An Eager Widow [Highland Menage 5] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Reece Butler

  His voice was familiar, though she was too frazzled to think from where. He spoke coldly though he must know she could hear. Was he the sort of man who wanted nothing more than a place to put his cock and hands to make food for his table?

  “Aye, lad. Kiera’s tall for a lass and she has a wee bit of a temper, but she’ll do what she must for her clan. Ye’ll gain more than a wife from marryin’ her. She has a wee tower as her dowry. Yer bairns will be MacKenzies, and will inherit after ye.”

  She bit the covers to stop her cry of rage. It wasn’t enough she had to marry a stranger. Or that she had to hear him complain about the things he’d heard about her. No, her father had to dangle her dowry in front of him to sweeten the deal!

  “Tell her to stand and bring a light to her face. I wish to hear her speak, and to see her.” He waited as her father lit another candle and walked toward her. “I’ll not buy a pig in a poke no matter how grand the prize.”

  A pig in a poke!

  She couldn’t take it anymore. Her fate was sealed, but she would not play the meek maid! She rolled off the bed as her father approached with a brace of candles. She could see nothing with the candlelight in her eyes but knew where her intended stood.

  “I am no pig,” she roared, holding her hands up in fists. “And if you come near I’ll poke you so hard with my knee you willna stand straight for days!”

  “Now, lass,” said her father, patting her shoulder. “Dinna treat yer man like—”

  “No! Don’t you dare try to sooth me like you do your horse!” She shook in rage. “You told him I am big and ugly and worth nothing for myself. That no man would want me except for my lands!” Her voice broke. “Duff likes how I look, and my size. And he wants me, just for me. He’ll never be a laird, but he is a fine man! I want him, Father, not a stranger.”

  Her throat closed up. She couldn’t speak, but she was not going to collapse. No, she would stare this stranger down, daring him to say a word against her! When her father realized she would say no more he held the candles closer to her face. She lifted her chin and stared into the darkness. Tears may streak her cheeks and her chin quiver, but she would stand firm.

  Slow, measured steps approached. She blinked, then wiped away her tears to see better.

  “Ye are tall for a lass, aye, but yer body is well formed,” he said quietly. “Ye are nay ugly, lass, not a bit of it. Mayhaps if ye smiled ye’d be beautiful.”

  She heard no arrogance or lie in his voice. His voice sounded so familiar. Perhaps he was also from the west and so spoke much the same as Duff.

  “I heard ye were shrew, Kiera,” he continued. “I also heard ye send the woman at yer wee tower bride gifts that ye make with yer own hands, weaving and carving and the like.”

  She frowned, tilting her head in hopes of seeing into the dark. Who had told him about the gifts? She hadn’t thought anyone cared enough to know.

  “Why would you care about them?”

  “Because they will be my people, as well.”

  “Marrying me may make you my husband and therefore laird,” she replied stiffly. “You may hold the power, but I will have their hearts.”

  The silence stretched. She trembled, waiting for his response. Would he be angry?

  “Ye care for them.”

  “Of course I care for them. Though I havena been allowed to visit they are my people. They have as little choice in their laird as I do in a husband.” They would all have to tolerate whoever she married. “Are you well trained to be a laird?”

  He hesitated. “There is always more to learn.”

  “Ah, you are inexperienced.” Would he also be arrogant?

  “I was invited here by Laird Mackenzie to learn.”

  “And you learned about my dowry, what my father calls ‘a wee tower’. And now though I am married to another man and carrying his babe, you are to marry me. How well that worked out for you.”

  Her voice was brittle to her ears, the way it had been before she met Duff. Would she ever see him again? She hoped not if it meant they could not be together. It would be too painful for both of them to see and not be allowed to touch. At seventeen she’d thought Bertie would be the answer to her prayers. Now, she knew better. Her prayers had been finally answered, by Duff. And then they’d been snatched away.

  “Without my permission ye arena married, Kiera,” interrupted her laird. “Take no notice of her, Malcolm.”

  “I heard ye wish to be a laird, not obey one.”

  “I dinna wish to be a laird,” she replied crisply. “I do wish for a husband who will listen to those who know more than he and not care if they wear skirts, trews, a plaid, or nothing at all. Could you listen to a woman, and learn from her?”

  He cleared his throat. Hiding a laugh, or using it to gain time to answer?

  “Aye, I can learn from many. Though ‘twould be difficult to listen to a woman if she was wearing naught. Though there are nay doubt things I could learn from her if she was more experienced than I…”

  His words were not crude, not with the teasing lilt which made her blush. She, of course, had not meant it that way. Her father reminded her of his presence by his snort of laughter.

  “I am a widow, and carrying another man’s babe,” she said. Her hand went to her flat belly. “Duff MacDougal and I were handfasted. I care deeply for him, but my father says I must marry you, a man I’ve not seen. I fear you will hate my bairn.”

  “Nay, lass, I hate no bairns, not even those of my enemies. The babe ye carry had no say in his creation. Yer laird has already said the father of yer bairns doesna matter, that all sons ye bear will be MacKenzies.”

  “Sons? What of daughters?” she demanded.

  “My clan hasna had a lass born alive in well over a hundred years. I will pray for a lassie, but expect a son.”

  He sounded too reasonable. Wouldn’t a man care that another had been with his wife and made a child? Or did he want the lairdship of Kinrowan so badly? Was he pretending to accept things now and, after he got her far away, would he take his anger out on the babe, and her?

  “Mayhaps the sight of your face will make my belly curdle,” she said.

  He took slow, steady footsteps toward her. His boots must be old as they didn’t make the same crisp sound as her father’s.

  “I dinna think ye’ll dislike my face. I wish to see if ye could stand my touch.”

  Her heart pumped so hard blood rushed through her head, deafening her. A large hand reached toward her, slowly, so she didn’t flinch. The candle lit dark hair dusting the knuckles. He drew those knuckles down her cheek and along her jaw. It tingled. She closed her eyes, remembering the touch of another. Surely that was the only reason his touch made her react. Or was it his scent?

  “Ye dinna flinch from me.”

  She frowned, confused. “Are you from the west? Duff speaks much like you.”

  The hand took one candle from her father. He lifted it beside his face. Her heart leaped. How could it be? She staggered. Her father grasped her arm to hold her upright.

  “Duff?” she whispered.

  He shook his head.

  “But… You’re…” She shook her head, unbelieving. “You look like his reflection.”

  “I am Malcolm MacDougal, Duff’s older twin.”

  “Twin?” She looked closer. The eyes, the face, the body…all were the same. Except for his expression. This man seemed far colder. “Duff said naught of a twin.”

  The same blue eyes stared into hers. Not to encourage or tease, but to accuse. “Did ye tell him ye were the daughter of Laird MacKenzie?”

  “I had good reason not to. I wished to marry a man who cared for me, not my land.” She made it into the accusation it was.

  “I can see why Duff found ye too much of a temptation to resist, Kiera.”

  His knuckles skimmed the tips of her nipples. They crinkled even more, pressing against her night rail. She stepped back, crossing her arms to hide her breasts. She turned to her father.

>   “How can I marry this man when I’m already handfasted to his brother? What would Duff say if he found his twin in my bed?” She gave Malcolm a scathing look. “‘Tis not as if I canna tell them apart.”

  Her father beamed at her. “Och, lassie, ‘tis no matter. They’re MacDougals!”

  She blinked at him. “I dinna ken what—”

  “Colin told ye Cormac and James MacDougal married Lady Alana Sinclair, aye?”

  “Colin said she did it to escape…” Kiera stopped, remembering what she’d said. No wonder Colin had choked on his ale. Heat and cold flashed over her, in need and the rejection of that need. “Ye dinna mean to think I’ll take both to my bed?”

  “‘Tis the way of the MacDougals, lass. Ye are handfasted to one and will marry the other. Duff would have kenned that when he handfasted with ye.”

  “Duff would not have—”

  “Aye, he would,” said Malcolm. “Not only are we brothers, we are twins. We’ve always said we would share a wife, or have none.”

  His eyes darkened the same way Duff’s did when he wanted to ravish her. She released her arms and took another step back. The backs of her thighs hit the edge of the bed. The candle changed hands. Strong arms caught her shoulders. Soft lips skimmed hers. His touch, his scent was familiar, yet not. His tongue traced the seam of her lips. She opened to breathe. He hummed, and took control of the kiss. His rough hands came around her back and pulled her close. She could do nothing but react as her body throbbed.

  She was still stunned when he stepped back. He pressed a last kiss on her forehead. The same way Duff would have.

  “Methinks there’ll be nay problem with the bedding, Laird MacKenzie. Kiera’s carrying Duff’s bairn, so she enjoyed my brother. She reacts well to my touch. As long as my wife kneels to me and obeys me in all things, we shall do well.”

  Kneel? She shook off the lethargy of Malcolm’s sensuous kiss. She’d think about sharing a bed with two men later. Much, much later. This was far more important.

  “We shall not do well,” she declared crisply. “Not with that arrogance. I do not kneel.”

  His eyes were now as cold as the sky in winter. “‘Tis not arrogance, lass. As yer laird and master I expect ye to obey my orders instantly.”

  “What of the respect for me you spoke of? That you’d listen to anyone who kens more?”

  He raised an even more arrogant eyebrow. “Ye must first prove yerself worthy.”

  Whatever parts of her that had been melted by his kiss froze solid. She jammed her hands on her fists. His eyes went to her breasts. She arched her back, making him choke.

  “And how would I prove myself worthy?” she demanded sarcastically.

  He leaned to look down his nose at her. His eyes trailed over her body as if assessing what he would soon own. It heated a trail in her ice.

  “Kneeling at my feet would be a good start.”

  * * * *

  Malcolm ducked at the crash though there was a thick wooden door between them. A second object hit where his head would have been. A scream of rage followed. His future bride had every reason to be furious. Her father had played her like a harp, plucking the strings he wished to hear and disregarding the rest.

  No, he’d played them all. Yet they’d each get what they’d wanted. Laird MacKenzie would have his daughter married off, reasonably happy, which would make his new wife a lot happier and his life a lot quieter. Kiera would finally become Lady Kinrowan and be able to help her clan. With the help of her husbands, of course. Duff, like himself, had wanted a home with warmth, and food, and perhaps a few smiles. He would be laird of that home, only it would be a tower with a wee village. He’d not dreamed beyond a small croft. The thought of being laird of a tower, responsible for many lives, almost terrified him.

  So did the thought of facing the woman on the other side of the door. It was far easier to learn how to lead men and administer a castle than it was to figure out women. A wife with such great knowledge, wit, determination and beauty, would be an even greater challenge.

  “Kiera has a good aim,” he noted, far more calmly than he felt.

  Laird MacKenzie’s chuckle seemed a bit forced. “Aye. She gets it from her mother. Elizabeth learned to miss me, by just enough.”

  “She missed ye on purpose?”

  MacKenzie raised an eyebrow. “No woman hits the Lord of Kintail with a shoe, or anything else, including his wife.”

  Life was far simpler in Duncladach. They slept when they could, ate what little there was, worked all day to survive, and fought when they must. He had a lot to learn before he could be an effective laird, or husband.

  “Ye allowed the Lady Elizabeth to get angry with ye, and to show that anger in private, but she couldna insult ye by hitting yer person.”

  “Aye.” MacKenzie rubbed his hands together. He held one out, flat, looked at it, then at Malcolm. “Silean, now, she hasna learned that lesson yet.” He slapped his hands together, the meaning plain.

  “Is that why yer lady wife wasn’t sitting next to ye in the hall this eve?”

  “This eve Silean doesna choose to sit anywhere. She disobeyed me this morn. Again.” MacKenzie winked, grinning. “Methinks she likes my hand on her arse. And since I like putting it there…” He slapped Malcolm on the back. “Come. Time to welcome ye to the MacKenzie clan!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Kiera threw her shuttle between the threads of linen, tapped the beater bar against the thread to set it, switched pedals, then slid the shuttle back again. Her hands and feet operated without conscious thought, creating cloth for her family as countless women had done since the mists of time. Clack-clack, clack-clack, the soothing rhythm slowly relaxed her.

  She hadn’t grown or picked the flax plants herself, but her hands had done almost everything else to turn them into linen thread. Luckily the shirt cloth was a simple weave as she couldn’t think. She was making this for Duff. Not for the insufferable, arrogant man she was being forced to marry!

  She stopped and held out her trembling hands. She turned them into fists, hiding any sign of weakness. She was a MacKenzie and would never falter! Another moment and she started up again, shuttle sliding from one side to the other.

  “You are making this for your real husband,” she reminded herself. “Duff deserves the best.”

  As laird, Malcolm would have whatever he wished from Kinrowan. He could get his own shirts, and plaids, from the women in the village. They had already made one in hopes she would come to them with a man at her side. How would they take the thought of two? Or would Malcolm even let them know Duff had created her babe?

  Once more she checked herself, forcing her breath to slow, keeping her rhythm quick and even. A big part of her fury was that she felt an attraction to Malcolm. She shouldn’t. Duff was the one who cared for her. He was the one who’d given her the life that rested below her belly. He was the one she would love.

  A shout outside made her look up. Sun streamed in. Sun she wished to be out in, picking plants to dry for the winter. She would have gone out if her father hadn’t ordered otherwise. When she’d tried to leave that morning she’d discovered a guard outside her door. He’d been apologetic but insistent. She was not to leave the room except in the company of her father, or her fiancé. Now that her father’s trap had been sprung he had no need to see her. She barely stopped herself from slamming the beater bar. If she did it too hard it would break the warp threads and wouldn't that make a mess?

  “That odious toad!”

  Her fiancé had knocked on her door that morning, asking to speak to her. She’d refused, and been blunt about it. Part of her wished he’d barged in, trying to take control so she could fight back. Instead he’d silently walked away, leaving her with rage and nothing to vent it on.

  She’d had some good fights with her father over chess. She’d enjoyed tussles with Duff. He’d chased her, in the water and on land, letting her stay just enough in front of him, so she could almost escape before h
e grabbed her and pulled her down to have his wicked way with her. She loved Duff’s strength and his laugh. He needed more practice at chess, but that would come. He was a wonderful lover.

  She was sure Malcolm would be horrid at it. She had to marry him and obey him as her laird. As her husband he had the right to her body. She would lie there, stiff and still, silently doing her duty.

  She would get her joy from Duff.

  If Malcolm put his fingers on you as Duff had, if he flicked his tongue over your clit until you couldn’t breathe he could force you to come.

  “Aye, but I will not enjoy it!”

  Even to her own ears it sounded ridiculous. Why should she deny herself physical pleasure? Men didn’t have to like a woman in order to get release. Why should she?

  She paused, her back and arse sore for sitting for so long. She stood, halting in mid-stretch at the sound of many footsteps on stone. She looked toward the door. Because her loom was noisy and she used it at all hours, her chamber was in a far tower. No one came near but Mary.

  She stared at the door in growing fear as the steps got louder. Was it an armed guard to haul her someplace she didn’t wish to go? She was tall, and strong for a woman, but two men could move her where they wished no matter how much she struggled and fought. Did she have a weapon?

  Her door slammed open. Her heart leaped until she realized the scowling man was not Duff, but his evil twin, Malcolm.

  “How dare you burst in on me!”

  Men came in carrying tables, stools, food, and more. He strode over to her loom. She ran, putting herself in front of it, arms wide to keep him away.

  “Don’t you dare touch my loom!”

  “If ye will agree to obey me and not touch it until and unless I say, I will leave everything as is.”

  Not touch her loom? She shook her head, small, quick movements.

  “I am kept here, a prisoner, alone. How will I get through the endless days and nights without the comfort of my weaving?”

  “Ye will find other ways to be comforted.”