Chapter Fifteen

Holy friggin’ moly. Fiona lay sprawled across Duncan’s so, so hunky chest, their sweat cooling their skin, their ragged breaths still bouncing off the turf walls of their hollow.

And she was spent. Like…yeah. Spent.

She’d had sexual partners before, ranging from okay to good. Fine—the two prior men ranged from okay to good. Some of her sexcapades had lasted longer and been more creative than the technically basic position she’d just experienced with Duncan.

But, hot damn. None of it compared.

The tenderness—as if she were special.

The restraint—as if he knew she needed to be the initiator this first time. He knew how his gargantuan warrior body—contrasted with her pocket size—could easily swamp.

Wow.

And what was she supposed to do with that?

But he did match her prior experiences in one aspect—he was out cold. She smiled and snuggled tighter against him, loving how she fit up against his body. He grunted, pulled his féileadh around them, and cupped her head with his large hand, holding her fast against his chest.

She’d not argue with that.

She sighed. Though her body was wrung the eff out, she couldn’t follow him into a numbing sleep. Her mind was zip-zip-zipping along too frenetically, too fast, to lash it down.

Then it latched onto one fact.

She still had to face the encounter with her ancestor and Duncan. It was her purpose after all. But was it wrong to hope she could make it work out? Now that they were together?

God, she hoped so. She did not want to have to choose between the legend which had finally made her feel as if her life had meaning and this beautiful, caring man whose soul seemed to echo with the same beats as her own heart.

At last, Duncan and Fiona picked their way around the last curve of the shoreline leading to Dunvagen castle. The glow from its windows in the distance was the first light they’d seen this night during their two-hour trek.

She hadn’t complained, but Duncan knew from the way she favored one leg that she must have developed a blister. He wanted to stop and care for her, cup her wee foot in his palms and ease her pains, but it was better to keep forging ahead. He’d offered to carry her, but she’d swatted him away.

Now at the water’s edge, they climbed the narrow hill path to the sea gate—the only entrance to the castle.

Though still deep night, a guard spotted their approach, for a voice clipped out from the darker recesses of the gate. “Approach no farther. Who visits? And with no boat?”

“ ’Tis Duncan MacCowan and my chieftain’s sister by marriage, Fiona. We were separated from Torquil’s party.”

No response came but a low curse and receding scuffled steps. Shortly, a torch glowed higher above, disappeared, and then illuminated in its soft, orange glimmer the narrow steps leading down to the sea gate. As they neared, the flickering light revealed the cautious features of both Malcolm and Torquil. Though Duncan wasn’t on the best terms with either of them, he was gladdened to see they’d made it safely from the galley.

“ ’Tis them,” Torquil barked, waving a hand behind him. The guard scuttled forward, unlocked the gate, and stepped clear.

Duncan should release Fiona’s hand, especially when Malcolm’s gaze darted to their clasped hands and his features darkened, but he couldn’t muster up the discipline. Aye, there’d be a diplomatic mess, but with her so long in his company, alone, their future was sealed regardless. That the handfasting had been a month past was a technicality.

The two MacLeod warriors, however, did not comment on their new intimacy.

“You’re safe.” Torquil stepped through the gate opening. “When we didn’t see ye on shore, or on our trek here, we feared the worst.”

“Did everyone make it? Gavin? The women?”

“Aye. Some in worse shape than others, but all are alive and whole.”

Duncan’s muscles relaxed. He nodded. And because he valued frankness, he informed them, “We’re handfasted.” He glanced to his side, worry seizing him that she’d protest such a public declaration. Then his heart swelled, for despite the dim light, her wide, unaffected grin was plain to see.

Malcolm scowled, but Torquil only nodded. “ ’Tis glad I am to hear, since she’s under my protection. If you’d not done so after being alone with her, I’d have made ye.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered to me.” Malcolm pushed past Torquil and shifted one step down the stair, closer to Duncan. And Fiona.

Torquil shot Malcolm a look, and the latter held his gaze and then looked away, jaw clenched.

Duncan opened his mouth, Iain’s words echoing through him. He did not need their clans at odds.

Fiona forestalled him, her voice strong, “It matters to me.”

Torquil’s eyes softened as he gazed on Fiona. “Are ye all right, lass?”

“Yes.”

“She’s tired and foot sore,” Duncan cut in.

Malcolm clambered down the steps to Fiona’s side before Duncan realized, in his exhausted state, his intentions.

Duncan stepped between them. “I’ll be assisting her.” He glared at the warrior. Jealousy and protectiveness surged through him. Odd. But he was discovering that Fiona unearthed many new feelings.

He scooped Fiona into his arms, and she squeaked. She clutched his shoulders.

Torquil chuckled. “All set then? Let’s be getting inside. We’ll be having food set out for ye and a bath drawn for your lady.”

“Thank you,” Fiona said, her voice fervent and grateful.

At the same time Duncan said, “I appreciate ye.”

Fiona nestled her head against his chest, and with Torquil’s words, the last of Duncan’s tension faded. They’d avoided bloodshed.

A flash of guilt crossed Torquil’s features, quickly suppressed. He nodded gravely, turned, and led the way inside.

As Duncan held Fiona and processed that so-quick flash of emotion, it occurred to him that they owed much of their success in avoiding trouble to that emotion—Torquil had failed his own promise to Iain, for he’d not done his best to protect Fiona when they were attacked.

They navigated up the stone steps, Duncan barely able to squeeze past the moss-covered stone with Fiona in his arms. The passage lacked a dank, musty odor, however, for its ceiling was the night sky itself. “What news?” Duncan asked.

Torquil looked over his shoulder as Malcolm pushed past and disappeared upstairs. “Our attack wasn’t isolated. The Williamites have changed tactics, they have. Their meeting defeat twice on land, we believe, has them patrolling the sea lanes between our isles and Ireland in hopes of not only cutting off King Jamie’s Irish troops, but also harassing and intimidating the island clans.”

“How are ye meeting this new threat?”

Torquil reached the courtyard above and faced them, arms crossed. “As we always do. With force. ’Twas a misstep on their part. Our chief had been intent on staying neutral.”

“Why?”

He flicked a hand. “He’d no wish to aid the Stuarts after they insulted our late chief, his father, when he visited King Charles after the restoration. Our old chief swore that no clansman would ever again raise their sword to aid that ungrateful family. After all we sacrificed fighting for them during the civil war.”

Duncan could understand that. He joined Torquil on the courtyard grounds. “And now?”

“Now, the MacLeod’s met with the MacDonald of Skye, as well as the MacKinnon. How he managed to keep everyone from ripping out each other’s throats, I know not, but he did. We agreed the Williamites are a greater threat, and we dispatched the Crann Tara to the MacLeods of Lewis, the MacDonalds of Uist, the MacLeans of Mull, and the rest of the island clans to meet here in ten days’ time. We’ll hammer out how best to put our combined fleet against the Williamite threat. ’Tis no longer a mainland problem.”

“I agree. I’m glad your chief’s able to manage the others.”

“So far, all is well.” Torquil’s face set into grim lines, and Duncan shared his concern. The Highland clans diminished their strength by fighting amongst themselves instead of binding against the real threat, a powerful king.

In times past, that king resided in Edinburgh. Ironic that the very clans who fought so hard for the Scottish king had fought against the authority of that very man’s ancestors.

And were they prepared for King James to prevail but also control the Highlands again, like the Stuarts in days past, if he gained only Scotland and not England as well? Not for the first time was Duncan glad he was not a chief.

As dawn broke, and Duncan had seen Fiona comfortably installed in a steaming bath, he strode to a tower room he was told Margery favored in the morning. He had no desire to waste more time than necessary on whatever she wished to discuss, and so, while it grieved him to leave Fiona sprawled so enticingly in the tub, he did so.

Now that Fiona was his wife for true, he wanted nothing to spoil their happiness.

After a quick repast last night, they’d been directed to an unoccupied corner of the great hall. Servants had arranged a pallet and a privacy curtain, and Fiona assured him she’d rather rest than disturb the servants further with a bath. But as soon as he’d awakened, he’d made a fuss until her bath was drawn.

He pushed open the heavy oaken door to Margery’s sitting room. She and several women startled. Margery’s eyes widened. To the others, she waved a desultory hand. “Leave us. We’ve private matters to discuss about my brother Iain.”

The women stood, bowed, and scurried past, eying him with varying degrees of suspicion or curiosity.

Having no wish to be found in an awkward position, he left the door ajar. If she needed to keep her words private, she could damn well keep her voice lowered.

Morning light streamed through an arrow slit, landing on Margery ensconced in a high-backed chair, needlework in her lap. Though still beautiful, her features had softened. Only lingering annoyance washed up inside him upon seeing her.

Fiona was changing him.

“ ’Tis good to see ye, Duncan.”

Since he couldn’t say likewise, he asked, “Are ye well?”

To his surprise, her eyes took on a slightly dreamy quality, and she smiled wistfully. “Aye. Very well.” She straightened. “Which is why this latest news has me grieved. I have much to lose.”

“No doubt,” he muttered.

“My, how cynical you’ve become.”

He remained quiet, and she broke eye contact and straightened her skirts. She darted her gaze to the open door.

In a lower voice, she continued, “I know ’tis hard for you to credit, but I am very happy here. With my husband. ’Twas not a love match. But…it’s become one.”

He took in the earnest cast to her gaze, the earnest cast to her voice, and thought, Holy Mother, she told the truth.

“I’m happy to hear so.” He was. And because he still had the image of Fiona lying in her tub, he continued, “However, you’ll be telling me why ye summoned me.”

“Straight to it as always.” She sighed. And inexplicably, she blushed. “Very well. What I’m going to tell ye, no one else knows.”

He strode to the chair farthest from her and perched on the seat’s hard edge. “I’ll keep your secrets unless they directly harm my clan.”

“I know ye will. Well, to keep it short, as you prefer, I received a message from a man whom…” She cleared her throat and looked at her lap. “Whom, truth be told, I thought I’d never see again.”

He had no trouble following the line of thought. “The real father of your babe.”

“Aye.” She gripped her hands into a tight bundle, and that alone signaled how acute was her agitation. In the past, she skillfully projected the exact tone she desired. And her anxious persona never manifested in hand-wringing. She truly was experiencing this emotion.

Her chuckle was rueful. “I’m finding this hard, aye, to not only tell ye, but to tell ye in blunt terms, but I will. For I know that’ll put me in good favor with ye.” She inclined her head toward him and smiled. “Aye, I know. I’m still manipulating ye, but does it help if I’m being honest about it?”

Not particularly. He pushed back into his chair and crossed his feet.

She fiddled with her skirts. “Ye must know that I…I had a hard time adjusting after Father died. Iain and I were never close, but after that…well…”

“You blamed him for the death of your father.”

She whipped her gaze to his, and her eyes flared with pain. “Of course I did. Everyone did.” Her words were clipped, harsh.

“Not everyone. He was not to blame,” he said, matching her tone.

Her mouth compressed. “We’re wandering, we are. That period of my life is not one I wish to discuss. I only did so to explain why I…to put it bluntly…succumbed to Elspeth’s father. I found him wounded, hiding in one of the abandoned huts.”

He lurched forward in his seat, his boots thudding on stone. “Mo Chreach. You allowed yourself to be alone with a strange man?”

“He was wounded.”

“All the same. You should’ve sought one of our clansmen.”

Her forehead bunched, and she flicked her hand in annoyance. “There was no danger. The poor man was near death, I tell ye. Pale. Pale, but…” And here she impossibly blushed. “Pale but…perfect. With eyes like…”

Duncan crossed his arms and huffed out a disbelieving breath.

She sat forward. “ ’Tis truth. Though now I see ’twas only lust and a need to lash out at my uncle, even if he couldn’t know of it. You see, the wounded stranger was of the reformed Kirk. Wanted for participation in Argyll’s Rising. Ye know what they did to those what were caught.”

He nodded. “Shipped them off to Jamaica and the Colony of New Jersey.”

She shuddered. “Right ye are.” Again, she clasped her hands tighter. “I found the whole notion romantic.”

“Being shipped off?” He sat back. This ought to be good.

She threw her needlepoint onto the table beside her. “No, his fighting for something he believed in. Being on the run. Grievously wounded.” She tapped her chest with her flattened palm. “I kept his secret. Nursed him back to health.”

He cocked his head. “But the Argyll’s Rising was in ’85.”

Her eyes held his, boldly. “Aye.”

Criosd. He’d believed himself immune from being shocked by this woman. She couldn’t have been more than…

“Sixteen summers,” she said as if finishing his thought. “To his credit, we waited until I was eighteen.”

“You sheltered him for two years?” His appalled voice filled the small tower room.

She waved a hand. “Nay. But he returned and sought me out every time he passed through thereafter. I even…I even passed coded messages for him and accepted the reformed Kirk, to please him. I did everything for him. Gave myself to him. And then…found myself pregnant.” She lifted her chin and stared defiantly at him across the room.

“Why did ye not tell your uncle the truth?”

“When he’d only just finished contracting my betrothal to Torquil?”

“The perfect opportunity for your honesty, I should think.”

She looked to the side. “I believed my William would save me the trouble. I told him the joyous news, ye see, on his next monthly visit, and he promised to visit my uncle upon his return back through.”

“He never showed.”

“No.”

“And you couldn’t reveal that you carried the babe of a reformed Kirk rebel.” The MacCowans were Catholics all, and for some the very idea of consorting with someone of the reformed Kirk was tantamount to treason.

She shook her head, her lips thinned. “Or that I’d converted. I’m back in the faith now, never fear, but at the time I hadn’t seen my way clear. However, not only was William of the reformed Kirk, he was one of the Auchinbreck Campbells. I couldn’t let it be known that one of the MacDonells had aided the other side.”

Anger flushed his skin hot, but he kept his body still. “So you duped me into taking the blame. To protect a Campbell who fought for Argyll.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He clenched his jaw, not wishing to hear her sympathy or remorse. “This was two years ago. Ye still haven’t told me why I’m here.”

“He’s blackmailing me.” The words landed flat but heavy in the still air.

Duncan launched to his feet. “Mo Chreach.” He paced to the other side of the room and back. His booted feet landing on the stone floor in measured, controlled steps helped calm him. He rounded on her, crossed his arms, and widened his stance. “What does he want?”

She retrieved her needlework, plopped it in her lap, then returned it to the table. “He’s fallen on rough times.”

Duncan scoffed.

She fisted her hands. “Hear me out. With the recent successes of the Jacobites, he no longer feels as if he can make a life here. He wishes to emigrate to the Virginia Colony. For that, he needs silver. If I don’t help, he’s threatened to expose my complicity with the rebels.”

There was one thing in all this that he didn’t understand. “Why not go to Torquil?”

She blinked. And swallowed. And looked at her fists in her lap. “I…I can’t,” she finally said. “He loves Elspeth as if she were his own. I think he’s fine believing her to be of your clan, but I can’t risk how he’d feel about her if he knew the truth. Plus, I…”

He gazed up at the ceiling. “Ye love him,” he finished for her.

“Aye. Please? Can ye take care of this for me? Meet him on my behalf?”

He locked his jaw. Hundreds of retorts flashed through his mind.

And then she said the one thing she damn well knew would make him comply. “If the truth gets out, it will not look well for Iain. Ye know that.”

The ceiling crowded down on him. He felt blocked in every direction, except the one path she so craftily laid for him. Even knowing he must walk that path to do what was best for Iain, it still grated that it was dictated by her. “I’ll do it, Margery. But only because of Iain. Not for you.”

With that, he spun on his heels. With every heavy footfall toward the door and freedom, it pounded into him that this was exactly why he couldn’t allow himself to be lulled by love’s sweet siren call. Holy Mother.