They were one.
Sweet and Salty
Broderick wasn’t sure how long he’d lain gulping air atop his bride, willing his tarse to stay hard so he could remain inside her pulsating heat forever. Inevitably, his cock softened and coiled up happily in the warm folds of her womanhood. He stirred when she ran her fingers through the sheen of sweat on his back. “I’m too heavy, but I canna move.”
She tightened her arms around him. “Nay. I can bear yer weight.”
He raised up on his elbows and looked at her beloved face. “’Tis true ye’re a strong woman, and well bedded, I’d say.”
Her fierce blush stirred renewed interest in his sac.
“Isabel said lovemaking was wonderful, but I ne’er imagined…”
While a mon might not want to hear his mother-by-marriage’s name in his bridal bower, he was grateful to Darroch’s wife for preparing Kyla for marital relations. There was no doubt in his mind they’d both benefitted from her willingness to broach subjects many mothers preferred not to discuss with daughters.
“Neither did I,” he confessed, deeming it high time his wife knew she was his first.
She cupped his face in her hands. “Are ye saying…?”
“Aye, ye deflowered a virgin,” he quipped. “My father’s only advice was to ne’er sire bastards because it usually proved to be expensive; he boasted of the women he’d bedded, even when my mother was alive. My primary goal in life was to nay follow his example.” He winked, fearing the conversation had become too serious. “I suppose ye could say I was saving myself for marriage.”
She shook her head. “I’m humbled by it, but I also think ye were afraid to indulge in pleasures because ye might turn out to be too much like yer father.”
He rolled onto his side and kissed her fingers then pressed her hand to his heart. “But ye’ve helped me see I’m nay like him,” he said.
“What’s more,” she replied, “ye are completely mine.”
He eased her onto her side and spooned her, skin to skin. He nuzzled his nose into her nape, inhaling the fresh scent of the sea that clung to her hair. Her bottom felt cool on his tarse, her thighs smooth. He slipped a hand beneath her breast. “We’ll sleep for a while, but we’ll keep the candles lit; ’twillna be long afore I want ye again,” he whispered. “Ye’ve turned me into a rutting fool.”
She sighed contentedly. “Good. I always wanted to marry a lusty mon.”
He kissed her back. “But only with ye.”
He dozed, his heart full, dreaming of Kyla’s belly round with his bairn. He resolved to be a loving father to his children. Darroch MacKeegan would be a good role model.
He thought Kyla had fallen asleep, and was therefore surprised when she lifted her head and asked, “Does this mean ye’ve ne’er had a lass put her mouth on ye?”
Once again, there seemed to be something wrong with his voice, but his tarse responded exactly how he might have expected. She couldn’t fail to notice the swell against her bottom.
She turned to face him and cupped his sac, moving her fingers gently. “Do ye like that?” she asked.
He could only groan in response when she didn’t wait for an answer, but kissed the swollen tip of his phallus then took him into her mouth.
*
Kyla glanced up at Broderick when he sifted his fingers through her hair to prevent it falling forward. His eyes were closed. He had the look of a man deep in concentration. “I canna quite get my hand all the way around ye,” she whispered. “Am I nay doing it right?”
He opened his eyes slowly, as if waking from a trance. “There isna a wrong way,” he murmured. “Dinna stop.”
She came to her knees and went back to enjoying the taste of his salty sweetness. Moving her mouth on him echoed the rhythm they’d shared earlier and her hand seemed intent on following.
“By the saints,” he exclaimed. “I love this, but I need to be inside ye soon. Straddle me.”
She crawled forward, still amazed that his prodigious lance had actually fit inside her.
He grasped her hips and lowered her slowly onto his manhood. “Move up and down,” he whispered. “Slowly.”
They clasped hands, their fingers meshing as they moved together. Desire blossomed within her. “Ye’re touching my womb,” she told him.
“God willing, we’ll make a bairn this night,” he replied, his dark eyes bright with love.
“I have to go faster,” she pleaded after a minute or two.
“Aye. Faster.”
She thrust out her chin, and closed her eyes, intent on the pleasure building, building within.
He gripped her thighs. “Come with me,” he growled.
His seed erupted inside her at the very moment her sheath spasmed around him. Ecstasy released her and she floated on a cloud of bliss until she collapsed on top of him, deliriously exhausted. He enfolded her in the cocoon of his strong arms.
When her breathing steadied, it came to her he was stroking her hair, his heart beating in tandem with hers. “I might have screamed,” she said nervously.
“Aye,” he chuckled. “Ye did. Mightily.”
*
Any doubts Broderick may have harbored that he was expecting too much of his wife soon vanished as the night of pleasure wore on. Her passion for him seemed as insatiable as his need to join his body to hers, to fill her with his seed.
Each time he thought he didn’t have the stamina to sustain another erection, her touch was enough to send savage maleness surging through his veins and they soared together again.
The candles had guttered out when they finally fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning.
The sun was well up when he awoke, startled to see Kyla sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring at him. She’d draped his plaid around her shoulders, but otherwise she was still naked. He trailed his fingers over the golden curls at her mons and parted her folds. “A mon should wake up to this tempting vision every morn,” he drawled.
She blushed and tried to move to a different position, but he held her thigh. “I just meant the sight of a MacKeegan wearing a Maxwell plaid.”
She smiled at his jest, but then wrinkled her nose. “I’m sticky.”
He dragged his thoughts away from licking her stickiness. “We can go down to the baths, if ye like.”
She leapt from the bed. “Aye.”
“Minx,” he teased. “That’s what ye had in mind all along.”
She grinned. “And I was afraid ye were going to sleep all day.”
He rose. “Weel deserved after spending the night with an insatiable wife.”
She fluttered her eyelashes. “Was I too wanton?”
He laughed as he took her hand and led her to the door down to the baths. “Ye’re nay wanton, just passionate. On the rare occasions I allowed myself to contemplate getting married, I was resigned to wedding some laird’s daughter out of duty to provide a successor for the clan. Ye’ve blown away all those fears and made me a happy mon.”
They shivered their way down the stone steps and quickly slid into the warm water. Watching Kyla swimming, her wet hair streaming like a cloak behind her, he acknowledged he was indeed happy, for the first time in many a year. And he was confident he was destined to enjoy happiness for a long time to come.
Farewell
Kyla spent the happiest week of her life making love to her husband, getting to know him better. They learned new ways to pleasure each other, and shared stimulating discussions about literature and life in general. She’d never expected to marry a man who understood and even encouraged her literary aspirations.
Broderick began teaching his sister how to play the fiddle; the resulting ear-splitting racket led to lots of hysterical laughter.
Her father took over the sling lessons and proved to be a better teacher than she was. Her husband and stepsister improved their aim a great deal.
On the seventh day, Cook laid out a grand spread for the first meal of the day—smoked ham, fresh bread, crum
bly cheese, and even venison left over from the previous evening.
But Kyla had no appetite. Her father was leaving. She’d known the inevitable day would dawn, but it was hard to face the fact she might never see him again.
She and Broderick stood with him on the banks of the Nith watching the last of the provisions and trade goods being loaded aboard the Banamhara.
Lily stood a little ways away with Adrian. The youth had decided to accompany Nicolson and begin a new life in Skye.
“Ye ken I hafta go home,” her father said. “Ye’re in good hands.”
She nodded. “I ken, but I’ll miss ye. I’ll miss everyone at Dun Scaith.”
Her sire raised an eyebrow. “Even yer brothers.”
She laughed. “Even them.”
“Isabel will be anxious to hear all about yer wedding, and ’tis glad I am I can assure her ye’re happy.”
“Tell her I love her.” She hesitated, not wanting to reveal too much. “Tell her I value her advice, and canna thank her enough for it.”
Her father’s puzzled expression deepened when Broderick winked mischievously and added, “I’m grateful too—very grateful.”
“Aye, weel. I’ll convey the message.”
Kyla could well imagine the grin on Isabel’s face when she received the message.
Broderick proffered his hand. “Seriously, Laird MacKeegan, I swear to do everything in my power to honor and protect my wife.”
“I trust ’tis so,” came the reply as the two men she loved most in the world clasped hands, “and I look forward to establishing a regular trade route between our clans.”
“Definitely.”
She couldn’t stem the tears as her father hugged her fiercely. “Ye’ve been lucky to find a good mon ye love, Kyla MacKeegan. Honor him in return.”
“Safe journey,” she said, nodding as he jumped aboard his birlinn.
Broderick put his arm around her shoulders and raised a hand in salute as the oarsmen pulled the vessel away from the bank.
Lily joined them. “I think Adrian made the right decision,” she announced with a maturity beyond her years. “He’s better off far away from the Lochwoods, and Nicolson thinks of him as a son.”
Kyla and Broderick exchanged a glance, the relief evident in his eyes, but then he asked, “Did I mention yer father drew up plans?”
“Plans for what?”
“A birlinn. I’m going to build one to replace the one I sank.”
“But ye have a galley—yer gunboat.”
“That’s fine for the Solway, but we’ll need a birlinn when we sail to the Hebrides.”
“Ye would travel to Skye?”
“Of course. I am acquainted with someone who’d be the perfect captain.”
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I love ye, Husband.”
He pressed her to his body, nibbled her lip and whispered, “I’ll wager no one in the Hebrides has e’er seen a birlinn with an eagle at the prow.”
She wasn’t sure if he was teasing her or not but, in any event, she had to agree. “I suppose I have to resign myself to getting along with Aiglon.”
“Dinna fash,” he laughed. “She’ll learn to love ye.”
“I’m partial to hounds myself. Could ye learn to love a dog?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Ye’ve called my bluff, lass. I suppose it would have to be a blue dog?”
“Aye.”
*
Darroch MacKeegan stood at the stern of his birlinn until the towers of Caerlochnaven disappeared from sight.
A thousand memories assailed him. He was leaving behind the wee lass who’d tugged at his heartstrings the moment he first set eyes on her, who’d refused to speak for years, and then only to a dog, who’d blossomed into an intelligent and courageous young woman—not to mention beautiful.
He clenched his jaw. There came a time when every father had to let his bairns fly free of the nest, but ’twas hard.
Isabel would be sorely disappointed to have missed the wedding. He hoped Kyla’s message of thanks made sense to her, because he got the feeling there was more to it than met the eye. And why would Broderick be grateful to Isabel? He’d never met her.
He braced his legs and walked to the prow, matching his gait to the movement of the boat. The birlinn sat low in the water, manned by his own crew and those who’d survived the sinking of Kyla’s boat, including Adrian. Now that was a surprise, Nicolson taking the lad under his wing.
As the tide carried them out of the Solway an hour later, Darroch slapped his forehead. “I’m an idiot,” he shouted, thankful when the wind muffled his outburst.
He might have known Isabel would feel it her duty to prepare Kyla for the marriage bed. A brief chill prickled his nape. He only hoped his wife hadn’t let slip some of the more inventive…
“Nay,” he reassured himself. “We canna have a lass thinking her father indulges in such antics.”
A short time later, his gaze fell on Adrian. Nicolson was explaining something to him, no doubt about navigation and the like. He’d be a good mentor for the lad, teach him things…
He slapped his forehead again. “Crivens,” he yelled.
Isabel had made sure Kyla was informed about sexual congress, but he’d done naught to prepare his sons. True they were still young, but the day for them to wed would come soon enough. He’d run wild as a youth, without the benefit of good advice from a loving father. Kyla had been the result of his careless indiscretions—a blessing as it turned out, but her mother hadn’t survived the birth. He’d carried the guilt around for years.
Grig approached. “Fair winds,” he declared. “We should be home in a sennight.”
“Aye, and the first thing I’m going to do when I get to Dun Scaith is sit down with my lads and have a talk about…”
He suddenly felt foolish. Auld Grig—seventy if he was a day—would think he’d gone daft if he uttered the word sex.
“…er, about learning how to captain a ship now we’ve lost Kyla, and ye and me, we’re nay getting any younger.”
He couldn’t recall ever seeing the dour-faced Grig laugh before in all the years he’d known him.
Postscriptum
The metallic clank of the jailer’s key and the squealing of hinges woke Corbin from a fitful doze. When he’d first arrived at the Tower, the strident sounds sent his heart skittering around his ribcage every time he heard them. His execution was at hand.
He’d eventually realized it was the signal that his food was being brought. He didn’t bother to open his eyes, sick and tired of dry, weevil-infested bread that he was expected to wash down with watered ale.
A loud cough startled him. If the jailer hadn’t come to bring him food…
His heart lurched. He’d known this day would dawn, and a beheading might be preferable to the mind-numbing boredom of a cold cell in the Tower of London.
He curled up more tightly to ward off the chill of impending death.
“You’ve a visitor,” the jailer announced.
No doubt a priest, there to give him last rites. He didn’t need some Papist muttering meaningless…
“Get up, Corbin.”
He recognized the voice immediately, and sat up abruptly, willing away a momentary dizziness. “What are you doing here?”
He knew the answer. His father had come to witness his execution.
They’d never seen eye to eye, especially after Corbin ousted his father from the lairdship. The man was too nice, too accommodating to be the leader of a great clan.
Ranald Lochwood remained by the door, his thin face grim.
“Come to gloat?” Corbin taunted.
“I petitioned the king for clemency,” his father replied tersely.
Corbin arched his brows. “That’s a surprise. No doubt he refused.”
“Nay, yer sentence is commuted.”
For one glorious moment, Corbin thought he was to be pardoned and released. Free to pursue Kyla, the bitch who’d caused all
this suffering.
“Ye’re to be taken to Tilbury docks and transported to Ireland.”
Corbin couldn’t help it. He laughed and laughed and laughed until his eyes watered.
Ireland! A fate worse than death.
Finally, he gulped a breath of the stale air. “And I suppose you’re reinstated as laird and our lands restored?”
“Aye.”
Corbin had to hold his gut when another fit of uncontrollable laughter caused his belly to ache.
“What’s so amusing?” his father asked impatiently.
Exhausted, Corbin leaned back against the cold stone. “I was just thinking about the irony of it. They say Ireland is full of redheaded women.”
Historical Footnotes
MAXWELL/LOCHWOOD FEUD
Based very loosely on the feud between the Maxwells and the Johnstones. Broderick Maxwell and Corbin Lochwood are fictional characters who bear no resemblance to any member of either the Maxwell or Johnstone Clan, living or dead.
web.archive.org/web/20110515200554/http://www.dryfesdalelodge.org.uk/resources/thebattleofdryfesands.pdf
KING JAMES
Son of the ill-fated Mary, Queen of Scots, James became King of Scotland when he was a few months old. He later succeeded to the throne of England when Elizabeth I died without issue. Hence he is referred to as James VI of Scotland and James I of England.
He is the king after whom the King James bible is named.
There is a wealth of information about him online, but I’ll just mention a couple of little-known tidbits. In 1604 he wrote A Counterblaste To Tobacco describing smoking as “hateful to the nose, harmful to the brain, and dangerous to the lungs”.
He also wrote a treatise on witchcraft called Daemonologie. He believed in witches and took a personal interest in the torture and trial of alleged witches.
James was the first monarch of the united kingdoms of Scotland and England. Since England and France were bitter enemies, this ended the long-standing Auld Alliance between Scotland and France.
Kilty Pleasures (Clash of the Tartans Book 3) Page 20
