what was happening. She felt the brush of something hot upon her womanhood and her breathing caught in her chest.

  Niall broke their kiss so that she could gasp a lungful of air. One of his hands was held beneath her knee, keeping her thighs parted, and the other left her hair to disappear down between them. The brush of his knuckles over the sensitive skin between her legs had her jump, and then there was a heavy feeling of pressure pushing up against her.

  Caoimhe couldn’t speak, couldn’t think; everything was a jumble inside her head. Her eyes were wide with panic, her lips dry, and her throat aching. Her hips already hurt from the odd position, and the small of her back was protesting Niall’s weight. It was all too much. It was all too new.

  I’m scared!

  “Caoimhe.”

  Everything stopped.

  It was the first time that Niall had ever said her name. And, as if it were some magical spell to wrap around her, her breathing slowed, her muscles let go, and her gaze met his.

  Niall pushed himself inside her body.

  The lovemaking was confusing. Her body seemed to rebel at her husband’s invasion. It was painful and forced her to spread her legs wider. Her eyes squeezed shut and she bore his thrusts within, as if he were an aggressor. And yet, as his movements shifted and her body grew used to his presence, Caoimhe thought that she sensed something else.

  Beyond the pressure and that sharp little pain that was triggered with each push, the ache of her muscles and the burn of embarrassment to be so completely prostrate beneath a man she hardly knew, there was a sensation in her core that was hard to ignore.

  A sort of coiling.

  A winding of tension and a drawing sensation that seemed to welcome him into the presence of her body.

  It took Caoimhe so long to notice the phenomenon that by the time she had, Niall had increased the pace of his thrusts, and the discomfort began anew. He kissed her, trying to relieve the pain. He touched her womanly shape to try and stroke the tension from her limbs, and was partially successful. Caoimhe laid back and tried to focus on offering her husband the pleasure he was owed.

  When it was done and Niall shook above her, stilling as he found his release and shaking with its aftermath, Caoimhe could barely move. He had encouraged her hips to shift to meet his as they had mated, but Caoimhe had felt awkward and unsure. She was still joined most intimately with her husband, trying to calm her soul, cool her body, and recognize this newness in her being—her lack of virginity and her new place in the world as this man’s wife.

  She didn’t realize that she was crying until Niall looked up, his lips parted on the heavy breathing of his sexual peak. The hair at his temples was damp with sweat, and his lips were soft from their kisses. He reached to brush away a tear that had rolled from the corner of her eye, down into the dark tangles of her hair.

  “I hurt you?”

  Through the musk, scent, and the heat of the room, his words were a rumble from the deep.

  Caoimhe nodded.

  “I am sorry for that,” he told her, and sounded genuine.

  Caoimhe could only nod again, her stare fixed on the ceiling.

  She would not meet his eye despite his attempts to shift her face, to bring her to look at him. She was too raw and exposed to find comfort in the man that had seduced her to this state of discord and set her heart so thoroughly tangled upon itself.

  There was a moment in which only their breath could be heard and then, in a single motion, the pressure between her legs was gone and Niall had rolled away. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the covers up over her bare skin. The atmosphere was awkward and hung with heavy thoughts.

  “I will only do that again if you are not now with child,” he informed her.

  While this was perhaps a comfort to some small part of Caoimhe’s psyche, it felt like a threat; a promise hovering over her fertility, and a criticism of her as a woman. It hurt her that she would not be able to tempt her husband to her bed unless it was for the purposes of a child. Yet, her natural instinct to avoid pain could only breathe a sigh of relief that he would not join her there too often. But then, she had heard promises from women of the love they had shared with their husbands and how it had been pleasurable for both parties. Had she done something wrong? Were they not compatible for such things?

  Caoimhe could not find her voice in order to speak such worries. They went around in her head, wanting an answer that they could not demand.

  In the end, the words were Niall’s final upon the matter. He simply stood up and left the room, headed silently for his own chambers.

  12

  Frustration

  The next few days were not easy on Caoimhe’s heart. It seemed as if her nerves and her joy were in conflict within her, one never managing to entirely override the other. Instead, they played tug of war with her heartstrings like children playing games on the dunes. Never once considering the ache they built in her chest.

  The tension began every morning.

  Despite Niall’s promise to not touch her again unless it was necessary for an heir, Caoimhe always awoke with the thought that he might be in her room. Laying beside her, beneath the sheets, or looming in a corner. She would mistake the pressure of her heavy blankets for a leg over hers or the dark shadow of a curtain for his towering height. Her heart would turn frantic, a wild pulsing in her chest at the idea that he had snuck into her chambers to join her; to lie with her as a husband did his wife. In her sleepy and dazed state, she could never quite tell if it was fear or anticipation that sent her heart racing.

  Whether it was excitement or apprehension that claimed her heart each morning, it was always for naught. The blanket was always a blanket and the shadows never a person. Niall kept his promise and left her very much alone.

  Then there were the days.

  Caoimhe was the first to admit that she had no concept of what a laird did or the responsibilities that fell onto his shoulders. From her position as the daughter of a merchant, the laird was responsible for the taxes that they paid for their home and their other tasks, but otherwise she knew nothing of their duties. As a child, she had always imagined the leader of their province sitting on some fancy throne counting out gold coins. The man was always big and ugly and hoarded the wealth of the land like some evil emperor. It was a childish image that she had long since known to be folly but now grew curious about the reality.

  Niall spent his time in equal part between his study and his lands. When the sun was high and daylight hours long, he would ride away from Aberlynn to speak with some lord or mediate some dispute. And as the evenings drew in, he returned to the estate, taking his dinner alone in his private rooms where he would work before a lit hearth deep into the night. Sometimes, Caoimhe didn’t hear his tread upon the stairs beyond her door until hours after she had retired to her own bed. He never knocked on her door, never asked her about her day.

  And he never broke his promise.

  In some ways, the days following Niall’s return were not much different from those that preceded it. Caoimhe rarely encountered her husband in person for any length of time. And yet, her world felt entirely different, just knowing that he was nearby.

  And there were reminders of his presence everywhere.

  Sometimes when she went into the kitchens to work with Mary and talk with the girls, Caoimhe would see a tray of empty dishes on the side, ready to be cleaned, and know that Niall had eaten. She had learned that he didn’t like carrots; they were always left on the side of his plate. Sometimes, during her cleaning of rooms or her exploration of the manor, she would open a door and freeze solid, staring at one of Niall’s large and
imposing dogs as it lay docile upon the rug near the open fire. She had seen the animals run with Niall over the grounds, bounding around his legs like puppies, despite their ferocious stature and strength.

  It was little discoveries like this that told her who her husband was. How Niall wouldn’t waste the wood or burn fires all day long, the way he had insisted on returning the portrait of his mother to its rightful place, how he liked lamb but hated fish, how he would leave his boots in a muddle at the door when he entered the estate every evening but never seemed to notice when she straightened them.

  He was a man of action, of limited thought for others, who worked on the basis of familiarity: the simple premise that he was used to being alone. As far as she was aware, he gave no thought to her presence in his home and seemed almost constantly surprised if ever he bumped into her in the hallways, as if he had forgotten he was married altogether. He never thanked the servants beyond simple grunts, and he rarely took the time to hear others out.

  And yet, he was not unkind.

  Never did he give unfair orders and rarely did he make his instructions specific. He showed respect in the trust that he gave to those around him. He was befriended by his animals and clearly treated them well, and Mary had let slip that, in moments of secrecy, he did the same for Caoimhe.

  Every evening since his return, Niall had been gone to the cook and checked that Caoimhe had eaten well that day.

  Torn between a nervous fear and a jumpy thrill of anticipation with every reminder of the man she had married, Caoimhe felt herself on a tide of emotion every day. Up then down and back up again. Over and over.

  When she thought upon the main topic of her internal conflict, all she could picture was the dark gleam of his eyes as he had braced himself above her and moved within her body.

  Caoimhe pressed cool palms to her heated cheeks and felt an ache low and deep that she tried to ignore. Her flushes had been numerous the last few days and always flared when she caught a glance at the man who had taken her chastity in the holiest of unions. It felt as if her virginal mind had been tainted with the knowledge of blissful sin; now it would be tempted in that direction whenever her thoughts were lost in a daydream.

  Besides, being the wife to a man who was perfectly capable of handling his life without one, Caoimhe had plenty of time for her thoughts to wander…

  On the fourth day after Niall’s return, Caoimhe was forced to settle herself and focus on topics of more innocence. She began the day, as always, startled awake with a racing heart and searching eyes, half hoping to find the figure that marked her dreams awaiting her in the doorway. Yet, when she remembered that it was Sunday and her mother was due to visit, Caoimhe was able to push such thoughts from her head and turn her attention to her dress.

  By the time her family arrived, several hours later, Caoimhe was gowned as finely as she had ever been. Barring her wedding, she had never worn a raiment of such elegance, cut across the shoulders, and fitted down the arms. The bodice of her gown clung to her figure, emphasizing the limited curves that she had been blessed with, and her skirts flared to the earth to create the illusion of womanly hips. Millie, a young girl with surprisingly dainty fingers, had braided her hair into a thousand little ropes that were then secured in a celtic knot on the back of her head. The ends had been let loose to curl over the nape of her neck.

  She wore no jewelry except for her wedding band, and felt as if it weighed enough without additional pieces of silver and gold. But the expense of her dress was obvious enough and her station in life clear without the need for jewels or shining baubles. at least as far as Caoimhe was concerned.

  Caoimhe knew that she must have looked a little more like her new station when her sister exploded from the carriage, her mouth open and eyes wide. The woman stepped down from the cart with such surprise and lack of grace that she jostled the bundle in her arms and disturbed the little one within. The soft noises of a fussing baby sniffled from inside the swaddling.

  “Caoimhe!” she gasped, hurrying over to her little sister and offering her an embrace. Caoimhe returned it as best she could without squashing Iris’s new baby. She felt the warmth of the little body against her chest and her heart sputtered in her chest.

  Her sister pulled back at arm’s length to look at her.

  “My goodness, look at you!” she cried, with the natural emotion and energy that the middle Webb sister had always possessed. No one would have thought that she had given birth just a few weeks ago. The fact that the babe had had the audacity to come late was the only reason her husband had managed to curtail her from attending Caoimhe’s wedding, a restriction that Caoimhe had heartily agreed with.

  A hurricane could not keep up with Iris.

  “Mama, Mama, come look at little bogbean! You’ll not recognize your daughter!”

  Aileen Webb was taking no such chatter from her middle child. Having gotten down from the carriage herself, she reached up to tweak the top of Iris’s ear as if she were a little girl.

  “Talk sense, Iris. A mother never forgets her children.”

  As if to prove her point, Aileen took a step backwards, assessed Caoimhe, and then made her declaration, sweeping her into her arms.

  “She is the same beauty that she always was.”

  Caiomhe felt her heart soar.

  “Thank you, Mama!”

  “So…where is my son-in-law?” Aileen asked later, as the three women were dining on tea and fresh biscuits.

  The Webb women had spent the last hour discussing all manner of things to differing degrees of attention. Iris had taken the lead, as was her norm and right as a new mother. She spoke in a few dismissive sentences about the birth, told of her baby’s success in feeding, and her frustration at her husband for not yet having chosen a name for the child.

  “You would think that he would have had enough time!” Iris had grumbled good-naturedly. She and her husband had been married for five years, and it was known but never spoken aloud by the family that they had been working towards a child ever since.

  The topic brought Caoimhe’s heart back into turmoil and a fluttering to her belly.

  Was she with child right now? Could she be carrying Niall’s bairn? Would God have blessed them so soon? Or would another night like that of Niall’s return have to happen again?

  Caoimhe’s cheeks heated at the very idea, and she was growing sick with irritation over her own mixed-up feelings. Being in Niall’s arms had not been pleasant. So, why did she now ache to try and find time alone with him once more?

  In holding her new nephew, Caoimhe had decided that the desire came from her maternal instincts and now sought a baby to complete the familial image she had always had in her mind.

  That was the way of life that all little lasses were taught in their youth. You fell in love, you married, and then you had a baby. As you grew older, you learned that the first of those steps was optional, and the last was essential.

  Caoimhe held the baby in his wools and felt the weight of his little body in her arms. She wanted this—a little one of her own.

  Her mother’s question had her looking up from the way the baby stared at her, his perfect little lips sucking on air.

  “Pardon?” she asked, having been lost in the way the little boy had freed one of his hands and was plucking at the edge of his swaddling.

  “I asked where my son-in-law is.” Aileen said with a knowing smile. Her eyes read everything in Caoimhe’s distraction. “I want to thank him for sending his friend.”

  “For what?”

  Caoimhe hadn’t heard Niall speak a word about her family. She had been trying to find a moment with him alone to discuss her allowance as his wife and if she might be able to send some of it to her parents without offending him.

  Her mother’s aches and pains were different from one day to the next, and there was never any telling when she would need more relief than they could afford. But since her husband preferred to dine alone in his study and had never requested he
r presence within it, she had not yet had the chance.

  “A man came to the house yesterday,” Aileen said. Her words were slow, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Clearly, she had thought that Caoimhe would be aware of such things. “He said that he was a friend of the laird’s. That he’d been sent to look in on us?”

  “He was a trader?” Caoimhe asked, unsure.

  “He was a healer,” Iris finished for her mother, having already heard the story. “He came to look in on Mother.” She smiled. “He came with medicines too. And herbs and all kinds of things.”

  “Yes, thank you, Iris.” Aileen patted her daughter’s leg. She looked to her youngest child with an eye of wisdom. “You didn’t know that your husband had sent Master Fergus, did you?”

  Caoimhe could only shake her head. Her thoughts were still swirling, trying to remember if she had even mentioned to Niall that her mother was ill. How had he even known about it?

  “I think you should speak to your husband more, Caoimhe,” Aileen told her sagely, a twinkle in her eye. “I think you might discover him to be someone that you could like.”

  Had she been holding anything else but a baby, Caoimhe might have dropped it in surprise. Her limbs already felt weak with shock, and she hastened to hand the little one back to his mother.

  “Would you feel up to a walk around the grounds, Mother?” Caoimhe asked, eager to distance herself from a conversation that felt surprisingly judging. She knew that she and her husband were not truly allied. Perhaps in the eyes of God, but not in the eyes of mortal men and women. There was a divide there that she had yet to work out how to cross. And the idea that her mother was able to notice it after only an hour in her company had her wanting to escape the discussion.

  Aileen rejected the notion with a soft wave of her hand, reaching for the baby as he squirmed and squawked for attention.