by Susan King
Most of all, she was keenly aware, as she reached the loft, that Rowan began to climb the ladder too.
* * *
Faint blue light seeped through the small shuttered window in the end wall of the loft. Ducking his head slightly beneath the rafters, Rowan went to the narrow opening to crack the shutters enough to peer out. Behind him, in the soft, shadowed silence, he heard the rustle as Mairi sat on the bed.
Though the small loft was warm and cozy, the muted whine of the wind outside seemed eerie. Rowan could see only the sweep of tree branches and the pale glow of the moon through scudding clouds, The hills seemed deserted.
So far all was well. But Rowan would not assume that no threat had followed them to this well-fortified house. He had a feeling, deep in his gut, honed to sharpness by years of reiving, that riders approached. He thought them still distant, for now.
"What do you see?" Mairi asked softly.
"Just trees in the wind." He continued to peer out.
"They will come," she murmured. "I feel it so."
He nodded. He felt it too, and again scanned his gaze over the landscape. Behind him, Mairi yawned, and shifted quietly. He glanced back at her then.
She had removed her doublet and sat in the pale linen shirt and dark breeches, stifling a new yawn with her hand. She flexed her white-stockinged feet in the shadows; her boots and his were both lined up beside Jean's hearth.
"Tired?" he asked. She nodded, her face pale, her eyes shadowed in the starlight. "You should sleep. I'll keep watch outside from up here."
"What did you tell Jennet?" she asked then. "She was so pleased by it."
"I told her that I saw Iain—that he was well, and had not yet heard of the baby's birth. I told him about Robin."
She gaped at him. "You saw Iain at Abermuir and did not tell me?"
He hesitated. In the rush to fetch Jamie, and following Mairi's shoulder injury, he had forgotten—and at the time, he had suspected her of duplicity with her brother. Might still, as yet—he had not decided. "Pardon," he said. "I should have said so," he apologized. "I saw him briefly and we said little. He was unwilling to talk about the night he was taken."
"Rowan—was Iain bruised beneath one eye, just one eye? Did he have a cut lip?"
He turned to look at her. "How did you know?"
"I saw his face in that dark mirror you carry," she said quietly.
He stared, astonished—and intrigued. He walked over to sit beside her. The thickly padded feather mattress on its wooden frame sank a bit beneath his weight. "Tell me what you saw," he said, a low, somber order.
"I found the black stone in your pouch. When I looked at it for a minute or so, I saw Iain's face. He was bruised under the one eye, and his lip had a healing cut."
He nodded. "That is how he looked that day. Did you see aught else in the mirror?"
She paused. "Just my own face. I never had a vision of my own until now."
"Your own?" He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Da-Shealladh." Her Gaelic was so soft that it sounded like an exhalation. "The Second Sight—it runs in my mother's blood. She has the Sight, as does Iain. They have true visions. But I never did before—until I looked in that mirror." She glanced at him. "Is it a charm stone? I have heard of such things."
He frowned, shook his head. "I do not know what it is. I found it on the beach, washed up from the Spanish wreck." Then he sighed. "Mairi, I saw something in that mirror, too, once," he murmured. "I saw your face." Reaching out, he cupped the soft angle of her jaw. "This face. Before I ever met you."
She blinked. "What is this strange stone?"
He lowered his hand away. "Whatever it is, Heckie and his lot want it. When they attacked me, they were looking for something called the raven's moon. Later I realized that they might have meant the black mirror, which was hidden in my jack. At the time I thought it an unimportant gewgaw, but now, I am not so sure."
"It has significance for someone, but why?"
Rowan opened his leather pouch and took out the stone, unwrapping the cloth so they could both look at it. "I doubt Heckie would bother with a charm stone, but I believe he's tied into this somehow..." He touched the stone, which winked like a slice of the night sky.
"Do others know about this strange power it has?" Mairi leaned to peer at the stone in his hand. "Does everyone who looks in it see a vision?"
"I do not have the Sight, but I saw you in it," he said. "There are prophets and seers who use things like this for divination. The English queen has her own magus, an astrologer. I've heard he uses a black stone for scrying the future." He stopped, chilled by a sudden thought. "Mairi—" He paused.
"What is it?"
"You say that Iain has the true Sight?"
"Aye, but—he is not part of this!"
"Whoever sent Heckie for this stone knew it was on that Spanish ship. Whoever wants the stone knows it is something special."
"Oh, and who else but a man with the Sight?" She stood and glared at him. "I know naught of this raven's moon, nor does my brother. Iain did not send Heckie after this stone!"
"The clues may be right in front of us," he said quietly.
"Then you are seeing them wrong," she snapped, and turned to pace the loft floor. "He could not—" She stopped, stifled a sob, and turned to pace again.
Rowan's heart ached as he watched her. He suddenly thought of the devastation he had felt when his brother had betrayed his trust. He wished he could take this from her, but he simply did not know the truth yet.
He rose and went to Mair, touching her shoulder. She paused, looking away, tense. "If Iain did any of this, he would have his reasons," he murmured. "Coin or land or a title, for the good of his family."
She shook her head and moved aweay from him, her shoulders tight with hurt, and perhaps with the shock of realizing that her brother might have a role in a conspiracy.
"The evidence is not in Iain's favor," he said gently, and then felt a great burden lift from his heart with the next thought and the words that came with it. "But I was wrong about you. I'm sure of it now."
She lifted her chin in a proud gesture that was yet sad, and said nothing, her back turned stiffly to him.
"Mairi, neither of us know what is true here," he said. He moved toward her, cupping his hands over her slight, taut shoulders. He knew the burden she felt, had carried the same burden himself for three years—he too had loved his sibling deeply and felt betrayed. Since then, his feelings had hardened and he had grown bitter. He could not let that happen to Mairi.
"We both have wayward brothers. Or we could be entirely wrong about them," he admitted softly.
"We may," she whispered. "Iain is my leth-aoin, my twin. I would know if he had done wrong. I would feel it inside me."
"Your loyalty is as fine as fire," he murmured. "Do not let it burn you." He watched the simple beauty of her profile, the moonlight purity of her skin, the glint of a single sliding tear.
"I rode out at night for weeks to save his life," she whispered. "I might have killed you one night, for his sake."
"But you did not." He touched her dark sheened hair.
"I could not bear it if Iain proves guilty," she said.
"If he does, then aye, you could bear it." He turned her in his arms, holding her by the shoulders. "You are strong. Whatever comes, you can bear it and be stronger for it."
Under his hands, her shoulders straightened as if she filled with resolve. "I know my brother," she said. "I swear to you that he is clean. You must believe me."
He began to speak, then wondered if he had actually wanted Iain to be guilty, because he thought Alec was guilty, too, of messing about with spies and stolen treasures. No matter the truth, he was wrong to assume without knowing. By believing the worst of his brother, he had betrayed Alec himself.
But Mairi felt only loyalty and love for her brother without question. That humbled Rowan, suddenly. Her pure trust was a lesson to Rowan to reserve judgment.
&nb
sp; Looking into Mairi's tear-glazed, solemn eyes, he knew then that he had to help her—help Iain. He would not feel at ease with himself until he could ease this for her.
"Come here," he said, drawing her close and wrapping his arms around her. "I promise you that I will find out the truth of this matter for all of us—for you and I, and our brothers."
She sobbed out, and he held her close, wanting her to feel safe. She had shown him compassion over Maggie; he owed the same to her over this.
She raised her head, and then, almost without thinking, he lowered his face to hers, nuzzled his nose to her, touched her chin, kissed her trembling lips.
The sensation that shot through him at such a simple, tender touch spooled like lightning through him. Her mouth moved beneath his and he felt that moist touch ignite a flame inside of him—and he covered her lips fully with his own then, his heart taking up a thunderous pace.
Last night, he had felt overwhelmed by a passion that had taken all his will to subdue. Now she was his bride through almost miraculous means, as if by heaven's design. Despite all that lay between then, a strong and stunning bond had formed, and he could not deny it.
He took a breath, feeling her own breath at his lips, sipping a little of her spirit with it. He sensed her vulnerability, her hurt, and he wanted to go gently, calmly. But the power and the urge that swept through him was so strong that he struggled against it.
Tasting her lips again, he deepened the new kiss. With a small moan, she tilted her head to accept the full caress of his mouth, and he held her head in his hands, fitting his lips to hers, wanting to soothe the sadness from her, quicken her heartbeat to the insistent rhythm of his own.
"Mairi," he whispered, her name on his lips soft as velvet, reverent as a prayer. He covered her lips again.
She pressed closer, sliding her hands up his back as he kissed with greater fierceness, his hand cradling her head, his fingers threading her silken dark hair, loosening her braid so that he streamed his fingers through its cool softness.
He felt her hands glide along his back as she returned his kiss with a hungry, compelling shift of her lips, her body. He slipped his tongue between her lips, tasting the heated inner moisture, and met her own light, sweet thrust. He sensed her breath catch, felt her sigh glide into his mouth.
When he skimmed his fingers over her jaw and throat in feathery touches, his breathing constricted for an instant—then he slide his hand along her back to trace her firm, slender hips. He pressed close, bodies fitting through layered clothing, and he felt his body pulse against hers as he drank in more of the sweet taste of her mouth.
Mairi moaned, wavered as if she felt unsteady on her legs, and Rowan tightened his support of her back, pressing close, his body thundering now as he traced a path over her linen shirt to cradle the fullness of one breast. The peak rose against his palm and her heart thudded quickly under his touch. He began to pull the tail of her shirt from the waist of her breeches, sliding his hand up under her shirt.
Awed by the inexpressible smoothness of her skin, he cupped her breast to knead that softness with outspread fingers. Her nipple budded between his fingers like a warm pearl, and Mairi gasped, arching her hips against him.
She tugged insistently on the hooks of his doublet, opening the garment, slipping her hand inside to burrow beneath the cloth of his shirt to find his bare chest, spreading her fingers, kneading there—and opening her mouth to his.
Rowan plunged his tongue there, capturing her other breast in a warm, gentle finger cage while the second pearl blossomed against his hand. Touching her was sweet agony—and being touched by her filled him with aching stiffness, so that he groaned softly and pressed closer. Enough—more, he thought.
He lifted her into his arms, lowering her to the bed, kneeling alongside. Mairi drew him toward her as he took her lips again, quick and hard, his breathing rapid.
The cool air of the loft cleared his senses a little, and he glanced up at narrow window, where the shutter moved slightly with the wind. Mairi looked there too, eyes wide, smudged with passion, filled with apprehension.
"Rowan—"
"Hush," he murmured, knowing her thoughts, "we have time yet." He sensed danger moving toward them like the storm hidden in the wind, filled with thunder, but he knew there was time enough, just, for them to take these moments now.
She glided her hands up and down his arms, his back, pulled him close, her hands showing him her eagerness, her anxiousness. He wanted her fiercely, utterly, his body urging him onward despite the impending danger. He caressed his lips along the curve of her cheek, found the shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue.
They might have no time, or all the time they needed. He did not know. He only knew he could not stop touching her so long as she urged him on with her lips, her mouth.
"Hurry," she whispered, turning her lips to meet his again.
He took a breath as if he had been starving for air, and swept her shirt over her head, flinging it aside. He yanked off his doublet and his own shirt while her warm, slender hands trailed up his chest. She grasped his arms and pulled him down to her.
He had vowed, only that morning, to take her only when she desired it as much as he did. That moment was here, now, as the deep currents that bound them together swept him along with her now, swiftly, forcefully, like thunder on scudding clouds.
Urgency and passion swelled in him and drew him inexorably toward the power that grew between them. Impatiently now, he pulled his breeches loose and leaned onto the bed, rolling her with him, taking her into his arms fully.
Languid and beautiful, she watched him, the supple contours of her body edged in blue-gray light. He wanted to touch her, taste her, fill her—he could not keep apart from her, physically in this moment, or ever, heart and soul.
He was as lost to her, then, as the day she had taken him down on the road. This time he surrendered his heart—this time he was willing. He pressed her warm, lean and soft body against his own, and she arched her hips against him. When he pulled at the drawstring of her breeches, she helped him slide them away.
Then he traced his lips along her throat, lowering his head to kiss the unutterably soft skin between her breasts, letting his tongue slip over her skin to the sweet, firm nipple. She cried out softly and grabbed at his shoulders, sliding her hands over his back, around to his abdomen, pausing there.
And suddenly he sucked in his breath as she found him lower, deeper, wrapped her slim fingers around his turgid length. He felt her sweet breath sighing into his mouth while her hands explored him tentatively, then more boldly.
Heart pounding, heat flooding through him, he nuzzled at her breast while his hands skimmed the sensuous curve of her inner thigh and his fingers slid upward, all the while telling himself to wait, to mingle his pleasure with her own.
His fingers glided and slipped inside her, where she was warm and honeyed, to the pulsing bud within. Touched there, she gasped; stroked, she moaned, and he kissed her mouth, teasing her tongue while he eased another deep, soft moan from her with a new stroke. As her body found its rhythm, she arched toward him—and he shifted then, and covered her.
She undulated beneath him, opening willingly, welcoming, and he pressed forward gingerly at first, denying his body's thundering insistence. He eased himself into her heated moistness with exquisite care, knowing she would feel pain. He pushed slowly, feeling her inner resistance, until she gasped and relaxed, and began to move in a silent, urgent harmony with him. "Now," she whispered. "Oh, now—"
The moment unfolded, spun out into waves, extraordinary sensation without measure as she eased herself upward and he pushed, thrust, plummeted into the welcoming heat and lusciousness that existed inside of her. He thrust again and lost himself, and then pulled back, trembling, aching inside to set himself free, but pausing, waiting, until she ached for the same freedom as he did.
She arched under him and gave a small, poignant cry, and the gathering storm rolled and exploded t
hrough his body—he felt as if his soul rushed into her, as if all the desire, all the need that had ever been trapped inside poured out of him. Beneath him, she rocked with him, quickened, and the force of their bond released them together, flesh and spirit whirling.
He knew now, that he belonged to her, with her.
* * *
"Soon." Mairi sat up. "Do you feel it?"
He did. He tipped his head and listened, a hand on her bare hip. At first he heard only the wind buffeting the roof, and the thudding of his own heart. Then another sound emerged.
He reached for his clothing, stood quickly to dress in the dark. Mairi found her own clothes and put them on, as silent and swift as he. His body still trembled, spent, vivified.
The rhythmic sound grew—regular, fast, more dangerous than the storm. Below, he heard Christie call his name softly. The thundering became the steady beat of hooves.
Mairi stepped into his arms, and he He enfolded her against him for a moment, bodies familiar now. The curves and hollows and planes of her body fitted his now, even in a quick embrace.
He kissed her, released her. Then he went to the ladder.
Chapter 21
"They were three brethren in a band—
Joy may they ne'er see!
Their treacherous art, and cowardly heart,
Has twin 'd my love and me."
—"Lord Maxwell's Goodnight"
When Mairi reached the bottom of the ladder, Rowan had his boots on and was already strapping his belt over his leather jack while he spoke urgently to Christie. Outside, Heckie Elliot's voice sounded through the wind. The dog barked and burst through the bed curtain to circle anxiously near the door. Jean and Jennet stirred and called out and began to rise, and the children whimpered.
Mairi patted the dog's rough coat, feeling Bluebell's quivering tension. Mairi trembled too, body and soul still finely tuned from the sensual loving that she had found with Rowan only a little while ago. She grabbed her long boots and pulled them on, hands shaking, as she watched Rowan.
