Leaping backward, Macrath arched his sword again, parrying in long sweeping, power-packed arches. He drove the warrior back until he gained his footing and advanced. Echoes of their ringing swords and grunts clouded the air. Feet slogging in the muddy road, it was hard to gain traction. They moved in a circle, both of them tripping more than once.
Movement caught his eye—Ceana. She’d moved the woman’s body out of their footpath and stood to the side.
Attention back to the fight, he blocked a healthy blow from his opponent, and another circle they made, each of them pushing their swords hard and then jumping backward to parry again.
When Macrath crashed forward, sweat pouring from his temples, his foe’s eyes widened, sword arm dropping, his movement ceased. But it was too late for Macrath to stop. His sword met its mark in the crook of the man’s shoulder, crunching through flesh, muscle and bone. The warrior opened his mouth as if to speak, but only a whooshing, gurgling breath released.
The moment seemed to last forever as Macrath stared into his opponent’s eyes. This man was the last to die today. The last to die in these games. Ever, if Macrath had anything to say about it.
“I’m sorry, lad. So sorry,” Macrath said.
He put his foot on the man’s chest, yanking his sword free, and his rival fell forward to his knees, and then onto his torso. Macrath’s eyes widened. The man had an arrow in his back.
His gaze shot up to stare at Ceana. Grim lines creased her eyes and her lips were turned down. A single tear slid down her cheek.
“We won,” she whispered.
Macrath nodded, staggering backward, his sword falling from his hands. Ceana hurled down her bow and quiver of arrows and ran forward. She threw herself into his arms, wrapping herself around him. He gripped her tight, mouth crashing onto hers. Their kiss was hard, anguished, relieved.
“Och, lass, we did it,” he said against her lips. Relief flooded through him making him weak, unsteady. But her kiss, her hold, it gave him strength.
“It’s ours,” she answered.
“Congratulations.” Lady Beatrice’s voice broke unwelcomingly through their passion. “Come through the gates, this time, as the new rulers of Sìtheil Castle and the lands with which it has been granted.”
The new rulers…
Macrath pressed his forehead to Ceana’s and breathed in deep. Emotions welled in his chest. Ceana clutched to him, her heart pounding against his.
“This cannot be!” Leticia’s voice brought instant anger coiling inside him.
“Ignore her. You’ve won, and there is nothing she can do about it,” Ceana whispered.
She was right. Leticia could no longer reach him. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.” Ceana cupped his face and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “And now we claim what is ours.”
Hand in hand, they walked over the wooden bridge. Lady Beatrice and Leticia stood on top of the gate tower. The portcullis raised, its chains grinding, the gate doors swung wide. Ceana flashed Macrath a triumphant smile, and the tension that had tightened his muscles painfully started to ebb. No longer would they walk beneath these gates and to their death—unless it was in defense of their castle, their people. Gods willing, they’d win every time.
*
“The gods have granted you this castle, its lands, its riches and its people. Sìtheil Castle and all it holds is now your responsibility. Keep it safe from enemies who will wish to seize everything you hold dear. Do not let King Olaf and his son Gillemorre’s lives and what they fought for vanish into oblivion.”
Lady Beatrice stood upon the dais in the great hall of the castle. The guards lined the halls and beyond that the family members, servants and personal guards of past entrants filled the remaining spots. Boarg had a front and center view of the proceedings—as did Leticia and Victor.
Ceana could feel the pride of her clansman at her back, and the hatred of Macrath’s family.
They knelt before the dais, having been cleaned and dressed in finery fit for royals. Only an hour since their fight to the death. Two councilmen stepped forward, gilded and ruby-studded crowns in their hands. They raised them high and in unison said: “That with which the gods has granted remain in your hands and safekeeping until the time when your obligation is fulfilled. By the gods and the king, we name thee Prince and Princess of Sìtheil.”
The weight of the crown being placed on her head, although slight, felt immeasurably heavy. A warmth seeped over her. She’d saved her people. Clan MacRae would forever be saved. Gruamach would not have to fear another siege, and her people would never go hungry again. And yet, the weight of such responsibility—far greater than she ever would have imagined—overshadowed her triumph. It was up to her and Macrath now to save all of Scotland from the evils of the council and the games.
Beside her, Macrath gripped onto her hand, squeezed her fingers. But still they did not stand, for moments later a priest was brought forth to issue their wedding vows. But to them, it was simply a formality, for they’d pledged themselves to one another on the beach.
“The Prince and Princess of Sìtheil!” shouted the council.
The room erupted in shouts and cheers. Ceana and Macrath turned to face the crowd, and the first to kneel before them were those of the council. Ironic, considering they’d also pledged to each other to see the council disbanded and the games done away with. Their very enemies bowed before them.
One by one, everyone in the room stepped forth. When the guard who’d violated Ceana and beaten Macrath stepped forward, she could feel the rage rumble through her husband. She turned to look at him, seeing the veins in his neck bulging. She took a step to the side, certain she would not be able to quell his wrath. He glanced at her, and as if he understood her silent acceptance, he wrenched his arm back and then punched the man in the nose with such force blood burst in torrents down his face. There was an outraged shout from the guard, but no one else spoke. The man had deserved it. Deserved far more, but that would have to wait.
Last to approach the dais was Leticia and her son Victor, the latter with two black eyes and a crooked nose from the last time he’d encountered Macrath. They bowed and curtsied in silence, their eyes not quite meeting Macrath’s or Ceana’s. When they rose and turned, Macrath cleared his throat.
“We have not heard your pledge of fealty,” he said.
Victor let out an outraged gasp. “We’ll not pledge our fealty to you! We owe you nothing.”
Macrath grinned. “On the contrary, I am your Prince and my wife your Princess. We’ll hear your pledge or you’ll not leave our lands alive.”
Leticia scoffed. “You would threaten us? Your father—”
Macrath crossed his arms over his chest. “Will do nothing, just as he did nothing to thwart your attempts before. I’ll not wait another moment.”
Victor grudgingly took his sword from his scabbard, and knelt before Macrath, the tip of his sword pressed so hard into the wood of the floor his knuckles whitened. His mother knelt beside him, repeating the same lines, save for her name. “I, Victor Campbell, son of the Earl of Argyll, by the gods do swear my allegiance to Their Majesties, the Prince and Princess of Sìtheil.” Both sets of eyes glittered with hatred. “ ’Tis my oath that should I go against your rule, that with this sword you shall pierce my heart.”
And Macrath gladly would.
*
Candles gave off a soft glow in the master chamber in Sìtheil Castle.
Macrath carried Ceana over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him. “Our bedchamber, my laird and princess wife.”
Ceana nuzzled closer to his muscled heat. “ ’Tis magnificent.”
The hearth was lit, warming the room. Tapestries telling the legend of King Olaf and his son Gillemorre lined the walls. An alcove was set deep in the wall, lined with three arrow slit windows and a cushioned bench. The hearth was flanked by two large, carved wooden armchairs with soft-looking embroidered pillows. But what drew her eye was the massive bed
against the left wall. She’d never seen one as large as this. Each oak post was thick as a man’s thigh and carved within swirling were Celtic knots. A half dozen warriors could fit upon the mattress. The canopy was made of soft wool plaid, deep and rich in colors of reds and greens, matching the coverlet on the bed. A fur lined the bottom half of the bed, and woven rugs covered the floors to ward off any chill.
The room was greater than the one at Gruamach Keep, fit for royalty.
“And they’ve left us a feast,” Macrath said.
Ceana looked to the left of the door, having missed the long table filled with wine and other delicacies. “Shall I feed you, husband?”
“Och, I believe the only morsel I’ll be feasting on is you, lass.” In two brisk steps, he was at the edge of the bed and he tossed her down on top.
Ceana squealed, bouncing back onto the bed. She smiled up at Macrath as he crawled on to the bed and up the length of her. He sank against her, his mouth claiming hers as his hard body pushed her into the soft feather mattress. He tasted of sweet wine and desire. Her body came to life, tingling with delicious anticipation. She breathed in his clean scent, and smiled into his mouth, relief and happiness overtaking all of the gloom and darkness of the past weeks.
Sadness and despair had no place in this room. Their chamber would be for them, for joy, for celebrating life. For passion and pleasure.
She wrapped her arms around Macrath’s back, muscles rippling beneath her fingertips. She held on to him, never wanting to let go. His ardent heat enveloped her, warming her muscles, making her pliant. She parted her legs, the pressure of his arousal causing her sex to grow damp and tingly. She shuddered, letting out a soft moan.
“Too many clothes,” she murmured.
“Och, lass, but we must take it slow. Let it last forever.” He trailed his lips over her chin, nipping at her earlobe, then slid a searing path down her neck to her collarbone. “I want to taste every luscious inch of you. And I want to savor it.”
She wanted to savor him, too. Naked. Ceana tugged the pin from his plaid, tossing it toward the table. It clinked and then fell somewhere on the floor. She giggled. “Best we not step on that.”
Gripping the length of plaid flung over his shoulder, she slowly slid it off. Macrath pushed up on his arms, looking down at her, a devilish twinkle in his eye.
“Spoiled, lass,” he said.
She shook her head. “Nay, husband. I but want to gaze upon you.” On the beach there’d been no time for exploring. There’d been no time period. They’d made love fervently, fiercely, and it had been heavenly, but they had not been able to relish each other like they could now.
“I like the way you think.” He bent low, nibbling on her lips and then knelt back on his heels.
With eyes wide and excitement rippling through her veins, Ceana watched as he tugged his shirt over his head revealing a muscled chest she’d felt in the dark, felt beneath his shirt, but now could stare at openly in the glow of the candles and hearth. A light dusting of dark hair graced the ripples of his torso. She reached out to touch him, pressing her hand to his heart and then trailing her fingers between his nipples toward his navel. He sucked in a breath, his eyes growing heavy.
“I like when you touch me,” he said.
“I like touching you.”
He winked. “I want to touch, too.” Macrath plucked at the ties of her bodice. “Stand up.”
He crawled off the bed and pulled her to stand in front of him, where he slowly divested her of her clothing, kissing and caressing as he went. When she stood in nothing but her hose and boots, she shivered—but not from cold. Nay, she was incredibly hot. She trembled with need, with being exposed. She felt beautiful. Every flaw she’d ever seen in herself disappeared in his heady gaze.
She reached out and grabbed his belt, giving it a little tug. Macrath grinned wickedly.
“You want me to take this off?”
She nodded, biting on her lower lip.
Macrath gripped the end of his belt and leisurely removed it. His plaid unraveled, falling to his booted feet. She stared at the hardened shaft jutting from a tuft of dark hair between his hips. She marveled at his size and how the length of it had fit so comfortably and deliciously inside her.
Macrath knelt before her. He unlaced her boots, removing one and then the other. Then he gradually rolled her hose down her legs, his fingers gently brushing her calves, tickling behind her knees. When her feet were bare, he lifted her right foot and kissed the inside of her ankle.
“You are so beautiful. And mine.”
“All yours,” she whispered.
Macrath kissed his way up to her inner thigh. Her knees shook and she held her breath. His lips on her flesh made her want to weep from the pleasure of it. He kept his eyes locked on hers as he trailed upward, his hot breath lingering over the apex of her thighs. Her sex pulsed, her womb clenched tight, nipples ached. Knees shaking, she threaded her fingers through his hair.
“Macrath,” she murmured. “What are you doing?”
“Making love to you properly,” he breathed, tongue flicking out to dance along her delicate folds.
She nearly fainted, forgot to breathe.
She watched him pleasure her, body trembling, eyes trying hard to fall closed. His hands held tight to her hips, tongue massaging her silken flesh in wild, blissful licks and suckles.
“Oh, gods…” Unbidden, her body was quick to spiral up that mountain, and the only way down was to fly even higher upon a thundercloud of pleasure.
Macrath was relentless in his pursuit of her release, and she let him take the lead, enjoying every moment of it. Fingers tugging tight to his hair and shoulder, she let herself go, let herself fall off the edge of the mountain. Panting and moaning, thighs quivering, she cried out when a burst of pleasure sprang free followed by another and another. She rode the waves of intoxicating sensations until she couldn’t move or breathe or stand.
He kissed her hip, her belly and then her breasts, scraping his teeth gently over her nipples. She was powerless to move, which suited her just fine because the sensations he elicited from her were overwhelmingly wonderful. Macrath lifted her up, cradling her to his body, and placed her gently on the bed before coming down on top of her. Her musky scent was on his lips when he brushed them over hers, but she didn’t care, somehow found it even more enticing.
“Tonight is more perfect than I ever imagined, mo chridhe,” he said.
“How often did you imagine it?” she teased, her toes tickling up his calf.
“Almost as much as I envisioned spending the rest of my life at your side, making you smile and laugh.”
She pressed her hand on his heart then leaned forward to kiss the spot. “We’ll never be separated again.”
His hips settled between hers, the hardness of his shaft pressing against the heat of her. She tilted her hips, inviting him to sink inside her. She wanted him. Wanted to feel that glorious pressure again. To feel him moving within her. To be one in body and soul.
“I want you inside me,” she whispered.
He kissed her neck. “Och, lass, the way you respond to me… It drives me to the brink of madness.”
“Join me, I’m already there.”
Reaching between their bodies, she gripped his hot, heavy, velvet shaft in her hand, running her thumb over the delicate ridge. Macrath groaned, his forehead falling against hers. He trembled above her, and she liked the power of knowing she did this to him. She guided him toward her center, tilting upward when the press of his erection slid along her flesh. Macrath reached down, his grip over hers and pushed the tip inside. He gripped her hand in his and pulled it from between their bodies and over her head, entwining his fingers with hers.
Ceana wrapped her legs around his hips and he surged forward, burying himself deep inside her. They both cried out, bodies tightening. She arched her back, tucked her legs up higher, wanting to bring him deeper.
But Macrath tormented her by withdrawing, and the
n slowly easing his way back inside. Fire lit inside her, sparks flashing out into her limbs all the way to her fingertips and toes. Slowly, he retreated. Unhurried, he slid back inside. All the while, he kissed her lips, teased her with his tongue, nibbled at her neck. He kept their hands entwined above her head, instead using his body to arch over her, inside her, out of her, his mouth to taste and nibble. His chest brushed against her aching nipples, until he licked and suckled them.
When both of them shook, when they were both slick with perspiration and desperate for release, he deliberately withdrew and then plunged back inside. He thrust and thrust and thrust until Ceana was crying out with pleasure and her body exploded in flashes like the thousands of stars in the sky.
Hearing her pleasure, Macrath murmured, “Dear gods, you are so incredible.” He plunged harder, driving into her with purpose now. “I want you to find your release again. Soar with me, love.”
And she did, crying out as the startling vibrations overtook her again. Macrath growled at the same moment, his mouth capturing hers in a demanding, heart-throbbing kiss as he too quaked and shivered.
He stilled above her, kissing her more tender now until both their quickened breaths subsided. Rolling to the side, he pulled her with him. He stroked the hair from her temples, and kissed her lovingly. Ceana tucked her leg around his thigh and settled her head against the crook of his shoulder, her fingers dancing circles on his chest.
“That was even more magical than before,” she said, a smile curling her lips.
His fingers trailed over her spine. “You forever amaze me, lass.”
“I’m so glad we found each other.” Without him, her life—or death—would have been drastically different.
His chin bumped her head when he nodded. “Aye, lass, the gods were looking down on us.”
“Fate had plans for us.” He entwined his fingers with hers on his chest.
“We’ll change history, you and I. Scotland will not put us in a five-year box.”
“Nay. The council will pay for all it’s done.”
THE END
About the Author
Eliza Knight is an award-winning and USA Today bestselling indie author of sizzling historical romance and erotic romance. Under the name E. Knight, she pens rip-your-heart-out historical fiction. While not reading, writing or researching for her latest book, she chases after her three children. In her spare time (if there is such a thing…) she likes daydreaming, wine-tasting, traveling, hiking, staring at the stars, watching movies, shopping and visiting with family and friends. She lives atop a small mountain with her own knight in shining armor, three princesses and two very naughty puppies. Visit Eliza at www.elizaknight.com or her historical blog History Undressed: www.historyundressed.com.
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