Authors: Highland Princess
Keeping her in sight had been easy, although for a time he’d had to be careful not to let her see him. But the only time she had nearly done so was when she had paused to watch the sunrise, and after that she had seemed to care only about her destination, because she had ridden without once looking back.
She lingered on the headland only a moment or two, gazing northward at a calm sea. Then, abruptly, she wheeled the gray, leaned over its withers, and urged it forward. Responding at once, it galloped across the strip of sand, its long tail banner high. The lass’s glorious ebony hair, loosed from its plaits, streamed like a second banner behind her. Despite the distance between them, he could see her wide smile, and found himself grinning in response.
Without further thought, he spurred the powerful bay he rode, and it too leaped forward, as eager for the run as he was.
Mairi breathed in the tangy salt air, wanting to shriek her delight as Hobyn pounded along the sandy shore toward a line of boulders that formed an uneven barrier from the waterline into the thick growth of shrubbery at the high-water mark. As she drew near, she reined to a slower pace, then to a halt.
The day was fine despite the overcast. The sea was calm, the shallow loch even more so, and the sand looked warm and inviting. Impulsively, she slid to the ground, retaining her hold on the reins as she did. Then, taking off her cloak, she heaped it on one boulder as she sat on another to pull off her soft leather boots.
Barefoot, she stood and wriggled her toes in the sand. Then, chuckling to herself like a merry child, she pulled the gray higher onto the shore and looped the reins over a branch of scrub. Then, hoisting her skirts above her knees, she ran between two of the boulders to the flat, clear stretch of sand beyond. Water lapped at the shore, rhythmic and gentle with airy foam in place of the surf that often thundered in from the north, so the tide was clearly on the turn. Although thoughts of surf and tide distracted her briefly, the temptation to test the water soon proved too much, and she ran onto the wet sand, finding it cool to her bare feet but not cold enough to discourage her from testing the water.
As the next wave spilled onto the beach, she splashed through it, squealing as the chilly water kissed her ankles. Then, laughing, she ran on, skipping and kicking the water with a child’s delight until she stopped to watch two brown and white redshanks fighting over flotsam they had found on the beach, their long red legs making them easy to identify. The victor took wing with its snatched prize, and the other followed with angry, excited babble. The flight of both—fast, erratic, with jerky wing beats—held her fascination briefly until she heard hoofbeats thudding toward her across the sand.
Whirling, she saw the horseman bearing down on her, having barely slowed to negotiate the line of boulders. She knew instantly who it was, and her heart, although still pounding hard from her run, quickened its beat.
He slowed his mount, reining it to a halt while still some distance away, as if he were afraid he might frighten her if he rode too close.
Moments passed. At last, moving cautiously, still watching her, he eased a leg over the horse’s withers and slid to the ground.
The moment his feet touched sand, Mairi turned, snatched up her skirts, and ran, keeping to the hard, damp sand at the water’s edge. She did not glance back, certain that he would remount and follow, not daring to lose time by looking.
Exhilarated, she quickened her pace, listening hard for more hoofbeats on the hard-packed sand. After several moments of hard running without hearing them, she glanced back.
What she saw startled her nearly out of her wits, because without a sound to warn her, he was right behind her. Shock stirred new speed, but it was useless.
He caught her by her right shoulder, swinging her off balance and making her stumble, but she did not fall because without missing a step, he scooped her into his arms, kept running for a few steps, and then slowed to a stop.
He did not set her down, nor would the words come to demand that he do so.
Her gaze locked with his. Her heart pounded harder and faster than ever.
L
achlan was of two minds. Common sense said he should set her down at once and apologize for frightening her. But her body was warm and soft in his arms, and with roses coloring her lips and cheeks, her dark eyes sparkling, and her breasts heaving in that tantalizing way, he knew it would take a man of stronger character than his to do anything so daft when he wanted only to kiss her.
Gently, he said, “You’ve caused me to ruin an excellent pair of boots, my lass, so if that horse of mine decides to return to his stable without me, I’m going to be sorely vexed with you.”
“I am not your lass.” Her voice was as rich, resonant, and musical as he remembered, and the sound of it struck respondent chords throughout his body, making him want even more to kiss her.
When she licked her lips, he nearly gave in to the temptation and briefly wondered if he was crazy to ignore the opportunity.
Forcing himself to speak calmly, he said, “Why did you run from me?”
She did not answer at once, but a twitch of eyebrow and a tightening of lips told him she was weighing her answer, perhaps even deciding between possibilities.
“Before you reply, I would ask a boon,” he said in much the same tone that he might have used to calm a nervous mare.
She cocked her head, but he did not accept the clear invitation to ask what he liked, waiting instead until she said, “You deserve no boon.”
“I know that,” he said, “but still I do ask one.”
“A gentleman would set me on my feet first.”
He waited, inwardly smiling at what was apparently a natural inclination on her part to negotiate with him.
After a longer silence than he had expected, she sighed and said, “What boon would you ask then?”
“Only that you be truthful rather than kind or clever in answering my question. What was the first thought that crossed your mind when I asked it?”
“That I did not know why I ran,” she replied readily. “I just did, but that seemed a stupid thing to say to you.”
Her dark eyes were wide open, and when her rosy lips twitched in a small grimace, he knew she spoke the truth. Her breasts no longer heaved with such fervor, but the color in her cheeks had not faded, nor had his intense desire to kiss her. And, oddly, she had not repeated her earlier suggestion that he set her down.
He did so now but put both hands on her shoulders so that she had to face him as he said, “You may always speak your mind to me, lass. I may disagree with you or point out errors if I detect them in your feminine logic, but I will not laugh at your opinions or call them stupid.”
“I have six brothers, sir. I know what men think of women’s opinions.”
“Faith, do you dare to equate me with ordinary men?”
“Are you so extraordinary then?”
He smiled, searching her eyes for any indication that she was frightened of him. Seeing none, he moved a hand to cup her chin, holding it gently as he bent to taste her lips at last.
His mouth was soft at first, so soft she could barely feel it with hers. She stood perfectly still, fighting a longing to press her lips hard against his. And despite his gentleness, or perhaps because of it, the sensations that swept through her made her feel as breathless as she had felt while running away from him.
Her breasts swelled, pressing against her bodice as if they tried to escape its confines, and then, when he moved his hand from her chin back to her shoulder and pulled her against him, she felt her nipples harden, as new, wondrously stimulating sensations flooded her body.
His lips, demanding now, began to explore hers, to taste and savor them, and Mairi wondered how she had ever, for a moment, thought he was not a handsome man. His kisses grew harder, hungrier, and his arms slipped around her, hugging her closer until it felt as if the entire length of her body pressed against him. Indeed, she could feel his body moving against her in at least one place that she had not known a man’s body could move—not unaided, at least.
Somehow, her hands found their way to his waist beneath his short cloak. His velvet doublet felt soft to her exploring fingers. As if it were perfectly natural to do such a thing, she eased her hands around him until she was hugging him back.
He pulled away abruptly and, shifting his hands to her shoulders again, set her firmly back on her heels.
She looked up in confusion. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Nay,” he replied with a rueful smile. “I did.”
“But why did you stop?”
“Because I have no wish to make an enemy of the Lord of the Isles or of his beautiful daughter,” he said dryly.
“Oh,” she said, trying to decide if the surge of disappointment she felt was because he feared her father’s wrath or because he had stopped kissing her. She looked down, as if enlightenment might come from the sand beneath her bare feet.
His fingertips found her chin and tilted it up again. His eyes danced. “I enjoyed it, lassie,” he said. “Don’t think I did not.”
“Well, you should not have done it,” she said tartly.
“Faith, I ken that well enough.”
“My father intends me to marry my cousin Alasdair.”
“Aye, so you said, and I warrant ’tis wise for him to forge as many royal ties as he can, particularly with our Davy vexed with him again, as so often he is.”
“He certainly is now,” she agreed. “But I cannot think why the King should expect every lord of high estate to contribute to a ransom that most had small if any part in negotiating. The taxes he demands are absurdly high and will go to the English king, who is no friend to us. ’Tis no wonder so many refuse to pay.”
“Most of our Davy’s nobles have not refused. Only your father.”
“That is not so, sir. Many chiefs and chieftains in the Isles have refused. Has your father paid what David demanded of him?”
“Faith, lass, even a king’s demand cannot create money where there is none. We of Clan Gillean have naught to offer him save our swords and loyal support.”
“But your loyalty should be to the Lord of the Isles,” she protested.
“Aye, sure, and so it is, and the Lord of the Isles commands our boats as well. If he should order us to support the King of Scots, we will as we have before, and right loyally. However, in point of fact,” he added gently, “his grace refused payment of those ruinous taxes on behalf of all his Islesmen. Davy’s anger arises from the fact that others, not just Islesmen, have followed MacDonald’s lead.”
She knew he was right. Somehow, she had lost sight of that point in her determination to prove him wrong. But in fairness to him, he had not said she was stupid to have done so, as John Og or Ranald might have done, or dismissed her opinion out of hand, as Niall Mackinnon so often did. She remembered something the latter had said to MacDonald while discussing the king’s ransom.
Lifting her chin, she said, “Mayhap my father believes that having served as a hostage in England for nearly a year to guarantee David’s promise to negotiate a ten-year truce with his nobles, and that infamous ransom, he had done all that was required of him. He holds small respect for our cousin, the King, doubtless because David is weak, unprincipled, and unworthy to call himself the Bruce’s grandson.”
“Faith,” he exclaimed, “your father may think such things, but I hope that in general you have the good sense and discretion to keep such opinions to yourself.”
She nibbled her lower lip. “I do, of course. Indeed, sir, I cannot think how I came to blurt that out to you, as I did.”
His smile then warmed her to her toes, and the hand that gently squeezed her shoulder felt unnaturally warm, too.
“I meant it when I said you may say anything you like to me,” he said. “I do insist, though, that you exercise particular caution when expressing your opinion of the King to others or, indeed, your opinion of any other powerful man.”
Mairi stiffened. “How dare you issue such a command to me?”
“’Tis merely wiser, I’m thinking, to trust few others with any confidence.”
“Nonetheless, sir, you have no right to give me orders.”
“I become ever more certain, however, that I want to have that right.”
She could not mistake his meaning now, not when he loomed over her as he did, his hands still firm upon her shoulders, and gazed so intently into her eyes. Nor could she deny that her body responded instantly and with unfamiliar excitement to the thought of marrying him and letting him forever have his way with her.
Nevertheless, she said with a calmness that surprised her, “Since you raised the point of wisdom, sir, I take liberty to suggest that you would be wiser to accept what is real. You will never have the right to command me.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
She stepped back, suppressing a sigh of relief when he made no move to stop her. “We should collect our horses.”
“Aye,” he agreed, “and your boots.”
Disappointment stirred at the readiness with which he turned back, but she was glad to see that his horse still waited patiently where he had left it.
She knew he would not take hers if his had bolted, but she knew too that she did not want to ride pillion with him, and was certain that he would neither let her ride home alone and leave him to walk nor agree to walk beside her while she rode.
He did not mount the bay straightaway when they reached it, gathering its reins instead and leading it as they returned to the line of boulders and Hobyn.
She did not speak; nor did he. The birds’ whistles and shrieks overhead, even the rhythmic whispers and gurgles of water lapping at the shore, grew unnaturally loud to her ears. The aromas of the sea wafted stronger than usual, too. She could think of nothing to say, it being clearly ineligible to demand to know if he had sensibly given up the hopeless notion of marrying her.
“Sit on that rock yonder,” he said.
“Why?”
“I’ll help you put on your boots.”
Ignoring an urge to tell him that she could perfectly well put them on by herself, she did as he told her and then nearly smiled in response to the sudden twinkle she detected in his eyes.