Anam Cara
Broderick had never been a lustful man. True, there’d been lasses he’d fancied when he was a youth, but the all-consuming need that flooded his veins and made his tarse salute when he looked at his bride—this was new.
He’d eaten too much of the wedding banquet fare, intoxicated with the heady experience of feeding Kyla from their shared trencher. He’d readily succumbed to the temptation to lick the succulent chicken juices from her full lips without feeling the least twinge of embarrassment. In fact, the prolonged kiss had been greeted with loud cheering and fist-banging on tables. Kyla had helped him realize that enjoying guilty pleasures gave spice to life.
He’d been careful not to imbibe too many tumblers of the fine wine Cook had conjured from who-knew-where. He wondered if his father had secreted away a store of costly wines that only Cook was privy to. However, there’d be time enough to investigate that. Now, the priority was to watch his wife and dream of the night to come.
She was moving gracefully from table to table in the hall, conversing with his clan-folk, sometimes looking serious and thoughtful as she listened intently, sometimes laughing with them. It was gratifying that she already seemed to feel at home, though he’d like to wipe the ogling leers off some faces.
Kyla was his and no one best forget it.
Jealously was another new emotion, but he was learning to cope with its raw power. Strangely, it made him feel more alive and was preferable to the doldrums he’d fallen into after his father’s insane behavior.
“Will ye sing on this important occasion?” Lily asked unexpectedly.
“Certainly,” he replied, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it. He knew exactly what song he would choose for his new bride.
A hush fell when he got to his feet and held out his hand to his wife. She lifted her chin and sent him a radiant smile that made him giddy. Perhaps he had imbibed too much. But it wasn’t every day a mon got married.
Swallowing hard, he took hold of her hand when she reached the dais, and began.
Cailin mo rùin-sa is leannan mo ghràidh,
Ainnir mo chridh-sa ’s i cuspair mo dhàin.
Tha m’inntinn làn sòlais bhi tilleadh gun dàil,
Gu cailin mo rùin-sa is leannan mo gràidh.
Oh dearest my own one, oh won’t you be mine,
So full of devotion, so modest and kind?
My heart’s full of longing and yearning for you;
Come close to me, darling—you know I’ll be true.
Without you I’m lonely; none other will do;
Those green eyes enthralled me—it had to be you.
Do you remember that moment of bliss,
So fondly embracing, the thrilling first kiss?
Since then you are mine, dear, the choice of my heart;
My promise I’ll give you, that we’ll never part.
He looked deep into those green eyes welling with tears, inhaled deeply and repeated the refrain.
My promise I’ll give you, that we’ll never part.
*
As the last sweet sounds of Broderick’s love song drifted to the rafters, all Kyla could hear was the beating of her own heart. The heat in his eyes and the sincerity in his deep voice flooded her body with lustful longings, a yearning to belong to him completely that made her go weak in the knees.
Private confidences Isabel had shared about sexual congress between men and women suddenly made sense. She already had Broderick’s love. Now, she thirsted to become one with him in the mystical way her stepmother had tried to explain.
“Mo anam cara,” she whispered.
He nodded his understanding. “Mate of my soul,” he rasped.
She expected to be swept off her feet and carried away to his chamber, but the sudden drone of the pipes and the hustle and bustle of folks clearing away tables and benches penetrated the fog of desire.
Broderick rolled his eyes. “I suppose we’ll have to stay for the dancing,” he said with a sigh, though she detected a hint of anticipation.
A handful of musicians gathered round the piper as people took to the floor, cheering loudly when the newlyweds joined them.
It wasn’t the first time Kyla had danced reels and jigs—and yet it was. The beat of the drum, the joyful skirl of the pipes, the happy voice of the fiddle, Broderick’s laughter as he twirled and whirled her in one dance after another—all conspired to render her breathless and heat her body to a fever pitch. Her new husband was light on his feet!
He shook his head whenever another man attempted to partner with her, until her father approached. Then he smiled, bowed politely and withdrew. Someone thrust a fiddle in his hands as he walked back to the dais, and shouts of Play for us, my laird, filled the air.
With a shrug, he tucked the instrument under his chin, tapped his foot to the beat of the drum, and drew the bow across the strings.
In the blink of an eye, dancers flocked to join in. Hands clapped, feet tapped, men whooped, bairns laughed, skirts swished.
Kyla partnered with her father, but her attention was on the man who was one with the fiddle. The music was dark, then bright, harsh, then mellow, sweet, then sorrowful, slow, then heart-stoppingly fast.
“Ye’re right,” her father said, jolting her from her fascination.
“About what?” she panted.
“I’ve ne’er heard anyone make a fiddle sing like that.”