When the Laird Returns (18 page)

She covered his hand with hers, stepping closer to unwind the stock at his neck. Once she had it unfastened, she allowed it to drift to the floor in a serpentine twist of fabric. His coat was next, and she pushed it off his shoulders, where it stubbornly resisted her efforts. He smiled finally, aiding her until it, too, fell to the floor, resting atop one of her stockings.

He removed his boots and stockings himself, but instead of stepping out of his breeches, Alisdair placed her hands on the button flap and held them there.

They exchanged another look, one of awareness and discovery. Breathing should not be so difficult, Iseabal thought. Nor should undoing one button, then another, her mind alight with anticipation. When he was freed from the restraining cloth, she held him cupped in her hands.

He had promised her pleasure and given it to her time and again, teaching lessons of love that had shocked and delighted her. She wanted to give him back the same joy.

Releasing him, she removed her shift, grateful that she no longer needed the wrapping. Her side was still discolored, but in this faint light the bruising would simply be one more shadow.

Her eyes were downcast now, a flush appearing on her cheeks. But Iseabal said nothing to halt him. She stood naked, making no move to cover herself. Her hands remained at her sides, the palms flat against her thighs. A statue of
loveliness, he thought, but instead of stone, there were supple curves, and life in the pulse beat of her blood.

He wanted to flatten his palms against her, place his mouth on the inside of her elbow, gently suckle those impudent nipples, and stroke the back of her knee, the bulbs of her heels, behind her ears, the soles of her feet. All of it done with no sense of hurried haste. But that wish was impossible around Iseabal.

Reaching out a finger, Alisdair touched the tip of her breast, following it with a kiss. With the greatest of care, he trailed a path from her wrist to her armpit to her hip with one finger.

If he ever constructed a ship with Iseabal’s grace and beauty, the vessel would sail across the water like the breath of life itself.

Bending his head, he kissed her. Sweetly, slowly, imbuing into the kiss all the unspoken words that cowered in his heart. Looping her arms around his neck, Iseabal moved even closer.

Nipples tight with arousal demanded the touch of a finger, the lave of a tongue. Lush, full lips coerced a kiss.

The ache that swept through him was one of incipient rebellion. His body longed for release even as his mind counseled restraint. Now, when the swell of her breasts beneath his hands encouraged his capitulation. His mouth encompassed a nipple, his body protesting the pace of this seduction.

Alisdair felt as if he would cease to be unless he touched her, would evaporate in the wind that sighed around them if he did not bury himself in her softness. Disappear, like a wraith, if he did not nourish himself in this one woman.

She stepped away from him, moving to the bunk. Glancing over her shoulder at him, she smiled in invitation.

Outside the cabin men were shouting to one another. Waves splashed against the
Fortitude
’s bow, and wind filled the sails. But in this shadowed room there was silence laced with a pandemonium of the senses.

Perhaps there were other men just as handsome, crafted of muscle and bone and beauty. But she had never seen one and would never look for his match. This man, erect and male, was all that she needed.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve thought of you like that,” he said, removing his breeches. “You were lit by candlelight,” he murmured, coming to her side. “With your breasts just as they are now, tight and ready for my lips.”

He trailed his fingers over one nipple, then the other.

Iseabal drew back slightly, lifting herself until she lay on the bunk, close to the wall. She held out her hand to him and he joined her. Here, in this comfortable nook built into the wall, they had loved before, and with each act she’d found a growing pleasure in his arms.

How would she articulate what she felt? She needed to feel him deep inside her, to hear his breath against her cheek, harsh and gasping.

Passion was as new to her as joy, both emotions swirling through her, along with an anticipation so powerful that it seemed almost wanton. She had expected to feel companionship and comfort from a husband, but Alisdair had given her so much more.

Something thrummed between them now, some mutual awareness that had not been there in those nights of loving.

Lying beside her, he turned onto his side. She wished, suddenly, that there was light, like on the morning after their
wedding. He made her feel beautiful, as if her body were perfect and her flaws inconsequential. But more important, she wanted to see him. Glorious and male, strong and virile. He was hers, she thought in a surge of protectiveness.

She touched the edge of his jaw, drawing him to her with the smoothing of one fingertip against his lower lip.

His kiss was long and deep and eternal in its perfection. Pressing her face against his neck, she wound her arms around his back, pulling him close to her in a sudden, desperate wish to keep him safe. But he would always climb the rigging, or stand at the bow of the
Fortitude
, looking out into the world as if to welcome all its excitement and dangers.

Bending his head, he mouthed a nipple, scraping the edge of it with his teeth. He drew sharply on it, caressing her breasts with tender fingers, the contrast between the two sensations startling.

Running his palm over her stomach, he followed with a kiss, trailing a path from her throat to her navel. She shivered at the feeling, but he soothed her with a murmur.

He touched the tip of his tongue to her, the sensation so startling that her eyes flew open. His thumbs spread open intimate folds, before lingeringly tracing a path for his lips to follow.

“Alisdair,” she said, but wasn’t sure if she spoke in protest or entreaty.

A long, slow glide of his tongue silenced her.

Delight raced through her body, warming her. Her legs widened instinctively; her hips arched to meet his lips. He acceded to her unspoken demand, lengthening the strokes of his tongue, circling, then soothing.

Iseabal felt herself contract deep inside, a reaction to the soft puff of whisper as he spoke against her flesh. “Iseabal.”

She wanted more, then less of the sensation, then more again.
Please.
Tiny arrows speared her, each one calmed, then incited again by the sensual motions of his tongue.

Gripping the sheets on both sides of her, she absorbed and accepted, adrift in pleasure so intense that her heart fell silent, her breath stilled. There was only Alisdair and need.

He drew slightly away and she murmured a protest, only to release her breath and her heart as he entered her a moment later. Her body bowed upward to meet him, her mind a midnight sky, deep and dark and empty. Her body held sway now, feelings dictating her movements, passion becoming both mind and heart.

Her hands gripped his arms, pulling him to her. She buried her face against his throat, opened her mouth against his heated flesh. Wrapping her legs around his, she held onto him as if he were both her captor and her savior.

Supporting himself on his forearms, Alisdair looked down at Iseabal as she blinked her eyes open. Did he wear the same dazed expression? He must, held as he was at the knife point of desire.

His fingers measured her shoulders, his hands trailing down to rest on either side of her breasts.

Iseabal widened her legs, lifting her knees slightly to rock gently beneath him. He felt a contraction around him, urging him toward completion.

“Don’t do that,” he said harshly.

“Did you feel that?” she asked, eyes closing. But a small, almost triumphant smile played on her lips.

“Yes,” he said tightly, laying his cheek on hers. “For the love of God, Iseabal,” he muttered, torn between mindless pleasure and capitulation.

“I didn’t know I could do that,” she said, and squeezed again, her internal muscles gripping him like a hot, damp fist.

An oath escaped him, a cry of surrender and mortality. He felt as if he were being split in two, and a second from now would need to gather parts of himself together with flailing hands.

Once more he pushed himself into her, reaching a place of darkness behind his lids.

Iseabal gripped him again, making him lose track of who was being seduced. He had wanted to grant her a moment of perfection, and was, instead, being led into an abyss of pleasure.

Please,
his body urged.
Now.
He withdrew again, a second later surging into her in priapic demand. Her hips arched and he stifled his groan of pleasure against her breast, withdrew again. He had ceased being a thinking man, his body’s urgings becoming a drumbeat he could not help but obey.
Now. Now.
The rhythm escalated as he gripped his hands on her shoulders and pulled himself deeper inside her.

His breath fanned against her temple as he closed his eyes and simply relished the unendurable feeling of need. Swirling through him like a hot tropical storm, it seemed replicated in the currents below the hull.

Alisdair felt trapped in a rhythm as old as the waves, as undulating and as fierce. He withdrew, then entered her again, the sound of her soft moan a counterpart to his own wordless wonder. He was rigid, painfully so, but it was a feeling he savored, like sailing before the wind. Dangerous, unpredictable, falling headlong into excitement and wonder.

The current beneath the hull, steady and relentless, followed his movements, the arching of his hips, the press of his swollen length inside her, his reluctant withdrawal. A tide of
sensation, and she was his beach, a safe haven, a resting place.

The goddess of the ocean rocked them in long, sensual movements. He wanted to make this joining last, but Iseabal clutched his back suddenly, her nails gouging into his skin. Her eyes flickered open, wide and helpless in surrender. In that moment he was lost, his vision fading, his body and mind blinded in bliss.

T
o Iseabal, the journey back to Gilmuir seemed to take only moments. Perhaps because she’d spent the voyage to London worrying about her uncertain future, while now she barely noted the passing of the days.

Alisdair stood beside her, but Iseabal didn’t turn to look at him. His appearance was marked on her mind forever, just as his touch would always be imprinted upon her body. He stretched out his hand and instinctively her fingers threaded with his.

Over the past few days, the
Fortitude
had traveled without full sail, slowing her speed so that the
Molly Brown
could catch up with them. Now both ships were navigating Coneagh Firth. The wind welcomed them, batting playfully at the
Fortitude
’s sails, fluttering Iseabal’s petticoat, and tossing her hair against her cheeks.

Silently they stood, hand in hand, watching as they neared Gilmuir.

From time to time they passed a village nestled close to the loch, as if the tiny hamlet sipped at the water like an animal slaking its thirst.

Alisdair’s hand tightened on hers, and she knew he’d seen the castle. Standing like an impressive icon to heritage, Gilmuir glowed with the rays of a morning sun.

“Gilmuir seems to be welcoming us,” he said, smiling.

She nodded, her attention drawn from the castle to Alisdair. Lately, he seemed even more handsome than he had at their first meeting, as if the character of the man had seeped outward from his soul and altered his features.

She wondered if their children would be graced with the MacRae eyes. Bringing their clasped hands up to his lips, Alisdair placed a tender kiss on her knuckles as if he’d heard her thought.

“The
Molly Brown
will dock here,” he said, looking toward his left, where the land sloped gently to the loch. “In order to unload the horses and most of the provisions,” he explained.

Understanding immediately, Iseabal smiled. “It would be difficult trying to lead the horses up the staircase,” she said, amused by the mental picture.

Without warning, he bent to kiss her, in full view of his crew. A few men grinned at her when she glanced in their direction, but then turned tactfully away. Not one of the sailors had voiced an objection to her presence on this voyage, at least within her hearing. Perhaps, she thought, bending to pick up Henrietta, their approval was due in part to the cat’s affection.

The
Molly Brown
eased behind them, the captain standing on the bow. A signal from the
Fortitude
was answered quickly with a similar flag.

“What are they looking for?” she asked, watching the men on the other ship peering over the side.

Glancing at her, Alisdair reached out and scratched Henrietta between her ears. The cat’s purring grew louder and her body heavier, as if she’d relaxed every muscle in it.

“See the differences in shading?” he said, pointing to the shoreline. Iseabal lowered Henrietta to the deck and the cat wound herself around Alisdair’s legs. Following his direction, Iseabal looked over the side, noting that, close to the shore, the loch was either a pale green or a deep emerald.

“The darker the water, the greater the depth. The
Molly Brown
is heavy and they don’t want to chance going aground.”

The spot where the captain chose to dock was within sight of the necklace of rocks. Easing the
Molly Brown
closer to shore, however, was not so easily accomplished. An hour later the merchant ship weighed anchor not ten feet from shore.

After the first plank was placed in position, one sailor nimbly walked across to the glen.

“What’s he doing now?” she asked, fascinated by his actions. He seemed to be digging a hole.

“The landward side of the gangway must be rooted,” Alisdair said, “so that it doesn’t slip. He’ll bury about an arm’s length of each plank.” The second and third boards followed, the area now wide enough to accommodate the horses and the numerous barrels.

As they began unloading, the
Fortitude
slid cautiously around the jagged rocks. The cove seemed particularly beautiful this morning with the sun sparkling off the surface of the
cobalt-blue water and the cliffs towering protectively above them.

“Have a boat lowered,” he said, turning to address Brian. “And ask the men returning to Nova Scotia to ready their gear.”

“What about Daniel?” Iseabal asked.

“When he arrives, he’ll take the
Fortitude
back to Nova Scotia. To send word to my family and gather what belongings I need.”

“You would let him take your ship?” Her tone held amazement.

“There are others to build,” he said, holding out his hand for her again. She placed hers in his, and he led the way to the rope ladder.

As Iseabal followed him down the rungs, she had the thought that this task was no more easily accomplished with practice. Gratefully, she lowered her feet into the flat-bottomed skiff, holding onto Alisdair for support.

She sat in the boat, watching him handle the oars. Her heart felt as if it were expanding to encompass not only Alisdair but Gilmuir itself.

If she were a fanciful woman, Iseabal would have believed that the old fortress gave a sigh of relief as they left the boat and entered the cave. The morning light, deflected by the water, illuminated the domed space.

Iseabal halted in surprise, noting the portraits. The first time she’d been here, a storm had shrouded her view, but now the portraits of a woman adorning the ceiling and wall were clearly visible.

“Ionis’s lady,” Alisdair said from beside her. His low voice seemed even more intimate in this quiet and shadowed place. “Do you know the story?”

Wordlessly, she shook her head.

“Saint Ionis was sent to live here hundreds of years ago, a penance given to him by God. It seems he strayed from his vows and loved a black-haired, green-eyed girl. From the looks of it, she haunted his dreams all the rest of his life.”

Iseabal glanced at the woman who had been so well loved, only now noticing that there was a tinge of sadness to her eyes. Had she truly grieved, or had Ionis simply mirrored his own feelings in his paintings?

“Did God ever forgive him?”

“I don’t know,” he said, drawing her back against him. “Perhaps He did, simply because there is little left of the saint, but his lady remains.”

For a moment they stood staring at the woman, Alisdair’s hands gently moving up and down Iseabal’s arms. Turning finally, they began to mount the steps in silence.

Once on the floor of the priory, Alisdair held out his hands for her, beginning to lift her free much as he had that first day, when she’d been trapped in the pit of the foundations. Only this time he held her close when she stood, his arms surrounding her, his hands flattening against the small of her back.

In this ruined priory once held sacred, Iseabal suddenly realized that she was more fortunate than a woman beloved by a saint.

Alisdair bent his head, resting his chin against the shimmering ebony of Iseabal’s hair. Her hands wound around him, gripping the back of his coat. For a moment he was content to stand there, the wind gently whirling around them as if the priory itself approved of their return.

“Are you happy, Iseabal?” he asked, never having thought
to ask such a question before. The moments ticked by in an agony of seconds while he waited for her response.

“Yes,” she said, the answer coming in a low, breathless voice. He moved his hands to her buttocks, pulling her even closer.

His new bride, once innocent and now an apt pupil, arched her hips against him as if welcoming his sudden uncontrollable reaction.

“If you continue, I might take you right here on the priory floor,” he whispered.

“Not here,” she said, teasing him with his own words spoken only days ago. She kissed his shirt, a sweet gesture in comparison to what her hands were doing. She was stroking her palms down his midriff, past his hips, her fingers trailing up and down his thigh in a maddening exploration.

When had he lost control over his sensual nature? When, for that matter, had he ceased to be a creature of intellect and one solely of bodily responses? When Iseabal spoke, he answered silently. When she moved close to him, the scent of her encouraged his erection. He could not, Alisdair thought in disgust, even embrace his wife without feeling a tinge of lust.

“Iseabal,” he cautioned.

“Not here,” she said again, then surprised him by drawing back. She held out her hand to him, a small, delicious smile playing on her lips and her green eyes sparkling with merriment.

When had she become a vixen?

He allowed her to take his hand and lead him unerringly through the ruins. Iseabal knew Gilmuir better than he, Alisdair decided as she wound through the fallen bricks and around deep holes caused by the missing floor. He was the
ghost of Gilmuir; and she, the woman who fulfilled her promise of unearthly beauty within its shadows.

In that instant, his mind conjured up a figurehead for the first of the MacRae vessels constructed at Gilmuir. The form would bear Iseabal’s face, her hair billowing out behind her. But he would not allow this ornament to be naked to the waist, breasts thrusting toward the waves. She would, instead, be gowned in silk, something green to match the beauty of her eyes. Some garment, perhaps, in the Chinese fashion, with a high collar and buttons down to her ankles, so concealing that only he knew what lay beneath the fabric.

“Here,” she announced when they came to the mostly intact corridor. “I used to think that I’d heard lovers’ whispers here, but now I think it was only a foretelling of what was to come.” As she gazed at him, the smile vanished from her face.

She took a few steps toward him until her hands rested against his chest once more. “It’s a place for lovers, Alisdair,” she said. “For secret assignations.”

“I would not have you shamed, Iseabal,” he said gently. “And any of the crew might come to Gilmuir and see us. I’ve another locale in mind,” he added.

She said nothing when he took her hand, walking from Gilmuir and across the land bridge to a place told to him in tales.

Crossing the glen, Alisdair was unsurprised to see evidence of recent sheep grazing. Drummond, evidently, was not a man of his word. Iseabal had warned him.

“I wonder what Drummond will say when he learns we’ve returned,” he said.

Iseabal smiled. “He will take you to court,” she said unhesitatingly.

He glanced over at Iseabal, wondering why he had never
seen signs of Drummond in her. She didn’t have the nature to be devious, or contemptuous of others. In Iseabal there was a core of sweetness, as if she had learned the lesson of love well enough. From her mother? Or from another, one she might have loved before their marriage?

Alisdair halted in mid-step, the idea anathema to him.

“Was there anyone special for you?” he asked, more gruffly than he had intended. “A sweetheart you might have known before our marriage?”

“With my father guarding my virtue like a gorgon?” she replied, evidently amused.

He did not mean her body, but her heart.

Alisdair resorted to silence, leading her to the line of trees, wishing he had a more detailed map than his memory. His great-uncle Hamish had once told him of this place, bragging of standing atop the knoll and serenading the British with his pipes.

“Where are we going, Alisdair?” she asked.

“To the top of MacRae land,” he said. “Where we might look out on Gilmuir and our new home.”

Perhaps later he would lay her down on the ground and show her what he felt. Words could not express this feeling, but loving her might do well enough.

The strong scent of pine flavored the air as they entered the thick forest. Where perhaps there had once been a path, small saplings, decaying branches, and a thick cushion of fallen needles now layered the floor of the woods.

He was not a man, for all his thoughts of Gilmuir, given to whimsy. But it felt right, somehow, that he would be ascending this hill with Iseabal. As if this moment, perfumed and perfect, had been destined to occur from the moment of his birth and hers.

Glancing down at her once more, he marveled at her beauty. The dappled sunlight graced her with both shadow and sun, giving her a radiance he’d never before seen. Almost, he thought, as if she were a mythical creature, Iseabal of the forest.

Smiling at himself, Alisdair realized that if she were the queen of this place, then he was the fool.