by Sandy Blair
Genny, her winged eyebrows tenting, leaned back to better look at his face. “What did she do, and what do you mean by gone?”
Sighing, he took a step back, picked up Valiant’s reins, then took her hand. “The telling of Cassandra and me will take some time, so let’s first tend to my mount.”
Leading Valiant to the stable, he asked, “Why are you here? You told Hildy you were bound for Ireland.”
“I was.” She told him about the O’Neils, the storm and her decision to garner what coins she could before travelling on. “Why are you here?”
“You’d told Hildy only your aunt’s first name. I hoped to find her surname in yon kirk records or from one of your tenants. For no other reason than loneliness, I decided to stop here first, and glad I am that I did.”
She smiled up at him. “As I am.”
He shuddered to think they might have missed each other by only hours.
Once Valiant was fed and watered, he took her into his arms again. “God, you’re a
bonnie sight for these poor eyes.”
“To mine as well. You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you.”
He kissed her again, this time taking them slowly into that lovely place of warm intimacy, his need for her pressing against her belly as their breath and skin heated. Realizing he’d be tossing her into the hay at any moment, he reluctantly pulled away and cleared his throat. “We need to talk before this goes any further.”
Inside her parlor, she bid him take a seat and fetched them wine. Having done naught but sit in a saddle for days on end, he paced.
When she returned with clay goblets in hand, he bid her sit in the odd chair with stave rockers and, kneeling before her, took her hand. “You need know I never meant to take advantage of you, that before you ran off I’d already queried the archbishop about an annulment. Wanting to marry you, I’d formulated a plan to make it so.” He ran his thumb over her palm. “I never meant to hurt you, Genny. Truly.”
“Please tell me about Cassandra.”
He released her hand, rose and resumed pacing. “In the isles, we’ve harsh weather and little arable land. One storm can ravage a year’s crops or destroy a fishing fleet, so the wise—ever mindful of starvation—trade, hoard and curry the goodwill of their neighbors through marriage.” He knew what he was about to tell Genny would hurt her, but he’d have no more lies betwixt them. “Such was not the case when the lord of the isles and my father brokered my marriage to Cassandra, the MacDonald’s niece.
“I was eight and ten years and she a year younger when we were introduced at a gathering. I am not a man of extremes but was immediately smitten. She was as exuberant and gay as a filly. Finding her attractive, I thought myself most fortunate that she returned my favor. During our short courtship, I chalked up her outrageous pouts and tantrums to youth and her being a pampered wench. I thought time and the responsibilities of marriage and family would settle her. But such proved not to be the case.
“Three months into our marriage, she fell ill, her moods swinging from outrageous highs to new dramatic lows as never before, so I, frantic, summoned our Cailleach.” When Genny frowned, he said, “Our medicine woman.”
“Ah. So what did she say?”
“She announced Cassandra with child and then, using her herbs and a string swung in loops above Cassandra’s middle, said we would have a strapping laddie. My joy knew no bounds. Nor did Cassandra’s. As she grew more ponderous, her frantic activity slowed but not so her babblings or blind rages. Then the day of the blessed event came. I’ll not lie. I not only anticipated the birth of our son but the cessation of her constant weeping and throwing of things at my head.”
Praying he was doing the right thing by laying bare his soul, he took a gulp of wine, then said, “Cassandra’s labor was long and arduous, but finally our laddie came into the world. Hearing his lusty cry from where I paced in circles a floor below, I raced up the stairs and into the solar just as the Cailleach held up our son for Cassandra’s inspection.
“Upon first sight of our babe’s sadly deformed legs and feet, Cassandra screeched in horror, declared wee Ian the devil’s spawn and refused to touch him.
“I couldn’t understand it.” Feeling tears burning at the back of his throat, he turned from Genny and looked out the window. “He was such a bonnie, pudgy lad, with her auburn hair and my dark eyes. A full day went by. All the poor wee lad did was keen for lack of milk. At my wit’s end, I finally gave up trying to make Cassandra see reason and summoned a wet nurse.”
Genny rose and took hold of his hand. “Oh, Britt, I’m so sorry. You need not speak of this if it’s too painful.”
“You need hear it all…to understand.” He took another drink, readying himself for the worst. “Five months passed. Cassandra’s blind rages had turned into sulking silence, then into what appeared to be contented musing.
“Meanwhile, Ian bloomed under the wet nurse’s care”—and his love—“growing into a charming bundle of joy, one who could sit on his own and finally creep about.”
He let go of her hand and resumed his pacing as she watched from before the window. “Oh, don’t mistake me. I had no delusions. I knew life would be hard for a lad unable to walk, but within Ian’s dark brown eyes I saw an innate intelligence, mayhap even his grandsire’s canniness. With the MacKinnons at his back, I had nay doubt our wee bairn would make his own way, mayhap by following his forbearers into the Abbey of Iona to become a scholar or mayhap by taking over our clan’s correspondence and complex trading ledgers, but he would succeed.
“Then one day, the wet nurse had to leave the babe for just a moment to fetch clean nappies from the line and left him, fresh from his bath, in Cassandra’s care, and Cassandra…”—his voice cracked and he cleared his throat—“drowned our child.”
“Oh dear God!” Genny, her bonnie blue eyes wide in alarm, pressed a hand to her heart. “How could a mother…?”
“I happened to be walking by the chamber and found Cassandra drenched to the skin, holding my beautiful laddie beneath the water.” Using the heels of his hands, Britt dashed the tears from his eyes. “Ian had apparently struggled, fought to live, and she in her madness had had to work to hold him under water. Blind with rage, I slung her across the room, scooped up my bonnie babe and tried to breathe life back into him, but ’twas too late.”
Genny, having apparently heard enough and not wanting to hear more, tugged on his hand. “Come.”
He knew without being told that she would lead him to the loft where they would make love until the new moon rose. Knowing a child might come forth from the union, he pulled her close. “Nay, you need to hear it all.” He led her to the chair and bid she sit.
“Gen, I tried to kill her that day.” He related his finding Cassandra, who’d fled to the hall, and his strangling her, only to be foiled by his father. He told her about his fury when his father refused to bring her to judgment and the conditions he’d asserted for her confinement.
“So she escaped and somehow died?”
Britt told her what transpired upon his return to Skye. “So there you have it. In the end, she still died by my father’s hand, and I am free at last.”
Genny wiped the tears from her cheeks and shook her head. “I don’t know how you’ve endured such sadness.”
He crossed the room and knelt before her. Taking her hands in his, he brought them to his lips. What he now had to tell her would prove the hardest of all to say, for it could mean losing her forever.
“Gen, I did not tell you all this in an effort to garner your sympathy. The truth is that I love you beyond reason, nearly lost my mind when I saw you sail away. I wish to make you mine before God and man, but before I can ask you to bind your life with mine, you need ken one more thing.” The smile that had been taking shape on her lovely countenance slowly shifted to one of wariness, her lower lip catching betwixt her teeth. “With me, it could happen again. I could sire another babe with misshapen legs.”
There. He
’d said it aloud. In a cruel twist of fate, his body, perfect as few were in trunk and limb, had flawed seed. The truth hurt as little had, but she either had to accept the possibility of having a child like his precious Ian, or she needed to send him away and find another more worthy of her. He could not—would not—go through the anguish again.
She studied him for too long a while, then said, “Since you’ve been honest with me, I too must be honest with you.”
His heart sank. Fearing he might be physically ill, he started to rise, but she placed her hands on his shoulders. “Nay. You asked, and so now you must hear.” She shifted her hands to either side of his face. “Look at me.”
When he did, she said, “Had you posed this question to me the day you crossed yon threshold for the first time, I, having never been in love and never wanting to be, would have said nay, I would not knowingly lie with a man who might give me such a bairn. But I now ken we’re all flawed in one way or another…I mayhap more than many. In my ignorance and vanity, I’d initially blamed everyone but myself for becoming the lover of a married man. But no more. I’ve come to see that I love you beyond measure. Should we have a bairn who is not perfect, I promise he or she”—she grinned—“or they will be treasured, for my bairns will be conceived in love with a man I can no longer imagine living without.” Fresh tears cascaded down her cheeks. “I thought I’d lost you and found it almost impossible to breathe. I love you, Britt MacKinnon, and so will love any and all bairns we make, whether they be physically perfect or not.”
Britt had trouble breathing. “Are you certain?”
She smiled, and her adorable dimple came out of hiding. “Aye, absolutely certain.”
Laughing, he stood and pulled her into his arms, then swung her in a huge circle, sending her skirts flying. After kissing her soundly, he said, “Then we must find a priest, for I will make you mine before the cock crows.”
“Oh no, we can’t.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because, dearest, I shan’t marry without Greer at my side. We’ve gone through too much not to share this, the most important day in my life.”
“Humph.” Britt had given little thought to her twin since Genny had run off. The sisters likely had few secrets betwixt them, and Greer had no love for him. Nor he for her. He trusted her no more than he did Yolande.
His decision on what to do next made, he smiled down at the love of his life. “As you lust. We shall formally wed in Ireland, but first I need ken which man among your sept is the most respected, influential.”
“I suppose that would be Smithy. He’s the eldest and— Eeeee!”
Grabbing her by the waist, Britt caught Genny up as if she were but a bairn of three, gave her hurdies a gentle squeeze, making her squeal again, and strode out the door.
Fists beating his shoulder, Genny shouted, “Have you lost your mind, MacKinnon?”
“Nay, just doing what needs to be done, love.”
“What’s he doin’ to ye, Lady Armstrong?” the tallest of the laddies following them asked. “Should I fetch Da for ye?”
“No!” The last thing she needed was their parents coming to look too. Her face had to be scarlet from all the caresses Britt had administered to her thighs and bottom as he carried her toward the village, not to mention all the delicious things he’d told her he was about to do to her, how he would kiss her—in ways even Hildy had neglected to mention—the moment his mission was done.
Running to keep up with Britt’s long strides, another lad said, “Gold spurs! The giant’s a knight!”
She heard the clang of steel on steel before catching the pungent scent of sulfur rising off the coals burning in the smithy’s forge. Britt finally stopped and lowered her to her feet.
Growling, having no idea what Britt was about, she raked the hair off her face and tried to straighten her gown as Britt slipped an arm about her waist.
“Good day,” Britt called to the smithy as he ushered her toward the shade of the stable.
Smithy, a burly man a head shorter than Britt but equal in width, looked from Britt to her, then back to Britt. With hammer in hand, he glowered at Britt. “Are ye all right, m’lady?”
Mortified, she huffed. “Aye, though he might not be for much longer.”
“And who might he be?”
Keeping a firm hold on her waist, Britt bowed. “Sir Britt MacKinnon of the clan MacKinnon of Skye at your service, and I’ve come to ask a boon for my lady and myself.”
“A boon, ye say?”
“I wish you and these gentlemen”—he pointed to two younger men, who, curious, had gathered round—“to bear witness to my handfasting to Lady Geneen.”
“Handfasting?” Genny sputtered. “You said we’d marry!”
He grinned. “And we shall.” To Smithy, he said, “She’s yet to select day and place. You ken my situation. She’s most fair and fulsome, and I am a mere mortal…”
A look of understanding seemed to pass betwixt the men, and Britt nodded. “So ye see we need be bound by the auld laws.”
Smithy looked at Genny. “Is this so, m’lady? Ye’ve agreed to join with this Canteran?”
Fearing Britt might bristle at the Lowlanders’ derogatory term for their northern neighbors, Genny rushed to assure Smithy. “Aye, I’ve agreed, for he’s an honorable knight of girth and sword.”
“Humph!” Smithy eyed Britt again, then said to Genny, “All right, then. Hold out yer arms, m’lady.”
Having no idea why, she did as he bid. Smithy squeezed the flesh of her upper arms, then grasped her hands and ran his thumbs over her calloused palms. Looking at Britt, he said, “Just making sure ye have the right one. With them ye can never tell who’s who lest ye look real hard or one of ’em sings. Yers can’t.”
As Genny glowered at Smithy, Britt grinned. “So I’ve noted.”
“Then get on with it, sir. I ain’t got all day.”
Britt took her hands in his and, looking deep into her eyes, said, “Before these witnesses, I, Britt Alexander MacKinnon of Skye, take you, Geneen Armstrong of Buddle, to wife.” He repeated it twice more then added, “Not for just a year and a day but for all the days of my life.”
Heart swelling, she wrapped her arms about his neck. Into the warmth of their mixed breath, she whispered, “I accept.”
“Make way!” a woman shouted, elbowing her way through the crowd that had taken shape around them. “’Tis true, then? One of our ladies is hitched?”
Recognizing the voice, Genny mentally winced. “Mrs. MacFee, how good to see you. Aye, ’tis true and more.”
The woman examined Genny from hair to slippers, all of which were in disturbing disarray. “And which Lady Armstrong might ye be?”
Genny sighed. “Lady Geneen.”
“Ah, our tax collector.”
Since her tone held no malice, Genny said, “Britt, may I present our midwife, Mrs. Maude MacFee.”
Britt took the old woman’s hand, plump as dough, and bowed deeply. “Britt MacKinnon of Skye at your service, m’lady.”
Auld Maude turned crimson, then, collecting herself, flapped her apron at one and all. “Away to me croft, the lot of ye. Can’t be having a wedding without buns and mead. ’Twould be unchristian. Hie now, ’fore I change my mind.”
A cheer went up. Maude had a knack not only for birthing babes but for making the best mead among the villagers. Someone pulled a whistle from their belt, and to a shrill tune, they all marched to the midwife’s croft.
“Saint Columba, I thought they’d never let us go.” Britt, stripped of his clothing, collapsed onto the bed, pulled Genny to his chest and draped a thigh over hers. Feeling her breath against his throat, her delightful pink-tipped breasts pressing against his chest, he ran his hands over the sweet velvet of her skin and sighed. Mine! Every luscious curve, every sunlit tress, all mine.
Snuggling into his embrace, she patted his cheek. “You’ve none to blame but yourself. Had you not started the sleight of hand, pulling coins from
behind the wee ones’ ears, we might have escaped the merriment sooner.”
“True, but they were so determined to make our union a joyous occasion, how could I deny them?” Word had already reached the villagers that their king was dead. When pressed for answers, he’d told them an heir was on the way. But the adults knew the ways of nature, that the babe could be stillborn or frail. That even a healthy son might not prevent war. So he’d provided them what little joy he could.
And now ’twas his turn to celebrate the fact that he had the woman he loved in his arms.
Lulled by excellent ale and hearty food, he began their lovemaking in leisurely, luxurious fashion, him taking his time worshiping his hard-won prize, Genny relaxed and giving. As he stroked, she purred. As they kissed, her flesh heated much like a well-tended fire. Her soft breaths became pants. His gentle stroking betwixt her thighs caused her to gasp. Feeling her grow exceedingly slick and arch beneath his fingers, he rolled and settled between her thighs. Looking into her eyes, he smiled and told her, “I’ve dreamed of this every night since first making love to you.”
“Britt.”
“Hmm?”
“Shhh.” She grasped his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. Her hips arched to meet his, and slick with need, she welcomed him home.
Unlike their first mating, this time there was no anxiety, only wonder. This lovely blonde goddess beneath him—his ladywife—knowing the truth, still loved and wanted him. The knowledge made it all that more difficult to bide his time. None too soon she, panting, went rigid beneath him. That’s the lass.
Keening his name, she shuddered, her womb throbbing, bidding him come, and so he did.
Chest heaving, glistening with sweat, Britt collapsed onto his forearms above her, then, garnering what strength he had, slowly rolled onto his back, taking her with him.
