How Rachel wished that his child had been part of her, that fate hadn’t played a terrible joke and set them lifetimes apart, only allowing them this one fleeting glimpse of how they could have been together.
A frown settled on his brow. “I worry, though, that he shall take up arms against the Gordons if I do not return.”
The thought shocked Rachel. “But he’s only a boy! Certainly he can’t go into battle.”
“Aye, he can. Already he trains with my men-at-arms. He says he will take up the MacGregor cause against the king and help rally the clans for the Young Pretender. I have bid him tae stay at Glengarren and see tae my people while I am gone on the Stuart crusade. This does not sit well with him. But he will do as his laird commands, unless . . .” He stopped.
Rachel knew what he did not say. His son would fight in his stead should he not return. She did not want to think about the bloody battles a child might be forced to engage in to defend the MacGregor land and honor.
“Do not fret, lass,” he said then, tugging her back into his arms, a place she longed to be. “Things will work out as they should.”
She wanted to believe him, desperately. She longed to wake up and discover that Duncan was not a warrior from another century, but of hers. That what they shared was real, and strong, and indomitable. And that no force—not time, not duty, not even death—could separate them.
“Ye have not asked me why I was here in the library when ye came down,” he said then, diverting the wild flight of her thoughts with the lazy sensuality etched on his handsome face.
“You said you couldn’t sleep.”
“But you have not queried me as tae why I couldn’t sleep.”
“Why?” she breathed.
“I was lonely for ye.”
His admission weakened her knees and sent a thrill spiraling through her.
“I thought ’twas best for me tae stay down here . . . or else risk knocking upon your bedroom door and beseeching ye tae heal the wound within me, tae allow me to find succor within the sweetness of your lips.”
He had felt as she had, known that longing, that aching despair that sought only one relief: merging—of hearts, of bodies. Minds and souls.
“Duncan . . .” she murmured, sliding her hands up his chest, her fingers twining in his hair. She lifted on her toes to drop kisses along his jaw. “Love me . . .”
His hands tightened at her waist, and when she looked into his eyes, they burned with desire held barely in check. One kiss. One touch. And she prayed she would break his control.
She brought his head down and fused her mouth to his, heard his low groan and knew she had won, knew she stood victorious against this larger-than-life Highlander, and the defeat was all she could have ever hoped for.
His hands slipped beneath her pajama top, and the feel of his large, hot fingers against her flesh was almost more than she could stand. She moaned into his mouth as his fingers flicked across her sensitive nipples.
“I must taste these,” he said in a husky rasp, as his lips trailed a hot path down her throat. “They have haunted my dreams and taunted my waking hours.”
With deft, expert fingers, he made quick work of the buttons and pushed the pajama top off her shoulders. He looked at her, a flush rising to her skin under that heated regard.
“Ye are beautiful, lady.”
His words humbled her, made the feelings she had for him redouble—let her know, without a doubt, that what was about to happen between the two of them was right.
He dropped to his knees before her, his posture almost reverent as he pressed his mouth to her stomach, feathering kisses across her skin, not missing a spot, being more than thorough . . . and driving her mad as he slowly worked his way up to the underside of her breasts, first one, then the other.
“Bend over, sweet.”
Rachel willingly obliged, her breasts dangling like ripe fruit in front of his mouth.
Her womb contracted as his mouth closed around her nipple, suckling her, gently tugging, drawing the peak farther into his mouth as his hand worked on her other breast, rolling the aching peak between thumb and forefinger. She had to place her hands on his shoulders to remain upright.
“Now,” he said, glancing up at her through a fringe of thick, black lashes, “I must taste the very heart of ye.”
Then he tugged down her pajama bottoms.
Like a willing puppet, she let him do as he pleased, barely cognizant as his large hands gripped her thighs and spread her legs, his thumbs opening her folds . . . the tip of his warm tongue sliding into the cleft to flick the engorged pulse point.
Everything inside Rachel dissolved in an onslaught of divine, exquisite, erotic pleasure. And when his hands slid up her sides to cup her breasts and resume his sensual ministrations, she knew she had truly found heaven.
She tossed her head back as he brought her to an explosive climax, the first she had ever experienced, the convulsions going on and on, sheathing his finger when he slipped it inside her, a groan breaking from his lips, bringing her gaze down to his bowed head.
She combed her fingers through his silky, dark hair. He looked up, taking hold of her arms, easing her slowly to her knees before him.
No words passed between them as he coiled an arm around her waist and took her down to the carpet in front of the fireplace. No words were needed. What they had to say was in their eyes, was communicated with their hands, their mouths.
He spread her legs and slid his hard length into her wet and waiting heat, her body tightening around him, accepting him, sighing into him.
He stroked in and out of her in a slow, steady rhythm, keeping himself poised above her, making her watch what he was doing to her, the muscles in his arms standing out as he strained to hold back, to draw out her pleasure until another orgasm, deeper and more intense than the first, pulled everything from her, culminating in a sweet flood where their bodies merged.
Then he took her hands in his, lifting them above her head, his lips coming down hard on hers, his tongue driving into her mouth as his shaft drove into her body, pumping away, harder and faster, sweat beading on their flesh as she moaned his name.
His endurance was unending, and he kept up the divine torture until she convulsed around him one more time. Then, and only then, did he pour his love into her, her name a rumbling exultation on his lips.
He rolled to his side, drawing her back against his chest, his body spooning along hers as he wrapped his arms tightly around her. Together they watched the fire flicker and dance, the flames ebbing with the night.
And as her eyes slowly drifted shut, her body enfolded within his protective embrace, Rachel knew, no matter what happened, whatever tomorrow brought, she would never be the same again.
Love had forever changed her.
chapter
8
SNOW BLANKETED THE MOORS and the town nestled peacefully in the valley below the castle the next morning; the image one of picture-perfect serenity.
A cold wind whipped snowflakes loose from the ground, making them swirl in little funnels as Rachel stood shivering beneath the rowan tree.
Never had the cold affected her so, made her blood feel sluggish and her mind grow numb. Or perhaps it was simply sorrow, deep in the heart of her, for what she was preparing to do.
She glanced up and saw gray clouds churning, ominous black streaks rolling through their centers, telling her the break in the weather was only temporary, and that the storm was rebuilding its strength to barrage the land once more.
Already the wind had begun to increase, the smell of new snow stinging her nostrils as sharply as the bite of cold air upon her face. She had to get started. This might be her only opportunity.
Rachel briefly closed her eyes, snowflakes dusting her eyelids as her mind drifted back to the night before, thoughts of Duncan’s lovemaking taking the edge off her chill, a sweet ache of remembered pleasure gathering at the juncture of her thighs.
He had loved her all ni
ght long—by the Christmas tree, again in front of the fireplace, on the couch, then carrying her up to his bedroom and laying her down there, on the cloud-soft comforter, his whispered adoration and caresses keeping the dark secrets and menace at bay.
He had filled her in every way a man could fill a woman, emotionally and physically, and Rachel knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would never regret giving Duncan her body, or her heart.
But now it was time to honor her obligation and do what she had come to Glengarren to do. Release her parents’ spirits into this barren, beautiful place and let them drift together on the wind, float through the sky, sail on to heaven.
She had slipped out of the house without Duncan, knowing she had to do this by herself, but never had anything been harder, more wrenching, and she could have used his strength to help her through this ordeal.
Once she spread her parents’ ashes, they truly would be gone from her forever, and she just didn’t know if she was ready. In her heart, she knew she had to let go, that she could never hope to move forward unless she did this one last thing for them.
Her hands trembling, Rachel lifted the urns in front of her, a tear spilling down her cheek as she thought about what life could be reduced to, the vital essence burnt away until only ounces of ash were left to mark a person’s existence.
“But what a life you had, Mom and Dad,” she whispered, her words borne on the wind, a flurry of snow spiraling in the air like a winged angel. “You found one another. You were one of the few, the blessed, to have experienced a love that knew no bounds, a love that included me. And for that, I, too, was blessed.”
The tears rolled in earnest now. “I love you both, and I will always carry the wonderful memories in a special place inside me, a place that neither time nor separation can ever change, or erase. Someday we will all be together again. Until then, I want you to take my love with you . . . and know that I hold your love in my heart.”
Tears blurring her eyes, Rachel removed the caps from both urns, choking back the silent sobs threatening to stop her, emotions that made her want to hold fast to her parents, turn back time, tell them again how much they had meant to her, say all the things she thought she would have more time to say.
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, and Eternity in an hour, a cherished voice whispered—her father’s voice, reciting the words of his favorite poem by William Blake.
Recalling the quote was a comfort in that moment, and made Rachel feel as if her parents were there with her, giving her the fortitude to tip the urns . . . and let the breeze lift the ashes.
“Mom . . . Dad . . .” she wept, reaching out for something solid to hold on to, and finding nothing there but a fistful of emptiness.
They were gone.
Rachel bowed her head and cried, her shoulders shaking and grief knotting in her stomach, her despair nearly overwhelming at times.
The crunch of snow sounded behind her a few minutes later. She didn’t need to look to know it was Duncan. She could feel his presence, his strength that she so desperately needed, enfolding her, comforting her, even from a distance. It had been that way from the start.
Then his voice, deep and solemn and steadfast, rang out in a bittersweet tribute to her parents.
In the gloaming,
oh, my darling,
when the lights are soft and low
and the quiet shadows falling,
softly come and softly go.
When the trees are
sobbing faintly
with a gentle unknown woe,
will ye think of me and love me
as ye did once, long ago.
In the gloaming,
oh, my darling,
think not bitterly of me,
though I passed away in silence,
left ye lonely, set ye
free.
For my heart was
tossed with longing,
what had been could never be.
It was best tae leave ye thus, dear,
best for ye and best for me.
In the gloaming,
oh, my darling,
when the lights are soft and low,
will ye think of me and love me
as ye did once, long ago.
Fresh tears filled Rachel’s eyes at the beauty of his words as she slowly turned to face him, knowing that no matter what tomorrow brought, she would never love a man as much, or as deeply, or as forever, as she loved this man.
Snow dusted his dark hair and cold torched his cheeks. His eyes were blue pools of sympathy, and it was all she could do not to throw herself against him and cling to the strength that would bolster her.
“That was beautiful,” she murmured, her voice choked with emotion. “Thank you.”
He came to her then, silent, solid, indomitable, wrapping his strong arms around her and holding her close—so close that she ached to remain in that spot forever, feeling cherished. Loved.
“I knew ye needed me,” he said, his words so gentle, new pain sluiced through her.
She nodded against his chest, her cheek pressing against the thick wool of his coat. “I did. So desperately.”
“I’ll always come when ye need me.”
Will you? Rachel silently asked, too afraid to speak the words out loud, not wanting to hear the answer as she crowded closer to him, deeper against his coat, holding on to him as if her very life depended on it—and in all the ways that mattered, it did.
He was her other half. If she lost him . . . what would become of her? It was as if he offered her a new life just as the old one had ended.
He put a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up. “Your tears are like daggers tae my heart, lass. Tell me what I can do tae comfort ye.”
“Hold me, Duncan. Hold me tight and don’t let go.”
“Aye, lass. That I will. Always.”
Rachel didn’t know how long they stood there, huddled close together, snow dusting their shoulders, painting their hair. But she did not feel the cold. Duncan kept it at bay.
At last, he slipped his hand into her gloved one, dropping a kiss against her forehead as he led her back to the house, the world around them enshrouded in silence and the billowy drifts that shifted shape with each subtle movement of the frigid air.
The few treasured moments of sunlight quickly faded, chased away by building clouds that scraped against Glengarren’s spires. The castle’s dark windows reflected like somber, watchful eyes.
As though she were a child, he removed her coat when they entered the house and hung it up on a peg for her near the door. Then he rubbed his hands up and down her arms when a shiver overtook her.
“I’ve got the fire going in the library. Go warm yourself in front of it. I’ll pour ye a glass of brandy tae take the chill away.”
Rachel almost told him that the only thing she needed to chase away the chill was him, but she wanted to tell him with her body instead.
“That sounds heavenly,” she murmured. “I’ll fix us some food.”
He studied her for a moment, concern in his eyes, as if still worried over her state of mind. She gave him a gentle, reassuring smile, which seemed to appease him.
“Hurry back tae me,” he said softly, brushing a tender kiss across her lips, gracing her with the hint of a wicked smile that told her he wanted her just as badly as she wanted him. Then he headed across the foyer and disappeared among the flickering shadows of the library.
Rachel’s feet did not touch the floor as she turned toward the kitchen, feeling as if she floated on a cloud of contentment, her thoughts consumed with Duncan, her body yearning for his touch, her mind turning over with images of their first time together, how he had laid her down in front of the fireplace and loved her with reckless abandon.
She could almost feel his hard, silky length sliding in and out of her, his warm lips suckling her nipples, the liquid pleasure building inside her as he brought her to that bright, spiraling place she had only experienced in his
arms.
Her body began to quicken in anticipation, knowing there could be nothing better in the world than spending the day and night in Duncan’s arms, living moment by moment, and not allowing themselves to think beyond that.
Upon reaching the kitchen, Rachel turned on the radio nestled between an old breadbox and a tea cozy, flipping through several stations until deciding on light music, sighing with pleasure as the golden voice of Frank Sinatra filled the room.
She rummaged through the well-stocked refrigerator, spotting a fat wedge of smoked ham, some turkey and cheese, mayonnaise, hot mustard, sweet peppers, pickles.
She wondered what Duncan would prefer to eat. Then she shrugged, deciding she would bring a little bit of everything—have a smorgasbord picnic on the library floor.
With a smile, she loaded up her arms and turned toward the table. Then she froze, her food spilling to the floor, glass jars shattering and spewing condiments in white and yellow blotches at her feet, as she heard a roar of unearthly anguish echo through the corridors, ramming a spike of dread down her spine.
Oh, God, Duncan! He was in trouble.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she whirled around and headed out of the kitchen, the howl of pain and rage rushing over her like an avalanche, her eyes assaulted by the sudden darkness of the hallway.
She ran blindly, straining to see, the shadows playing tricks on her eyes, clouding her vision, confusing her until at last she caught the hazy dance of dust motes filtering through a shaft of light in the foyer.
“Ye bloody whoreson!” came Duncan’s bellow, followed by a grunt of pain.
Oh, God. Oh, God. The words beat a tattoo in her mind as she raced across the foyer and into the library, freezing at the threshold, fear rising up her throat.
Near the Christmas tree, Duncan had fallen to his knees, body rigid, his breath rasping in his lungs as he gasped for air.
Her head snapped up as a glimmer of something caught the corner of her eye. She thought it was simply the light glittering off one of the numerous Christmas ornaments on the tree.
A Very Gothic Christmas Page 29
