Chapter Eleven
Flora slipped out of the castle when the late afternoon shadows were long and purple. She wore her plaid close over her face to hide her passing and took the path that led into the oldest part of the forest. She knew the ancient byway by heart, and thick moss muffled the sound of her feet.
By the time she reached the fairy well, it was nearly dusk. The smooth white stones that formed a ring around the wee spring glowed in the last rays of the sun.
Flora knelt and stared into the dark pool. “I hope ye’ve not forsaken the Munros of Culmore,” she said aloud. ‘The time has come for our laird to wed, and the Culmore Pea, your great gift to our clan, has gone missing. There is only a day left to find it.”
She waited for a response. The wind blew gently through the trees, and the branches creaked and clicked, but the surface of the water remained dark and empty.
Flora took off a gold necklace she was wearing and dropped it into the water as an offering, watched it sink and disappear. She opened a small bundle of lavender, mistletoe, yarrow, and meadowsweet, all woven together in a love spell and wrapped in a scrap of red cloth to add potency. She laid it on the flat rock beside the spring. “My nephew is a good man, a good laird. The clan cannot do without him,” she said to the rocks and the trees and anyone else who might be listening. “If ye take him from us, what will we do?”
Still the water and the wood remained silent. “You’ll ken I’m not asking for another ring, just a little help to find the Pea, and your guidance, so Alex will choose the right lass as his wife. Ye know which one she is, don’t ye?”
A breeze rippled the surface of the water, and Flora waited, but nothing more happened. She sat back and folded her arms over her chest. “Very well—If ye can be stubborn, then so can I. I’ll stay right here until ye decide to speak, to give me a sign, or a blessing, or anything at all.”
She settled herself by the spring and waited.
* * *
It was getting dark. Cait knew she was probably just out of sight of her destination. She knew the sun was setting in the west, but what did that matter when she had no idea if the river, or the castle, or anything else lay west or east or north of where she stood? She spun in a circle, but every tree, bush and rock looked the same. The birds were gathering in the trees to roost for the night. They stared down at her with curious, merciless, black eyes and mocked her with laughing calls.
It would be dark soon, and wild things came out in the dark. Cait felt a shiver run up her spine. Were there still wolves at Culmore?
She heard a sound behind her, the crack of a twig snapping, the rustle of leaves, and she felt her throat close. The sounds of movement came closer, and she stood very still, and wondered if she should hide . . . But more than anything, she wanted someone to find her. She took a breath. “Here,” she said. It came out as a faint croak. “I’m here,” she tried again. The startled birds took flight from the trees, ascending in a black, squawking cloud, sending down a shower of leaves. What did they fear?
She spun and saw Alex Munro standing behind her.
With a cry, Cait raced across the space that separated them, ignoring the undergrowth that snagged her skirts. She was so relieved someone had come—that he had come—that she launched herself into his arms and burst into tears. Alex caught her, held her close to his chest, and she felt the security of strong arms around her. He used his thumb to wipe a tear from her cheek, though it was pointless with so many more falling. He tucked her head under his chin and let her cry.
“I’m lost—” she said when she could speak. “Or I was. You found me. You came for me.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed his chin, his jaw, his cheeks.
With a groan, he turned his head and met her mouth with his.
* * *
It was a long while before Alex realized that the birds had returned and the sun was nearly gone. Above the trees, the evening star had appeared. He was lost in the feel of Cait in his arms.
She slid her hands around his neck, tangled them in his hair, demanding more. Alex knew he should stop, but her lips were silken and salty with her tears. They shaped themselves to his so perfectly. Desire stirred, and the need to do much more than kiss her became unbearable. Seduction, indeed . . . but who was seducing whom? He broke the kiss and trailed his lips along her neck, over her delicate collarbones, kissed the pulse point in the hollow of her throat. His hands roamed too, over her back, her waist, her hips. He found her breast and cupped it, and she sighed and arched into him. He captured her mouth again, and let his tongue tangle with hers. He could have her, he thought. She was willing, and he could lay her back on a soft bed of moss and ferns and take his pleasure, give her pleasure. He felt the heat and shape of her breast under her gown, felt the nub of her nipple, hard and needy. He pressed his erection against her hip, and she made a soft breathy sound. In the glow of early evening she was beautiful, desirable, and he wanted nothing more. He was hard, ready for her, and she wanted him, too . . .
But it was wrong.
He shut his eyes and swore silently. She moved against him and moaned, but he gripped her arms and held her away for his own sanity. “It will be dark soon. We’d best get back.”
It was like throwing cold water on her. Her eyes widened, and she stared at him. He watched as a blush that had nothing to do with arousal colored her cheeks.
She lowered her hands and stepped back, gathered herself. Finally she looked up at him with those hazel eyes swirling with colors, her lips red and kiss-swollen. “Which way?” she asked, her voice husky.
He took her arm and started walking. He could still feel the imprint of her mouth on his, could still taste her. Desire stirred again, and he clenched his fists, willed it away, but it wouldn’t go. It was a damned uncomfortable way to walk.
“I suppose we have a long walk,” she said.
“Culmore castle is less than three miles away.”
She looked surprised at that. “I was sure it was much farther.” She walked beside him in silence for a moment. “Are there wolves at Culmore?”
“Only the two-footed ones from across the Sutherland border. The other kind are extinct here. Coll said he told ye to stay put. Where were ye going?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. I wanted to help, to stop them. They took Hector.”
He scanned the path ahead, his jaw tight. “Will they harm him?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I visited Rosecairn when I was a child, when my uncle was laird. He was kind, gentle . . . I thought Baird would be the same. I hoped so . . .” she paused. “I didn’t expect to find a marauder, a thief.”
“Didn’t your father know when he arranged the match between ye and Baird?”
“Nay. When his letter arrived, asking for my hand, Papa asked me what I wanted, and I—Well, it doesn’t matter now.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Baird didn’t come and offer for ye in person?”
She sent him a narrow look. “Says the man who’s invited four lasses he’s never met to a competition to marry him.”
Alex felt his face fill hot blood. “There’s the seanchas to be observed. It’s not my choice. When you’re laird, ye do things to keep other folk happy, fed, and safe—things ye don’t necessarily want to do. Why did you agree to wed Baird Sutherland?”
“I thought he wanted me, chose me over my sisters, over all other women, because he remembered me fondly. My mother was a Sutherland, and that gave us a connection, a bond, but . . .”
She let the thought trail away, and he glanced at her. “But?”
“But he courted the connection to my father harder than he courted me,” she said miserably. She kept her gaze on the ground as she walked. “I mean nothing to Baird. I intended to tell him I wouldn’t marry him and go home, but he was gone, away on a raid. I followed him because I wanted to stop it. The rest you know.” She met his eyes. “And I am your prisoner.”
She stopped walking and looked up at him. “Alex, if you want Hector back, then trade me to Baird for him.”
He scanned her face in the twilight. “What will happen to you?”
“I’ll do what he wants, for Hector’s sake, and for you. I’ll marry Baird if he agrees to stop raiding Culmore.”
* * *
Flora fell asleep on the soft moss by the spring. She woke with a start and saw stars in the indigo sky. She sat up and looked into the pool, saw the reflection of the trees and the moon, then the image rippled and changed.
Flora Munro clasped a hand to her heart and smiled. “Aye,” she said. “Of course.”
She rose to hurry home.
* * *
It was full dark by the time Alex walked up to the gate with Cait and called out to the guard, who opened the portal to admit them.
He hadn’t said a word to her since she’d offered to allow him to exchange her for Hector.
He escorted her into the hall and paused at the bottom of the steps. “Ye should go to bed, get some rest.”
She bit her lip. “What will you do about Hector?”
He didn’t look at her. “I don’t know. I need to consider the matter.”
She put her hand on his arm, but felt him stiffen, and she withdrew it. “Tomorrow is Midsummer’s Eve,” she said.
“Aye,” he said, still avoiding her eyes. “Ye’d best go up,” he said again.
“Alex?”
He looked at her at last. “Aye?”
“I can’t find my way alone.”
He looked around the room, searching for someone to take her, but the men were on guard duty, and everyone else was asleep by the hearth.
He took her arm, and she leaned on the strength of him, tired and uncertain. Tomorrow he’d return her to Baird, exchange her for Hector, and she’d have to marry her cousin.
But for him, for Alex Munro, she’d do anything.
* * *
Alex opened the door of the little storeroom on the third floor of the old tower.
Moonlight filtered in through the arrow slit and illuminated the pile of mattresses. Alex stared it. “Ye sleep . . . up there?” he asked.
Cait nodded.
He leaned on the doorframe and took note of the stacked crates. “And ye climb up?”
“Yes,” she said. She shrugged. “I’ve grown quite used to it. I don’t mind. I may have a similar bed made when I get ho—” she paused. “At Rosecairn.”
He looked at her. She stood in the center of the floor, her russet hair bright copper in the moonlight, her eyes luminous. He couldn’t look away. Desire flared all over again. Hector was one of his own, his clansman. His captain. But the thought of giving Cait to Baird tore at him.
“I mind,” he said, his voice thick as he looked at her sky-high bed again. “I find I mind very much.”
He looked back at her. She waited silently, her eyes on his.
“Alex? If I must marry Baird, I would like . . . that is, just once, I want—you.” She held out her hand to him. It was white in the moonlight, pure and pale, and for a moment he stared at her long fingers without moving. “I want you as a woman wants a man. I want to know what it’s like to be loved, because I can’t imagine wanting Baird like I want you. Will you stay with me tonight, while we are both still free?”
He wanted it too, wanted her, before he had to marry Fiona, or Nessa, or Coria, or Sorcha. He stepped into the room and kicked the door shut. He took her hand and pulled her into his arms. He kissed her once, gently, and stood looking down at her upturned face. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “I wish—” She put her finger to his lips.
“Just this, now.”
He took her hand, kissed her fingers, her knuckles, then claimed her lips. She pressed herself to him, kissed him back, and he moaned softly and wrapped his arms around her, claimed her mouth, deepened the kiss.
She was his. If only for this night.
* * *
Cait tilted her head so Alex could kiss her neck. How was it possible to live so long and not know such sensations existed? She could feel his arousal low against her belly, knew what it meant. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, here and now, in this moment. She didn’t care about tomorrow. He groaned as she pressed closer, rubbed against him. Surely this was magic, kissing Alex in the moonlight. She couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop.
He trailed his mouth down her throat, and over the slopes of her breasts, his teeth and tongue working more magic. She loosened the ties of his shirt with shaking fingers and slid her hands inside, and felt the hard heat of his body under her palms. She broke the kiss long enough to tug his shirt over his head, toss it away. His body shimmered in the moonlight, male perfection, golden and glorious, hard angles and muscles. “You’re a beautiful man, Alex Munro,” she murmured, letting her fingertips follow her eyes. She touched the tip of one pebbled nipple and he gasped.
He began unlacing her gown, his hands big and impatient on the delicate ties. She covered his fingers with hers, helped him, until her breasts were bared to his gaze. For a moment he stared, then swallowed hard. “Maiseach,” he said in Gaelic, his voice a sensual growl. “Lovely.” He pushed her gown all the way off her shoulders, kissing her skin as he exposed it. The dress fell to the floor around her ankles, and she stood before him in nothing but her stockings and shoes. He climbed the crates, and when he reached the top of the unusual bed, he leaned over the edge, and held out his hand. “Come to bed, lass.”
She took his hand and climbed up, and he lifted her the last few feet, and fell back with her in his arms, then rolled, pulling her beneath him, finding her mouth again. She reveled at the unfamiliar weight of his body on hers, of the feeling of hard muscle and hairy legs against her skin. He stroked her all over, murmuring Gaelic endearments. He stripped away one stocking, then the other, and kissed her ankles, her knees, her inner thighs. He kissed the hard points of her nipples as his hands explored the curves of her body. She was on fire everywhere his fingers brushed, and she arched against him, restless, desperate.
“Please,” she whispered.
But he made a low sound in his throat, kept moving slowly, teasing her breasts with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. She caught his shoulders, slid her hands over the naked planes of his back, his waist, his hips, and cupped his buttocks through the bulk of his plaid, and pulled on the hem, wanting him against her, flesh to flesh, begging wordlessly.
“Nay, wait, lass,” he murmured. “If it’s just to be this once, we’ll do it properly.”
How? She had no experience. She only knew she wanted him, was hot and needy and restless. She didn’t want to go slow, but she very much wanted to do it properly . . . She moaned and arched against him, but he held his hips away, teasing her, driving her mad. She writhed as his hand slid along her ribs, over her waist, and across her belly, moving with infuriating slowness to caress the curls between her thighs. She bucked against his palm, wanting more of—well, whatever it was that made lusty lasses giggle and whisper and blush, made poets sing of love, and men grin.
It was within Alex’s power to grant it, but still he held back. His hand teased, but it didn’t relieve the fire. She moaned, a wordless plea. He brought his mouth back to hers and she opened to him, biting and suckling his tongue and lips until his breath turned into suppressed grunts of desire.
His erection brushed her hip, and she reached down and closed her hand around it, still wrapped in the thick wool of his plaid, and he gasped. At last his fingers dipped between the delicate lips of her sex, and he stroked her, drove her wild. Oh, he was good—it was good. No, it was heaven . . . Her hand fluttered over his, and she was half afraid of what was to come, half afraid he’d stop. He kissed her breasts, licked them, made her hotter still. She arched against him, clutched his shoulders, and held on as the sensation burst over her. Stars fell around her, a shower of light and heat and ice. He caught her cries with his mouth, kissed her, murmured endearments, held her close until she could breathe again. She opened her eyes and looked at him. He grinned, and raised himself up on his knees. He undid the belt that held his plaid around his hips and let it fall. She looked at him in the moonlight, at the smooth plane of his belly, the jut of his hipbones, the dark V of hair . . . Her eyes widened a moment, and he let her look. She reached out and touched him gently, carefully. He groaned and held her hand in his, showed her how to move, how to caress his body. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. He shifted, lay between her parted legs, and she felt the blunt tip of him where his fingers had been. He entered her, and she stifled a cry at the sharp pain, but he stopped, held, waited for her to adjust.
Slowly he began to move, filling her and withdrawing, and filling her again. The small sting ebbed, leaving only pleasure. “Mo leannan,” he whispered. He began to move faster, thrust harder, and she dug her nails into his shoulders and lifted her hips, drew him deeper, felt the stars rising again, felt them fill her and explode as he cried out and buried himself deep within her one last time, shuddering as he filled her. Her lay against her, and she felt his heart pounding next to hers. She folded her arms around him and held him close.
So this was how it felt to be loved by a man—by this man. She marveled at the joy she felt. He kissed her face, and moved off of her, but pulled her close to his heart and dragged his plaid over them both, and slept.
* * *
It was nearly midnight when Flora hurried through the postern gate, only to be challenged by Coll. “Who goes there?” the old warrior demanded.
She pushed the dirk aside. “’Tis only me. Let me pass if ye please, Coll. I have a great deal of work to do before the morning.”
He frowned. “What kind of work?”
“Stitchery,” she called over her shoulder, and hurried up to her chamber.
She unwound her plaid and lit a dozen candles and set them around the seanchas. Then she looked at the outlined image of Alex’s bride.
She threaded her needle and began to sew.