“Why do ye sigh so, love?” Duncan reached over and brushed a stray tress out of her eyes.
Tilda looked up at him, losing herself in the dark blue of his eyes. The level of love she saw reflected there both startled and touched her to the depths of her soul. “How can ye still possibly love me when I have treated ye so ill?”
Duncan shrugged and gave her his old, lopsided grin that dimpled his cheek. “I just do.” He kissed her forehead. “I canna imagine my life without ye.” He squeezed her hand. “And ye have nay been so verra bad.”
“Ye lie.” Tilda pushed to her feet, then reseated herself in his lap. She had made up her mind. She knew the perfect way to express her apologies and begin the mending of their relationship. ’Twas high time she returned to the role of wife. She leaned in close, pressed her hands against his chest, and wiggled. “Father Wesley would assign ye ten Hail Marys for such a lie, ye ken?”
Duncan’s eyes went wide, and his dark brows arched almost to his hairline. He tensed beneath her, shifting his feet, but a particular part of him made it quite clear that he very much appreciated her decision to place herself in his lap. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “I never lie.”
Tilda smiled and wiggled again, making like she couldn’t get comfortable. She reached down and traced a fingertip along the fold of Duncan’s kilt laying on the bench beside him. “These are not MacCoinnich or Mackenzie colors. Did the village not have a weaver that could do them?” She slid the material higher, baring his leg so she could smooth her fingers along his thigh.
Sweat peppered across Duncan’s brow as he opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut as though locking his jaws. He stared at her for a long moment, then yanked her close, lacing his fingers through her hair as he opened her mouth with a kiss fueled with hunger and desperation.
Tilda pulled away just long enough to shift and sit astride him. Even through the layers of material caught between them, she felt how much her husband wanted her, and she ached for him in return. “I need ye,” she whispered as Duncan tasted his way down her jawline to her collarbone while cupping her breasts in both his hands.
Duncan lifted her up, yanked his kilt out of the way, then shoved her dress aside. With a long, slow teasing thrust, he lowered her down atop him with a shuddering groan. “Lord have mercy, wife. I’ve missed ye sorely. I fear I willna last long.”
Reveling in the wondrous sensations she had denied them for far too long, she latched hold of his shoulders and rode. The blissful explosions came hard and fast, spinning her into ecstasy and beyond. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming and startling the monks.
His hands beneath her skirt, Duncan clenched her bottom and thrust upward, shuddering with a strained roar. He held her suspended, pumping into her, then collapsed back to the bench. He pulled her hard against his chest and held her tight as though afraid she would somehow disappear.
She pressed a kiss to the sweet saltiness of his neck and hugged him with her thighs. “Forgive me for denying us this for so long.” She kissed him again. “I love ye,” she whispered. “I love ye something fierce.”
“Good,” Duncan replied between gasping inhales. “’Tis all I ask.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Father Wesley seemed sad to see us go. Do ye no’ agree?”
“I believe their care for us helped break the monotony of their days.” Duncan basked in the glow of Tilda’s smile. Her joy to be heading home fed his soul. Aye, life was indeed settling down and getting better.
He filled his lungs with the refreshing crispness of the day. The late afternoon held a chill in the air. It caressed his skin with an eye-opening nip. ’Twas still summer but barely. The land had begun the ancient shifting, its edges kissed by autumn’s gold and scarlet hues. It was good they finally headed to Cape Wrath. Winter would be upon them soon.
After the fitting of Tilda’s partial limb, they had tarried longer at New Duress the better part of a month, in fact. She had needed the time to adjust to the new foot. They had been out of touch for so long at Strathy Point, who knew how many thought them dead. Tilda’s healing had left little time to give much thought to sending word to either of their families. Mayhap, Tilda had done so.
“Did ye write to yer father?”
She shifted with a sheepish cringe. “Nay. I feel certain I shall be in line for a harsh scolding once he recovers from his joy of seeing us alive. Did ye send word to Tor Ruadh?”
Duncan patted his saddlebag. “The missive is right here.” He’d failed to send it. It appeared they had both been remiss about letting their families know they still lived.
“Well, that be a fine place for it.” Tilda laughed and picked up the pace, pointing her reins at a spot up ahead where the land leveled out and knotty vegetation covered the rugged hillside, blending in with small stands of trees. “Stop up ahead, aye? I need a private moment behind yon bushes.”
Duncan bit his tongue to keep from remarking that they would never reach the Mackenzie keep if she kept stopping to water the landscape. He had lost count of how many times she had needed to stop since they set out early that morning. Come to think of it, she had been the same at the abbey for the past week. Every time he missed her, she had disappeared to visit the garderobe. Something surely ailed her. “Are ye unwell, wife?”
“Nay. I am quite well.” She pulled her mount to a halt, unholstered her cane, and dismounted all by herself.
The first time she had insisted on trying it alone, Duncan had stood with hands clenched and sent up a stream of prayers. But his courageous wife was correct. If she didn’t attempt challenging tasks on her own, she would never learn to manage with her new appendage. But it pained him to watch her struggle when he could so easily help her.
Duncan remained on his mount, scanning the area. Mercenary ways died hard, especially now that he was a wanted man and back in the Highlands. Of course, with any luck, both the British and the MacDonalds thought him dead and buried at sea. Just to be safe, he had set aside the colors of his clan to give those who hunted him one less clue to his identity. The muted tones of the kilt he wore were faded, resembling no tartan in existence—or so claimed the weaver who had fashioned the plaid.
Just as his uneasiness about Tilda’s absence became almost more than he could bear, she emerged from the bushes, her relief more than apparent. “Much better,” she reassured.
He made to dismount to help her back on her horse, but she held up a hand. “Nay. Let me try again by myself.”
With a heavy sigh, Duncan nodded. The last time she had attempted climbing into the saddle via the stirrups, she had stumbled and landed on her arse. She had nay landed hard, but it had hurt him just the same. He couldn’t bear such again.
Dismounting, he moved to her side, ignoring her fussing. “I shan’t touch ye. I promise.” They both knew he was lying. He’d no’ let her fall again. He nodded for her to give it another try.
Tilda holstered her cane, took hold of the saddle, and placed her right foot in the stirrups this time. She hoisted herself back into the saddle, then looked down at him with a triumphant glow. “I knew I could do it if I tried it from the right rather than the left.”
Duncan breathed easier. “Aye, lass. Well done.” At least if anything happened to him, Tilda would nay be stranded.
He rolled his shoulders as he walked back to his steed. The farther they rode from New Duress, the more an uneasiness gnawed at him. He cast another glance around the area. Nothing out of place. Just a peaceful spot in the Highlands. He rested one hand on the pistol in his belt and the other on his sword. At least he had managed to secure weapons from Duress’s nearby village.
He cast a squinting gaze up at the sun, judging the time of day. “We need to ride a bit longer, then find a place to stop for the evening, aye?”
“Aye.” Tilda gave him a wink. “I shall try to hold any further stops until then.”
Duncan limited his comment to a polite nod and urged his mount
forward. “Stay close, aye?” He gave her a look he prayed she would heed. She needed to ride with her left side to him. That was her weak side.
He felt better as she pulled her mount up alongside him.
“I declare, I have never known riding to stir such an emptiness in my wame. Reckon it’s because I sat idle about the abbey for so long?”
Now she was hungry again, and they had eaten but a short time ago. He cast a side-eyed glance in her direction. She had taken to eating quite a bit more of late. He pointed to the small cloth sack knotted around the horn of her saddle. “Have ye forgotten yer treats? Eat a bannock whilst we ride these last few miles. Mathias packed them special for ye since ye remarked they were the best ye had ever tasted.”
“I believe I shall.” Tilda pried open the cinched neck of the bag and fished out the bit of bread.
With a combined humming of a nonsensical tune, she picked away pieces and popped them in her mouth. Tilda reminded Duncan of a mischievous child that had stolen sweetmeats from the larder without getting caught.
Memories of his brothers’ wives’ behavior flashed through his mind. God’s beard. Duncan halted his mount and turned to her. “Are ye with child?”
Cheeks swollen with bites of bannock, Tilda pressed her fingers over her mouth and smiled. She forced a quick swallow, then gave a shy nod. “I think so.”
A combined jolt of pride, joy, and fear hit him. He nudged his horse closer, snatched up her hand, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. A child. Their child. “How long have ye known, ye wee vixen?”
“I suspected for a little while but didna wish to say anything until I knew for certain.” A perturbed look creased her brow. “Father Gideon was not exactly a font of knowledge on the subject.”
The thought of Father Gideon even being asked such questions triggered a rumbling laugh.
The poor man. Childbearing would most certainly be out of his element. “Perhaps they were nay so sad to see us go after all.” His gaze shifted to her still flat middle. “Ye need women about ye at such a time. Not an abbey full of monks.”
Duncan quickened their pace. Tilda’s condition was all the more reason to make haste to Cape Wrath. She needed a stable home at a time like this. And women. Knowledgeable women.
Tilda kept pace beside him. Aye, she felt the urgency, too.
They rode until the sun dipped behind the treetops, then stopped beside a burn, its clear waters hemmed in on one side by great boulders of limestone. ’Twas the perfect place to spend the night. Good shelter on three sides and a place to water the horses without them straying too far from camp.
Hurrying to dismount, Duncan held up his hands for Tilda. “I shall not have ye taking any more risks. Pains me bad enough to see ye fall and now ye’ve got the bairn to consider, aye?”
“Aye,” Tilda said in a placating tone. “Whatever ye say, husband.”
“That’s better.” Although Duncan felt sure her obedience wouldn’t last long. He pulled her from the saddle and rewarded her with a heated kiss. He needed her, and she well knew it. She pressed hard against him with a promising wiggle.
Impatience urging him to hurry, Duncan saw to the horses, securing them to a stand of bushes beside the stream. He returned to Tilda and resumed the kiss.
Reaching down between them for a brazen squeeze of his manhood, Tilda pulled away from the kiss and smiled up into his eyes. “Can ye wait a bit for yer supper?” She cast a sideways glance at a thick green patch of moss beneath the sprawling branches of a great oak. “I thought we might have a bit of a lie down before we ate. What say ye?”
Dropping both pistol and sword to the ground, Duncan swept her up, strode to the base of the tree, and settled her down in front of it. With her shoulders leaned against a dip in the trunk, the thick gnarled roots on either side of her supported her nicely. He knelt at her feet, encouraged by the high color to her cheeks and the fire in her eyes.
“I fear I canna wait for my supper.” He eased her skirts up to her waist and tickled his fingertips up the tender skin of her inner thighs. Swallowing her gasp with a slow kiss, he teased his fingers higher as he worked his mouth lower, pausing for delicious moments here and there for sweet samplings.
Tilda caught her breath and squeaked the way she always did, and he loved her all the more for it. Nibbling. Tasting. Lord Almighty, he’d never tire of her. Hands cupping her bottom, he kneaded and teased as he pleasured her, until her thighs tensed, then shuddered around his shoulders. She clutched handfuls of his hair and pulled him forward, arching into his mouth with a cry. He held fast until her moans subsided into a soft purring. Sliding his arms beneath her, he lifted her from leaning against the tree, slid her prone across the moss, then buried himself deep where he belonged. Aye, he was a greedy man.
With a welcoming groan, Tilda wrapped her legs around him and met him thrust for thrust.
Thunderous release shook through him as she dug her nails into his arse with a growling moan. Gasping for breath, Duncan rained kisses across her upturned face, then collapsed beside her and curled her close to his side. He tossed a length of his kilt around her. “We canna have ye chilled,” he said with a weary kiss to her forehead.
Her light-hearted giggle tickled against his side. “I am quite warm at the moment, I assure ye.”
A disturbing thought came to him. “’Tis safe if I still love ye, aye?” He had never asked his brothers about such. He had never planned to take a wife or father children. He had no need to know. But now… “The bairn. Pray, tell me I didna hurt the bairn.” He would never forgive himself for being such a selfish brute.
Tilda patted his chest. “Ye didna hurt the bairn. Agnes told me about such things.” She paused, her fingers idly plucking at the ties of his léine. “At the time, I thought her brazen to speak of such, but now I am truly thankful she did.” She lifted her head and gave him a secretive look. “Agnes was once Da’s mistress. And even now, whenever he’s in Inverness, she’s always close by. He doesna think I know, but I overheard him tell old Angus to be sure and keep Agnes’s accounts well filled with whatever she needs because she be his dearest companion.”
“I canna blame the man. Not with that wife of his.” Duncan clamped his mouth shut. Shite. That wife was Tilda’s mother. He cleared his throat and hugged her. “Beg pardon.”
“There is nothing to pardon.” She snuggled tighter into the crook of his shoulder and shifted with a heavy sigh. “I know well enough what a wretch Mother is.” Her fingers tapped with a light repetitive drumming against the center of his chest. “She’s never been happy. I canna remember a single day and couldna tell ye how her smile might look. A more miserable woman ye shall never find.”
He probably shouldn’t ask, but he couldn’t resist. “Why does yer father not set her aside? He’s the Mackenzie. He can do whatever he wishes.”
“I’ve never understood why he doesna do so. At first, I thought it was because she was my mother, but now I dinna think that’s the reason.” Tilda’s tone grew thoughtful. “It’s almost as though she wields a power over him but for the life of me, I canna discover what that power is.” She pushed up to a sitting position and huffed out another sigh. “Off to the bushes I go—again.”
Duncan chuckled and propped an arm behind his head. As Tilda walked away, he realized that her odd gait had reduced to little more than a slight limp. Good. Gladness filled him. Thankfulness filled him, too. God had given him a braw, courageous woman, and he couldn’t be more glad of it.
“Quite the beauty there. Ye’ve done well.”
Duncan rolled and sprang to his feet, damning himself for letting down his guard and leaving his weapons so far out of reach. “What the hell are ye doing here?”
Sern MacDonald leaned against the tree with a pistol pointed at Duncan’s chest. “Presently, I was waiting for ye to finish with yer woman.” He gave Duncan an impressed hike of a brow. “I thought the two of ye would never be done.” Swaying the barrel of his pistol with every word, he pushed aw
ay from the tree and widened his stance. “But far be it from me to deny a doomed man one last tumble.”
“Dinna make me kill ye, Sern. Does our friendship mean nothing?” Duncan squared off, sidling around to ensure he stood between Sern and the bushes which hid Tilda. He had to get within diving distance of his pistol. His fingers itched for a weapon. Any kind of weapon.
Sern gave a noncommittal shrug. “Our friendship does not outweigh my life.” He shook his head, and all levity left him. “I shan’t kill ye unless forced, but ye will be coming with me to stand before the MacDonald.” He jerked a chin toward the bushes. “Be thankful I found ye before the others did. They would nay have treated her as kindly I.”
“Kindly?” Duncan eased closer. Weapon or not, he’d rush the bastard and snap his neck with his bare hands. If it came between Sern and Tilda, Sern would die.
“A swift death is much kinder than a tortured one. D’ye not agree?” Sern motioned toward the horses. “Say yer goodbyes. If ye dinna fight me, maybe I’ll let her live and be on her way.” He cast an impatient look at the bushes. “Come out, lass. I know ye be in there.”
Tilda remained silent. Aye, he’d married a canny lass for sure. She would never retreat without a fight, and nor would she do anything to make Sern’s task any easier. Duncan was nay so sure if that knowledge brought him comfort or worry. She had the bairn to think of now.
“I’ll not go before ye solve a puzzle for me.” Duncan moved his right foot forward. His dagger waited in his boot. Fingers itching for it, he held off a bit longer. He needed information first.
“And what might that puzzle be?” Sern pulled a second pistol from his belt and trained it on him.
“How did ye learn of my return to the Highlands?” Duncan prayed Tilda would stay behind the bushes. This standoff would nay last forever. She needed to hie to the keep. Save herself and the bairn.
The Warrior Page 18
