Chapter Eight
Madeline ignored Greta as the old woman dashed around her chamber, helping Madeline fix her hair.
“The fair will be such fun!” the woman chattered. “We have nay gone to the fair in years, but this will be such a wonderful time!”
Madeline could feel the fluttering in her stomach. Today was the day. True, she was supposed to marry John, but she would be content with the stolen moment of pleasure, seeing fascinating sights, traveling! With Teàrlach! Her heart shouldn’t be so giddy, but it was. Oh, just the thought of music and dancing and contests and roasted food sent her heart singing. With Teàrlach. If a caterpillar was enough to fascinate her, there was no telling what she was going to see today.
“Just look at this masterpiece, milady!” Greta praised, examining her gown. “You have such a skilled hand. Careful the fae don’t mistake you for one of their own and steal you away to tailor their clothing for them.”
Greta brought forth the garment to help Madeline dress. It boasted voluptuous blue sleeves and a blue overgown. The bodice lacing was made of silver cording that had come in Teàrlach’s basket, and the trimming contained miniscule seed pearls and alternating quartz beads. It scooped wide across her shoulders, revealing a ladylike amount of cleavage. She hadn’t worn such a fine gown since living at Ayr, when her father had provided seamstresses to update her wardrobe.
She donned her newly made chemise, the neck tied with a silken ribbon, and awaited Greta’s help to drop the fanciful garment over her head. Her hair was now coiffed with braids along the side folded into a golden knot at the base of her neck over the remainder of her long, wavy hair. She had not only washed her hair the day before but had taken a full bath submerged in an old tub outside.
Brimming with excitement, Greta fastened everything, the task of dressing complete.
“You look so fetching, milady. Sir MacGregor will be pleased, indeed.”
“Greta, now you know I try nay to impress the Highlander. I’m betrothed now.”
“Oh posh,” the old woman waved, scrunching her eyes at the distaste Madeline attempted to hide. “You know as well as I that you have nary a desire to be tethered to John de Moreville your entire life.”
“Having no desire is not the same as fulfilling my duty. You know it isn’t a matter of choice,” Madeline said with the closest sentiment of censure in her voice she had ever made.
God, but just the thought of that marriage seemed like a death sentence, a two-month long walk to the gallows. She swallowed, withdrew, and found her resolve again. She would enjoy the harmless attention Teàrlach bestowed on her for as long as possible and would carry the happy memories through the remainder of her days.
“He’s arriving!” called Fingal up the stairs, his voice dampened by the stone.
“He’s here…” Madeline remarked. Would Teàrlach find her fetching? “It’s too early for him to be here…”
“Nay, if he’s been awake since the wee hours like you, too excited to sleep,” Greta retorted. “I tell you, if he brought you all these items, passed the day with you on Friday last, and now takes us to Latha Bealltainn, I think it’s safe to say he’s head over heels for you.”
Madeline dismissed the woman again with a wave of her hand but hastened from her chamber, leaving her crutches—for her leg felt better each day—jogging down the steps all the way from the second floor and lifting her skirts in a most unladylike way to keep from tripping. Lord, but if she’d told Greta about their kiss, she would never hear the end of it! She zipped by Fingal, who stared at her, and dashed across the hall to the door.
Thrusting it open, she jogged a few steps out into the yard before halting. Teàrlach was just now trotting King through the gate, tall and proud. He wore no chain mail, only the tunic she had sewn him, which had clearly been laundered and sun-bleached, his gray surcoat and trousers cleaned, and boots and belts polished. His hair was ruffled in the morning sunlight, having been washed, and his face was freshly shaven. A sense of urgency consumed his brow. When he saw her, he relaxed, his eyes riveted to her.
“Sir MacGregor!” she called happily, dropping her skirts back around her feet, unable to resist taking a few more steps in his direction before awaiting him to close the rest of the gap.
He pulled back on the reins as he neared her, coming to a halt while his eyes remained fastened on her person. Not a word of greeting passed his lips. Instead, he simply stared at her, his eyes making slow, unabashed sweeps of her body. Madeline dropped her hopeful eyes to her hands. His silence was disconcerting. Her cheeks raged hot again. What was causing his rudeness?
Fingal came to gather King’s reins and Greta caught up to Madeline from behind, out of breath and palming her chest. The gesture seemed to snap Teàrlach out of his stupor.
“My Lady Madeline,” he replied, his voice gruff. “You look bonny indeed.” She lifted her eyes, tipping her head to see him. The gentlest hint of a smile was on his lips. “Your gown is beautiful.”
She blushed, smiled, and dropped her head again as he dismounted.
“Milady,” began Greta, “I’m feeling unwell quite suddenly.”
The trance was snapped. Madeline whipped her head around. “You were well a moment ago. Come sit and tell me what ails you.”
Greta batted her hands away like annoying flies. “Nay, I’ll just go and rest. My foot pains me. I do nay think I’ll go to the fair after all.”
“Not go?” Madeline replied. “Then I’ll stay with you. Whatever is the matter? Please, come rest—”
“I won’t hear of it,” Greta fussed. “Fingal can stay with me. We’re old as it is, and I’m certain I’ll be fine.”
Fingal looked confused.
“I can’t leave you, knowing you’re unwell,” Madeline replied.
…
Teàrlach’s heart skipped a beat, sensing what was going on. He could kiss the old woman for it.
“Greta,” Fingal said, his brow wrinkling. “I don’t understand.”
She smacked his arm and gave him a stern look. “Tell Lady Madeline that I’ll be quite well, if you stay with me.”
“Whatever’s the matter, dear?” the old man asked, taking her hands and leading her into the hall to sit in a chair.
Madeline made to follow when Teàrlach caught her hand to stop her. “Give her a moment to talk to her man, lass. It might be a private concern.” Madeline acquiesced to his suggestion, though she continued to work her fingers together and throw glances in their direction. God, but you are beautiful. But he kept the sentiment to himself. “Where are your crutches?”
Madeline looked down. “I admit, I left them above stairs. My leg already feels to rights, and I wonder if it was only badly twisted but nay broken.”
Greta talked in hushed tones, and Madeline looked desperate to understand their words.
“You’ll be careful on it, then?” he asked, “and tell me if it pains you?”
She nodded agreeably, still flitting her eyes to her servants. “I will heed your cautioning and do so immediately, should it bother me again.”
More than once, both Fingal and Greta looked their way. Finally, Fingal returned, and Madeline took both his hands in hers.
“Is she all right?”
“She’ll be fine,” Fingal replied, sending Teàrlach a wink while Madeline peered around him to assess Greta relaxing in the chair. Teàrlach’s mouth lifted on the corner, though it dropped as she turned back to look at him. “We’ve been to the fair in Kilbirnie many a time,” Fingal continued. “She has old bones and could use the day to get off her feet. You go with Sir MacGregor and enjoy yourself, Lady. ’Twill be exciting for you.”
“I can nay leave, knowing she suffers,” Madeline said.
Fingal shook his head and smiled. “Go. Me wife and I never get a moment alone, just the two of us. This will be quite nice for us, and we’d appreciate the solitude.”
Madeline looked back at Teàrlach, then peered back at Greta who waved, smiled, and shooed her out the door with a flutter of her fingers.
“I’ll take fine care with ye, lass,” Teàrlach added, holding out his hand in escort.
Still apprehensive, Madeline took his offered hand, glancing back at Fingal and Greta as they both smiled and waved.
“Have a wonderful time, milady!” Greta called in a voice that belied any ailing at all.
She crinkled her brow but walked onward. “’Tis odd,” she remarked. “Why, all the morn she’s been hustling about with excitement.”
Teàrlach placed his hands at her waist and lifted her atop his saddle.
“I gather the woman wanted to spend the day with her man,” Teàrlach said, “and did nay want to be rude to you. Latha Bealltainn is, weel, celebrated in many ways…some of them carnal,” he added.
“I see. I didn’t know…” She looked at her hands. Then she glanced at him as he fixed his foot in the stirrup and grabbed the saddle pommel, ready to hoist himself up. “You must think me daft, like everyone does.”
Her gaze shifted from him back to her hands. He paused, contemplated her, then pulled himself up behind her and lifted her to adjust her legs over his thigh.
“You’re far from daft,” he finally murmured by her ear. “You can nay help what you haven’t been taught.”
“I never know the right thing to say,” she added, her eyes still fixed on her hands. “Oft I stand like an imbecile and say nothing at all. Most people ignore me, which suits me fine.”
Teàrlach actually chuckled at this, then tipped her face back to look at him with his fingertip.
“I’m a silent type for the same reason. People hear my Highland voice and think me savage. Come. Latha Bealltainn awaits, and you have sights to see.”
He tapped King into a walk and exited onto the pathway. The early morn wore on and Teàrlach enjoyed the warmth of her against his chest. God, but she smelled divine. Her hair shone like sunrays, and the scent of lavender wafted from her skin straight to his nose, setting his senses afire. And her gown…
He was speechless. She was as beautiful as a rendering of a forest nymph, draped in brilliant fabric fitted to her waist and painstakingly embroidered. She looked the part of a ranking young maiden, the blue of the gown cooling the green in her gray-green eyes, bringing out a blue he hadn’t noticed before.
And they sparkled with life. He watched as she absorbed with unabashed interest all the details he had been remiss to care about since his youth. The wave of the grasses as breezes brushed across the blades, the way the sun sparkled on the water in a burn, butterflies flitting across the meadows, birds calling to one another, critters frolicking. She was observant indeed. Shame she had been so sheltered, for he sensed there was a brilliance to her mind that would break free with a bit of tutoring.
“You find such pleasure in the goings-on around you, lass,” he finally remarked, realizing he had all but been forgotten.
“It’s silly,” she replied, looking straight forward.
“Nay. ’Tis the sign of a curious mind. Is that why ye tumbled down the Spout of Garnock?”
Madeline’s face reddened. “I, eh…I spotted a caterpillar and came too close to the edge…”
She let her voice trail away, and avoided looking back at him, as if he might mock her. Teàrlach said nothing, though couldn’t suppress his momentary smile.
“I’ve only seen a couple in my life,” she amended.
He nodded. “Did you know that they turn into moths and butterflies?”
She turned and looked at him over her shoulder. “They do what?”
He grinned.
“You tease me,” she remarked, turning away again.
“Nay. ’Tis true. They’re in fact, the bairns of butterfly eggs. They transform.”
“You speak the truth?” she asked, turning back to look at him.
“Aye, lass.”
Her eyes widened. “I should like to learn about everything,” she said. “The world fascinates me. And the stars, too. We’re so small compared to such grandeur around us.”
She would love the Highlands. She would love the peaks of green, carpeted in moss and lichen, the inconsistency of the cliffs jutting upward, as if tilted on their sides, the swirl of the grayish clouds as the rain moved in, and oh, the stars… She would find beauty in everything. He had always been attracted to her looks and the silent strength he sensed in her. But now he realized she had a scholarly mind tucked inside her poised facade. She was a breath of fresh, innocent air, and he inhaled deeply to fill his lungs of it.
And dammit, but that air smelled of her lavender soap. He wanted to bury his nose against her neck to smell the potion all day. What would it be like to sleep nestled into this scent, wake each morn with his head buried against her skin and hair, feeling her secure in his arms against his chest? Alas, Moreville’s bastard would have that honor in two months’ time.
Kilbirnie came into a view. There wasn’t much of a town. Only a kirk and a couple of cottages. But the open fields were filling with vendors and revelers. Flowers adorned the ladies’ hair. Men’s garments ranging from rugged great kilts to surcoats and mail dotted the scene. Games were assembled. A field for contests of brawn was demarcated by colorful flags and ropes, and the smell of roasted meats and sweets filled the air.
“This is so exciting,” she said, her eagerness too much to contain.
He smiled, looking down at the back of her head, feeling pleased with himself. They wound down the hillside and began to plod along the path through the throngs of revelers. A lutenist was strumming her fingers across the strings upon her lap while a bard beside her began singing. Folk gathered round.
“I’ve never seen a woman performing in public,” she said, staring in wonder. And then a juggler walked down the lane, fascinating children who gathered around to admire his multicolored tunic and the balls whirling up and down from his hands.
“What do you call it?” Madeline exclaimed, whipping her head around to look at Teàrlach.
“Juggling. ’Tis a skill of hand agility. Entertaining, nay?”
“Indeed it is,” she replied.
Teàrlach guided King into the makeshift corral and handed the reins to one of the attending grooms. Dismounting, he ensured his coin purse was within his surcoat against his waist and reached to Madeline, lifting her down.
“Shall we explore?” he asked, holding out the crook of his elbow to her.
She smiled and accepted his arm, sliding her hand into the fold of his bicep and forearm.
He inhaled the savory smells, laced faintly with her lavender. Music competed with the din of people chattering, vendors selling their wares, men’s implements clinking, wagons creaking. A man dressed in foliage on stilts, his face rubbed with green paste, walked among the revelers.
“What is it?” she gasped.
“’Tis a man of green,” he replied. “He hearkens to the olden days before the people of these lands knew Christ. ’Tis springtime, and he is a symbol of the land’s fertility.”
“He’s so tall,” she remarked.
“’Tis a man in costume and walking on long sticks to give him height,” Teàrlach said. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded, smiling. He walked her to a cart and awning with a cook pumping a fire in a pit, another hoisting out cuts of meat. It was venison. He gave her a piece of meat upon a cloth and took one for himself, handing over the proper coin, and they walked onward together, eating.
He glanced down at her taking nibbles in the most ladylike fashion she could, given the circumstance, but he noted that she was devouring it, like she had never tasted something so delicious. So the woman had lied about not liking venison that first night she’d fed him, no doubt to put his mind at ease. He found it humorous. After discarding the bones in a rubbish heap, he looked down at her wiping her fingers upon her cloth, noting a smudge on the corner of her mouth. He lifted his finger, wiping the blemish away.
She looked up at him, their eyes locking, and her fingers covered her mouth in embarrassment. “My, I must have looked beastly.”
He grinned. “’Tis half the fun.”
“Fun…” she remarked, looking around. “This is quite fun, indeed. Why are there so many logs upon that field?” she pointed, before quickly catching her rudeness and putting her hands back together.
“A caber toss,” he replied. “A contest of skill and brawn for men. The man who can throw the poll end over end with the most precision is considered the winner.”
“A man can actually lift something so massive?” She gaped at him. “Can I see?”
He chuckled. “Aye.”
They walked together, brushing by others, all the while Teàrlach holding her hand on his arm to keep her from becoming separated from him. Men were gathering around the field, spectators gathering along the outside of the ropes. As they came closer, Teàrlach worked her through to the front to see. Men were stripping their tunics. Most men wore trousers, but some also wore the Highland kilts of clansmen.
She stared at them and leaned up on her toes to his ear. “Why must they strip down?”
Teàrlach shrugged, trying not to let the idea of her admiring so many half-naked men bother him. “No reason. Normally they don’t.”
“Then why?” she pressed.
Teàrlach glanced down at her and winked. “To impress the lasses. Are you impressed, my sweet Maddie?”
Her eyes dropped back down, her face blushing, but she said no more, and Teàrlach brushed off his irritation. Madeline had hardly lived if she had never admired a man’s chest before.
“You there!” called a barker, pointing.
They both looked around to see to whom the barker called.
“Aye, you! The tall fellow in the front!”
Teàrlach realized the man was pointing at him. He furrowed his brow as those around them took notice.
“You’re a strapping man! What say you try to impress your lady by competing in this test of strength?”
Madeline looked up at him, still wide-eyed, but now everyone around them was also looking at him. Wonderful. He shook his head and scowled.
“I’m nay competing today!” he called back. “My companion and I wish to enjoy the spectacle!”
“Aw, do nay be a caora, man!” the barker goaded as people chuckled. God, Teàrlach wanted to punch him for using his childhood nickname. Sheep. “Or are you afraid ye might lose in front of such a bonny maiden?” He winked at Madeline. “We’ll all know you to be a coward!”
Laughter ensued. Teàrlach felt pissed. It was true, Madeline was a beauty, but no one needed to be winking at her. And no one insulted his strength and attacked his masculinity. Anyone who knew him, knew better. The times his brothers had done that, he had gotten even by embarrassing them in front of their father and mother. Anyone who knew him, knew he would tear them apart with pleasure.
Clearly, this barker didn’t know him. But he was about to never forget him. A devious smile threatened to split across Teàrlach’s face. He cupped his hand around his mouth.
“I’ll compete only if ye do, man!” he hollered back.
The laughter around him rumbled again.
“If I compete?” the barker called, confused.
“Aye! Ye pick up three of those beams and toss them like the rest of us, and I’ll do the same! Those are me terms!” Teàrlach fired back, grinning, his Highland brogue ringing in full glory. The puny barker would be lucky if he could lift an armload of twigs for a hearth fire, let alone a sanded-down tree trunk. “Do ye nay want to impress the lasses today with those brawny arms of yers?”
The crowd reverberated with more chuckles.
Aye, if the barker wanted to humiliate Teàrlach, he would get a lesson on embarrassment in return. Teàrlach turned to Madeline, looking at the laughter in her eyes that she was too ladylike to express outright, and withdrew his arm, giving her a wink. “Stand here, Lady. I’ll be back for you, after I teach this eejit a lesson.”
Teàrlach ducked under the rope, needling him further. “Come, man! Fair is fair, eh? Ye want me to strip myself bare for the lasses, and I suggest ye do the same!”
Laughter boomed now, men holding their bellies and women covering their giggles. When the barker only glared at him, Teàrlach stripped his surcoat and then his tunic, revealing the thong beneath containing a sgian achlais under each arm…as well as the sheer breadth of his chest and the bulk of his warrior arms.
“Who thinks the man should put his muscles where his mouth is, strip his claes, and toss three cabers?” Teàrlach boomed.
The crowd screamed in approval, the other contestants slapping their knees, and he turned back to the barker, holding out his arms. “Yer crowd has spoken, man!”
The barker begrudgingly untied his colorful overcoat as the crowd began to chant at him to do so, pulled the laces of his tunic, removing that garment, too. He revealed a soft belly and thin arms, pasty white from their lack of exposure. The laughter didn’t cease as another official took over announcing.
“Line up, men!” the new official called.
Teàrlach turned over his shoulder, looked at Madeline, and came jogging back. She gazed up at him, her hands folded in front of her. He bowed low, then stood.
“I apologize for causing a spectacle, my lady. I meant you no embarrassment. Whilst I know this is nay a crown tourney, I’d be honored if you would bestow a favor on me, anyway.”
…
Shocked, Madeline stood still. Her hand migrated to her breast, and she placed a palm over her heart to ensure it was still beating. It was. Rapidly. And she was certain that Teàrlach’s gentlemanly gesture, combined with his spectacular chest littered with scars, and his whisky eyes burning in the sunlight, had just caused every woman in the audience to swoon.
Face raging with blush, she nodded and dropped her head to her sleeve where she pulled out a kerchief she had embroidered, made of the same fabric as her gown. She fingered the fabric for a moment, then held it out to him. Instead of simply taking the token, he took hold of her whole hand and brought the back of it to his mouth, never removing his eyes from hers. He placed a chaste kiss upon it.
No. Now all the ladies swooned. She could feel a collective intake of air around her and a collective release of sighs. He placed her hand back down and withdrew, dragging the kerchief with him as he grinned, tucking it under his strap over his heart. The swooning surged again.
Ah, she could die a happy woman now. Teàrlach’s favor for her felt like a dream, like warmth and sweetness enveloping her. She should feel ashamed, knowing she was betrothed to another, but she couldn’t muster the sentiment. She liked Teàrlach and thought about him constantly. She wasn’t married yet. There was still time to enjoy his kindness before she married John.
Teàrlach got in the lineup. The first competitor wore a kilt of dark blue and green, his tartan draped over his boxy shoulders tucked into his waist beneath his paunch. Three cabers were laid in a row. Two extra attendants lifted the end of the beam and walked it upright. The kilted contestant bent, hugged his arms around it, and with a grunt, lifted it. The beam listed to one side and the man corrected it, steadying it, then jogged forward to gain momentum. With a shout, he tossed it. It flipped head over end against the ground and landed in front of the man. It wasn’t completely straight, but it was very close.
Madeline covered her gasp. She glanced wide-eyed at Teàrlach who was watching her, a smile playing on the corner of his mouth. Once the caber was examined, the kilted man was given a second beam. Again he heaved it up, steadied it, and launched it. It, too, was close to precise.
The spectacle continued. Madeline was nervous, so much so, she felt unsettled and fidgety. Why? She was nervous for Teàrlach. He had been cocky retaliating against the barker, though she sensed he did it to take the focus off of himself, for never once had he struck her as an arrogant man. In fact, now that she thought about it, of all her days at Castle Ayr, not once had she seen him do a single thing to draw attention. He didn’t shout or enter a room with pomp. Oftentimes, no one even knew he was there. She knew he had often carried out missions for her father requiring stealth. It was a skill indeed for a man so large to be invisible when he wanted to be. And she was nervous. It struck her he was doing this for her. That had she not been there, he would have never even walked to the sporting field.
She continued to watch the contestants as one by one they tossed the beams. When Teàrlach stepped up, he turned to the half-naked barker who had been momentarily forgotten and gestured for him to go first. The barker scowled, moved to the set of three cabers as Teàrlach looked down upon him. But as the assisting men walked the beam up to standing, chuckling the whole time, the barker nearly panicked. He bent to wrap his arms around it as he had seen the contestants do, but the moment the men let go of the beam, it tipped toward the earth and the barker was unable to stop it.
“Timber!” someone called in jest.
The crowd roared with laughter. Even Madeline couldn’t suppress her laugh. Teàrlach jumped forward and caught it, grunting as the wood’s momentum attempted to drag him down too, but with all his muscles torqued, he stopped its crashing descent and laid it down gently on the ground.
“Allow me to compete in your stead, man,” Teàrlach told the barker who scowled again yet gladly scurried to the sideline to put on his tunic and coat.
The men walked the beam upright, and this time Teàrlach turned to Madeline and placed his hand upon her favor at his chest. The ladies sighed, Madeline felt redness rage across her face again, and she gave him a polite nod.
He bent with experience and grace, hoisting up the beam in his arms, launching immediately into a run. As he shouted upon releasing it, the caber flipped end over end in a perfect arc and landed precisely in front of Teàrlach. The crowd screamed. He placed his hands upon his hips as his chest pumped up and down for air, and watched the officials come out to inspect it. It was given an affirmative, to which he nodded once as if satisfied with a soldier’s performance, then turned back to the other two cabers laying on the ground and resumed his position again.
Madeline didn’t need to watch the other tosses, even though she did. Her champion, who had donned her blue kerchief, was skilled and hadn’t intended to compete today because he already knew he had nothing to prove. She supposed it was a confident man who needed not to show off for others. Today, however, she suspected the only reason he had given in was the sheer volume of onlookers who would be hard-pressed to forget such public goading any time soon, and therefore, he had shifted the focus onto the barker. That was what the onlookers would remember and gossip about, not him. It was subtle, but she realized it.
The last caber was tossed. Teàrlach nodded at the announcement that his throws had been the most precise, and he and the other contestants all gathered to clasp wrists and shake hands. Then he flashed Madeline the most boyish grin she had ever seen. It was endearing. Beneath his hard layers and quiet demeanor, it seemed he was proud to have won the contest in her honor. The uninhibited grin proved there was still a lad beneath his chain mail.
He swiped up his tunic as others tried to congratulate him, but he didn’t stop to acknowledge them. He made a straight line toward Madeline and ducked back under the rope, dropping his garment over his head and tucking it into his trousers, then doing the same with his surcoat and belting it. Armed and dressed, he offered her his elbow and didn’t ask to depart, but rather began walking.
She was content to leave. Such spectacle had been exciting, but suspenseful, and she wasn’t certain how much more she could stomach. They said nothing as they walked closer to a piper’s music. Colorful ribbons were draped down a pole, fluttering in the breeze, and young maidens were gathering in clusters.
“’Tis the Maypole dance.” He gestured. She didn’t say anything, just observed, gripping his arm tightly with excitement. “This one hasn’t yet begun. Do you like dancing?” Was he trying to make her react, or admit that she wished to dance it? She didn’t know the dance, or any dance, even though she and Mariel used to make them up together as girls. “Would you like to try?” he finally suggested.
…
She flashed her sparkling eyes up at him. “How does one do it?”
He grinned, walked her to a cluster of women, and waited for them to see him.
Their gossip silenced. “Good day, my laird, my lady,” they greeted with required etiquette.
“I’m nay a laird,” Teàrlach corrected. “But my lady here has never danced the Maypole. Could you kindly teach her?”
“Certainly,” the same lady replied, and Teàrlach retracted his arm as Madeline was drawn into the fold. She went hesitantly, but Teàrlach backed away from the gaggle of female company, forcing her to fend for herself. Likely, she had no experience with female companions or friends, other than her sister and Greta. And though the look on her face was one of mortification, he smiled. When forced to face her fears, she proved to be brave. She was focusing on the women’s tutelage, practicing with them, and lo, but she seemed to understand dancing quite well. Nay daft, for certain.
The onlookers were called to gather round. Teàrlach took a place on the outskirts of the forming crowd, folding his arms across his chest, his eyes fastened on Madeline as she tasted life. That, and Teàrlach’s ever-present battle-sense obliged him to ensure her safety. He wouldn’t put it past any warm-blooded man to steal a touch or kiss from the fae-like Madeline, so beautiful with her hair hanging in long, shiny waves.
My, was she bonny. She had been beautiful at Castle Ayr, but she was glowing now. She was blossoming, learning, and becoming the woman she was always meant to be. And it was dammed appealing to him.
The flautist began to play, and the ladies and men took up their ribbons—strips of bold greens, pinks, reds, blues, and yellows. Part of him wished he was her partner, but he had never danced a step in his life. A Highland chief with four rowdy sons had raised them to be fierce, not to move light of foot in step to music.
The ladies began to skip, swinging their ribbons over their male counterparts’ heads, then weaving around them in a circle and looping their ribbons around the men’s ribbons. He watched Madeline. He had never seen her move so freely, and he soon realized that she also wasn’t missing a step. She had paid detailed attention to the instruction of her tutors. And as she finished weaving in and out of every man around the pole, coming back to her starting place, Teàrlach saw a smile upon her lips bright enough to blind an army.
Good God in heaven. Her virgin breasts were bobbing most pleasantly as she skipped, the swells teasing the neckline of her gown. Her waist contorted naturally as she bent to slip beneath the men’s ribbons, accentuating unspoiled hourglass curves even he had been remiss to see before. His manhood trapped against his thigh gave a warning stir, another, and another, begging for his master to give him the sound rutting he was demanding. Thank God for the trouser fabric tethering down his mast and his surcoat draping down to his knees shielding the salute that was occurring beneath. His cock might demand Madeline, but he was too disciplined to ever allow her insight into his privy musings.
He shifted, hoping to ease the discomfort. It only worsened. He was as bad as a letch. Dammit, but he wanted her with an intensity that spoke more deeply than lust. He had known he was falling for her, but he was admitting it now. And she was promised to another man, one she would wed in a matter of sennights. Who was he fooling? Himself. His brothers’ nickname for him, “eejit,” popped to mind. Damned, bloody fool, he scolded himself. He was living in a delusion, assuming he could flirt with her and wear her favors. He ought to sever ties with her completely. There was a copious amount of dishonor in carrying on with a betrothed lady, and there could be serious repercussions for Madeline should Moreville learn of her unchaperoned outing today.
Dammit! he cursed. Foking eejit. Rabbie, Seamus, and Padraig were right. Ye’re a piss-poor excuse for an intelligent creature, Teàrlach MacGregor.
He should have stuck to letting serving wenches suck out his seed when he had need of relief and never returned to Dungarnock to check on Lady Madeline. He should have let Clara work whatever magic the men talked of and kept his bloody distance from the beautiful woman bathed in sunlight before him, smiling and dancing, weaving her ribbon of blue to match her gown around the others. Because now, despite his revelation that he was a bastard for wanting her, he would never be able to keep his hands off her. He could try, but he would be fighting a losing battle and eventually, if the opportunity presented itself, he wouldn’t be able to resist her.
Fok John de Moreville. The curse words that pegged him as a warrior swirled freely in his mind. Why should the man get goods he didn’t even want? Lost in his musings, watching Madeline, he realized the dance was complete. The Maypole was decorated in a colorful mesh, and the onlookers were clapping. Madeline and her newfound companions were clustering together hugging one another, laughing, and that was when one of the dancing men moved in, chatting, giving the women obligatory bows of the head. And then the man made the mistake of taking Madeline’s hand, kissing it, and brushing her hair behind an ear.
Teàrlach’s feet were already in motion. He couldn’t recall how he pushed through the crowd, but he was certain he moved as directly as a peg driven into a board. He vaguely remembered men and women alike being bumped out of the way with no apology. His hand encircled the man’s wrist with such crushing force, the man cowered. With a shove, Teàrlach sent him reeling backward.
“Hands to yerself,” he growled, positioning himself so that he blocked Madeline. “The lass is with me.”
The other man nodded, backing up as he massaged his wrist, and disappeared into the crowd. Teàrlach remained facing where the man had stood, trying to master his temper, when he felt a gentle hand upon his arm. Instinctively, he knew it was Madeline’s.
“Worry nay, Teàrlach,” she said softly, the smile she had sported with such abandon now gone, replaced with a brooding darkness. “He was harmless and no match for you.”
He had done that. His angry outburst had extinguished the happiness from her face as she tried to diffuse his tension by bolstering his pride. Make the man feel validated and his anger would lessen. And it struck him right then that she saw the same darkness blooming in his posture that her father had always exuded: anger that radiated from his fists balled at his sides, his chest rising and falling, preparing mentally to beat a transgressor, any transgressor.
He turned to look down at her, instantly wanting to apologize for his behavior.
“Madeline…I apologize. I was…I worried.”
She bowed her head down as he fumbled over his words, retracting her hand and folding her fingers before her. “I thank thee for your protection.”
He lifted her chin with his finger. “Look upon me always, woman. My anger now was misplaced. The man flirted with you, but how could any man nay?” He shook his head. “I can nay fault him for what I’m guilty of myself.”
She looked at him, her eyes softening as if she could see the affection he felt.
“I saw some lovely embroidery earlier. Could we go look? I’d like to examine the stitch.”
He considered her. The request was bold on her part, more like a directive, and yet he heeded the message well. She wanted to move past this moment. He nodded, offered his arm, and placed his other palm over her fingers woven through the fold of his elbow with a reassuring squeeze. He would buy her a hundred pieces of embroidery if it would put her at ease.
They wove through the rows of vendors. Cages of chickens sat in stacks, strings of trinkets hung between awnings. Barrels of nuts sat in such display; it seemed as if the world was wealthy. Tables of stitching, ribbons, bobbles, and rings surrounded them at every turn. The clamor of people talking and children dashing in and out of the crowds chasing friends or hurrying to the next contest filled the air with so much noise it was, at times, hard to think. But as Teàrlach guided her through the tables of embroidery, Madeline never paid heed at all, her hand remaining firmly upon his arm.
“Did you nay wish to look at these?” he inquired.
She stopped, turned over her shoulder to glance at the wares, but still didn’t indicate to the merchants that she was an interested buyer. “I suppose I thought they looked nicer from my first glance,” she remarked, smiling pleasantly.
He was puzzled. Had she only suggested it to divert him from his angry reaction? And what woman on earth didn’t want to peruse such treats? He had never seen a woman who didn’t enjoy shopping. But as they passed a cart with an awning erected over the gate laid flat, Madeline stared at the stacks of books for sale. The leather was all shades of brown. Many looked worn, some were threadbare. Teàrlach watched her crane her neck around him to get a better look. He knew she couldn’t read, but on her face was longing. She might not know how to read, but he realized in that moment she wished she did.
“I have need of a book,” Teàrlach remarked, drawing her forward with him. “My faither had a handful, and my brother Padraig, now the laird, has inherited them, so I have none. Come look with me.”
She walked alongside him to the merchant, an older monk wearing a humble brown cassock. “Good day, my lord,” he spoke in refined English, his hands folded.
“Just a man, nay a laird.”
Madeline looked up at him this time as he made the habitual correction.
“Are you educated?” asked the monk.
“I am,” replied Teàrlach.
“And what kind of book would interest you? A book of hours, mayhap? These are old books that we need to clear out for new manuscripts. All of these have been transcribed into new editions.”
“I’m looking for a study book, for beginning letters.”
“A reader? I thought you were educated.”
“I am. It’s for someone else.”
“Ah, your child, perhaps? I think I have one…”
The man climbed into his cart and began moving stacks of books, shifting them, until he found a thin book bound in old sheepskin.
“It’s nay exactly the study book you requested, mind, but it’s simple enough. Meant as an anthology of words of sorts. Would you like to look at it?”
Teàrlach nodded and took it from him, opening it. The script was fine, the words large. And the alphabet was written out in both its large and diminutive form. He looked at Madeline who waited patiently at his side, looking at the books and people and nothing in particular. She was well-trained to allow a man to conduct whatever business he was doing, and for some reason it chafed. He wanted a reaction from her, a smile, a forthright statement, anything.
“I’ll take this one. How much, sir?”
“Oh, I’d say four shillings?”
“Four?” Teàrlach frowned. “’Tis hardly worth one. My thanks, man, but nay. There’s naught but a few pages of old parchment and well-worn sheepskin from days of old.”
He handed it back when the monk smiled and bowed his head, holding his hands up. “I don’t know… One shilling is awfully cheap, sire. Mayhap three and we can have a deal?”
“Two. Not a coin more. I can make such a trifle for less,” Teàrlach replied, pulling his arm free from Madeline’s hands to fold across his chest.
“I suppose… All right, two it is, sire,” the vendor acquiesced.
Teàrlach nodded once, pulled out his coin purse, and withdrew two coins. He took the book and delivered the coins into the man’s waiting palms. Nodding his thanks, he offered his arm once again and Madeline slipped her hand back into the crook of his elbow as if they were one mind who had done so a hundred times already.
“Would you care for more food?” he asked her, looking sidelong but not directly at her. “A sweet mayhap?”
She smiled politely. “You needn’t spend more money upon me,” she replied. “But if you would like one, I am happy to wait with you.”
He frowned and steered her toward a booth selling berry tarts. This had to be one of those instances when she was opting to be polite at the expense of her desires. Who didn’t like berry tarts? Even he, a hardened fighter and head guardsman, could clear a tray of tarts if they were laid out for the taking. The baker called out his wares, and a steady queue wove down the edge of the lane. They took a place at the end and inched forward.
“I’m offering because I wish to, Maddie,” he finally said. “Do you want one? Yea or nay?”
“It’s no trouble, sire, honestly—”
“That does nay answer my question, lass,” he scolded.
She looked down. “You were kind enough to bring me today. Just the wonders I’ve experienced make this one of the happiest times I can recall. I nay wish to be a burden upon your coin purse, too, sire,” she whispered.
He shook his head and suppressed a chuckle. “I assume that translates to ‘aye, I would love a berry tart,’ am I correct?”
She looked up at him, and he lifted the corner of his mouth.
“I supposed it does sound delicious,” she conceded on a giggle.
He furrowed his brow. “Have you never had one?”
She shook her head.
He sighed, then placed his palm over her fingers on his arm, squeezing. “Then I shall remedy this deficiency immediately. You’re in for a treat.”
As soon as he made the purchase, they exited the vendors. “How about on yonder hill? Behind the stands,” he suggested. “We can sit in the grasses.”
“A respite from the noise,” she agreed and walked with him.
They rose above the fair onto the fallow hill, a rolling field covered in natural grasses, surrounded by a far-reaching stone wall. Others had come to the same conclusion. The hill was dotted with a pair of sweethearts here, a cluster of maids there, or families sitting in small groups while children napped or frolicked. Teàrlach set down the book, then unclasped his belts with his free hand not holding his tart and let them drop.
…
Madeline backed up and shot glances at the nearby people that she was certain were staring.
Teàrlach pulled free his surcoat and draped it on the ground like a blanket. Realization dawned on Madeline’s brow as he gestured to her to take a seat upon it. It was a simple kindness. She lifted her skirts and did as he bade, sitting upon the surcoat and pulling her knees beneath her skirts. He settled down beside her, laying on his side, propped on his elbow with his legs extended.
The sudden urge to reach out and brush the dark curls hanging alongside his face and behind his ear overcame her. He looked casual, relaxing in the sunlight with his tunic draped open at his neck. He lifted his tart to his mouth to sink his teeth into it. She had never seen him as thus. He was always on guard, always on alert. She knew he was likely alert now, too, yet it still surprised her that this leader of men should enjoy being stripped of his weapons and dallying on a hillside, eating a berry tart.
He looked at her looking at him and gestured with his pastry-covered hand. “Go on, lass. Take a bite.”
She smiled and lifted the sweet to her lips. It was still warm in its center. She took a nibble, then another, until she reached the fruit filling. It oozed onto her tongue and the sweet, buttery taste of the dessert melted in her mouth. Her eyes rolled closed and she moaned a sound of divine appreciation. Teàrlach chuckled.
“My goodness,” she remarked, sighing, opening her eyes to look upon him. “I must learn to make these, for I’m certain I’ll never survive without them again.”
“Indeed,” he nodded. “Mayhap you could make some for my next visit to you,” he jested. “You would need to slap my hands away from the oven, lass. My brothers and I were known for cleaning trays of sweets.”
She giggled, the thought of Teàrlach as a rambunctious youth, tumbling through the kitchen with his brothers, was humorous. “You indeed must have had a fine upbringing, sire.”
He didn’t argue, but offered a shrug and nod.
“At one time, I lamented that my brothers teased me overmuch, but they would defend me with their lives. More than once they pulled me free of some mess or another. Of course, getting caught in messes is the way of lads becoming men.” He chuckled, and she nodded, giggling.
He gazed at her and looked like he was going to say something, though he didn’t. But his eyes spoke of longing and guilt. Had he wished that she had had the same? A happy childhood? Her giggle faded.
“I wish Mariel and I had grown up as such,” she remarked, wistful.
…
Teàrlach fought the urge to take her hand and kiss it. How sweet would it have been to see Madeline frolicking on the shoreline with Mariel, laughing and gossiping? Rushing about Castle Ayr flush-faced after an excursion to the fair? Her father had robbed her of much, and he suspected Madeline resented the old man for it.
Despite his inner thoughts, he couldn’t stop looking at her hair glowing in the glorious sunlight, as if God knew to shine upon the fair today instead of inundating them with rain simply so he could enjoy the view. Come to think of it, each time he had visited her now, the sun had been shining. Such an occurrence was not a predictable way to which to set an hourglass, he knew, but it was a fun musing.
And then her fingers did something he never expected. She reached out, smiled, and brushed his curls behind his ear. It was like fairy dusting. Such a light, feathery touch. Fingertips that cooked, cleaned, mended, and worked should never feel as soft as hers did, but they were smooth. And so unexpectedly sweet. He closed his eyes, reached up, and encased her hand within his, holding it.
She withdrew from his touch, her face red, and looked down at the sweet in her hand. But she had ignited a fire, whether she understood her feminine power to do so or not. Lying sideways as he was, he realized he had a shameless view of her breasts, the rises of each small mound begging sunlight to illuminate the creaminess of her skin. She was slight in every way, as he had noticed time and again. Her curves were fair but subdued from breast to hip, rolling but gentle, lush but not brazen. Like a painting of Eve in the Garden.
Be damned but just his quick inspection now had his cock stirring once more against his thigh. He watched her take another nibble, watched her savor it, chuckled at her uninhibited reaction to the taste, and secretly imagined licking the juice from the corner of her mouth. He always had harbored an appetite for such desserts. What would it taste like, mixing the sweetness of her kiss with the sweetness of the fruit? The thought made him heady. What if the tart dripped upon her breast? He could lap that up, too. Like a thirsty cur at a watering hole. It would be so easy to slip a finger beneath the trim and pull down the fabric, pluck one of her breasts into view, and suckle like a starved babe.
He suddenly wanted to devour her far more than he wanted to consume the tart. He shifted, his shaft trapped against his thigh so that his trousers tethered it down. He was a bastard just for imagining such debauchery with a virgin as sweet as Madeline. But his bastard ways be damned, he envisioned these things as a married couple. As a husband and wife, with children running about the yards. He imagined sitting beside the hearth late at night while she embroidered in the warmth of the flickering light, kicking his feet up while reviewing his account ledgers, setting aside his work, dragging away her sewing, pulling her onto his lap… He envisioned pushing and pulling against one another, bodies united in the most intimate of unions, then carrying her to bed to collapse together, sleeping against one another, sprawled across the linens, waking in the wee hours of the morn to kiss each other and greet the day before arriving at the board to share their morning meal.
God, but that life appealed to him. Aye, it appealed handsomely. And God, but this woman was now promised to another. The sentiment filled him with a dark urge to see John de Moreville dead as well as Laird Moreville simply for brokering the contract. Of course, he would never murder a man for naught, but he didn’t think he would be able to live on with his sanity if he watched Moreville’s son carry her off at the close of her marriage ceremony, watching the disgusting throngs of revelers flood into their chamber to relieve poor Madeline of her gown and taunt John into making good and sure he planted a babe in her womb that night. Part of him was willing to seduce her now, so even if he could never be her only man, he would at least have been her first. The memories would be painful to revisit after she was wed, but they would still be something special that Madeline had only shared with him.
“You’re lost in thought, sire,” Madeline remarked.
He realized he was staring at her, and though his eyes were cast level with her breasts, it was also clear he wasn’t looking at much of anything in the physical realm, but rather, in his own mind. She crinkled her brow. He dropped his eyes to his tart and popped the remainder in his mouth. The thing had been tiny anyway and not nearly worth the coin he’d paid. He’d paid the coin to see pleasure on his woman’s face.
Fok, man, she’s nay yer woman. He frowned and kept his eyes averted.
“Just thinking of future plans. Come, finish your food. I’ve a gift for you,” he replied.
…
Her brow furrowed further but she did as he asked and ate, licking her fingers and giggling at how unladylike it was. She would have wiped them on her kerchief, but she hadn’t failed to notice that Teàrlach never returned her favor but had, instead, dropped his tunic over it. Nothing got past the man. She knew he was too smart to forget it was there. Everything about him was precise. She supposed no man came to be a leader like him without good memory and discipline, which meant he had intended to keep it.
She shivered pleasantly. The sinful heat that plagued her when she was with him swirled to full force. Mayhap the perfect champion did exist. Mayhap, it was as Mariel had discovered when she’d eloped with her Englishman: not only were not all men like their father, but per chance many, if not a goodly portion, were kindly. She hoped it was true. Because Teàrlach, despite having no title, seemed to be the perfect man for her.
His amber eyes were ignited with sunlight, but with something else too: the intensity of the thoughts weighing on his mind.
“Here,” he offered, and to her surprise, he held out the book he had purchased.
She hesitated, then reached to take it. “You bought this book for me?” she asked.
He nodded once. She noticed he did that often, a curt, militaristic nod that conveyed the maximum meaning in the minimum amount of effort. “A gift.”
She smiled, but shook her head, handing it back. “I’m afraid it’s wasted money, sire. As you know, I can nay read. But mayhap you would enjoy this story, whatever it is.”
He gazed at her, lounging as he was, and returned the gentle gesture of brushing her hair behind her ears.
“’Tis a reader, Maddie. For you.”
She shook her head again, but this time with confusion. “I’m…I’m sorry, sire—”
“Teàrlach,” he corrected.
“Aye, Teàrlach,” she fretted. “But I suppose…ah, I am as daft as they say.”
She tried desperately to maintain composure and looked away, then pushed to her feet and turned from him to work her fingers together. He remained as he was, looking up.
“You’re wrong,” he countered, though his voice harbored no censure.
She turned around and looked at him, tears threatening to make her eyes splotchy. Sakes, but she looked awful when she cried. He reached his hand to her.
“Come here,” he suggested. She stared at his hand, then at him. He wiggled his fingers to beckon her, and she took his hand and sat back down. “Aye, ye’re wrong, lass,” he repeated, his brogue thickening.
“I do nay know what you mean by ‘reader,’” she murmured.
He lifted her chin. “That does nay mean ye’re daft. It means nobody ever taught ye. Here, open it. I’ll explain.”
She picked up the book again and lifted the age-worn sheepskin. Markings, squiggles in a monk’s calligraphic script stared back at her.
“A reader is used to teach someone to read. Can you remember that?”
She nodded and he chuckled. “See then? Nay daft. You’ve been told what it is, and now you know.”
“Do you intend to teach me to read?” she asked.
He nodded his signature nod. Once. “I could tell that the books interested you more than the embroidery. Most work is written in Latin, but I’ve learned English, too, and this one is such. That’s an English A, and a B, C…”
He pointed out the letters and she repeated them, remembering hearing her sister as a child singing a song to recite each one. So that’s what Mariel had sung about so many years ago. He repeated them several times, Madeline doing the same. Recognizing the letters was simple enough. Writing them would be interesting, for she still had no idea how the letters formed into words, but a spark of light ignited in her mind, and she suddenly craved to know.
“Aye, that’s the way of it, Maddie,” he encouraged. “You’re a quick study.”
The compliment made her grin. “But how does one form a word?”
He acknowledged her question, turning the page for her. “Each letter makes certain sounds. Once you master each of these sounds, you can blend them together to form the sound of words. Take something simple, eh…” He looked around for inspiration. “A dog. The word is only three letters strong. D. O. G.” He enunciated each sound for her, then ran the sounds together. “Dog. See?” She nodded. “Or tart,” he smiled, gesturing to the vendor down the hill they had patronized. “T. A. R. T. Tart,” he said, running the sounds together again.
“Teh, ah, ar, t. Tart,” she replied, making each sound, looking at the corners of his mouth now licked clean from the berries that had stained it moments before.
He was looking at her lips, too, she noticed, and then he reached a thumb out, brushing the edge of her lower lip with the callused pad of his thumb. “Or lips,” he said, stealing the idea from her very mind. “L. I. P. S. Lips,” he murmured, though his eyes seemed to have darkened, focused upon the lip he brushed. “You have a speck of pastry…right here…” he indicated with a gruffness to his voice that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
Her hand shot to her mouth, but he stayed it, taking her fingers in his and lowering them back to her lap. “Allow me,” he whispered, brushing away the spot of red and bringing his thumb to his mouth, licking it from his skin, never wavering in his gaze at her.
Heat blasted across Madeline’s skin. She knew not what seduction was, and yet, she knew without a doubt he wanted to bed her. She might have only seen animals join, but she still knew the part of a man that joined with a woman. And scandalously, her eyes darted to the front of his trousers. Lord, but it was as if he concealed a rod against his left thigh. Her eyes flitted back to his and his smile was gone, his eyes watching hers like a hawk watching prey, attuned to the fact she had inspected his manhood.
He reached to her head, cupped his hand around her nape, and pulled her down to him so that she bent at the waist, leaning over her knees. Their lips locked. And unlike the sennight before, he licked at her lips as he moved his mouth upon hers, eventually coaxing her mouth open. He dabbled in her mouth, his tongue giving gentle, rhythmic thrusts, finally extracting a timid thrust of hers. Whatever was happening, she lost all sense of time, unable to think about anything else, as Teàrlach made her wish for more…
…
He stifled a groan. “Lord above, lass, you’re sweet.”
His hand still cupping her head, they both found a steady rhythm with each other. Aye, a quick study, indeed. The lass could learn anything quickly. There was nothing daft about her. She was sharp. What a shame she had waited her whole life thus far just to begin unlocking her potential. Then he felt her hand. As he braced her to him, her fingers now slid in a silky caress up his forearm, his upper arm, and then upon his shoulder. Lord help him maintain his composure, because he sure the hell wasn’t succeeding.
“Maddie, sweeting…” he whispered on a breath, before allowing his tongue to continue its newfound courtship with hers.
His hand was now stroking her hair, now her arm, up and down and up again, his palm brushing over her cheek, thumb grazing her nose, cheekbone, eyebrow. He felt that her eyes were closed, which pleased him, because it meant she was feeling the kiss, as was he. If only they could remain locked in such a sweet embrace for eternity.
…
Madeline’s arm supporting her was trembling, leaned forward as she was. But it wasn’t because she was holding herself in an awkward position. Nothing about this moment was awkward. Teàrlach’s kiss seemed measured and confident. He knew what he wanted and was certain he would get it. And she knew that a dangerous feeling was forming in her mind. This was a man she wanted to fall in love with, and she knew right then she would never be happy with the Moreville heir. Every day of her marriage, she would long for the Highlander with the amber-whisky eyes. And the thought made her want to cry.
Instead, she reached out to touch Teàrlach and run her hands up his powerful arm that had won the caber toss in her honor. Feeling this man was the only thing she wanted to do. She needed to touch him and sensed he would welcome her unsolicited caress. He did. She could feel the rumble of a stifled moan as he deepened his kiss, thrusting his tongue with more force and a bolder rhythm. So this was a real kiss. She thought their joining of lips on his horse had been sweet, but this… She might soon die without a breath. The idea of that was so blissful she forgot about coming up for air.
She cared not that they sat in plain daylight of others, at a fair… Oh, dear God! Her eyes flew open and she wrenched away, throwing her hand over her mouth. Teàrlach lurched forward at the abrupt severance, his eyes dazed but open now, too, looking at her in confusion. He stayed frozen, shocked, and then hurt dawned on his brow. He sat up, turning away. Running his hands over his face to rub at his brow and cheeks, he muttered a curse, then turned back to her, though wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” he said, his voice gruff. “I thought my advance was welcome. I should never have crossed that line. It shall ne’er happen again.”
“Indeed that would be terribly sad,” she whispered.
He kept his eyes averted, then picked mindlessly at the grasses around him, propping his arm across his knees.
“What would be?” he questioned, picking grass with pops of his wrist.
“If that never happened again,” she breathed, and he furrowed his brow, looking back at her.
“I do nay understand.”
“I realized we did, eh, this, in front of so many people and in sooth, became embarrassed,” she replied. “But I would nay say it was unpleasant.”
“Nay ‘unpleasant?’” he repeated, as if trying to decipher whether or not that was good or bad. “Ale that has sat tapped for a sennight isn’t unpleasant, lass, but I wouldn’t say it’s delicious either.”
“Nay unpleasant in the least.” She giggled, before catching herself.
He absorbed her remark, then a slow smile crept onto his face. “Look around, lass,” he said, gesturing. The other couples upon the hill were also locked at the lips, one man having laid his lover beneath him as they stretched out upon the ground. “’Tis May Day. I can assure ye, off in the copse yonder, there are many a man and woman doing far more than us.”
A scandalized blush crept up her face. “Is that why you kissed me?” she whispered. “To attempt for yourself what those others are doing?”
He caressed her face but didn’t vie for another kiss. “You mean, do I try to seduce you because it’s May Day?”
She gazed at him, awaiting his answer.
“Maddie, I kiss you because I fancy you.”
She crinkled her brow. “You do?”
He chuckled. “So sweet and innocent…” he whispered. “Aye, and I do nay want ye to marry another.”
Is he as smitten with me as I am with him? Madeline sat wide-eyed. It was more honest of an answer than she had expected, but it was what she felt. And now she knew that Teàrlach felt the same way.
“Nor do I,” she replied. Though it still didn’t change the course of events to come.
He exhaled and took up her hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss. He inhaled as if smelling fine perfume. “And do ye favor me?”
She looked away, knowing embarrassment stained her cheeks perpetually red, but her fingers tightened upon his. “I believe I do, Teàrlach.”
He brought her hand to his mouth once more, watching her, thumbing her knuckles and kissing where he had rubbed. Then he exhaled and flopped down onto his back, gazing up at the cloudless sky.
“Ah, lass. What are we to do?” he remarked.
She looked down at him, sitting as she was, and worked her fingers together nervously. The king had blessed a union to John. Her warden had arranged the betrothal. There would be no defying both men in charge. No one had asked her if this marriage would please her, but men weren’t always in the habit of consulting the woman whose life they were about to tip on its head. This was business, and she, a commodity. And for the first time in her life, she acknowledged the anger it made her feel. The anger had always been there, but her father had always been there, too, and she had learned to suppress it.
Not now.
Harold Crawford languished in prison for conspiring to oust King William the Rough. She cared not if Teàrlach had no title and came from a rambunctious household of Highland brothers. Harold Crawford was no longer here to lord over her and keep her cowering in his shadow. She wanted Teàrlach and couldn’t have him, and the idea made her outraged at the men who made decisions about her as if buying and selling a head of sheep. The idea of marrying Teàrlach, being spirited up to the Highlands, held more appeal.
An awakening occurred within her, an awakening that throbbed to life in her heart and left an aching trail down to her belly, warming her, forcing a curiosity upon her that couldn’t be ignored. What would it be like to lie with this man? She wanted to know. She sensed it would be a glorious union that John would never be able to outdo. Such a scandalous thought, and yet, the images of what she and Teàrlach could do seemed to come innately to mind, as if a primal knowledge. Having watched male animals mount females, she knew it was similar with people. And somewhere deep down, she knew it would feel spectacular with Teàrlach. Butterflies fluttered through her stomach just thinking about it, seeing him sprawled on his back before her now, staring hopelessly up at the sky.
Did he have any idea the tumult in her mind right now? “Teàrlach?” she asked, her voice trembling. She took his hand in hers. His head rolled toward her. His eyes furrowed. He glanced down at their fingers, now interlacing with each other.
He looked at her quizzically. “What is it, lass?”
And how she loved hearing him call her “lass,” or “Maddie,” sweet names just for her.
“What’s it like?” She hesitated, then cast her eyes down while her face raged with heat. “Lying with a man?”
…
He froze again, staring at her. He blinked once. Then he sat up, his powerful stomach muscles lifting him in a slow rise, his hand still holding hers, tightening on her fingers. His eyes darted toward the yonder copse where he knew other men were swiving their lovers or wives in May Day celebration. Dammit, but how breathtaking would she look among the trees, sprigs of summer leaves dangling green around her as he stripped away her gown and beheld her like Eve within the garden? Smelling so fine as she did, like lavender, berries, pastry, and Maddie? She would indeed seem like a fae creature. She had already ensnared his heart in her faerie web.
What otherworldly sensations would he feel laying her in the leaves, suckling her sweet breasts, breaking her maidenly barrier, filling her with his warmth, claiming every inch of her from top to toe, inside and out, teaching her the ways of a man so overcome with love for her he would supplicate himself in any way just to gain her smile? Ah, but he could envision her lying against him, happily sated, her cheeks red from the exertion, his chest heaving up and down from sweet release, knowing he had made a champion’s effort at winning her heart.
His thoughts tumbled violently through his mind. He knew his grip on her had grown protective, territorial. This was his woman, and giving her up to another man was going to kill him. He could already feel the shortness of breath that accompanied rage, making his chest rise and fall in quick surges. He had to hold her. Such a question asked of him required that he hold her, and, without asking, he scooped his arm around her waist and pulled her sideways across his lap.
“I wish to holy hell I could be the man to show ye,” he croaked, crushing his mouth down upon hers, his arm possessive yet still gentle.
Be damned! He cursed to himself. It felt all wrong, the idea of his woman spread beneath John de Moreville, a twist of fate not meant to be.
“I do nay want to marry John,” she sighed as they stole a breath, resuming the kiss.
“I know it, lass,” he murmured against her lips, thrusting his tongue once more against hers. “God, but ’twill be his right,” he continued, squeezing her to his chest and resting his forehead to hers. “Nay mine. I…I can nay be the man to teach you, sweeting.”
He swallowed, his throat bobbing on the thickness forming there.
She nodded, then began to pull away, but he cinched both arms around her more tightly now. “I can nay take ye that far, Maddie,” he continued. “But I can hold you. Do nay pull away.”
She acquiesced and leaned back against him, resting her cheek upon his shoulder, her forehead nestled into his neck, and curled her arms against him as the first cloud of the day rolled beneath the sun and cast grayness upon them. In fact, the rain that was miraculously ever-absent when he shared her company now threatened, as if prepared to do the crying he sensed she held back.