The Chieftain's Curse

by Frances Housden

  Why had he never enquired? Perhaps because he hadn’t wanted to know aught that meant he might have to let her go.

  “I met her in the bailey and brought her back.”

  With a gasp, she dropped her hands, belt and plaid, which left him dressed in naught but his shirt, his prick standing proud beneath it. “She’s not needed. I have had a baby before, and it didn’t kill me—a big baby that left me a bit battered and bloody down below. That’s why they told me I’d never have another baby, but it didn’t kill me, and it won’t this time.”

  “What can it hurt to have her in the castle, if it eases my inherent concerns? I’m sure there’s a few of the maids would be pleased to know there’s a midwife to hand.” He reached out and grasped her shoulders. Her bones felt fine and small beneath his palms, too fine, too small to go through what lay ahead.

  Say what she might about how she had survived the earlier birth, he still worried for her. She’d never mentioned the baby she given birth to, and he didn’t ask, for he presumed the baby had died, as his sons had, or perhaps been taken from her by a man who had no more use for a barren woman.

  Even years afterward, thinking of the first wee lad he lost made his gut clench. There were few times in his life when he had felt so powerless. Truth to tell, the only other moment in his life when he had felt so helpless, had been coming to his senses after his first battle and wishing he had died.

  But not for long.

  He had loved that lass and often wondered what had happened to her after he left to save her life, in thanks for her having saved his.

  As he shrugged away the past, he realised Morag was staring at his face, as if trying to read his thoughts. He pulled her close, felt her burgeoning breasts press hard against his chest. His cock flexed, touched her belly. Just a touch, but it was enough to draw seed from the tip, liquid warmth that dampened the front of his shirt. “I want you, Morag. I’ve never stopped wanting you, and I want you to know it wasn’t you I was angry with; it was me.”

  “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t know I was fertile, having never lain with a man since I gave birth.” She hesitated a moment, gazing into his eyes until all he could see reflected there was himself. Then she said, “Until you.”

  The words came out on a soft whisper of breath, yet held a wealth of meaning, emphasised by the feel of her fingers curling around his shaft.

  She squeezed lightly, even so his knees nearly buckled. He watched her mouth curve in a tentative smile that didn’t match the sensual note in her voice. “Since, I’m already with child, that problem no longer exists.”

  Her eyes gleamed, shards of gold that had once been firelight floated in amongst the blue. “Take off your shirt.” A brusque demand, not a request.

  He crossed his arms across his chest to grab at the tail of his shirt, dragging it over his head. For a moment when he opened his eyes, he thought she had gone. Then he looked down. Beauty called him. She had shed her shift, it lay there, a virgin patch of white atop the brazen coloured plaids.

  He stooped to pull her up against him, but Morag waved him away and laid her hands against the hair-roughened skin of his thighs. Every muscle in his body quivered with tension as her palms slid closer to his groin. Her knees straightened and face tilted up, her eyes never leaving his.

  He was reminded of something he’d told her, threatened, that she’d be on her knees before him if he said so. Now, he wished he could take the words back.

  Wished them never said, until her mouth closed around him, wet and warm, lips smooth, tongue rough, his skin tender, felt it all, wanted it all. This was no cowed submission. She had control. He combed his fingers into the hair on her scalp and held on for dear life.

  Their scents mingled, inflamed by the heat of the fire: violets, male sweat, the sweet scent of feminine arousal; they floated around his head, entered his lungs with every breath, and nudged open the awareness that he wasn’t the only one naked.

  It took every fibre of his being to hold back, not to let his seed go, though his instincts screamed for release. He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers and stepped away. “No lass, no, let go. Come to bed and let me pleasure you.”

  Her eyes were wide, yet dreamlike as she murmured, “Not yet, you never—”

  “Aye, but I will. Give me your hand.”

  Whenever Euan took her hand, his so huge, hers small, surrounded, it inspired sensations of warmth and safety that surprised her, every time. He surprised her now with the way he lifted her off her knees and into his arms, into his bed.

  Perhaps, one day, he would let her into his heart.

  Meanwhile, she would take every crumb he offered, for as long as it lasted. That the baby she carried wouldn’t be the way to his heart was the one anxiety that never left her. All she could do was love Euan and expect little of him in return. Wasn’t that all a leman could hope for?

  They came down onto the wolfskin as one. Euan, wrapped about the waist by her legs as he thrust, felt them pulling him closer, pulling him higher inside her.

  Aware that Morag’s mouth had stolen most of his control, but unwilling to reach the peak of pleasure on his own, Euan slipped his hand between them and let a finger work its magic. He felt her tighten around his shaft, heard her whimpers in his ears. With every thrust his control diminished, fell away until nothing existed but Morag.

  Being inside her felt natural, meant to be, and as his release tossed him into the greatest joy in life, he prayed that naught ever occurred to take his joy, his Morag, away from him.

  Euan kept her close, wrapped her in his arms as if he’d never let her go again. The back of her head curved into the hollow of his wide shoulder. Every calming breath he took echoed in her ear. She slid a palm up the centre of his chest, let it rest there, a sounding board for his still racing heartbeat.

  When at last he could speak, he asked, “Did I hurt you, lass?”

  Rubbing her fingers over his breastbone, she relieved his concern. “No, Euan. Being with child doesn’t turn me into a fragile bloom, and I’ve been thinking—”

  She felt the tremors of his chuckles vibrate against her fingers. “Ach aye,” he said, “but when a woman says that she’s usually after something.”

  “Acquit me of being grasping. I was thinking about the curse. The crone said no wife would give you the heir you need, but you and I have naught between us but a need to sleep in the other’s arms. Nor am I gasping to change that,” she said to reassure him of her motives. “I was just thinking that it might make a difference where the baby was concerned, or it might even be a lass.”

  Above her head, she felt his chin jut out, and his voice sounded as though roughened by more than the whisky she had tasted on his lips. “Not if my seed runs true. The others were all boys. But at least you agree that the midwife should bide at the castle?”

  She nodded. “Aye, but she must earn her keep. Auld Mhairi has a notion the maids will be producing a host of bastards after Graeme and Iseabal’s betrothal celebration.”

  He turned her in his arms, held her so he could look in her eyes and growled, “I hope the word bastard is not the first thing that comes to mind when you think of our baby.”

  “No, never. I was just repeating what Mhairi said.” She pushed away from his chest, her heart turning in her breast. In a voice devoid of the emotions roiling inside her, “Be it lad or lass, the baby will be loved because it’s ours. That aside, I’m glad to hear you’re no longer talking about having killed me.”

  Memories happy and sad darted through her mind. Thoughts both good and bad, of the life she’d led with Rob before they came to Cragenlaw, yet somehow optimism remained.

  But Euan refused to go down that road again, as if he had never said the word killed. Instead his thoughts were of the baby. “Did you ken that England’s King William’s father never wed his mother?”

  Morag didn’t dare give voice to the excitement his little story evoked inside her. Yet suddenly, she became aware that most of
all, amongst all the thrills rippling inside her, she recognised hope.

  The one inconceivable sentiment she’d never allowed her heart to harbour before today.

  Chapter 24

  News that a pedlar was on his way lifted Morag’s mood—not because she found life at Cragenlaw monotonous, and she wouldn’t tell this to a soul, but it would be a relief to purchase enough cloth to make the baby a layette and not have to dip into the stuff Astrid had sewn. She mentioned her feelings to auld Mhairi when the nurse broke the news, and she’d laughed at her, saying, “Some folk are too poor to be superstitious.”

  Perhaps she was a fraction credulous, but Morag didn’t care. “Isn’t it lucky that Euan is well able to afford a few bolts of cloth?”

  During the time she was big with Rob, there had been no one with whom she could chatter about her baby’s imminent arrival, and now there was only Euan’s auld nurse.

  “Such an unexpected turn,” Mhairi cackled. “The pedlar’s never been in the way o’ bringing his wagon this far north sae close tae winter. I’ll call ye a liar if ye tell anyone I said so, but it’s as guid as a holy day.”

  She walked away and left Morag to her pondering.

  Ever since Euan told her that story about the English king, she had been wondering if perhaps, she should tell him about Rob, about his son. In the months since she’d come to live at Cragenlaw, the natural ire that had churned in her breast from his abandoning her had definitely dissipated.

  For years, she’d had to pay the price for the shame she had brought on her family and had suffered from the ignominy both father and brother poured over her head. They would have killed Euan if she had confessed, given them his name, but she had stood her ground and refused to admit who Rob’s father was, refused to admit she had lain with the enemy.

  At first, they had made her life hell, then she’d become invisible, a mere shadow floating through the chambers of the Baron of Wolfsdale’s hall.

  In contrast to Rob’s short stature, the brazen way he had faced down Doughall at every opportunity, had caught her father’s eye. She once heard mention that her father had told Doughall that Rob was the kind of lad he’d hoped would inherit his seat, rather than the weakling left to him, that Rob had the heart of a lion, like Gavyn, the son he’d lost in the fight that had almost taken Euan.

  But Doughall was more than just weak and easily led, he was sly and vicious, a truth she’d discovered to her cost. It had been a while since Doughall’s name hadn’t sprung to mind with every new corner her life turned. That she owed to Euan and the security living at Cragenlaw brought her and Rob. Within a few minutes of Mhairi’s leaving, Morag leaned into the narrow slit looking over the gatehouse. At the foot of the spit, a garish striped canopy swayed as if it would tip over should it hit a rough patch.

  The smile on her face lingered as Morag left the solar. Visions of the cloth she would need skipped through her imagination, accompanied by completely unnecessary bundles of bonnie ribbons to thread through her braids and the hope they might catch Euan’s eye.

  If she left now, she should reach the outer bailey in time to meet the pedlar’s wagon.

  It was as crowded as the night Graeme and Iseabal celebrated their betrothal. Euan had little interest in the wagon and hesitated only when he saw Duncan’s bulk join the gaggle of lassies. He imagined most of the castle women were eagerly waiting the moment when the pedlar opened his trove of simple treasures.

  He watched the pedlar laugh, probably at the thought of all the silver pennies he would pocket and take away with him. “Ach, Duncan, not you as well. Are you after buying some ribbons for a bonnie lassie?”

  His seneschal looked taken aback at the question, and then let out a gusty sigh. “Och, I’m not after fripperies, naught but a few more of they spices he carries, enough of them to see us through the winter. There’s naught like a few spices to help tenderise the meat.”

  Euan grinned. Duncan was a tad sensitive when his sexual proclivities were called into question. With a wave of his hand, the McArthur sent his father’s auld friend on his way. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Morag joining the tail of the queue. It was only to be expected. He supposed that she’d joined the other women, for Morag was as much woman as any he’d known, though he noticed the others kept their distance from her, which was, in a way, to her advantage. For once, he saw the humour of her situation.

  His head full of Morag and the night to come, he carried on toward gatehouse. Not long since, a messenger had brought welcome news, warning of the mercenaries’ imminent arrival. Not before time, he was thinking, when a man dressed in dark red broke his stride, a hooded cloak, who crossed Euan’s path leading the pedlar’s horses toward the stables. Cragenlaw had the reputation of being generous with food and drink for either man or beast, and after many years the pedlar must be well aware of that. The man helping the pedlar was no doubt a stranger to Cragenlaw, though, for none who recognised Euan would dare block his path. After all, he was the McArthur.

  From beneath the shadows of his hood, Kalem watched Morag of Wolfsdale approach the wagon. Keeping his head down, he led the horses away without fear of recognition, or of being remembered. He was wise enough to realise that because his red cloak stood out among these dowdy peasants, it was the colour they would fix in their memory, not his face, his darker skin disguised by the volume of his hood.

  The stables crowded against the outside of the inner bailey wall, but looked well enough compared to some he’d seen on his way north—a journey that had been miserable since Doughall, the new Baron of Wolfsdale, a title wrested for him by Kalem’s hands and done with pleasure, had insisted he complete the pretence by riding all the way on the pedlar’s wagon—a hint of sadism, which proved that as Doughall’s tutor, Kalem had taught him well.

  However, when this exploit ended, his erstwhile pupil would discover there were lessons beyond his imagination still to be learned. In truth, though, the old Baron’s death was on Morag’s head. Had she but known, the moment she dared threaten to expose him, her father was destined to find his redemption in Allah’s arms.

  He watered the horses carefully, not too much, too soon. Meanwhile, took a few moments to look round, surveying the bailey. The pedlar had told him Rob worked in the stables.

  Thanks be to Allah, his task was made easy: two lads, playing, laughing like a pair of idiots, worse than the Fool he’d seen prancing around as they drove into the bailey. He’d been perched on the uncomfortable driver’s bench in front of the wagon, and thought, Such pretension, definitely not what he had expected from a Scottish clansman.

  For an instant, he wished he was able to stay at Cragenlaw long enough to discover what other airs and graces a north country laird like McArthur aspired to.

  Time wasn’t on Kalem’s side. The lad must be cut out from this herd of Scottish sheep stealers, and spirited away.

  The mercenaries were but a league or two distant from Euan’s domain, and some weeks ahead of the masons who would build the Keep for the new Thane of Kinlochery. It felt good to be able to do this for Graeme, a man as close to him as his father. Yet for all the arrangements he’d set in place, documents he’d signed and had notarised, Euan had never really thought the unthinkable would come to pass.

  The baby Morag carried … now it seemed like one of the stars in the sky that he had begun studying when he visited the cairns at night. For a moment he felt his hand tremble and reached for the hilt of his sword to steady himself, but still the unwelcome thoughts about the baby persisted.

  Stars were something one could visualise but never touch, and his child might be born, but never live.

  What if Morag did have the right of it, if the curse had been cast with a wife in mind? What if? It wasn’t an option he felt able to consider for now. He wasn’t a man keen on clinging to another failure. He was prepared to go out there and fight for the life of him and his clan.

  There was still hope, Was he prepared to deny such a thing exist
ed, when it was all that had carried his clan on their journey north? When his ancestors wanted more for their people and had plucked their roots from the lands they’d once called their own. It was more than a legend, one clan, taking two directions, sons of Arthur, warriors who travelled both east and west, on a high-flown venture borne on a wave of courage.

  Euan dragged in a deep breath at the thought. Letting his forebears down wasn’t in his nature. He would ride out and meet the mercenaries on the best mount he owned. Euan looked over his shoulder with confidence that at least one of his squires would be hovering in his shadow. “Jamie,” he yelled. “Fetch Diabhal and a mount for yourself, we’re riding out to meet our visitors.”

  The noise of Jamie’s boots on the cobbles reached Rob before his shout. “The McArthur’s riding out to meet the mercenaries and I’m going with him. Can one of ye saddle Diabhal, while I see to my mount?”

  A wide grin plastered Alex’s face. “That’ll be you then, Rob. I’m going an all.” He spun on his heel, his long flaxen hair bouncing on his shoulders, catching the autumn sun. Jamie had taken to calling Alex, Golden Bear, but in a teasing way, without an ounce of nastiness in it. “Ach aye,” Rob said with a nod of his head. “Off you go and leave me with all the work.” Not that he minded. The others would be taking away most of the McArthur’s own mounts.

  He cautioned Diabhal to behave in front of the southerners, quite forgetting he’d been one himself but a few months ago. All three of them worked with a will, and the horses were saddled. Rob slapped Diabhal’s rump and laughed out loud, “There you go lads, all done before the McArthur can say boo to a goose.”

  The other two chuckled, but Alex added a warning, “Don’t let the McArthur hear you say that, or you’ll be the one the laird is saying boo at.”