by Rowan Keats
He gently squeezed her breasts, sending a wave of sweet longing through her body. Her head rolled back, giving him access to the sensitive cords of her neck—and he obliged by lowering his hot mouth to her damp skin. “For the moment, I’m willing to put aside the hunt,” he murmured. “MacPherson is gone, my people are back in their homes, and my boot steps once again echo through the passageways of Dunstoras. Thanks to the new lady of the keep.”
Isabail pressed her rump against the rigid length of her husband and gave a little wiggle. “I am, of course, pleased that the king awarded me this lovely keep,” she said, closing her eyes and imagining him sinking deep inside her. “But I welcome the day when we can publicly announce our wedding and you can take your rightful place as laird.”
He nibbled his way up the side of her neck.
“So long as we are together and the name you whisper in the throes of passion is mine, I am content.” He slipped a hand under her knees, and with one powerful push, stood up in the tub. Water splashed and dripped. Stepping over the edge and leaving a wet trail of footprints on the floor, Aiden carried her to the huge platform bed. “For now.”
As he lowered her to the sheets and then slid his wet body along hers, Isabail smiled.
He was not truly content—he was merely biding his time. Aiden MacCurran was a Highland chief, full of pride, courage, and raw determination. He would not rest until he cleared his name and redeemed the honor of his clan. Which was fine with her.
But tonight, they would forget all that . . . for a moment or two.
“Well, my dearest husband,” she said throatily. “All this talk of passion and contentment has piqued my curiosity. Perhaps you want to show me what truly happens when a laird takes a lady.”
Don’t miss the next captivating romance in the Claimed by the Highlander series,
TO KISS A KILTED WARRIOR
Available in December from Signet Eclipse wherever books and e-books are sold.
Glen Storas
The Red Mountains, Scotland
March 1286
Morag ceased weaving, a wooden shuttle held loosely in her left hand. Seated on a low stool, she sat back and studied the cloth taking shape on her vertical loom. A repeating pattern of green, blue, black, and red threads, aligned in straight vertical and horizontal lines, it was every bit as unique and lovely as the fine twill weaves her father had been renowned for.
She gave a soft grunt of satisfaction and resumed her task, wending the wool swiftly through the warp, lifting or lowering the four heddle sticks as needed. She wove four threads of black wool, then twenty threads of blue.
Magnus had left the bothy immediately after breaking the fast to snare a hare for their supper pot. A good thing, really. His presence wreaked havoc upon her concentration. Instead of carefully tracking the thread counts, she found herself dwelling on the faint curve of his smile, or the wondrous breadth of his muscular shoulders, or the rasp and rumble of his deep voice. But market day was fast approaching and a half-woven cloth would not buy them oats for their bannock or candles to burn after dark. Fortunately, with him gone, the cloth on her loom called to her, daring her to bring it to life.
Twenty threads of black, twenty-four of green, four of red.
Each spool of wool that fed her loom was dyed by her own hand, using the tinctures her father had developed, and watching the vivid pattern emerge sent a wave of pure joy washing over her. There was nothing so rewarding as seeing the image in her head take shape on the rack.
With a sigh of contentment, she threw herself wholeheartedly into her weaving.
But when the door to the bothy crashed open, Morag fell off her stool.
Heart pounding, she scrambled to her feet and faced her intruders. Two lean, hungry men stood in the doorway, garbed in the tunics and trews of Lowlanders. She’d spied many such men in the glen when Tormod MacPherson had held Dunstoras Castle for the king, but his mercenaries had departed weeks ago, replaced by Highlanders loyal to the new lady of the keep, Isabail Macintosh. Without taking her eyes off the intruders, she sent a quick prayer skyward. Now would be a fine time for Magnus to return.
“On what authority do you enter my home unbidden?” she demanded, doing her best to tame the quaver in her voice.
The larger of the two men answered, “My own.”
Morag could see little of his features, just a halo of bright sunlight around the dark silhouette of his form. But there was no disguising the threat he posed. She tossed aside her shuttle and grabbed the long-handled broom leaning against the wall. Not the most intimidating of weapons, but it was the only thing in easy reach. “And who might you be?”
“My name matters not,” he said. “Yield and your life will be spared.”
Morag swallowed tightly, her throat suddenly dry. A cotter living off the land was rarely in possession of coin, so there was only one other thing these men might be seeking from a woman alone in the woods . . . and she wasn’t willing to give it over. But her hopes of besting two armed men were slim.
She steadied her grip on the broom.
There was still a slight chance they could be persuaded to leave. “What is it you seek? I’ve no coin, but I’ll willingly give all the food and water that I have.”
The leader stepped closer, and she was able to see him more clearly. A pockmarked face, long tawny hair, and a finely woven dove gray cloak. Not the sort of cloak an ordinary mercenary would possess.
“We’ve no interest in your food,” he said. Signaling to his cohort to go left, he advanced another step.
“Food is all I’m prepared to give,” she said firmly. The bothy was small—a windowless one-room abode with a bed at one end and a small table at the other. The door was a mere four paces away, but the fire pit and a heavy iron cauldron lay between her and escape. “My husband will return anon. You’d best be away.”
He grinned. “Your husband? You mean the strapping lad with the lame leg?”
Her heart flopped. Dear Lord. Had they already encountered Magnus? Laid him low in some shadowed part of the wood? “You won’t want to vex him,” she said, her palms suddenly cold with sweat. “His tolerance for lackwits is low.”
A snort of laughter filled the bothy. “We watched him hobble up yon hill. He won’t be so difficult to best.”
Morag breathed a sigh of relief and banished the image of Magnus falling victim to a well-placed sword with the same determination with which she had built this bothy. Stone by stone. Thatch by thatch. Magnus had regained most of his strength these past four months. He was a far cry from the badly injured man she’d dragged home from the edge of the loch last October. While it was true that his left leg hadn’t fully recovered, he was yet a formidable warrior.
“Give me the broom,” the pockmarked man coaxed, stretching out his hand, palm open.
Morag slapped his fingertips. Hard.
“He’ll be sore enough that you’ve given me a fright,” she warned. She would not be able to keep them at bay for much longer. If only she knew when Magnus would return. How long had he been gone? One hour? Two? “But if you harm me, he’ll not quit until he sees me avenged.”
Morag jabbed her stick toward the leader, urging him to step back. He held his ground. His eyes were not on the broom, but on her face, and Morag knew he was gauging his best moment to snatch the broom from her hands. She pulled back sharply, terrified of losing her weapon.
“Get thee gone,” she snarled.
Her only hope of escape was to run. Backward was not an option—the roof thatching was thick and firmly attached. Magnus had seen to that once he was on his feet. So it had to be forward. But was she sufficiently fleet of foot to round the fire pit and elude the two men?
And what would she do if she miraculously succeeded?
She had no plan for such an event. No hidden weapon, no place to hide.
Morag bit her
lip. Foolish lass. She’d grown complacent under the protection of the MacCurrans. They’d had no tolerance for brigands and thieves and regularly patrolled her part of the forest. But Laird MacCurran was an outlaw himself now. An enemy of the king. Dunstoras had been seized, ransacked, and finally given into the hands of Lady Macintosh, but her men were too occupied with repairs to the keep and the village blackhouses to be riding regular patrols.
Her gaze flickered to the open door and back to the pockmarked man.
He smiled. “Too late for that, lass.”
And without further warning, he stepped toward her, grabbed the broom, and yanked it from her hands. Tossing the stick aside, he thrust a hand into her long black hair, grabbing a sturdy hold. Then he pulled her to his chest with a forceful tug.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but she did not surrender her freedom willingly. Fighting with wild desperation, she raked her fingernails across his face and dug into his eyes with her thumbs. The mercenary loosened his hold on her. Morag bolted for the door.
Praying that Magnus was somewhere nearby, she screamed his name.
“Magnus!”
* * *
Magnus stared at his reflection in the calm, sunlit loch. It was a handsome enough face, pleasantly square. And it was familiar. But he struggled with the knowledge that it belonged to a man he didn’t know. Wulf MacCurran was his true name, not Magnus. He was cousin to the laird and father to a fine lad, but five months after an attack that had left him near dead, he still could not remember one moment of the life he’d led before waking in Morag’s bed.
Dipping a hand, he scattered the image and scooped up some water.
The water was icy cold as it slid down his throat, despite the hint of spring in the air.
He’d returned to Morag’s bothy after being reunited with his kin at Candlemas because nothing else felt right. Chopping wood, hunting for food, and repairing her home gave him purpose—a purpose that seemed more in line with his beliefs about himself than living in a castle, even though he’d been assured by all that he and his family had roomed there before the fateful night that had stolen his life away.
Magnus abruptly pushed to his feet, his hands fisting. He attempted a smooth stand, but his left leg betrayed him, quivering in protest. The hare hanging from his belt swung wildly as he moved. It was a lean offering for Morag’s stewpot, but he’d been lucky to snare anything this close to the bothy after MacPherson’s mercenaries had decamped. The glen wildlife had scattered far and wide as the two hundred men trudged east toward MacPherson land a fortnight ago.
He stilled the swing of the hare and retraced his steps along the pebbled beach.
Normally, he would return promptly, eager to share his success with Morag and add the rabbit to the stew. But, of late, she’d begun to stare at her loom with wistful intent. If his presence caused to her to forgo her weaving, she’d come to resent him in time. And resentment was not the emotion he wished to cultivate in his lovely, dark-haired benefactress.
But how long should he stay away?
It was midday now, the sun high in the sky. Was the morning enough? It was hard to know. Although she sat at the loom infrequently while he was present, the moments she did spend displayed an incredible talent he could barely fathom. Changing colored threads without pause, moving sticks up and down, and sliding the shuttle from one side of the loom to the other at blurring speed clearly required a quick mind and nimble fingers. The cloth that developed at the bottom was a miracle of sorts.
His feet turned in the direction of the bothy.
He’d take a peek inside the hut, and if she was yet enthralled in her weaving, he’d grab a bannock and some cheese and head back into the wilds.
At the bottom of a woodland hill, about two furlongs from the bothy, he paused and frowned. In the soft mud of the path, the print of a bootheel was clearly outlined. The problem was, it was too small to be his bootheel and too big to be Morag’s. Given the heavy downpour of last eve, a print this crisp must be fresh.
Magnus’s gaze lifted.
There was no sign of movement in the trees, but his heartbeat quickened anyway. Morag was alone. And he’d left his sword hidden in the woodpile behind the bothy.
He set off a run.
Unfortunately, his lame leg proved uncooperative, wobbling weakly with every stride and sending shards of excruciating pain to his hip. He was forced to slow to a hobbled run, and even then the pain was biting. Still, he made it to the clearing in good time.
The door to the hut hung open, the interior cast in dark shadow.
The open door was not, of itself, a bad omen. Morag might simply have chosen to partake of the sunshine and the unusually warm day. But he could not hear the clack-clack of the loom in operation, nor could he hear her humming as she was wont to do when busy with a task.
He skirted the clearing until he reached the back of the bothy, then quietly dug between the stacked firewood for his long sword. Wrapped in several layers of burlap to protect it from the elements, the bronze-hilted weapon was exactly where he had left it. It settled into his palm with a familiarity that made his blood sing. Even in the absence of his memories, one thing remained true—he was born to be a warrior.
The sharp crack of wood on wood reverberated inside the bothy.
Magnus’s grip tightened on the sword. ’Twas not the sound of something falling, but the sound of something thrown with great force. But as ominous as that sound was, it did not prepare him for what he heard next.
“Magnus!”
His heart sank into his boots. The raw desperation in Morag’s voice could not be mistaken. She was in dire straits. Oblivious to the pain, Magnus ran for the cottage door at full speed. When he entered, it took precious long moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Masking his inability to see well, he halted just inside the door, planted both feet wide, and challenged his opponent with cold, lethal intent.
