Once Upon a Highland Christmas (23 page)

 

Chapter Forty-Six

I
AIN STOOD I
N
the lean-­to with the garron, staring into the snow. He was not a man who gave in to whims, or desires, or passion. He thought things through before he spoke, considered the drawbacks as well as the benefits of any plan. This time he had allowed his desire to speak for him, had blurted out a clumsy, ham-­handed proposal. It had felt right. But it wasn't.

She had more honor than he did, more sense, perhaps. She'd made a promise, and she intended to keep it. He wished he was a reiver, had the right to steal another man's bride. But he was a laird, an earl and a gentleman. And Alanna was a lady. Love did not, could not, enter into this.

He waited for the cold to drive some sense into him, but it didn't.

He shouldn't have brought her here. If he hurried, they could still make it back to Craigleith, if not before dark, then soon after, though the wind was against them, and the snow was thickening. But that would be every bit as foolhardy and dangerous as staying. Could he keep from kissing her if they remained here alone? If he kissed her again, it would lead to more, far more. Did she understand that? He leaned on the animal's broad flank. Would it make it better or worse to love her now, then let her go and marry another man?

“Worse,” he told the horse. The animal snorted and shifted its feet.

“Aye, you're right. I'm afraid it must be the honorable thing, the wise thing.” He collected an armload of peat and went around to the door. The icy wind blew steely shards of snow into his face; it should have cooled his ardor, but it did not. He fought for control as he opened the door.

The faint light of the fire flickered against the cott's stone walls, warm and inviting. He looked around the room, didn't see her immediately. Then he saw her gown on the bench.

She wasn't in it.

His eyes flew to the plaid stretched before the hearth. The firelight reflected in her eyes, warmed her skin to honey. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, and he stared at her. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He stood where he was, his arms full of peat, snow melting on his skin, and gaped at her. “Oh, Lass . . . We cannot—­shouldn't—­” he managed, his throat thick. Had he ever wanted anything more?

She brought one hand out from under the plaid, and it fell away to expose her shoulders. She was naked. “Come here,” she said softly. His resolve crumbled.

He dropped the peat and crossed to her in three strides, falling to his knees. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, sipping at her lips, drinking her in.

Her hands fell to his coat, unbuttoned it, shoved it off his shoulders, began on his shirt. She kissed the naked vee of skin as the fastenings fell open. He lowered his hands to help her, desperate now to be out of his clothing. He pulled off his coat, and his shirt, and her hands fell to his flies. He put his hand over hers.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I am,” she said. She caressed his erection through his breeches, met his eyes. “I want this. I want you,” she said. She shook her head as hope filled him. “For tonight, Iain. Only for now.”

The words shot straight to his groin, and desire rushed through him like a herd of wild horses. He shut his eyes, fought for control. He turned and went to the fire to add the peat, to slow things.

“That was how I first saw you, crouched by the fire like that. Only then you were naked.” Iain groaned, and she grinned at him, sweet, saucy.

The memory had him instantly hard. He rose and undid his flies with one hand, pushed his breeches off, tossed them aside, and stood naked before her. Her eyes roamed over him like a touch, and stopped at his erection. It leaped hopefully under her gaze, making him harder still. He gritted his teeth, made a silent vow that he would stop if she wanted to, no matter how desperately he wanted her.

“You're a braw, bonnie man, Iain MacGillivray,” she said. She opened the plaid, folded it back so he could look at her. He knew her body by touch, but not by sight. It had tormented him, haunted his dreams. She was even more lovely than his hands and his imagination had painted her. He swallowed, unable to say a word. The firelight gilded her limbs, the long, supple length of her legs, the slim curves of her hips. Her breasts were rose tipped, perfect. He had held her body against his the night he had rescued her, felt her icy flesh warm slowly, heard her sighs of pain and fear. Now she sighed with longing, and this time, they were both warm, and awake, and they had the whole night together. One night, and he was wasting time.

He lay down beside her, drew her body against his. No icy, marble body this time. She made a soft sound of pleasure, and she wrapped her arms around him, tangled her fingers in his hair, drew him down. He kissed her, and she opened her lips with a sigh of need. He deepened the kiss, touching his tongue to hers, as he skimmed his hands over the softness of her body—­her back, her hips, her bottom. He felt her nipples harden against his chest as she pressed closer. He gasped as she brushed her hip against his erection. Her hand dipped down to caress him. He caught her fingers, held her still. “We should go slowly,” he said.

She gazed up at him, her eyes glazed. “I don't want to go slowly. Is that a wicked thing to admit? Show me what to do, how to please you,” she whispered, and kissed his ear as she swirled her hips against him.

He swallowed. “No, not wicked at all. You are a lady to your fingertips, Alanna, and a woman who deserves pleasure. I want to please you as well. 'Tis best to go carefully.”

“Because I'm a virgin? My mother warned me it would hurt. I can't imagine pain amid such delight.” She glided her fingertips over the naked plains of his chest, slowly descending across his hips, over his belly. He drew a sharp breath as her hand found his erection again, closed on it. He stifled a groan and let her explore. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow.

He drew his fingertips over the silken skin of her shoulders, cupped her breast, ran his thumb over the pert peak. “Oh,” she sighed, as if she'd discovered a hidden secret. She moved restlessly, held him to her, caressing his legs with her own, her body arching up to meet his.

He slid his hands down to the soft curls between her thighs and she gasped as he slid his finger into the hot center of her. He stroked her, and she turned her face into the light, her lips parted, her eyes closed, her skin flushed with desire. Iain gazed down at her, watched the firelight play over her features, and his heart tightened in his breast. This was how he wanted to remember this woman, this moment, forever. One night, just one. He wanted to be perfect—­for her, and for himself. Would she remember? He'd do his damnedest to make sure she never, ever forgot him or this night.

Alanna was on fire. Every kiss, every caress drove her higher, into a secret, delicious realm of pleasure. The whole universe centered on this place, and them—­Iain and Alanna, and no one else existed. His fingers, his lips, his body, were driving her mad, and she dug her fingernails into his shoulder, wanting more, everything, all at once. Yet she must wait for him to show her, take her there.

Infuriatingly, he lay on his side, appeared to be considering the situation as he touched her softly, carefully, when she wanted heat and friction. He watched her with half-­lidded eyes, as passion and sensation spread through her limbs—­his doing. She made a soft sound of need, and he kissed her, sipping at her lips. She pressed her tongue to his, urged him on, wordlessly begged for more. Her fingers pressed into his flesh, drawing him nearer.

He whispered in her ear, soft, sweet words she barely heard. She was too aware of his hands on her body, hers on his, and the maddening, burgeoning need that kept on rising, until she was breathless with longing. At last the pressure of his fingers between her thighs increased, driving her higher still, her need unbearable now. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders, a wordless plea. Then the night exploded around her. He caught her cries with his mouth, kissing her, murmuring endearments as his fingers slowed, then moved faster, driving her up all over again, and still again, until she was boneless and weightless and scarcely able to breathe.

“More,” she whispered, her voice a husky moan. “Is there more?”

He grinned and kissed her, and she felt him shift, felt hot bluntness where his fingers had been. “Much, much more,” he murmured. He slid inside a little way into her body.

New pleasure rippled through her body. “Oh,” she sighed.

He paused. “Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice strained.

She shook her head and slid her arms around his neck. “Don't stop.”

He moved carefully, slid deeper, and she gasped at the invasion, more the wonder of it than the slight pain. She arched her hips, wanting the sensations that his fingers had created, sensing this pleasure would be greater still. He was holding back. She saw it in his eyes, in the strain of his muscles. He was more afraid of her pain than she was, it seemed.

She wrapped her ankles around his hips pressing her body to his, driving him deeper into her body. He swore softly, thrust forward, and filled her completely.

“Lass—­” he whispered, his voice strangled in his throat, but she arched again, and he stopped talking, began to move faster, plunging deeper with every stroke. She shut her eyes. This is what she wanted, his body joined to hers, the unbearable pleasure.

She felt her own climax building again, and she cried out as he thrust into her again and again, groaning her name, muttering guttural endearments in Gaelic until he finally found his own release.

He collapsed against her, and she felt the heavy beat of his heart against her own. She smiled, staring up at the dark beams that crossed the ceiling, stroking his hair, reveling in the weight of his body on hers. The warm glow of satisfaction filled her. And love. Was it possible that she loved him more than she had an hour ago? She never wanted this moment to end.

“Is there more?” she asked again, whispering into his ear, kissing it.

He lifted his head and looked at her. “You never cease to amaze me, lass. There's no more for a little while, I'm afraid.” He rolled off her, lay beside her, and she leaned up on her elbow, kissed the pebbled male nipple. He drew a sharp breath and she smiled, drawing circles on his chest with her fingernail.

“I meant more—­ways,” she said, lacking a better explanation.

He laughed, and the sound vibrated through her. “Enough that we could spend a whole lifetime discovering them.”

She saw the hope in his eyes. She lowered her own and cuddled into his side.

“Marry me,” he said again.

Alanna shut her eyes. She wanted to. She shook her head wordlessly. “You know I can't,” she said. He turned onto his side, looked into her eyes, his forehead against hers, his lips an inch from her own.

“Then we had better make the most of every moment we have, don't you think?”

She smiled and he kissed her again, and pulled her on top of him.

 

Chapter Forty-Seven

Three days before Christmas

C
AROLINE REGARDED
A
LEC
across the width of the coach. He was staring out the window, and she knew he was replaying the conversation with Sandy MacGillivray in his mind, because his complexion turned from red, to scarlet, to plum, to pea green.

He'd received Sandy MacGillivray with a scowl. The old gamekeeper had done his best to soothe Alec's fury, swearing that Alanna had not been kidnapped and was certainly not being held against her will.

Caroline saw something in the old man's eyes that Alec did not—­affection. He obviously had a soft spot for Lady Alanna McNabb, described her as an angel who had arrived on Craigleith Moor as if by magic.

“Magic?” Alec flushed, two bright spots of angry color in his cheeks. “Just what is that supposed to mean? Is she a prisoner?”

Sandy's white brows flew up to meet the fringe of his hair. “A prisoner? She's an honored guest. I can assure you she's come to no harm from Iain or any other MacGillivray. Why, if not for her, the fire might have been much worse—­”

“Fire?” Alec turned red. “What fire?”

Sandy MacGillivray twisted his gnarled hands together. “We had a wee accident, a lantern left burning in the night . . . not intentionally, of course.”

“Was Alanna hurt?” Alec demanded.

Sandy blinked, his eyes shining with tears. “No one was injured, thanks to the laird—­and Lady Alanna. She saved Donal MacGillivray's pig and his pipes. We lost the barn and several cottages,” the old man said. Tears sprang to his eyes. “Tragic enough, but if it hadn't been for the lass—­Lady Alanna—­it could have been even worse.”

“Alanna saved a pig?” Caroline asked, feeling a little flushed herself. Alanna was quiet, shy, and listened more than she spoke. Megan was the bold sister.

Sandy MacGillivray puffed out his chest like a bantam rooster. “Aye. Lady Alanna not only saved Nessa—­that's the pig—­she saved five cottages, dousing them herself. And she also rescued our piper—­that's Donal—­and saved a dozen bairns from certain—­”

“A dozen bairns? What on earth was your laird doing, your clansmen?” Alec demanded. “At Glenlorne, honored guests—­and ladies—­are not expected to put out fires and rescue livestock.”

Sandy put his thumbs in his belt. “I was the one who saved the livestock. You've got to understand that Nessa is more than just a pig to Donal. He raised her from a piglet. No one forced the lass to be there. In fact, Iain told her to stay at the castle, but she has a way with folk.” He gave Alec a sweet-­eyed look that made Alanna's brother turn a deep shade of scarlet. Caroline noted the vein on his forehead was bulging.

“Are we talking about the same Alanna McNabb?” Alec asked.

Sandy squinted. “She's about so tall—­just up to the laird's chin when he's not carrying her, hair like dark silk, eyes the color of frost lying over the hills in autumn, soft lips—­”

Alec turned purple. “Carrying her? Soft lips?”

Sandy started at Alec's fierce look and took a step back. Caroline laid a hand on her husband's arm. The muscles were like corded iron under her grip.

“There's no need to fret, Chief—­no one means the lass any harm, quite the opposite, I'd say,” Sandy said.

Alec's jaw opened, then closed again when Caroline dug her nails into his flesh. “What do you mean, the opposite?” she demanded. “I think you'd best start at the beginning. My husband is not a forgiving man, and if anyone has been—­interfering—­with his sister, then there will be hell to pay. We've heard some shocking tales, Mister MacGillivray.”

Sandy winced. “I know—­but they aren't true tales. Not really.”

“Did Iain MacGillivray find my sister in a storm, carry her back to his home wrapped in his plaid?” Alec asked.

Sandy McGillivray scratched his head. “Aye, that part's true. The laird found her in the snow on the moor. She was injured, and he took her to a cottage to keep her safe for the night. It was a cold night, and the lass was half frozen. More than half.”

That was when her husband turned green. “Lost? Injured?
Keep her for the night
?” He rose to tower over Craigleith's gamekeeper.

Sandy held up his hand. “Now, Chief, it's not what you think, though some did suggest he
should
keep her longer than just the one night—­”

Alec bunched his fists in the man's plaid, lifted him half off his feet. “Where the devil is my sister?” he demanded.

MacGillivray turned as green as Alec, and his eyes popped as his shaking hands scrabbled over Alec's fists. “Safe at Craigleith, I swear she's safe. She's awaiting her betrothed, the English marquess. We've shown her every kindness in the old Highland way. We aren't barbarians like some—­”

Alec was now a dangerous shade of plum. “Betrothed? What marquess?” he spluttered. Caroline felt her own face heat.

“I don't understand. Alanna's the quiet one,” Caroline said. “Put Mister MacGillivray down, Alec.”

“Perhaps I haven't explained myself well,” Sandy MacGillivray said, straightening his clothes. “Our laird only did what was necessary. Her leg was injured, and she couldn't walk. He brought her home, put her in his bed, and—­” He winced. “Not that he was in it of course—­not at the same time,” he spluttered.

Caroline clutched her shawl to her throat. “What kind of barbarian is this Iain MacGillivray?”

“What about the marquess? Who is he?” Alec said.

Sandy ignored that question. “I'll have you know that Laird Iain is a fine gentleman, the finest anywhere.” He raised his chin. “Alanna told me you were a kind gentleman, a good laird to your own folk. It was she who sent me here, said you'd be inclined to provide us with supplies to see us through the winter if I asked, since the fire—­” His chin quivered. “She's a kind lady, and I thought . . .”

Alec softened. “Is she still at Craigleith?”

“Aye,” Sandy said. “Unless her English lord has come for her.”

“The marquess?” Caroline asked.

“Aye. Iain saved her on the eve of her wedding day. There was some suggestion she might have run away . . .”

“Wedding? Ran away?” Alec's voice went up two octaves. “I haven't even met the man, or given my permission for anyone to marry Alanna. She's far too young—­”

“She's a woman grown,” Caroline said softly. “Perhaps she's in love.”

“With Iain?” Sandy asked hopefully.

“If she's in love with Iain, then who is the marquess?” Alec demanded.

No one answered.

“I'll leave at once for Craigleith, within the hour,” Alec said. He looked at Sandy MacGillivray. “You'll take me there.”

“I'm going with you,” Caroline said, rising to her feet.

“No, you're not. You'll stay here, where it's safe.”

She set her hands on her hips, broader now with the babe she was carrying. “I will not spend our first Christmas together alone, Alec McNabb,” she insisted. “We'll find Alanna and bring her home.” She rolled up her sleeves, then rolled them down again. “I'll tell Muira to pack a few things.”

“There could be bloodshed,” Alec warned, and for a moment she wondered if he was serious. His expression was flat, calm, dangerous.

“Bloodshed?” Sandy MacGillivray squeaked, stepping back. “But surely there's no need for that—­”

Alec fixed their visitor with a glare as sharp as a dirk. “If the MacGillivray—­or anyone else—­has harmed a hair on Alanna's head, I will kill them with my own bare hands.” He held those hands up before Sandy's eyes, and the gamekeeper paled as he stared at them.

Alec's expression softened at the sight of the old man's fear. “You'd best go and have a meal in the kitchen while we prepare for the journey. Give Leith Rennie the list of the supplies you need, and he'll see to it.” Alec and Caroline watched him go.

Caroline clutched her husband's arm. “Alec, I'm sure everything is all right. Who would harm Alanna?”

Alec frowned. “When I last heard from her, she was at Dundrummie, safe with her mother and her aunt. I haven't forgotten the trouble Megan got herself into.”

Caroline smiled. “But Megan is now happily married. You said you liked Kit Rossington.”

“This is different. How many English lords are there in the Scottish Highlands, and how did Alanna get herself betrothed to one without my even meeting the man? She ran away from her wedding, was kidnapped by a reiver.” He looked at her, the worry in his eyes softening as he laid his hand on her rounded belly. “I only hope that this child is not a girl. I couldn't go through this again.”

She put her hand on his and smiled back. “Ah, but that's years away. You still have one more sister to see married long before then.”

He groaned. “Sorcha. How could I have forgotten?”