by Amy Jarecki
Sean grasped her shoulders and tried to claim her mouth, but she held up a finger. “You must allow me to seduce you.”
“I fear you already have me in your clutches.” His voice came out deep and hoarse. He hardly recognized it. He’d been with countless women, but they all paled to the one in his arms. With but a look she could do unholy, rapturous things to his body. He could think of nothing but Gyllis—how much he wanted her in his bed—how much he wanted his cock inside her right now.
But she slid her mouth downward and covered his nipple. Christ his cock spurted another dribble of seed. It felt so damn good, he wouldn’t last long. And then she trailed her kisses lower. Sean clenched his bum cheeks so tight his muscles cramped. When she took him into her mouth, he muffled his gasp by draping his elbow across his mouth. Never in his life would he expect Gyllis to taste him, but by God, he was about to explode for the rush of urgency she built up with every sweep of her tongue.
At the ragged edge, his buttocks burning, shaking with frenzy, he grasped her shoulders and tugged her up. When his fingers found her hips, he raised her high enough to impale her on his erection.
She gaped at him, eyes wide. “I can be on top?”
He stirred himself within her warm core. “Aye, lass. You can and you are.”
She followed his lead and together they found a rhythm that sped with the intensity of their breathing. Their bodies quivered with the strain, thrusting, swirling, mounting the precipice of no return until, all at once, together they reached their peak, clinging to each other with silent screams of ecstasy.
She collapsed atop him, their bodies joined, their souls joined. Neither spoke. Even their breathing matched. With her in his arms he was whole. For the first time in his life he knew what it meant to be a man—not just a warrior or a chieftain, but a man who loved a woman so much it hurt. He wanted a family he could protect and cherish, and Gyllis would be the center of his world.
As she rested in Sean’s arms, her breathing took on the slow cadence of sleep. No matter how much Sean wanted her to remain in his arms throughout the night, he couldn’t risk being discovered. Not only would it ruin Gyllis, it would validate all Duncan’s unfounded misgivings—the reason Sean tried to stop her when she’d first slipped into his chamber. The moniker “Lusty Laddie” rang in his head.
“I must take you back.”
“Must you?” Gyllis rose up on her elbow. “Why not take me to Kilbride Church and marry me this night?”
He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Because I want to do this right.”
21
“If you don’t stop smiling, Mother and Duncan will suspect you’re hiding something,” Helen said while she placed her looking glass in the trunk between the folds of her clothing. She closed the lid. “You’d best pay heed to me. Ever since Sir Sean arrived, you’ve been flitting around as if you’ve been touched in the head by a fairy.”
Gyllis reached in and fastened the hasp. “Perhaps I have.”
“You are hopeless.” Helen gave her a prying stare. “It makes me suspect he may have spirted you to the garden and stolen a kiss.”
“My lips are sealed.” Though she tried, Gyllis couldn’t stifle her giggle and it blew through her nose. “Though I must admit, he is very good at kissing.” She could never tell Helen what had transpired—heaven strike her dead, she’d actually gone to Sean’s chamber and seduced him. She hadn’t ceased spinning her rosary around in her pocket, reciting Hail Mary’s at all hours—while throwing in praises of thanksgiving every now and again.
Helen placed her hand on Gyllis’s arm. “I’m happy for you, but tell me, when is he planning to speak to Duncan?”
“As soon as the marriage business is finished with the Lord of Lorn, and after Mother returns from your wedding. I need Ma’s support if Duncan launches into one of his rages.”
Helen rubbed her palms together. “I could mention something to Ma on the journey to Ardnamurchan. At least it will give us something interesting to talk about.”
Gyllis thought for a moment. She hadn’t said anything to Mother about Sean because she couldn’t decide how to broach the subject. But if Helen planted a seed, it might make her task all the easier. “Perhaps if you mention that Sir Sean gave me the crutches and paid a visit or two to Ardchattan during my confinement.”
“Exactly my thoughts, too. Besides Mother isn’t blind. She knows you admire him.”
Gyllis cringed. “She just doesn’t know how much.”
A rap came at the door and in walked two groomsmen. “We’re here to take your trunks to the wagon. Are you ready, Miss Helen?”
Her poor sister turned as white as bed linen. She cast a worried glance at Gyllis then gestured to her things. “I’m all packed. I shall be down in a moment.”
The sisters stood and watched the men haul away the first trunk while Gyllis couldn’t stop thinking it should be she who was traveling west to meet and marry a strange man. Her throat grew thick and her palms moist. “I wish you didn’t have to go,” she whispered.
Helen straightened. “It will be fine. ’Tis time for me to marry and Mother will be there to ensure all progresses well.”
The remnants of Gyllis’s euphoria sank to the bottom of her toes. “You will write as soon as you are able?”
“Of course, and you will send word when your wedding date is announced?”
“I will.” She forced a smile. “And I’ll expect you to be there.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“’Tis settled then.” Gyllis tried to hold in her tears, but one dribbled from her eye anyway. She tugged Helen into an embrace. “Hug me now whilst no one can see me weep.”
Her sister’s body shuddered as a woeful wail burst through her lips. “I…I…”
Gyllis couldn’t hold it in. She patted Helen’s back and tried to regain control. “Everything will be all right.”
With a stuttered inhale, Helen clung tighter.
“A wedding is a happy occasion and you shall be lady of the keep, just as you’ve always wished.”
Helen pulled away, her eyes and nose red. She drew in a staccato breath and nodded while she dabbed her face with a kerchief. “I’d best be off before my tears set the bed afloat.”
Gyllis also dried her eyes. “Come. I’ll see you off.”
Sean had no opportunity to visit Gyllis again before the day of Lorn’s wedding arrived. Earlier that morning, he and his men, reinforced by a dozen MacGregors, fanned out through the forest surrounding Dunstaffnage Chapel and found nothing out of place. Things were also quiet in the village surrounding the castle.
The locals had a healthy respect for the Lord of Lorn. As the king’s emissary, he provided them with land to till or graze.
The boats moored in Loch Etive were all owned either by local fishermen, or were part of Lorn’s retinue, having sailed down from Lorn’s Castle Stalker to the north. Angus reported no sign of Alan MacCoul or any of the foul men who followed him. Nonetheless, Sean did not don his ceremonial armor. He met the Lord of Lorn in the king’s chamber wearing battle armor.
Lorn, who was wearing an ornate coat of blackened ceremonial armor, gave Sean a quizzical look. “Are you expecting a fight?”
Sean bowed. “I figured it best to be prepared for anything, uncle.”
Lorn patted his shoulder. “You’re a good lad.”
A long breath whistled through Sean’s lips. He didn’t expect anything to go awry, but Fraser’s death weighed heavily on his conscience. “Sentries are posted atop the battlements as usual and I have a contingent of fifty men surrounding the chapel.”
“You did take me seriously,” Lorn chuckled. “You’ve a mob of brigands guarding the chapel? What will my guests think?”
“They’re hardly brigands.” Sean pulled his helm over his head and pushed up the visor. “Would you rather not be well guarded?”
Lorn studied himself in the looking glass. “I asked you to provide security for my wedding, n
ot to invite an army to it.”
Perhaps Sean had overreacted. “Shall I have them stand down?”
Lorn squinted. “You say you’ve scoured the forest?”
“Aye.”
“And the pier?”
“Not a galley moored that isn’t accounted for.”
The old man batted his hand through the air. “Then there’s little for which to be concerned. Send your army home and keep a few steadfast guards.”
Sean knew better than to abandon all security. Aye, most of their work had been done, but to send the guard back to Dunollie would be folly. “You must be jesting. How am I to insure your safety?”
“You’re the best man with a blade I know.” Lorn appeared too relaxed—perhaps indulged in a tad too much whisky before donning his armor. “I do not want a cohort of men surrounding the chapel—it will look more like we’re attending a hanging than a wedding.”
Sean didn’t like it. Bloody hell, the man first asked him to provide security and then told him to send his men away. Ballocks to that.
Sean excused himself and found Angus in the great hall. “Lorn wants the guard hidden.”
“Pardon?” The man-at-arms nearly spat out his teeth with the force of his P.
“You heard me. He said to send our men home, but we didn’t scour the forest to walk away and let our enemies move into place.” Sean lowered his voice. “I’ve not informed him about Fraser.”
Angus held up his hands. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Tell the men to pull back—stay out of sight, all except a few. I want two guards at the chapel doors and escorts for Lorn and his bride along the path from the castle.”
Angus scratched his head. “Sounds like a lot of work for nothing. Where do you want me?”
“Lead the men in the forest. Remain mounted. If you hear the ram’s horn, you’ll ken what to do.”
“Aye, I bloody well ken what to do—ring Lorn’s neck. ’Tis a dangerous game he plays.”
“I do not like it either, but he’s our lord and master.”
“Aye and soon his daft son, Dugald, will be lording over us.”
Sean clamped his gauntleted hand on Angus’s shoulder. “Dugald Stewart is Lorn’s flesh and blood. ’Tis past time he was given his due.”
Angus’s expression grew dark. “He’s a bastard, just like…” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Och, bugger it.”
Sean puzzled while he watched his henchman march out the doors. Though a fine warrior, Angus allowed himself to grow emotional about things that shouldn’t concern him. So Lorn wanted to legitimize his only son? As far as Sean was concerned, the Stewart lord should have done it sooner.
After Sean rejoined the wedding party, they started for the castle with a small, but respectable assembly of knights. “Where is Dugald, m’lord?” Sean asked.
“He’s already at the chapel with his mother.” Lorn’s eyes sparked with pride. “I thought it would be best if he stood up for her.”
“Good thinking.” Sean gestured toward the door. “Shall we proceed?”
Once they exited the barbican bridge, the hair on Sean’s nape stood on end. His gaze shifted across the scene. He’d been a warrior too long to ignore the familiar warning. As they neared the chapel, sweat burned his underarms, a prickling sensation skittering across his skin. Sean grasped the hilt of his sword.
The townspeople lined the path, shaded by birch and oak trees. An anxious hum filled the air, akin to a beehive. All were eager to see the Lord of Lorn in his regalia. They placed flowers and flung rose petals before him, shouting congratulations and good tidings.
But still, that damned prickling needled at Sean’s neck.
Everything slowed. He looked right, then left. His steady breathing rushed in his ears. The sound of Lorn’s voice registered, but Sean couldn’t make out the words. Due to the clamminess of his skin, for a moment he thought he might have contracted an illness.
When the chapel door came into view, Sean stared at the guards posted outside it. They wore MacDougall colors with hauberks beneath and great helms atop their heads. He squinted—true, a number of his men possessed bucket-shaped helms, but Angus would have instructed them to remove them for this wedding duty. Such helms were worn on the battlefield alone.
“Did you hear me?” Lorn asked.
“Pardon, m’lord.” Sean blinked and shook his head. “I was assessing my men.”
“Me as well.” He pointed at the guards. “I daresay you are frightening my guests with this display of mettle.”
Sean ground his back molars. “Apologies. I’ll have them remove their helms after you’ve moved inside.”
“Aye? I’m sure that will make a fine impression once everyone is out of sight.” Lorn’s sarcasm was palpable.
“At least you will be wed knowing you are safe. I did not take your request lightly.” A bead of sweat drained into Sean’s eye.
Two paces before they reached the door, the guard nearest Sean shifted his battleax across his body—a defensive pose. Sean squinted at the eyes flickering under the concealing helm—eyes filled with hate. His gut clamped into a solid ball as he drew his sword. The guard advanced. Stepping in front of Lorn, Sean shielded the earl with his body and deflected a downward blow. Those eyes still glared at him with evil intent.
Sean’s attacker moved with lightning speed. With a swing of his sword, he met the battleax midair, slicing it in two. From his sleeves, the guard pulled two knives and advanced with the screech of a madman. Swinging his blade in an arc, Sean defended the attack, protecting Lorn’s right flank. He prayed to God, someone had the earl’s left. Around them, grunts of the fight escalated. Iron clanged to the rear and to his sides. Unable to avert his gaze, Sean defended the attack as knives slashed at his face.
Beside him, Lorn dropped, a hideous scream ripping through the air. Bellowing like a warrior, Sean swung his blade in an arc, cutting through the neck sinews of his attacker. The helm flew from the young man’s head. Gawen. A traitor after all.
Afforded a heartbeat to assess the battle, what Sean had seen through his side vision was confirmed. The Lord of Lorn clutched at his gut, blood streaming through his fingers.
“Sound the alarm!” Sean bellowed while he watched his men as they were cut down by an army that appeared from nowhere.
“Bring the priest. I will be wed before I draw my last breath,” Lorn wheezed.
Sean raced for the doors as a blow came from his right. Slamming the pommel of his dirk into his attacker’s skull, he continued on. The priest opened the door with Lorn’s bride. Her face contorted with fear as she looked past the holy man’s shoulder.
“I’ve killed the tyrant lord and now MacDougall will be mine!” From behind, MacCoul’s rasping voice attacked Sean’s every nerve.
His worst fears confirmed—the bastard had warned him with Fraser’s gruesome delivery.
“Recite the vows now. My son will be my heir!” Lorn shouted.
Sean spun to face the scourge who had plagued his every waking hour. The bastard who cared only for ruination, for destruction.
The priest’s Latin chants rang above the maelstrom, but Sean couldn’t stop. For an instant, Sean caught sight of MacCoul’s beady eyes glaring at him beneath the eye slits in the hideous helm. The bastard raised his sword and advanced on the bleeding and wounded lord.
Clenching his teeth, Sean launched himself at MacCoul, slamming his feet into his chest, knocking him from completing a blow intended to sever Lorn’s head. The blackguard skittered backward, but Sean didn’t hesitate. Rage propelling him forward, he advanced with relentless hacks of his blade.
Alan defended each blow, weakening with every strike. Sean would show no quarter this time. The menace would pay with his life. Alan fell to his backside. Sean pounced, pulling his blade up for the killing thrust.
A crack blasted in his ears, reverberating in his helm. The world shattered. Sean’s eyes rolled back as bitter bile burned his throat. His failin
g arms worked to continue with his strike, but his knees buckled before his blade connected with MacCoul’s neck.
As he hit ground, everything grew peaceful, quiet and black.
Alan MacCoul laughed out loud when Sean MacDougall dropped to the earth. Most of the guests stood around them, cowering with looks of horror on their faces. The pummeling of horse hooves shook the ground.
Alan’s gaze darted to the miserable Lord of Lorn, surrounded by guardsmen, taking his vows. One plan thwarted. At least the maggot won’t see out the night. I’ll deal with his sniveling offspring later.
“Riders,” Brus yelled, his voice echoing from beneath his great helm.
Trevor sprinted up, leading the horses. “Make haste.”
Alan grasped MacDougall under the arms. “Help me heft him.”
Brus kicked the Dunollie chieftain. “Do you think he’s dead?”
Alan strained with Sean’s weight. “I’ll take no chances.” He picked up MacDougall’s sword and secured it in his belt.
Together the three men draped MacDougall’s body over a horse. “Quickly. They’ll be upon us before we can blink.”
Alan and his band of renegades mounted and raced for Dunstaffnage’s barbican.
Behind them, Angus urged his men faster.
Alan clutched MacDougall’s reins tightly in his fist. The miserable bastard had best not be dead. He hasn’t suffered enough.
He buried his spurs deep into his horse’s barrel demanding more speed. Glancing over his shoulder, his gut clenched. Angus and the MacDougall army were gaining. Alan squinted against the wind whistling through his eye slits. The iron teeth of the portcullis loomed ahead, but if it didn’t close quickly, they’d have another battle on their hands. He could make it. “Lower the gate,” he bellowed. “Now!”
While he surged forward, he pulled the trailing horse alongside him. MacDougall’s body bounced and listed sideways. The cogs of the portcullis groaned and creaked to life as the teeth of the deadly gate inched downward. Alan dug in his heels and plastered his body against his mount’s neck. An iron spike scraped the back plate of his armor with a screech.
