"What did Da want with you?" Annag demanded, waving a girl onto the bench and plopping a runny-nosed toddler beside her.
Niall filled another goblet for her. "Nothing of your concern."
Duncan sat, lowering his trencher to the table with a thud. "Did he not tell you of a new will, then?" he asked in a voice pitched to sound casual.
"Nay," Trick said flatly. He cut a hunk of mutton with more vigor than was necessary.
"Here, Alastair." Annag shoved a dish of hoch-poch in front of another of her children, a boy who seemed to have a sneer to match hers. "Are you certain there was no mention of a will?"
"Aye." Niall reached for some bread. "And Da seems to be gaining strength. So whatever it is you're hoping to gain upon his death, you shouldn't be expecting it anytime soon."
Kendra found Annag's affronted look less than convincing. "I'm not wanting Da to die, you eejit."
"But now that
he's
shown up, a duke and all"—Duncan slanted a none-too-friendly glance at Trick before focusing back on Niall—"you won't be needing any of Da's paltry holdings. With a new brother to provide for you."
Niall's mouth opened and closed like a salmon out of water.
Kendra saw Trick's jaw set before he pointed his knife at Duncan. "What makes you so certain I'm willing to provide for Niall? I'd lay odds your father didn't jump to such a conclusion."
Duncan sipped from his ever-present whisky, glaring over the rim. "What do you know of our father?"
"Enough to suspect he wouldn't readily cut his youngest son out of his will." Trick met Duncan's glare with one of his own. "His
favorite
son."
Sensing violence about to erupt, Kendra bit the inside of her cheek. "Can we not all be civil?"
Annag turned with a huff, her gaze narrowing with disdain on Kendra's low neckline. "You stay out of this."
"You'll address my wife with respect," Trick said through gritted teeth. If Annag had been a man, he'd have been on her, Kendra thought, drawing the shawl tighter to cover the front of her gown. As it was, she sensed he was barely holding himself in check.
When Annag's son started crying, Duncan's face turned red to match. "Who needs this trouble?" he barked at Niall, half-rising to his feet. "Ever since they've gotten here"—he waved an angry hand at Trick and Kendra—"I cannot have a word with you without them sticking in their noses. Keep them out of our family business, or else—"
"Or else what?" Niall stood, his fists clenched at his sides. "I'm grown now, aye? You cannot beat me up anymore. I'll floor you in a minute."
It was no idle threat. Niall topped the older man by a good four inches, and his youthful frame was hard and honed, while Duncan's was softened by sloth and drink.
Apparently not as dim-witted as he was surly, Duncan sat back down. "Just keep them away," he growled. "Both of them."
"They're family as much as you," Niall shot back. "
My
family."
Annag aimed a pointed look at Duncan. "Blood will tell."
"Blood will
run
if you don't back off," Trick said darkly. His knife clattered to his trencher, and, as he stood, his hand went to the hilt of his sword.
Clutching the shawl closed in front, Kendra rose. "Have we not seen enough violence here tonight?" Evidence still remained of the earlier brawl. "Come, Trick. I know where I'm not wanted."
She curtsied to Niall but ignored his siblings as she took Trick by his sword hand and led him away. He allowed himself to be dragged, although not before fixing Hamish's older children with a murderous glare.
That was exactly what Kendra was afraid of—murder. Trick was a highwayman, after all, accustomed to violence, and she'd never seen him this incensed.
Wanting to get as far from Annag and Duncan as possible, she led him out the door and around to the garden. The whole long way he didn't say a word, but as they stepped into his mother's wonderland of little model castles, she felt him begin to relax.
Night had nearly fallen, and the branches overhead were black silhouettes against the dark gray sky. In silence they walked up the long avenue of trees and back, up then back again. The crunch of their footsteps on the gravel seemed lost within the sounds of rushing wind and rustling leaves. Trick's grip softened on her hand, and his breathing settled; his gait became looser.
A light mist began to fall, and in mute agreement, they headed back inside.
The door shut behind them, blocking the rain and the noisy wind. In the tunnel that led through the thick stone wall, Trick stopped and put his hands on her shoulders. Illuminated by the torches that lit the entry, his eyes searched her face. Kendra gazed back, wondering what he was looking for.
"I don't like those two," she said quietly. "I wouldn't put anything past them. I don't know what Hamish has to bequeath to his children, but I suspect they'd go to any lengths necessary to see it ends up in their hands. All of it."
Trick shrugged, moving closer, backing her up until she felt the wall, hard against her spine. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "They're powerless, and they know it. They speak from desperation." He skimmed his knuckles across her cheek. "Don't worry your pretty head about them,
leannan
."
Leannan.
It sounded different now that she knew what it meant. "My head is more than pretty," she retorted, not immune to his scent and the sudden spark that lit his eyes.
He nodded slowly. "Aye, that it is." The wind had blown much of her hair loose from the bun, and he tucked it behind her ears, one side and then the other. He glanced into the great hall, sending a quelling glare to some poor soul who dared to look their way. Then, shielding her body from view with his larger one, he lowered his lips to hers.
The kiss was long and gentle, reawakening the stirrings in her belly that had started in Hamish's chamber. Her hands moved to clasp him by the hips; then her fingers worked down to the kilt's hem and edged underneath.
"Hmm." With a low laugh, he swept both her hands into one of his, then raised them above her head and pressed her against the chilly stone. In contrast, his body felt so warm along the length of hers. And his mouth this time was harder and hot, hungry, his tongue demanding. She itched to touch him, but his hand tightened and she couldn't, and it was strange what she felt, the twinge of frustration mixed with the heady thrill of the kiss.
He pulled back and cocked a brow. "That'll teach you to take advantage of a man in a skirt."
"Will it?" she asked. Nervously intrigued, she glanced up to their three hands.
His own gaze followed, and his laugh this time was short and amused as he released her wrists. "Seeing as it's taken you five weeks to come to my bed, I reckon I'll give you a few years before I go hunting for a way to keep those hands tied up and both of mine free."
"Tied up?" she wondered breathlessly. He was always so outrageous.
"Scarves, a pair of cravats"—he glanced down—"maybe a tartan sash?" His expression going from playful to meditative, he met her eyes. "Later,
leannan
. Much later for that, I think."
She blushed furiously, not at all as put off by that mental image as she thought she should be. Then his mouth claimed hers again, gentle once more, and she wrapped her arms around him, no longer thinking of that or anything while she gloried in his kiss.
As he drew back, a delicious shudder rippled through her. She knew for sure it would happen tonight.
"Are you cold, lass?"
"Maybe a bit." Nervous and excited and backed against the cold stone wall. But the stones were more than cold. "There's something about this place..."
He put a palm to the wall and leaned his weight on it. "What?"
"I...well, I'm just not comfortable here." She tried to look away, but he captured her chin in his free hand, forcing her gaze to his. "Throughout my childhood," she said, "marooned in exile on the Continent, parentless with no home to call my own, I never felt as out of place as I do here in this castle."
One of his fingers traced a lazy line on her jaw. "Then you'll understand why I wasn't in a hurry to return."
Her skin tingling under his fingertips, she nodded. But it wasn't only this place, these people, that contributed to her unease. Although she was physically drawn to her husband, and more so by the moment, he remained emotionally distant. Still a stranger, his essence far from her grasp.
Her hands rubbed up and down the plaid wool, and she swallowed hard, imagining the bareness beneath. He'd made a start, confiding a little bit about his childhood. If she trusted him with her body, would he perhaps return the favor by trusting her with his heart?
There was only one way to find out.
"Come upstairs," she whispered.
"Good evening, dearies." When Kendra and Trick stepped into their chamber, Mrs. Ross came forward, two goblets in her hands. "I thought you might be wanting a wee sack posset to help you sleep."
Kendra knew that sleep was the last thing on Trick's mind. Or hers, truth be told. She took one of the cups and sipped the warm, thick liquid, sweet and fragrant with the scents of cream and wine. Gazing at Trick over the rim, she watched as he removed the roll of papers from the front of his kilt and tucked it into his trunk.
"We thank you." He nodded and smiled at Mrs. Ross. "And we wish you a good night," he added pointedly.
Kendra sagged against the door after he closed it. "How strange that she would be waiting here for us."
"She was my old nurse." He unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it on the desk. "I reckon she saw us together earlier and figured it wouldn't be long until we were for bed." When she blushed, he pulled her close. "I don't want to be thinking about Mrs. Ross now."
His eyes burned into hers, making heat pool in her middle. She sipped some more of the posset, hoping the wine would bring her strength. And courage. She still wasn't sure he would fit.
Her heart skittered at the thought, along with a rush of warmth low in her belly.
Without another word, Trick pried the cup from her fingers and set it down beside his own. He pulled the shawl from her shoulders, balled it up, and tossed it into a corner. Lowering his head, he teased his lips over her cleavage. "I much prefer these delightful English dresses," he murmured.
The words felt warm against her skin. Until today, she'd never thought twice about the low necklines that had been in fashion since King Charles was restored to the throne. Trends were driven by Charles's love for everything French, which meant she'd worn gowns like this all her life, even as a young girl exiled on the Continent.
But, thanks to her exasperating, overprotective brothers, never before had anyone taken advantage of all the skin such dresses revealed. A shame, she thought now, enjoying the sensation of Trick's mouth against her flesh.
"I like this dress, too," she said breathlessly.
"I'd like it even better on the floor." He licked a shivery line up her throat, all the way to her lips. Just as she'd fantasized all day, she reached beneath the hem of his kilt, her hand making contact with the warmth of his legs and the springy softness of the hair that covered them. So different from her own, so very, very male. Feeling very daring, she reached up, up, until her fingers wrapped around steel encased in warm velvet.
God, she hoped he would fit.
She moved her hand experimentally. He stiffened, then sighed, and a thrill raced through her, that her simple touch could affect him so much.
"Aye," he murmured. "I'll definitely be asking Niall if I can keep this kilt." Then his hands went to work undressing her while he kissed the very breath out of her body.
She pulled her hand from beneath the kilt and reached for his shoulders, pushing the wool tartan off and behind. Under the draped front, she felt for the buckle on the thick leather belt, working it loose with frantic fingers. At last the kilt fell off, all of it, dropping to the wooden planks at his feet, the heavy buckle landing with a satisfying
thunk
.
He spread her bodice and worked the gown down her body to pool on the floor as well. And there was nothing left between them except his thin lawn shirt and her even thinner chemise.
His hands came around her back, and she leaned in, pressing her breasts against his hard chest and her hips against his hardness below. A hot rush of desire weakened her knees, and she wrapped her arms around him to hold herself up, wantonly reaching beneath the tail of his shirt to clutch his buttocks and press herself even closer.
"Sweet Mary," he breathed, clearly liking it.
But for her, it still wasn't nearly close enough.
At a noise on the stairs, she stilled, her heart beating double-time. "Do you hear something?"
Trick nuzzled her neck. "Something like what?"
"Like footsteps." His muscles tightened beneath her fingers, striking a spark of hungry desire. She arched in pleasure, then froze again. "In the stairwell—can't you hear it?"
"Nay." He raised his head. "Wait. Maybe I can." The sound was faint, muffled, so soft the beat of her heart and her heavy, uneven breaths nearly drowned it out.
Nearly.
She bit her lip. "There are people in there, I'm sure."
"Don't you worry about it." He hooked a finger in the top of her chemise and drew it down, fitting his palms to her breasts. Her nipples puckered in response, sending a hot streak of sensation down lower.
His lips grazed hers, then his tongue flicked out and teased the seam where they met, slick and sweet with the flavor of creamy sack posset. "It must be the ghosts of men going up to Prisoner's Leap," he murmured against her mouth, and she couldn't tell if he was jesting or not. "They won't bother us in here."
"D-do you believe in ghosts?"
His shrug conveyed a mixture of amusement and frustration. "Right now I believe in finishing what we've started."
She twisted away from his kiss. "What if it isn't ghosts on those stairs, but someone much more real and frightening?"
With a strangled groan, he stepped from the kilt at his feet, then bodily picked her up. He walked to the bed and plopped down, sitting her on his lap. "Like who?"