The Chieftain's Curse

by Frances Housden

  Another gulp of wine gave Nhaimeth the courage to share a truth no one outside his family knew, and not many of them. “Since we are now brothers, I can share my secret and trust you to keep it.” Rob nodded his agreement.

  “I wasn’t just Astrid’s Fool. I was her half-brother, Erik the Bear’s eldest son. My mother was his cousin, and I’m told, the only woman he truly loved. She died giving birth to me, and all he was left with was a bawling misshapen monster that had killed his wife.” Another tug at the wine flask revived his courage. Some did think him a monster, and by the look of him, they were not far wrong. “I suppose I should think myself lucky he gave me to a wet nurse, though I’m told her teats were flat as oatcakes and only my determination made me survive.”

  He pushed the flask into Rob’s hands before he became drunk. The lad’s eyes glinted with anger in the dim light. “Anyone who called you a monster didn’t truly know you, Nhaimeth. Those who do, like Morag and me, are well aware you have a good heart. And Astrid must have been a good sister. She brought you with her to Cragenlaw.”

  He nodded in agreement, but added a qualification, “But no better than your sister. She would never leave you behind.”

  All the way to Cragenlaw, Morag had reminded Rob never to reveal the truth. That both their lives depended on it, yet Rob felt as if today had changed everything.

  That today he became a man, well able to make his own decisions. And how much harder had it been for Nhaimeth to confess that Erik the Bear was his father. A sudden notion slipped into his brain with no effort on his part, but his smile felt sly as he asked, “Does that mean Alexander is your brother?”

  Nhaimeth smirked. “Aye, my half-brother but he has no notion of the fact.” They looked at each other, not saying a word. It was if a silent communication passed between them as with one voice they both burst out laughing.

  When Rob finished wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, and said, “No way would I tell him, but can you imagine his face if he found out?”

  They bellowed with laughter, belly-busting, gut-wrenching merriment. “Aaach,” Rob let out a sigh of relief. “That felt good, but every time I see him now, I’ll want to laugh.”

  “Be careful, you might be older than him, but Alexander is a mean one.”

  The reminder was all it took to make his decision. “I’m not older than Alexander. My true age is eleven, and Morag is not really my sister; she’s my mother.”

  “God’s blood is this not a night for confessions? Be assured that I will take your secret to my grave. I’ll have that flask back. This calls for a toast. I was aye sure Morag of Roslyn was a great lady, and now I’m certain of it.”

  “Since it’s the truth we’re speaking, you should ken we’re not from Roslyn. My grandfather was Baron Farquhar of Wolfsdale, the border Wolf. Although he whipped Morag, she never told him who my father was. She went from being his favourite to barely being tolerated once he discovered my birth had left her barren.” Rob stared down at his hands. “She never told me his name either, so I just stopped asking.”

  Reaching inside the neck of his tunic, he pulled out the silver cross he wore against his chest. “This is all I have of him. Morag said it belonged to my father.” He held it out on a palm still stained with spit.

  Nhaimeth leaned forward and stared. “That never belonged to a poor man. It’s made from real silver.”

  “I’ve often wondered if he was dead, but if that were so, why keep his name secret?” Rob slipped the silver cross back under his tunic, he could smell the sweat on his body from the exertions of the fight. He needed a wash under the pump, yet felt reluctant to wash away the reminder of how well he had acquitted himself on his first field of battle.

  While Rob was still in the hall, the McArthur hadn’t joined in the celebration of their success. He and his constable had closeted themselves with Jamie’s father.

  He reached out and pulled a chunk of bread from the pile of food in the kerchief, and as he chewed, he began to ponder his fate. “Do you think the McArthur will ask me to join his housecarls again? I’m certain Morag would be against it.”

  “Whatever the morrow brings, I’m certain you’ll cope, and be sure I’ll be there if you need me.”

  “Me too,” yawned Rob, stretching his arms overhead as he wriggled deeper into the hay. “No point in worrying until tomorrow,” he mumbled.

  “Aye, tomorrow,” he heard Nhaimeth say and with all the ease of youth, he fell asleep.

  Chapter 16

  Seated at the high table, Euan listened to Colin Ruthven with only half an ear, far too conscious of Morag’s presence at his left hand. “I feel black affronted,” Colin was saying, “that a lad of mine would run away like one of yon sheep they scattered all over the brae. I heard one of the daft woolly beasts nearly landed in the water.”

  Morag leaned forward her elbow atop the board, so close Euan could feel its warmth. “Laird Ruthven, excuse the interruption, but Jamie and Iseabal only did as they were told. I shouted at the top of my lungs for them to run. What would you think of a warrior who didn’t obey orders?”

  “But, Jamie isn’t a warrior, he’s my son.”

  “Ach well that’s all right then,” she said, her voice filled with empathy, and Euan realised her diplomacy would have been a great asset in a wife. Only look at Malcolm Canmore and Queen Margaret.

  But Morag had more to add, “The lad wasn’t hurt, and I’m sure the McArthur is relieved that the son and daughter of a guest were returned safe to their father’s bosom,” she coaxed, as though certain Ruthven would hate to blame Euan for his children’s preservation. “At least, they are safe from the beasts that attacked them.”

  “Aye, there is something in what you say, mistress, for I could not feel otherwise had it happened at Dunstrae.”

  Euan made no comment, leaving Morag to soothe the insult Colin had felt at seeing his son flee. Yet he knew her thoughts were of him, of how he felt without sons to disappoint or otherwise. He felt her touch on his hand, not obvious, just the brush of her little finger across the fine hairs on its back. The heat it stirred inside him fled straight to his loins.

  Her finger continued its foray as she said, “I think we can all be thankful you still have bairns to be annoyed with for falling back to the castle as they were told. Some folk are not so lucky.”

  Ruthven’s gaze flicked toward Euan who watched his expression sober. After all, one of Euan’s stillborn sons had been his grandchild. “It’s God’s mercy that I’ll have them both to take home with me.” Then Colin’s glance spun past them, farther, to where Iseabal sat with Graeme.

  “You’ll not hear a word of disagreement from me,” Morag assured him, “Yon men were beasts, pure and simple, and gave no quarter to McArthur’s man. Aye, he faced them, one against four, as was his duty. As the only other adult, I would have forever regretted not trying to help him.”

  The greater regret was Euan’s. That this woman by his side should be barren was a sin. He could only imagine what sons they might have produced. What had started as a convenience was now tinged with genuine sorrow that the seed he expelled inside her would always come to naught. Then he remembered what had happened to the wives he’d got with child.

  Morag’s courage ran true in the veins of her brother, Rob. He was a grand lad. Far too grand to remain in the stables, and this afternoon’s contretemps had put a notion in his head that he must give consideration … but first he needed a concession from Ruthven. “What say you return home with only one of your bairns? I’m thinking that because of this afternoon’s near calamity, he could do with some training from a man who has no reason to cosset him, like a father would his one and only son.”

  “Not so much of the only, my Flora’s with child again and swears that this one is another boy.” He flushed as if suddenly realising the connotation that could be taken from his words, “That’s not to say I could bear aught to happen to Jamie, but happen you’re right. Just the fact that his mother isn’t watchin
g his every move would make a difference to the lad.”

  “Then it’s settled, Ruthven. You have my word and my hand on it.” He reached out his hand for Colin Ruthven to enclose in his great mitt, and shook on their agreement.

  How was it possible to feel so tired, yet on edge at the same time? The day’s excitement had turned her head. Even some of the maids who had avoided her once she began sleeping in Euan’s bed had come up and wished her joy of her safe return.

  Euan practically marched her upstairs, once they were able to leave the great hall without being discourteous to his guests. He carried a lantern to light their way as they followed the turns of the winding stairs where the torchlight didn’t reach.

  At the arched entrance to his apartments, Euan said, “You’ll be able to scream all you want tonight. Nhaimeth appears to have deserted us.”

  She looked up at him, haughty. “I don’t scream.”

  The flat of his palm smoothed her from shoulder to wrist. “You will tonight, I’ll make certain of it.”

  So that’s how it was to be. She had been aware of his every glance, every touch of his hand as they sat at the high table. How the conversation managed to flow was hard believe, but they’d both done their bit to keep it going.

  It helped that she no longer worried that the Laird of Ruthven would take offence at having to associate with Euan’s leman. Indeed, it seemed the laird was right pleased with her actions that afternoon. Heroic, he’d called them, when she’d simply been after saving her son’s life—a truth she had only lately dared name in her mind—and, in the end, her son had saved hers.

  Taking her hand in his, Euan pulled her through to the bedchamber an arm’s distance behind him. He lifted the lantern high and looked down into her face. She wondered if her eyes glowed in its light the way Euan’s did. Was it the reflection of the lantern, or did the light come from inside, from the warmth building in her heart, her belly.

  The heat failed to fade even when he set the lantern on the ledge above the hearth and hunkered down beside the cold firewood. Though the day had been fine and clear, the air chilled as the sun sank behind the Grampians. Next to the hearth sat the bowl of hot coals one of the maids would have filled from the kitchen fire. While he placed black coals ringed in white among the logs, blowing on them until their glow reddened, her gaze drifted to the window and beyond.

  Overhead, a cloudless indigo sky, clear as a woodland pool in the moonlight, shone bright with stars, a million pinpricks in its blue canopy. If that night could get any more wondrous, it would be that the angel lights would dance on high.

  Euan stood, the warmth from the flames licking the logs in the hearth no comparison to the heat burning inside him from just looking at Morag. “I want to see you naked.”

  She cast her gaze over him slowly, from head to toe, lingering on his kilt below his belt buckle. “I’m willing, but only if you’ll strip down to your skin for me in return.”

  Since she had to notice his cock pressing against the front of his kilt, his agreement came as no surprise. “I see no problem with that,” he said, proceeding to whip off his bonnet. Without a care for where it landed, he sent it spinning across the chamber. The golden eagle feathers gleamed in the firelight as if making the bonnet fly. It held his attention for but a moment, as Morag gradually uncovered her hair and shoulders by loosing her veil and plaid.

  Beneath her kirtle, her breasts peaked, making his fingers tremble as he unfastened the silver McArthur pin clamping his own plaid to his shoulder.

  Morag unfastened the bonnie belt circling her hips. She had purchased it from the pedlar while Euan was away with Graeme finding a site for the new Keep. If yon cateran had had their way, he would never have seen it dipping low across her belly, inciting his imagination to wonder how fast he could remove it and put his mouth in its place. But then, as he tugged at the lace fastening his linen shirt, instead of falling apart the knot tightened.

  Sweat beaded on his upper lip.

  “Here let me,” she said, and stepped forward. Her nimble fingers soon freed the knot. He could smell her scent, the violet in her hair, the musk of her sex, which told him she was as aroused as he. The beast in him rose, baring its teeth. He tamped it down and gained control. His ancestors may have raped and pillaged to gain power—one had kidnapped his bride but refused to wed her until her father had signed over a huge chunk of land—but the twelfth century would soon be upon them, and he hoped he was more civilised than the McArthurs of old.

  With the lace untied at last, he dragged his shirt over his head with such vigour the braids among his hair lashed his face. They could have been made of steel, he wouldn’t have cared, for hadn’t Morag been as swift as he. Her kirtle gone, she stood in only her thin shift.

  “Hurry, I want to touch you,” she whispered, her voice like a rough caress on his skin, making his chest heave and his flat nipples tighten as if her tongue had licked them.

  His hand reached for his buckle, belt and plaid swirled in a soft bed of colours atop the rushes.

  Her shift joined them on the floor, and she stood there naked as the day she slid from the womb. In her eyes, he perceived a look of impatience, a wish to rush forward to the next step of the coupling ritual. He stilled her with a finger that tilted her face up to his. Slowly, he let his gaze wander over the creamy-coloured skin turned gold in the firelight. “Perfect,” he murmured, his voice rough as the cliffs Cragenlaw balanced on above the sea. “So perfect, lass, you rob me of words.”

  She reached out and touched. Merely a fingertip, but his erection jerked from its potent effect. “Ach, it’s not soft words I want, it’s the deed. I might have died today. Make me feel alive.” She took her finger away but that didn’t release him from the spell she had cast. “Now, will you let me remove the laces from your hose?”

  Aye, he’d nearly lost her today. He’d made no plans when he asked her to become his leman. She’d been a stranger, and he had no notion what twist of fate had placed her in his path.

  The way he’d been feeling the day Astrid and his son died, if not for the woman and her honesty over being barren, there would have been suffering in his hall, much grieving and shame. “Do your worst.”

  Kneeling atop their garments, Morag touched his knee.

  Was she intent on torturing him?

  As with his shirt, she dealt with his hose nimbly, but when she raised her head, he felt her breath flutter against his straining shaft. His fists clenched in restraint, his mind saw them twist in her beautiful hair as he held her head still, tilted toward him.

  Then such fancies melted away as she leant closer, her tongue protruding between her lips to lick, softly, gently and with more effect than any coarse assuaging of passion. He groaned, cupping her face in his big hands. They looked rough against her fine skin, as he raised her to her feet. Up, up, till her palms smoothed across his chest and higher, twined around his neck.

  Her lips, when she pressed them against his, felt softer and sweeter than the bramble berries, ripe with juice, that grew in a tangle on the edges of the forest.

  Euan straightened. Covering her soft rounded buttocks, with his hands he lifted till her feet no longer touched the ground. Instead, they crossed, tightened behind his waist, flattening her breasts against his chest. His mouth pressed down on Morag’s, parting her lips. He loved that taste.

  Tongues and teeth scraped, sinking into the deep richness of warm silk. Rough then smooth. Breaths exchanged, moisture dredged one from the other combined and swallowed. Hearts raced, breaths quickened, almost one…

  Sighs collided … almost one … almost…

  He sensed her heat, sensed his reason to exist … tonight. His member stirred, scenting surrender, impatient to be imprisoned inside her. No sooner thought than done, Euan gripped her hips, thrusting up into the melting warmth beckoning his cock. One at last.

  Morag’s moan rippled against his tongue, the sound echoing in his head, it spun. Aaah, such a woman.

  He
planted his feet on the floor, steadying his balance. The strength of her thighs surprised, tightened about him, holding. As if she’d never let go.

  What soul there was left to him after living with the curse felt aware of every single part of her body, the hair on her mons tangled with his. Navels pressing, rubbing, the rhythmic suction of lips, the pulling sensation. Deep, deeper, he growled at the back of his throat. Fear of loss rose in time with her hips and with a roar building in his throat, his hands clamped on her hips, fitting her, glove-like, into the place she belonged, over his erect shaft. She belonged.

  If he was sure of anything, it was that. His mind flooded with a vision of her, lying on his bed, held by his weight, unable to escape.

  Two strides towards the bed and he brought his vision into being.

  God’s blood! How would he ever let this woman go?

  Her hands were tiny—miniatures compared to fists that could wield sword and axe with an ease few possessed—but, her slim fingers meshed without fear, closed with his in equal measure of the desire to cling, much like the way her heat enclosed, tightening provocatively round the width of his shaft, severely straining his control, making him determined to regain what was rightfully his as a man—the initiative.

  Stretching their entwined hands above her head, he bowed his back, dipping his head low to suckle her breasts.

  She tasted sweet as heather honey, as heady as uisge beatha, water of life. She tasted like a giver of life.

  He knew at that instant he’d forego his right hand to have a woman such as she as the mother of his son—a strong woman, equal to him in all the ways that mattered, her rank be damned.

  With that impossible wish echoing in his mind, pulsing through his veins and singing in the air about them, he continued to stroke inside her with deep, powerful thrusts that lifted them off the wolf skin. Grappling with feelings that dragged their union from the mundane, into the extraordinary, he heard Morag call out, “Aaah, McArthur there’s nobody like you … nobody in this world.”