by Amy Jarecki
She didn’t blink as she met his gaze. “It would be an honor to serve the man who risked everything to save my family from the bane of fire and sword this very morn.”
His coat dropped to the floor as he stared into her eyes. His boots slipped off. Skye could scarcely breathe as his hand moved to his belt. With a flick of his wrist, his weapons dropped to the ground. Stepping in, she unpinned the brooch at his shoulder and pulled the length of tartan away, unwrapping it from his hips until it billowed to the floor. With a sultry grin, he pulled his shirt over his head and cast it aside.
Bare as God intended, he stood before her. His body had not an ounce of fat—a powerful chest, supported by a rippling abdomen, but what truly took her breath away was the full length of virile manhood jutting from a nest of black curls.
Skye gasped, tapping her lips with the tips of her fingers. “You are magnificent.”
He chuckled, stepping in and grasping her hands. “Let me look at you.” She eased the tension in her arms as he spread them wide. “I have never seen a sight more beautiful.”
He pulled her into his arms and covered her mouth with a kiss filled with fire, a kiss like he wanted to devour her. As his hot flesh rubbed hers, the intense pull of longing shot between her legs. She clutched him tighter, craving more, craving to be joined with him.
Kier lifted her into his arms. “Wrap your legs around me.”
Doing so made her entire body quake with delicious shudders as her slick core slid down his length. “What wizardry do you possess over me?” she asked with a gasp.
“’Tis the magic of passion between a man and a woman,” he growled in her ear, carrying her to the bed and laying her atop a blanket.
Kier scarcely made it to the bed before he exploded. He’d thought Skye was the bonniest woman in the Highlands prior to seeing her naked, but now he knew in the depths of his soul she was the finest woman in all of Christendom. And she was his. Laying her on her back, Skye’s tresses swarmed around her, making her look like a flesh and blood goddess.
On his knees, he pushed between her thighs and moved her hands to his rock-hard erection. “I want you to touch me.”
Her lips parted as she stared at him, the corners of her mouth turning up. She stroked him with silken fingers while he shuddered with his mounting desire. “I want to please you. Show me how.”
Seed leaked from the tip of his cock and he sucked in a sharp breath, clenching his arse cheeks to regain control. “Good God, no sweeter words have ever been spoke.” No matter how much Kier desired to take her, to plunge inside heaven and soar to the stars, he had to make it right. “Tell me you will marry me.”
“I will,” she said breathlessly.
He thrust his hips forward as she began to milk him. But before he gave in to his need, he must seal their bond. “Will you hold me dear in your heart for the rest of your days?”
“I will cherish you forever.”
His heart soared. “And I will be your husband. I promise to provide for you, to care for you, to love you and our bairns to come.”
Kier lowered himself over bonny Skye as he kissed her, all of her. He trailed lips down her neck and buried his face between the mounds of her breasts. He suckled her nipples until she gasped and arched against him.
Chuckling, he rocked forward and brushed his cock along her exposed, swollen womanhood. She was so wet and hot, he nearly exploded. Staring up at him with the bonniest bluebell eyes, a look of pure passion filled Skye’s expression as her breathing sped and her hips swirled against him.
Taking a stuttered inhale, Kier moved lower and shifted the tip of his cock to her opening. “Are ye ready to become my Highland bride?”
Skye quavered beneath him and nodded. “Aye, aye, aye!” Her parted lips, ruby red with passion, drove him to the brink of madness. He could wait no longer.
Gradually inching inside he held still, biting his lip. Holy hellfire, she was tighter than a new scabbard.
“Kier,” she gasped, tensing beneath him.
“Am I hurting you?”
“A little.” She shook her head. “Nay. It feels inexplicably good.”
“Then guide me so I’ll not cause you pain, mo leannan.”
Nodding, her eyes filling with trust, she sank her lithe fingers into his buttocks and tugged. She let out a sharp gasp while she dictated the torturous pace. Kier fought to maintain control as this sensuous woman milked him, surrounded him, tight and wet. Skye strengthened her grip and swirled her hips until he reached the wall of her womb. Arching her back, her moans started low then came rapid and swift, sending him into a maelstrom of driving need. Kier could hold back no more. He drove into her again and again, the tight rippling of her walls taking him beyond the point of pure magic. Throwing back his head, he roared with his release.
Skye’s hips met his thrusts. As he exploded, she arched up and cried out.
Panting, he rested on his elbows and gazed into the luminous pools of her eyes, so clear, he could glimpse into her soul. “God help me, I love you with every thread of my being.”
Smiling like an angel, her hair damp from exertion, she caressed his face and drew his lips to hers. “I love you, Kier Campbell.”
Kissing his bride, he swore he would never again let her go. He vowed to hold her in his embrace and protect her forever. Skye of Clan Iain Abrach was his.
Chapter Twelve
The weather and all of Christendom seemed against them as they headed to Sigurd Castle. Thank God Kier could traverse these lands in his sleep, because no sane man would be out in the sleet and snow and whipping wind unless he was running for his life.
They made it to the stables beside Loch Dochart well past dark and there wasn’t a stable hand in sight. After tending to his horse and giving the garron a double ration of oats, Kier led Skye to the pier and helped her board a skiff used to ferry people to the tower house built by his ancestors atop a rocky isle.
Shivering, she blew on her fingers and panned her gaze up the looming old keep as he rowed. “It looks enormous, but brooding almost as if it’s abandoned.”
“’Tis the weather. Come spring when the bluebells and primrose are in bloom, ’tis not so stark.”
“I’ve never been inside a castle afore.” She cringed while her teeth chattered.
“It isn’t much different from MacIain’s manse.”
With that, Skye’s face fell. Kier didn’t have to ask why. The shock of yesterday morn’s events still stewed in his chest like boiling tar.
“Do you think your father will like me?” she asked.
“Aye.” Kier knew Da would be difficult, but he would grow to love Skye in time.
Finn, the valet, met them at the enormous oak door. “Master Kier, whatever are you doing out in this weather? I reckon nary a fox has crawled from his hole for near on two days.”
Kier embraced the faithful old servant. “Have you heard the news from Glencoe?”
“Nothing recent.” The man looked to Skye and a shadow crossed his face. “Something grave has happened, has it not?”
“I’m afraid so, my friend. An act nothing short of genocide, led by Glenlyon.”
“Dear God.”
After introducing Skye, Kier explained about the rescue of her family and skirted around the details of his hasty marriage. “Would you please show Mistress Skye to my chamber and send up a tray of food and ale?”
She glanced at him with wide eyes. “You’re not going with me?”
“I must have a word with my father alone first.” He gestured toward the stairwell. “I’ll join you anon.”
Finn bowed. “Your da is in his solar, sir.”
“I thought as much.” Kier bowed in return and waited until the patter of their footsteps on the ancient sandstone stairs disappeared, then he dashed upward to the second floor.
When he entered the solar, Da lowered his gazette and looked up in surprise. In the past year, Father’s hair had gone grayer, his face gaunter. “Kier? What the devil ar
e you doing here? It has been blizzarding for two days.”
“I’ve a great deal to tell you.” Kier met his father’s eyes with a somber stare. They shook hands as they always did. Da believed it was a sign of weakness for a man to embrace another, even in private. “Finn said you haven’t received a messenger in days.”
“No. Not that any sane man would venture out in this weather. There must be three feet of snow on the ground. Why the devil did you risk riding in a blizzard? Were you not in Fort William?”
“Glencoe.” Keir moved to the sideboard and poured a tot of whisky for them both. After taking a seat, he launched into a detailed explanation of his regiment’s arrival in the Coe and all that ensued right up until they arrived at Sigurd Castle.
Da’s bloodshot eyes grew redder and enraged. “You mean to tell me you have not only committed treason against your clan, you have gone and wedded a MacIain, the scourge of the Highlands?”
Kier shoved back his chair and rose to his feet, grinding his knuckles into the table. “After all I’ve said, you cannot tell me you support the annihilation of an entire clan.”
Whisky spewed from Da’s lips. “Good God, Son. Are you daft? Clan Iain Abrach is our greatest enemy. We have feuded with the MacIains and MacDonalds since the rise of the Lords of the Isles.” He pushed from the table so hard, his chair clattered to the floorboards. “You have gone against an order of the king and, worse, you’ve brought a fugitive into my house?”
Taking a step back, Kier looked at his father in disbelief. “Do you not care what is right, what is honorable?”
“’Tis about time you learned that honor has nothing to do with protecting clan and kin.” Da pounded his fist. “To survive in these times, a man must bear that which he cannot change and ensure he stands on the right side of every feud. And if that means taking up fire and sword to rid the lands of thieving tinkers, then I stand by it with all my heart and soul.”
If only Kier could plant his knuckles in that proud face. After four and twenty years, he finally saw his father for a yellow-bellied hypocrite—all the Campbells for their hypocrisy.
Da thrust his finger toward the door. “I would not turn a dog out in this weather, but come morn, you will take that bitch and never set foot on my lands again!”
***
Skye knew something was wrong as soon as Kier walked into the chamber. And all along, she’d known his father wouldn’t see reason. The laird was a Campbell, after all. “What happened?” she asked.
“We’ll be leaving come first light.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. I’ve lost my inheritance.”
Skye looked from one tapestry to the next. Kier’s chamber was more opulent than anything she’d ever imagined. “Because of me?”
“Nay, because of injustice and outdated parochial views of an old man who could not see reason if it were presented to him on a platter hewn of solid gold.”
She hid her face in her hands as her heart twisted inside her chest. “’Tis all my fault. Forgive me for bringing this upon you.”
“Och, lass. You are nay the one who penned the order to put a clan to fire and sword.” He pulled her into his arms. Skye tried to push away, but he held her with fierce strength. “I am a wealthy man for loving you. We shall make our own dynasty, you and I.”
“What are you saying?” She craned her neck to see his face. “You weren’t serious about sailing for the Americas?”
“I was. I hear there’s land for the taking and it matters not where you were born. What matters is how you live your life and the honor borne in your heart.”
“But what of Tommy, Ma…Da?”
“Once we’re settled, we can send for them.”
Closing her eyes, Skye clung to her husband. She knew her parents would never leave the Highlands, not unless Hugh ordered it and that wasn’t likely. What were her parents doing now and what must they think of her for leaving them in the mountains? Who knew when it would be safe to go back? Her home was destroyed and the contents burned.
She looked Kier in the eye and cupped his whiskered cheeks between her palms. “My place is with you now.”
Chapter Thirteen
Kier stood on the pier at the Port of Glasgow while he and Skye waited for the skiff to ferry them to the galleon moored in the Firth of Clyde. They’d waited a fortnight for the ship to undergo repairs for the voyage and had stayed in a guest house on Bridge Street. It wasn’t easy trying to keep a low profile once the news of the massacre filtered down from the Highlands.
Everyone had something to say about it. Kier had burned his army coat. Once they arrived in Glasgow, he’d commissioned a tailor to fashion him a new suit of clothes and three new gowns, undergarments and a cloak for Skye. He’d paid for everything in coin, careful not to let on that he was a Campbell. In fact, he shortened the name to Camp even for the ship’s manifest.
Not far down the pier, a Highland galley dropped anchor and a tall, dapper gentleman alighted with an entourage in tow. All men in his retinue wore kilts and sporrans with dirk and sword. They reminded Kier of MacIains, of Camerons, of MacDonalds and of Campbells. Here in the lowlands, Highlanders looked the same regardless of their politics.
When he looked up, the man stopped dead in his tracks. At first he looked as if he might draw his sword, but then he narrowed his gaze and scratched his chin. “Kier Campbell is it?”
With the tenor of his voice, something rang in Kier’s head while the memory of the Battle of Dunkeld came back full force. He’d met this man on the battlefield, watched him fight valiantly and watched him elude the government troops, leading his men northward back to the MacDonald lands in Skye.
His wife beside him grasped Kier’s arm. “Do you ken this man?”
“Aye.” Squaring his shoulders, he held out his hand. “Donald MacDonald, Baronet of Sleat, it is my pleasure.”
“Chieftain of Clan Donald?” Skye whispered with awe filling her voice. Clan Iain Abrach paid fealty to this man and his infamous kin.
The baronet grinned. “I’ve heard a great deal about you in the past several days.”
Kier glanced toward the galleon, praying the skiff was on its way, but the crew hadn’t yet lowered the boat to the surf. The last thing he needed was for his wife to watch him die fighting off a mob of MacDonalds. “I have no quarrel with you, sir.”
“I should hope not.” MacDonald gave Skye a wink. “It seems your quarrel is with your own clan.”
Kier pursed his lips.
But Skye stepped forward. “He saved me and my family from Glenlyon’s sword.”
MacDonald crossed his arms with a nod. “A wee lad named Malcolm said his family was spared due to Campbell’s heroism as well. We suspect there might be a few dragoons pushing up daisies on account of him come spring.”
Where is that goddamned skiff? Keir shot another look to the galleon.
Skye scurried forward and grasped the baronet’s arm. “Please, sir. Have you word of my family? Are they safe?”
“Aye, safe with Hugh, still up at Meall Mòr. But they’re living like dogs. I reckon it’ll be a cold day in hell afore we bring the culprits to justice.”
“The sooner the better,” Kier mumbled.
Skye turned with a radiant smile. “They’ll be all right. I ken they will.”
The baronet seemed not to notice Skye’s sudden joy and continued to look at Kier as if he posed a quandary. “You studied at University, did you not?”
“Aye. Edinburgh.” Kier pulled Skye behind him and stepped forward. “Why do you ask?”
“I could use a man like you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve a proposition to make. Would you share my coach?”
Kier threw his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m afraid we have a ship to board as soon as the captain sends the skiff.”
Sir Donald looked to the galleon. “Are you certain you want to sail to the Americas and risk your very lives to sickness or worse, a death i
n Davey Jones’ locker?”
Skye grasped Kier’s hand and squeezed. Could he trust this man? Kier gave MacDonald a somber stare. “What is your proposal, sir? Since you are aware of my actions in Glencoe, there is an army of men who’d sooner see me swinging by the hangman’s noose, including my father.”
“I need a learned man to embark upon a new salt pan operation in Trotternish on the Isle of Skye—lands tended by MacDonald kin. I have two caveats, however.”
“And they would be?”
“We must first give you an alias, but only if you pledge an oath to the cause.”
“The cause, sir?”
Sir Donald pointed to a silk rose on his lapel, one that Kier suspected served as a secret symbol used by the Jacobites.
Pledge an oath to an exiled king?
In a way, he’d already become a Jacobite and he’d already altered his name to Camp. Kier glanced down at the hopeful expression on his wife’s face. “You once told me you wanted to see the Isle of Skye, love.”
“Please,” she tugged his arm. “We might even be able to see my family again.”
Kier faced the baronet and gestured to the street. “Then lead on, Sir Donald. I would, indeed, be interested in your proposition.”
Epilogue
30th September, 1695
More than three years had passed since the Glencoe Massacre. Kier, now living under the guise of Magnus Prince, overseer of a thriving salt pan operation, sat in his solar in Duntulm Castle overlooking the sea. News didn’t oft come to Trotternish, but today he read through a two-month-old gazette dated 20th of June. After all this time, the Scottish Parliament had finally conducted an inquisition into the massacre. The Privy Council named the Master of Stair, Major Robert Duncanson, Captain Glenlyon, Lieutenant Lindsay and a handful of others as guilty of the slaughter of the Glencoe men under trust. No mention was made of Kier’s guilt or innocence. He wasn’t even named as one of the members of Glenlyon’s regiment. Upon the writing of the article, no men had been summoned for prosecution and no reparations had been offered to Hugh and his crippled clan.
