Kilted at the Altar (Clash of the Tartans Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  That wasn’t exactly what Isabel had in mind, but her cousin seemed to be in favor of the plan. “He would,” she replied.

  “And it hasna been used as a church for many a year.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll speak to him,” Fanny assured her. “Go get ready.”

  She pecked a kiss on Fanny’s red cheek and hurried off to tell Darroch the deed was as good as done.

  A Simple Ceremony

  Hammond wandered around the church, shoulders hunched and muttering as if he feared the ghost of John Calvin himself might strike him dead for entering a papist shrine. He finally settled on the elaborate walled tomb of the eighth MacRain chief as a suitable backdrop for the ceremony.

  The handful of MacKeegan clansmen who’d accompanied Grig seemed equally uncomfortable amid the tombs of long-dead MacRain chiefs. Every cough, sniffle, footfall and whisper echoed off the stone walls and tiled floor.

  The afternoon sun had chased away the rain, yet water dripped slowly into some unknown pool. Darroch suspected the sound never ceased.

  “I reckon the roof needs repairs,” his captain whispered, looking up at the soaring arched ceiling. The dark wooden beams seemed almost new compared to the ancient nave over which they brooded.

  Mumbled agreement arose from men and women of both clans. The building likely hadn’t seen such a gathering for many a year. Damp wool and the smell of the living had helped chase away the stale odor of decay.

  Darroch sought to ease his nervous anticipation by studying the riot of carved ornamentation above the effigy of the eighth chief himself—the four evangelists, the twelve apostles, a hunting scene with deer, angels blowing trumpets, a birlinn, Dungavin Castle, the Virgin Mary cradling her babe. He assumed Hammond had decided to pay no mind to that Popish image.

  He’d counted and recounted the figures, the angels, even the points on the deer antlers when he finally heard Fanny’s voice and knew Isabel had arrived. He fingered the sprig of juniper pinned to his plaid, pleased his men had managed to find a clump of the shrub after a bit of a search. Inhaling deeply to slow his racing heart, he uttered a prayer of thanks to whatever saintly ghosts lingered in this holy place, acknowledging his marriage was off to a much better start here than in Dun Scaith. Duty had forced him to the altar there. Now he was a man motivated by love.

  He turned to watch Isabel walk towards him, arm in arm with Fanny. The faces of both women were flushed, a result of climbing the hill to the church. He couldn’t see the hatpin, but had no doubt it was keeping the hat firmly in place on his bride’s braided hair.

  He licked his lips. Soon he’d be loosening the braid and sifting his fingers through her crowning glory.

  An errant thought popped into his head. He’d given no thought as to where they’d spend their wedding night.

  *

  While Isabel bathed at the pump, Fanny had worked feverishly to clean the riding habit, but it still looked rather the worse for wear. And if anyone had foretold she’d be wearing a muffin hat and thigh-high riding boots when she got married, well…

  Blue whined when she admonished him to stay outside the church, but he obeyed.

  As she walked resolutely toward her betrothed, boot heels echoing on the tiles, she suspected the red dress she’d planned to wear for the ill-fated ceremony at Dungavin wouldn’t have elicited the same appreciative gleam in Darroch’s green eyes.

  Muttered comments of approval from the island folk in attendance confirmed she was dressed exactly as she should be.

  She swallowed tears. “My mother would smile if she saw me now,” she whispered to Fanny.

  “She’d be proud,” the old woman replied hoarsely as she passed Isabel’s hand into Darroch’s.

  The warmth of his skin chased away the chill of the ancient place. His smile of reassurance banished any last minute doubts.

  As they faced Hammond, she noticed for the first time they stood before the tomb of the eighth chief. She took it as a sign of the clan’s blessing on her marriage into an enemy clan. This would be her own father’s final resting place, but she would do everything in her power to delay the day of his death. With Darroch by her side, how could they fail to thwart Ghalla’s schemes?

  The old islander embarked on the simple ceremony. She and Darroch repeated the vows binding each to the other. Everyone cheered when Hammond declared they were man and wife. Darroch took her in his arms and kissed her. She molded her body to his, sucking on his tongue like a needy babe, letting him breathe for her. They broke apart when Hammond cleared his throat rather more loudly than was necessary, but she noticed even he was smiling.

  As they exited the church, it occurred to her she hadn’t given a thought to where they’d spend their wedding night.

  *

  Blue ran around, sniffing everyone and obviously enjoying the numerous pats on the head he received. Most remarked on his unusual color.

  Hammond clamped a beefy hand on Darroch’s shoulder. “My wife’s prepared a few things. In our cottage. Nothing much, ye ken.”

  Surprised to hear the man even had a wife, he nevertheless thought food sounded like a good idea. He’d been too nervous to eat before the ceremony. “Weel, ’tis thoughtful of her, but we dinna want to be a burden.”

  Fanny joined them. “Nonsense. Gladys will be disappointed if ye dinna go.” She leaned close to whisper hoarsely in his ear. “’Tis bad luck to refuse island hospitality.”

  Isabel had obviously overheard. “I am hungry,” she confessed.

  Darroch agreed to accompany Hammond, astonished when a cheer went up from the crowd exiting the church behind them, all of whom promptly followed as they made their way down the track.

  “Surely not everyone is coming?” Isabel asked Fanny.

  “Oh aye. It’s nay every day we celebrate a wedding on Harris. Folk want to wish ye weel.”

  “I suppose it would be the same at Dun Scaith,” he said to Isabel. “Everyone would join in the feasting.”

  She clung to his hand in the uncertain terrain. “Same at Dungavin, but these crofters dinna have much to begin with.”

  As they passed Fanny’s croft, the old woman darted inside with a brief, See ye soon. He was surprised when Blue followed her.

  “What’s that about?” he asked his bride.

  She shrugged. “She does as she pleases.”

  The path became muddy in places. “Good thing ye wore sturdy boots,” he commented, puzzled when she looked away quickly with a murmured Aye.

  After ten minutes, they came to Hammond’s croft. It was larger than Fanny’s and in better repair. It struck him how difficult life must be for a woman alone in this isolated place. “There’s a lot we can do for yer cousin,” he said. “We’ll come back after we’ve dealt with Ghalla.”

  Isabel smiled and nodded her understanding. “Dinna mention it yet, though. She’ll refuse. Too stubborn.”

  Darroch knew many in the Western Isles who were the same. “And proud,” he added.

  Hammond thrust open the door and ushered them inside. “Mind the steps, laddie,” he warned with a wink.

  Darroch chuckled at the good-natured jest and held Isabel’s hand to help her descend the stone steps. Several people followed until the dwelling was packed full of boisterous well-wishers. The aroma of freshly-baked bread tickled his nostrils. He supposed Hammond must have a separate sheep-fold outside since there was no evidence of the woolly creatures. “We could build an outdoor sheep-fold for Fanny,” he said to Isabel, almost having to shout in her ear over the din.

  “Aye,” she replied with a smile, “but she’ll probably complain she likes them in the croft for warmth.”

  Their host shouldered his way through the throng and led them to a small trestle table.

  Darroch nigh on drooled at the sight he beheld.

  Hammond chuckled. “’Tisna much. Everybody brought something, and Gladys baked. Tuck in.”

  Isabel stared wide-eyed, obviously as gobsmacked as he at the amount of
food arrayed on the table. A round-faced, jolly-looking woman appeared, beaming a smile from ear to ear, and handed each of them a thick slice of warm bread.

  “Gladys,” Isabel said. “Ye’ve gone to so much trouble with little advanced notice.”

  The woman’s blush deepened, if that were possible; she giggled, waved a hand and gestured for them to serve themselves.

  They helped each other pile smoked ham, salt pork, crumbly cheese, sliced mutton, and finally kippers on the bread slices. “A feast fit for a king,” Darroch declared gleefully, licking his fingers.

  Isabel smiled as they moved away from the table. “My mother often told me islanders were the most generous people she’d ever met.”

  He noted that no one else helped themselves to food until he and Isabel had taken their first bite.

  He made short work of his meal, then fed his wife the last bits of hers, encouraged by the seductive glint in her brown eyes. “I’ve satisfied one hunger,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Now to figure out where to whisk ye away so I can claim what I really thirst for.”

  She gave him a crestfallen look and hooked a hand in his plaid, smiling when she noticed the sprig of juniper. “Much as I appreciate the hospitality, I’d rather be alone with my new husband, but…”

  Fanny appeared out of the crowd, face flushed, grey hair more disheveled than usual. “All is in readiness,” she panted with a sly grin, elbowing Darroch in the ribs.

  His confusion must have been writ plain on his face.

  “My cottage. ’Tis yers for the night. Fresh linens. I’ll kip with Morag up the valley a ways.” A frown replaced the smile. “Naught I can do about the sheep though.”

  Darroch supposed most men gave a thought now and then to their wedding night, but he’d never imagined he’d spend his in a box-bed on Harris surrounded by sheep. However, the excitement shining in his bride’s eyes convinced him Fanny’s gesture was a gift from God.

  He kissed the old woman on the cheek. “I thank ye,” he said.

  She stiffened her shoulders. “Aye, weel. Get thee gone, and make a bairn.”

  It was all the encouragement he needed.

  Ye Belong to Me

  Isabel’s heart swelled with pride when Darroch easily achieved a lull in the conversation by simply clearing his throat.

  “I thank all o’ ye, especially Hammond and Gladys, for yer generosity and good wishes. Courtesy of Fanny, our bridal bower awaits…”

  Hearty cheering broke out, with many a tumbler of water raised to Fanny’s health.

  “Therefore I’m obliged to leave to carry out my husbandly duties…”

  The cheers turned to guffaws. Isabel felt the fire rise in her face.

  “And we bid ye all goodeve.”

  He took her hand and led the way through the merry throng to the steps, good-naturedly accepting many a hearty slap on the back.

  She hesitated at the open door, dismayed to see the drizzle had begun again. “Wait,” she urged.

  She pulled out the hatpin and handed it to him.

  His frown turned to a smile when she removed the hat, coiled the braid on top of her head and shoved the bonnet back on. She retrieved the pin, secured the hat then pulled the brim down almost to her eyebrows. “I dinna want to lie abed with wet hair,” she explained.

  He chuckled. “Practical and beautiful,” he said, covering his head with the end of his plaid. “Ready?”

  Aye, she was ready to give herself body and soul to this man. She stood on tiptoe to kiss his lips. “More than ready.”

  He took her hand and they dashed into the lengthening shadows to begin the steady climb back to Fanny’s croft.

  *

  They ran too recklessly along the path and, once inside, collapsed onto Fanny’s wooden chairs, gulping air as laughter threatened to choke them. The sheep bleated in reply, adding to their hysteria.

  The old woman had left the lantern lit. The little croft suddenly seemed like the coziest place on earth to spend a wedding night. Darroch couldn’t recall ever feeling such great happiness, but merriment turned to outright lust when his grinning bride yanked off her wet hat, tossed it aside and raised her arms to undo the braid.

  He leapt to his feet. “I’ll do that,” he rasped, when what he really meant was he wanted to take down her hair and kiss her silly while cupping breasts rendered all the more tempting by the tight jacket.

  In his youth he’d bedded too many lasses. But he’d never felt the need that consumed him as he straddled Isabel’s thighs and sifted fingers through her long, thick mane. Since his daughter’s birth, he’d lived like a monk. It had gradually become easier, but now his seed threatened to erupt from his rock hard tarse before he’d even touched his wife’s most intimate places.

  Isabel inhaled deeply when he raked his fingers along her scalp. “Ye should take off that wet plaid,” she murmured in a sultry voice that echoed in his swollen sac.

  For some ridiculous reason, he suddenly felt nervous. If he unbelted and removed his great plaid, his shirt was long enough to cover his arousal—barely. She might be frightened if she got an inkling of his size.

  He should assure her he’d make her ready, but she wouldn’t understand his meaning. Darroch, the consummate lover, stepped away, dithering like a green lad.

  Isabel frowned. “Ye look nervous.”

  “I am,” he acknowledged. “I’ve ne’er bedded a woman I loved before.”

  Well, that didn’t sound right.

  “I mean…”

  “Ye love me?” she whispered, eyes wide.

  His confidence rushed back. “Tell ye what. Take off yon jacket and skirt and I’ll remove my plaid and show ye how much I love ye.”

  She bit her lip nervously as she got to her feet and began to slowly unfasten the buttons of the jacket. He realized as she eased the garment open that she wore no shift underneath.

  Saucy wench flitted through his brain but his throat was too dry to utter the words.

  He hastily unbuckled his belt, let the plaid fall to the floor and kicked it away. He resisted the overwhelming urge to look down at his tarse when she stared at the tented shirt.

  She slowly opened the jacket, slipped it off her shoulders and held it in one hand, as if unsure what to do with it. It humbled him that she was waiting for his approval, obviously unaware of her stunning perfection. Nothing he could say would come close to adequately expressing his awe. “Isabel,” he rasped, fidgeting with the ties at his neck.

  He was completely unprepared for what she did next. She dropped the jacket. The ankle length skirt slid to the floor. His bride stood before him clad in naught but thigh-high leather boots.

  *

  Darroch’s nostrils flared as he stared at Isabel, putting her in mind of her father’s prized bull. She suddenly felt vulnerable in her nakedness and very silly in the boots that she’d completely forgotten. She folded her arms to cover her breasts and began toeing off a boot. “I’ll take them off,” she stammered. “I forgot…”

  He must have stripped off his shirt the moment she averted her gaze from his body. She had a fleeting glimpse of his prodigious manhood before he lunged, lifting her to his body. “Nay,” he breathed, “put yer legs around me.”

  Inhaling deeply, she obeyed, whimpering as her breasts pressed against his solid chest and his hard maleness nestled at her mons. She wrapped her arms around his warm neck, a thousand emotions swirling in her heart. Would there be pain? Would she be enough for him? Was it true that a man entered a woman’s…?

  Her bottom touched the cool linens of the box-bed. Darroch’s growl caused wet warmth to gush from a very private place. “I canna…” he rasped, a moment before she was impaled.

  She cried out with shock.

  Her legs somehow found themselves draped over his shoulders as he braced his thighs against the box of the bed and thrust and thrust. It was painful until she lay back on the mattress and surrendered to the dominance of the magnificent male she loved, relishing the ec
stasy plain on his face.

  He grunted with satisfaction, stretching his powerful neck when he reached some sort of pinnacle, then fell forward on top of her.

  She wasn’t sure how long she lay beneath him, rapt in the realization that now she was a woman; she’d willingly gifted her most precious possession to the man who suddenly gathered her in his arms and crushed her tightly to his body. “Jesu, Isabel, I’m sorry,” he murmured into her neck. “I intended to go slow, but…”

  His manhood moved within her. Sweat sheened his body. It had been a little nerve-wracking to be at the mercy of a rampant aroused male, but she gloried in the notion it was she who had excited him to the point he’d lost control.

  He was breathing heavily. “I’m spent for the moment, my love,” he rasped, setting her on her feet.

  She clenched her inner muscles but his manhood slipped from her body. Her heart lurched when she espied the proud lance. “I’ve bloodied ye,” she wailed. “I’ll get water and a cloth.”

  He caught hold of her hand before she could reach the ewer. “Nay, ’tis proof ye belong to me now, Isabel MacKeegan.” He nodded to the linens. “See.”

  Red specks dotted the clean linens. “Oh no, after Fanny went to the trouble of…”

  Darroch pecked a kiss on her nose. “I can assure ye if there wasna blood on the sheets yer cousin would be mightily disappointed.”

  She didn’t have time to consider his meaning when he put his hands on her waist and lifted her to sit on the edge of the mattress. “Lie back on the bed.”

  She obeyed, feeling vulnerable with her legs dangling over the side. Inhaling deeply when he disappeared into the shadows, she looked down at her naked breasts, certain her nipples had never been so rigid. Baring them to Darroch’s gaze had been daunting, but exhilarating.

  She startled when a cool cloth touched her most intimate place. She sputtered a protest and tried to sit up, but he shook his head. “’Tis a pleasure for me to cleanse ye,” he said softly, his eyes feasting on a part of her body she’d never seen.