Authors: Hannah Howell
“Oh, aye.” She sighed. “Weel, nay. I just grew verra tired of Lady Constance slavering all o’er ye and wished to be away ’tis all.” She frowned when she thought she saw laughter in his eyes, but it came and went too quickly for her to be sure.
Iain fought to keep the laughter out of his voice. “Slavering, eh?”
“Now, I willnae believe ye didnae notice the woman eyeing ye. Ye had to.”
“Weel, I did ken that she was flirting a wee bit.”
“Oh, aye, a wee bit,” she grumbled. “She near to tore her clothes off and threw herself upon ye.”
“Ah now that I would have noticed.”
“Ye jest but ’tis true.” She shook her head. “I cannae understand it.”
“Thank ye,” he murmured.
“Now her setting after ye I do understand. What puzzles me is that she would do so right afore me verra eyes. The ways of the court are a puzzle to me. Do they obey no laws?”
“The ones they wish to. Was it the ways of the court that sent ye hieing to my side?”
Islaen looked away hoping that, if she had to lie, he would not be able to read it upon her face. She did not really want to lie but neither did she want any confrontation between Iain and Lord Fraser. In a fair fight she knew Iain would win easily, but instinct told her that Lord Fraser would never fight fairly. Lord Fraser seemed to her to be the type to slip a dagger between a man’s shoulder blades in the dark of night.
“Weel, aye, mayhaps. ’Tis my first time here, ye ken.”
She was easy to read, he thought with some amusement. “Ye didnae understand something Lord Fraser said? Or did?” he added quietly.
Cursing viciously but silently over his obviously keen sight, she answered with a false calm, “I am but unused to the ways of the courtier. ’Tis naught.”
“I had the feeling ye were most upset.”
“That doesnae mean that there was aught to be upset about.”
It was clear to Iain that she was not going to tell him what had occurred between herself and Lord Fraser. He wondered why for only a moment. She was no coward, he knew that instinctively, so what had sent her rushing to his side, trembling slightly, had to have been serious. He was certain she said nothing because she wished to avoid any trouble.
The mere thought of Lord Fraser forcing even the slightest of unwanted attention upon her infuriated Iain. He almost laughed, for he had not wanted the marriage yet he was already strongly possessive. Her actions might have been enough to deter Lord Fraser from trying anything else but Iain decided to keep a close watch upon the man.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Islaen hurried inside her chambers when Iain stopped before her door. She knew she had not fooled him for a moment with her elusive answers concerning what had happened between herself and Lord Fraser, but fortunately he had not pressed the matter. If he kept a closer eye on the man that could only be for the best. She decided to forget Lord Fraser and concentrate on her faltering campaign to impress Sir Iain MacLagan with her worthiness as a bride.
Contemplating the move that would checkmate Iain, Islaen wondered if she should make it. She had clearly impressed him with her ability at chess, a game he evidently liked very well, but she wondered if beating him at the game was going too far. Her brothers had never liked it. The last thing she wished to do was hurt his pride.
“Islaen, I swear I shallnae sulk.”
Hearing the laughter in his voice, she grimaced and made her move, muttering, “Checkmate.”
Seeing her pained look Iain could not restrain a soft laugh. “I think that hurt ye more than it did me, lass.”
“Aye, she does look pained,” said a deep seductive voice.
Glancing up as Iain rose to greet the man, Islaen gaped. Never had she seen such a beautiful man. From his thick golden hair to his long, elegant and graceful body there appeared no flaw. It no longer surprised her that a voice could send shivers down her spine. As Iain introduced her to Alexander MacDubh, Islaen decided that such a voice suited a man like Alexander to perfection.
Subtly watching Islaen’s reaction to Alexander, Iain suddenly understood why his brother Tavis, even after ten years of marriage to Storm, hated to have the man within feet of his wife. Islaen watched Alexander as if the man fascinated her. It struck Iain as highly contradictory that he did not want to be wed yet he did not want her to be drawn to any other man. Ignoring Alexander’s amusement, Iain rather hastily agreed with Meg when the woman arrived to say that Islaen ought to take some time to view the preparations for the wedding.
“I hear the king arranged the marriage,” Alexander remarked as soon as Islaen had left.
“As he neatly arranged yours.”
“True, but I think ye got a better bargain. Howbeit, I hear that many wish the bond broken ere it is e’en made.”
“Ye have heard a lot for a mon who has but now arrived at court.”
“Ah, weel, I had a talk with the Lady Constance.”
“A talk, hmmm?”
“A short one followed by a kind lady’s consolation for a lonely widower.”
“Ye have been a widower for twa years. Ye bleed that ploy dry.”
“And ye tell me naught. Have ye no words about the wedding or the wee sweet child to be your wife?”
“That child is nineteen.” He almost smiled at Alexander’s surprise. “Lord Fraser and your cousin Ronald MacDubh wished to gain her hand. Neither is pleased that I now gain the dowry they hungered for. Aye and the lass. She has eleven brothers and a fither who would kill me in an instant if I cannae keep her weel and happy. Aye, I am to be wed but best ye not raise your tankard in salute unless ’tis to wish me the luck to live ’til the year’s end.”
“Especially with MacLennon still lurking about. Ye have stepped into a mire, have ye not.”
“Aye and I am sinking fast.”
“She seems a sweet lass. There could be some good to be found.”
“Aye there could be, but I willnae seek it. She could wake up to find herself a widow but hours after she has become a bride. T’would be most cruel to play with her affections in any way when my life is in such danger.”
“True and mayhaps ye run from the wrong things, Iain, my friend.”
“I ken weel what I flee, Alexander.”
“Do ye ken what ye can lose? I had no chance in my brief marriage. I wed a woman whose heart belonged to none, but whose body was given to all. The only good I gained was my wee daughter. Ye deny yourself all opportunity for some happiness. Aye and the lass.”
“All I deny her is pain,” Iain said coldly, then abruptly changed the subject.
He did not think on Alexander’s words again until he escorted Islaen into the hall for the last repast of the day. The way he planned to direct their lives was indeed unfair to Islaen, but he could think of no way to alter that. He was almost glad of Alexander’s company as they dined, for the man kept Islaen from being too troubled by his remoteness. It was an appreciation that warred with something even he recognized as jealousy, as Alexander kept Islaen well amused, flattered her and flirted with her. By the time Iain escorted Islaen back to her chambers, he was not sure whether he considered Alexander a blessing or a curse.
“And what do ye think of Alexander?” he asked abruptly as they stopped outside her chamber’s door.
A little startled by his question, as well as the fact that he had suddenly broken what had been an almost complete silence during the evening, Islaen answered, “He is verra nice.”
“Verra nice, hmmm? An accomplished wooer of the lasses.”
“Oh, aye, of course. A mon like that would take to wooing like a bairn to the breast of its mither. Do ye ken what makes him so good? He can do it and ye dinnae feel nervous or foolish or naught.”
Smiling crookedly, he asked, “Nervous or foolish?”
“Aye. ’Tis that voice of his, I am thinking. ’Tis as soothing as a nurse’s lullaby. He must get verra tired of people staring at him.”
“Do ye think so?” Iain was finding her candid observations about Alexander amusing.
“Oh, aye. The mon kens how fine he looks but I dinnae think he is vain. An he lost his beauty I think he might regret that the ladies didnae fall into his arms as they did, but not much else. He might e’en be glad of it for then people would cease seeing naught but his beauty and look at the mon he is. I should not like to be so beautiful.”
“Ah, but Islaen, ye are lovely.”
“Nay,” she demurred, coloring slightly over his soft flattery. “I have freckles and my hair is too bold a color.”
“I dinnae find it too bold.”
“Ah, weel, ye may do so when ye see it loose.” She blushed when she realized when that would happen. “Ye have just seen a few locks slipping free, disobedient as my hair can be at times.”
“Islaen, sometimes ye try too hard to be honest.”
Her subsequent good night was subdued. Once inside of her chambers she leaned against the door and sighed. She felt riddled with guilt. She was not honest at all although she had tried to be on several occasions. The words stuck in her throat, however. There was a confession she had to make to Iain and time was running out. If she did not make it soon he would find out rather shockingly just how big a liar she could be.
Frowning as she did so, Meg helped Islaen into bed. “T’will be the last night for that nightshift, lass.”
Islaen looked at her attire, a sleeveless linen shift that only reached to mid-thigh. “I ken ye are right. ’Tis no lady’s wear.”
“Aye. I have a few lovely ones sewn for ye. Now ye get your rest, for ’tis a wondrous busy day for ye on the morrow.”
Reminding her of that was not the way to insure that she would get any sleep, Islaen thought, as Meg left. Ever fair, Islaen then admitted that she did not really need Meg’s reminders, for there was little else upon her mind. On the morrow she would marry Iain MacLagan and she was afraid, although not of marriage and all it entailed. She was afraid she would fail him and herself.
Now and again he had slipped in his aloof pose but it always returned, sometimes stronger than before. She feared the pose would become the man, that she would never reach the person he tried so hard to hide from everyone. That failure would leave her wed to a distant stranger who held prisoner the man she wanted.
Then too there was her secret. There would be no hiding it in the intimacy of marriage. Several times she had gotten up the courage to speak to him only to lose it when she looked upon his face. For a while she had thought it best to leave it as a surprise but now she doubted the wisdom of that. Not only was it unfair to Iain but she would not be able to bear his disgust when he found out. It would wound her sorely to have him turn from her on their wedding night, the very night he should be making her his.
Coming to a decision, she rose and searched out her houppelande. It was best to undeceive him now, before they had exchanged any vows. Somehow the wedding could be stopped if it was necessary. Even as she made a final check upon the fit of her houppelande she hoped Iain would, at the worst, insist that the candle stay snuffed for it might not feel as bad as it looked. Telling herself that exposure now was the only way, the only fair thing to do, she slipped into the hall and set out for Iain’s chambers.
Though late at night, the way was not clear. Islaen was amazed at the number of people wandering about. It did not take many guesses to know that liaisons were plentiful. The fact that none of those about wished to be seen either made Islaen’s way easier. Her first and only difficulty came when she was but two doors away from her goal. A woman she knew was wed met a man who was equally tied causing her to press herself into a shadowed niche from where, to her increasing discomfort, she could both see and hear the couple’s rendezvous, a meeting that proved beds were not necessary.
When she finally reached Iain’s door, she paused with her hand raised to knock. It might be the right thing to do but it was far from easy. No one liked to expose a fault or shame. Nevertheless, Iain had a right to know about her shames and faults before he was irrevocably tied to them, she told herself firmly. Her resolve strengthened, she rapped upon his door sure that her heart could be heard all along the hallway.
Iain lay sprawled upon his bed. He was trying very hard to get drunk, blind drunk, but was failing miserably. He was certainly not sober, but he had failed to achieve the soddened oblivion he was seeking. Very colorfully he cursed Fate which seemed against him at every turn. He did feel that depriving him of the ability to get stinking drunk was an exceedingly cruel trick. It was also a sad waste of some fine wine.
Admitting that it solved nothing to get drunk, Iain took another long pull of wine. Nothing had gone his way of late. He had felt like a good sulk, a thorough wallow in self-pity. However, even that was not working out.
The king had thwarted his plan to wed Islaen away from the court, so that he could avoid the consummation. The maids in the castle would quickly report the lack of virgin’s blood. Since he could not explain that in any satisfactory way, Iain knew he would have to truly bed the girl. Even if he was very careful, there was ever the chance she could conceive, especially coming from as prolific a clan as she did.
Briefly, he wondered if that made a difference. He had been deluged with tales of her tiny mother and seen seven of the healthy brood of sons the woman had produced. Just possibly Islaen could do the same.
He then shook his head. It was something he could not chance. He freely admitted to cowardice. No matter what her heritage he could not gamble with another woman’s life.
He groaned and poured another tankard of wine. As clearly as if it was occurring before him, Iain could see Islaen writhing upon her childbed, her screams filling the halls for long hellish hours until he feared to go mad from it. When it was over there would be nothing but a blood-soaked bed, a gruesome bier for her and their child. He could see Islaen and Catalina blended into one woman, the small lovely face still etched with agony, the pale lifeless body surrounded with blood and the bairn still wet from the womb, blue from the lack of air that killed him and the cord that had kept life going now wrapped around the tiny neck to end it.
Catalina had been right to curse him as she lay wracked with pain. He should never had bedded her, wife or not. She had not enjoyed the act at all, blessing the pregnancy that killed her in the end, for it had allowed her to ban him from her bed. Her shrill agonized voice still haunted his dreams, rightly blaming him for her cruel and far too early death. She had been but twenty, much too young to seek a cold grave or be pushed into one as he had pushed her. Islaen was but nineteen he recalled and felt like weeping.
“Oh God,” he moaned softly, “have mercy upon me. Make the lass barren. God, dinnae put me through it all again. I cannae bear it.”
A soft knock broke into his morbid thoughts. When he flung open the door his first thought was to slam it shut again. Realizing that Islaen was no vision of a mind drunker than he had thought, he yanked her into the room, made a hasty check of the hallway to assure himself of the absence of people, and then slammed the door.
He then cursed the lust that tightened his drink-weakened body. Despite appearances to the contrary, he felt sure she had not come to his room for a tryst. If nothing else, she looked too solemn, even a little frightened.
Islaen looked at his dark scowling face and nearly winced. It was going to be hard enough without him being furious before she even started. Although it was an effort, she refrained from looking around his chambers to see if his anger stemmed from her interrupting a last bachelor frolic. It would not surprise her, despite the rumours of his monkish lifestyle, for he did not want the marriage, but was simply obeying his king.
Another cause of her embarrassment was his attire, or rather its absence. He wore only his hose. The lack of covering on his torso made her very aware of how broad of shoulder and muscular he was. A modest pelt of dark hair covered his chest, tapering to a thin line that dissected his taut stomach to disappear into his snug hose. She had seen
many a man partly clothed, even naked, for it was unavoidable living with so many brothers, but she had never felt so warm before. Neither had she suffered such an urge to touch a man’s chest. She forced her gaze upwards to his face.
Iain was just drunk enough not to care about his lack of attire before his young bride. “Be ye mad, lass? Why are ye here?”
“I had to talk with ye,” she replied, following him as he strode to the table by his bed to retrieve his drink.
Sitting down on the bed he took a long drink before looking at her. “Could it not have waited until the morrow? What if ye had been seen?”
“I wasnae and what folk I saw about wouldnae have wanted me to see them. What I have to tell ye couldnae wait any longer.”
He reacted to that statement with increased alertness. Perhaps the girl meant to tell him she had a lover, was carrying some man’s seed. Even as he decided that was impossible he realized that the thought did not cheer him despite the fact that the king would not make him wed her under such circumstances. Shaking his head over his own vagaries, he waited for her to speak.
“There is something ye maun be told ere we wed. Weel, shown actually. I am not as I seem, Sir MacLagan.”
“Deformed?” he thought and could not believe it. “I can hardly reject ye for some mark or scar, child,” he said dryly and touched his cheek.
“’Tis nay a mark or a scar, sir.” She began to shed her houppelande. “I cannae deceive ye any longer. ’Tis unfair and dishonest to do so.”
After watching the houppelande fall around her pretty feet he studied her. Her night rail was no more than a short shift, revealing a great deal of her lovely legs. There was also something vaguely different about her but he could not pinpoint it. It did not help him to think when he was so attracted, his loins tightened painfully and his hands itched to bury themselves in her thick, hip-length hair.
For such a tiny girl she had a real skill for heating his blood. It was going to be very hard to keep that in control. Even harder for a large part of him did not want to control it, wanted to savor it to its fullest. The need for a woman, any woman, indiscriminate as it was, had been easy enough to control. What Islaen instilled in him was all mixed up with who she was, her looks, her character, even her smell. It was not easy to dispel it. In truth, it was beginning to prove impossible.
“I ken that my night rail isnae fitting for a lady, but Meg has made some more suitable ones,” she murmured as she fumbled to unlace her shift and felt color flood her cheeks even as her heart beat against the wall of her chest in growing agitation.
Realizing the girl was about to strip before his very eyes, Iain croaked, “’Tis no matter, lass. We can keep the candle snuffed.”
He felt close to panic and actually thought of bolting from the room no matter how foolish that would look. Unfortunately, his body was not obeying his mind’s frantic urgings to get away. It intended to stay where it was, intended that he should see if her image fit the one that had recently haunted his dreams.
“That willnae help, sir. Ye will still be aware of my deceit. Dinnae fear to hurt my feelings. I will understand if ye cannae bear it. Ye see, I am weel aware of my ugliness. ’Tis why I have hidden it. I couldnae bear to reveal my oddness to the world.”
She let her shift fall, her folded arms all that kept her from complete exposure as
the loosened top draped over them. Iain stared speechless at the full ivory breasts she revealed, the pink tips hardening as he watched. Forcing his hungry gaze from such beauty, he searched for the defect she spoke of. He almost hoped for some startling mar so as to divert his mind from the lushness within reach of his lips. Aside from noting that the rest of her was still very tiny, he found nothing. His gaze returned to her breasts although he had intended to look at her face. Other than a few faint freckles that he found delightfully alluring, she was perfection. Groaning, his hand found its way to one of those full firm breasts that almost seemed too much for her slight frame as if it had a mind of its own.
His mind screamed its warning of the danger he now faced but he heeded it not. He felt spellbound. It seemed as if there was no part of his body that did not ache for her.
The feel of her warm silken breast beneath his hand made him shake with want. He knew he could not pull back now, could not grab at some semblance of sanity. All he could do was touch her, savor the feel of her and pray that she would stop him, even flee. A small part of his passion-fogged mind reluctantly admitted that there was little chance of that. She did not seem to see the danger she was in.
Trying to speak even though his touch was sending pure fire shooting through her veins, Islaen croaked, “Ye see? I grew all out of proportion. There is nay a need to pretend; I will truly understand if ye cannae abide such an oddity for a wife.”
“Oh, God,” was all Iain managed to say as he dropped the tankard in his other hand and reached out to cup her other breast.
Whatever reaction she had anticipated, it was not this. Touching them as he was, his fingers toying with the hard tips, seemed to indicate that he was not repulsed. Nonetheless, there was an odd look upon his face, a strange fire in his eyes that turned them green, and a tic in his cheek that she was having trouble deciphering, especially with a mind that was rapidly disfunctioning as the heat in her body increased.
“Iain,” she gasped as one of his hands moved down to her stomach, pushing her folded arms down as well. “Will ye say naught? Are we still to be wed?”
In the grip of a force he could not fight, Iain simply reiterated, “Oh God.”
His mouth was drawn to her and his tongue flicked over each taut nipple. Islaen’s hands jerked up to grasp his shoulders in a natural reaction to the shaft of desire that careened through her. That action pulled them free of the light shift which quickly joined the houppelande at her feet. Diverted for an instant, Iain’s gaze moved over her in pure white hot greed. He was swamped with desire as he noted her tiny waist, slim gently rounded hips, slender well-formed legs and the wine red triangle at the juncture of her beautiful thighs. His hands gripped her small waist and he tugged her closer.
“M’God, Islaen,” he groaned before his mouth closed over the beckoning tip of one full breast.
Islaen’s knees buckled as waves of pleasure melted her. She made no sound as he tossed her down on the bed and partly covered her body with his own. He kissed her hungrily, his tongue ravishing her untried mouth. The hair upon his chest further excited her breasts while his hands searched out every curve and hollow. Her hands moved over his back feeling the tensed muscles as she fell beneath the power of his fierce uncontrollable passion. A flicker of sanity came when she felt him probing for entry but it did not gain strength fast enough to stop him. Crying out softly, she gave him her innocence. In payment he gave her ecstasy, swiftly taking her to the heights where he met
her in the delirious fall into desire’s abyss.
For several moments they lay silently entwined, their breathing growing less harsh and their rapid heartbeats slowing to normal. Islaen was surprised to find that the weight of him felt quite nice, not light by any means but nothing she would not gladly bear, even enjoy. A tiny voice in her head murmured something about sin but she easily ignored it. This was the man she would marry in hours or, at least, she hoped so. She wondered if she were being presumptuous by assuming he did not find her odd shape repulsive just because of what had occurred. According to Meg and a good many others, a man was not overly choosey about what he lay with if the urge was strong enough.