Forbidden Kisses

by Laurel O'Donnell

  He truly was magnificent.

  More so now than ever, which she just might tell him, and would if the bees’ buzzing wasn’t increasing so rapidly.

  But it was.

  All she could do was slump onto one of the embrasure’s window seats and wait. It was already clear that the moonlight bathing the room with such silvery luminosity wasn’t cast by the moon.

  The silvery shaft coming through the window now speared across the chamber to merge with the light and shadows thrown on the wall by the brace of candles.

  Where they met, an image was taking shape, weaving and pulsing on the wall until a silver sword appeared – hovering over the stag’s head tapestry that hung above their bed!

  Linnet could only stare, unable to do aught else.

  But she knew who carried the sword, for its blade was broken.

  Sir Gare MacTaggert.

  What she didn’t know was why the sword was growing.

  As she watched, the blade’s steel elongated, stretching longer and shining brighter until a full-length, undamaged sword hung in the air, dazzling her.

  The image’s brilliance hurt her eyes, but looking away from any vision risked losing the image and its message. And this one was clear.

  Beautifully, wonderfully so.

  Mairi had captivated the once-great knight.

  She’d freed him of whatever penance he’d placed upon himself, perhaps even enjoying a bit of romance in the Glen of Winds before he returned to his duties. Obligations that she knew would see him soon wed.

  She wouldn’t consider more – doing so risked offending the gods that gave her such images.

  The old ways must be accepted as they came. Any tampering or imposing of your own wishes bode ill, perhaps even reversing any good that might have come.

  It was enough to see that Mairi had made the broken knight whole again.

  Or so she thought until a red drop fell from the ceiling and trickled down the sword. Another drop followed, soon joined by more. Again and again the red rain plopped on the blade, rolling its length, catching on the hilt, and then dripping to the floor.

  Linnet’s eyes rounded, horror sluicing her.

  The need to look away screamed inside her, but she remained frozen, unable to speak or even move. By now the entire sword was bloodied, its glistening red bringing the sharp, metallic bite of blood.

  Fresh blood, newly spilled.

  Linnet pressed a hand to her mouth, chilled.

  She hoped she wouldn’t be shown whose blood it was. But then she blinked, felt less light-headed, and the droning bees were silent, the image gone.

  She was free once again.

  Her husband still slumbered peacefully. Rain still drummed on the roof, the wind still howled. She could hear the slapping of waves on the rocks beneath the tower. It was a night like any other in her husband’s proud isle-girt stronghold, so close to the Isle of Skye.

  Peace reigned at Eilean Creag Castle.

  But something was very wrong at Dunwynde.

  Duncan would be furious, claiming he wasn’t surprised in the least. But he’d also gather his men and ride for the glen at first light.

  Linnet just hoped they wouldn’t be too late.

  Chapter Nine

  “Leave her be!” Gare roared, his blood icing at the nightmare beneath the cold, cloud-hazed moon.

  Rain lashed down and winds howled, the whirling mist making it hard to see. But he did: Mairi kneeling on the sodden ground, held there by a hag who could only be Sorcha Bell, a withered old woman with spiteful eyes. She’d gripped Mairi’s hair, pulling her head back, and pressing a dirk against Mairi’s throat.

  “Gare!” Mairi stared at him, her eyes wide. “She has a dagger!”

  “No’ much longer.” Gare closed the space between them, cold anger tightening his chest.

  Troll circled the women, growling. Rain glistened on his rough pelt and he seemed to have doubled his size. His eyes shone fiercely, his unblinking gaze on Sorcha. He’d bared his teeth, showing his large fangs so that he looked more like a wolf than a dog.

  But he was well trained.

  He wouldn’t attack unless commanded.

  “Drop the blade, Sorcha.” Gare towered over them. “Now, or Troll will tear you apart. He’d savage you, and then call on his friends in the Netherworld to sharpen their teeth on you until your bones are ground to dust.”

  “I know you,” she sneered, her gaze flicking over him. “I’ve seen you at cattle markets. You’re the man with the broken sword.”

  “I carry a blade now.” Gare lifted his borrowed sword, gave her his hardest look. “You just saw it in use. I’ve no’ taste to wield it again, no’ on a shriveled auld woman in a reeking deerskin cloak.

  “But I will.” He slid a look at Troll, nodding almost infinitesimally – a signal that had Troll on Sorcha in a beat, his great paws on her shoulders his face only a breath from hers. “You cannae win.”

  Sorcha sniffed. “I have the old ones’ blessings. Your dog may snarl and bark, but he’ll be too fearful for more. Dogs respect dark powers.

  “And you, Sir Broken Sword,” she jeered, “will not want to risk Mairi’s neck. If your dog moves again, so does my blade.”

  “Indeed?” Gare drew a finger slowly down the side of his nose, a signal that brought a lightning-quick lunge from Troll. He gripped Sorcha’s wrist, shaking her arm so that she dropped the dagger.

  “Gare!” Mairi leapt to her feet and threw herself into his arms, holding tight.

  “You are safe now, lady.” He pulled her to him, tightening his arms around her. “She will be gone anon, have no fear.”

  “But you’ve vowed to not…” She pressed her head to his shoulder, not finishing.

  It didn’t matter.

  He knew what she meant, and she was right.

  He’d made an oath he couldn’t break, whatever Sorcha’s sins.

  “I didnae say I’d kill her, only that she’ll be leaving us. And she will.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. “Sorcha!” he turned back to the hag, raised his voice above the wind. “I do no’ make war on women, ever. You attack innocents. That cannae go unpunished.”

  “Mairi MacKenzie was born wild.” Sorcha glared venom at them, shook back her whir of tightly curled red-gray hair. “There isn’t an innocent bone in her body.”

  “You will return to Drumbell and make it your lifelong ambition to undo the wrong you’ve done her.” Gare’s temper flared. He struggled to speak levelly. “Folk will hear the truth from you and I’ll know if that isn’t so.” He looked hard into her cold, resentful eyes. “If I must come for you, there will be no place in Scotland for you to hide.

  “Go now, before the itch in my sword hand speaks faster.” He stepped back, placing himself before Mairi, shielding her.

  “Wait…” Mairi came round him to fix Sorcha with a look. “See that my cottage and garden are given to the young thatcher and his new wife. They are staying with his parents and need a decent home to start their lives.”

  Sorcha’s lips thinned. “I fancied your wee hovel for a new herbarium.”

  “You heard the lady.” Gare slid his arm around Mairi drawing her close. “See it is done, as she wishes. I will hear if you fail her.”

  “Humph!” Sorcha spit, and then spun around, scuttling away into the rain and mist.

  She was gone in a blink.

  Mairi stood shivering, Troll keeping guard beside her. She looked miserable. Dripping wet, flushed, her hair a tangled mess. Her eyes glistened in the darkness. Her drenched clothes clung to her, revealing as much as naked skin. Gare swallowed, need unfurling inside him. Never had he seen a more desirable woman, and never had he wanted one so badly.

  But there was only one thing he could give her.

  “Come, lady,” he said, placing his hand at the small of her back and guiding her to the broch. “You need a bath to warm you and then you will sleep. We’ll leave for Eilean Creag at first light.”

>   She stopped, looking up at him. “We?”

  “Aye.” His mind was set. “You can stay here no longer.”

  They’d reached Dunwynde and she glanced at him as he pulled aside the door’s curtain so she could enter the broch’s smoky warmth.

  “Sorcha will heed your threats.” She pulled off her dripping cloak, spread it near the fire to dry. “She is a coward.”

  “So she is,” Gare agreed, wishing she wasn’t more. “Sadly, she is also a tongue-wagger. She will no’ cross me, for sure. She saw what I did to her man.

  “But she knows where you are.” Gare fastened the door hanging, turned to face her. “One mention of the Glen of Winds and other ill-wishers could appear on your doorstep,” he said, going to the back of the broch to fetch her large wooden bathing tub.

  “That could be,” she agreed, but something flickered in her eyes as she watched him boil water for her bath.

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was a look of hope.

  Before it could grow, he braced himself to say words that would spear his heart.

  A truth he knew she didn’t want to hear.

  “Your place is with your people.” His gut clenched, everything in him warring against what he must do. “Duncan MacKenzie will keep you safe – we have discussed this. Few lairds care for their own as he does. All know it and no man, or woman, would dare cross him.”

  “That is so.” She’d slipped into the deeper shadows, was stripping off her wet clothes behind the plaid she’d hung for privacy. “I should have stayed at Eilean Creag when I first sought his protection.”

  Gare nodded, busying himself with lining her wash tub with a large linen cloth, then searching her shelf for the small jar of rose-scented soap she favored. When her bath was ready, he’d bury Brude. Mairi shouldn’t be confronted with such a sight when they left Dunwynde at daybreak.

  The task would also spare him from the temptation of having her wet and naked before him. Her warm, welcoming self, and her lush, ripe curves only paces away, yet as unattainable as the stars.

  “The Black Stag and his family will welcome me.” Mairi emerged from behind the plaid hanging, a large linen drying cloth wrapped around her.

  She stood near the fire, watching as he filled the tub with heated water. “He has aye said his door is always open to kin, a place aye at his table.”

  Gare’s chest tightened with a pain he never wanted to feel again. “Then all will be well on the morrow.”

  Nae, it wouldn’t.

  Leaving Kintail without Mairi would gut him, creating an ache he’d carry forever.

  He craved her, relishing the softness and warmth of her in his arms, the honeyed taste of her kiss, the silkiness of her hair. She’d also won him with her compassion, strength, and kindness. Truth was, he’d come to love her.

  The sharp pain gathering in his chest at the thought of saying goodbye, proved it.

  Walking away might serve the greater good of the Scottish realm, and secure the continued weal of his people at Blackrock. But it would destroy him.

  All this he knew. Yet what choice did he have?

  Not one that he could see.

  ~ * ~

  A short while later, Mairi was sure the broch’s dim lighting was playing tricks on her. Or the blessedly warm water of her bath had lulled her into a dream state.

  How else could she explain the lovely young woman standing before her, backlit by the glow of the peat fire. She wore a man’s steel-linked armor and held a plumed helmet. One hand rested on her heart, and her gaze was on Mairi, her eyes beseeching.

  She shone with a light that came from within and Mairi knew who she was.

  Lady Gwendolyn Berry, the ill-fated English noblewoman Gare had unknowingly struck down at the battle of Neville’s Cross five years before.

  Unafraid of ghosts, for what were they but the souls of once living men who’d left the earthly realm, Mairi eased up in the high-sided bathing tub. Her heart knocked wildly, whether she was accepting of bogles or nae.

  Encountering one wasn’t something that happened every day.

  As if she understood, the spirit gave her a small, sad smile, and then glanced at the door.

  Tell him… he is free.

  Mairi didn’t see Lady Gwendolyn’s lips move, but she heard the words as surely as if the ghost had whispered them in her ear.

  But then a strong gust of chill, wet wind shook the door’s hanging and the room’s light and shadows shifted, blurring the spirit’s image. Or perhaps Lady Gwendolyn simply chose to vanish, her quest met.

  Either way, Mairi knew what she had to do.

  She had two parting gifts for Gare, though one was as much a present to herself.

  She hoped he’d accept both.

  To that end, she gripped the sides of the cloth-lined tub and pushed to her feet. Before she could reach for the drying cloth, the door’s curtain was drawn back and Gare strode into the broch.

  He froze, staring at her nakedness. “By thunder!” He clapped a hand to his eyes, shook his head. “I didnae mean…” The words hung between them, rough-edged and raw. “I was gone a while. I thought you’d be abed by now.”

  “No harm done.” Mairi spoke calmly, hoped he’d think her shivering was from the night’s chill and not because of his gaze on her bared flesh. A perusal that stirred her blood, rousing her. “I am not shy, not ashamed of my nakedness.

  “The warm water was soothing.” She took the drying cloth, began rubbing the wetness from her skin. “I stayed in the bath longer than intended.”

  “I should’ve called out before coming inside.” He went to the shelf where she kept her uisge beatha, pouring two measures. He kept his back to her, clearly giving her privacy to don her night shift.

  Mairi frowned, fighting the urge to go to him. She yearned to touch his broad-set shoulders, glide her fingers down his strong, hard-muscled arms. Above all, she ached to take his hand and lead him to her bed where she wanted to give him the gift she so hoped he’d accept.

  One night entwined, intimately joined until the rising sun separated them.

  Loving him would break her, shredding her soul.

  Seeing him ride away from Kintail without having known his touch, would be a far worse fate to bear.

  She needed such memories to sustain her.

  So she left her night shift on its wall peg and pulled on her thin night robe instead. She tied the laces only loosely, aware that the front-opening robe did little to hide her most valuable assets.

  She wanted him to see her bared curves, every enticement of her womanliness. Hoping he wouldn’t turn around before she was done, she took a small flagon of rose-scented oil from a niche in the wall. Quickly, she dabbed a few drops at the base of her neck, beneath her breasts, and – she didn’t care what such wantoness said about her – to the soft skin of her inner thighs and even the warm and needy place betwixt them.

  Perhaps she really was wild and wicked, in need of taming as many folk at Drumbell often scolded. But she didn’t see love as wrong.

  Tempting Gare was her only chance.

  But first…

  She took a deep breath and stood straighter, pushing aside all thought of her yearnings. Now wasn’t the moment to attempt seduction.

  Even so, it was hard to resist as he came back to her, carrying two small cups of uisge beatha. He gave her one, his gaze steady on hers, as if he hadn’t noticed the almost opened state of her bed robe – or had and didn’t want to look at her.

  “Drink, lady.” He pressed the cup into her hand, nodding when she took a sip. “It’s been a fraught night, but many of your cares can now be eased.”

  “So can yours, my lord,” she spoke formally, the weight of what she was about to say heavy on her heart. “I believe I know why the gods led you here.”

  He’d just drained his uisge beatha and dragged the back of his hand across his beard. “To slay dragons? Sweet lass, I would have fought an army of the winged beasties for you. All that matters is
that you are safe.”

  “So I am, and shall be – on the morrow, at my chief’s isle-girt home.” Mairi took another steadying breath. The light and shadow in the broch felt odd again, seeming to shift and swirl around them. It almost felt as if they’d entered another realm, the rest of the world falling away.

  “You are safe now, too.” She hoped he’d believe her. “By letting Sorcha go, you repaid the loss of Lady Gwendolyn. However unknowingly her life was taken.”

  “What are you saying?” He stepped closer, gripping her arm.

  Mairi lifted her chin, forging on. “A balance was struck when you allowed Sorcha to walk away. Your debt, the penance you’ve borne, is over. I know because the lady appeared to me there.” She flung out a hand, showing him where the spirit had hovered. “She wanted me to tell you that ‘you are free.’”

  For a long moment, he looked at the empty space she’d indicated.

  “Lady, I dinnae believe in bogles,” he finally said. But he was still gripping her arm and she could feel the tightness of his muscles easing, sensed that a tremendous burden was slipping from his shoulders.

  “This broch is full of shifting light and shadow.” He glanced round, as if to prove it. “The rain is dwindling and the clouds are breaking. You saw a moonbeam through the door opening. Lady Gwendolyn is away and buried in England.”

  She was here this night.

  She cared enough to want you to live a good life.

  Mairi didn’t say what she knew.

  She suspected he’d believe in time and that was enough.

  Now, this night…

  “I would give you one more gift to carry away with you, if-” Her bravura began to crumple. She couldn’t bear it if he refused her. “I believe you’ve received everything you sought here, and that is good. In coming to the glen, you also brought something to me.

  “Stirrings, feelings I’d never expected.” Not knowing what else to do, she undid the ties of her robe and let the garment drop to the floor.

  She stood naked before him, bathed only in the broch’s dimness and fire glow, wholly unashamed, yet so frightened he’d shun her.