by Mary Wine
“I should paddle yer bottom.”
Helena frowned at him. “I’ll overstarch your shirts.”
He chuckled and reached for the top button of her doublet.
“No.”
“No?” One dark eyebrow rose in question.
Helena stepped back and noticed that she left a wet smear on the stone floor. She reached up and unbuttoned her doublet. The wet wool was difficult to manage with chilled fingers. But she finished and opened the garment herself. It was too stiff to slip down her arms. Instead it stuck to her shoulders.
“Perhaps ye’ll reconsider.”
He didn’t wait for a response. His hands gripped the doublet and swept it down her arms. “I’m nae sure what I find more attractive—the idea of ye disrobing for me or the satisfaction of doing it with me own hands.”
He wasn’t wearing a doublet and his shirt was wet. Helena reached for the ties that held it closed at the neck.
“I confess that I don’t care how it happens, so long as we both rid ourselves of these clothes.”
“A point I find myself agreeing with ye on.”
Her clothing didn’t make it an easy task. It took his greater strength to unknot her corset tie. The log he’d placed in the fire had caught and heat radiated out toward her. Keir pulled at her corset until he freed it, gaining a soft sound of delight from her.
“Och now, there’s another thing we can agree on. I prefer ye without all these layers, as well.”
Her breath caught on a gasp. An amused chuckle rumbled form his chest. “Is this the lass who just offered to disrobe for me?” He opened her waistband and reached inside to find her bum roll. His hands pushed the entire wet mess down her legs in another few moments.
Her cheeks warmed. “I am still becoming accustomed to your way of saying things so boldly.”
“Good.”
He leaned toward her and pressed a warm kiss against her neck. It sent a delicious ripple of sensation over her skin that traveled down to her breasts. Freed from her boned stays, the delicate skin rose into goose bumps. His gaze dropped to her chest and she realized that her chemise was translucent in its wet condition. The thin fabric stuck to her every curve, the coral tips of her nipples showing plainly through.
She stepped out of her skirts and enjoyed the way his eyes remained on her. It was empowering, the way his face changed, his features becoming tighter, his eyes narrowing. She turned in a slow motion and paused with her back to him while peeking over her shoulder.
“Ye’re beautiful, lass.”
She believed him, actually felt her confidence rising. He pulled off his clothing, his motions rougher than they’d been on her. She turned back around, watching his skin being revealed. It was the most erotic thing she had ever witnessed, and the most tender. Unlike her wedding night, she was completely at peace. More than eager for the coming union but also content to enjoy the motions that would lead them to intimacy. There was a subtle seduction in the way they watched each other, something that words wouldn’t translate. It was in the slant of his eyes and the way his nostrils flared ever so slightly. Her body responded, her nipples tightening into hard pebbles. His dark gaze swept down to them and his lips thinned.
He opened his belt but didn’t allow his kilt to fall to the floor. He caught it in a firm hand and laid it over the chair in which he’d been sitting. Pride flickered in his eyes when he looked back at her, pride in who he was and the clan colors he wore.
That was the man that she loved enough to give her trust to.
She pulled the wet fabric from herself. It resisted for a moment before leaving her skin with a soft wet sound. He stood still. A muscle twitched in the side of his jaw, betraying the fact that it cost him to do so. But he remained where he was, allowing her to look at him. His body was sculpted into ridges of muscles, all covered in smooth skin. His torso was lightly covered in dark hair that thinned at his waist but also grew around his sex. His cock stood at attention, confirming that he wasn’t in the mood to wait. Her own body slowly heated up until the warmth from the fire was almost too much.
He moved toward her, cupping her breasts in gentle hands.
“I treasure yer trust, lass.”
She quivered, lifting her chin to stare into his eyes. Love shone there. It was sweet and tender, and was everything that she had foolishly believed did not exist in reality. She was grateful to be humbled by discovering it.
“I love you.” Her words were a whisper but they broke through the still of the moment, shattering it.
His arms slid over her body, one going down over the swell of her hips to hook beneath her knees. He lifted her and cradled her against his chest.
“I hope so, because I love ye too much to ever let ye leave me side.”
He carried her to the bed that the chamber provided. It wasn’t as wide as the one in their town home, nor as comfortable, but it was clean. Keir followed her down onto the sheets, his mouth seeking hers. She wasn’t sure of all the touches. His hands slid over her, almost desperate to trace each curve. Her own hands were just as determined not to miss one part of him. It was the only way of truly healing the hurt that had tormented her from the moment she had watched him leave her. She reached for him, stroking the powerful shoulders by which she had first been mesmerized. His kiss was demanding but sweet, his tongue thrusting into her mouth in a slow imitation of what her body craved. She opened her mouth to accept the penetration, her thighs parting to allow his hips to move between them.
He didn’t rush toward taking what she offered. Instead, one firm hand slipped between their bodies to tease the top of her sex. She shuddered and arched up toward that touch, need beginning to twist into her. A soft whimper broke through their kiss and Keir lifted his head. There was meager light on the side of the room where the bed was. But the shadows only heightened her awareness of how his skin felt pressed against her own. It was as though she had never known exactly what her body was capable of until she was bare against him. It was a treasure, something rare and uncommon.
He rolled onto her, pressing her back to the surface of the bed. His hands tangled in her hair, pushing into the braid to hold her still. His wounded pride made him crave submission from her, but she lifted her hips, refusing to be docile. She breathed deeply of his scent and felt the rapid beating of his heart. Surrender was the furthest thing from her mind.
For once the chamber was filled with the sounds of pleasure. Her husband thrust deep and she whimpered with delight. No grisly facts surfaced to intrude. There was only the rapture building between them, the pleasure tightening beneath each stroke of his length. The hope that his seed might take root and bring them the joy of a family with which to share their love. Everything built into a moment that stole them both away from all things except each other. Helena clung to her lover, clasping him with her thighs while her body clasped his length to pull his seed deep into her. The pleasure was blinding and she surrendered to it gladly, basked in the warmth. Ripples of delight continued to move along her limbs long after Keir had ground himself into her for the final time. She held him, her hands smoothing over his back. He caught his weight on his elbows but didn’t roll off her quickly. Instead he pressed small kisses along her forehead, over her cheek and down to her neck. His heartbeat slowed to normal before he drew a stiff breath and moved.
He hooked an arm under her waist and pulled her over so that her head rested on his chest. Reality broke through her joy as she looked around the room, truly seeing it for the first time. There were three windows, but she would have to stand on a stool to see out because they were set so high in the wall. Since it was a tower room, the chamber was round but the windows were thin to make it harder for arrows to enter. It also served to keep prisoners inside.
Only the bare essentials furnished the camber: two X-framed chairs that looked many years out of date and a small table that was scarred and etched with knife marks. There was no carpet on the floor, only the dull stone with a coat of dust. The pile
of firewood along the wall was the most luxurious thing afforded her husband. If the yeomen were angry enough, they would have forgotten to bring up such a comfort.
There was a second doorway that led to a short walk along the inner curtain wall. The young princess Elizabeth had used it during her incarceration within the Tower. The doorway was narrow and low, built to Norman standards, and she guessed that her husband would have to duck to clear the top of it.
The bed was nice enough. Keir had his noble blood to thank for that. Along with the fact that he didn’t stand accused of treason. Murdering a peer was no small crime, but it was considered something that might allow him to be kept in the Tower according to his station. Those incarcerated for treason against their monarch would discover just how miserable the Tower’s dungeons were. If she had felt horror permeating the air when she entered, it no doubt rose from those places where torture was employed. She shivered and a warm hand smoothed over her shoulder.
“Tell me about the home you plan to take me to.”
The hand on her shoulder paused and gripped, betraying his emotions.
“Red Stone? ’Tis a fine place. The heather will bloom in a few more weeks…. Have ye ever seen heather? Or inhaled its scent when the sun is warming the blossoms?”
Helena listened to his words. She used every bit of self-dicipline she had ever been forced to cultivate to focus on the picture he painted of a place she made herself believe she would someday go with him. There was no other option to consider. She refused to think about the Privy Council or the demands of other noblemen for Keir’s blood. She wouldn’t think about his head being displayed on the bridge as a warning to others.
She would immerse herself in his words, the rich sound of his voice, and believe as she had never believed in anything else that faith would deliver them both to Red Stone.
“Curse this rain!” Farrell glared at the sky. The swollen clouds were black, promising more rain, not reprieve. His feet sank in the mud up to his ankles, wringing another curse from his lips.
There was nothing but swollen ground to find. The Thames was flooding and sweeping debris along in its powerful current. He studied the way it rolled large tree limbs under the surface with ease. There was power in the current, the sort that may have made easy work of sweeping a lass to her death.
He grabbed the thick neck of his horse and fit his foot into the stirrup. With a pull and push, he swung up into the saddle. He didn’t bother to notice how wet it was. That didn’t matter.
“We’re going to split up—half of ye go to the opposite bank to search for the girl. See if some silver buys us the information we need.”
None of his clansmen looked any too hopeful. It was an opinion he shared, but there was little point in dwelling on it. He was a McQuade, after all. Keir McQuade had taken the name he was born to and restored more luster than most of them had believed possible in the short time since the last laird had tarnished it. Now it was his turn to serve Keir, and Farrell didn’t plan on losing faith just because the odds didn’t look favorable.
He’d face defeat only when he was forced to and not one minute before that.
“A peer is dead.”
James Stuart wanted to crush Lord Bramford’s neck, but settled for gripping the arm of his chair. More than half his council was calling for retribution and he couldn’t truly blame them. If one murder was allowed to go unpunished, it would be their own throats they would be worrying about come next month. There were always rebels who believed noblemen needed to die for some cause.
“I agree that it is a grave matter but that does not help us decide upon a clear course of action.”
“Put the man to trial by the barons.”
James held his emotions behind a mask. The rest of the council pounded on the table in agreement.
“The man? I believe I have two who had reason to do this deed, and the next man who accuses McQuade because he’s a Scot is going to be reminded very solidly that I am done hearing that the country I hail from is beneath yers.”
There was silence at the table, many of the men pulling their hands off the polished surface.
“Make no mistake, I am very interested in discovering the truth of this deed. But there will be no assumptions. No use of torture to gain a confession.”
Lord Bramford leaned forward. “Sire, I suggest a baron’s council be convened to try Lord Hurst by a company of his peers.”
The others nodded. James could see the quest for vengeance burning in their eyes, but his own temper ignited.
“Lord Hurst?” He rose out of his chair and planted his hands on the table with a loud smack. “Dinnae ye mean Lord Hurst and Lord Ronchford? Or does being English mean that the man is guiltless by blood alone?”
“Lord Ronchford did not marry—”
“Because he was beaten off the girl. But my fine-blooded Lord Edmund Knyvett told his sister that she was to wed Ronchford. I am suspicious that there was an agreement between Ronchford and Knyvett that would have led to the man being angry that he didn’t get the bride he wanted. Or possibly paid for, since the girl’s dowry ended up on a gaming table.”
His councilors did not speak, but their eyes were full of brewing discontent. James sat down, forcing his own temper to cool. Balance was the key to maintaining power. Elizabeth Tudor had taken England from a penniless country and built it up into one of the richest kingdoms in the world by maintaining balance.
“They will both be tried. Bramford, I wish a list of noblemen to be presented to me for consideration. We will be fair with an eye for justice, gentlemen. I suggest Lord Warwickshire be placed on that list, since his daughter is married to a Scot.”
“An excellent plan.”
Lord Bramford didn’t care for it but he masked his displeasure well enough. James looked around his Privy Council, his gaze resting on each man for a moment. Most were placated by his plan. For the moment, it would keep the discontent from boiling over.
Yet it would not hold forever. Someone’s head would have to rest on a pike for Knyvett’s murder. That was a shame. The man had been an arrogant fool upon whom fate had taken its vengeance. James didn’t mourn him and he doubted that any of his Privy councilors did, either. No, their insistence for justice was about protecting their own skins. Many of them were not the most likeable men, either. They had abused those around them and taken far more than they had given in return. They craved knowing that the masses had an example made to them to keep them in their place, with them remaining on top.
He just hoped that he didn’t have to do that at Keir McQuade’s expense. He frowned, dark thoughts settling over him. Being king came with a burden. Sometimes it was so heavy, he believed it might crush him. Now was one of those times. He didn’t want to sign Keir McQuade’s execution order, but he very much feared that he might have no other option.
Aye, heavy. Too heavy.
Chapter Thirteen
Catriona McAlister knelt behind the queen during morning service. She couldn’t pray, couldn’t force even a silent one through her mind. Three weeks after Raelin had gone missing, the queen had ordered the morning prayers to be said for her soul.
Catriona knelt but could not pray for her friend. Every fiber in her resisted accepting the idea that she was dead. There was no body, no one coming to the palace to say they had found a noblewoman drowned by the surging storm waters. There was nothing except time passing and everyone whispering about what had happened on the dock.
I won’t let you go….
The service ended and she followed the queen, still denying that her friend was dead. They made their way through the palace hallways and it felt surreal. How could someone so dear to her vanish so easily?
She suddenly froze. A group of Scots were bowing to the queen. Their laird was a dark-haired man she recognized well. Alarik McKorey stood back up to his full height, in which he towered over Anne of Denmark. He wore his clan colors proudly, the kilt around his waist a combination of maroon and lavender on
a gray background. He still wore his riding boots, which were laced up to his kneecaps. The tops of his socks were visible, as was a hint of bare thighs when he moved and the pleats of his kilt shifted. His long sword was strapped to his back and every man with him looked the same.
“Forgive me, Yer Majesty. But may I have a word with young Catriona?”
Anne glanced at her and she immediately sank into a curtsy. Appearances were important at court, but she fluttered her eyelashes, telling the queen that she was not against speaking with Alarik McKorey.
“She has my permission. Lady Gibbs shall wait for her.”
Alarik swept the queen another bow but it was short and quick, his attention clearly on what he wanted. The man must have ridden hard to make it to London in the three weeks since his sister had gone missing. It would have taken the messenger more than half of that time to travel to McKorey land. Rage flickered in his eyes as he closed the distance to where she stood. It was not personal and still she shivered. This was not a man to cross. He had been a laird since he was a lad of ten, and the duty had hardened him. That told her something about him. Men like Edmund Knyvett became arrogant with their station, but some, like Alarik, became forged steel when duty was yoked on their young frames.
She decided that Edmund was lucky to be dead, because she planned to tell Alarik exactly what had happened to his sister—beginning with Edmund’s attack on her person.
Being dead was going to prove very fortunate for the English lord today.
“By the king’s permission, you have a visitor.” The captain of the yeomen announced his news in a clear voice. Helena hurried to shrug into a dressing robe while her husband dealt with the Tower guard.
