Box Set - Knights of Passion (7 Novels)
Page 117
“God be praised.” With a hand over her mouth, Margery smothered a sob, but her surprise was evident as she shook. “Thank ye, my lord. Thou art most kind.”
“Thou art most welcome, and thou art excused.” Drawing an extra pillow beneath his head, he adjusted his hold on his wife. “And close the inner doors, as I would ensure Isolde’s uninterrupted rest.”
Peaceful quiet fell on the private quarter he shared with his lady. Staring at the flames in the hearth, a sweet refrain echoed in his brain, as he revisited her boisterous exultations of pleasure, and with his finger he drew tiny circles on her bare bottom, which never failed to fascinate him. In response, she wiggled her hips and clenched her muscles, hugging him in an intimate embrace, and he wanted her again, but he would not rouse her.
Instead, he savored the obsessive desire, the constant beat of her heart, and the subtle rush of her breath to his flesh, proof that she remained very much a part of his world. It was a peculiar feeling—love. Crafty and furtive, the singular emotion seeped into his veins, simmered in his blood, and pervaded every aspect of his being, and he was powerless to stop it, not that he would. When they stood before the archbishop and made their vows, he did not anticipate the powerful commitment that now overwhelmed him. Rather, he had hoped for abiding friendship, an allegiance he deemed reasonable, in light of their arranged marriage and utter unfamiliarity. But thither was naught reasonable about the all-consuming devotion he coveted for her.
“Arucard.” Gasping, Isolde shivered violently, flailed her legs, and whimpered, and her distress tore at his heart. “Whither art thou, Arucard?”
“Shh, honey flower.” With his thumb, he caressed her cheek until she relaxed. “Hither am I, and hither shall I remain.”
The truth of his proclamation, invested with steely resolution he would defend to his death, supplanted the most important oath he had ever sworn, excepting his nuptials. While his brothers might frown on Arucard’s priorities, he owed Isolde his very existence, as she manifested his center, and he would have it no other way. So the next time he undertook the Brethren oath, in his mind he would alter the last sentence: For love and Isolde he lived.
ARUCARD
EPILOGUE
“Admit it, thou art trying to kill me with pleasure.” Arucard pinched Isolde’s bottom, and she shrieked. “But what a way to meet my fate.”
“Thou art free to reject my advances, my lusty lord.” Sprawled atop her husband, she placed a kiss on his chest and then sighed. “But keep thy voice down, as thy daughter sleeps. If thou dost wake her, thou must deal with her.”
“When dost thou expect Margery to collect our child?” When he hugged her tight, she cuddled close. “As I would have thee to myself, once the deed is done. And I intend to suckle thy sumptuous petals and make thee scream, this eventide.”
Ah, yea. The deed.
An official proclamation arrived only yesterday, and her husband dreaded apprising Demetrius of impending events, which would forever change his life. How odd it was that Arucard would deliver the news on the first anniversary of their wedding.
“I suppose we should rise and garb ourselves for the singular occasion.” Yet Isolde shifted beneath the warm blankets. “My lord, I do love our lazy days spent in private, especially when the weather turns unseasonably cold.”
“As do I.” To her surprise, he sat upright and carried her with him. “Let us have done with it, that we might commence the celebration of our nuptials, to which I look forward.”
“Very well.” Naked, she crossed her arms and strolled to the washbasin, while he tended the fire in the hearth. As she soaped her face, he hugged her from behind and kissed the back of her neck. Rinsing the suds from her eyes, she giggled. “My insatiable lord, thou dost tempt me, and I will not be held responsible for my actions.”
“Isolde, dost thou remember when I said thou dost hold my heart?” In play, he nipped the crest of her ear.
“Aye.” When he cupped her breasts, she moaned, reached and grasped his thighs. “It is one of my most cherished memories.”
“I was wrong.” At his declaration, she turned in his grasp, preparing to protest, and he rubbed his nose to hers. “Thou art my heart.”
With a cry of delight, she jumped on him, and they fell into bed.
Anon, as she again collapsed atop him, spent and sated, she started when someone knocked at the door. “My lord, I do not think I can move.”
“Prithee, a moment.” In one fail swoop, Arucard rolled her over, kissed her with a loud smack, and then leaped from the mattress. After retrieving his robe, he belted it tight. “Honey flower, I love thee. Now don thy attire, as thou hast promised to help me with Demetrius, and I believe he will take it better with thee in his presence.”
As he stepped into the outer room, he closed the door to their inner chamber, and she reluctantly repeated her earlier grooming.
Seconds later, he reappeared and whispered, “It is Margery, come to take little Roswitha.”
It warmed her that he took such tender care, as he bent and scooped their daughter into his arms, along with Isolde’s cherished Bartholomew baby. When their child cooed, he smiled and kissed her forehead. Then he rocked gently, as he carried her into the solar.
With her hose in place, Isolde pulled on a chemise, just as Arucard re-entered their sanctuary. “So, it is done?”
“Aye.” As she anticipated, he made straight for her. “We art alone until the morrow, when Margery will return Roswitha to us, my lady.”
“And now we must tend Sir Demetrius.” She expelled a breath, as he suckled her bottom lip and then chuckled. “And, between the two, I believe Margery hath the easier task.” Then something occurred to her. “My lord, how didst thee react to the revelation, when it was thy turn?”
“I should clothe myself.” In a flash, he whirled about and all but dove into his trunk. “I need fresh braies and hose. And I would wear my burgundy tunic, which thou didst sew with thy own sweet fingers.”
“Arucard?” With hands on hips, she tapped her foot on the stone floor. “Answer me.”
“In truth, I vomited before the King.” Rotating until he faced her, he cast a charming pout. “It was humiliating. But, in fairness, I knew not the bounty that awaited, and never have I regretted fulfilling my duty and taking thee to wife.”
“Given our union was arranged, I shared thy trepidation, though not in such spectacular fashion.” After pulling a gown over her head, she gave him her back. Without prompting, he tied her laces. “Am I still thy duty?”
All activity ceased.
Biting her tongue, she turned and peered at her husband, and the pain in his visage was evident.
“Isolde, I love thee.” He trailed a finger along the curve of her cheek. “And while I admit I harbored more than a little apprehension as we took our vows, that changed when I lifted thy veil and glimpsed thee, as thou art no duty such as I have ever known. But the love and devotion came anon, when thou didst kneel on the ground and bare thy marked flesh, in preparation to receive thy punishment after I found the letter from thy father. Thou didst win me with thy bravery.”
“Thou were so angry.” When he flicked his fingers, she wrapped her arms about his waist, and he cradled her close. “I thought thou would never desire me, if thou didst know of my scars.”
“On the contrary.” Shifting her in his grasp, Arucard bent and kissed her. “Thou art glorious, and thy wounds bear testament to thy strength and courage. If I could have spared thee the torment, I would have done so. But as I cannot change what hath already happened, I would have thee no other way. And thou art not my duty. Thou art my life.”
Noises in the solar signaled their meal had been delivered.
“My champion, let us impart the joyous report, that Sir Demetrius may enjoy similar good fortune.” Then Isolde rubbed his crotch. “As I would savor thy company, unreservedly, for the remains of the day and night, and I want thee naked for every minute of it.”
“Hone
y flower, I will make thee pay in coin of thy supple flesh for thy enticement.” He squeezed her bottom and thrust his hips. “But now we must host my friend, and thou must play thy part.”
“It will not be difficult, given I love thee.” With a wink, she eased into her slippers and then set wide the doors.
At the table, an alluring feast had been served to her exacting specification, which included the burly knight’s favorite dishes. Just as she poured the tankards of ale, the guest of honor arrived.
“Am I late?” Although Sir Demetrius was not as large in stature as Arucard, he was nonetheless imposing, especially in light of his unique coloring. Whereas Arucard boasted dark brown hair and deep baby blues, Demetrius was known for his raven locks and pale, almost silver eyes, which often unnerved her in their clarity, as he appeared possessed by some foul demon.
“Nay, brother.” Arucard slapped Demetrius on the shoulder. “Come in and sup with my bride and I, on our special day.”
“I wish ye merry and must confess I was surprised to receive thy invitation.” Chuckling, Demetrius straddled the bench, and Arucard followed suit. “Rest assured, I will not linger.”
While the men talked of various interests, Isolde dished ample portions. As she made to sit beside her husband, he grabbed her by the hips and lifted her to his lap.
“No worries, old friend.” As a show of affection, Arucard broke off a large piece of cameline meat brewet, shoved it into her mouth, and she choked. “Ah, it is good to be a husband.”
“My lord, if I may, perchance thou might offer a smaller bite?” With her napkin, she wiped her chin and coughed. “And I am more than capable of feeding myself.”
“My lady, is that a sambocade cheesecake?” Demetrius licked his lips.
“Indeed.” She glanced at Arucard and winked. “I dried the elderflowers, myself.”
“Only a wife would think of such simple pleasures,” Arucard added.
“Thou art too kind, gentlewoman.” Wolfing down an impressive amount of buttered wortes, Demetrius narrowed his stare. “But what need have I of such a creature, when Lady Isolde doth indulge my preferences so well?”
Arucard gazed at Isolde, and together they blinked.
“Well, have I shown thee my new tunic?” With unmasked pride, Arucard stretched upright. “My wife created this for me.”
“Ah, yea.” Demetrius tugged at his collar. “She made mine, and it is a perfect fit.”
When Arucard frowned at her, she shrugged.
“God’s bones, brother.” At last, Arucard propped his elbow on the table and groaned. Then he drew the King’s letter from beneath his napkin and tossed it to Demetrius. “Soon, thou wilt have no need of my wife’s skills as a cook and a tailor.”
“I do not understand.” Demetrius scratched his temple and peered at the missive.
“Read it.” Arucard nodded once.
As Demetrius unfolded the note, Arucard caressed her bottom and pulled her closer. For some strange reason, Isolde held her breath as the tension grew.
Then Demetrius jerked, toppled his tankard, and blanched. “Great abyss of misery, I am to marry.”
ABOUT BARBARA DEVLIN
Bestselling author Barbara Devlin was born a storyteller. A Texan, through and through, Barbara hasn't been without a book in her possession since she was in kindergarten. She wrote her first short story, a really cheesy murder-mystery, in high school, but it was a Christmas gift, a lovely little diary with a bronze lock, given to her in the fifth grade that truly inspired her love of writing.
After completing part of her undergraduate studies at the University of London, where she developed a love of all things British, Barbara returned home and began a career in banking. But the late 80s weren't too promising for the financial industry, and every bank that hired Barbara soon folded. So she searched for a stable occupation, and the local police department offered the perfect solution.
And then one uncharacteristically cold and icy day in December 1998, Barbara was struck by a car and pinned against a guardrail while working an accident on a major highway. Permanently disabled, she retired from the police department and devoted her time and energy to physical therapy.
Once Barbara got back on her feet, she focused on a new career in academia. She earned an MA in English and continued a course of study for a Doctorate in Literature and Rhetoric. She happily considered herself an exceedingly eccentric English professor, until success in Indie publishing lured her into writing, full-time, featuring her fictional knighthood, the Brethren of the Coast.
Connect with Barbara Devlin at BarbaraDevlin.com, where you can sign up for her newsletter, The Knightly News.
Twitter: @barbara_devlin
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THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE
SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER
TITLES BY
SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER
RETURN TO KINTAIL SERIES
The Taming of Mairi MacKenzie
Winter Fire
RAVENSCRAIG LEGACY SERIES
Highlander in Her Bed
Highlander in Her Dreams
Tall, Dark, and Kilted
Some Like It Kilted
The Ravenscraig Legacy Collection: A World of Magical Highland Romance
HIGHLAND GHOSTBUSTER SERIES
Haunted Warrior
ANTHOLOGIES
The Ravenscraig Legacy Collection: A World of Magical Highland Romance
Highlander’s Sweet Promises
Lords, Lairds, and Legends: Magical Tales of Timeless Passion
Gentlemen Always Play Fair
Echoes of Destiny
Highland Seduction
A Kiss and a Promise
Knight Winds
Knights of Passion
Tantalizing Teasers
Only a Duke or Laird Will Do
NOVELLAS
A Man, a Woman, and Haggis (Tails of Love Anthology w/ Lori Foster)
Falling in Time
The Seventh Sister
Once Upon A Highland Christmas
THE BANSHEE OF THE GLEN OF WINDS
Deep in the most remote bounds of the Western Highlands, keen-eyed wayfarers might notice fissures in the cold, bare rock of the wild, soaring mountains. Dark and forbidding, these crevices only beckon to those of stout heart and steely will, for many tales are spun about what might dwell within such ancient, forgotten places.
Some say the openings lead to the far edge of the world. Others argue that these hills are part of Kintail, territory of the great Clan MacKenzie, reminding folk that the clan’s leader, Duncan, the Black Stag of Kintail, would cut down any man who’d dare cast a slur against the land he’s known to love and guard so passionately. Only the bravest souls then note that even the legendary MacKenzie chieftain rarely passes this way, and that he warns his people to tread gently if ever they must cross these savage and rock-strewn peaks.
For somewhere in their midst, lies the Glen of Winds, a steep-sided abyss of crags, knolls, and heather, where the ever-racing wind carries the lost souls of the damned, leaving them there to wallow in loneliness and solitude.
No one can say for sure.
And few wish to seek answers.
It’s enough to know that the wind does wail and moan here, blowing cold, dark, and endlessly.
Mist often swirls and eddies in the tiny Glen of Winds, and some have sworn earlier times can be glimpsed if one peers hard enough into the half-light. The truth is a centuries-old broch stands hidden in the glen. Known by the MacKenzies as Dunwynde, it’s rumored to be the dwelling place of a fearsome, wild-eyed banshee.
Indeed, her cries have been heard echoing off the cliffs.
Souls unfortunate enough to have seen her, claim she has hair and eyes of fire, and that her face is so bleak that if one looks upon her too long, madness descends. The banshee then celebrates, watching in satisfaction as the doomed wander away, forever lost in the glen’s sea of huge, granite boulders and
whirling mist.
The banshee’s presence keeps visitors from setting foot in the Glen of Winds.
Only a fool would risk encountering her.
Or perhaps a desperate man.
For if one is tireless in the quest to learn the glen’s secrets, other fascinating tales are sometimes revealed. Stories of a beautiful, reclusive woman, bold, tempestuous, and just as wild-eyed as the banshee she’s reputed to be. She’s said to possess a strange and powerful gift, the astonishing ability to bring the dead back to life.
Her name is Mairi MacKenzie.
And she sees her talent as a curse.
Dunwynde is her refuge; the glen her secret, well-guarded home. Many are her reasons for hiding from the world. Clan MacKenzie makes certain she isn’t disturbed, protecting her as one of their dearest treasures. Only Mairi knows how unworthy she is of her clan’s devotion.
A shame one man is so determined to meet her.
And that he’s one of Scotland’s greatest warriors, even if circumstance has kept him from lifting a sword in years. Men still remember him and bards sing his praises. Women adore him, but he’s shunned them with a vengeance more fierce than his refusal to wield a blade.
All that is really left to him is his love for his clan and his home.
Now he stands to lose them as well.
Unless the Glen of Winds banshee will help him.
Knowing he must save everything he holds dear, he uses his warrior skills to find her. But dangers of the past are lurking and if Mairi gives the warrior what he needs, she will doom herself forevermore.
THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE
PROLOGUE
Eilean Creag Castle
The Western Highlands, Autumn 1351
“There’s a dark wind blowing through your lands, that I say you.” Devorgilla of Doon, Scotland’s most revered cailleach, stood importantly before the solar’s hearth fire, and peered at her host, the equally far-famed Duncan MacKenzie, Black Stag of Kintail. “Blood will soon flow, a great evil that would smite innocents.”