To Desire a Highlander (38 page)

Roag frowned, hearing this for the first time. He’d assumed the louts had been passing through the Hebrides on a different Fenris mission, or perhaps on Alex’s command to patrol the seas off Laddie’s Isle. They could’ve been ordered to stay out of sight, unless needed. He’d meant to question them later, away from non-Fenris ears.

Now…

He could only puzzle. Any Fenris duty that involved a ship wouldn’t call for a vessel so weighed down that she couldn’t sail at speed.

“What cargo?” He turned to his friends, not liking the sheepish looks on their faces.

Caelan and Andrew exchanged guilty glances.

William, as always, met his gaze full-on and grinned. “Foodstuff from Alex,” he said, his deep voice amused. “Your friend the Wolf worried you’d starve out here in the wilds of the Hebridean Sea. He put together enough viands and ale to fill your kitchens for a year, he did. Good Wolf that he is, he sent me along to cook for you.
Yet”—William spread his hands—“there isn’t much need of me, eh?”

“Our work is done, it is true,” Roag agreed, the admission causing a sharp pain in his chest. “You’ll be wanting to return to the Red Lion, I ken fine.”

“That is so!” William grinned. “The Wolf did send a lad down to Stirling to run the inn for me. But you ken”—he leaned back in his chair and patted his substantial girth—“no one within twenty heather miles of Stirling stirs a cook pot better than I do.

“I’ll no’ be wanting to lose trade because I’m no’ there.” He straightened and grabbed his eating knife to spear a gannet breast, popping a large piece of the roasted seabird into his mouth as if all had been said and there was no need to discuss more.

But Caelan and Andrew and, surprisingly, Mungo MacGuire kept sliding glances at each other. Roag was becoming weary of what looked like scheming.

He already knew Mungo was capable of trickery.

Caelan and Andrew…

They believed a shared childhood in Stirling Castle’s kitchens and years of joint Fenris missions gave them leave to meddle in his affairs.

“What is it?” He narrowed his eyes at them, his suspicions growing.

“Aye, well…” Caelan hedged, lifting his ale cup and studying it as if it were the most interesting thing under the heavens. “It could be that when we were hurrying to catch up with the
Sea Dancer
, we didn’t toss all the Wolf’s goods into the sea.”

“For sure, we didn’t,” Andrew agreed, his quirking lips worrying Roag even more.

“They kept the best, they did!” Mungo slapped the table, his red-bearded face splitting in a grin. “A bed, see you?” He stood, swelling his great barrel chest. “The King’s own brother has sent a wedding bed to my gel,” he boasted, his voice ringing with pride as if he—and not Roag and his friends—was a much-loved favorite of Alex Stewart, Lord of Badenoch and Earl of Buchan.

“Ne’er will you see a finer bed!” Mungo roared, his excitement spreading to everyone in the hall. “He sent you a laird’s chair.” He beamed at Roag, clearly pleased to make the announcement. “ ’Tis a glorious piece, richly carved, and surely straight from the Wolf’s own Highland lair.

“Your friends”—he looked their way—“did toss it into the water, but my lads and I fished it out as it bobbed past us!”

“Indeed?” Roag didn’t know what else to say.

His temples were beginning to throb, his head aching at the evidence of his world crashing down around him. The reminder—in the shape of a bed, no less—of what could have been and yet would never be. He sat back, drew a long, tight breath, half certain he was suffocating.

He wasn’t surprised the Wolf had learned of his handfast with Gillian.

Alex Stewart knew everything.

But whatever goodness of heart caused him to send food supplies and lairdly trappings to this wee bleak isle, there was no need for them now.

And that gutted Roag more than it should.

“Where is this bed? The carved laird’s chair?” The words slipped from his lips before he could catch them. “I havenae seen—”

“Have you noticed that a few of my lads are missing?” Mungo raised his ale horn, saluting Roag. “That’s the good thing about having many sons, see you? You can have them everywhere at once and no one is the wiser. A few of them were down at the ships as we’ve supped. They carted the bed up to your chamber without any of us even seeing them marching through the hall, so busy were we all railing about the evil deeds of my late wife and her pestiferous lover!”

A strange tightness began to spread through Roag’s chest. “Where is the laird’s chair?”

“Och, it’s oe’r by the fire on the far side of your hall!” Mungo thrust out an arm, pointing at a massive, elaborately carved chair of gleaming black oak.

Beautiful enough to grace Stirling’s finest chambers, the chiefly chair was nothing less than a throne, and surely did hail from the Wolf’s own castle.

Roag couldn’t imagine Alex sending anything so priceless on such a journey, for naught.

Turning to Gillian, he leaned in, speaking low so that only she would hear. “There is more to this than meets the eye. Alex wouldnae risk such goods if—”

“If he didn’t think you would be staying on here?” She smiled, her eyes shining in the torchlight.

Roag’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. He couldn’t think of anything he’d want more. Indeed, he’d been planning to sail to Stirling and petition the King for just that. He’d cite the isle’s strategic location as a boon for the crown, emphasize the advantage of having a trusted man to watch the traffic on the seas.

“If that were so, lass, would you remain as my lady in truth? My own bride and wife, and no’ as Donell’s?”

“I was never Donell’s.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek, then looked past him to her sire. “Did you hear, Father?” She smiled at him, too. “I am Roag’s handfasted wife and, aye, we are enjoying ourselves—as well you knew we would, I’m thinking!”

“So I am, lass,” her father agreed. “So I am.”

“Then you’ll no’ have any objections if we hold a more formal nuptial ceremony?” Roag met Mungo’s cheeky gaze, not believing he was making such a declaration. Or the happiness that it gave him. “Perhaps toward summer’s end after all this excitement has passed?”

“I’ve only been waiting to hear you say that, laddie!” Mungo could hardly finish before everyone in the hall stood, knocking their ale cups together, stamping feet, and cheering.

Only Roag’s smile was a bit forced. Happy as he was to have a secure hold on Gillian’s hand, he hoped upon hope that he’d not lose Laddie’s Isle.

Taking her back to Stirling with him wouldn’t be the end of the world, but it would be a world she’d never truly fit into with the whole of her heart.

And—the realization stunned him—it was now a place that no longer felt like home to him.

Laddie’s Isle did.

Even though he’d come to feel as if he belonged here, he didn’t really. But he was a man who’d fallen fiercely and fully in love with a wonderful woman he knew he couldn’t bear to live without, no matter where their path might take them.

That was a blessing.

A great joy he’d never expected.

It would have to be enough, and was.

Chapter Thirty

A
sennight later, seven full days and equally splendiferous nights, Roag toed open the door to the tower bedchamber that he shared with his lovely lady wife and did his best to sneak into the room without disturbing her. She slept soundly, for it was an ungodly hour, and she hadn’t heard Skog scratching at the door.

As usual, Roag had noticed. He’d climbed from the massive and magnificent four-poster bed they now called their own and had carried Skog down the stair and out onto the grassy moorland behind the tower so that the old dog could take his late-night comfort.

Roag didn’t mind.

In truth, he secretly suspected Skog had come to prefer him to Gillian.

It was a notion he wouldn’t dare voice to her.

He did take a moment to stand admiring her. Chiefly daughter that she was, and already more beautiful to him than any woman he’d ever seen or could imagine, she looked even more lovely in the new bed.

A huge, glorious piece that—he’d learned—had taken three of Mungo MacGuire’s sons, two of his own men, and also William Wyldes to assemble. Crafted of heavy black oak, the wood was smooth and satiny to the touch. The four bedposts, the headboard, and even the ceiling board were carved with thistles, sheaves of heather, galleys, mermaids, and heraldic shields so old that whatever family they’d once honored could no longer be discerned for the wood was so age-worn.

Roag didn’t care.

The bed was grand enough for royalty. And though he’d gladly sleep naked on the cold stone floor, Gillian deserved better.

Stepping closer to the bed, he would almost swear it had been made for her. The mermaids that appeared to frolic about the tops of the bedposts and also across the bed’s curved ceiling had bold looks about them. Their tempting eyes, flowing hair, and lush breasts, reminded him of Gillian. She loved to stretch across the covers. Bare-bottomed as the bed’s aquatic seductresses, she’d then open her arms to him, and—on nights when he was particularly lucky, she’d spread her legs as well, offering herself to him, invitingly.

His lady, he’d learned, was insatiable.

He deemed himself the most fortunate of men, for he loved nothing more than satisfying her.

He might not have a chiefly name to offer her, or a true claim as the isle’s keeper, but he did love her fiercely. And he meant to dedicate his life to pleasing her, keeping her happy in heart, soul, and body.

Just now her body was naked.

And she was on her back with her long, lithe legs
parted just enough to give him a tantalizing glimpse of the tender bits of her that he couldn’t sample often enough. Worse, or perhaps better, depending on one’s view, moonlight fell across the bed, gilding her silver so that she might well have been one of the sea sirens she claimed sang on the reefs when the waves broke high and white across the jagged, half-submerged rocks.

“Odin’s balls,” he swore, his own danglers aching as he started forward.

Unable to help himself, he leaned over her and stroked his hands lightly along the inside of her thighs. “I have to taste you, sweetness,” he breathed, lowering his head to follow his hands with his mouth. He kissed his way up her legs, making for the triangle of red-golden curls that beckoned him so powerfully.

“Roag!” Her eyes snapped open and she pushed up on her elbows, staring at him through the moonlight. “What are you doing?”

“Can you no’ guess?” He gave her a bold smile, summoning all his strength not to pounce on her and sink himself into her, loving her fully.

But he knew she was tired.

Their guests hadn’t yet left and the tower wasn’t outfitted to host so many visitors.

Wonderful as it had been to have her family and also his own Stirling friends on the isle, he secretly yearned for the return of the deep quiet that usually cloaked Laddie’s Isle. It was a tranquility and peace that he’d known nowhere else, and that he’d come to need and appreciate.

“I thought you were sleeping.” Gillian’s eyes glittered in the silvery light—and to his immense delight, she didn’t pull her legs together.

“Skog needed to go out,” he told her, skimming his fingers up and down her hip.

“It was good of you to take him.” She glanced at the nearest window, the tall, arch-topped opening dark save for the glow of the moon.

“It was better of you to greet me so finely.” He looked down at her parted thighs, his arousal hard and heavy. “You are too tempting to resist.” He tore off his plaid and then pulled his tunic over his head, tossing it onto the floor. “I’ve a ferocious need to taste you.”

“Roag!” Her cheeks flamed, but she teased him by parting her knees a bit more.

“I see you dinnae mind.” Now as naked as she was, he climbed onto the bed, settling himself between her thighs. He lowered his head, opening his mouth over her, kissing her deeply. Then he drew back, using his tongue to rouse and pleasure her.

She lifted her hips and thrust her fingers into his hair, clutching at him, pulling him closer. Her need spurred him on, firing his own passion as he kissed and licked her, taking his time before swirling his tongue round and over the tiny bud of sensation that he knew would send her spiraling over the edge of her release. His own didn’t matter, for he really did want her to rest, something she hadn’t been able to do in days.

Yet having the tower so filled with family and friends was a pleasure unto itself. It was also one he’d never thought to experience. He wouldn’t say he was regretful that he’d been bastard-born, for he’d had a good life all the same, most especially of late, with Gillian at his side.

But he did understand her better.

He admired her devotion to kith and kin, the Isle of Sway that was her home.

He suspected he’d always hunger for the taste of her. Wanting to brand her essence on the back of his tongue, he drew deeply on her, licking the very center of her until she jerked beneath him, her hips rising to press against him. Then powerful tremors ripped through her and she cried his name, clutching him to her.