by Amy Jarecki
Calum reached for Anne’s hand. She blessed him with a brilliant smile. “Bran, ’tis a wonder the lady made it down the hill in one piece with ye dragging her. Did ye no’ remember she’s recovering from a twisted ankle?”
The boy gaped and looked at Anne. “Are ye all right milady? I didna mean to rush ye.”
“I’m quite invigorated. This must be a special celebration indeed.”
The friar waddled in beside them. “Aye. Beltane used to be a pagan tradition, but we Scottish Christians have embraced it as the celebration of rebirth.” He clasped his hands together and looked toward the heavens. “Praise God, winter is behind us.”
Calum gestured to the crowd gathering around the fire. “Come milady. I would be honored if ye would stand beside me as I light the fire to commence the festival.”
“Aye, ’tis nearly dusk,” Mara said.
***
Anne’s insides fluttered when Calum strode across the stony beach to meet her. Dressed in his finest kilt and doublet, his powerful frame made all the lords at court pale in comparison. She closed her eyes and cemented the memory in her mind. She never wanted to forget her gallant captor or her time on Raasay.
Anne allowed Calum pull her toward the enormous pile of wood and sticks as the clan watched. He struck the flint to light the torch, but the wind from the sound snuffed it before the flame took hold. Anne cupped her hands around the ironwork. “Try again.”
Calum struck again and the torch burned bright. He gave her a wink and held it high. “With this flame I light the Beltane fire. May God favor us and make our women and our crops fertile. With this flame we will relight the fires of Brochel!”
The crowd roared a raucous cheer. Calum circled the stack of wood, lighting the kindling around the bottom.
Bagpipes and fiddling filled the air, while children chased each other around the maypole. Calum placed his hand in the small of Anne’s back. “We let the wee ones dance first. The real dancing starts after we sup.”
She loved the way his eyes sparkled, reflecting firelight. “Oh? That sounds intriguing.”
“It is.” Calum spread his tartan over the smooth stones. “Will ye share me plaid?”
Warmed by the raging fire, Anne sat beside him. “Tell me more about Beltane. The friar said it has pagan roots.”
“Aye. ’Twas the most important ritual to our ancestors. It honored the sun god, and if he was pleased there would be a bountiful harvest. When the fire burns down, unmarried couples seal a promise by jumping over the coals together.” He looked away and fingered the fringe of his plaid.
“Pardon?”
“They say on Beltane all marital restraints were lifted and women could lay with whomever they wished for the night.”
The flesh on Anne’s entire body prickled with heat. Did she just hear him correctly? “I’ll wager that caused a great many problems.”
Calum picked up a smooth stone and rubbed his thumb across it. “I’m sure it did. ’Tis why it is only a legend.” He looked at her with a crooked smile. “If me wife ever lay with anyone but me, I think I would kill her, and the rutting bastard too.”
Anne cleared her throat. “Well, ’tis a good thing the Scots have done away with that practice.”
Norman strolled over carrying three tankards of ale. “What do ye think of Beltane, Lady Anne?”
She accepted the tankard, but scooted a tad closer to Calum, eyeing Norman with uncertainty. “’Tis a merry festival indeed.”
Norman looked at her for a moment, his expression puzzling, but then he bowed and sat on the opposite side of Calum. “I think it is time for me to take a wife.”
Anne’s attention piqued.
“Have ye someone in mind?” Calum asked.
“Nay. I would like leave to visit Ruairi on Lewis.”
Calum narrowed his eyes. “Ye think you can behave yerself? I’ll never live it down if ye sail over there and fall into yer cups.”
Norman hung his head. “Ye ken. As I said before, sleeping on The Golden Sun has given me time to think.” He held up his tankard. “From now on, ale will be the strongest spirit that passes me lips.”
“Very well. After John returns, we will make arrangements.”
Anne watched Calum swirl his fingertips over the rounded stones. They would see John any day now. She closed her eyes, but the bonfire still blazed behind her lids. She wanted to imagine what her new life would be like, but all she could see were the rugged lands of Raasay and the stone walls of Brochel Castle with its handsome laird presiding in the courtyard. The vibrant laird who had just told her on this single eve in ancient Scotland, the laws of matrimony could be cast aside. From the depths of her soul, Anne wished it could be so….but alas…
What would the baron do when he received word of Anne’s ransom? Would he pay? Would he pursue Calum ruthlessly until he and his entire clan were wiped from the island? Would Lord Wharton accept her now she’d spent weeks among the “barbarians”?
Calum didn’t give Anne much time to mull over her unanswered questions. He jumped up as the games began. “I must toss the caber.”
“And what is that, do tell?” Anne asked, standing as well.
“Tis a one-hundred-fifty pound log, or there abouts. The man who tosses it the farthest wins.”
She chuckled. “You mean tosses it without squashing himself?”
“Aye, well there’s that, too.”
She clapped a hand to her chest. “Don’t tell me men have been killed?”
“I’ve only seen it once, when I was a lad.” He shook his head. “’Twas a very poor harvest that year.”
Anne glanced at the friar who’d moved in beside her. “They take this festival seriously, yes?”
“Aye, milady, they do.” He pulled her into the crowd. “Come stand here with me where ye’ll be out of harm’s way.”
Anne thought Calum would birth a calf, he bellowed so loudly when he tossed the log. It looked to be as long as one of the rafters in the keep—as big around, too.
As he predicted, Calum won the caber toss and the stone throw. His team also won the tug-o-war, but he was bested by William in the test for the swiftest. William had long, slender legs, and ran like he was fleeing a mob of archers bent on skewering him.
“He’s very fast,” Anne said, applauding the victor.
“He’s Calum’s runner in battle. None faster than William,” the friar agreed.
Anne gaped when the women stepped up and had a go with the bow and arrows. Though Calum won that contest, too, she had never seen women included in any sort of competitions. They were quite adept. Must have had practice at some time.
As the games ended, Mara stood on the driftwood and clanged the supper bell. The feast laid out rivaled some Anne had seen at court, at least for the sheer quantity of food.
“It all comes from the Sound of Raasay,” Calum said, stepping behind her.
“I thought you told me your people were starving.”
“We eat well in late spring when the fish are running. Winter’s the worst—and pickled herring gets awfully dreary by February.”
Anne reclined against a large log of driftwood and watched. People sat in groups, some large with children and grandparents, and others small. The beat of excitement touched everyone. The snow had gone, and the promise of warmer weather swirled on the breeze. With Calum stretched out beside her, she felt like she belonged. Of course, she’d had her home at Titchfield House, and belonged to the Wriothesley family by birth, but never had she experienced a bond as strong as the one that wrapped around her this night.
The pipers started again and she wanted to dance. Calum must have sensed her eagerness and reached for her hand. “Will ye dance the maypole with me?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Calum flashed a toothy, wicked grin and led her toward the ring of dancers. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “The pole signifies male forces and the wreath beneath is female. The men dance the reel after the women. When the mu
sic ends, they choose if they want to be caught—’tis the lassie’s choice.”
Anne hesitated. Would he tempt her? God, she hoped so. Anne shook her head, queen’s knees, she must hope not. Since her injury, she had lasted this long fighting her urges to wrap her arms around his masculine shoulders and kiss him. She would turn to jelly if he kissed her again. She knew it, and what would old Lord Wharton think if he discovered she had lusted after her captor?
The high-stepping reel interrupted Anne’s worries. She looked to the side and saw Mara sitting with Friar Pat. They both watched her. Anne gulped and studied the feet of the other dancers. She moved hers in kind, jumping in the air, pointing her toes and leaping sideways around the pole of masculinity.
Calum danced directly across the circle with the men. He focused on her, dancing with grace, unlike the bearish force he’d shown earlier in the games. His eyes did not stray from her. Anne’s breathing quickened. His powerful legs expertly executed the steps, and Anne was glad her skirts covered her wayward feet. She merely had to keep up with the beat bellowed by the bagpipes. Calum turned his back to her and leapt high. His kilt flicked up. Anne blinked. She couldn’t deny it, she’d seen the white alabaster of a rock-solid bum cheek. Her heart thundered in her ears. She could no longer hear the music.
In her mind only she and Calum existed, dancing together on the beach. His kilt flicked again, enticing her to see more of what lay beneath. His eyes seduced her, begging Anne to give in to her curiosity.
The pace changed and the woman next to her lightly tapped Anne’s shoulder. “We dance to the right now.”
Anne followed the crowd, the tune of the pipes resounding in her ears. The men leapt forward, mixing with the women. Calum’s masculine scent—spicy, laced with sweat—electrified her and his hot breath caressed her neck. This was the most seductive dance in which she had ever partaken. When his hands grasped her waist, shivers coursed over her skin. “Ye can run from me now, lass.”
Anne’s head spun. Run? She didn’t want to run, she wanted to turn and press her body against him. “I…”
She tried to pull away, but her heart would not allow it. With a snap of her head, she whipped around and faced him. With the most stirring grin she’d ever seen cross his face, Calum lifted her in his arms and twirled around the maypole. Together they spun in complete union. Anne threw her head back and closed her eyes. If only she could stay there in his arms the entire night. If she had not been wearing layers of heavy skirts, she would have wrapped her legs around him and cradled his head to her breast.
The music stopped. Calum’s chest heaved as he squeezed her against his body, gazing into her eyes with a longing that made her feel as if she were the only woman on the beach. His eyes filled with hunger, suggesting he wanted to kiss her and more. Anne’s breath stuttered, her body molded against his. His tongue shot out and wet his bottom lip. He slid her down his muscular chest. And then she felt it. Her mons slowly slid over his rigid manhood. A hot gush of longing coiled tight between her hips.
Calum lowered his head as if he would kiss her. But he leaned down to her ear, his breath fluttering through her hair. “Mayhap we should make our way back to the plaid.”
Anne didn’t trust herself to speak. She froze when her bottom brushed against his manhood. He let out an audible groan. The crowd applauded as Calum looped his arm through Anne’s elbow and led her to his blanket.
Fanning her face, Anne willed her heart to resume a more sedate cadence. “That was far more vigorous than a volta.”
“Aye, milady. I think we’d best remain spectators for the duration of the night.”
A pang of disappointment needled at her, but she knew Calum was right. Neither one of them could control their urges.
Norman filled their tankards with ale. Anne overheard him whisper in Calum’s ear, “’Tis a good thing John will be here soon. Her ladyship has ye enchanted.”
Anne pretended not to hear and reached for her cup. Perhaps a few tots of ale would do them both good. She practically guzzled the potent liquid and reached for the pitcher. She offered some to Calum and he held up his tankard. “There’s a good lass, I mean lady.”
He smelled delicious as she leaned over him and poured. “I think a bit of ale will be good for the both of us this night.”
His eyes trailed down the length of her body. He raised the tankard to his lips and drank. Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he watched the dancers. Anne watched him. He seemed much more subdued than before. Had she caused him to lose his enthusiasm? She wanted him to have a good time—it was his festival. She thought to ask Bran to escort her back to the castle, but Calum’s hand inched across the tartan. His rough fingers brushed hers.
Anne glanced at him, but he kept his eyes averted. He clasped his fingers over hers and leaned toward her. “I wish we lived in another time.”
“As do I.” She lowered her voice. “Would you like me to retire so you can dance with the others?”
Pain filled his eyes. “I want ye to stay put. I’ll escort ye to your chamber when ’tis time.”
Smiling, Anne spread her skirts over her legs and nestled against his warm chest. He wanted her beside him. There was no place on earth she’d rather be.
Chapter Thirteen
The bonfire ebbed to coals, sending columns of sparks into the sky. The night smelled of wood smoke and sea air. Calum slipped his arm around Anne’s shoulders and rubbed. “Ye are shivering.”
“A bit, but you radiate enough heat for us both.” She lowered her head and nestled into him.
He wanted to draw her onto his lap, but the accusing looks coming from Friar Pat across the fire told him his actions had already stretched beyond appropriate. Calum strengthened his grip upon her shoulders. He could sit there with Anne in his arms until morning.
They watched unmarried couples jump across the pit with laughs and giggles. He ached to take Anne’s hand and pledge his adoration by jumping across the coals with her. But it couldn’t be. Calum could not allow himself to forget she was married. Married but still innocent. The throbbing under his kilt continuously reminded him of that fact. No amount of ale could drown the longing.
Anne had made it worse—unintentionally, of course. She looked a goddess, dancing the reel with her long skirts swishing, her cheeks rosy. He’d lost control when he’d placed his hands on her waist and heard her gasp. If they had been alone, he would have thrown her down right there and shown her the extent of his affection. But like a responsible laird, he forced himself to lead her back to his plaid, rather than into the shadows where he could have had his way. Damned be to hell his responsibility. This was Beltane—the one night when he might cast aside caution and surrender to his passion.
Calum inclined his head toward Anne. Like the other clanswomen, she wore her tresses loose for the gathering and the vigor of the dancing had tousled it, giving her a raw appeal that enticed his deepest urges. A wisp of silken hair with the honeysuckle scent tickled his cheek. Why must every fiber of her being entice him? Should he forget about the future and enjoy the moments he had until he turned her over to Wharton? His gut clenched. He would never be able to forget she belonged to the devil.
Anne glanced at him and tensed beneath his grasp. “Is something amiss?”
“Nay. Just thinking of the future.”
Anne bit her bottom lip and shuttered her eyes. She knew what he meant.
Across the coals, Mara squealed. Dread crept up Calum’s neck. He slid his hand from Anne’s shoulders and followed Mara’s line of sight. A skiff glided up onto the beach.
Mara dashed toward it. “John. Praise the heavens, you’re home!”
Calum loved John as a brother, but his arrival cast a black shadow across the celebration.
John splashed onto the shore and hefted Mara into her arms. She wrapped her legs around him and they twirled across the beach. Calum wanted to hit something. Hard. God on the cross, how he wished Anne would wrap her legs around him like that—
but now his days with her would be few.
Pushing his sudden gloom aside, Calum rose to greet his cousin. Standing on his plaid, he waited for John to finish kissing his wife. He glanced at Anne who watched, open mouthed, while John put on a display of mad passion, his lips locked with Mara’s, their bodies clinging together. It must have been the longest kiss in the history of Scotland when John finally came up for air.
He set Mara down and held his hand out to Calum. “’Tis good to be home.”
“Welcome John, ye’ve been sorely missed.”
The friar waddled up and slammed John’s shoulder with a hearty whack. “’Tis good luck to arrive on Beltane.” He winked at Mara. “I’ll bet God will bless ye with a bairn this very night.”
Mara turned a brilliant shade of scarlet.
Calum stepped up to John’s ear. “Before ye go, did ye get a response?”
“Aye. Do ye want it now?”
Calum pulled him aside. “Give me the short version.”
“The bastard nearly shot me dead in Edinburgh—betrayed by the runner I was.” John pulled Wharton’s missive from his sporran. “But this says he agrees to terms.”
Calum slipped the note away and clapped John’s shoulder. “We’ll talk more in the morning. Go enjoy yerself.”
John grinned and cast his eyes toward his wife. “That I will, m’laird.”
Anne moved in beside Calum and touched him on the shoulder. “They look so happy.”
He tapped a stone with the toe of his boot. “They do.”
“Wouldn’t it be divine if all marriages could be carved of such love?”
Calum watched John lead Mara up the hill—up to their marriage bed. A burning void swelled across his chest. He’d most likely never marry, never have a loving woman to hold in the night. He turned to Anne and tried to smile. “Aye, a marriage without love is a woeful tragedy, but we live in a time when it happens all too often.”
He offered his elbow. “Would ye like to retire, milady?”
They didn’t speak as Calum walked with Anne up the hill and into the keep. Her nearness, her hand upon his arm, tore his insides to shreds. John had returned and she must soon leave.
