by Lily Baldwin
He held her close. “I needed you to be safe,” he said softly. “I need you.”
They locked eyes. His words echoed in her mind.
I need you.
She threw her arms around his neck. He kicked the door shut. Their lips came together in a combustion of feeling that quaked through her, sending her senses in a whirl of rapture and a need so great, so powerful—she felt like she might burst into flame. Running her hands down his wet tunic, she caressed the taut contours of skin and muscle. Then, he lifted her feet off the ground. Her lips trailed down his neck. She tasted his skin, salty and sweaty and so powerfully male.
He set her feet on the ground and bent her back, his hand stroking down her neck, then slowly over her breast. She arched into his touch, savoring the feel of his hand on her body, bringing her very skin to life. Heat and longing spread through her, aching in places that had not been touched for so long. She pulled at his tunic. She wanted to touch him, to feel his skin. He undid the hook on his belt. It dropped to the ground. Then, he pulled his wet tunic over his head. Her eyes feasted on his sailor’s body. He was sinewy and hard and so very strong. She reached to his great height, a smile curving her lips.
~ * ~
Her sensual smile made him growl with need. He held her close, kissing her with all his passion, with the very force of the storm he had just weathered. Now, a new storm brewed, building within him, ready to unleash the might of his hunger.
“Ask me to leave,” he rasped, holding his body taut. “If you want me to leave, ask me now.”
She clasped his face in her hands. “Stay with me,” she breathed. Then she kissed his lips, and within him, the damn burst.
He reached down and lifted the hem of her tunic and whisked it off. Then he slowly eased her kirtle up, uncovering her long, creamy legs, the soft red curls at the apex of her thighs, the flare of her hips, and the grace of her slender waist. He paused when he uncovered her breasts, creamy mounds with soft pink nipples, aching to be tasted. He swept her kirtle over her head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed before he pulled her against himself, savoring the feel of her soft curves.
Her hair was a tangle of wild curls that skimmed her slender waist. He dug his hands into her silken mane and tilted her neck so he could taste her skin. Then his lips trailed down her throat, over her shoulders, sweeping, savoring. He eased her back onto the bed. His gaze journeyed over her hair now splayed out across the pillow, her sky-blue eyes half-lidded with desire, her lovely full lips bruised from his kiss. He sat on the bed next to her and stroked his hand possessively up her calf, then over her soft thigh. He bent his head and kissed her, while his touch explored the wonders of her body. She was a creature as powerful and as beautiful as the very sea that cradled their passion.
~ * ~
Rose groaned softly as his touch trailed up her thighs, making her body throb with desire. She reached for him, pulling him over her. “I want to feel ye,” she purred. “I want to feel the weight of ye on top of me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“You won’t,” she promised, running her fingertips along the waist of his hose. He stood quickly and stripped them off. She took in the strength of his body, his great height and chiseled lines, and then the hard length of him. She reached for him and opened her legs, needing him, wanting him soul-deep.
He shifted over her. His hard body covered hers, making her feel so secure, and yet intoxicatingly vulnerable to his male strength. She wrapped her arms around his neck. His lips seized hers, his tongue stroking, teasing, making the heat within her blaze red-hot. His lips and tongue raked over her, tasting her shoulders, her breasts.
“Please fill me,” she rasped in his ear. “I want to feel ye inside me.”
His amber eyes burned through her as he shifted over her and settled between her thighs. And then she felt his body begin to ease into hers. She clung to him, her nails digging into the flesh of his back. Her body took more and more of him until she was full, and hot, and ready to feel the force of his thrust. Her hips met each one, her body hungry for his. The sound of his ragged breaths mingled with the pounding of her heart as pleasure so sweet and so painful mounted, rising, cresting, burning, breaking. She clung to him, desperate for relief, and then she cried out as wave after wave of passion crashed through her.
Chapter Twenty
The Messenger hugged the southern coast of England. Rose gripped the rails as she gazed upon the grassy slopes and rocky cliffs. In that moment, a shiver coursed up her spine. For everyone on board, this was a homecoming. But, she was entering the enemy’s den. She thought of her brothers—of Jack who stole into an English fortress, risking it all for the woman he loved; and of Quinn who stood his ground against English knights and blood-thirsty dogs to protect his Catarina, an English lady falsely accused of murder; and of Rory who emptied King Edward’s coffers with Scottish lady and rebel, Alexandria MacKenzie, at his side; and of Alec whose gift of sight helped recover the Stone of destiny; and of Ian, who at that moment, was out there somewhere, risking his very life for the sake of Scottish independence.
Her courageous brothers were Scottish Outlaws and heroes. Did she possess the same courage? She gripped the rail tighter. The same blood flowed through her veins. She glanced at Tristan who stood nearby talking to Philip. She drew a deep breath.
“Are ye nervous?” she asked him.
He looked down at her with calm, confident eyes. “Not at all. Right is on our side. My father is a good man who made a mistake but not one worthy of ruination. And despite her flaws, the daughter of Roxwell should not have to marry a man who cannot love her, nor should I be forced to bind myself to a family who treats their people like cattle. No, Rose. I do not doubt for a moment that our cause is just.”
“Captain,” Philip said, drawing their attention. “We are preparing to enter the Thames.”
Tristan cupped his mouth and called to Piper and Jacob who manned the steering oar, “Angle the oar deeper.” Slowly the Messenger started to turn.
“How long until we reach London?” she asked as she gazed out at fields of flax and small huts, dotting the Thames.
“The city grows and spreads with every passing year. Just up around the bend, you will begin to see a few settlements, but it won’t be long until we reach the city proper.”
They passed a lovely kirk that reminded her of the one church on Colonsay. Farther down the river, she spied several women plodding toward shore, carrying baskets teeming with laundry. Just then, a sudden, boisterous string of chatter coming from the main deck forced her gaze away from the shoreline. The crew called out to each other about their families, who waited for their return:
“My Anna will give me a big kiss.”
“My boy turned ten this year. I’d wager he’s as tall as me.”
“My mum is sure to cry the moment I open the door.”
“I cannot wait to see my Cora.” She smiled at Davy who coiled line at a frantic pace, his excitement bursting through his fingers.
The enthusiasm of the crew emboldened her spirit. She looked again at the passing shoreline. “What is that?” she asked Tristan, spotting a tall, narrow, stone building in the distance.
“The Tower of London,” he said.
Her eyes widened. She knew that place. She shivered thinking of the many Scotsmen and women who had died within its circular walls. As they passed by, she made the sign of the cross.
“Look at me, Rose,” Tristan said.
She did as he bade her.
“You are safe on these shores, I promise you.” He pressed a kiss to her brow before turning his eyes forward. “Wide barge, portside,” he called to Jacob and Henry. Rose watched in awe as the Messenger skillfully navigated through the increasingly busy port waters of London.
Tristan pointed to docks. “There’s Billingsgate Wharf. This is our London. It belongs to the merchants and other guilds, where a man is judged by what he makes with his hands, not
who is father is.”
Like her brothers, Tristan was everything good and noble and strong and so was she. Rose straightened her spine and thrust her shoulders back. Silencing the voice of doubt in her mind, she relaxed and drank in the sights. After a short distance, larger homes began to shape the cityscape, and soon great fortresses appeared.
“Do you see that fortress there with the yellow flags,” Tristan asked.
She looked to where he pointed and nodded.
He lowered his hand. “That is my family’s home.”
Her stomach dropped. Her eyes widened. “Surely, ye jest!”
“No,” he answered simply.
Her heart started to pound. Just when she had chased away her fear, the intimidating reality of Tristan’s fortune mocked her from atop a hill. “Are ye sure ye’re not already a lord?”
Tristan smiled slightly but shook his head. “My family is wealthier than many nobles, but the difference is that our wealth has been earned.”
Rose could not tear her eyes away from the imposing stone fortress. She swallowed hard.
“You are turning green,” Philip said, quietly at her side.
She grabbed the quarter master’s arm and pulled him aside. “I cannot do this. I have lived my life in huts. I sleep on a pallet. I’ve never been inside a castle. I simply won’t know what to do or say.” She gripped his arm tighter. “Philip, this is all yer idea. Ye must help me.”
He smiled at her calmly. “You will be the most beautiful and worthy woman ever to grace the halls of Birch Heights.”
Her eyes widened further. “His home has a name?”
“It is named so because of the white stone that fills the courtyard,” he explained. “Anyway, a castle and a hut are not so very different. They are places where lives unfold.”
“This isn’t funny,” she cried.
He put out a placating hand. “I wasn’t trying to be funny.” He gently clasped her hands in his. “Listen to me, Rose. When you enter the home of Owen Thatcher, you will be judged on your merit, not the humbleness of your birth.”
She shook her head. “That’s not true. Tristan’s father wanted him to marry a noblewoman.”
“A notion that runs contrary to everything Owen Thatcher believes,” he insisted. “His senses will return when he meets you, and he will know that his son has married the woman God intended for him.”
She grabbed his arm. “But that’s just it,” she hissed. “We’re not married, remember?”
He shrugged. “A technicality—nothing more. We didn’t find you on the ocean by accident. If I hadn’t believed in the Divine already, pulling you from the sea would have converted my thinking.”
She threw her hands up. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “You will see, my dear.” Then he turned on his heel and headed down to the lower deck.
Chapter Twenty One
Rose felt unsteady on her feet as she walked along the bustling wharf. She glanced back at the Messenger. Dockhands worked alongside the ship’s crew to unload crates of wine, oil, and stores of ale and water. Rose would have preferred to be among their number and not on her way to a veritable castle. Still, her feet moved forward, one in front of the other. She took a deep breath, willing herself to stay on course. Eventually, the tides would turn, justice would be done, and she would find herself back aboard the Messenger on her way home to Scotland.
Weaving around wagons, laden beasts, racing sailors, and teeming warehouses, Tristan led her to the outskirts of the wharf to the largest stable she had ever seen. Immediately, a slim lad with a mop of black hair hastened toward them. “Good morrow, Captain Thatcher. Welcome home.”
Tristan smiled. “Good morrow, Tom.” Then he motioned to Rose. “Tom, this is Rose.”
Tom smiled. “Nice to meet you, Rose.” After he bowed, he darted away, calling, “I will saddle your horse straight away.”
Tristan followed the stable boy, holding tightly to Rose’s hand. She was grateful for the security of his touch. Inhaling the scent of horses and fresh hay, she admired the beasts that kicked at the ground as they walked past. Tom turned left down a wide corridor. Above the closed gate at the end of the hall, she read the name Thatcher.
She drew a sharp breath as they stepped into a large room lined with four stalls on both sides. “These are all yer family’s horses?” she asked.
He simply nodded.
She swallowed hard. Tristan had more wealth than she could have imagined. Life had taught her that wealth and power went hand in hand. She trusted Tristan with her life, but what sort of people were his parents?
Tom led a white stallion from one of the stalls. The horse knickered and tossed its head, fanning out its creamy white mane. Tristan released her hand and reached for the horse who nudged his owner playfully
“Hello Tom,” Tristan crooned, pressing his forehead to the horse’s muzzle.
The lad holding the horse’s reins looked up at Rose. “Captain Thatcher named this beauty after me, he did.” The boy smiled proudly, revealing a mouth of crooked teeth.
“Tom is one of the finest stable hands in all of London,” Tristan explained. Then he reached into his purse and withdrew several coins, which he placed in the boy’s hand. “He does the work of ten hands with his two.”
Rose smiled at young Tom whose cheeks burned crimson. He bowed his head in thanks to Tristan before he got to work readying their mount for the journey to Tristan’s home.
Tristan reached for her and held her gently in his arms. “Are you ready, Rose Thatcher?”
Her stomach fluttered with nerves, but she drew a deep breath. Standing on her toes, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I am ready as I will ever be.”
Slowly, he lowered his lips to hers. She sighed into his kiss, savoring his taste and the richly masculine scent of his body. When he drew away, he lifted her in his arms and set her high on the saddle. Then he swung up behind her.
A smile curved his lips as he picked up the reins. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever brought home to meet my parents.”
Her hands flew in front of her face. “Saints above!”
He chuckled. “Trust me, they are going to love you.”
“Aye,” she scoffed. “Once they reconcile themselves to the fact that I’m the daughter of a fishmonger and not a baron.”
“You are the daughter of a hardworking man, which is the only measure of worth in my mind.”
As they set out from the stables, the narrow maze of dirt roads blurred into ribbons of motion and color. She was too distracted to take in the new world unfolding around her.
“Have courage, my Highland lass,” he whispered in her ear.
His words imbued her spine, her shoulders, her heart, and her mind with strength. Once more, she straightened, sitting tall. This was her moment. Her contribution to the cause. Thanks in no small part to her, one English nobleman now knew the bitter taste of disappointment. Baron Roxwell’s coffers would remain empty. The wickedness he might have carried out with access to the Thatcher fortune would never come to pass, all because she had decided one lonely night to make her own destiny.
One person could, indeed, change the fortune of many.
She opened her eyes to the world. The streets and buildings came into sharp focus. Up ahead, Birch Heights dominated the skyline. She gripped Tristan’s arm, which encircled her waist as they thundered through the tall gates and into a small courtyard, paved in white stone just as Philip had described.
Straightaway, a young serving lad burst from the stable to take their horse. Tristan swung down, then reached for Rose. She slid into his strong arms. “Thank you, Darby,” Tristan said to the lad as he handed over the reins. “Rose, this is Darby. He’s been with us since he was a babe.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Darby,” Rose said.
The boy flashed Rose a lopsided grin.
“How is your father?” Tristan asked.
“He is well, Captain Thatcher.”
“Give my best wishes to your family.”
Darby’s smile broadened, twisting his lips even more askew. “I will sir, and thank you, sir.”
Tristan wrapped his arm securely around Rose’s waist as he led her across the courtyard toward the massive double doors of the towering building. Before they reached the first stair, the doors swung wide, and two guards stepped onto the landing, followed by a tall, broad shouldered man with thick gray hair and bright amber eyes. He was joined by a woman with delicate features and big, dark eyes. The color of her hair remained hidden beneath a severe wimple and towering headdress. Following behind her was a young woman with long, unbound flaxen waves, demurely covered with a deep midnight-blue veil.
Tristan smiled warmly. “Good day to you, Father,” he said with a dip of his head.
“Tristan,” his father replied, but his eyes were not on his son. They were fixed on Rose. Despite her racing heart, she stood tall and imbued her face with warmth.
“I trust your journey was a safe one,” his father continued.
“It was, thank you.” Tristan glanced at Rose and gave her hand an encouraging squeeze before he led her up the stairs. “Stepmother, you look well,” Tristan said when they reached the landing. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, never releasing Rose’s hand. “As do you, Elizabeth,” he said, turning to greet his sister.
Then he smiled at Rose. He didn’t look away as he said, “Father, Stepmother, Elizabeth, I would like to introduce you to my wife, Rose Thatcher.”
The silence that followed blasted Rose’s ears. Smiling awkwardly, her gaze flitted over Tristan’s family. Owen Thatcher’s lips were set in a grim line. His stepmother looked at her with appraising eyes, but how Rose measured up to Iris Thatcher’s expectations remained concealed behind her impassive expression. It was in Elizabeth’s bright eyes that Rose found her comfort. Tristan’s sister stepped forward and pulled Rose into a warm embrace.
“I have been so excited to meet you,” Elizabeth beamed.
Then, before Rose knew what was happening, Elizabeth seized her hand and pulled her through the door, leaving Tristan and his parents in their wake. Rose gasped as she entered the massive hall. The ceiling above the entryway surely reached to the very roof. A wide staircase filled the center of the room, leading to the first of four stories, which circled around the open space, forming a series of balconies. Beyond the balcony railings, Rose glimpsed endless doors and hallways. She couldn’t imagine what secrets the vast rooms held.
