Highland Jewel (Highland Brides) (30 page)

"How do you know?"

Her voice was breathy, her eyes wide, and when his lips touched hers, he thought surely they would both burst into flame.

"Because it is meant to be, lass. Tis all meant to be," he murmured, and ever so gently touched her throat with his fingertips.

Her eyes fell closed and she trembled.

"Do I frighten ye, lassie?" he whispered, and she shook her head.

"You do not." She opened her eyes to look deep into his. "But the wait worries me a great deal."

"The wait?" he asked, skimming his fingers down the graceful curve of her throat.

"Waiting." She shivered. “For ecstasy."

"Ah," he breathed, and leaning across her, he smiled into her eyes. "Then ye shall wait na longer, lass, for I am yers."

"All of you?" she murmured huskily.

"Every thought." Taking her hand gently in his, Leith pulled it to his brow, where the dark hair was swept back. "Every beat of me heart." He drew her hand lower, letting it slide sensuously down his throat to rest under his voluminous saffron shirt. "Every touch." His kiss was butterfly-soft against her ear. "Every inch," he rasped, and bore her fingers gently down to where his manhood surged hard and eager against his flat abdomen.

She felt it through the soft wool of his plaid and her body grew hot and impatient. "You're an evil influence, my laird," she breathed, but her husky tone made the accusation a lie.

"Aye, that I am."

"And ... hard."

"Aye," he agreed, letting his fingers find the edge of her nightrail and the soft, firm flesh of her thigh.

"And very ... very large." Her hand enclosed his stiff rod.

He chuckled against her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "Aye, lass. That I am."

"And horribly conceited."

"Tis true." He sighed, and leaning forward, kissed the delicate hollow of her throat. His kisses trailed sideways, widening the laced gap at the top of her gown, so that her shoulder was soon bared for his caresses.

"You know I am not a patient person," Rose whispered.

The gap widened further still, so that soon, with the help of one hand, he was able to press the entire garment downward.

He pulled back slightly, eyeing her lovely breasts with undisguised hunger. "A wise woman once told me that patience is sadly overrated."

"How very true." She nodded, holding her breath.
"I'm giving you to the count of five to remove your clothes," she whispered.

"And then?"

"I will not be responsible for my actions."

"Holy Jesu!"

"Save your prayers," she advised. "One. Two."

His clothes were gone before the count of four. In a moment she was pressed against his body, hard and strong above her.

His kisses were like midnight magic. His touch was like heaven. And when he entered her, she felt as if she would die from pleasure.

"Ye will be glad of yer decision to stay, lass," he murmured, establishing a slow, erotic rhythm against her.

"I already am."

"And it shall get better still."

"It can't."

"Ah, lass," he whispered raggedly, "never question the skill and endurance of a Scotsman."

"Why?" she rasped, closing her eyes to the crescendo of sensation.

"Because then I will be compelled to prove me mettle."

"God forbid," she groaned.

"Dunna groan," he pleaded.

"I..." She was breathing hard and fast, matching him stroke for stroke. "... can't help it," she moaned, tilting her head back slightly.

"Dunna do that either," he begged, trying to wait, to prolong the ecstasy.

"Leith!" she cried raggedly. "I need you... now!"

With a shudder he brought them both to the summit of pleasure, then tumbled with her over the far side.

Finally she curled against him, warm and soft and sleepy.

Leith sighed, kissing her forehead.

"Next time," he promised wearily. "Next time I will prove me mettle."

Chapter 22

The days hurried by for Rose, filled with the gathering of herbs and the bandaging of wounds.

On the second day Dora licked Rose's hand. On the third she raised her head to drink a bit of beef broth. Roman stayed by his dog's side like a tick; only his eyes followed Rose as she moved about the hall. It was filled with soldiers who jostled each other along the wooden benches and waited for the evening meal.

Servers hurried down the rows, filling bowls with hearty stew and sliding trenchers of brown bread onto tables.

There was the usual boisterous atmosphere with voices raised and laughter booming. But all was different for Rose now, for though she was not fully accepted, she was certainly becoming so, and she smiled, feeling whole and alive for the first time in a long while.

Sensing Roman's gaze on her, she turned to smile at him. His charm had not been diminished by a bath and a clean set of clothes.

"She is doing well?" Rose called across the din.

"Aye, me lady," answered Roman in Gaelic, for it had become his self-appointed task to teach her the language of the Highlands. A wayward thatch of carrot-bright hair fell over his eyes. He pushed it aside with a quick hand. "She is doing fine."

Behind Rose the door swung open and she turned, seeing a gray-haired man enter. He did not wear the plaid of the Forbes and she puzzled over his identity. But only for a moment.

"Ho, Bernard," shouted a soldier, and the call was taken up around the hall.

"Bernard, auld man, sing us a song," someone called.

"Aye." The bard grinned, his face lighting with a smile. "If it pleases yer laird."

"Aye," said Leith, already seated in his massive chair at the end of a trestle table. "But ye are welcome to eat first."

"Nay," countered the storyteller, and for a moment Rose wondered if she saw a spark of mischief in his eyes, "I would sing first, me laird, so that ye might decide if me tune is worthy of yer meal."

Leith's brows rose slightly, but he lifted his big shoulders and inclined his head. "As ye wish."

The bard nodded and went to pull a seat before the harp. Tilting the big instrument into his lap, he set his fingers to the sinewy strings. Music drifted upward like clouds on a clear summer's day, conjuring images with its sparkling notes.

Voices fell silent and finally Bernard's song lifted from his lips, the sound fair and enchanting. Old battles were remembered, lost loves, childhood dreams, all drawn forth by the beauty of his words, the magic of his melodies. Finally he paused, pushing the harp away to speak.

"I would sing to ye a special song now—at the request of the son of the laird of the clan MacGowan."

Murmurs rose from the crowd.

"Seems he battled with a fierce foe," Bernard continued. "And just when he thought all was lost, a fairy appeared. A fairy so wondrously bonny he could but stare in awe." Bernard's sparkling eyes settled on Rose, who watched him in surprise and some embarrassment as she remembered the night of the young man's rescue. The old bard shifted his gaze and smiled. "I will sing ye this song that ye may decide if she be a fairy or a lass of flesh and blood. And mayhap," he added, "ye may yet believe ye yerselves have been blessed with a visit from that very same
bean-sith."

All eyes were trained on the mesmerizing old bard, for the meal was nearly finished and his words were indeed provocative.

His voice floated over the hall like liquid velvet, soft and lush, then rough and crisp. He sang of the miraculous appearance of a fairy queen who ascended from the bowels of night to save young Gregor from a watery death. Her hair, he said, was like living flame, her eyes like amethyst jewels, and at her lovely fingertips was the gift of life.

Large bodies shifted as man after man turned to grin at Rose, who squirmed nervously in her padded chair, avoiding their gazes. These Scots certainly knew how to embarrass a lass.

"But fairy or flesh,"
sang old Bernard in softly burred English,
"young Gregor MacGowan will come to the lass and marry her yet. He'll come to the lass and marry her yet."

Silence filled the room for a split second before the hall erupted in noise.

"Nay!" shouted Alpin, captain of the guard. "The young swain is too late, for the laird of the Forbes has already claimed the fairy's hand."

"Indeed," agreed Roderic, standing to raise his mug. "He has claimed her for the clan Forbes."

"For the Forbes!" yelled the Scotsmen.

"Hail Laird Leith!" chanted the assemblage, and then in a cheer that fairly shook the rafters, "Hail Lady Fiona!"

God's whiskers,
thought Rose as tears filled her eyes. Who would have thought she would become so mired in Leith's devilish ploy? And who would have guessed she would grow to love these people so well?

In her bedchamber that night, Rose allowed Hannah to wash her hair with fragrant soap. She had balked at the idea at first, for she had not yet grown accustomed to being waited on. But, sighing now, Rose found she did not regret her decision, for though her own nudity in front of another made her uncomfortable, the girl's gentle hands and thoughtful ministrations felt wonderful. Having applied a chamomile and herb mixture to her hair, Hannah gently tugged at Rose's snarls until they came free.

Finally the dark-cinnamon tresses were carefully rinsed with water still warm from the fire. Rose tilted her head back. Leith had said he would be late to bed, for he had a message to send to the MacGowans.

"One more bucket, me lady, and then Judith will bring yer warm milk," said Hannah and carefully splashed water across her mistress' head and ears.

So it was that Rose failed to hear the door open.

Leith stopped as his gaze became riveted on the woman in his bath. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back. With lush, taut breasts pressed toward the ceiling, Fiona Rose looked like the sea fairies Alpin had described to him as a wee lad.

That fanciful image had stayed with Leith through his adolescence, keeping him awake and fretful more nights than he cared to remember, until manhood came with the death of his father and he was forced to give up his vivid fantasies of luscious water nymphs and the earthy games one might play with them.

Now, however, there was one of the enchanted folk in his own chamber. In his own bath.

Hannah's eyes were wide with surprise, and though she did not stop the slow ebb of water over her mistress' face and hair, her cheeks were pink with embarrassment.

Leith managed some sympathy for her, for she was only a maid, but he'd be damned before he would leave the sea nymph's side.

The old bard's song had disturbed him no small whit, reminding him that the lass was not rightfully his and would flee at the year's end if a child was not conceived. Seeing her thus, however, drove away all thoughts but one. Desire. And so he trod carefully across the woolen rug toward the wooden vat.

Taking the bucket from the maid's hands, he continued the rinse while nodding for her to leave.

She did so in a silent rush, closing the door behind her.

He and the sea fairy were alone. With rapt appreciation Leith let his gaze slip across the delicate ridges of her nose and chin. Her neck was smooth, pale, and slightly arched, her shoulders neat hillocks of ivory. But it was her breasts that made his nostrils flare and his breath come hard.

Sweet Jesu, she had beautiful breasts. Firm, full mounds capped with rosebud tips that blushed with the promise of full bloom.

"All done, Hannah?" she asked, eyes still closed in anticipation of more water.

Leith's chest felt constricted. With some surprise he realized he was shirking his job, for the flow of water had stopped, though the bucket was not yet empty. Gently tipping the wooden pail again, he let the last of the rinse water fall over her hair before settling to his knees beside the tub.

Her lips parted slightly as she lifted a hand to smooth water from the crown of her head. "Done?" she asked again.

"Nay, lass. We have na yet begun."

Her eyes flew open. He was near enough for her to smell the warm, male scent of him.

"Where is Hannah?" she asked weakly, feeling her nipples tighten in the air that seemed suddenly charged with tension.

"She had other duties," Leith said. "And I thought meself capable of... this task."

Gently he lifted a ribbon of hair from her breast, not mentioning what other tasks he could think to do. Wet and smooth, the hair slipped with liquid softness over her skin, looking sable-dark and slick with water.

"In truth," he added, carefully placing the tress against the otter-sleek mass of her hair, '1 wouldna have another do... this task."

"My laird," she whispered, still caught in that same pose that had caused Leith's nether parts to spring to life beneath his plaid, "my bath is complete." Regardless of her decision to fully act the part of a handfasted maid, Rose felt painfully embarrassed about her own nudity and Leith's nearness. "You... you may have the tub."

"Is that an invitation, lass?" he murmured, his lips so close to her ear that his words seemed to reverberate down her spine, sending frenzied sparks of excitement through her.

"My laird," she whispered breathlessly, "you must think me a brazen hussy indeed. When in fact..." she began, but just then his lips found hers and played with sensual purpose across them.

"Sweet, gentle lass," he murmured, cupping her delicate neck. "How could ye know just when I would arrive?"

She tried to deny his suggestion, but he'd already tired of words and now slipped his tongue sensuously across her lips. It caused her to tremble to the core of her being, but he had only just begun. His fingertips slid from beneath her hair and blazed a trail across one shoulder and between her breasts.

"Fiona," he whispered. " Tis a just name. Fair one. Daughter of the king of the seals."

She tried to respond, but his hand had dipped beneath the water to lightly skim the dark triangle of hair between her thighs.

A gasp was all the response she could manage.

"Fiona," he said again, kissing the corner of her mouth. "Perched upon a rock in her watery world, awaiting some mere mortal man to corrupt."