The Raven's Wish (21 page)

He would have given anything, just then, to take the pain out of her gaze. Not since his grandmother had anyone showed so much concern for his well-being. The knowledge that Elspeth did, for no reason but that her heart was giving by nature, stunned him, touched him deeply. She felt remorse and fear on his behalf. He felt an urge to ease it, but did not know how.

Leaning forward and tilting her chin up, he lowered his head and kissed her, slow and easy, offering the only tangible comfort that he could.

"I have cheated the raven before," he said. "I will be here a long time, girl."

She made a little sound like a whimper, and looped her arms around his neck. The blankets slipped down, hers and then his, and he pulled her closer, spreading his hands along her back.

Through the thin fabric of their damp shirts, he could feel her breasts against his chest, soft and yielding, their tips firm. The sensation quickened and deepened his breath. He met her lips again, and she drew in a long breath, followed by a tiny shudder. She opened her mouth a little, and he tasted the inner moisture there.

He drew his mouth from hers and held her head, tilting it down gently to kiss her forehead. She closed her eyes and he shifted to rest his cheek against hers.

"Elspeth," he whispered. The wind moaned overhead, and new rain burst over the roof. "What happens when I am with you? Do you feel it?"

"I feel it," she whispered. She raised her face to his, and he kissed her, long and slow and gentle at first, until the burgeoning insistence within him changed the nature of the kiss, and changed the course of the moment. He knew that she felt the whirlpool along with him, and knew, finally, that they were caught in its powerful flow.

His fingers glided along her throat, over the slight bones of her chest, to the place where the slope of her breasts began. She drew in her breath, and he let his hand glide further, over the soft, gentle curve of her breasts, over her ribs to her hip, turned and inviting, to the edge of the shirt's hem.

Slipping his fingers under the loose linen, feeling her breathe and shift and stir in his arms, he rested his hand on her thigh. A subtle heat emanated from her body. He sighed against her mouth as the heat of his own body began to resonate with hers. Inhaling sharply, he knew that the lodestone that was her, that was him, had turned again, and the pull was stronger than he had felt before. He did not know if he could resist its draw.

His hand hovered on her thigh, and his fingertips caressed the soft skin of her hip. "Ah, girl," he breathed, "do you want this? Do you feel what this is, between us?"

"I feel it," she repeated as before. "I want this." He sensed that she felt no fear of this moment. Though she might dread the future for him, she seemed to welcome what burgeoned between them now. He could sense it in the steady pound of her heart, could feel it in her sweet even breaths against his cheek.

Somehow, he knew that the finest reassurance he could give her would be to share with her the life that flowed within him. Life, not death; love rather than fear. He needed that himself.

He did not believe in prophecy, but he had heard the knell of a death-warning and needed renewal. He wanted to replace that drone with the pulse of life, for her and for himself.

She shifted to touch her mouth to his, and he sighed, pulling her to him in a fierce embrace. She tightened her arms around his neck and tilted her head, parting her lips. His tongue slipped inside, where she was moist and sweet and warm.

A spiral of excitement swirled through his gut and plunged into his loins, filling him completely, heating him, demanding more. The urge grew and spun until he lay back, taking her with him, drawing her body over his, pressing her hips against his turgid center. She sighed and wrapped her legs around him, and her soft breath mingled with his. Only a thin piece of fabric separated them. His loins surged, aching with fullness. He might have satisfied himself with a shift and quick thrust, but he held back.

She slid her hands up under his shirt, over his bare chest, over his shoulders. When her hands neared the long scar, he shifted, rolling her to her back. Skimming his hands up her body, he encircled her breasts. Incredible softness and a sweet, firm weight filled his hands. The warm, tight nubs pressed into his palms, hardening further when he eased his thumbs over them.

She arched and her breath quickened. He laid his lips to her breast, taking its silkiness into his mouth, moaning low at the deep, utter pleasure. Drifting his lips upward again, he kissed her throat, took her mouth, and slid his hands beneath her, pressing her hips upward with splayed, urgent fingers.

Furrowing through the soft thick hair over his chest, her fingertips feathered across his ribs and down, over his belly to where he was turgid and swollen, not touching him, although his body throbbed. She took his tongue then, and took his breath.

The wind moaned again, and the walls trembled around them, and the fire flickered in the draft. A crash of thunder startled her, but when a rich gust of rain poured down, he felt the tension drain from her body.

He pulled away from her and drew up the light linen, wanting to see the pale gleam of her in the dimness. Deep, warm coppery light swirled over her body. Running his fingers down the lush curving length of her torso, he cupped a hand over the downy cleft, heated and sweet, and leaned forward again to kiss her mouth. She shifted, and his fingers slipped inside, so easily.

His other hand circled around her. Her heart beat fiercely, drumming against his chest, stirring him to embrace her, to bury his face for a moment in the rain-sweet softness of her hair.

His own heart pounded with wild force. He felt the blood pulse through him, felt the muscles harden, felt the heaving, heady flow of his own strength, his own aliveness. Beneath his fingertip, deep within her, she moved, undulating so that her hidden layers opened for him.

Quickening her movements, quickening her breath, she reached for him instinctively, pulling at his shirt. He slid over her, succumbing to the pulsing force between them. He shifted, and she opened to him, and her little cry of momentary fear sounded soft in his ear, so soft that he murmured reassurance with his gentle thrust.

A sigh, and another, and the heated, moist, secret part of her accepted him as if he were her core, some lost part of herself sweetly reclaimed. She took him in, soothing, urging, succoring as if she were all the layers of life enveloping his very soul.

And he knew then that this was his affirmation to her. He was part of life, part of her life. Warnings and threats could not touch them here. Time, sight, future or past did not exist here. Only this moment existed, only touch, and warmth, and scent, and the sound of their hearts and their breath.

He followed the heated, throbbing pulses, thrusting deeper into her body, wanting her to feel him, to know that he would be here forever, that he would be here for her. And with each breath he took, each thrust he made, he fell deeper into the whirlpool.

* * *

Duncan sat by the fire in his wrapped and brooched plaid. Elspeth finished lacing her boots and crossed her legs, gazing into the low flames. She glanced at Duncan, saw him watching her steadily, and glanced away again.

What had happened between them had filled her with a sweet, languid sensation, a keen awareness of her body, of him, of her surroundings. She felt the damp, cool drift of the breeze that came in from the open window, now that the rain had stopped. She felt the wool and linen against her skin, and smelled the sweet, musty sweet peat smoke, and the combined odors of damp wool, and sweat, and rain.

What his hands, his lips, his body had given her was beyond definition. A precious gift, she knew, and she had returned it in full. When he had reached out to her at first, she had suddenly wanted to ease the awful effect of her constant death-warnings. Without knowing how it had happened, she had given naturally, generously to him. But she had found ease and solace there for herself, too, and had discovered something more, a whirling, fervent joy. She felt as refreshed, as renewed, as the land outside, following the thunderstorm.

What had shivered through her body, and what had poured from his hands, from his body, into her soul, had been an intense, magical love. She felt it still, infusing her whole being.

She glanced at him again, and he smiled, holding out his hand. Elspeth took his fingers silently, caught up in her thoughts.

But she felt tentative, unsure, knowing her life would change somehow. For now, Duncan was here with her. The elusive filaments that bound them had become more tightly woven in the last hour. She knew Duncan felt it too. And she knew that this bond could bring disaster for him.

She drew in a deep breath of fresh wet air, and sighed deeply. Bethoc had told her that Duncan was her heart, and that she was his. But she recalled her fear, and though it seemed muted by the love that had been created, she knew that the future was still there. She wanted to believe what he had told her—that he was in no danger—but she could not.

"Here," Duncan said, reaching into the swath of plaid over his chest. "Flora sent this with me." He handed her a small leather flask. She opened it, smelled the fire of the liquor inside, and sipped. The sweet burn strengthened her. She looked at him.

"You must go back to Edinburgh, Duncan," she said huskily. "I am truly frightened, now. We should not be together."

He grasped her hand firmly. "I must stay at Glenran a bit longer. Do you not want that?"

She lowered her head, her loosened braid swinging over her shoulders. "Go soon," she said.

He sighed. "When the bond of caution is signed, I must take the paper back to Edinburgh."

"Good," she said. "Stay away from the Highlands."

He leaned over suddenly, turning her by the shoulders to face him, drawing her near. "And when I leave here, will I see you again?"

"You will wed some court lady and live a peaceful life. If you leave the Highlands."

"Ah," he said, "you are a stubborn girl. Is that another prediction? The ladies of the queen's court are not like you. I would be very bored, with no one to say my doom now and again."

"It is no doom to wed a fine Lowland lady," she said.

"Well," he said, taking his hands from her shoulders, "some are quite gracious, I admit."

"They wear no plain woolen plaids, but silks, I hear."

"Silk and damask and lace. Jewels, pearls, fine fragrances." He glanced at her.

"Ah," she said in a small voice, looking away.

"And they are quite learned. Some can read many languages."

"I can read Latin," she said.

Duncan narrowed his eyes and studied the flames. "But I have never met a Lowland lady who would wade barefoot through a peat bog. Nor who would wield a dirk, or ride through the night after cattle. Or face a wild Scot holding only a small knife."

"They must be very beautiful, these gracious ladies."

"They are," he agreed affably. "But not a one I know has hair like gold and copper spun together. Or has the voice of an angel. Or of a fairy," he added in a loud whisper. She flicked a look at him. "Although Lowland women, I have observed, will kiss anyone."

A surprised laugh bubbled out of her. "They what?"

"Oh, they kiss for hello, and for thanks, and farewell. They would give a kiss for nearly any reason. Have another joint of roast chicken, here's a kiss."

She looked at him doubtfully. "You tell a tale."

He grinned and lifted a brow. "Do I?"

"Any time, they do this?"

"For any reason. Very pleasant, it is." He leaned forward. She smiled, unable to resist, and touched her lips to his.

"Lowland women are very fragrant," he murmured. "And delicate." His lips brushed hers again, and her head tilted fully back, her heart pounding. "They are so soft."

"Soft?" she murmured, breathless. "The Lowland women?"

"Who?" he whispered, and his arms went fully around her. Leaning back in his support, she drank in the long kiss, melting inside like butter slipped into hot
uisge beatha
.

A whooping cry, outside the window, echoed over the hills. Elspeth jumped, and Duncan got to his feet, stepping quickly to the window.

"There come your kinsmen," he said. She came to stand beside him, and saw three men on garrons, riding over the moor.

"They have likely been searching for us since the storm cleared," she said.

Duncan rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. He turned to slant a brow at her. "Does the Sight run in your family?"

She frowned, puzzled at the question. "A little. My Fraser grandfather was well-known for his visions and prophecies."

"Well, then. Whichever of your cousins draws his dirk on me, then we will know that one has inherited the Sight as well."

She scowled at him, too anxious for teasing. "Do you think they will know?"

He shrugged, and smiled. "Do you want them to know?"

She looked away, uncertain how she felt about all of this.

"Come ahead, then." He held out his hand.

She stepped past him, went out the door ahead of him and walked decisively toward her cousins.

"My father once said to me, never show your fear. He must have learned it from the Frasers, I think," Duncan commented, walking behind her. She threw a disparaging look over her shoulder and marched ahead.

Magnus, Kenneth, and Hugh cantered toward them on their garrons. Expressions of obvious relief were on their faces as they waved and halted the garrons.

"Elspeth, are you well?" Hugh asked.

"I am fine," she said.

"Duncan Macrae, we thank you for seeing her safe," Kenneth said. "I am sorry, Elspeth, to have left you alone."

"Where were you?" Magnus asked. "We went back to Glenran, and have been searching ever since the rain stopped. It has been hours."

"We took shelter in the shieling hut," she said.

"The shieling hut?" Magnus asked.

"The shieling hut, all the afternoon?" Hugh asked.

Elspeth shrugged and nodded. She saw Magnus look hard at Duncan and start to say something. Then he closed his mouth and looked away.