Bride of Dunloch (Highland Loyalties)

by Veronica Bale

  “I were not expecting ye till nightfall,” he said.

  “I can leave and come back later if you’d prefer,” she quipped.

  Robbie chuckled. “Dinna be daft.”

  He reached his arm to her, and when she came to him and knelt at his side he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close, kissing her warmly in welcome. His moist lips on hers liquefied her mind along with her limbs, and she had to concentrate on the reason she’d come to him this day if she wanted to make it out of the hut and to the plateau at all.

  “Robbie, I need you to come with me. I have something I’d like to show you.”

  Robbie raised his eyebrows enquiringly. “What might that be now?”

  “It’s a surprise. Can you walk? You shall need to walk to get there.”

  He studied her a moment longer. “I have half a mind to ask ye if ye’d decided to betray me to the English after all.”

  “I swear I would not,” she gasped.

  “I was only jesting,” he laughed at her horrified expression. “I figure if ye were bent on betraying me to the English, ye’d have just brought them here.”

  “What are you like?” she admonished playfully, shaking her head as she helped him to stand.

  The journey to the plateau was long and arduous, for although Robbie could in fact walk, his wound had not yet healed entirely and the constant motion caused him pain. Jane assisted him as best she could, keeping herself tucked firmly under his arm to take some of his weight. As they progressed, Robbie quickly guessed where she was taking him.

  “D’ye ken this place as well?” he enquired.

  “I did not know of it at first,” she admitted. “I had some help finding it.”

  “By whom?”

  “You’ll see.”

  When at last they broke through the trees, Robbie immediately spotted the freshly dug grave ringed with stones and the cloaked body laid carefully beside.

  “Jane, what is this?” he demanded warily, his voice breaking with both emotion and fear.

  She opened her mouth to answer him, but a rustling in the trees to their right silenced her.

  “Get back,” Robbie ordered. He pulled his sgian-dubh from his kilt hose and, ushering her behind him for her protection, he aimed the blade in the direction of the sound.

  “No, Robbie, it’s okay, it’s—” she tried to assure him, but he would not listen.

  The rustling sound grew closer and closer, and Robbie shifted his stance, preparing to attack or defend depending on what the situation called for. Jane said nothing, both amused and touched by his determination to be her protector.

  At last, Tearlach broke through to the plateau, leading the gelding atop which Margret was seated with little Connall. When they laid eyes on Robbie their jaws dropped, and they simultaneously uttered exclamations of shock.

  “Master Rob?” gasped Tearlach.

  “Robbie!” breathed Margaret.

  Tearlach hastened to help Margaret and the little boy down off the gelding, and the pair of them rushed forwards to embrace Robbie. Jane stepped back to allow the tearful reunion, and when a bewildered young Connall came to her side, clutching a simple, wooden toy in his little fist, she put her arm around the boy’s shoulder. Watching the emotional meeting of the three MacGillivrays, Jane shed a few tears of her own.

  “We heard ye hadna been found among the dead,” Tearlach sobbed, leaning back and clasping his face between his large hands. He looked Robbie up and down like a father would his son.

  “I very nearly was,” Robbie answered, swiping at his moist cheeks with the back of his hand. “But I was saved by an angel. Jane’s spent countless hours bringing me back to health.”

  He gazed warmly at her as he spoke, and she blushed humbly when Margaret and Tearlach turned their astonished eyes to her. But then, Margaret’s eyes alighted on the covered body at the side of the grave. She gasped, and her shaking hand rose to her throat.

  “Is ... is that my Connall?” she asked. More tears brimmed at her eyelids and her voice trembled.

  Robbie’s eyes widened as he turned to peer at the covered figure again with fresh sight.

  “How did ye do it Tearlach?” he asked. “They’d had a guard.”

  “Aye,” agreed Margaret. “We were forbidden from claiming the dead.”

  “Well, that there were the baroness, too,” he informed them. “It were she who came to me wi’ the idea that she would distract the guard while I fetched Connall from the valley.”

  “Ye did this, Jane?” Robbie said, turning his eyes to her.

  The peculiar mix of awe and tenderness with which he regarded her tugged at her heart.

  “It really wasn’t much,” she mumbled, uncomfortable under their gazes of gratitude and admiration.

  “No’ much?” Robbie argued. “It were braver than any of the remaining MacGillivrays.”

  She shrugged, falling silent as Margaret stepped forward. Bending to her knees awkwardly from the weight of her belly, she took Connall’s hand in her own. Jane’s heart ached as she watched the woman cry quietly for her love. Young Connall gripped her leg harder, upset by his mother’s weeping, and Jane squeezed his small shoulder reassuringly. After a moment, Robbie moved forward, urging Margaret to stand again. When she did, she turned her face into Robbie’s shoulder and wept fiercely.

  From the side of the grave, Tearlach spoke. Jane did not understand the words, for they were in Gaelic, but their meaning was clear. They were words of reverence. Of loss and grief. And of love—love of a wife, of a cousin, of a clansman. Love for the land that was rightfully theirs.

  Jane watched on, an outsider, as the three MacGillivray survivors said their farewells to one of their own. Then, Tearlach fell silent. After a few moments, she stepped to Robbie’s side.

  “I must return to the castle,” she murmured. “Will you be alright to get back to the hut on your own?”

  “Aye,” he nodded. “Please come back to me tonight.”

  Both Margaret and Tearlach passed looks between themselves, but remained silent. Jane untangled herself from young Connall’s embrace and directed the boy to join his mother. Approaching her side, he stood solemnly at the side of his father’s grave. A heart wrenching sob escaped Margaret’s lips as the little boy laid his small, wooden toy atop the cloaked breast.

  Turning away from the sorrowful farewell, Jane left the plateau, left the three highlanders to their long overdue time of mourning.

  Chapter 13

  “You certainly are distracted this evening,” Lady D’Aubrey noted that night as she and Jane sat alone together in the dowager’s private apartments.

  “Hmmm?” Jane uttered. She glanced up from the spot on the floor at which she’d been staring blindly to find Lady D’Aubrey staring at her inquisitively.

  The lady chuckled, her eyes warm. “You did not eat much at the meal, either. Are you well?”

  “Oh, yes, I am well,” Jane sighed. “And I am certain it is not what you are thinking.”

  “You are astute,” Lady D’Aubrey laughed. “But I know it cannot be that. It would be too early to tell. There is something that is occupying you, though.”

  Jane sighed, chewing on her bottom lip. “You are right.”

  “But you do not wish to tell me.”

  “No,” she disagreed. “I rather think that I do wish to tell you, but fear that to do so would be unwise.”

  The old baroness studied Jane, sensing something in the words she did not say.

  “Then perhaps it is best you say nothing. I would advise you, young Jane, to be wary of whom you do trust with your secrets. As much as I would like you to trust me, I fear I cannot promise you of it. Oh, do not take my words to mean that I intend on betraying whatever confidences you may place in my trust, for I do not. What I mean is that in these Scottish Highlands, loyalties can turn as fast as the weather. Be it your husband, your maid, or whatever friends you may make, you’d be best to withhold your trust as often as pos
sible, and offer it only when it is absolutely necessary. I would hate to think of a sweet girl such as you suffering an unthinkable fate because she was too trusting and naive.”

  For a moment, as Jane listened to the baroness’ warning, she worried the lady might somehow be privy to each and every one of her secrets. She was about to inquire what specifically Lady D’Aubrey meant when their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a servant at the baroness’ door.

  “My Lady,” said the man addressing Jane with a curt bow. “Er ... forgive me, but the baron requires yer ... ah ... company in his bedchamber. He bids ye go to him now.”

  Jane nodded, her cheeks reddening.

  “I apologize for my son,” Lady D’Aubrey offered when the servant had gone. “That was inappropriate and inexcusable.”

  “It is not for you to apologize,” she assured the woman. “And it is the least of things he has to apologize for.”

  She had not meant for her last comment to be said aloud. Her eyes widened and she raised them to Lady D’Aubrey. The eyes that met hers in return held her with an odd expression which she could not decipher.

  “I think, young Jane, you are learning to bend. I am intrigued to see how your turn develops.”

  “I-I know not what you mean,” Jane stammered.

  Lady D’Aubrey smiled, and patted Jane’s hand affectionately. “We shall see.”

  Upon returning to her chamber direct from Lord Reginald’s attentions, Jane insisted that Ruth draw her a bath. For the first time she was not only repulsed by the way Lord Reginald used her ... she was also angry. It was her body to give as she saw fit, not his to take whenever the urge came upon him. She felt dirty, and needed to scrub herself clean of his seed and his sweat and his smell.

  This was not the way it was supposed to be. She was entitled to more. She deserved more. Robbie had taught her that, and against her better judgement, she was beginning to believe it.

  As she sat in the water, taking what little comfort she could in the sensation of the water cascading down her back, she longed to tell Ruth of her secret romance. But the baroness’ warning halted the words in her throat. She had been warned to trust not even Ruth. Even as Ruth begged her to unburden herself, Jane kept silent, fighting against an overwhelming desperation to simply tell someone.

  When Ruth had gone, Jane prepared for her nocturnal journey over the Scottish countryside. She donned her customary wool dress and laced up her sturdy shoes; her hair she left unbound. If Lord Reginald was not about to respect her rights over her own body, she was not about to respect the customs of married women ... even if her defiance would be seen by no one other than her lover.

  As she waited for the castle to fall silent, she knelt beside her bed and retrieved Robbie’s scrap of plaid from where she’d hidden it between the frame and the mattress. She traced the pattern of the red and green squares with a fingertip, memorizing the individual stitches, the hues, the fraying edges. A host of complicated and dangerous emotions warred within her. She knew now that she loved Robbie with her entire being—and that was a very dangerous thing. For what good could come of a married English woman loving the Scottish enemy of her husband?

  At least that was what her head told her. Her heart, however—her heart revelled in the joy she felt in this, her first real love. And her heart raged at being deprived the opportunity to have fallen in love the proper way. She should have been married to a man with whom she could fall in love, a man to whom she could be attracted. She should have been married to ...

  Robbie.

  Angrily, she stuffed the scrap of fabric back into the frame of the bed. Such thoughts served no purpose; they were only sure to drive her mad. She’d be best to put them out of her head, and focus on one day at a time.

  Nevertheless she revisited those thoughts over and over again on her way to Robbie.

  She had half a mind to tell him what the baroness had said, but the moment she entered the hut, her thoughts stilled, replaced by a swelling of her heart as she beheld him, curled on his side like a lost child.

  He’d cried—she could see that immediately, even in the dim light of the fire. His eyes were red and puffy from it. But he smiled when he saw her, relieved at having her near once more. He raised himself carefully into a sitting position, bidding her to sit next to him. She did so, willingly and wordlessly.

  “I canna tell ye what it meant to me to bury Connall,” he said, enveloping her in his strong arms. “Ye astound me, d’ye ken?”

  “I confess I have astounded myself in this past fortnight or so. I did not believe myself capable of half the things I have done since I have come here.”

  “Ye ken what I wish ...” Robbie began, and then faltered.

  “What?” she pressed.

  “I ken it’s daft, but ... I wish there were nothing out there waiting for us. Or that there were no day, only the night. There were no Longshanks, no D’Aubrey, even no Dunloch. D’ye ken what I mean?”

  Jane turned her face into his shoulder. “I do. It’s like there are two different worlds—one of duty, and one of ...”

  She pressed her lips tightly together. Had she really been about to say “love”? Though it was entirely, overwhelmingly true for her, she couldn’t admit such a thing to him ... could she?

  “What is it? What were ye about to say?”

  “Nothing,” she lied, shaking her head with a rueful smile. “I do not recall.”

  Robbie glanced at her sceptically, but let it go. Instead, he pulled her with him to lie down, and when she laid her head on his chest, he stroked her hair tenderly. As he did, she let her gaze travel around the small hut. She was tempted to let herself imagine, just for a moment, that this hut truly belonged to her and Robbie, that it was their home. Perhaps a trunk was nestled into the corner with their garments neatly stored. Perhaps a small babe slept in the corner in a basket Robbie had fashioned. Maybe Connall had helped him ...

  “What are ye thinking, Jane?”

  Robbie’s murmured words filtered into her flimsy reverie, strengthening it, making it seem more real. She had to remind herself it was monumentally stupid to want such a thing.

  “I’m trying not to think actually,” she evaded, offering him a half-truth. “If I allow myself to think, I remember that there is a D’Aubrey, and a Dunloch, and a war just outside this door.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “That is how I feel also. In truth, I have felt that way since I met ye.”

  Jane raised herself up on her elbow so that she could look into his clear, green eyes. The eyes that gazed back at her glowed warmly in the firelight, rich with some emotion she dared not try to name but which sent her stomach and her heart into a tumult of longing nonetheless.

  “I don’t want to think,” she repeated in a whisper.

  No, what she wanted was Robbie—in so many more ways than just physically. She wanted his devotion; his very soul. She wanted what she could not have and dared not admit.

  He heard her thoughts anyway, as though she’d spoken them aloud. He reached a hand up and nestled his fingers into her hair. Pulling her face to his he kissed her long and tenderly. His mouth on hers was a language of its own, communicating feelings and emotions so much better than any spoken words could. Jane wanted to believe desperately that his kiss could be conveyed into promises, could offer security and safety. She wanted desperately to believe that his kiss could make the world around them and everyone in it disappear.

  And this night, she was prepared to let herself believe it all—if only for a short while. She responded to his kisses with ardent desire, with passion, and with love. Yes, love. She would never tell him, but this night, this moment, she would allow herself to admit it inwardly.

  She loved Robbie.

  She loved him as she gripped him to her, as she slid his shirt off him and ran her hands up his thighs and under his kilt with a boldness she had not felt the first time she’d been with him. She loved him as she cradled his head to her breasts, her stomac
h, and every inch of her that his heated lips found. And when he entered her, desperate for the warmth and satisfaction that only she could provide him, she loved Robbie with a fierceness which ached so strongly it threatened to burst her heart.

  She sheathed him as he moved inside her, and wrapped her legs around his narrow waist in a way that was both provocative and protective. His moans of ecstasy and sighs of pleasure were as music to her soul, stirring notes of longing that drove her own ecstasy higher and higher. And when he reached his climax, his desperate thrusts could not be deep enough, could not claim her enough. They broke her own climax which radiated through her like an unbearable energy.

  She held him close as he collapsed onto her, trembling and panting heavily. His moist, hot breath caressed her sternum as he exhaled; his cheek nuzzled her breast, and in return she allowed her own cheek to nuzzle the top of his head.

  She loved Robbie, and as desperately as she wanted to tell him, she knew she could not. It was not fear that he would not return her love that stopped her. It was the recognition that to love him was both foolish and dangerous.

  And to tell him she loved him would serve no purpose.

  Chapter 14

  Jane left the small hut early—the light of a new day was just beginning to brighten the sky. Robbie, in his slumber, did not seem to want to let her go. The moment she stirred, his arms automatically tightened to prevent her from leaving him. With gentle coaxing and a promise that she would return as soon as she could, she placed a warm and tender kiss to his forehead and departed. A sense of sadness settled over her as she walked the bank of the forest brook, sadness at the return of day, at having to leave the man she loved for one she did not.

  The moment she was in view of the castle, she saw that some sort of upheaval was going on. Riders galloped swiftly towards her—many riders, she saw; at least ten, and led by none other than Lord Reginald himself.