As he moves within me, I dig my nails into his shoulders as I am overcome by waves of euphoria. My body is vibrating with intense sensations, and I teeter on the brink of ecstasy. I feel Malcolm’s staff swelling inside of me, pushing me ever closer to my climax. He grits his teeth, and the muscles in his neck stand out as he strains with the effort to hold back.
My mouth finds his again, and our kiss burns with passion as I rake my nails down his back. I swallow his moans of pleasure, but then he throws his head back, letting loose a growl that is loud and guttural. A moment later, I feel his cock pulsing inside of me, and when I feel his warm seed gushing into me, my climax crashes down over me. My cry is loud and lusty as my body is gripped by sensations so intense, they bring tears to my eyes.
I feel myself spasm as Malcolm drains himself into me, and my head is spinning as I’m racked with feelings both physical and emotional. Our eyes are locked together as we ride along on the tide of pleasure together, and only when our breath has returned to normal does he lean down and place a gentle kiss on my lips.
Malcolm rolls over onto his back, clasping his hands behind his head, his face turned up to the sky above. I pull my dress back up enough to cover my breasts and then lay next to him, resting my head on his chest. I take comfort in the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart and in his strong arm wrapped around my shoulders.
My body is still aflame with the memory of having him inside of me. And at the same time, my mind and heart are abuzz with my feelings for him. I know I cannot let myself invest too much in him emotionally. I know it will only end in heartbreak for me. It can’t end any other way. Once I am returned to my father and cloistered away in Caldryn House, I fear I won’t ever see Malcolm again, and these feelings I have fostered for the last ten years will be left to wither on the vine.
I know these stolen, illicit moments will have to suffice. The memories of my time with Malcolm will have to sustain me throughout a life I am confident will not be as happy as it could or should be simply because it is ultimately not my choice. It was my decision to give myself to Malcolm. It was my choice to give him my virtue, and he treated it as a cherished gift. He treated me as a cherished gift. And I know whoever my father eventually chooses for me will fail to live up to the standard Malcolm has set in both my mind and heart.
Chapter Nineteen
Malcolm
“So why do you choose not to live in Weykirk?”
“I grew up in that house,” I tell her. “It’s my home.”
We ride along the path through the woods, having finally received word from Catherine’s father that he’d accepted our meeting. It’s a cold, wet day − which suits my mood perfectly. The sky overhead is a dark, mottled gray, and a fine mist falls down on the world around us − though we’re spared the worst of it thanks to the high, thick branches overhead.
We ride in silence for a while, the weight of what we must do today pressing down on the both of us. She doesn’t want to go back any more than I want to send her back. She understands the necessity of it. She knows what’s at stake for my people and is willing to do what is necessary to prevent the slaughter of innocent Scots.
But I can’t lie to myself − watching her ride away is going to be a kick in the arse for me. We’ve grown close in our short time together. I have let my feelings for her bloom despite knowing what has to happen − as has she. More’s the pity for the both of us. And the fact that she chose to give me her maidenhead only makes this more difficult since it isn’t something I take lightly. That she gave me her virtue makes the emotion of this even more complicated.
“Do not be troubled,” she says.
I look over at her. “What do you mean?”
“I am skilled at reading people,” she tells me. “I can see you questioning everything that has happened between us these last few days.”
“It’s hard not to,” I admit.
“Nothing happened that you need to feel guilty about or ashamed of,” she replies. “Nothing happened that I did not wish to happen.”
“I have a feeling your father won’t share those sentiments, love,” I state. “Nor will whoever you end up married off to.”
A small frown creases the corners of her mouth, and her expression darkens for a moment. But just as when the clouds part, allowing the sun to shine through, her face clears, and she gives me a small smile and a shrug.
“Who says he has to know? In my experience, most men are not very observant − especially when it comes to intimate relations,” she states. “And if I say I am unspoiled, they will likely not know the difference anyway.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Seems you’ve gotten a wee bit cynical in your time up here.”
“Just realistic,” she replies, her tone serious. “I must begin facing reality, and that means finally accepting things I wish I did not have to.”
“Such as?”
She sighs. “Such as the fact that after this episode, my father will likely redouble his efforts to find me a suitable match,” she replies, her tone bitter with a hint of sadness. “I have a feeling that regardless of how it happened, he will insist that I no longer be left alone and unprotected here in the north. I would imagine he will force me to return home to Carlisle.”
That she’s taken such a dark view of her life saddens me. Catherine’s life, her fire, and vivacity are among the things that drew me to her originally. And as we ride toward the destiny that’s waiting for her, I can see her closing in on herself. I can feel her withdrawing. And I hate that she feels she must shut down like that.
Perhaps more than that, I hate the thought that she’ll be forced to return to England. As long as she remains here north of Hadrian’s Wall, there is a chance, no matter how slim, that I will see her again. But that chance will disappear completely if she travels south of the Wall and returns to her family home.
Catherine rides with her shoulders slumped and her head hung low, seeming to be staring a hole through the back of the horse’s neck. She looked like a woman beaten. Defeated. Basically, she looked nothing like the Catherine I knew.
“Do you want to go back to Carlisle?” I ask.
“Of course not,” she replies without looking up.
“What will you do about it then?”
At this, she finally looks up, but I do not like what I see in her eyes. I see shadows in their depths. She looks like a woman who has already given up the fight before the first swords have even been crossed. And in all the time I spent training with swordsmen abroad, the one thing I learned best was that a fight was usually won or lost before you even drew your blade.
“Let us not fool ourselves Malcolm,” she begins, her voice thick with emotion. “A woman in this world − especially a woman of station − has no agency. I do not have a choice in who I marry or where I live. I go where I am told to go.”
I flash her a grin. “That doesn’t sound like the woman I know.”
Her smile is weak and doesn’t reach her eyes. “That woman was a fiction. Just as these last few days have been. An unexpected but wonderful, beautiful fiction − but still a fiction,” she replies. “Letting ourselves believe anything else would be folly.”
“Nay, giving up on who you are would be a folly,” I tell her. “Worse than that, it would be a bloody tragedy.”
She rounds on me, showing me the flash of anger and frustration burning in her eyes. I’ve seen that look before and is the first spark of the woman I knew that I’ve seen since we saddled up this morning.
“And who am I, Malcolm?” she hisses. “Who do you think I am?”
“You’re not a woman who gives up and surrenders; I can tell you that, love,” I respond. “You’re a woman who will fight to the death for what she holds true and dear.”
Her laugh is brittle. “And you believe you know who I am, down to the depths of my soul from just these last few days we have spent together?”
I shake my head. “No. I learned that ten years ago,” I tell her. “I saw that
strength in you even back then. These last few days have only served to reinforce the idea. At least, until today.”
“What else can I do but accept my fate?” she asks.
“Well, you could fight it,” I state. “You could decide to make your own luck and choose your own fate.”
“Easy for you to say − you’re not a woman of station,” she spits. “You are not a commodity your family can use to better their own fortunes.”
“You’re right; I can’t understand,” I reply. “But I know you’re intelligent. I know you’re a fighter. And I know you have strength in you. You could make yourself an asset to your family instead of just a commodity.”
“And how do you propose I do that, Malcolm?”
I purse my lips and look away for a moment. Truthfully, I don’t know how she could do it. My knowledge of English family politics is rudimentary at best. But I know there has to be a way for her to make her own destiny instead of just taking what’s doled out to her.
Or perhaps it’s merely wishful thinking. Maybe I’m just telling myself there’s something she can do because I want her to stay here in the north instead of being trundled off somewhere else.
“I don’t know,” I finally admit. “But the woman I know you are would find a way. She’d fight, tooth and nail if she had to.”
“Perhaps you were wrong about me, Malcolm.”
I let out a long breath. She seems dead set determined to accept whatever is handed to her. I can’t possibly know what she’s feeling right now, but the God’s honest truth is that I never thought she was the type to give up.
“Maybe I was,” is all I say.
We ride in silence for the next couple of hours, neither of us seeming to know what to say after that. We pass through Weykirk, so that I can gather a small contingent of men armed to the teeth to make the ride with us. After what happened to my father and brother, I will not be caught unprepared.
The riders, Colban, Patric, and Gaven, ride a bit ahead of us, giving Catherine and I some privacy. As if we needed it. She hasn’t spoken a word to me for hours now and judging by the set of her jaw and the way she’s holding her head high, eyes forward, it doesn’t seem like she’ll be speaking to me again anytime soon.
I don’t know why she seems so upset at me, but I know if the sudden wall of ice that’s grown between us is going to be broken, I’m going to have to be the one to take an axe to it. I sigh and drag my hand over my mouth.
“Why are you so upset with me, Catherine?”
She turns and looks at me, her face a careful mask of neutrality. It’s the face of a noblewoman no doubt, and one I haven’t seen on her before. I suppose this is the face she wears when among her people.
“I’m not upset with you, Malcolm,” she says, her voice as icy as her expression. “I am simply trying to accept my reality.”
She’s already pissed at me, and there is a very good chance I won’t see her again after today, so I figure I might as well press my case. If not for my sake, then for hers. She needs to snap out of this darkness that’s wrapped itself around her and realize she has more control over her life than she thinks. She is far stronger and more courageous than she lets herself believe, and she will need heavy doses of both in her life.
We make it to the agreed-upon clearing that sits a couple of hours ride south and to the west of Weykirk. We come off the forest path and rein our horses to a stop at the edge of the clearing. I climb down out of my saddle and stretch myself out; the long ride has me tied in knots. The men gather around me while Catherine stands apart from us next to her horse, her posture stiff, and her expression dark.
In the middle of the clearing stands a large tent. The standards of House Seely flap in the breeze. On the field in front of the tent are half a dozen armored soldiers, the tips of their spears in their hands, and the chain mail armor they wore gleam dully in the muted light of the afternoon.
“Well don’t they look pretty,” Colban sneers.
“Aye. Them pigfuckers clean up all shiny and pretty alright,” Patric agrees. “Be a shame if we have to bloody ‘em up.”
Colban and Gaven grunt their approval and nod, chuckling to one another. They, like so many others in our clan, are itching for a fight. I can’t blame them for wanting to spill some blood. God knows the English have spilled plenty of ours. But if we are to stop the bloodshed, we need to build a binding peace between our people. And perhaps returning Catherine, unharmed and well cared for will be the first stone in that wall.
“Gaven, come with me. Let’s get this over with,” I say. “Colban, you and Patric stay with Catherine. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to bring her down.”
“Aye,” Colban nods.
I cast one look back at Catherine, and when our eyes meet, I see the fear and sadness inside of them. She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something but then closes it again and turns away, hiding her face from me. I let out a low breath and walk down the slope with Gaven on my right, heading for the tent.
“Let them pass.”
The voice floats to us from inside the tent and the soldiers standing out front part, forming a line of three on either side of the opening. My hand hovering near the hilt of the dagger in my belt, I step inside, quickly sweeping the interior with my eyes, looking for threats. Seeing none, I relax slightly. Gaven steps in, standing beside me and looks almost disappointed that nobody is trying to kill us.
Flames in four standing braziers in the corners of the tent provide the only light, leaving the interior dim and gloomy. Directly in front of us sits a large wooden table, and on the far side of it sits who I imagine to be Duke Seely. Which means the man on his right is likely his brother, James. The man who murdered my family.
I let out a silent breath and force myself to not react. To remain calm. I am here to break the wheel of violence and bloodshed in the Highlands. As difficult as it is and as great as my desire to spill the man’s blood is, I am here to do what’s best for my people. My personal wants and desires are irrelevant, and my need for vengeance will go unfulfilled for the good of my clan. It is the one thing I regret most about taking over for my father because I would love nothing more than to bury my daggers in the center of their chests right now.
“I’m Malcolm Dunbarr,” I say. “And this is my second, Gaven MacTavish.”
“I assume you know who we are.” Duke Seely replies − not a question.
“Aye,” I state. “We know who you are.”
“Good. Then where is my daughter?”
“She’s safe,” I reply. “Nearby.”
Duke Seely is a tall man, broad through the shoulders and chest. He has hair that is mostly gray now that hangs to his shoulders and a neatly trimmed beard to match. Deep lines are etched into his face, he is a man who has seen plenty of winters, but his eyes are quick and still glow with the light of sharp intelligence. He looks to be a man who is tough and hard − a man who has seen his share of battle. And although he may be diminished physically, the quickness of his mind means he can’t be underestimated.
His brother, on the other hand, is nearly as mindless as they come. His hair is still dark, but it’s shot through with gray. He wears a thick goatee that remains dark with but a small patch of gray at his chin. He is shorter and slighter in stature than his older brother, and his face bears only slight traces of lines around his eyes. He has the look of a weasel about him, his features sharp and pointy. And when he glares at me, I don’t see the same intelligence I see in the Duke. Instead, all I see is a man who has nothing more on his mind than murder and conquest.
The Duke doesn’t look pleased, but I don’t really care. We’re not here to hand Catherine back and get nothing out of it. He’s not the one who’s in charge here today − as difficult as I imagine that is for him to swallow.
“Sit,” he commands.
Gaven and I exchange a look, then step to the two chairs in front of us and take a seat. I grin when I see the Duke’s chair sits on an elevated platfo
rm, putting him above us. It’s an old game, meant to remind us that he is somehow superior to us. As if a bigger chair somehow makes a man superior to another.
A liveried servant scurries in from outside and sets down a tray with four glasses and a pitcher of wine. We all sit in silence as the Duke’s servant pours the wine, my eyes locked onto the Duke’s while Gaven stares a hole through James. The air inside the tent crackles with tension, and even the servant looks relieved to have his task done, turning and all but sprinting out of the tent.
A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I reach around and snatch up the two glasses in front of the Englishmen. I hand one off to Gaven and take the other, leaving the two directly in front of us for them. The Duke looks at me, a small grin quirking one corner of his mouth upward.
“Are all Scots this paranoid?” he asks.
I take a sip of the wine. “When it comes to dealing with your brother, we’d be fools not to be cautious. My people have a way of ending up dead when he gets involved.”
I don’t bother hiding the bitterness or disdain I have for him in my voice. The two Englishmen ignore my barb though and take a sip of their wine. Gaven sits stone still just radiating his distaste for the two men seated before us. The silence between us all stretches on until it starts to grow uncomfortable.
“Is my daughter well?” the Duke finally asks. “Is she unhurt?”
I sit back in my seat. “She was injured when your men attacked a Scottish village,” I say. “But I have seen to her wounds. She’s lucky. It could have been much worse.”
“Lies,” James sneers. “Scottish brigands are responsible for the attack as I told you.”
I look the Duke in the eye, holding him with my gaze. “You know what kind of man your brother is. I don’t need to explain to you the evil things he’s done, or has ordered done, in this war you’ve been waging on the Highlands for years now,” I say. “It was his men who laid waste to a peaceful village. It was his men who slaughtered every Scot they came across. So when you’re with your daughter again, you ask her yourself. You ask her and see the truth in her eyes for yourself.”
The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance) Page 14
