Chapter 19

  Bloody hell, the woman’s kiss melted him like sun melted honey. Her lips, delicate and soft and velvety, stroked and caressed. Her mouth opened, inviting him in. As his tongue dipped in and made the first stroke against hers, small bursts of pleasure exploded through his body.

  Hunger for her took over. As he wrapped his arms around her waist, a low growl escaped the back of his throat. She was so fragile and feminine in his arms, he had to stop himself from crushing her.

  Her taste—sweet and flowery and delicious—and her own smell of a woman—musky and beautiful—brought his blood to a boil. Desire coursed through him in a quick, all-consuming rush, like a fever. He deepened the kiss, licking, stroking, longing to join with her, possess her, have her all to himself.

  The woman who was bound to disappear.

  The woman with an untreatable disease that waited to kill her without magical medicine from the future.

  The woman whose blood might be on his hands if he didn’t help her.

  He almost pulled away, but she didn’t let him.

  To his surprise, she ran her hand down his chest to the girdle belt at his waist. As she started undoing it, his skin burned, her touch scalding him like she was the sun itself.

  His girdle landed on the floor with a soft thud, and she slid a hand under his tunic. When her fingers smoothed up his torso, caressing his old, aching wounds, it felt like he was coming back to life. Like a frozen cave that had finally received the light of spring after centuries of winter.

  And he wanted more.

  With a groan, he picked her up, letting her wrap her legs around his waist, and carried her to the bed. They both landed there awkwardly, painfully, but he didn’t care. He was hard and aching for her, all soft and sweet, spread under his weight with her legs wrapped around him, right where he wanted her.

  He withdrew and looked at her face. She was so incredibly beautiful, her lips full and dark and swollen from his kiss, her eyes luminous, lids half closed, a slight blush on her cheeks.

  This was just the beginning. She’d look even prettier with his name on her lips as he drove her higher, showing her all the sweetest pleasures her body could have.

  He lowered his head to her neck, inhaling the scent that made his head spin. “I kent ye’d come to me, asking to be in my bed.”

  As he planted soft kisses down her throat, moving to her collarbone, she pressed her head back into the mattress, exposing her neck to him. The vein there beat violently against his lips.

  With a throaty moan that made him even harder, she dragged her fingernails down his back, grinding the apex of her thighs against his erection.

  He let out a groan that sounded pained, agonized, and she continued to tease him.

  “I didn’t,” she managed. “I didn’t ask you anything.”

  He chuckled as he bent his head to her chest, and found one of her nipples, biting her slightly through the fabric of the dress. To his satisfaction, she gasped and arched her back.

  He cupped her breast with one hand and pressed his fingers slightly, making the nipple stand out. “Oh, but ye will, in just a moment, lass. Ye wilna just ask. Ye’ll beg.”

  He took half her breast into his mouth, wetting, sucking, massaging her sensitive flesh, enjoying the small pleasure-tortured whimpers that came from her mouth. He wanted to see her naked, that sweet, soft flesh of hers exposed and ready for him, that silky skin so smooth under his fingers. She dug her nails into the muscles of his back.

  “That’s right, lass,” he whispered. “Show me how much ye want me.”

  “Ahh…” was all she managed as he grasped her other breast and repeated the same treatment with her second nipple while circling the first one with his thumb. “Oh, good God!”

  He loved hearing her calling for God and making all those sounds of sweet distress. He’d had enough women in his life to know how to please one, but most of his connections hadn’t meant anything beyond mutual physical pleasure. With anyone but Mòrag.

  And now, here, with Bryanna, this was nothing like what he’d experienced with anyone at all.

  He wanted to please her, wanted her to squirm and call for more. As he moved down her body, while reaching to the edge of her dress, he noticed she was shaking ever so slightly, and when he ran his hands up her long, smooth legs, exposing her to him, she grasped his head, sitting up.

  “Raghnall…” she said, a slight warning in her voice.

  “Ye’re so beautiful, lass,” he said as he dragged his lips up her inner thigh, already inhaling the mouthwatering, intoxicating scent of her aroused sex.

  “Raghnall!” she repeated, louder now.

  “Are ye begging, lass?” he murmured as he spread her folds, covered with soft, dark-blond curls.

  But before she could reply, he sealed his mouth with her sex, and there it was, the moan he’d been anticipating all this time, a deep, throaty call for more.

  “Are ye begging?” he murmured as he leaned back for a short moment.

  “More!” She gave up. “More!”

  “Hmmmm,” he hummed right against her softest spot, knowing it would add to her pleasure, and a shudder went through her.

  He kept caressing her, kissing her where he knew she’d love it the most, and his own body was ringing with a hot desire for her, like a church bell calling a warning. Urgent. Loud. Impossible to ignore.

  “Tell me what ye want, lass,” he murmured.

  “You…” A moan came. “Inside…”

  He chuckled against her folds and gave a lick. “Say please, lass.”

  Her only reply was a moan as he added more pressure.

  “Say please.”

  “Ahhh…”

  An urgent pounding sounded against the door. Damn it! She was so close, he could feel her flesh tight and hot and ready.

  “Go away!” he yelled.

  But the pounding resumed. “’Tis Iòna, Lord! I am back.”

  Somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, he remembered that he had sent Iòna for Seoc. He straightened his back, trying to focus and ignore the hot need of arousal in his body.

  Iòna’s voice came again. “I have the lad, Lord. He’s here.”

  Chapter 20

  Illuminated by the flames from the fireplace in the great hall, Seoc devoured chunk after chunk of bread, almost without swallowing, eyebrows drawn together in a perfect, somber line. He’d grown up so much in the past four years that Raghnall might not have recognized him if he’d met the lad somewhere on the street. He wasn’t tall, though, and looked malnourished—the bones of his skull protruded through the thin muscles of his face, and dark circles shadowed his golden-amber eyes.

  There was so much of his mother in the lad. Mòrag had been a fierce woman, a woman who had been protecting herself and her son for years before Raghnall had appeared. And this lad, no doubt, had her determination and her bravery.

  Raghnall swallowed what felt like a rock with sharp edges as he chased away the dark melancholy that bit him in the middle of his chest. “Ye grew up,” he said into his cup of uisge and threw the fiery liquid into his throat.

  The lad didn’t even look at him, the loud chewing, almost slurping sounds the only response.

  “He…” Iòna cleared his throat. “He didna want to come.”

  Aye, why would he? The lad knew even better than Raghnall who was responsible for his mother’s death. But the lad didn’t know what was best for him. Raghnall was the only one left to take care of him. Had he not been too late and had married Mòrag, he’d have been the lad’s stepfather by now, responsible for his life and well-being.

  “Ye take me away from my aunt and uncle,” Seoc grumbled and spat out a small bone onto the floor. “Ye send a man I’ve never seen in my life…”

  “I sent ye yer mother’s engagement ring,” Raghnall said, staring at the piece of bone on the floor like it was the piece of his own heart.

  “Aye, but the day she died taught me nae to trust anyone,” said Seoc and locked his eyes with Raghnall for the first time.

  A chill ran down Raghnall’s spine as he realized how much older the lad seemed for his ten years of age. He didn’t have the eyes of a child whose only concerns were to run around and play with sticks and stones.

  This boy had to grow up earlier than he should have—all because of Raghnall.

  “Aye, rightly so,” said Raghnall, his voice cracking. “But now ye’re with yer clan.” He paused, letting the contractions in his throat pass, then added at the edge of his breath, “With me.”

  God, Angus was right—the responsibility, the weight of taking care of someone besides himself was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. He felt his fingers tighten around the smooth surface of the bone cup. “And I will take care of ye.”

  For better or for worse, he now had a wife with death sitting on her shoulder and a young lad who looked more like a barely domesticated wolf cub than a human.

  And, somehow, the cub wasn’t impressed at the opportunity to be Raghnall’s responsibility at all… Mary and Joseph, help him.

  “Well, hey there!” Bryanna’s voice even sounded like sunlight, illuminating the great hall with the energy and warmth of summer. “You look hungry.” She entered, almost flying like a faerie, looking weightless.

  She sat at the bench between Raghnall and the lad, who watched her with wide, careful eyes. Raghnall noticed that the lad trusted her more than him, even though he was seeing her for the first time.

  Earlier, when they had been so abruptly interrupted by Iòna, Raghnall had barked out that his son had arrived and left, ignoring her open-mouthed surprise. Shocked to hear Seoc and Iòna had returned so soon and worried about the lad, he had never even given her a kiss or said how much he regretted the interruption, how he didn’t want to leave her and would rather stay and finish what they had started.

  Worried everything he’d sacrificed would be ruined, he’d left his wife, warm and beautiful and trembling.

  And now she’d returned, not even giving him a second glance.

  “Ah, you must be tired from your journey,” she said. “Are you glad to see your father?”

  Seoc just kept chewing and shrugged one shoulder. “Havena seen him for years. So…nae.”

  She raised her eyebrows and threw a quick, worried glance at Raghnall, then picked up an empty bone cup and poured more of the uisge standing on the long table. Without acknowledging anyone, she threw back the contents of the cup. “Well, your father is a mystery, isn’t he?” she mumbled without looking at Raghnall, but he had the distinct feeling the words were like a dagger intended for his chest. “He might abandon people from time to time when they least expect it.”

  It was like he felt the smoke and the ash on his face again.

  He abandoned people…people abandoned him…his father, chasing him away, screaming at him that he was a slug not worthy of his boot, that he was an insult to kitchen waste, and that he’d be better off dead.

  That was what Raghnall had been doing until he’d met Bruce and his army…trying to die.

  When he’d met Mòrag he’d been a mercenary for hire. And then, just when he’d decided to be a better man and marry her…just when he’d lost her…he’d heard the Highlanders were uniting under the rule of the true Scottish king. And something within him knew that if he wanted any salvation, any chance in life, that was it.

  He had to fight for the right thing. For freedom. For Seoc’s future and the future of the country he loved so dearly.

  His whole life had been for this moment, so that this little human, who wasn’t even his son by blood, could sit by the fire, eat bread and meat, and be safe.

  Seoc raised his head, his eyes narrowing at Bryanna. “Who are ye?”

  “I’m…” She pursed her lips. “I’m Raghnall’s wife, I suppose.”

  Seoc’s curiosity was replaced with a hard stare. “Ye suppose?”

  She chuckled and covered Raghnall’s hand lying on the table with hers. The gesture, Raghnall knew, was just to convince Seoc of the truthfulness of what she said, but despite himself, it meant more for him than she’d ever know… It spread warmth and tingles and made him feel lighter, like the sunlight within her spread to his every cell.

  “I am his wife,” she said, the tremble in her voice short. “It’s new, so I’m not yet used to it… And I didn’t know he had you.”

  Seoc shrugged. Good Lord, how did the lad manage to look like he was a sixty-five-year-old man in the skin of a ten-year-old?

  “He didna have me. My mother did.”

  Bryanna’s throat moved as she swallowed, and she looked at him. “Right. Your mother. Who was she, anyway?”

  “Her name was Mòrag,” said Seoc proudly before Raghnall could add anything. “I was a wee lad when she died. I’m nae a wee lad nae more, mistress.”

  “Who’s the lad?” boomed a voice somewhere by the entrance. Angus.

  Raghnall’s shoulders tightened as he realized he should have told his family about Seoc. He should have opened up about such an important part of his life…

  But Seoc wasn’t his son, not even his stepson.

  So how could he have trusted Angus to recognize the lad Raghnall was determined to make his heir?

  He had to lie.

  Raghnall stood up, and so did Iòna—ever loyal, ever kind Iòna—but Raghnall stopped him with a gesture of his hand.

  “’Tis my son and my heir,” said Raghnall. “He came to live with me and is part of the clan now.”

  Angus’s dark eyes lay on Seoc who had a tiny expression of surprise and, just as Raghnall had feared, distrust.

  Angus narrowed his eyes on Raghnall. “Whether he will be part of the clan or nae remains to be seen. Why havena ye ever said a word about yer son? All these years we fought for the Bruce together…and ye returned to Eilean Donan months ago.”

  Why hadn’t he said anything? Because even the thought of talking about Mòrag and his own cowardice that led to her death made him want to take a dagger and cut his own chest open. That would be less painful.

  Raghnall felt his fist clench till his short fingernails bit into the skin of his palm. “If ye wouldna even accept me, how could ye accept my son?”

  Angus walked farther into the hall, closer to Seoc. A few moments later, two more figures appeared in the doorway—Catrìona, rubbing her eyes, her long hair in braids, and James by her side, looking like he was ready to launch at any potential threat to her.

  “What is going on?” Catrìona said in a thick, croaky voice.

  Angus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I just learned that Raghnall has a son.” He looked at Raghnall. “We accepted ye, brother.”

  Catrìona stared at Seoc with wide eyes. “Raghnall, ye have a son?” Then she looked at Bryanna. “Did ye ken?”

  Bryanna shook her head. Raghnall felt his blood churn. “Ye accepted me? Ye didna want to give me my lands. Ye didna trust me.”

  Angus made a sweeping gesture with his hand in the direction of Seoc. “Can ye blame me? How could ye hide yer lad? Do ye think that wouldna have changed my decision about yer lands? The lad needs a home and a future.”

  A sharp pain of regret slashed across Raghnall’s chest. “Ye would have given me the lands without making me marry anyone?”

  Angus shrugged. “Mayhap. Where is the lad’s mother, anyway? Is yer marriage to Lady Bryanna even legitimate?”

  And this was the moment of truth, the moment that Raghnall was dreading. Even mentioning her name was like casting a spell of desperation and pain.

  He felt the heavy gazes of his family, of Iòna and of his wife. Even Seoc was glaring at him.

  Tell them what happened. Tell them the truth. Tell them the woman ye loved is dead because of ye.

  Moments dragged by, and the crackling of wood consumed by fire was the only sound in the hall. Raghnall was opening and closing his mouth, fighting to get the words out of his throat, but it was as though a rock was blocking everything.

  Finally, help came from where he didn’t expect it.

  His wife laid her hand on Seoc’s shoulder. “Our marriage is legitimate, Angus. Unfortunately, Seoc’s mother died.”

  This woman was loyal and brave.

  He didn’t deserve her, and the right thing to do was to tell her the whole truth.

  Even if he had to open the door to a creepy, freezing dungeon full of demons that might kill him.

  Chapter 21

  The lad was put in Raghnall and Bryanna’s bedchamber, which would stop his plans to continue what they had started earlier. Standing in the open door, Raghnall watched Seoc huddle into his bedroll next to the fireplace. Behind Raghnall, Bryanna stood in the dark landing of the stairs, and he felt her eyes on him.

  When he turned around to meet her gaze, there wasn’t judgment or anger or disgust. There was something he didn’t feel he deserved.

  Sympathy.

  Something a real wife would offer to her husband.

  And just like in a real family, the lad slept in the same bedchamber with his parents. This would have been his life with Mòrag.

  “Come,” Bryanna whispered, her voice insistent. “Let’s talk.”

  He owed her that. And if he was going to open up to anyone, it would be to her.

  They went downstairs, but when Bryanna turned to enter the great hall, he caught her hand. The touch of her skin, like always, created that burst of sweet energy that invigorated him and gave him strength.

  “Nae there,” he said. “I dinna want anyone to interrupt us. If ye want me to talk, I have much to tell ye.”

  Without breaking contact, he led her down the stairs, feeling like she’d just given him a second wind. Her hand was smooth and silky in his rough, calloused fingers, and he remembered how smooth and soft her thighs were, and how delicious she tasted against his tongue.

  They exited the tower and went across the inner bailey.

  Raghnall led her up the narrow stairs running along the curtain wall, up into the crisp air of the Highland night. As they walked towards one of the towers at the far end of the wall, Raghnall wondered how he would ever begin telling her his story.

 

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