When the Laird Returns (19 page)

A
t the top of the hill, Alisdair halted, his breath stripped from him by the surrounding view. Brandidge Hall, with all its magnificence, could not measure up to this scene.

Ahead was the glittering loch, and next to it, Gilmuir. To his left were the rolling glens of MacRae land, the destruction caused by the foraging sheep softened by distance. To his right was a thick line of trees, and beyond, a series of hills stretching out like the humps of a dragon’s back.

“Alisdair.”

Turning, he smiled down at Iseabal. She imbued his name with tenderness and passion, seduction and surrender. Threading his hands through her hair, he pressed his palms against her scalp.

His kiss was gentle but deep, promising both sweetness and passion. “I want to love you here, Iseabal,” he said, pulling back. “Here,” he said again as if enforcing the point.

The wind would caress their bodies; birds would sing in a joyous chorus as if to accompany their loving. Even the sun blazing brightly overhead seemed to approve of his plans.

His fingers stroked the corners of her lips, measured the beauty of her lovely smile. When had he become fascinated with the line of a woman’s jaw, or with the sweep of curve from throat to shoulder? Touching his lips against her skin gave him two delights, one from Iseabal’s sighing response, the other from his reaction.

He wanted to render her speechless with wonder, to see her eyes when she soared with him to a place beyond articulation or description.

Her heated breath against his throat required a calming kiss to her temple; her racing heartbeat, a soothing palm resting against one breast.

Slowly he unfastened the front of her jacket. Her only movement was to regard him with that solemn gaze of hers.

“May I love you here, Iseabal?” he asked gently.

She nodded, the color mounting in her cheeks. But with a deft movement she untied her petticoat, stepping out of it with easy grace. Her shift fell to the ground, until she stood only in stockings and garters. Slipping off her shoes, she moved her hands to the tops of her stockings and, in a gesture feminine and delectable, began to roll each one down.

As she undressed he matched her actions with his own. His coat joined her petticoat and skirt; his shirt, her shoes; and his pants, her stockings.
Hurry,
his mind counseled, and a far-off bell pealed, reminding him that he had never felt this way for any other woman. Only for Iseabal.

Raising herself on tiptoe, Iseabal stroked his skin with her palms, curving around him like a siren of legend and lore. A figurehead come to life, or a mermaid, stripped of her tail and
given speech. Her hand flattened on his abdomen, her fingers splaying across his skin, the silken brush of her hair against his bare chest enticing.

Forcing his hands down to his sides, Alisdair stood in the position of supplicant. Or victim, he considered a moment later. She brushed her breasts against his chest in an evocative gesture, her eyes closed and the expression on her face one of rapt wonderment.

“Kiss me, Iseabal,” he murmured. She opened her eyes, staring up at him, and for a brief moment Alisdair felt locked in her gaze. A thousand thoughts came to him, none of them coherent, each one enmeshed in a confusing puzzle.

He wanted to reward her for her acquiescence, praise her in some mindless way. Instead, he bestowed a fervent and heated kiss between her breasts.

The sun speared them, spilling over the forest and bathing the treetops. An enchanted land and place and time.

Slowly she sank to her knees before him, sliding her palms up the length of his thighs. He was so powerfully built, a warrior disguised by well-tailored clothing and the grace of his movements. Her thumbs brushed against his erection with a featherlike touch.

His hands fisted in her hair as his body arched forward. “Iseabal,” he warned.

“Am I hurting you?” she asked.

He shook his head from side to side, moved his hands to her shoulders with a talonlike grip. “I’m too close,” he said, his voice a pained whisper. Gently, he removed her hands from him before sinking to his knees.

Cradling her head between his hands, his thumbs brushing against the corners of her mouth, he whispered, “Shall I
find my release with your touch, Iseabal? Or bring you pleasure?”

“Pleasure, please,” she said, the words honeyed and languid.

She flattened her hands on his chest, pushing him back onto the ground. Harlot or wife, temptress or wallflower, it simply didn’t matter. He was Alisdair and she was Iseabal, man and woman.

He was driving deep inside her, so fast and so full that she nearly screamed with the pleasure of it.

If her heart beat, it was incidental. If her blood ceased flowing, she would not have known, because every every sense was centered on him and this blessedly swift possession.

She rose slowly, then down again, savoring each pulsing beat of sensation. His hand bracketed her waist, his hips arched beneath her, but she refused to hurry, trapped in a feeling so perfect that it seemed as crystal as a raindrop, as fiercely bright as a rainbow.

Her head arched back, she crossed her hands over her naked breasts and clutched her shoulders, so intent was she in the pure selfishness of this moment, adrift in pleasure so acute that it skirted the edge of pain.

He stilled beneath her, the harshness of his breathing the only indication that he was as needy as she. No words passed between them, and the only place they touched was where he was buried inside her, intrusive and hard.

She rocked on her knees, the sudden spurt of delight almost too much to hold inside. Reaching down, she gripped his hands, placing them on her breasts. His fingers were cooler than her skin, and the feeling of his palms brushing back and forth against her nipples was a soothing relief.

Unexpectedly, he moved, toppling her in such a gracefully executed turn that she wondered if he was much practiced at it. One of his hands cradled the back of her head, the other her shoulder, so that she was protected from the ground.

She dug her fingers into the earth, pushing herself toward him. Gripping his back with nails grown sharp for the task, Iseabal suddenly felt that she was no longer simply a woman, but another type of beast, female and ferocious.

Her hips arched upward, her internal muscles clenching him tight. She had marked him as hers, and now she wanted everything. All of what he’d given her before, and more.

There were no shattering stars behind her lids, no rainbow hues on the ceiling of the cave. For a moment there was nothing at all, as if the entire world had collapsed around her. All she could feel were waves of pleasure so strong that she seemed to undulate with them.

Her body felt as if it did not belong to her in that instant, a strange metamorphosis accomplished as her hips arched and her shoulders drew back. Her lips fell open, preparing for a scream, but there was no sound of delight or satisfaction, only an openmouthed welcome to this new and different person she had become.

He lay stunned, his mind reeling from what had just happened. Loving Iseabal had not simply been an act of lust or seduction, but a passion so intense that Alisdair felt as if his body had been turned inside out.

Iseabal’s head rested on his arm, her hand flattened against his chest beneath his shirt. He, in turn, held her tightly against him, closing his eyes with a sudden feeling of tenderness. If she moved, it would be with his permission, and if he wanted to rise, she would be the one to allow it.

Possession.

His eyes blinked open and he stared at the tips of the trees pointing the way to this bald patch of earth. That was what their loving had been, he realized. They’d each claimed the other. Not in gentleness or tenderness, but with a fevered passion that left his body thrumming.

Her fingers idly smoothed against his chest, making him suddenly wish that he had a half-dozen hands. One to guide her fingers to his erection, one to hold her face steady for his lips, another to feel the whole of her body. The core of her would require at least two hands to explore hidden hollows and welcoming secret places. But people waited, even as he wished they didn’t, and duty summoned him, even though he would willingly relinquish it.

Alisdair helped her dress, each garment she donned rewarded with a kiss. Iseabal was breathless by the time her petticoat was tied at her waist, her blood heating once more as he helped her slowly fasten her jacket.

He had donned his clothes with greater speed than she, but then, he was able to do so without assistance.

“You dressed too quickly,” she said absently, her fingers stroking the front of his coat. How strange that she should want to touch him all the time. A pat on his arm, a clasp of his hand, tiny gestures that reassured her in some odd way.

The faint light illuminated his eyes, sparkling like the water on the loch, and his smile, endearingly crooked. A lock of hair had fallen down over his brow and she pushed it back with tender fingers, thinking that he had never looked as handsome or as young as at this moment.

“Must we leave?”

“Shall we make our home here, Iseabal?” he asked. “Build a tiny cabin upon this knoll?”

“Yes, please,” she said, smiling up at him. “We’ll make a bower of this place, Alisdair. You’ll hunt for our food and I’ll cook it here.”

His response was to grin at her.

One part of her, protected by caution all these years, watched with wariness, suspicious of this feeling. But the childish and impulsive and impossibly reckless Iseabal, gloried in loving Alisdair.

Happiness was enervating, making her feel as buoyant as a cloud, almost hollow inside, as if every despairing thought, any worry, any emotion less than delight, had no place there.

Laying her cheek against his chest, Iseabal knew that if memory should ever be stripped from her, she would forever be able to recall this day, and this particular moment, standing on a sunny hill with Alisdair.

“Iseabal,” he said gently, and then seemed to falter for words much in the same way she did around him.

Instead of speaking further, he turned with her in his arms, surveying the vista in front of them. There was Gilmuir sparkling in the sunlight, and beyond, the glittering waters of Loch Euliss.

Feeling him stiffen, she glanced at his face. He was staring at the western horizon with a frown.

“What is it, Alisdair?” she asked.

He glanced down at her and then back to the rolling hills. “A fire,” he said simply.

Iseabal studied the hills to the right. The sky above them was growing darker, thick black smoke curling into the air like a giant puff from a celestial pipe.

“Lightning often causes a fire,” she said, feeling a curious sense of dread.

“There is no sign of recent rain,” he replied, his hands sliding to her wrists. Iseabal stood so close that she could feel him breathe against her back.

“Someone might be a poor cook,” she said faintly.

Alisdair squeezed her hands in wordless acknowledgment of her attempt at humor.

He came to stand in front of her, bending to kiss her lightly. “Will you wait for me here?” he asked.

“What are you going to do, Alisdair?” She held her palms against his chest, by will alone refraining from voicing her sudden worry.

Men do not like a complaining wife, a lesson she had learned well enough in her childhood. Men went off to defend their land, or to visit Inverness or Edinburgh, and, before her birth, to war itself. On such occasions as this, a wife knew well enough not to badger or cajole or even attempt to convince a man not to do his duty. Instead, a woman was supposed to stand, wait, and watch, just as Alisdair had asked of her.

“Must you go?” she asked, unable to forestall that one question.

“It’s MacRae land,” he said, folding his hand over hers. “Will you stay?” he asked again, and she nodded reluctantly, determined not to show her sudden and disconcerting fear.

Daniel was consulting his log when he was abruptly lifted off his feet from behind. In that instant of disorientation, a host of possibilities came to mind. Thieves or sailors impressing him into the British navy, or simply wharf rats about their mischief. He began to struggle, his legs flailing, when the sound of laughter halted him in mid-kick.

“If you’re a MacRae,” he said, his irritation swift and strong, “then you’d better put me down.”

“You’re an easy target for mischief, Daniel, when you’re too intent on your lists,” Hamish said, releasing him.

Daniel turned to face the four of them, every single one of the MacRae brothers smiling. He’d been the brunt of their jokes before, but he’d rarely been as annoyed as now. Because of the interruption, he would have to begin counting the barrels of rice flour again.

“Where’s Alisdair?” Hamish asked.

“Where’s the
Fortitude?
”

“What are you doing here on this floating jetsam?”

Question upon question was hurled at him and he refused to answer, choosing to frown at them instead. One by one, they seemed to notice his irritation, falling blessedly silent.

Before he answered their questions, he asked one of his own. “How did you find me?” The merchantman was one of several hundred vessels in London’s port.

“We inquired of the harbormasters,” James said. “Strangely enough, not one of them knew when the
Fortitude
departed for Nova Scotia, but the mention of the MacRae name brought about a very curious reaction.”

“They all nearly spit when talking about you, Daniel,” Douglas contributed, to the obvious annoyance of his older brothers.

“What have you done,” James asked, “to merit such a reputation?”

“Refused to pay the prices some of these thieves fetch,” Daniel said curtly.

All four of the brothers smiled.

“I’m wise with my money, not cheap.”

“Parsimonious,” James contributed, always the peacemaker.

“I think you made them mad with all your superstitions,” Douglas said, his attention on kicking his shoe against the deck. “The harbor must not face in the proper direction.”