by Mary Wine
“Well, we can nae let them go on thinking I’ve surrendered so quickly.” Helen stood up, her legs feeling a little wobbly and overly warm. She selected a bowl that was sitting on the table and sent it hurling at the door just as it was pushed in. “Swine!” she bellowed as Finley started to peek inside.
Marcus threw his head back and roared. The chair he was in tipped back, and he gave a push so he went tumbling heels over chin and landed on his feet in front of the door. “Vixen!” He kicked back, his foot connecting with the door and sending it slamming shut. There was a muffled expletive from outside in the hallway before Marcus started turning over the rest of the furniture while growling like a hungry wolf. Helen squealed in amusement as tears glittered in her eyes.
It was all finished in a few moments, leaving them breathless and laughing at the mess they’d made. Her head was spinning, her thoughts flying apart from the combination of activity and whisky. She was breathless and so was he as they stood facing each other. She stared at him in fascination as he laid his hands on either side of her face. The contact raced down her spine, all the way to her toes, where it set off a tingling. If he’d pulled her to him, she might have balked, but this kindness was so sweet that she stood there, anticipation building like the tempo of a springtime dance as he leaned forward and slowly sealed her lips beneath his.
The kiss was scalding hot, searing a path through her as her breath caught. They were suspended in the moment, like a bubble where the fae danced forever in merriment. She reached for him, flattening her hands on his chest and shivering as she slipped her hands across the ridges of muscle beneath his clothing.
He lifted his head from hers, looking down into her eyes as though he wanted to see what effect he had on her.
“Yer eyes glitter with passion when I kiss ye, Helen.”
She could have told him he was mistaken, but she realized such a taunt would be cowardly. An attempt to goad him into action and remove all responsibility from her hands for what happened when she gave in to her cravings.
He deserved better than that from her. So she nodded before she shifted away from him. Uncertainty was sweeping through her, as hard as winter winds. It left her caught between the two forces—that flickering lick of passion’s flames and the chill of not knowing what she wanted, only that it felt so right to be in his arms.
He watched her for a moment before he let out a long sigh. “Aye. Let’s lay our heads down and sleep, lass. Tomorrow will be soon enough to puzzle through what we plan to do with each other.”
Helen cast a look toward the bed.
His bed.
“We’ve shared a bed before,” Marcus reminded her in that low, gravelly tone that he used when he was hiding his feelings. She’d heard him use it on his men plenty of times, and it made her suspicious.
“Because ye had hold of me hair and were snoring.” She took another step away from him. She couldn’t seem to stand still. Marcus stopped, planting his feet shoulder-width apart as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Father Matthew Peter made me swear to wait upon yer whim.”
Helen choked. “He would no’ do such a thing. The church says I am yer property.”
Marcus lifted a finger into the air. “It was a personal penance given to me. That I might better understand the merits of patience and no’ harboring the sin of wrath.”
She shouldn’t laugh.
Yet she did. Marcus closed his eyes, but his lips parted in a grin. He took another swallow before offering it to her. Helen eyed it for a bit, contemplating just how much like bait it was.
Oh, for heaven’s sake! Stiffen yer spine!
She moved forward and took the flask, their fingers brushing as she gripped it. “Yer word, then.”
“I gave it.”
He drained the last of the whisky before walking into the bedchamber and laying the flask down on a small table. Helen watched him for a long time. She wasn’t so much nervous as curious. He was in a private moment now, something she knew without a doubt few ever witnessed. She felt privileged, something she had not experienced in a very long time.
There was a bench in the bedchamber. She sat on it to take off her boots. Marcus sat on another one, doing the same. They were a pair, that was for certain. Never had she thought that men suffered the same trials as women when it came to marriage. It had always seemed that men held all the power, and perhaps that was true for many. Marcus was the son of the laird though, and as such, he had expectations from the clan to fulfill. Even when their vows were swept aside by a lawyer’s quill, he would still have to perform as expected. Perhaps Fate was not simply unkind to her. No, Marcus would have a pound of flesh demanded of him as well.
Somehow, that made him easier to approach. Beneath his gruff exterior, he was a man who was being told to suffer the will of others over his own. Helen lay beside him, listening to him breathe, and lamented the fact that she would have to leave his side. Part of her truly wanted more private time with him. Lying there beside him, she felt more at ease than she could ever recall. Sleep came easily as she settled into the bed, enjoying the warmth Marcus added to it.
Indeed, she was turning wanton for the one man she should know better than to fancy, but at that moment, she didn’t care a bit.
* * *
She’d gone to sleep with a soft throbbing at the front of her sex. A mild annoyance that never truly ebbed during the night. Helen shifted and sighed, not quite ready to awaken. There was a nip in the air that promised snow, and the bed was delightfully warm.
And that throbbing? Well, it was becoming something different now. There was pleasure involved, a deep enjoyment that made her let out a little sound of pure bliss. Her dreams had never included such a sensation, only the building need that went from that little throbbing spot down into her core. It became a yearning that frustrated her because she didn’t know how to ease it.
Today, though, there was more than easement; there was pleasure. It soothed away the ache, growing as intense as the need. She wanted more of it and felt herself straining upward, seeking… Well, she didn’t know just what, only that she couldn’t think beyond the need for it.
It all snapped, unleashing a rush of pleasure so intense that she cried out and arched, her entire body caught in the grip of it for one mind-numbing moment. She opened her eyes and heard herself gasping. Her heart was racing, and sensation was still rippling across her skin when she looked down her body and gasped.
“Ye lied to me.” She wanted be outraged, but her voice was husky with satisfaction.
Marcus offered her a cocky grin from where his head was hovering just a few inches above her spread sex. His lips were wet, and she realized in horror exactly why.
“I did nae have me hands on ye at all, lass,” he responded arrogantly. “And I owe me sire a wee bit of an apology for me thinking last evening, because his advice is sound.”
She rolled over and over and right off the edge of the huge bed, but her knees were shaky, so she stumbled, grasping one of the posts that held the bed curtains. Marcus watched her, his grin widening as he took in his effect on her. He was wearing nothing but his shirt, and his member was sticking out in the front of it.
He’d lulled her into a false sense of ease. She realized he was every bit as menacing as ever and had simply waited for his moment to pounce on her.
“Do nae look at me like that, Helen.” Marcus sat up on the side of the bed and watched her move away. “Ye told me yer maidenhead was the only thing ye have left that is yer own, so I pleasured ye without taking it. Is it so hard to think of me as a man who does nae want to act the brute to ye?” He patted the surface of the bed. “I want ye to choose me.”
Did she dare?
Dare was certainly the correct word. He was looking at her, every inch the hardened man she’d faced time and again, and yet there was much more to him now. He was attempting
to push inside her, to that place where no one had ever been, to her deepest feelings. However, he was offering her a glimpse at his own in return.
Such a tangle of possibilities.
She looked at the pile of clothing that she’d left on the bench, caught between the need to maintain her pride and the desire to simply let it go in favor of… Well, she wasn’t sure what exactly she’d find in his bed. She ended up looking back toward him, seeking the answer in his eyes.
“Naught to say?” he asked. “There is a first.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she exclaimed with her hip roll half laced. “There was a time when I knew how to speak kindly. Why do ye needle me until I can nae hold me tongue?”
He flashed her an arrogant grin. “Because I like ye the way ye are, no’ disguising yer nature to appease everyone about ye. Do ye have any idea how long it has been since a lass was honest with me? Since one came to me seeking me, and no’ me position? Ye are not the only one who feels isolated. As War Chief, I must be hard on the young lads, lest they fail to build up enough strength to survive. Smiling at them would be a disservice.”
Sometime during the night, he’d taken the time to pleat his kilt on a table that ran along the side of the bedchamber. His wide belt was already under it. It took only a moment for him to lean back, grasp the sides of the belt, and pull it all around himself. Most men used the floor, but clearly Marcus wanted to be ready, should there be a need to dress in a hurry during the night.
“It fell to me to either take ye or know without a doubt that I’d be sending me own men up against yer brothers because they refused to admit the cattle were ours.” He was buckling a second belt in place to make sure his kilt was secure. “Ye think I enjoyed it?”
“Yes, ye did,” she answered him. “Somewhat, anyhow. Admit it. Yer nature is suited to yer position.”
He offered her a cocky grin. “If ye’ll match me by admitting ye did nae think to notice I do nae always care for what me duty demands of me. That’s the thing about duty. Ye do it because it needs doing and others depend on ye seeing things through.”
“Fairly spoken,” she said softly while pulling her skirts over her head. The waistband caught on her hip roll, and she began to lace the waistband closed. “Ye are no’ a brute.” His smile was widening with victory. “But swine fits well, for ye knew well ye were twisting words last evening to get me into yer bed.”
He chuckled and opened his arms wide. “Taming a vixen requires cunning.”
Helen felt her temper stir at the use of the word taming.
Something else also flickered inside her too, and she’d be a liar if she claimed she hadn’t enjoyed being the recipient of his attention. She picked up her bodice and shrugged into it to avoid letting him see the indecision in her eyes. He’d notice, all right—the man had an uncanny ability to see right into her soul. Or so it seemed.
He sat and laced his boots while Helen continued to dress. His silence didn’t make her think he’d forgotten her; no, she felt his gaze on her as the only sounds in the chamber were the ones made by cloth moving.
“Ye’ll have a few days to think on things,” he said when he’d finished.
Helen lifted her attention from her boots to him.
“I’ll need to move some of the cattle now that it’s going to snow.”
“I see.”
He adopted the pose she was used to seeing him in: feet braced shoulder-width apart with his arms crossed over his wide chest. Without his doublet on, she could see the muscles of his upper arms flex.
Damned if that didn’t warm her insides.
“Will ye promise me ye’ll be here when I get back?”
He was reluctant to ask her. She heard it in his tone. Indecision was flickering in his eyes, and she realized he was debating the merits of setting guards on her. “Ye’d accept me word?”
He stepped toward her, his expression relaxing. “I do want to. The truth is, I want nothing more than to make very certain ye are here when I return, but I also crave yer approval, and I can nae have it if I imprison ye. So, I’m asking ye.”
It was an admission he was not completely comfortable with.
“I will be here. But I suggest ye think long and hard about yer impulse to see this union solidified. Ye stole me to ensure the MacPhersons remain strong. Our marriage will put yer clan at a disadvantage because all of yer neighbors will say ye are soft at heart for no’ making a better match.”
“They might.” He moved closer and slipped his arm around her waist when she stood her ground. “At the moment, I’m anything but soft, lass, and I want ye here when I return so I can show ye how much better I can please ye.”
His meaning was impossible to miss. The hard length of his erection was pressed against her belly, hot and tempting as he leaned down and kissed her. There was a promise in his kiss, as well as a warning that he wasn’t going to be deterred. She should have pulled away, but there was a challenge there too that she couldn’t seem to resist answering. Maybe she needed to feel she was woman enough to not shiver in his embrace. Whatever the reason, she slid her hand along the ridges of his chest and up to his neck, where she held him in place as surely as he was cradling her nape.
She felt his passion growing, seemed to recognize it deep inside herself. The throbbing returned at the front of her sex. Only this time, she was very aware of how empty her passage felt. It was a stark, blunt realization that swept aside the last of her innocence about why women were happy to follow men like Marcus into the shadows. She now understood the brightness in their eyes when they returned, and realized that she craved it deeply.
Ye can have it…
In fact, she could take that satisfaction any moment she cared to. She pulled back from him, her mind trying frantically to make a choice. A lifetime of warnings and lectures on piety were battling against the surge of need and hunger burning inside her. It left her feeling as though the very ground was crumbling beneath her feet.
“Stop fretting, Helen.” Marcus stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “We’re wed. It’s no’ a sin.”
“It’s surrender,” she whispered without meaning to.
His jaw tightened. “Well now, it seems ye have as much pride as I do. Ye might just have to be tempering yer thoughts on me.”
There was a rap on the door. Marcus leaned down and pressed a hard kiss against her mouth before striding across the chamber to where his sword was. He slung the harness over one shoulder and settled the hilt into position.
“Ye gave yer word, Helen. Honor it.”
* * *
Shamus could override a promise given to Marcus.
It took Helen several days to realize that fact. Of course, her days had been filled with the frantic last rush to bring in any remaining crops and store them for the coming winter. There wasn’t a pot not in use as squash and other gourds were stewed down. As the castle had grown, new kitchens had been added to provide for the increased needs of its retainers. Even the older kitchens were fired up for the last push of the season.
By the end of the week, they were all aching from the workload and there was still more to do. Helen fell into her bed late in the evening, too exhausted to do anything but sleep. For certain, she wanted to go to Shamus and do what was best for Marcus, but there simply wasn’t any time.
That thought sobered her, but it pleased her as well. Somehow, she’d become concerned over what would happen to Marcus. She liked knowing that, because it finally broke away the anger that seemed to have been stuck to her for so long. Her marriage would have to be considered a blessing for freeing her from that. Even if she still needed to end it.
Near the end of the week, Helen heard Shamus shuffling in the passageway on his way to the hall. She dusted off her hands and untied her apron. The Laird of the MacPhersons noticed her immediately. He slowed his step as she came out of the older
portion of the castle where she’d been working. She lowered herself as he lifted his hand and gestured for the two captains who had been trailing him to move back.
“What do ye seek, lass?” Shamus asked. “Even if I am fairly certain I already know what it is.”
There was a note in his voice that wasn’t promising. In fact, she recognized it as the same one Marcus so often used when he was putting his duty first.
“I am still a maiden.” She resisted the urge to be too delicate in her word choices. For all that age had had its way with Shamus MacPherson, he was Marcus’s sire and she’d best recall that fact.
Shamus slowly grinned. “Aye, as I told me son, he has yet to impress ye. Do nae worry, lass. He’ll return soon, and the snow will keep him here. The pair of ye shall have a nice, cold winter to enjoy.”
“Surely ye must have offers for him,” Helen said as her cheeks heated from the image his words had painted.
“Aye,” Shamus confirmed. “Many.”
She’d known it, but hearing the words felt as though something had just cut across the surface of her heart. Helen drew in a deep breath. “Help me gain an annulment so Marcus can be the son the MacPhersons expect him to be.”
Shamus had been watching her with a serious expression. As her words sank in, his lips rose into a satisfied smile.
Helen felt as if he’d reached right into her chest and ripped her heart out.
“Me son said ye gave him yer word that ye’d be here when he returned.”
Helen nodded. “As his sire and laird—”
“Aye, I can do what is best for him, and ye could be content ye did nae break a promise.”
Helen nodded again, grateful for the semidarkness in the passageway. It helped hide the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. It was all for the best, but it hurt so dreadfully.
“Let me tell ye, mistress, why I never matched either of me sons.” Shamus took a moment to look around before continuing. “I loved his mother. Marcus’s, that is.” His eyes lit with the memory. “Oh, she was a fine woman and no mistake. A true daughter of the Highlands with a spirit as wild as the lands we live on. That same spirit is in yer eyes, lass.”
