The Return of Black Douglas (21 page)

He eased himself inside her, feeling the heat, the aching warmth, the velvety drag as he began to move, slowly at first, until they moved as one, his strokes swift and sure. This was more than coupling and far different that it had ever been with any woman. There was rightness to it, a peace that drew him further, faster, and harder into her.

She cried out his name, and he covered her mouth with his kiss until he felt the crashing waves of pleasure that shot through him, intense and drawing him deeper into her, until he could no longer control it and the warm, liquid heat burst forth.

Her arms were around his neck. She drew him closer, and he could feel tears upon her face as she whispered, “So beautiful. I never knew it could be so beautiful.”

He rolled to one side, taking her with him, and her head nestled in the cove of his neck. He kissed the top of her head, and his hand stroked the silky length of her body. He kissed her eyes and her lips and held her close, and the two of them fell asleep.

She never knew how long they slept before she awoke to the touch of his hand stroking her until she writhed beneath him. She wanted to tell him to stop, that she couldn’t stand the torment any longer, yet somehow he knew. He covered her mouth with his kiss, and the objections died in her throat. She began to move, tentatively and slowly, until her movements began to match the rhythmic pace set by his hand. Then he kissed his way downward.

His mouth was warm, and she gasped at the intensity. Her breathing was ragged. She grew impatient and restless, her arms flung away from her body to grip the edge of the blankets, her sweat-dampened head turning from side to side. It felt so good, and yet it was like dying with slow agony. She moved against him in uncontrollable passion as strange rhythms washed over her, each ripple unbearably shattering and the next one stronger and more intense.

When she felt herself at the point of near insanity, he filled her and she cried out and called his name. From the ashes of the woman she was came the birth of a new being. Instinctively she knew the world would somehow be different, that she would never be the same.

She felt the solid burning warmth of his loins against her, his sweat-slicked body arched in driving need. He wrapped his arms around her and she did the same, hoping that she could hold him close enough that when the first rays of morning came through the window and she opened her eyes, she would not find him gone.

***

She was still asleep the next morning when he awoke. He kissed her cheek and then dressed quietly. He started to leave, but something seemed to reach out and touch him, as if she was calling him back to her side. He returned to her bedside, quiet and content to simply look at her. He thought of her amazing story, the undeniable and inexplicable proof of her truthfulness. It had been good with her, better than with those who had come before. He counted himself fortunate to have experienced it, for he doubted it could ever be that way again.

But she had surprised him before.

A beam of sunlight slipped between the drawn tapestries to bathe her in a golden frame of light. He released a long-held breath, fought the urge to undress and make love to her again, and then turned and quietly quit the room.

Later, when Isobella awoke, she lay in bed for quite some time, reliving each moment of the evening before. She no longer wanted to dream about the perfect man, for she had met him. She paused and looked around. It was a perfect time for the Black Douglas to poke his meddlesome nose into her affairs and voice his opinion.

Nothing…

She stretched lazily and curled her toes. Never had she dreamed it could be as it had been between them the night before. If she had any regrets about the Black Douglas bringing her back in time, they had evaporated in the heat of her lovemaking with Alysandir. She had never known there were so many ways to make love: her on top, him on top, face up, face down, hands and mouth. She smiled and hugged herself. Last night, Alysandir Mackinnon had flipped her like a pancake, and she had enjoyed every moment of it.

She was in love with him, and that scared her. She had no idea how long she would be here. The Black Douglas gave her no hope of returning one moment and made it seem like it could happen at any time the next. How could she be in love knowing she could declare her love one moment and vanish the next?

What if she was pregnant with Alysandir’s child and suddenly found herself back in the twenty-first century? He would never know his own child. And what if she had a child? Could she be taken back and her child left behind? It was a sobering thought, for how could she plan for the future with Alysandir when there might not be one?

She didn’t get to think further on the subject, for Mistress MacMorran came into the room with a breakfast tray. “The Mackinnon said to bring ye yer breakfast. Ye are na feeling the fever again, are ye?”

Isobella smiled and pulled the sheet up. “No, I’m just being lazy this morning.”

Mistress MacMorran nodded, as if giving her approval. “’Tis part of being human, to take it easy now and then,” she said, as she put the tray down.

After she was gone, Isobella finished her breakfast, stretched luxuriously, and hopped out of bed. She opened the lid of her trunk and withdrew the first garment her hand came in contact with, unaware of what she selected, her mind preoccupied with dreamy remembrances of the previous night. She hugged the dress against her and closed her eyes and wondered if she had ever been this happy.

She dressed, did her hair, and was about to depart when a chill went up her spine and settled across her shoulders. The window tapestries billowed. She looked around the room.

“I know you are here,” she said. “You are playing games again and moving your Alysandir and Isobella chess pieces. I recognize your manipulations. Show yourself, and admit your tampering!”

She waited to see if a ghostly chuckle would float into her consciousness, and when none was forthcoming, she said, “I would be reluctant to comment on this mess you’ve made of things, too, if I were you.”

“Vex not a ghost,” a voice behind her said.

She let out a yelp and turned quickly. Today, she didn’t see merriment dancing in his eyes, but something more along the line of mischief.

“I have learned that you come only when it pleases you and not when I invite you.”

“I am here, am I not?”

“Yes, after the fact.”

“Aye, I heard yer grumbling aboot being a chess piece.”

“Yes, and a good analogy, I thought. Strange things are going on here, and I am certain it is mostly your doing. I’m beginning to feel like I’m standing on a chessboard where all the players are human and someone is moving us around, for our feet move of their own accord and we are helpless to stop them. Does that sound familiar so far?”

He shrugged. “The absent are always to blame.”

“But I do turn to you. And I trust your judgment and do as you suggest.”

When he raised his brows, she added, “Well, at least most of the time. And even when I have doubts, I always think of you as my
éminence grise
. Please don’t tell me that you are not.”

His image glowed just a little bit brighter, and she thought even a ghost has his pride. “Mayhap I concur,” he said, “for ’tis true that I am secretly powerful.”

She was thinking controlling. “And you exercise great power and influence over me.”

“Aye… secretly, of course.”

“Of course… So, use some of your exceptional powers and tell me why all of this is happening?”

“’Tis yer fate. ’Tis a misconception ye mortals have… thinking ye are the master of yer fate, when, in truth, man is completely helpless in manipulating or changing his future. Affairs dinna always prosper. Friends are no’ all true. And happiness is never assured. Ye must learn to live each day as it comes.”

“That makes it frightfully difficult to plan for the future,” she said. “What do you know of mine?”

“I could tell ye more aboot cabbages.”

“Thank you. That was a great deal of help.”

“The future? What is there to know? Everything happens. Nothing happens. The unexpected happens. And life goes on in between. Ye want me to give ye a fixed image of yer future, and ’twill no’ happen. Mayhap I canna predict yer future. Mayhap I can. Mayhap I try to prevent it, or is it that I can change it? Ye canna have everything ye want, and ye doona want everything ye get. And yet there is balance of life.”

“My, that really makes me feel a whole lot better. Pardon me while I get my sackcloth and ashes and take a pilgrimage.”

“Ye worrit about the future when the effort is wasted. ’Tis like playing chess with the deil. The future is a deceiver, and he never tires of being a cheat. Heads I win, tails ye lose.”

“But…”

His image began to fade as the evening twilight fades… gradually… and by the time it is noticed, the sky is black and filled with stars. Only in her case, her room was empty, and her heart filled with hope.

Chapter 24

A guardian angel o’er

His life presiding,

Doubling his pleasures,

and his cares dividing.

—“Human Life,” 1819
Samuel Rogers (1763–1855)
English poet

Isobella decided to pay a visit to the tower in search of Bradan. Once there, she was surrounded by nothing but the cold, stone walls of the hallway, and a stout wooden door with iron hinges barred her way. She knew the unsurpassed strength of this mighty castle, for inner doors were almost as strongly fortified as those facing the outside. She remembered Alysandir once having mentioned that each of the towers had two upper floors reached by spiraling stairs, so she searched until she finally found one of them.

The door opened easily enough, for which she was thankful, and soon she was climbing the narrow, circling staircase until she reached a door on the first floor. She knocked and then tried the door but found it locked. On the second level, the door opened. The room was small with a narrow bed along one wall. A pail of cold ashes stood beside the fireplace, where fresh kindling had been laid in the grate.

She picked up the tinderbox sitting nearby and smiled. She imagined Bradan giving his patient attention to the ten or fifteen minutes of painstaking work needed to light a fire and then coaxing the first, timid tongues of flames to life. The chimney was still warm, so he had not been gone long.

She noticed a square of muslin cloth and the crumbs of what she supposed was an oatcake. Breakfast. She considered the bed, and her heart turned as she imagined the small hands that smoothed the bedding and folded the change of clothes lying on the chair near the wash bowl.

A clatter of hooves in the courtyard drew her to the window, but it was difficult to see more than mounted horsemen and Grim standing near the two riders. She caught sight of Alysandir framed like a painting in the slim rectangle of an open door, and her heart pounded at the sight of him, tall and slim hipped, waiting on the groomsman to bring his horse. Mistress MacMorran had mentioned to her earlier that the Mackinnon would be away from Màrrach to meet with the chief of Clan Macquarrie. Isobella was actually glad to see him go, for it would give her time to become better acquainted with Bradan.

Just as she turned away from the window, she noticed two speckled gull eggs sitting on a small table. They were placed next to a small bird’s nest that contained a pinecone. A crude knife lay near a piece of greying driftwood that he was carving, but it was too early to tell what the end result would be. She touched another of Bradan’s treasures, a small clay deer, and spotted a broken chessboard and two crudely carved knights and then a small wooden whistle. Leaning next to the table was a Celtic short sword, carved from driftwood, its handle tightly wound with brown yarn.

She thought of the other children in the castle, blessed with their loving parents and siblings, playmates, tutors, clean clothing. The unfairness of Bradan’s circumstances broke her heart and made her more determined than ever to put things right.

She was on her way toward the beach when she caught sight of Grim walking across the courtyard, and she called out, “Grim! Wait up!” She was a bit breathless by the time she caught up to him, still not accustomed to the weight of petticoats and long skirts—not to mention the clodhopper shoes—while dodging horse droppings.

Grim turned around.

“Ah, a lass with a bright face to rival the sun, and she seeks my companionship,” he said as he gave her a sweeping and much exaggerated, bow.

She laughed. “I need your help.”

“Weel, I can give ye my help, but it might cost ye a favor one day,” he said, with a mischievous smile rivaled by the teasing gleam in his eye.

She smiled. “Fair enough,” she said and fell in step beside him. “Where are you going?”

“I am off to the stables to see a newborn foal of great size.”

“I take it that it is larger than any of your other horses.”

“’Tis no’ so large now, but ’twill be when grown, for it is the much awaited foal sired by an English war-horse.”

Isobella was intrigued. She knew from her studies that the Scots’ horses, known for their endurance and sturdiness, were of small stature of about twelve to fourteen hands tall. It was extremely rare for a Scot to own one of the war-horses ridden by medieval knights, which were no more than fifteen hands.

“Ahhh, yes… English war-horses are difficult to come by, are they not?”

“Usually impossible, ye ken, because for centuries the English have thwarted attempts to smuggle war-horses from not only England, but France and Spain, although a few were smuggled across the Borders.”

“And smuggling is preferable to buying them?”

“Buying is not a choice we have. ’Tis a felony in England to sell horses to the Scots, for fear that we will improve our stock.”

They stepped into the stables and made their way to a large stall where a sturdy grey mare gave suckle to a long-legged foal of a chestnut color. Isobella crossed her arms over the stall door and leaned forward as far as she could to observe.

“It would seem this leggy little creature is destined to father many foals, for he seems to be in perfect health and nurses well.”

Grim turned to look at her. “Ye surprise me, mistress, for ye are a woman with a breeder’s knowledge. How came ye by it?”

She shrugged. “I have been around horses all my life.”

“Then we shall go riding one day soon. Mayhap ye would enjoy a gallop down by the sea.”

“I would love that,” she said, and left a soon after. She walked along the beach a short while later, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine, her thoughts upon the horses she had at home and how her father taught her and Elisabeth to ride.

She thought about Bradan, reminded of just how little she knew about children, and then thought of how she would like to thump Alysandir Mackinnon on his stubborn head for ignoring his son.

She caught a glimpse of Bradan just ahead, with the sun glinting off ebony hair that was badly in need of a good trimming. She saw him running at the water’s edge, his shadow keeping pace with him, and when he saw her, he changed direction and ran toward her. His smile reached her before he did, as if hanging in the air like that of a Cheshire cat.

“Hello, Bradan. I was hoping I would find you here.”

“Ye were looking for me, then?

“Yes, I was. We cannot become good friends unless we spend some time together, now can we?”

A frown parked itself between his brows. “I do not know if the chief will let me have a friend.”

“You let me worry about the chief,” she said. “He’s not here, so there is no need to worry. I am new at the castle and very much in need of a friend.”

His nose crinkled adorably as he stared into the sun to look at her. “What do I have to do?”

She smiled. “Why, nothing other than be my friend, and I will be your friend.”

“I have not had a friend before.”

“Well, don’t worry. Being a friend is the easiest thing you will ever do,” she said, and then asked, “Have you seen the new foal in the stable?”

His eyes brightened. “Ye have seen it, then?”

“Aye, I have seen it standing on wobbly legs beside its mother.”

“Have they named it?”

“I don’t think they have. What would you name it, if the foal was yours?”

“Cahir!” he said without thinking.

“Cahir… it’s a Gaelic word I don’t know, but then, I know very few Gaelic words. What does it mean?”

“Warrior,” he said proudly. “Mayhap I would call it Cahir Mor.”

“Big Warrior, a perfect name for such a fine foal. He will breed fine foals to improve Mackinnon stock,” she said, wondering if she was speaking over the boy’s head.

But his face lit up, and he replied quickly, “Aye, I ken this is true, for I heard the men speak of it.”

“You are a very smart young man,” she replied.

“Aboot things I hear others say, but I have no book-learning.”

“Would you like to study with the other children?”

He looked down at his hands. “I am not allowed. ’Tis against the rules.”

“What happens if you break the rules?”

“I dinna ken, for I have never broken one.”

She leaned forward and gave his black hair a gentle tousling. This darling boy had been deprived of a mother’s love and devotion for so long. Isobella was determined, if not to make up for it, at least to see that he received it from now on. In spite of everything, he had done a remarkable job of raising himself.

“If I arranged for you could study with the other children, would you like to?”

“Nay, they are verra smart, and they would tease me more than they do now.”

“And if I could change that, so they would not make fun of you, would you enjoy having studies with them?”

“Ye canna change it, for I am not allowed with them.”

“You will be,” she said with a positive air.

His dark blue eyes measured her in a way that only a child could do, with hope, trust, and just a little bit of uncertainty.

She smiled at him and said in a light-hearted tone, “But, enough of that right now. Come along with me, and we will go look at Cahir Mor.”