Highland Storm

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Lianae stirred beside him and Keane tried not to think of her arse, the shape of which, he now knew intimately, despite the barrier of her gown—and despite the fact that he kept edging backward, for she kept nestling it sweetly against him, and he had no need to touch her to picture the outline of it printed so neatly against his thighs. She wiggled backward, yet again, and Keane swore softly beneath his breath. By the sins of Sluag, he was but a man.

  He scooted backwards, away from her, the very instant he felt his cock stir, and he’d kept scooting back again every time she sleepily sought the crook of his thighs.

  With the wind whistling overhead, Lianae was afeared to come out from the blankets, so she snuggled deeper. Warm and comfy as she was, it was easy to pretend she was still at home with her mother and father, and that her elder brothers had never gone to war. Her dreams this morning were of Lulach—at ten, when Lianae was nine. They were laughing together near the silos, watching kittens chase the hens from their feed, but it was so long ago now that such innocence had been a part of their lives.

  Oh, Lulach…

  Her heart ached.

  Why?

  Rather than make the Earl pay for what he’d done to Elspeth, he’d doomed Lianae to the same fate! Her father would be so ashamed, and her minny—couldn’t he remember what they’d done to her? Aye, she had died of grief, forsooth, but they had driven her to it, taunting her with images of her bonny sons’ heads rotting on a field of dead. They’d claimed her sons’ heads were put upon pikes, and left to mark the place where MacBeth’s murdering heirs had been vanquished at long last.

  Didn’t Lulach remember?

  Why couldn’t he remember?

  Of course, Lianae had refused to believe their lies. If they’d brought home her father’s body on a slag, why wouldn’t they have returned her brothers’ as well? This, she took as proof that Graeme and Ewen must still be alive. But this was all a nightmare, in truth, and she didn’t want to wake now… because that’s where the true demons lived, in the broad light of day. Swallowing her grief, Lianae settled herself beneath the covers, and suddenly, she felt a warm hand resting on the curve of her thigh, pushing her gently but firmly forward.

  “Stop,” a male voice said.

  His breath was soft and warm as it blew across her nape.

  Keane.

  It took Lianae a sleepy moment to realize precisely where she lay. And to begin with, the only thing that kept her from flying out from the covers was the bitter cold. It slapped her across the face when she poked out her head. But, then, as soon she remembered who it was who lay beside her, she was quite certain this was precisely where she meant to stay.

  It was cold enough out there now to turn flesh to ice. Shivering, Lianae ducked her head beneath the covers and prayed for sun. If it had been near this cold when she’d fled Kinneddar Castle, she might never have left at all—or mayhap frozen to death soon after her escape. Propriety be damned! His men might all be still asleep, but Lianae had no doubt they’d already spied her huddled beneath Keane’s blankets. Let them say what they would. She had come to him willingly, and the simple fact that he was pushing her away now, left her feeling confused.

  Didn’t he like her?

  It wasn’t unheard of that a woman should expect to pay for a man’s protection with her body, and Lianae might have been willing to do so if that’s what it came down to. Maybe. That’s how cold she was! The simple fact that she had never been put in such a position was more a testament to the respect her father commanded, even from the grave… but this man had no idea who Lianae was, and still he was pushing her away—as though the feel of her somehow repulsed him. That made little sense—not after the way he’d treated her last night.

  Shifting beneath the covers, Lianae turned to face her would-be captor, remembering suddenly that he had not taken the least offense to her barb about his biting pillows. “Are ye no’ fond of women?” she asked, nonplussed.

  Hearing her question, Keane nearly choked.

  Bloody hell. The scent of her had him so hard at the instant that he daren’t allow the girl any closer. For both their sakes, he held her an arm’s length away.

  Blinking innocently, she stared at him, waiting for his answer—but nay, demanding one, if the truth be known—and Keane marveled that she could ask such a question with the evidence that lay between them.

  But, of course, how could she know?

  Her brows furrowed prettily. There were no aspersions meant, he realized and the look in her eyes seemed quite sincere. She wished to know if he preferred men, and he had half a mind to lean forward and kiss her senseless as his answer. But there was a certain innocence in her eyes that belied the impudent question.

  Swallowing with some difficulty, well aware that his camp was now rising, and that his men were all casting curious glances in their direction, Keane found himself staring helplessly into the girl’s uisge gold eyes.

  Gold, with a ringlet of green, they were the most enchanting pair of eyes Keane had ever seen. She was lovely, and unlike Lilidbrugh, with the morning light, she was twice as beautiful as the night before, with dark golden-red brows that were perfectly arched over almond-shaped eyes. Her skin… reminded Keane of rose petals… soft and unblemished. And those sulky lips… they were the color of ripe rowan berries in fall—albeit slightly chapped for the weather. It made him yearn to soothe them with his tongue. But that bruise on her cheek… it was darker now, and the sight of it successfully cooled his ardor.

  She was still waiting, confusion nestled in her lovely eyes, and although Keane realized she didn’t mean to, she leaned into the hand he had splayed between them beneath the covers, testing his uncertain barrier.

  “Ach, lass, I am quite fond of women,” Keane reassured her. And then it was the most difficult thing he’d ever had to say, “Now, please, get out of my bed.”

  It wasn’t simply the cold he knew he would regret.

  The lass blinked in surprise, and if the confusion weren’t already evident in her eyes, he saw it now tenfold. “You want me to get out?”

  Keane nodded a bit awkwardly, half shaking his head, as she continued to lean against the hand he had splayed between them. The curve of her belly teased him mercilessly and he craved naught more than to slide his hand down and explore the delicious cleft between her thighs… and deeper, the soft folds of flesh he wanted to taste as urgently as he did her lips.

  Nay, he didn’t want her to get up, but it was past time for both of them to rise—well past time for his old chap to lie down for a rest. Blood simmered through his veins, undermining his resolve...

  Now?” she asked, and Keane groaned inwardly. Were it any other moment… had he not a company of soldiers watching… if she hadn’t sounded quite so much like an innocent—or mayhap if she weren’t gazing at him with that sweet look of gratitude… as though she might wish to repay him for his good will…

  And yet, despite all his reservations, he let her ease into his space, craving the feel of her warm, sweet body pressed against his own.

  He wanted to kiss her, he did.

  More than anything...

  And those lips, they seemed to beg for proof of his desire. Ach, god, he wanted her more than any lass he’d ever craved—even more than Meara that first day. By the stone, he could warm an entire village with the heat emanating from his loins.

  She moved closer yet, leaning her face into his, and Keane cursed, if only to himself, finding his resolve weakened. He tried to will himself to speak—to warn her to get up—now, before he lost his head… but she puckered her sweet mouth just a bit, and he growled deep in his throat.

  Just one kiss?

  There was little chance he would simply take her here and now, surrounded by all his greedy-eyed men, and yet if the lass wanted him to kiss her… who was he to deny her?

  Keane reached out to touch her cheek…

  And this time, Lianae didn’t push him away.

  It was in that instant Lianae realized
what she must do.

  The answer to all her prayers came to her as she stared into Keane’s bold green eyes… It wasn’t as though she would trap him into wedding her… The king would never allow it, for this man was but a lowly border guard, with a handsome face and a kindly disposition. And yet he was far more like the man she had envisioned losing her virginity to—nothing like the Earl. And the more she considered it, the more she realized it was the right thing to do…

  She wasn’t wholly unwise to the ways of the world. Virginity was only a boon if one wished to wed a king, and even then it wasn’t all it was said to be. Her mother had certainly never complained a day in her life.

  Kissing this man, embracing him to her bosom… it was not the worst thing that could happen to her by far, for then, if they should happen to catch her, she could tell the auld lecher Earl she was ruined, that another man had claimed her long before him. His prickly English pride would never allow him to accept another man’s leftovers, and he would repudiate her before kith and kin—most assuredly before his king. And then mayhap she would be free to wed no one at all.

  He wanted to kiss her.

  She recognized the desire in his eyes.

  And suddenly, she wanted to kiss him too… and it wasn’t all a ruse.

  But she had never kissed a man before.

  Not even the sound of men rising from their pallets could dissuade her now, for then she would have all the witnesses she would need to prove she spoke the truth.

  And anyway, they were mostly sheltered from prying eyes, half hidden behind a mound of snow where once had been a crumbling wall. Lianae couldn’t see anyone so she surmised they probably couldn’t see her either—not entirely.

  Curling her toes, she reached out to boldly press her lips against Keane’s mouth, inhaling sharply at the scent of his male skin—horse and man and something else… something she had never scented before now. Cocooned as they were, he smelled oddly like pollen, like that sweet, heady aroma that flared her nostrils every spring. But this was the essence of him, a tantalizing aroma that sent her pulses skittering and her heart beating like a hapless prisoner against her ribs.

  “Ach, lass,” he said, and followed the protest with a low, confused groan.

  Emboldened by his reaction—by her will to be free of the Earl—Lianae arched into his embrace, reaching down to pull his hand out from between them, wanting to feel him lean into her, his body heavy and full with ardor. She had never had a chance to ask her sister how it should feel, but this is how she’d always imagined it.

  And that was all the encouragement he seemed to need. His arms enfolded her, and Lianae pressed herself more fully against him, marveling at what she encountered. Ach, but nay, the man was very, very fond of women—and particularly fond of her, she realized. Words alone would not serve her now, and so she said naught. Instead, she moved closer, into Keane’s space, pressing her body more fully against him.

  With a guttural sound, his hand swept the length of Lianae’s body, stopping to cup the curve of her bottom and pulling her hungrily against his arousal. Lianae cried out softly, her body convulsing in secret places. His lips softened and his tongue found her own, unexpectedly foraging into her mouth. Dazed by the gesture, and intoxicated by the taste of him, Lianae lay for a moment, until he slackened his embrace—as though he meant to stop. And before he could pull away, she shoved her tongue between his lips, mimicking his actions, and moaning softly as he let her come inside to explore…

  “Ach… nay, lass,” he said, but he didn’t stop. His hands continued to explore Lianae’s curves, dancing over her thigh. Too lost in the moment to care precisely what it was that was happening, Lianae reveled in the feel of his strong hands exploring her flesh. Even despite that she was a virgin, she knew very well that she wasn’t behaving like one, but right now, she didn’t care overmuch. It was for a good cause, she assured herself, and the simple fact that she was enjoying it so immensely was a wonderful surprise.

  He shifted his weight so that he straddled her beneath the covers, and Lianae’s heartbeat quickened as she peered up at him, meeting his gaze. With a tiny knowing smile, she nudged him gently at his loins… urging him to continue.

  “You’re a wee siren,” he whispered. “A kelpie for sure…”

  Beauteous faeries who seduced men to ride and then plunged them into the raging sea.

  “Dinna stop,” Lianae whispered against his mouth. “Dinna stop.”

  He enfolded her once more, and Lianae marveled at the strength of him, the feel of his hard body, and very much unlike that time with the Earl, she did not pray for someone to save her… and yet someone did. The instant he bent to kiss her again, someone cursed roundly, thoroughly breaking the spell.

  “Ach… I am so sorry, lass,” he said, thrusting his long fingers into the hair at the back of her head and tugging her gently away. He held her down so she couldn’t follow.

  And that was that; he was up and out of the covers faster than Lianae could blink.

  Her would-be savior was gone.

  Chapter 8

  The blare of a shepherd’s horn heralded their approach.

  Straightening in the saddle, Kellen dún Scoti rode side by side with his new bride—he on a winter-white mare, and she on a Barbary black.

  Riding ahead, along with his captain, Kellen’s father picked up the pace, eager to be home. So was Kellen, although he was overanxious about what his mother might say about the lovely woman riding at his side.

  The past few weeks had proven a wonderful adventure, and he had come home a brand new man, but he cast a nervous glance at his bonny new wife and felt far less grown than he would have liked.

  Would his mother welcome Constance with open arms? Would she be angered over the present circumstances? Would she acknowledge that, at sixteen, he was a man grown and allow him to establish his own home?

  Or would she embarrass him before his MacKinnon wife?

  Either way, Kellen realized that his mother was bound to be disappointed, if for nothing else, for not having been present for his nuptials. But ultimately, he hoped she would see it as a boon, for by his marriage to Constance, they now held blood ties to the MacKinnon laird, a man who was well respected throughout the north. These were turbulent times, and it would behoove them all to bind themselves together.

  Painted white beneath a great blue sky, the hillside meandered into a valley that was bordered on three sides by corries and on the fourth by a beautiful loch. Down in the valley below, protected by the corries and encircled by bare-limbed rowan trees, sat row upon row of stone cottages—one of them soon to be his own. Today, the vale appeared much the same as it did when he’d first arrived at the tender age of five, but during the summer those same trees would all bloom, and in the fall they’d be filled with bright red berries that would hold fast to their boughs until frost. Even now the last stubborn fruits were layered in frost, shimmering like jewels beneath the waning sun.

  He grinned, for the look on his wife’s face was worth the wait and she smiled beauteously as the small cavalcade approached the village, and one by one, his people filed out of their houses to welcome them home.

  Out on the loch stood an enormous structure with a cone-shaped roof. This was the crannóg he’d spoken to his wife about, where he and his family kept their beds. While at Chreagach Mhor, she had been fascinated by Kellen’s stories and he couldn’t wait to show her the crannóg firsthand, although his father had already promised him a cottage of his own. After all, it wasn’t fitting for a man to bed his wife under another man’s roof—or so his father had said. It was far more meet for Kellen to make himself a home all of his own—so long as his mother agreed.

  “’Tis lovely as ye said,” Constance avowed, and the sweet sound of her voice filled Kellen with joy.

  “Not more lovely than you,” he countered.

  How far he had come since Keppenach, eh?

  At Keppenach he’d been just a wee lad, all alone, without any friends
, and no siblings. His room had been cold and his bed as hard as stones. If they’d stayed there any longer, he might have been dead by his uncle’s hands. Neither he nor his gentle mother had ever had any love from Rogan MacLaren, but Kellen rarely thought about that odious man anymore. His real father had died when he was but a tot, and Aidan was the only father Kellen had ever known. While Stuart MacLaren had been a goodly man, Kellen was far more a dún Scoti than he had ever been a MacLaren, despite that he did not share his step-father’s blood. Through his years, he’d come to understand that familial bonds were not forged by blood, but by mutual respect and love. “Ye will love my sister and my aunts,” he reassured Constance.

  “If they are anything like Cat, I know I will,” she happily agreed. “And ye may have yoursel’ another sister soon,” she suggested, referring to his mother’s new babe. “What think you of that, Husband?” she asked with a smile.

  Like a sapling that had been shown the sun, Kellen sat a bit straighter in the saddle at hearing her endearment. “I hope it will be a boy,” he confessed. It would be good to have a wee lad to replace him, for his father’ sake. No matter how well his step-father loved him, he realized that it plagued Aidan quite a lot to lack an heir of his blood. They had a legacy to continue, after all, and Kellen did not bear the Guardians’ blood. He said naught for a moment, trying to picture his mother with a wee bairn. It was a strange thing to think about—particularly if he and Constance were breeding as well, though he supposed his mother was not so old as she liked to believe.

  How would that work? he wondered. His son or daughter might be a niece to his infant sister. Confusing, though it was no more confusing than to think of his step-sister Sorcha as his aunt, as well—a fact that was not known except by a chosen few. Since Kellen shared none of their blood, his mother had been quick to reveal this truth so that he might never think of Sorcha untowardly. As yet Sorcha still did not know, and Kellen was sworn to secrecy. But Dubhtolargg was full of secrets—not the least of which included the Stone that had been stolen from Scone and now lay hidden in their ben.