Aaron stood, sending Macrath a glance filled with hatred. But he left the two of them alone.
Ceana kept her gaze steady on Macrath. Took in his handsome face, and the worry lines etched around his eyes and between his brows. He frowned down at her, raking his eyes over her form, resting on the places where she knew she was injured.
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“None more than I deserve,” she replied, guilt making her insides hurt all the more. “I’d gladly increase the pain if it could only wash my soul clean. I took a life. She could have been someone’s wife of gods forbid, someone’s mother. How can I ever forgive myself?”
Macrath shook his head. “You survived, Ceana. It is the only thing you could have done.”
She shook her head. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
He nodded, his warm breath still caressing her fingertips. “A feeling that will likely never pass, but perhaps the pain of which will lesson over time.”
As a warrior he would know, and she trusted that. “Can you show me how?”
Chapter Ten
Ceana watched with interest as Macrath picked up the needle and thread where Aaron had discarded it. The ground was cold beneath her back, and her hands shook from both pain and shock. Her chest welled with unspoken emotion. She knew a lot of it was the rush of battle yet to be released, the soul-wrenching pain of having taken a life and the unconditional care this warrior bestowed on her.
“I will gladly show you anything you ask,” Macrath said, softly.
She smiled, liking this tender side of him. His hand was still within hers and without hesitation she squeezed it, glad for his being there and for pardoning what she thought was unforgiveable. It was confusing and liberating all at once.
“I see that Aaron sewed your arm, where else are you cut?”
Ceana showed him her other hand where a gash was slashed on top—but not too deep. “I don’t think this one needs stitching, just bandages, but I do have one that pains me on my calf.”
She tried to sit up, but Macrath gently pushed her back down. “Will you let me do it?”
Nodding, she swallowed and watched the concern flicker over his face as he gripped the hem of her gown and slowly slid it up to her knee. Goose flesh rose along her leg and she wasn’t sure if it was from the autumn chill or the way Macrath intimately exposed her flesh. Maybe a little bit of both.
“ ’Tis a nasty gash you have here,” he murmured. He glanced around, a frown on his face. “There’s no whisky.”
Ceana smiled. “Need a wee nip?”
Macrath turned to her, a teasing grin curling his lips. “You will.”
Though her chin trembled, she said, “I can bear it.”
He did not hide his grimace well. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“ ’Tis the price I must pay.” She gave a slight shake of her head. “A penance to clean my soul.”
Macrath’s brows drew together and his mouth turned down at the corners. He leaned over her, an arm on either side of her head, bracing himself. “You do not deserve pain, Ceana. You did what you were ordered to do. ’Tis the same for any warrior. We do not go willingly into battle simply because we wish to maim and murder. Nay, lass, we do it because we are protecting what is ours.”
Ceana swallowed. “What are you protecting?”
“Right now? I’m protecting you from yourself. The better question is, what are you protecting, Ceana? Why did you come here?”
She chewed her lip, feeling the heat coming off of Macrath’s body in waves. The warmth of him, the way he made her feel safe, and eased some of her pain. “I am protecting my people.”
He gave a curt nod. “Then do not let yourself fall off the cliff of despair, my lady, because to do so would put those you aim to save at risk and all you’ve done would be for naught.”
The truth of his words sunk in. She’d known them all along, but it was hard to convince herself. Hearing Macrath say it however brought it out in a different light. Yes, she’d killed someone. Yes, she felt terrible about it. Yes, she would remember Rhona for the rest of her days and pray for her soul. Yes, she would likely seek out any family she had and ask for forgiveness. But she would also move on. Carry through the rest of these games with one thing in mind: she had to protect her people.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You have nothing to thank me for.”
“But I have so much. I…” She rolled her head to the side, staring at the tent wall a moment before looking back at him. “I’m not sure I could carry on without your strength.”
Macrath chuckled. “Well, I happen to know you would. Strength emanates from your every move. You may be tiny,” he plucked her nose. “But you are mighty.”
Ceana grinned. “More a nuisance to some.”
“Not to me.” He leaned back on his heels, his palm pressed to her calf. “Are you ready?”
She nodded and closed her eyes.
“Do you want my belt to bite down on?”
She shook her head. “Nay.”
Macrath was gentle, and though it hurt like Hades, she managed to grit her teeth through it. And the reward was worth it. He lightly kissed her knee, his breath warm on her skin sending a jolt of awareness rushing through her. He stretched out on the grass beside her bedroll.
“Lady Beatrice will come to find you soon. She will want to know what you choose for your comfort. What would you choose, Ceana?” Macrath walked his fingers up and down her uninjured arm. “A new gown? A down pillow?” He grabbed up one of the other bedrolls and rolled it, gently placing it beneath her head. “Or perhaps a lass like you would like a warm bath with fresh herbs strewn in the water. A cup of sweet wine?”
Ceana smiled, her gaze wandering over Macrath’s face, studying the angular lines of his jaw and cheekbones. “I fear I’m much simpler than that.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded.
“What is simpler than a cup of sweet wine?”
“I would not seek out simple measurable pleasures. I would but wish to spend the rest of my day with you.” Her own words shocked her. What happened to her resolve to stay away from Macrath? That had floundered, perhaps the moment she’d thought about it. “Right here.”
“Right here?” He looked around. “ ’Tis rather drab. ’Haps we can convince her ladyship to let us spend the evening in the great hall of the castle.”
“I like your way of thinking, warrior.”
“Why not get used to the place we shall call home?” He raised a brow.
’Twas not the first time he’d brought up wanting to rule beside her. Ceana brushed his comment aside no matter how it made her stomach flutter. “Indeed, and perhaps they will point us in the direction of the castle’s treasure and sweet pudding,” she gave him a coy smile as she brought up the topic of their very first conversation.
“And then they shall let us lay upon thick feather-tick mattresses while the servants fill our cups and trenchers.”
“I wonder, when you are Prince of Sìtheil, will you spend more time lounging or crusading?”
Macrath gripped her hand and pulled it to his lips. “I suspect it will be neither.”
“What will it be?” Ceana’s voice came out breathy as tendrils of need unfurled within her.
“I’d rather show you.”
Words escaped her. She was breathless, motionless, as Macrath came closer and pressed his lips to hers. Velvet soft, warm. He tasted of spice and smelled of rain and grass and clouds and everything outside that took her mind away from the heaviness of the games. Her heart started to pound and warmth flooded her, taking away the chill of the ground.
Macrath had the right of it. This was a much better way to spend their days, and she prayed Lady Beatrice would grant her request to spend time with this man.
Ceana caressed Macrath’s arms, up to his shoulders, to the back of his neck where the ends of his long, dark hair tickled her fingertips. She rolled closer to him, wa
nting to feel his chest press against hers. He must have known what she wanted, and desired the same, for he met her halfway. She liked touching like this. The closeness of it made her feel alive and cared for. As though there was some deeper purpose in the world than simply survival.
If she’d not come to the games, she may have never been exposed to this. Nor to Macrath and how his touch quickened her breath and stirred a potent yearning inside her.
“Och, lass.” Macrath slid his lips toward her neck, kissing where her heart beat. “I’ve never known anyone like you. Never wanted to know a lass more.”
Ceana cupped the side of his cheek, his stubble scraping her palm. Their foreheads were pressed together, eyes locked. “I feel the same way.”
“What is happening?” he asked, nibbling on her lips. His hand caressing over her ribs to palm her breast. “What have you done to me?”
She arched her back. “Not more than you have done to me. You’ve mesmerized me, taken my sense.”
“Aye. First you kiss me in the woods, and then you sneak into my tent. Now you’d have me ravish you when anyone could walk in.”
A throaty laugh escaped her. “You make me sound positively sinful.”
“Nay, lass, what we share could never be wicked. ’Tis beautiful. Enchanting.”
And it was. Like magic. He could take away her pain and fear and make her feel as though nothing could stop them. “ ’Tis a dream. Don’t fight it, Macrath. Let us have these precious moments.”
“I cannot deny you.” His lips traveled a searing path from her mouth, down her neck to hover over her breast. “I want you.”
“I need you.”
He tugged on her gown, freeing one hardened nipple. His hot mouth captured her aching flesh. A soft moan slipped through her lips and she arched her back, wanting more of what he was giving her.
Ceana clutched to him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He was careful not to bump into her injured leg, lying on the opposite side of her. He caressed her unscathed leg, fingers dancing over her calf and behind her knee. Her breath grew ragged and she kissed the top of his head, fingers threading through his hair. Macrath stroked a little higher on her leg, pausing on her inner thigh. The pressure of his hand on such an intimate spot sent quivers of anticipation zigzagging through her veins.
“Mo cridhe, will you let me touch you?” Macrath’s raspy voice sent a delicious chill over her.
He’d called her his heart!
“Aye,” she said with a smile, and tilted her hips.
Macrath groaned softly, his hand sliding delicately up her skirt to the naked crux of her thighs. She held tight to his shoulders, letting her legs fall open and thrilling at the feel his rough palm cupping her sex. He trailed a finger through her slick folds, stroking over the knot of flesh that ignited a flame inside her center. Ceana arched into him, wanting, needing more.
She moaned softly, keeping her eyes on his face. He watched her face as he touched her. Ceana felt color heating her cheeks, but she was too aroused, too ravenous, to care.
“Och, lass, you are so stunning. The way you respond to me…” he murmured, leaning down against her ear.
He claimed her mouth in a deep and demanding kiss, all the while, his fingers continued to work their magic.
“Do you like this?” he asked against her lips.
“Oh, aye,” she whimpered.
The flame he’d started sparked into a full-fledged wildfire. Her limbs shook, her breathing was erratic. Heart pounded against her ribcage. Blood roared in her ears. She was dizzy. She was light. She was—
Her world exploded as decadent sensations burst inside her. The pleasure radiated from between her thighs, barreling through her entire body until her toes curled and her fingers tingled.
“Macrath,” she murmured, body still quivering.
“Aye, lass?” He pulled back, grinning down at her with sensual self-satisfaction.
She gazed at him in wonderment, her brain still fuzzy from how high she’d seemed to climb and then fall. “That was… amazing.”
He winked. “It was beautiful, just as you are.”
*
Standing outside the healer’s tent, a perfect view through the slit of the writhing bodies inside, Aaron seethed.
Nostrils flared, fists clenched, he’d never felt a more burning rage than he did at that moment. It was hard to breathe. His chest heaved and teeth bared. He wanted to murder someone. To inflict pain in the worst way.
Watching his woman in the arms of that barbarian. Made him sick. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to march inside the tent and rip them apart. To slam his fist repeatedly into Macrath’s teeth. He could almost hear the crunch, feel the slickness of his blood.
How many times had he warned Ceana away from the man? Warned the man away from Ceana? Neither of them had listened! What sort of spell did that brain-boiled man have on her? Had he poisoned her somehow, given her a witch’s love brew? He wouldn’t put it past him. Macrath would be the ruin of her. Aaron despised the man. Hated the way her lips opened in pleasure and wanted to strangle the soft moans from her throat.
He tasted blood and realized he’d bitten down hard on the tip of his tongue.
Well, he wasn’t going to let that bootlicking churl take his place in Ceana’s heart. But he wasn’t stupid enough to try and tear them apart just yet. Macrath was a fierce warrior, reminded him a lot of the MacLeod’s. And Aaron didn’t want to get hurt, that wouldn’t serve his purpose.
Better to knock him down when the cur least expected it. And then he’d make sure to swoop in and save his lady.
The moment Ceana had kissed him at the Beltane festival he’d known she was going to be his wife. Dougal had as much as hinted to it by assigning Aaron as her personal guard. He’d protected her. Even insisted on accompanying her to these games. Before they’d arrived, he knew he was going to sign up to take part. He wouldn’t let another man claim what was rightfully his for five years.
The games were theirs to win. He and Ceana would be the Prince and Princess of Sìtheil, not that overbearing varlet.
Macrath leaned in close, his lips moving against Ceana’s ear and bringing a satisfied smile to her lips. What was he whispering to her now? Gods be damned, Aaron wanted to know! He’d never seen her look this way before. Wanted to be the man who made her smile. Who brought her pleasure.
“Mosquito-buggering canker-blossom.”
Macrath had to die.
And Aaron was going to make sure it happened, even if he had to sneak into the blackguard’s tent in the middle of the night. Before these games were through, Aaron was going to feel Macrath’s blood gliding over his hands.
With that delicious thought in mind, he decided to go in search of a guard. He needed to find out if the squires of the winners were also afforded comforts—and what sort of discomforts the squires of the discontents would be lavished with. For, Macrath’s discontent was dead and the more pain the craven suffered the better.
Chapter Eleven
“What do you think you’re doing?” Lady Beatrice MacAlpin—formerly Morrison—did not hesitate in approaching the man who stood outside the healing tent.
Anger sharpened every feature of his face, making his flesh only a shade lighter than his red hair. He looked to be wearing a MacRae plaid, though it was in such disrepair, the colors faded and melding together she couldn’t be certain. The dwindling sunlight probably had something to do with that, too. However, she wouldn’t be entirely surprised, as his plaid was in just as bad of shape as Ceana MacRae’s had been before Beatrice took her inside to bathe her that morning.
The man jerked his gaze upward, fiery daggers shooting from his brown eyes.
Beatrice put her hand to the whip coiled at her side, prepared to beat the man if he so much as raised his voice. “Don’t make me thrash you, whelp. I asked a question and I expect an answer.”
The resentment was wiped clean from his face. Seeming to come to his sens
es—though only partway—the man shifted on his feet, bowed his head and tucked his hands behind his back in a show of respect.
“My Lady.” His voice shook, either from nerves or residual anger.
Beatrice found her patience growing thin. As if her position wasn’t hard enough with having to rein in so many miscreants and watch an equal number of them die. But ’twas the way of things, and she herself knew better than to question the hundred year old practice. It had, after all, brought her many riches and a semblance of peace to the northern isles.
He cleared his throat, flicked his gaze up at her, then back toward the ground. He hooked his thumb at the tent. “I was but checking on my laird.”
“Your laird? He is injured?”
The red-haired man shook his head. “She is injured.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. So this was the MacRae guard Ceana brought with her. Just how did he feel about serving a female? “Your laird is a woman?”
His head jerked in what looked like a nod. “Aye, my lady. Only just been titled, on account of our previous laird being murdered.”
From what she could tell, this man was not entirely confident in Ceana’s abilities. There was doubt in his voice and shifty eyes. “What is your name?”
“Aaron of MacRae.” He puffed out his chest and looked up, staring somewhat toward her face, but not making eye contact.
“Ah, so your laird is the Bitch of MacRae.”
That got a rise out of the man she’d been hoping for. His gaze shot to hers, no issue with connecting, despite her superiority. He bared his teeth and she half expected him to lunge. But he kept his feet rooted, though his fists clenched.
“Best mind that temper, else you’ll not have any eyes left to spy on her.”
The man sputtered, fingers widening before clenching again. “I was not spying.”
“Hmm.” Beatrice narrowed her eyes, tapped her foot. Why had Ceana chosen this man to join the games with her?
Lairds did not have to join the games. They sent people in their stead. The fact that Ceana had joined on her own, leant more to her courage and sacrifice than many. But knowing that she’d chosen to enter herself, Beatrice would have thought she’d bring along a warrior who she intended to marry. And the man standing before her… well, he was sadly lacking on many fronts.
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