Highlanders for the Holidays: 4 Hot Scots

by Glynnis Campbell

  Chapter 5

  “Iain, mo dhuine…”

  My man.

  His Scot’s tongue flowed like honey from his wife’s lips. He placed a finger to her mouth. “Shhhh, my love.”

  At thirty-one, Page was scant older than he’d been on the day he’d met her, but her hair had yet to show a hint of gray. She still looked like a maiden. The only lines she wore on her face were the laugh lines about those lovely lips—sweet, bonny lips that had pleasured him so verra well throughout their years.

  “Iain,” she complained as he drew her into the stable. “We have guests, my love.” Still, her lips curved a bit mischievously and she reached down to plant her soft hand against the back of his. But instead of slapping him away, she merely caressed him, her eyes hooding with desire.

  “I’ve a craving for plums,” he teased.

  “Céadsearc,” she said. My first love. And her answering smile made Iain’s heart trip a beat. “You’ll find no plums beneath my skirt,” she chastised.

  He pulled his wife close, his cock hardening beneath his plaid. “I disagree … for that is where I will find the most delicious plum of all.”

  She didn’t fight him, so he drew her against him, whispering softly, “I have dreamt endlessly of that plum, the delightful taste, the tantalizing scent. I long to sink my teeth into that tender flesh, and lift my tongue along the cleft…”

  Page shivered in his arms, and he knew by the way she melted against his embrace that his fingers would find her ready and wet. And yet, even as he rediscovered the treasure he sought, the silky feel of her body sent a violent shudder through him.

  He was no longer a boy, she no longer a girl, but she was as beautiful as she was the day he first saw her, dressed in naught more than a flimsy chemise, her hair sopping wet. He loved her more fiercely now than he ever did before. Page—his heart, his only love—had given him years of loyalty and love, a daughter with a smile as beauteous as her own. She treated Malcom as though he were her very own, and his clan with every bit of affection as Iain did himself. They could not have been anymore blessed in his choice of bride. In truth, Iain would give Page anything in his power—anything at all, but alas, there was only one thing she ever asked for of late… and that he could not provide.

  A reunion with her father.

  “No one will miss us,” he coaxed. “Constance and Kellen have everyone’s attention, as it should be.” His shaft nestled happily against the crook of his wife’s thighs, lifting of its own accord to her most delicate place. “On the other hand, you have my undivided attention.” He sent a hand to her bottom, pressing his arousal fully against her, so as to make his point.

  Her eyes widened and so did his grin.

  Page laughed. “You are insatiable,” she complained, although she lifted herself on tiptoes to kiss his mouth, automatically sliding her arms about his waist.

  As she had done only seconds before, Iain melted against his wife, as subject to her wiles as she was to his. But then suddenly she put a hand to his chest, pushing him gently away. “Alas, but we cannot, Iain. There are too many people. How can we?”

  Iain wiggled his brows. “Quite easily,” he argued.

  She gave him a lovely, chastening glance beneath hooded lids. Her cheeks bloomed with high color. But she nevertheless shook her head.

  Iain felt like a young lad who’d been shown a sweet tart and then had it ripped out of his hand. He pouted like a boy. “How about the tip … to whet my appetite for later?”

  Her shoulders shook gently, but this time with quiet laughter. “Only the tip?”

  Iain nodded quickly, excited by the prospect. “Only the tip,” he promised, “and then I will be a verra good boy and tend to all my guests.”

  “All of them? Even the wet nurse who came with Broc and Elizabet? The one who seems to be all eyes for the verra handsome MacKinnon laird?”

  “Nay. Well, not her.”

  Page smiled sweetly. Reaching down between them, she lifted her skirt, allowing him access, “Only the tip, and no more, Iain.”

  Iain nearly laughed, because she sounded like a mother rationing cookies to her son. But laughter was forgotten and his heart nearly leapt from his chest as he pushed his plaid out of the way, taking himself into his hands. They had not made love for days, and it was driving him mad. He could scarcely contain himself as his flesh touched her silky warmth and he shuddered savagely as her body welcomed him inside.

  “Only the tip,” she whispered against his ear, her breath hot and sweet. It gave Iain yet another shiver.

  “Aye,” he agreed with a guttural moan. “But how many times?”

  Her lovely brow furrowed. “How many times?” It took her a full moment before she realized what he was asking.

  She was silent so long that Iain made to withdraw, though she pulled him back, arching slightly, laughing softly. “Five,” she said.

  Relieved, Iain fell back against her, closing his eyes, savoring the feel of her soft skin melting around his cock.

  Intending to make the most of it, and savor every second, he withdrew the first time with a little shiver and then pushed himself back inside … only the tip.

  “One,” he said, and withdrew again.

  “That was two,” Page said firmly, although her breath now sounded labored to his ears.

  Iain groaned with pleasure. With careful control, still savoring the moment, the way her body stretched and closed about him, he withdrew once more, and Page said, “Two.”

  Iain tried not to laugh.

  “Three,” she whispered.

  “Four,” he said.

  “Five.”

  The tension in Iain’s shoulders was palpable. He froze, dreading the moment of separation. If she just let him do it a few more times, he would gift her with the seed of his love—and mayhap give her another child—mayhap a son.

  The stable went completely silent.

  It was dark now, the air musty with the scent of sex.

  “Six,” his wife said quietly, and Iain remained very still, not wanting her to claim he’d gone against his word. “Six,” she said again and moved provocatively against him, tilting her hips so as to give him better access.

  Iain pretended to resist. “But you said…”

  Her hand moved behind his arse, pulling him back. “Dinna mind what I said, now I want six,” she demanded.

  Iain laughed. “And now who is the insatiable one?” But he gave her what she asked for, pushing himself inside once more—this time much more than just the tip.

  He waited to see if it pleased her, and when she buried her lips against his neck and nipped his skin, lifting one leg about his waist, he knew he had.

  Page sighed contentedly. “You can have ten,” she offered, pulling him down toward the ground. Iain followed her down, covering her body with his own. He moved against her, worshipping her body, withdrawing and pushing back inside with arousing slowness, wanting to pleasure her first. Each time, she took him more fully, widening her legs a bit more, nibbling his neck a little harder…

  “Page,” he whispered, “Cèol mo Chridhe, Keh-ole moe chreeyeh.”

  You are the music of my heart.

  * * *

  “And you mine,” Page said, feeling every bit the wanton.

  Her senses heightened.

  Her husband was a master puppeteer, knowing her only too well. They had a houseful of guests, a wedding to see to, and that was only if you somehow managed to forget that they had a village to rebuild. With so much work to be done, this was not where she should be right now, though she must confess, at the instant, there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

  Iain loved her sweetly, filling her wholly, caressing her body from the inside out. Here, alone in the stables, she felt like a new bride lying beneath him, arching for his loving, letting him fill her as deeply as he pleased.

  It was easy to see how young folk could get carried away, and Page was so pleased for Constance. This was the reason for life…
>
  She cared not one whit that the ground was cold, or that the smell of pigs and horseflesh surrounded them. At times like this, she was again that lost little girl who had loved her reluctant champion so madly.

  But she detected other scents… scents that were hardly suited to a stable. Cinnamon and ginger. Lavender. Cloves. Page froze.

  “Iain?”

  Her husband stopped loving her at once, responding to the tone of her voice.

  “Did you order supplies to be stored in the stables instead of the storehouse?”

  “Nay.”

  “It’s dark,” she said. “Light a lamp.”

  “Right now?”

  His voice sounded incredulous, but Page had a sudden and unshakable sense of peril. Before either of them could entirely regain their senses, she heard the crack of metal against bone and felt Iain crumble against her.

  Chapter 6

  Any sense of chagrin Page may have felt over having been caught in the midst of loving her husband fled at the sight of Iain sprawled on his face on the stable floor. The man hit him hard enough to leave him for dead, and then he dragged her out of the stable, screaming in protest.

  Unlike the night before, all work had ceased. Her husband had declared this a day of celebration so everyone was at the bonfire, half a league away—purposely built to keep the fire as far from surviving structures and new construction as possible.

  “We cannot leave him there!”

  The man—dressed in MacLean red—jerked her arm so hard it made her squeal.

  “He’ll be fine,” the stranger said, “I merely cracked him on the head, but if ye make me go back, I’ll make certain he won’t rise again.”

  Page’s relief was palpable. “You have no idea what you have done. My husband will come searching for me the very instant he wakes. He will find you,” she warned, and then she wished she hadn’t made such a boast. The last thing she wanted was for the man to go back and make sure Iain was dead.

  “He won’t find you ’til ’tis too late.”

  Page had a sinking feeling down in her gut. “Too late?”

  She couldn’t place the man’s accent—not precisely. He wasn’t Scots. His accent sounded strange to her ears—and yet vaguely familiar as well.

  “Because your father is going to kill you,” he explained.

  Page was genuinely confused by his claim. Her father had had very little to do with her for ten years and more. “My father?”

  “Aye. Your father.”

  “Hugh is here?”

  “Aye.”

  “With you?”

  “Not precisely.”

  “He has come to kill me?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Page bristled at the man’s question. “Of course it does!”

  What child ever wanted to believe her father could do such a thing?

  Hugh FitzSimon had never loved her overmuch, but Page could not see him come to murder her in cold blood. And still … he’d been quite willing to discard her—never mind that he’d changed his mind and then wanted her back. To Hugh, Page had never been aught more than chattel, and still, it made her heart wrench that her father might want her dead. But why? What could he hope to gain?

  She was not a son, and therefore she would never inherit her father’s demesne. In terms of politiks, it was far more reasonable to assume he’d pass his legacy to a bastard son. Had not King Henry’s illegitimate son, Robert of Gloucester benefited just that way?

  “Who are you?” Page demanded to know. The years may have mellowed her, but she would not so easily cow.

  “Someone with a vested interest.”

  At Aldergh, they’d had a kitchen maid with that very accent. She remembered her father smacking the woman on the arse quite a lot. In fact, there were quite a few evenings when he’d summoned her to his room—to bring him sweets, he’d always claimed. Only now she wondered, what kind of sweets?

  “A vested interest in what?” Now that they were far enough away and Iain wasn’t in immediate danger, Page dragged her feet, planting her heels.

  The man pulled her along across the field, against her will. The light of the bonfire and ringing of voices diminished behind them as he dragged her in the direction of the woods. A sliver of a moon lit the night sky, but it lay hidden behind a bank of puffy white clouds, giving the landscape a grey, otherworldly light.

  With every step, Page expected to hear Iain calling after her, but the sound of his voice remained absent from the hillside and the merriment fell further and further away.

  The man pinched the back of her arm, jerking her forward when she tried to sit. “What I have to gain is not important for ye to know.”

  “Och! Someone will notice I am gone,” she warned the man, remembering another time she’d made such threats in vain. And yet, this time, Page knew beyond a shadow of doubt that her husband and clan valued her. Someone would come searching the instant they realized she was gone. These were now her people, and they would never sit idly by, allowing this man to take her life. “They’ll come after you, they will find you and they will hang you from the gallows.”

  “Nay,” the man said confidently, once again jerking her arm. There was a smile in his voice. “They will find your father’s camp. They’ll blame Hugh. And when they kill him, I’ll be gone.”

  A spark of hope flared—inconceivably, not because this man meant to murder her, but because her father might not be the one behind this atrocity after all. Still she wanted to know, “Why is my father here?”

  “Because that bag of wind believes he can buy his way to heaven by rebuilding a few huts.”

  Page’s heart thumped against her ribs.

  Her father was the one who rebuilt the huts?

  Her brow furrowed, and then suddenly she realized … those odors back in the stable… they were scents from her past—lavender, cinnamon and cloves. The cloves she could still smell over-strongly on the man dragging her along—a tincture exactly like the one the kitchen maid had used to use to mask her body’s scent. She had a son, a bit older than Page, that she liked to claim was a servant of God. Page had often wondered if his father was a fish because his mother smelled so foul. She said the boy had a noble sire, and then one day he was gone...

  Page swallowed, hard. “I know who you are.”

  The man jerked her arm once again and said, “Shut up.”

  Peering over her shoulder, Page searched for moving shadows. She spied nothing. Nothing at all. Judging by the growing silence, her husband never reemerged from the stables, and her heart squeezed with fear.

  And neither did anyone else seem to realize what was happening here, and her father—wherever he might be—was in as much danger as she was: If Iain happened to find him first, and she hadn’t had the chance to explain—or if Malcom or Cameron discovered Hugh before Iain did, they would kill him without question.

  “What makes you think you’ll get away with this?” Page asked furiously.

  “Shut up,” the man said again, and Page grit her teeth.

  They slipped into the woods, and peering over her shoulder once more, gauging the bonfire’s distance, she decided she had far more to lose by keeping silent. Be damned if any man but her husband would ever tell her what to do again. She spun around, screaming her father’s name at the top of her lungs.

  Chapter 7

  Half of Hugh’s men were already gone. The other half remained at camp, packing the last of their things while Hugh took a final piss. There was no use lingering where they might be found. His men had said there was talk about interlopers and that young Malcom was already snooping around. If Malcom should happen to venture into MacLean territory he’d most certainly discover their camp.

  Hugh was quite pleased with himself. It was the bonfire Eleanore had spoken of—the flame that should not die before his work was done…

  Last night, after stashing all their offerings in the MacKinnon’s stable, they’d stolen MacLean cloaks and then snuck in to finish re
building whatever homes they could. Most were finished, and now it was time to leave—before the celebration ended and the drunkards all went stumbling home. Hugh remembered very well how stout their uisge was, although it wasn’t stout enough to keep those bastards from drawing their swords; it was time to go.

  Hopefully his daughter Page would discover his gifts to her and then realize what all he’d done. Until then, it was quite enough to know that Eleanore knew he’d made amends—

  “Hugh FitzSimon!” he heard a woman shout.

  Could it be Eleanore?

  Hugh froze, upon hearing his name, dropping his tunic and pulling up his trews.

  The forest was dark, no sign of that strange blue aura. Whoever the woman was, she had yet to shed her mortal coil. Instinctively, although he knew not how or why, he realized it must be Page, and as though to prove his point, she called him yet again. “Papa!” she screamed this time.

  Hugh felt a sudden rush of excitement. Mayhap she’d already discovered his gifts and she’d come to beg him not to leave!

  Bolting through the woods, toward the sound of Page’s voice, Hugh realized as he went that it wasn’t a happy shout.

  Snatching up his bow from the sling on his back, he plucked an arrow from his quiver, and then skidded to a halt once he spied the pair, his bow and arrow poised within his hands. “Afric,” he said, with no small amount of surprise.

  “Hello father.”

  Malcom wasn’t far into the woods when he spotted the figure of a man—slightly luminescent, and strangely manifested.

  There were folks who claimed this was a time between times, when the division between this world and the next was at its thinnest, leaving the way open for faeries and brownies to venture into the realms of men.

  He’d heard stories of banshees wailing on the night, foreshadowing the dead, but this form moved silently through the trees, beckoning Malcom to follow wherever it went...

  It moved swiftly, darting behind pinewood and lichen-painted oaks. Finally, they crossed a burn, onto MacLean land.