He tore her woolen leggings off and thrust himself between her legs, entering her with unerring accuracy and a demand of her that would not be denied.
Meghan had no desire to deny him anything, especially the thundering desire that his rapid thrusts quickly built.
Somehow her legs became wrapped around his waist. The only thing holding her up was the wall at her back and the strength of their joining. Their breathing was labored-all the more so for their desperate attempts to smother it. Beneath her fingertips, Meghan felt William's arm muscles straining, quivering as they held her tight, held her atop him. His fingers dug into her buttocks and the mild pain somehow only heightened the pleasure of their joining.
The English soldiers could have burst into the cave with swords drawn and Meghan would not have cared. Her entire being was focused on the hot union of her body to William's, their mutual pleasure her only care. Their bodies grew sweaty with their straining and the slippery sensation of skin sliding against skin intensified the slipperiness of her womanly folds. William was hard and insistent between her legs, allowing her to reserve nothing, forcing her to give him everything of her.
Crying sobs erupted from Meghan’s hoarse throat as the ecstasy built. Floating in the air as she was, pinned down only by William’s thrusts, she felt wracking shudders begin to emanate from the place of their hot union.
Suddenly William's thrusts deepened, sending her over the edge of bliss.
Some small vein of reason urged her to bite her lip rather than cry out and when William groaned low and crushed his mouth against hers, she swallowed his cry of pleasure as well, taking them into her body as she took the hot spurts of his seed.
Meghan was still spiraling down from the dizzying fulfillment when William abruptly withdrew and shoved her behind him. Her shaky legs barely held her upright and she was about to ask him what was wrong when she heard the crunch of gravel underfoot as someone edged cautiously into the narrow cave.
Meghan groped in the darkness for her tunic. She quickly pulled it over her head, realizing when the sleeves dangled below her fingertips that she had found William's instead. Though it could only have been a whisper, Meghan clearly heard the hiss of William's steel as he drew it from its scabbard.
The intruder must have heard it too for he stopped.
"Who's in here?" called a distinctly lower class English voice.
William turned and pressed his lips against Meghan's ear. "Do ye have any Englishmen in your service?" he breathed.
"Of course not," Meghan breathed back.
She felt him nod before turning again to face the intruder.
"Ye may as well come forward, fer a fool can see this is the only way out."
His crunching steps had resumed, though in narrow cave, the sound was distorted and Meghan could not tell how far away he was. Beneath her fingertips, she felt William's muscles flex as he lifted his sword.
Just ahead of them, the English soldier must have misjudged the curve in the tunnel for his sword rang out against the stone wall, the metallic ring clearly belying his position.
Moving so fast, she scarce realized he no longer stood in front of her, William lunged forward. Terrified because she could not see what was going on, Meghan flattened herself against the back of the cave. Metal clanged on metal and the men panted with the struggle to live and to kill.
“Give it up, boy,” the English soldier gasped. “I’ve a whole troupe of men just outside. Give—“ the man hissed as William’s sword obviously met flesh. When he resumed his taunts, his voice was tight with pain. “Give it up now and mayhap ye’ll live to see another day.”
William uttered a short laugh that was eerily jovial considering his predicament. “Had ye so many men, they’d be in here helping ye kill me instead of leaving ye to die.” The confidence in William’s voice had a calming effect on Meghan’s nerves and a clearly opposite effect on the Englishman’s. He growled like a cornered bear and a rapid exchange of sword strokes followed.
Meghan heard a moan of intense pain just before a sword thudded dully against the other side of the cave.
"William?" she called out tentatively, fear curling through her body with the cold kiss of frostbite. There was no response except the gasps of a dying man and the panting breaths of the victor.
"Aye, I'm alright," he finally whispered back. "We'd best leave before this man's friends arrive. I've no wish to fight a cadre of men in the dark. Can ye find my tunic?"
"I'm wearing it. I can't find my own. Won't we be seen when we leave?"
William had returned to her and he brushed a reassuring kiss against her forehead before bending to search for her garment. Meghan was just about to join him when the cave suddenly flared into light as a torch-bearing intruder rounded the curve that had been the English soldier's undoing.
Still crouching, William spun around, his sword in his hands as if it had leapt there in its eagerness for more blood. Meghan squinted against the blaze and tried to determine how many men there were to fight off. She bent to find a rock to use as artillery when a craggy voice called out, "Will?"
"Hamish?" William asked.
"Weel and who did ye think it would be? King Edward?"
William laughed shakily and sheathed his sword. Indicating the corpse just in front of Hamish, he said, "Given the welcoming party, I thought it entirely likely."
"Christ, where did he come from?" Hamish asked, stepping fastidiously over the spreading pool of blood. When he saw William's state of undress and Meghan's kiss-swollen lips, he merely raised his eyebrows before turning politely to study the stone wall.
"Is there no a swarm of Englishmen still looking for us?"
"Aach," Hamish spit a large globule against the floor. "They gave up. No doubt ye didn't realize it as ye were otherwise occupied."
Meghan felt her cheeks grow warm.
"What with entertaining this deserter here and all," he finished blithely.
Finally having found Meghan's tunic, William thrust it at her and then stood to block her from Hamish's line of sight. She quickly changed. As soon as he was dressed, he helped her over the body of the soldier and out of the cave, leaving behind them the metallic tang of blood and the sensuous aura of their lovemaking.
Once outside, Hamish led them to a small cluster of bushes and the two tethered horses. As William helped her up onto his horse, she heard Hamish say, "I take it ye've decided she's no guilty?"
“Aye,” Meghan answered through clenched jaws. “He has.”
Hamish swallowed a laugh and addressed his next question to her. “And did he repent for suspecting you?”
Now it was William’s turn to step in. “Aye, I did,” he said suggestively.
His innuendo was clear and Meghan was thankful the darkness hid her warm cheeks, although how she could be more embarrassed after having been caught nearly in the act of...
“Is it wise to stand around chatting in English held territory?” she snapped.
Both men weakly covered their laughter with coughs and quickly mounted. Meghan relaxed back against William’s chest as they rode, thankful for the warmth he provided, comforted by the safety she felt in his embrace. It was such a relief to let him shoulder her burdens after the trauma of the past days and without quite expecting it, she fell asleep.
Chapter 20
Meghan stood at the window of her small chamber in the tower of King Robert’s great keep, Berwick Castle. The castle had not long before been held by the English and Meghan wondered if the elegant furnishings had been recently acquired, or if the English had left it in their haste to depart. She shook her head at her rambling thoughts and then pushed open the wooden shutter over the window. Thick mists covered the craggy moors, obscuring the scenery and sunlight, making the castle seem like a ship lost at sea.
Lost was exactly how Meghan felt. Since their return two days ago, she had seen William only once. At the previous night’s evening meal surrounded by all of Robert’s retainers—retainers who eyed
her with suspicion—William had inquired if she was well and if she needed anything.
What she needed was to know what to feel, what to think. She still mourned her father; she was devastated and confused at her uncle’s betrayal; she loved William and yet hated how he had used her. In the past few years, Meghan had missed her mother, missed the presence of an older woman who could guide her and offer advice. Never, however, had she felt the loss more keenly than now. Were all men as difficult to understand as those in her life?
Even now, with William’s revelations about her father’s pride in her locked in her heart, she was unsure of Oengus’s love or what he had really expected of her. Her uncle’s actions made her want to doubt all men; never was there a man who had appeared so steadfast and complacent as Lennox and yet was in fact, utterly devious and cunning. Were all his years of support and understanding false? Must she discard the memories of his fatherly love–love she had needed and did not receive from Oengus—simply because he had cared more for her title than her in the end?
Meghan sighed and returned to the hearth to warm her chilled fingers. Pushing thoughts of her kinsmen to the back of her mind, she was only left with William. William and the knowledge that she loved his crooked smile, his audacious wit, his offhand bravado in the face of danger. Most of all, she loved the feeling of his arms wrapped tight around her. She closed her eyes and inhaled, smelling not the tang of woodsmoke, but William’s own distinctive, spicy scent. When he took her in his arms and kissed her in that provocative and exciting way, she felt as if she were cocooned in her own perfect little world. A world in which she was loved and accepted just as she was.
Out of nowhere, the memory of his hasty marriage proposal surfaced. What had truly brought that on, she wondered, and not for the first time. She had been there with her clan, to back the Bruce in battle, so William was not trying to ensure their support. Her holdings were small—he would not seek her hand for her wealth. And he had said that he would lead her troops so that she could spend the duration of the battle in the safety of Innesbrook. Surely he must love her, must he not?
Her eyes still closed in dreamy memory, Meghan relived that passionate encounter in the cave. Deprived of sight by the utter blackness of their surroundings, Meghan’s other senses had been heightened. She knew that he had clasped her to him as if he would never let her go. His kisses had possessed her very soul as his body had possessed hers. Her fingers could still feel the shudders that racked his body as he joined her in fulfillment. When the English soldier had stumbled upon them, his first thought had been her safety, throwing himself—naked, no less—at the intruder.
Meghan opened her eyes, staring unseeing into the fire. So if William loved her and had wanted to marry her, where was he? Where had he been for two days?
The thought crossed her mind that William's interest in her had been purely physical and that, once satiated, he cared not what happened to her. No, she shook her head, she could not believe it. If that had been the case, he would not have bothered to rescue her from Edward's encampment. Or he would have killed her, as he said, thinking she had betrayed the Scots king. Besides, the tantalizing moments they had spent in lovemaking had left her craving more contact. Satiated was not a word that would occur to her for many years. Surely his body had the same reaction?
Perhaps, then, their encounter had been spurred on by nothing more than relief that they had escaped certain death. The danger had certainly heightened the intensity of their lovemaking. But what of the hours spent in leisurely pleasure aboard Captain Paddy’s ship? At the time, they were safe, free from interruption and all the cares of the outside world. Free to share their bodies and their hearts. William had told her things he had told no other person. She had laid bare her innermost self. Was it all just to merely pass the time until they arrived in Scotland?
Meghan surged to her feet and shoved her chair out of her way. Stalking to the window, she forced the shutters wide again and leaned out into the cold, gray damp. "No," she whispered. To believe those things would mean discrediting her feelings, her intuition yet again. The last time she had done so--when she had allowed her father to convince her of William's inherent evilness-she had rejected any attempt of William's to explain, even though she now understood why he had kept his identity from her a secret.
"No!" she shouted loudly enough to startle a pair of birds from their nest on the ledge above her. They flapped indignantly away, a flutter of down the only indication that anyone or anything had heard Meghan's indignant denial.
Embarrassed nonetheless, Meghan withdrew into the warmth of her small chamber. "No papa," she said to herself and her father's shade. Of a sudden, there were tears on her cheeks and Meghan realized that though she had mourned her father's loss, she also felt anger at him that he had forced her to deny so much of herself, including the man she loved.
Looking beseechingly at the blackened rafters above her, Meghan whispered, "I forgive you father, I do. And I love you still, but I'll no longer be the son you longed for. I'll follow my own heart and suffer the consequences or joy that follow." She paused, half-expecting a thundering answer from Oengus. When a knock pounded at the door, she jumped.
"Enter," she called, quickly wiping the tears from her cheeks, glad that the fire had died down and the room was sufficiently gloomy that her emotional tumult would not be evident.
A young page bowed his way into the room and delivered his message. "His Grace, that is, Lord Robert-I mean, the king would see ye, my lady. At your earliest convenience...er...right away."
Meghan giggled at the boy's awkwardness. With her soft laugh, the binding constraint 'round her heart released and the weight from her shoulders dissipated. "Tell the king I shall attend him directly. I need but a moment to refresh myself."
The boy seemed not to know whether he should stay or leave. Taking pity on the earnest lad, she said, "You may wait outside the door and escort me down."
The boy bobbed a relieved bow and said, "Aye, my lady."
Meghan quickly cooled her tear-streaked face with a damp cloth and ran a comb through her long hair, making the curls crackle and bounce about her shoulders. She took a look in the small mirror that rested on a trunk. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, but at least her nose was not red. She was a trifle pale, perhaps, for the faint scattering of freckles stood out on the bridge of her nose. No, not freckles, she remembered with a smile, angel kisses. Unaccountably comforted by the memory, she grinned at her reflection with a tiny amount of sinful pride. Her hair was quite wild, with fiery curls spilling about her shoulders in a riotous mass. She really should plait it, she thought, and then decided that if she was going to be her own woman, she would wear her hair as she saw fit and let the king think what he would. Besides, William had said he loved her hair loose and inviting.
The anxious page led her to the great hall where preparations for the evening meal were underway despite the fact that Robert was holding counsel with a score of Scots noblemen and military leaders. Meghan's throat went dry when she saw William seated next to the king, intent on the discussion.
She licked her lips and tried to ignore the nervous anticipation she felt at simply being near him. Her presence was as yet unnoticed and Meghan stole the opportunity to study William's countenance. His inky hair tumbled about his shoulders, wind-rumpled and in need of a trim. Her fingers itched to comb through its tangled length.
A frown of concentration marred his brow and darkened his green eyes. She had last seen such fiery intent in his gaze when they were locked inside the captain's cabin on their escape ship from London...
His frown suddenly dissipated in a smile as one of the other men made a joke about the English king and Meghan's heart skipped a beat, then pounded in fearful anticipation as he glanced up and saw her.
He froze, the crooked smile fading as they stared at one another. For the life of her, Meghan could not tell if she saw anger, passion, or disinterest in his gaze. Pushing her doubts aside, she returned h
is gaze steadily, willing her eyes to show the love she felt for him. The king's booming voice interrupted her silent message.
"Ah the Lady Meghan of Clan Innes attends us!"
Meghan started and turned her attention to the Bruce, leader of clan and country now. "Aye, Your Grace. You called for me?"
"Indeed I did. Have ye recovered from Edward's hospitality?"
"Aye, Your Grace."
"And the accommodations here suit ye, I trust?" he continued.
"They are most generous, my lord."
"Hmm," Robert said, glancing at a parchment handed to him by the scribe at his elbow. He nodded and quickly signed the document, returning it to the scribe before looking again at Meghan. "And have ye given any thought to marrying?"
Thrown off balance by the abrupt segue, Meghan cleared her throat before saying, "Your Grace?"
"You must marry,” he said, the comfortable brogue disappearing, replaced by crisp diction that encouraged no argument. “Surely you can see that, especially after the fiasco of this last campaign."
Meghan's eyes widened. Was he blaming the Scots defeat on her?
Clearly reading her thoughts, Robert continued, "I mean not that you were responsible for the English perfidy-my kinsman assures me you are innocent of your uncle's vile plot."
Meghan glanced at William but he studiously ignored her, intent on studying his clenched fists.
"What I meant was," the king continued. "You cannot allow yourself to be placed in such jeopardy again. Aye, your father raised you to be as able as any lad, but you're still a lass and the battlefield is no place for you. You must marry and your clan must take a new laird."
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