Chapter Seventeen

Late that afternoon, Fiona stepped into a barely-there room overlooking the main hall. She’d been fidgety with the need to be alone. Being shin to elbow with people didn’t normally bother her. But this? A tight-knit community where she knew no one other than Duncan? And everyone had a role? It made her feel even more alien and alone. All day, she’d been plagued with feelings of insecurity. After all, what did she have to offer a Highland warrior?

She loved the past. And she loved Scotland. But in no way could that be enough to prepare her to live in Scotland’s past. As a warrior’s wife.

Her gaze wandered the room, bare but for a simple wooden bench. She flicked her gaze over the balcony. When she’d first seen the great hall, she’d been surprised at how small it was—maybe twenty-five by thirty feet max. Now she was near the top of its two-story height, its dark oak ceiling so close she could almost touch it. A small hole at the top vented smoke from the two fireplaces. She’d come up one of the hall’s circular stairs to this balcony cut into the wall, large enough for maybe three musicians, if they were friendly. The stairs continued upward, presumably to more rooms. She sat on the bench, gripped the carved stone balustrade, and looked down into the hall.

She smiled. This little find—it was exactly the kind of charming room she’d expect to find in a castle. On the far side of the hall below, a bard strummed her harp, her face scrunched in concentration as her soprano voice sang of past battles and heroic feats of the MacLeod warriors. Fiona had been surprised to learn that the MacLeod’s official bard was a woman.

A feminine voice interrupted her peace. “May I join you?”

In the stairwell’s archway stood an ethereal, tall blonde woman, her face expectant. Fiona hadn’t seen her before, but she had no wish to be rude. “You may.”

The lady settled beside her, placed her hands next to Fiona’s on the railing, and peered down to the clansmen below. “I like this room as well. Sometimes one just needs a moment apart.”

Fiona smiled, sensing a kindred spirit. “Yes.” She held out her hand. “I’m Fiona.”

“I know. I’m Margery.” She shook her hand.

Fiona stiffened. Wow, no wonder Duncan had fallen hard for this woman. She was stunning. Now Margery’s visit didn’t seem so innocent. This was Iain’s sister? Fiona studied her face, and she could make out the resemblance now in the shape of her eyes and the slope of her nose.

“You and Duncan are handfasted, I hear. Congratulations. I wish you both much happiness.”

Fiona had been poised to dislike her on the spot, but the sincerity in her words and tone disarmed her. Questions crowded her mind, but for once she couldn’t settle on which to ask first. Instead, she said, “Thank you.”

The insecurity she’d battled all day swelled with new ammo. This woman would have known how to be a warrior’s wife. She’d have had much to offer Duncan. And she was gorgeous. And friendly. Fiona bit back a groan and looked down into the great hall.

Skirts rustled beside her. “I heard it was under duress due to your reputation being compromised. Are…” A delicate throat clearing and another rustle of fabric. “Are ye all right with all that transpired?”

More than all right, if she could be assured of how she’d fit in. If she knew how the legend would play out. “Yes,” she said instead, forcing all the confidence she could muster into the word and into her smile.

Margery’s eyes twinkled. “That’s wonderful.” Silence stretched for a beat. Then she said, “I must ask ye, how fares my brother? I understand you’re his sister by marriage? As a woman, you’ll be understanding my wish for news and willingly be sharing with me, aye? I crave to be hearing all.”

Well, she couldn’t tell her all, but Fiona did her best to answer her questions about Iain, about what happened to her uncle, and about Traci.

When she finished, Margery thanked her and gathered her skirts, seemingly preparing to leave, but her gaze caught on a spot below. “Fate is interesting, aye?”

Fiona startled at the change in topic and tone, which had held a note of wonder. “What do you mean?”

Margery shifted on the bench, fully facing her now. “You and Duncan appear well matched and happy, and though ye came to possibly marry Malcolm, the circumstances of your journey aided your heart and placed ye on a different path.” She leaned her shoulder toward the railing, her gaze settling on one spot. “It did much the same for me,” she whispered, her words tinged with disbelief, as if she’d been surprised.

Puzzled, Fiona followed her line of sight and found Torquil striding confidently across the floor. “You’re in love with him,” she whispered too, though she wasn’t sure why.

“Aye. I am.” She touched her long, delicate fingers to her lips, her voice having taken on a wistful quality. “And the last person to believe such was possible. The last to believe in fate.”

Fiona made an encouraging, please-continue sound. Below, the bard’s song shifted in tone, but the subject matter did not. Now she focused on the particular courage of Iain Breac, their current chief.

Margery returned her gaze to Fiona. “Ours was an arranged marriage, and not one I desired. Ye see, I believed myself madly in love with another.”

Duncan.

Jealousy pierced her, but she fought it down.

Margery continued, “I’d closed my heart to Torquil. The saints only know why he put up with me. But he was patient and showed himself to be a kind man.” A girlish giggle erupted, quickly smothered. “And charming.”

Fiona turned away and watched Torquil’s progress across the length of the room. He must have felt the combined force of their stares, for he glanced upward, finding Margery in an instant. His eyes flared with heat, and a private, knowing smile curled his lips.

Goodness, the attraction zinging between them was palpable.

“I fell in love with that man. I’m ashamed to admit, it didn’t take me long either. Now I would do anything for him.”

With that, she rose up, murmured a goodbye, and hurried off to what was an obvious assignation with her husband.

Fiona stared at the doorway, long after the fluttering skirts had disappeared. Wow. So at least she no longer had to worry about Margery as an active rival. Whether Duncan still harbored feelings for her was unknown.

Other than being so sweet to arrange a fresh bath this morning, Fiona had barely seen him today. Just glimpses here and there amongst the men clustering around the chief.

She hated that she questioned where they stood. Sure, they’d slept together, and he’d announced they were handfasted, but had he done so only to save her reputation? Was he regretting it now, and that was why he hadn’t been near? She could easily see how it played out—he walked into Margery’s sitting room, witnessed in the flesh her beauty again, experienced her wit and charm and usefulness, and he’d been forcefully reminded of his love for her. He’d then paused and compared all of that to Fiona.

Her throat tightened, and she pulled in a shaky breath. Even more importantly, had she made a mistake, knowing what would be happening in the future between Duncan and her ancestor, William Campbell?

“There ye are.” Duncan’s voice washed over her from the doorway as if conjured by her thoughts.

He settled beside her on the small bench, and awareness of him pushed against her skin as if he extended past the confines of his body and made her want. Her funky mood lifted.

Yeah, she wanted to ask about the baby. And about his feelings for Margery. But she resisted. What was past was past, and she needed to be patient. She had to trust that as they grew closer, he’d tell her.

He shifted on the bench, stretched his legs out, and placed his hands on his thighs, regarding her. “Are ye all right?”

She nodded. “I wanted some space. I miss my sister.” Up until this Scotland trip, they hadn’t been close as adults, but lately her Scottish adventures had been with Traci, so her absence now while she continued her adventures felt…strange.

He stiffened. “Am I intruding then?”

She truly looked at him, searched his eyes and the way he held his body. He was unsure of their situation too, and she wasn’t making it easier. “No. You’re most welcome. I missed you too, if you must know.” She smiled at him.

Amazingly, reddish spots of color bloomed on the cheeks of the gigantic Highlander dwarfing her in this small space. Ooh, freshly shaved cheeks. During the journey, he’d not shaved.

His eyes darkened. “I’d not meant to be so long away from ye. Clan affairs took longer than I anticipated.”

She clasped her hands in her lap. “I understand.”

He blew out a breath and looked out over the balcony railing. “I’m not sure ye do. I was eager to be getting it out of the way so I could be returning to your side.”

Now it was her turn for her body to flush with heat. “Oh yeah?”

“Aye.” He glanced at his hands, flexed them, then slowly reached and clasped her hand resting against her thigh. The rough feel of his calloused hand on her skin, and the tentative vulnerability in the movement, about made her slide off the bench and melt in a puddle on the stone floor.

He really was just a big, quiet, tender man.

“Are ye ready to retire, or do ye wish to contemplate longer in this chamber?”

“No. I’m all done with contemplating, I think,” she said teasingly, while her heart began a furious beat. Ready to retire had to mean what she thought it meant. If so, he wasn’t regretting their commitment too much. And she’d not mind—at all—continuing with the sexy while she got her head straight. Her insecurities were her problem, not his.

Except…their “room” was just a corner of the great hall. Curtained off, yeah, but…

“I have a surprise for ye.”

“What’s that?” she asked, her voice breathless.

He held her gaze, heat licking in his eyes. “Privacy.”

Her heartbeat doubled in time.

He rose, still clasping her hand, and led her to the spiral staircase. He released her hand and stepped to the side, waving his hand upward instead of down to the great hall.

She looked up the tight spiral of stone. “Where does this lead?”

“To the piper’s gallery outside and to my surprise.”

She climbed the uneven stones, acutely aware of his presence behind. She placed her hand against the curving wall, the cool stone rasping against her skin as she ascended. His palm appeared next to hers, following her path. When she reached a landing barely lit from a flickering torch, he stepped behind her and grasped her waist. His heat radiated against her back.

“Left,” he whispered, his warm breath puffing against the delicate shell of her ear, his voice lower than normal and holding a note of sensual promise.

So she’d guessed correctly. She shivered, and her legs got a little wobbly as they crossed the hall, his hands still a sensual weight of anticipation on her hips.

“Now right.”

She obeyed, turning the corner into the daylight and a crenelated walkway overlooking the back of the castle. A light drizzle coated the creamy-gray stones.

“Isn’t that—?” She pointed to the end of the walkway.

“Aye, the Fairy Tower.” His voice rumbled behind her. “The chief gave us the use of his bedroom for one night, as a gift for our handfasting. Probably has some nuanced political meaning for such generosity to the likes of me, but I’m past caring.”

She laughed, but again she noted a touch of insecurity there.

And saw a new way forward.

Her new mission—wash away that unsureness. Some things were in her control, like her behavior with him. If it made their relationship work, that could only be a good thing.

Yep, she was all in now. The new resolution shook her but also settled deep into her bones with the feeling of rightness.

Margery’s words came back to her. Like Margery with Torquil, Duncan might not love her. But Torquil had prevailed in the end. She’d have to believe she could too. And that in doing so, they’d survive the events of the legend.

They stepped into a small chamber, its walls covered in colored silks. A large four-poster dominated the room and served as the only furniture other than several iron-banded chests and a dresser.

Duncan cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly, his gaze on her as she took in the room, because of course he didn’t know about her new resolve. He stepped over to the fireplace, tossed in blocks of peat and kindling, and went about making a roaring fire. Even though it was summer, the inside of the castle, with all its stone, remained cool.

She closed the distance just as he straightened to his full, impressive height. His eyes widened to find her so close, but he didn’t step back.

“Nighean…” And then he stopped. His Adam’s apple bobbed on a swallow. She could almost see the words that he couldn’t say crowding behind his gaze.

Oddly, instead of making her more insecure, it made her less. She wanted to advance their relationship to a point where he felt free enough to say those words.

When that happened, she’d know they’d made it.

She stepped forward, pressed her body against his much larger one, and wrapped her arms around his waist. God, to feel him so close to her, his hard muscle against her curves, his heart, his scent, bleeding into her, it felt delicious. Goosebumps broke out across her skin.

“Make love to me, Duncan.”

Duncan’s blood flared hot at Fiona’s bold but sweet words. Words which floated evocatively between them, making the air weighty with anticipation. He wanted nothing more than to fulfill her request—after all, he’d sought her for this very purpose.

She hugged him closer, and her generous curves, pressed against him, shot a bolt of lust straight to his loins. He hardened.

She noticed.

She looked at him from under her lashes, bit her lip, and nestled against him, which…made it hard to think. Why must he think?

Och, aye—one thought had been plaguing him ever since he’d left Margery’s presence. Desperately, he grabbed on to the thread before it completely flitted away due to the power of his lust. Lust for his handfasted wife.

Margery had thrown his emotions into a turmoil. Already he’d taken too many steps with Fiona onto a weak foundation to keep barreling forward. Margery had reminded him how shaky that foundation could be.

But Fiona…Fiona plagued him all day. Her laugh—he’d hear it and look around only to realize ’twas his imagination. Her laugh, her voice haunted him, and they’d only been separated for part of a goddamn day.

While imparting his news to the MacLeod, he’d taken a sip of wine. Its sweetening herbs filled his lungs, the scent reminiscent of Fiona. His loins stirred. Not the proper reaction for discussing affairs with the men of the MacLeod clan.

Her laugh, her voice, her scent…

He should exercise caution—be grateful for the reminder unwittingly provided by Margery.

But. Her laugh, her voice, her scent…

When he’d finally reached her side, witnessing her sweet confusion—so different from Margery—aroused him further. With Fiona, there was no artifice. Hope flared in his heart—perhaps, with her, he could risk more steps onto that foundation.

Fiona grabbed his arse, pulling him tighter against her. The last of his discipline fled as urgency pounded through his blood.

He cupped her face and crushed his mouth to hers. And groaned. At the explosion of taste. At the feel of her luscious lips. At the immediacy of her response, for her tongue stroked his. He nudged her backward toward their four-poster bed, aiming for the left of the steps leading to the mattress.

God, like none other she fired his blood. Her herbal scent swirled around him—the same he’d detected in his mulled wine. Heat blazed along his spine, tightening his cods.

Her arse hit the mattress, jarring them into each other and notching him tighter against her soft, dizzying curves. With his hips, he pinned her against its side. She fit along his body perfectly.

He eased his mouth from hers, and her lips followed until she opened her eyes, their depths clouded with confusion.

He hovered over that plump mouth, her breath brushing his lips. Only a scant inch would close the distance. Only a scant inch, and he’d feel, taste her. He listed forward and…

Nay. He clenched his jaw.

Now that he had her pinned against the ideal bed for what he had in mind, he wanted to do this properly.

Which meant seeing her properly.

He put a finger on her now-pouting lips. “A wee moment,” he breathed.