LESLIE GREW UNAWARE
of whether or not she was still screaming. She had for certain, though, stopped running. She watched, frozen and paralyzed, while Finn fought for his life against one of the marquess’s men. If he died…If he died because she’d distracted him…She couldn’t finish the thought.
She pleaded with God to let him live. They had just found each other, just days ago proclaimed their love to each other. They had their whole lives to live and Leslie wanted to live hers with him. She’d almost given it up. She knew better now. What was life without Finlay Grant’s radiant smile, his easy laughter illuminating any darkness? She wanted to wake up with him every morning the way she had today.
He parried and jabbed with some skill and was, in fact, managing quite well. Still, she was terrified for him. When she saw Connor Grant catch sight of his brother and kick his mount forward, relief flooded her veins. Her own brother, far less deadly with a sword and already on his way to Finn, didn’t evoke the same reaction. What if they were both killed?
But Finn was tiring. He needed assistance against the trained soldier and Andrew was closer, so she prayed for her brother to hurry.
When the guardsman suddenly went down from a crushing blow from Finn’s sword, she screamed and then began to cry. He lived! Her beloved lived!
She wanted to run to him, but Andrew leaped from his snorting mount and reached him first, shouting for her to remain where she was.
Finn took a moment to share a smile with her but his gaze rose above her head to someplace behind her and what he saw vanquished his relief and darkened his expression.
Leslie turned to follow his gaze. The roof! Will was about to shoot at her brother!
“Nae!” Finn sprang at Andrew, shielding him from the arrow that whistled by Leslie’s ear—the arrow meant for her brother but taken deliberately by Finn instead. He’d saved Andrew. For her. He’d kept his promise. Leslie dropped to her knees, watching her beloved go down.
“Finn!” Connor’s horse nearly barreled Andrew over before skidding to a halt to eject its rider.
All around her men were shouting, their voices harsh with disbelief and the terror of losing their brother and bard. But it was Will’s voice, coming up behind her, stark as the morning and out of breath, that finally ripped a sob from her throat.
“Does he live? God’s mercy, tell me, does he live?”
Oh, please, please, I beg You, Father, let him live.
“Aye, I live,” Finn called to Will from somewhere beyond his brother and hers.
Leslie nearly fainted at the sound of it. She fought the urge, needing her strength to run to him.
When she reached him, she had to break through a barrier of brawn before falling to her knees beside him. The arrow had pierced his side, possibly breaking a rib if the heart-wrenching grimace on his face was any indication.
“You live,” she breathed against his cheek, unconcerned with the men around them. “Will you always do such things to please me?”
“Aye,” he promised, reaching his mouth to hers. “Always.”
“Why did ye shoot yer arrow, Will?” Connor demanded while he examined the wound by poking at it and distracted Finn.
“I thought Harrison was goin’ fer him.”
“Finn jumped into it to save me,” Andrew explained as his brother, the only other man left alive, besides the marquess and the Highlanders, joined them.
“Why would you do that?” Alan asked from somewhere above her and Finn’s heads.
Tristan, who’d joined them, sighed gustily. “’Tis love, lads. It makes men go a wee bit mad.”
“Is that true?” Leslie looked into Finn’s vivid green eyes, then traced her vision over the angle of his cheekbones, the hint of a shadowy crease in his cheek growing deeper as his mouth curled into a softer, less strained smile.
“Aye.” Forgetting his pain, he touched his fingers to her face and drew in closer. “’Tis true. In my case, riotously, soul-shakingly, life-alteringly mad. ’Tis going to inspire me fer years to come.”
Oh, how had she won this man when so many wanted him? He’d traveled miles alone in the snow for her. For her, he’d boldly risked his life by suggesting the price of his assistance to the marquess. For her, he’d offered his life in exchange for her brother’s.
She would be a fool to let him go. She wanted to kiss him right there in front of his friends. Later, she would tell him how much she loved him.
Colin’s stallion stopping inches from them snapped her back to the real world.
“Fer someone shot by one of Will’s arrows,” he said, looking down from his saddle, “ye look remarkably well.”
“’Tis a flesh wound,” Finn assured him while Connor and Tristan helped him to his feet. “Where’s the marquess? Ye didn’t kill him did ye?”
“Nae,” Colin answered with a slight pout quirking his mouth. “He’s tied to a tree and will be dealt with momentarily.” He set his clear, hazel eyes on the arrow jutting out of Finn’s side, then on Will. “’Tis the most fortunate day of yer life, cousin. His faither, and quite possibly his mother too, would have killed ye if yer aim had been more accurate.”
Will closed his eyes and then rubbed his hand over them as if unable to bear the thought of killing his friend.
“Will.” Finn pushed his hand into Will’s shoulder. “’Twas my fault.” Without giving his friend a chance to reply, he turned away and looked toward their captive, pale, shivering, and tied to a tree a few feet away.
“What d’ye plan on doing with the marquess?”
Colin shrugged a shoulder. “I plan on convincing him not to follow us. Right after yer brother…”
Something cracked. Finn threw his head back and cried out as Connor yanked the broken arrow free.
“…sees to yer wound,” Colin finished, then looked up at the others. “Well, that’s done. Who wants to join me?”
Weakened with shocking pain, Finn coiled his arm around Leslie’s shoulder and leaned into her while Connor tore off a strip of his plaid and tied it around his brother’s waist. “Stay with me, my beloved.”
She nodded, her heart beating so frantically she nearly passed out. She never wanted to leave him. She looked at her brothers, who hadn’t followed Will and Colin while they dealt with the marquess. Andrew winked at her.
“Forever, Leslie,” Finn whispered into her neck. “I want to be everything ye’ll ever need. Yer servant,”—he lifted his head to cast her a dimpled grin—“and yer master.”
She giggled like a shy virgin, which, thanks to him, she was no longer. He already was everything and more. She would stay with him. Her heart gave her no other choice. Her family would have to understand. Finn was the joy and the love of her life. She wouldn’t leave him this time.
“I’ll stay, Finn. I’ll stay with you forever.”
He kissed her, then groaned with pain.
“Here now,” Connor said, shoving his arm under his brother’s shoulder and hefting him forward, back toward the inn. “There will be plenty of time fer that later, brother.”
“Will there?” Alan asked, with his sister noting the new respect in his tone when he spoke to Connor. After seeing them fight, any man would be a fool not to be mindful of his tone.
“Aye, there will,” Andrew answered. “We can’t return with the marquess after this morning.”
“Ye can return to Dumfries if ye wish,” Finn corrected him. “The marquess will be allowed to live if he agrees to bring ye nae harm. If he breaks the agreement, we will return fer him.”
She could have kicked Finn if he wasn’t already hurt. Why would he give her brother an option? She glared at him. He winked at her in response.
“Perhaps,” Andrew said, pulling his horse along, “it’s time to set down new roots. Our sister Sarah is already in Camlochlin, and now Leslie is staying. Margaret wanted to remain there as well. We should remain together.”
“I will take my chances in Dumfries,” Alan told him, without a trace of malice in his voice. “I want to go home, brother. And so does Mother. You will always be welcomed there if you wish to return.”
“If the truth be known,” Leslie told them, “Mother is quite seriously in love with Brodie MacGregor and only wishes to return to Dumfries because she fears betraying Father’s memory.”
“Well, she—”
Leslie held up her palm to stop Alan from speaking. “She’s being foolish. Margaret and I will speak to her. Together, I’m sure we can convince her that she belongs in Camlochlin. And brother,” she told Alan, “I’m sure you will always be welcome there if you wish to return.”
“It’s settled then,” Andrew announced, smiling at his sister. “I’m going to have to start wearing furs.”
“And plaids,” Finn said, making his way with help from his brother and Leslie back to the inn.
Andrew laughed and shook his head. “My arse is frozen enough in breeches.”
“Whisky will keep out the cold.” Connor’s promise was met with immediate agreement from the others.
Leslie smiled and looked up at the stark white sky. Highlanders. She couldn’t wait to return to the warmth of Camlochlin and begin celebrating Christmastide and her future with her beloved and his kin.
CHOPPY GUSTS OF
wind swirled the settled snow, blowing it into frigid clouds that glittered under the moonlight. Nothing in the vale or in the surrounding hills moved. Nothing except the jagged fortress carved from the mountain behind it. Lit by a single flame in every one of its hundreds of windows, Camlochlin shimmered golden in the silvery fog, a safe haven touched by God’s fiery finger for the oppressed, the outlawed, and its heirs.
It was Christmas Eve, the Night of Candles, when candles were lit to guide the Holy Family to safety. But everyone inside the castle knew that Camlochlin was their fortress in every season. They knew that celebrating Christmastide with any sort of merriment was prohibited, but if the MacGregors were anything, they were a lawless bunch, and they found merriment in many things.
Tonight, while the wind wailed outside, sounding much like the pipes being played somewhere in the cavernous Great Hall below, Leslie thanked God for the thousandth time for Finn, Camlochlin, and the people sitting with her in the chief’s private solar. While they sipped wassail, a hot, spiced wine that Leslie found even more delicious when enjoyed with Isobel MacGregor’s shortbread and clootie dumplings, the children sang carols led by the chief’s master bard. She smiled at Finn, a response she could no longer control since their wedding yesterday.
When the song was over, she watched him return to her and wished for the night to be over soon so they could retire to bed.
“Ye’re flushed,” he said, joining her beneath a woolen blanket on a long, overstuffed settee.
“It’s the heat.” She blushed and stopped him when he tried to remove the blanket. “Not that kind of heat. You.”
His dimple flashed, melting her kneecaps and warming her bones in a way the yule log burning in the hearth never could.
She gave him a gentle push away and laughed. “You’re barely healed of your wound.”
“I’m healed enough. Let me show ye.”
“Uncle Finn,” Connor and Mairi’s young son interrupted them, “will ye teach me and Edmund another song?”
“Of course, Malcolm.” He winked at Leslie and gathered the boys in his arms, beginning another tune.
Leslie listened with teary eyes while Finn sang of the Savior’s birth. She looked around and smiled at Davina and her two babes, swallowed up in her husband’s chair.
All the furnishings at Camlochlin were crafted to fit giant, strapping men. It made the settee where she sat with Finn, Malcolm, and Edmund, both boys snuggled in the crook of Finn’s arms, quite cozy. She turned her gaze to Colin, standing by the candlelit window with his newly pregnant wife and watched the sober commander’s breath falter when Gillian smiled at him. Whatever Leslie had seen against the marquess’s men that early morning in Kylerhea, that beast was gone and replaced by a tender, devoted husband and father.
All of Camlochlin’s sons were loyal, dedicated, dutiful men, examples of strength, honor, and courage…just like their fathers and uncles before them. Two of whom reclined by the hearth fire listening to a tale Rob was telling them.
Leslie had no idea how Callum MacGregor must have appeared in his days of glory, riding out of the Highlands like a devil parting the mists, but he looked damned handsome now, laughing with his eldest son and dearest friend. Her father-in-law, Graham Grant, caught her gaze and cast her a dimpled grin, much like his son’s. He may have once been a sinful rake who’d aided in the restoration of King Charles, but he raised two men who honored the worthy and loved their women and their country with passion.
“Finn?” She waited until his song was done and the boys hopped into Connor’s lap next.
“Aye, love?”
She tilted her lips to his ear and whispered into it. “I want to have your child.”
His arm tightened around her. “Let’s be off then, wife.”
She laughed and blushed and pushed at him when he would have swept her out of their seat. “We must wait until after the midnight service. You know the traditions. Now please be serious.” She added this even though he looked anything but happy and it was she who couldn’t stop smiling like a dimwit. “Would you prefer a lad or a lass?”
“A lass.” He smiled down at her. “I want to watch ye teach her to grow into the kind of woman who makes us proud to be her parents.”
Leslie sighed against his lips and then slanted her gaze toward the door. “Perhaps no one would miss us.”
“Leslie,” Davina said, proving her wrong and stirring warmth in her belly. “What did you think of Father Lachlan’s supper benediction?”
“I enjoyed it very much,” Leslie told her honestly. “I wasn’t expecting such passion in his words.”
Davina nodded, agreeing. “For a man so far in his years, he’s quite humorous too, don’t you think?” She went on without giving Leslie a chance to agree or disagree. “It may seem a bit more somber here than usual but in just a few days the celebration of Hogmanay”—she shared the flash of her smile with Finn before turning back to Leslie—“will begin and there will be dancing and singing and games…”
“My wife enjoys the dancing most,” Rob told Leslie, then sat on the floor by Davina’s feet. He laughed and caught his son when the child leaped from his mother’s lap and into his.
“It’s because I get to dance with Tristan,” Davina admitted, then squealed with laughter when her husband snatched her by the ankles and pulled her, along with their baby daughter, out of their seat and into his lap.
“Ye’ll be gentle with my gel, Robbie.” His aunt, Maggie MacGregor, smacked the side of his head gently before falling into his chair next and accepting wee Caitrina into her arms. “And Colin, ye’ll keep that dog away from my ducks or he’ll deal with me.” She narrowed her eyes on little Edmund’s dog, Aurelius, until the scruffy pup tucked his tail between his legs and looked away.
Aye, Leslie loved Camlochlin and the people in it. The only thing better than being here with them was being alone with Finn. He wanted a daughter. The idea of raising a little girl with him heated her blood.
“We have two hours at least before the stroke of midnight, beloved,” he whispered into her hair, as if knowing her thoughts.
Leslie feigned a gaping yawn, stretching her arms above her head. “I think I will enjoy a short nap before mass.”
“Not too short, we hope,” Tristan called out as Finn rose with her from the settee to escort her to bed.
Leslie blushed two shades darker when she met the knowing faces smiling back at her.
“We’ll see ye all later,” Finn called out over his shoulder, completely unfazed by the fact that everyone in the solar knew where they were heading and why.
The door opened as they reached it and Andrew and Margaret entered with Brodie with Helen Harrison on his arm. Leslie smiled at them all, filled with the truth that the only thing better than living at Camlochlin with Finn was living here with most of her family.
“Where are you off to, dear?”
When their eyes met, Leslie saw the same joy in her mother’s glowing smile that she felt in her own. She had been correct about her mother loving Brodie and being happy with him here in Camlochlin. Leslie wondered if her mother wasn’t happier now than she’d ever been before.
“Just retiring for a short bit, Mother.”
Leslie had never seen her mother blush before. She looked lovely, younger. And it was because of the man at her side. Who would have known that such a brusque, hardened warrior could win her mother’s heart? Brodie MacGregor growled at most folks, whether they were men, women, or children. He didn’t give a rat’s arse about much, except perhaps his whisky and one other thing.
“Mr. MacGregor?” Leslie stopped him when he would have moved past her.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for making my mother so happy.”
For a moment he looked at bit lost, then he looked around to make certain no one else was watching or listening to him.
“She’s agreed t’ marry me. So ’tis she who makes me the happy one.”
Leslie’s heart swelled in the doorway of the solar. All of this would have been lost to them if Finn hadn’t come to Glenelg to take her back. He saved her from a miserable, loveless marriage and probably one for her mother, too.
“I’ll see you at mass.” Leslie kissed her mother, took Finn’s hand, and led him away.
“Ye’re eager,” he said deeply against the back of her nape.
“Aye.” She stopped herself from tugging him to go faster. Eager was one thing. Pathetic was another.
But he was braver than any warrior, brighter than any angel, more captivating than any champion of legend.
His heart was true, and it longed for her.
She turned to him and, walking backward, toted him forward. “I’m yours, Finn Grant. I love you and only you for the rest of my days.”
She loved watching his reaction to her ardent confessions. Since returning with him, she’d discovered which things he enjoyed hearing the most and then made it her duty to say them often.
“I want your hands on me…and your mouth—”
He swept his arm around her waist and hauled her against him. His mouth was hot and hungry on hers, his tongue, slow and sensuous…tasting her, teasing her until passion deepened, his embrace tightened and he went hard as a boulder against her.
“Tonight,” he promised thickly, letting her go and staring into her eyes as she stepped away and turned to run, “I’m going to give ye a daughter.”
He followed her up the stairs and along two corridors to the door of their room. Reaching it, he swooped down and pulled her up in his arms to carry her across the threshold and bring her to their bed.
* * *
Finlay Grant, master bard to the clan chief MacGregor of the MacGregors of Skye, could find no speech to pay homage to his wife while he watched her take him to the hilt. Her lids were heavy, her full lips parted slightly, expelling short puffs of warm breath. When her tongue peeked from between to lick her ravenous lips, he knew if he kissed her, he would lose control of himself too soon. He tried to think of words befitting and worthy of what she meant to him, how she looked to him, sounded against his ear, felt against his flesh and muscle, but nothing came. Nothing compared. Not that he would be able to speak such praises with his jaw clamped in ecstasy. He would tell her after, when her sinuous smile wasn’t tempting him to take her harder. He lost the battle, much to her delight, and stroked her with long, deep plunges until they both cried out.
Sated, for now, Finn sank to the mattress and pulled her into his embrace. “In a few hours ’twill be Christmas, the day when the greatest gift of love was given to the world. ’Tis fitting that ye are here in my arms, my bed. Ye make words insignificant, but I would tell nonetheless. I love ye, lass.”
He felt her smile against his chest, satisfied with his confession, as bare and simple as it was.