When the Laird Returns

by Karen Ranney

  She glanced at him, obviously surprised. “You like danger, Alisdair?”

  He fingered the hilt of his knife, wondering if he could explain. “Not foolishly so,” he said. “I like the contest of it, wondering if I can win, being willing to pit myself against a formidable foe.”

  “While I would much rather be a coward in a cave,” she said ruefully.

  “Women are to be protected, Iseabal,” he pointed out. “Not expected to fight.”

  “But women have their own contests, Alisdair,” she said, turning directly toward him. “Or do you think birthing a child an easy thing?”

  Alisdair shook his head, realizing that he’d suddenly gotten his wish. Her look was level and direct, even though her cheeks were still blossoming with color.

  “The only time I’ve ever seen my father unmanned,” he admitted, “was when my mother was confined with my brother Douglas.”

  The thought of his child growing in Iseabal should have been a solemn one. A serious matter, this breeding of a heritage. Instead, his body fueled his mind with another image, that of planting his seed deep inside her.

  He spread his legs even farther apart, easing the constriction of his breeches.

  Several moments were devoted to eating, the clinking of utensils. He sipped his tea, easily identifying the Keemun Congou blend.

  A quick glance revealed Iseabal smiling faintly, her chin propped on her hand, elbow resting on the table.

  “Will you be unmanned, Alisdair?” she asked, her low tone ensuring that his breeches were suddenly painfully tight. “When I’m confined with our child?” she added.

  “Aren’t we being precipitous?” he said calmly, wishing that another topic of conversation would immediately come to his mind. But every memory, every thought, had been oddly expunged by her look. An awakening temptress.

  “Last night you told me you always felt ready for me,” he said boldly, remembering the moment only too well when his fingers had found her wet and hot.

  She nodded, her gaze not on the table but on him.

  “Do you feel that way right now?” he asked, his words grating, almost harsh.

  She only smiled.

  His hunger for food appeased, Alisdair stood, pulling Iseabal up to him. He might as well be wearing no clothing at all. He could feel each of her curves and indentations, and the swelling of his joyful manhood, expectantly exuberant.

  “It’s too soon,” he said aloud, hoping that she would disagree.

  She startled him by pulling back and moving to the pedestal.

  “Why?” she asked, climbing onto the mattress.

  “You’re too sore,” he said. How quickly, he wondered, could he undress?

  “Am I supposed to be?” she asked curiously, tipping her head to the side.

  “I believe so,” he said dryly. “Although my experience with virgins is somewhat lacking.”

  Iseabal shook her head, her hair falling over her shoulders in an ebony waterfall. “I don’t feel sore,” she said quietly.

  “Thank God,” he said, relieved, and was delighted by her smile.

  He began unfastening his shirt, moving slowly toward her. “Do you realize what this means?” he asked, brushing a kiss against her cheek.

  “No,” she answered softly, looping her hands around his neck.

  “Now the pleasure begins,” he said with a smile, reaching for her.

  Chapter 21

  I seabal leaned over the edge of the railing, marveling at the endless activity on the London wharf. The Fortitude had taken her place along the dock and now a procession of barrels was being rolled up the gangway.

  All of the containers held supplies that would help them last through the winter. There would be no question of seeking support from her family, partly due to Alisdair’s independence of spirit, and partly to his abiding dislike of her father.

  Two weeks had passed since they’d been wed again, the time spent in preparation not only for this journey, but also for Alisdair’s duties as earl. Although, she admitted, most of the hours had been given over to planning for Gilmuir’s reconstruction.

  More than once Alisdair had taken the miniature of the castle from her trunk, studying the detail of it. They’d spent hours talking about what it might have looked like when it was built, or before the destruction by the English.

  The nights, however, had been set aside for the two of them, time in which each learned of the other. Passion was like sugar, she’d discovered. A taste of it on the tongue and her whole body noted it, stilled in appreciation, and craved even more.

  The only sadness had been in leaving Patricia.

  “Do not worry about me, my dears,” Patricia said, her voice merely a whisper when she and Alisdair had bidden farewell. Reclining on a chaise in her bedchamber, a lacy shawl over her shoulders, the older woman appeared delicate and frail. As if she’d been strong until Alisdair arrived, only to fade when her duty was done.

  “Thank you for granting an old woman’s fondest wish,” Patricia said, framing Alisdair’s face with her hands. Next, Patricia hugged Iseabal, the embrace bringing tears to both women’s eyes. But as she’d pulled away, Patricia began smiling, her whispered words full of mischief. “Happiness is a habit, my dear. Make sure you acquire it.” Even then Patricia was giving advice.

  Since they had returned from Brandidge Hall, the hours had been spent in a maelstrom of activity. Alisdair had hired a merchant ship to accompany them to Gilmuir. The Molly Brown looked like a squat brown duck swimming alongside the sleeker Fortitude. But what the merchant ship lacked in speed, she made up for in cargo space.

  Now the other vessel was beginning to resemble an arc, Iseabal thought in amusement, watching as horses from Brandidge Hall, cows, goats, and chickens were all led or carried aboard. Grains and other provisions were being stored in the Molly Brown, as well as in the Fortitude’s limited hold.

  Iseabal turned, bracing her back against the railing in a position she’d seen Alisdair assume many times before.

  There was more activity aboard the other ship, the crew members of the Fortitude having gathered at Alisdair’s request. They stood aboard the deck in lines four deep, their faces somber, as if they knew that their captain had serious words to say.

  “Once,” Alisdair began, “my father stood aboard a ship addressing the men and women of Gilmuir. He offered each one of them a choice of freedom versus privation. Each one of you is descended from those same men and women, just as I am. The choice I offer you now is a different, perhaps more difficult one. We have two homes, all of us. One where we were reared, and the other, the home of our ancestors. It is my choice to return to Scotland and settle there.”

  Silence greeted his words; then the first mate spoke.

  “You’re going to live there, Captain?” Daniel asked, evidently dumbstruck by the idea.

  “I am,” Alisdair said, scanning the face of every man who stood before him. Expressions of worry, irritation, even eagerness were easy to read on their faces. The MacRaes had not been beaten down or subjugated like some in Scotland and most at Fernleigh. A leader of such proud men, Iseabal thought, would have to be as respected and admired as Alisdair was.

  “I intend to rebuild Gilmuir,” Alisdair said. He moved his feet apart, placing his hands behind his back, a pose she’d seen often, especially in his role as a commander of men. Or when, she realized, he bore the weight of great emotion.

  “If there are those among you who do not wish to remain at Gilmuir,” Alisdair added, “then I will pay for your passage home. The Molly Brown will carry you back to Nova Scotia.”

  “The MacRaes are returning to Scotland, then?” a voice asked. Iseabal didn’t recognize the speaker, but it was obvious, from their nodding, that he uttered the sentiments of his crewmates.

  “As many of you as wish to, yes,” Alisdair answered solemnly. “If you want to fetch your wives and children, Gilmuir will be open to them also.”

  All at once the men began to speak among the
mselves, the cacophony of voices traveling over the ship. One by one, they came and spoke to Alisdair. He shook each man’s hand, either nodding solemnly or smiling when he heard his decision.

  They’d decided easily, Iseabal thought, certain that most of them would choose to remain in Scotland. How many would stay at Gilmuir because of Alisdair?

  He turned, then, glancing at her, his eyes warming in that look she’d come to anticipate. From virgin to wanton in only a fortnight, she mused, smiling. He nodded, one sharp acknowledgment of both her presence and his awareness of it. Someone called to him, and he smiled ruefully before moving away.

  Iseabal walked the length of the ship, careful to keep out of the way of the sailors who were beginning to ready the Fortitude for her voyage. Instead of the cabin, Iseabal’s destination was the stern and her little niche where she could sit and watch the activity in the port around them, and wait for Alisdair to join her.

  To her surprise, a table had been set up, the marble stone atop it covered with a piece of oiled canvas. Beside it was the leather sling containing her tools and mallet. Alisdair’s work. He was always showing his consideration for her in little ways, such as bringing her tea in the morning or leaving a fresh flower on her pillow. He still insisted upon checking her ribs each day, although, she admitted, that chore often led to more delightful occupations.

  Sitting at the table, she removed the canvas from the stone.

  Fur rubbing against her ankle made her start. She glanced under the table to find the ship’s cat leaning against her leg, purring loudly.

  “Henrietta’s approving, then,” a voice said behind her. She turned her head to see Daniel standing there, a pack over his shoulder. “She’s been playful this morning, a sign that the voyage will be a fair one.”

  Iseabal smiled, thinking that he’d never before spoken so many words to her.

  “I just wanted to bid you farewell, mistress,” Daniel said. “I’m to stay behind, you see. To fetch masons and mortar and such. And to find something called rice flour if I can,” he added, a look of consternation on his face.

  “Rice flour?” she repeated.

  He nodded. “An old Chinese trick,” he said. “Adding it to the mortar makes brickwork stronger, and the captain is determined not to allow Gilmuir to fall around his ears.”

  They did not know each other well enough to exchange embraces, but she held out her hand to him, smiling when he reluctantly took it. Was there a superstition to fit this occasion as well?

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you at Gilmuir, then,” she said.

  “I’ll not be staying long, mistress,” he said. “I’ll direct the captain of that floating wreck to Scotland, all right.” He stared at a second merchant ship berthed next to the Molly Brown. “But I’ve a wife and child at home and they’ll be missing me.”

  “Perhaps they’ll wish to come to Scotland.”

  He shrugged. “I doubt it, mistress. My wife’s close to her mother and I’d not think Annie would want to come back to Scotland.”

  “Then fare well,” she said, genuinely wishing good fortune for him.

  He nodded and moved away, Henrietta trotting after him, tail high in the air.

  “I’ve a legacy,” his landlady said, staring at the letter in her hands. The paper trembled as she held it at an angle, the better to view it in the faint light from the window.

  Fergus looked up from his task. He’d crafted a new latch, a replacement for the one on the front door, and was polishing the metal until the hinges turned easily.

  The Widow McKinsey was a comely woman with hair barely graying and a sensitive, caring nature. From time to time he had the feeling that she might be holding out hope for him. He made a point of being scarce when her eyes softened and she arranged her hair differently. She would always gradually revert back to treating him as she would her other boarders.

  In a way, perhaps, he was more her brother than a lodger. Over the years, he’d been almost an uncle to her two girls, and knew that they considered him part of the family.

  “What legacy, Susanna?” he asked now, only vaguely interested in the answer.

  “I’ve a fortune, Fergus,” she said, holding out the letter to him. She startled him by beginning to cry, tears running silently down her cheeks.

  He set the latch and oiled rag down, taking the letter from her. The lettering was cramped and ornate, but the gist of it was easily understood. Susanna McKinsey’s great-aunt had passed away, leaving her a goodly sum and the house called Tyemorn Manor, not far from Inverness.

  “You are, indeed, an heiress,” he said, smiling and glad for her. She’d worried about her girls, and how she might help them acquire husbands. Now there was no need for concern. Nothing made a woman appear more attractive than a sizable fortune.

  “Oh, Fergus,” she said, clapping both hands against her reddened cheeks. “We shall go there immediately, all of us.”

  “Not I, Susanna,” he told her, regretfully. “I’ve work here, such as it is. If I left Cormech, I’d be fortunate to find any labor at all.”

  “But you needn’t now, Fergus,” she said, her eyes still brimming with tears.

  An attractive woman, he thought, but one who deserved more than he could give her. He’d not been a celibate man all these years, but his heart had never once been touched. Instead, it seemed destined to remain the property of Leah McDonald.

  But because he liked Susanna, and had lived beneath her roof for many years, Fergus was kind in his refusal.

  “I regret that I cannot, Susanna,” he said gently, concentrating once more on the hinge.

  Chapter 22

  S unlight danced on the water in a thousand golden winks. The sky, bright with an early sun, was a pale blue, the shade of Alisdair’s eyes. Seabirds circling above screeched raucous cries as if envious of the Fortitude as she slipped along Scotland’s coast.

  Iseabal sat in the stern, glancing behind her from time to time at the Molly Brown. Ever since they had left London two days ago, the distance between the two ships had lengthened until the lumbering vessel was no more than a spot on the horizon. The merchant ship could not compete with the Fortitude’s speed.

  There was something almost mystical about returning to Gilmuir, as if a long-held, but unvoiced, wish were being granted her. She smiled at her whimsy, flattening her palms on either side of the stone in front of her. The work was going well, the image she’d envisioned beginning to appear in the marble. She’d known, ever since arriving in England, what it would be.

  She could almost feel Alisdair’s face beneath her hands, the high cheekbones, the square jaw, his regal nose. Iseabal smiled, thinking that she had learned him through touch these past nights. But if this marble were to truly be Alisdair’s likeness, she should craft it with his smile, his head tilted in that almost autocratic way of his, or with a light in his eyes as he posed a question she felt too tongue-tied to answer.

  The master of Gilmuir, the MacRae, captain of the Fortitude, and now the Earl of Sherbourne. Although she doubted he would ever use the title, it fit him even so.

  What must I do to coax you from silence, Iseabal? His words were so easily summoned, quick to recall. He had sought her thoughts and she’d begun to speak them to him, finding in her husband a confidant she’d never expected.

  The stone sat inert beneath her fingers, patiently waiting for the moment when she would conjure up life with her chisel. She was almost afraid to do so, wondering if her talent would be great enough.

  Praying for divine inspiration, Iseabal struck the marble with the second largest of her chisels. In the small space, the noise resounded like the peal of a bell. Taking a deep breath, she raised the mallet again.

  Hearing the sails being unfurled, Iseabal glanced upward. He was in the rigging again, companioning Rory. But for all her fear of what might happen to him, it seemed somehow right to see Alisdair gamboling among the sails like his young cabin boy.

  She glanced away, focusing on her wor
k, becoming so fixed with it that time passed unawares.

  Alisdair’s hands on her shoulders pulled her from her concentration. He bent down until his head was beside hers, staring at the lump of black stone. At this stage, the marble looked as if it had been gnawed on like a bone, the gashes in its surface resembling teeth marks.

  “Have you decided what it will be?” he asked, studying it.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “But I’ve always considered it unlucky to speak of something unfinished.”

  “So I’m to wait, then?” He smiled. Reaching out, he touched the stone, his palm resting on the front surface.

  “Are you done climbing the rigging?” she asked.

  “Rory needed a little assistance with his footing,” he noted, his eyes dancing and his smile crooked.

  She smiled, not believing a word. He had looked as young as Rory jumping from rope to rope.

  “You needn’t worry,” he said. “I’ve been doing it since I was a child.”

  “I used to be afraid for you,” she said. “Before I learned how well you climbed.”

  He moved away, standing against the rail. His arms were folded and he studied her as intently as she scrutinized her work. She could feel warmth travel from her toes to her cheeks in response to his scrutiny.

  “I would not have done it if I’d known you worried,” he said.

  Iseabal could only stare at him, surprised that he might alter his behavior to ease her fears.

  “Would you cease climbing the rigging if I asked you to?”

  “Yes,” he said easily. “But only if you could not be reassured that I was as safe there as standing here.”

  “Would you give up sailing?” She was testing the limits of her power.

  “No,” he replied quickly. “But I would take you with me.”

  “To the Orient?” The idea captivated her.

  He nodded, unfolded his arms, and strode toward her. Smiling, he brushed at her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You have bits of marble all over you,” he said. “Perhaps I should be the one to worry that you might injure yourself with your chisels, or breathe too deeply of dust.”