Highlander's Sword (36 page)

   Aila smiled. It would all be well. Her smile broad ened, thinking on his desire to keep her mother content. It would ne'er work, but it would please her mother immensely to have someone try. "I've ne'er felt so happy."

   "Ah, but I hope I can amend that. I plan to make ye happier still," MacLaren said in a husky voice then cursed as he tried to remove his cuirass, which was strapped across his chest and tied in the back.

   "Do ye… Can I help?"

   MacLaren struggled a bit more before surrendering. "Aye, I've ne'er tried to undress wi'out the help o' my squire."

   "I would be most honored to assist." Aila curtseyed and set about to help him undress. Unfortunately, she proved to be a very poor squire and struggled with the lacing.

   "Hurry," MacLaren commanded. It did not sound as if his patience would hold much longer.

   "What kind o' knot 'tis this? My word, but I've made it worse."

   "Take my dirk to it."

   "Nay, wait, I've got it." The cuirass fell to the ground. MacLaren heaved the mail hauberk over his head, and it fell with a clank. With determination, Aila set to work on the cuisses tied to his thighs. She knelt before him, head bowed, intent on her work. MacLaren took several deep breaths. He groaned, put his hand on the top of her head, and cursed violently in French.

   Aila looked up at him reproachfully. "I do speak French, ye ken."

   "My apologies." MacLaren ran his hands through his hair and looked up at the sky, taking several more deep breaths. Aila bent back at her work.

   "Have ye got it yet?" His voice was harsh.

   Aila started at his tone. "No' yet. I am trying my best."

   "Have ye e'er seen a grown man cry?" MacLaren asked, his voice raw.

   Aila looked up at him, unsure.

   "Ye're about to if ye dinna unlace me quick."

   Aila tried to hide a smile. "Maybe we should return to Dundaff for yer squire."

   "I am in earnest. I will cry."

   "Yer squire is quite the demon wi' a knot," commented Aila.

   "Take a blade to it."

   "I might hurt ye."

   "No' any more than ye are right now. By the saints, lass, give me my knife." MacLaren grabbed a blade and proceeded to cut the laces of his Italian armor. Aila put up her hands to stifle a giggle. He was so dear, cursing himself blue, trying to contort around to release himself from his own gear. When he removed his arming doublet, she gasped. Bright red blood gleamed on a fresh white bandage.

   "What happened?" She had seen injured men before, but the sight of MacLaren's blood made her a bit sick.

   "Joust with the Duke of Argitaine. My tussle wi' the abbot must have ripped the stitches."

   "Och, ye poor dear. We should return to Dundaff and get it tended."

   Standing now in naught but linen drawers, MacLaren stopped his work and looked at her. "I swear to ye, if ye deny me now, my only recourse will be to throw myself on my own sword."

   Aila smiled slowly. "I'd hate to be the death o' ye."

   "No doubt ye will be, but no' today. Come here."

   She went willingly into his arms and sank into his embrace. He smelled distinctly male, a musky scent of sweat, whiskey, and blood. MacLaren pulled back slightly and stared into her eyes.

   "Why did ye choose me o'er life at the convent?" MacLaren asked, his gray eyes intense.

   "I found I loved ye more." Aila bit her lip. Had she said that out loud? She looked away, unwilling to see distrust or mockery.

   Slowly he pushed aside a stray lock of hair, his fingers gliding along her hairline. His touch tingled on her skin, sending ripples through her like a smooth stone thrown into calm waters. With his thumb, he lightly traced down the side of her face and brushed across her lower lip. Her heart quickened, beating with every ripple of sensation. She looked up, her lips parted.

   "Ye love me." His eyes never left hers. It was more than a statement of truth; it was a command.

   She twined her arms around his neck and closed her

eyes. His kiss was soft and warm. She wanted more. She slid her fingers up through his hair and pulled him down to her, deepening the kiss. He growled low and needy, lifting her off the ground and kissing her thoroughly. By the time her feet touched the ground again, the world swirled around her in patches of bright color, and she was glad he held her close, for she was not sure she could stand.

   But still… but still, he had not said he loved her.

   Aila's own clothes proved much easier to remove, and MacLaren had divested her of her gown before she quite knew what was happening. His linen drawers and her chemise took but a moment more to remove, and she shivered at the new sensation of standing naked as the trees surrounded them.

   MacLaren said nothing, but spread her chemise on the grass and pulled her down onto it with him. He moved slowly, as if not wanting to spook a skittish filly, his eyes never leaving hers. She blushed at being so exposed, but soon she was completely covered with a warm male blanket. She gasped at the sensation, so much of her touching so much of him. Aila ran her hands over his bulging arms and down his back. Everything about him was muscular and hard.

   MacLaren groaned. "Ah, but ye are beautiful." He nuzzled her neck and rocked his hips on hers. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, and she was suddenly very glad she had decided against the vow of chastity. His demanding kiss, hot and urgent, made her doubly sure of her choice. She returned his kiss and felt the world start to spin again. Good thing she was lying down.

   Whatever he was doing, she wanted more of it.

She threaded her fingers through his hair. She ran her fingers down his back. She pulled him closer until…

   "Ow!" Oh, but that hurt. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face to the side, determined to bear it silently. Padyn stopped, resting his head beside hers on the ground. Aila breathed deeply, feeling her senses heighten. The wind lightly rustled the leaves of the trees above them and the birds sang softly. Sunlight filtered down through the trees like golden ribbons from the heavens. She felt the broad shoulders of her husband begin to shake.

   "Are ye… well?" she whispered, wondering if she had done something wrong.

   "Aye." His voice was raw and anguished. "I love ye so much. I dinna wish to hurt ye, but I want ye something fierce."

   Aila inhaled sharply at his revelation. "Ye love me?"

   "Aye," growled Padyn slowly.

   "Ye love me?" she said louder, a smile reaching to her toes.

   MacLaren lifted his head, looking at her with a frown. "Aye, that's what I said."

   Tension and fear and pain slid away, and she felt flushed with a joy she thought beyond her grasp. "Ye love me!"

   "Hush, woman, ye're disturbing the trees."

   Aila giggled and hugged him with arms and legs. "Ye," she whispered, planting a small kiss on one of his cheeks, "love"—she kissed the other cheek— "me." She kissed him softly on the lips.

   MacLaren groaned and deepened the kiss, starting to move again. Aila surrendered to the sensation, feeling one with the creative force around and within her. Ripples of sight and sound coursed through her until the world around her faded away, and all that existed in the world was her and Padyn and the urgent tension that was building between them. She dug her fingers into his back, desperate for something, until all the colors and sounds smashed back into her. She arched and cried out, her own voice drowned by the primal roar of her husband.

   Padyn collapsed on top of her, utterly still. Aila panted for breath, finding it hard to breathe with his weight on top of her. Had she killed him?

   "Padyn?" She received no answer. "Do ye live?"

   He moaned and rolled over, taking her with him. "I knew ye would be the death o' me."

   She cuddled to him, laying her head on his chest. She was warm and happy. She smiled her first wicked smile. "Och, look, Padyn, the trees are gone. Ye scared them off wi' all your bellowing."

   Padyn opened his eyes, confused. Aila started to giggle.

   "Daft woman," he muttered, yet his lips twitched into a smile, and a rumbling sound came from his throat.

   "Are ye laughing?"

   "I ne'er laugh." But the low rumble continued, and soon her pillow started to convulse, he was laughing so hard. He held her closer, and they laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks and fell onto his chest. Spent and sated, she sighed contentedly.

   "I love ye, Padyn."

   "Aila," he said, speaking her name with a low contented purr that sent aftershocks shivering to her core, "saints preserve me, but I love ye, too."

"HERE?"

"Here."

   "Now?" asked Aila with a sly smile as Padyn slid against her.

   "Now." Padyn closed his mouth over hers for a long, sensual kiss. Or at least that was his intent.

   "Mama. Maaaamaaaaaa!" Four-year-old James burst into the room, and MacLaren rolled back with an unhappy grunt.

   "Mama, where's my sword?" asked James as he crawled up onto his parents' bed. "Whatcha doing?"

   "Nothing now," grumbled MacLaren.

   "Have ye checked yer bed, Jamie? Ye went to sleep wi' it last night," said Aila, giving Padyn a playful nudge. Since Padyn had given the wooden toy sword to Jamie, he had refused to be parted from it.

   "I'll go look," said Jamie and, after jumping several times on the bed, catapulted to the floor with a large thump and ran from the room.

   "Hush," said Aila instinctively and lay back down. Instantly she was in Padyn's arms again, and she snuggled into his warmth.

   "Noooooo!" came a mournful wail. "Gimme back. It's mine! Maaaamaaaa!"

   "Oh for the love of…" muttered Padyn.

   "Mama, Jamie took my blanky, and he winna give it back!" whined three-year-old Rose as she burst into the room, a mass of red baby curls bobbing around her shoulders. Jamie ran in, blanket around his shoulders, sword in hand, laughing hysterically. Rose screamed again and ran after him.

   "Quiet both of ye, ye'll wake the"—a howl of complaint shattered their ears—"baby." Aila rolled out of bed with a sigh and picked up their six-month-old son, William, out of the cradle. Both children stood with their hands over their ears.

   "How come he's so loud, Mama?" asked Jamie.

   "Well, now, that's a wonder," commented MacLaren.

   Aila crawled back into bed and put the baby to the breast, effectively silencing at least one of her children. Padyn gave her a smile, leaning over to give his youngest son a kiss on his head, and then slipped in a quick kiss on the breast before Aila shooed him away.

   "This is no' what I wanted this morn," he whispered.

   "'Tis yer own fault we've been blessed wi' all these bairns," she whispered back.

   "So it is," he commented with a satisfied smile of masculine pride. The children climbed onto the bed, playing, if not quietly, at least more peaceably. Aila laughed as Padyn patiently allowed his children to crawl over him.

   "Here's the happy family," said Chaumont with a droll smile as he strode through the open door, impec cably dressed and holding a sleeping infant draped over his arm like he was a born wet nurse. "My, but you people are loud."

   "I'm sorry if we wakened ye," said Aila, but Chaumont waved off the comment.

   "I hope you'll ready yourself soon. I promised Lady Graham no one would be late this morning. Heaven protect me if she is disappointed."

   Aila smiled. There had been many changes in the last five years, none the least of which was Laird Graham quitting his own apartments and moving into his wife's tower, a move she complained about bitterly and most enthusiastically. She also had taken to attending meals in the Great Hall, which she complained was forced upon her by her unfeeling husband, always arriving being carried by two of the tallest and most handsome men at-arms. However much she was suffering, it was clear she was enjoying herself immensely. Chaumont and Mary had moved into Dundaff while their large home was being built. Graham had rewarded Chaumont handsomely, but since Mary seemed to have inherited Aila's role as chatelaine, Aila felt they had more than earned their reward.

   "Oh, there ye are," said Mary, swooping into the room, wearing an elaborate turquoise silk gown, her long hair down to her waist. "Could ye watch Johnnie?" she asked Chaumont, handing over their three-year-old son. "I've promised Lady Graham I'd let her personal maid do my hair. Please dinna be late," she said to Aila and Padyn, "or yer mother will skin me alive."

   She gave Chaumont a quick kiss and then turned to run off, but Chaumont caught her hand and drew her back to give her a proper kiss. They smiled at each other for a long moment, until Gavin tried to sneak by unnoticed, wearing riding clothes.

   "Where do ye ken ye're going?" asked Mary.

   At fourteen, Gavin had grown into a strapping lad. "Fergus said he would let me ride Thunder today." Aila smiled at the stable master's name. His recovery had been slow but steady, and he was now back at his post.

   "If ye're late, ye'll have to go to Lady Graham yerself and explain why," Mary warned.