Warrior and the Wanderer (20 page)

He also had the audacity to grin at her.

She took a step back from him.

“I sang to her,” he said reaching up to rub his throat. “All night. Until she fell asleep.”

Of course he sang to Her Majesty until his voice was gone. She knew that couples sang a lot in bed, behind closed doors. Growing up she had heard such singing in her castle, primitive grunts and howls, not so unlike the sounds Ian had made with the first song he sang in the great hall this evening. Oh, aye, he had sung for the queen, and in her chamber.

“She gave me this,” he said reaching into a pocket in his tight trews and withdrew a gold and jeweled ring.

He offered it to her. “The queen gave this to me as a symbol of her promise that she would do me a favor, while she still has the power to do so.”

He placed the ring in her open hand and curled her fingers around it, holding his large hand warmly over hers. “I did this for you.”

“For me?”

“I sang to the queen all night, and earned her favor. But I’m giving that favor to you. Use it as you see best.”

“Her Majesty gave the favor to you. Ian, I can’t accept it. No one gives away a royal favor. D’ye ken that?” She suspected he did not know the worth of a royal favor bestowed. If he did, he would not have given it away so freely. Since she had met him, there were times when Ian seemed like a lost man. His confidence and cocky manner was just a cover, but she had seen beyond that facade. All she needed to do was look into his eyes.

“Ye must keep this gift from Her Majesty,” she said. “Ye may need it.”

Ian reached up and molded his large warm hands over her shoulders. The sleeves of her tunic shifted slightly downward. He looked at her exposed shoulders, his gaze so soft upon her. She shuddered.

“I don’t care what protocol dictates,” he said. “I’m giving the favor to you. I will tell the queen that is my wish.”

“No one
tells
Her Majesty anything.” Was Ian’s confidence born from what he wasn’t telling her about his private audience with the queen?

As if reading her mind, he said, “I just sang to her when she needed singing to. My timing happened to be good.” He smiled and raised one hand to caress her face. She tilted her chin up. “My testimony against Lachlan will bear more weight now that the queen and I are better acquainted.”

“Is that what ye call it? ‘Better acquainted’?”

“Never underestimate the power of a good love song.” He grinned cupping her face in his hands.

“Ye are a most uncommon bard, Ian MacLean.”

“I am a most weary bard,” he said with his ravaged voice.

Bess continued to look into his amber eyes. She heard herself saying, “My bed is yon.”

Needed no further invitation, Ian swept her off her feet, holding her in his arms, cradling her body against his. She gasped, bracing one hand against the firmness of Ian’s broad chest. If she had met him in another time, at one of the many
ceilidhs
held at Inverary, when her only role in life was to find the proper suitor, her life would be so different.

Bess pressed the side of her face into the linen that covered his chest. She opened her eyes to the firelight, listening to the gentle sound of rain that had begun to fall in the
haar
. And listening to Ian’s steady breathing. She drew in his heady man-scent as he held her so protectively. Was wanting to be loved and feel protected the will of the weak and not the will of a clan chief?

No. She was here because she wanted to be. That was the will of the strong, to choose one’s own fate and step boldly into it without reservation.

Ian laid her gently on the bed and sat beside her. She gazed up at him. Her hair was partially loosened from the pins that had held it piled high on her head when she was in the great hall that evening. He buried one hand in her hair, and the rest of the pins fell away as he combed her tresses with his fingers.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “Ye havenae—”

“—Removed hairpins before.”

She sank into the pillow with a smile.

Ian didn’t say anything. Just grinned down at her. Then he grasped one sleeve of her tunic and pulled it gently over her arm.

Bess swallowed as he freed her arm of the other sleeve.

The rain beat a gentle pit-pat beyond the narrow window. The fire in the hearth crackled and snapped. The bed creaked as Ian moved forward, as he freed her from the rest of her clothes.

He gazed down at her body. She held her breath, did not move, allowing him to see her nakedness, wanting him to see her.

“Blaze, I care for you and your best interests,” he whispered, jaw tight, voice ravaged, and oddly fetching.

“Aye?” she breathed.

“Going further…are you concerned that…?” He suddenly covered her body with the bedclothes and sat up. “The annulment, I’ve heard that—”

“—That I must prove my maidenhead is intact? Mine ’twas broken long ago. ’Tis no secret that I’m a rigorous horsewoman.”

Ian stared at her. “Isn’t that a myth?”

She cocked her head. “Are ye no’ pleased in knowing this about me?”

He gave her a crooked grin. “More like relieved.”

“Aye, well then…” She pushed away the bedclothes and reached up to him.

He leaned down to kiss her. Bess did not embrace him. Instead, she grasped his doublet and pulled it down from his shoulders. He shrugged free of it and tossed it across the chamber. Then she grabbed his tunic, pulled it over his head, and dropped it on the floor.

Ian lowered his body on top of hers while kissing her, as his warm bare flesh touched her own. Bess reached down, her fingers finding the waist of Ian’s trews, and the row of pewter buttons. She fumbled for them, but Ian broke their kiss and rolled off of her.

He stood, leaving her on the bed. He drank her in with his softened gaze as he reached down to the silvery buttons on his trews and opened them. She forced her eyes not to widen, her mouth not to drop open as Ian revealed himself to her. He pushed his trews down his well-muscled legs, stepped out of them, and abandoned them on the floor as he re-joined her in the bed.

“That’s better,” he sighed, pulling the bedclothes over both of them.

“Aye, much better,” she sighed looking up into his hooded eyes.

“Aye,” he repeated smoothing her hair.

He shifted on the bed, resting his body on hers. His lips found the side of her neck, the bristles on his chin tickling her, sending shivers to her very core. One of Ian’s hands found her breast. Bess struggled to find her breath.

Under Ian’s touch, she forgot everything except this very moment. All she had waited for, all she had secretly mused about not so soon after she had met Ian MacLean was now hers in this bed. No more furtive glances at him, no more denying her attraction to this man in favor of embracing her role as clan chief. She was a woman. And Ian was most definitely a man.

 
He brushed the side of her breast with the back of one hand as he brushed her lips with the promise of another kiss. She arched her body up encouraging him to take her to that place she had only experienced in her deepest dreams. Lately, Ian had been a part of those dreams.

His breathing grew more rapid, sending warm puffs caressing the side of her neck as he worked a hand between her legs. She gasped and moaned at the same time, as he gently parted her with his fingers. His kisses, his bristles, on the side of her face delivered a flood of sensation to all parts of her body. He slid a finger inside her so easily, her moistness clearly betraying her desire for him.

Finding her lips and deepening their kiss, Ian gently nudged her thighs apart with his hand. She parted her legs welcoming him.

He spoke his endearment to her into her ear. “Blaze.”

And then he slipped inside her.

Bess gasped, burying her fingertips in his shoulders as her pressed his hips down, filling her.

A deep moan left her lips. She crossed her ankles at the small of Ian’s back, pressing into him, drawing him deeper into her.

He danced with her, each thrust stripping her senses bare, heightening pleasure she had never known but once discovered this night, she deeply craved more.

She pressed her hips so tightly to Ian’s that they were one being.

She pushed out breath after strong breath as her raw senses burst open in wave and after wave of the delicious sensation Ian delivered to her. He held her so tight as he moaned with her. This was their special song, a duet.

Bess squeezed her eyes shut, fearing to look down from the height that she had climbed with Ian not wanting to let fade this sensation that wracked her again and again from the deepest part of her.

She fell back, suddenly aware that Ian had held her up from the bed as they performed their private duet. He released her onto the bed; their bodies glistening in heat and perspiration.

“Oh!” she managed to gasp. And then finding one of Ian’s favorite expressions, she blurted out, “Bloody hell!”

Ian rolled over to his side, laughing into the side of her neck.

He cradled her into his arms. “My thoughts exactly, Blaze. Bloody hell!”

“Mmmm,” she sighed from inside the sanctuary of his arms.

“That too,” he said. “My sentiments exactly.”

The fire cracked and popped. The rain beat down outside of the narrow window.

Bess turned to Ian. His dark hair was slick with sweat, his strong profile in shadows and firelight. She couldn’t help herself when she asked, “Have another go?”

Without hesitation, Ian replied, his voice almost completely gone, “Oh, aye.”

Bess knew he was lying. She suspected that like her, he had to catch his breath first.

Ian may have serenaded Her Majesty until he could barely speak, but with he had danced with Bess until he could barely breathe. Bess smiled to herself. As much as she liked Ian’s singing, she had always been partial to dancing.

Chapter Twelve: Flight

W
rapped in her cloak, Bess observed two servants performing their morning tasks. Silently, they refreshed the tub with buckets of steaming water while they kept their gaze firmly on their work. She could tell they were forcing themselves not to look at the large lump under the bed covers. The torn bed curtain lay in a rumpled heap on the floor. Bess imagined the rumors that would fill the air once the servants returned to the scullery.

She cared not.

Lachlan was no longer her husband. She had seen to that. He was nothing to her except fodder for revenge.

Bess wrapped the cloak tighter about her body, languishing deeply in her thoughts after the most wonderful night of her life.

She and Ian had been equals in their lovemaking, in the giving and accepting of pleasures. He had always treated her as an equal, not as an in inferior woman as she had been so accustomed in her life before she met him. Even as chief of her clan she knew she would have to constantly struggle to prove her position and keep her birthright. And bringing Lachlan to justice was the perfect way to prove her worth as clan leader.

Yet, none of that concerned her last night when she was in her bed between the bedclothes with Ian.

The servants slipped out as silently as they came leaving her with a tub of steaming water, a trencher of hot food, and a jug of beer.

Bess walked across the floor taking the few steps from the tub to the bed where Ian lay asleep under the covers. She shed her cloak along the way leaving it beside the torn bed curtain.

With a grunt, Ian rolled over, burrowing his face in the pillow, laying one muscular arm over his head. The ray of sun through the open window blazed a golden trail across the bed and over Ian’s partially concealed face.

She sat on the edge of the bed. She reached down and grasped the bedclothes from his body and wrapped them around her own. Ian did not move, just snored.

Bess watched his back rise and fall with each deep breath. She traced her gaze down his back to the taut swell of his buttocks, pausing there.

“Nice, very nice,” she breathed.

Much better than nice. Every time she summoned the recent memory of making love to Ian, a volley of shivers traveled up and down her spine.

“Nice.” She smiled.

“Aye,” came a growl from the pillow, “nice.”

Startled, she sat up straighter. Then silence, except for the sound of Ian’s breathing. She reached over and thumped him hard on his arse.

He opened one eye. The other was still hidden by his arm.

“What?” he growled.

She raised one brow. “What? Ian MacLean, are ye no’ aware that this is a very important day for us? Ye canne sleep the day away.”

“We just fell asleep a few hours ago.” He grunted and closed his eyes, one hand groping for the bedclothes, which she pulled away from his grasp.

“Ye will have a bath and shave. The queen regent may be impressed with your song, but her councilors will be impressed with a man who looks less like he has ridden across Scotland, and more like he belongs in the presence of royalty. I had yer clothes brushed as well.”