Authors: Anna Markland
He managed to reply, though not without difficulty. “Aye. Take off yer
léine
and I’ll pleasure ye again.”
She had the linen off and over her head before he had a chance to unpin his plaid and remove his own
léine
. She stood before him, completely naked, downcast eyes betraying her uncertainty. He raked his greedy gaze over her, swallowing hard. She was perfection from the round globes he’d already glimpsed to the shapely hips that would bear his bairns. His eyes wandered to the golden curls at her mons.
He quickly shucked his garments, sat on the edge of the bed, took her hand and drew her onto his lap. He’d lain with women before, but being skin to skin with Margaret was—well he couldn’t describe it. It was what he’d wished for but never expected to find. He cupped a breast, brushed his thumb over the rigid nipple and bent his head to suckle. She moaned, arched her back and opened her legs.
He should rein in his rampaging need, but instead he put a hand at the top of her thigh. The soft down tickled the back of his thumb. “Can I touch yer secret place, Margaret?”
~~~
Voices from the past whispered to Margaret she should put a stop to Rheade’s intimate touches, but her heart and the throbbing need paid no mind. “Aye,” she whispered. “But I’m verra wet there. It happens whenever I’m with ye.”
She didn’t have time to decide if his response was a grunt of pleasure or pain. His fingers were suddenly sliding over her wetness, seeking something—she didn’t know what, only that she wanted him to find it.
She’d never felt such heat, but relished it and wanted to be hotter. Touching and tasting Rheade’s male part had revealed her brothers’ boasts to be true, and her heart knew his manhood belonged inside her. They were meant to be one.
Her back arched involuntarily when he found what he sought, but he held her fast against his hard body. “Rheade,” she breathed.
“Aye, Margaret, ’tis the diamond of yer desire. In a moment or two—”
She didn’t hear what else he said, every part of her body suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of wanton sensation; she closed her eyes, blinded by a bright orange light as she drowned in a maelstrom of bliss.
Time drifted. She awoke cradled in Rheade’s arms, feeling like a contented cat. He was rocking her, kissing the top of her head. “I—”
“Shh,” he murmured.
He lifted her, drew back the linens and covered them both. “Rest,” he whispered, curling his warm body around her. “I instructed Hannah not to come. We have all night.”
~~~
Rheade lay awake for most of the night, denied sleep partly by his body’s intense craving for Margaret, and by a flood of possibilities swirling in his mind. He needed a plan to ensure her safety.
He cupped her breast and matched his breathing to hers as he wrestled with the problems confronting them. When the solution came he nearly laughed out loud.
Of course. It was obvious.
He dozed then with greater peace of mind, until he heard faint sounds of the castle stirring to life. “Wake up, Margaret,” he whispered in her ear. “Hannah will be here soon.”
She turned to him lazily. He couldn’t see her clearly, but sensed she was smiling. His shaft reacted predictably, but time was of the essence and there were things to accomplish. “We must get dressed,” he told her. “We’ve a wedding to go to.”
“What?” she said lazily.
He smoothed her hair off her face. “It came to me in the night. What’s to prevent us marrying now? Yer betrothed is dead.” He winked, puffing out his chest. “I’m an eligible bachelor.”
“But the Queen,” she protested, rising up on her elbows.
He averted his gaze from the pouting nipples. “Marrying me will offer ye protection. Joan will hesitate before she prosecutes the wife of a man who helped capture three assassins. The clan willna stand for it.”
He gathered the linens to cover her nakedness when the door creaked open. Hannah hesitated on the threshold. She carried a flickering candle that illuminated her face, but he doubted she could see much in the half light. “Hannah,” he said softly. “Go to the Infirmary. Ye’ll find a priest at my brother’s bedside. I forget his name. If he’s nay there, he’ll be in the chapel. Tell him I need him here and he’s to bring Logan.”
The maidservant gasped, but a broad grin spilt her chubby face. “Aye, my lord Rheade. Right away.”
~~~
“’Tis verra irregular,” Father Fencot repeated for the tenth time. “Ye dinna have yer chieftain’s consent.”
Margaret didn’t fault the reed-thin cleric for his cantankerous demeanor. A gust of wind would likely blow him over at the best of times, and he’d spent all night at Tannoch’s bedside.
“Aye,” Rheade replied. “Nevertheless, ye have to agree ’tis acceptable. Margaret and I wish to wed. Neither of us is encumbered by ties to anyone else. It may be a long while before Tannoch is sufficiently recovered enough to resume his responsibilities as laird.”
The priest shook his head. “If ever,” he muttered.
His pessimism seemed to increase Rheade’s agitation, but he persisted. “We can as easily hand-fast, and ye ken it. We want God’s blessing.”
The priest hemmed and hawed, shifting his sparse weight from one sandalled foot to the other.
Rheade looked to Margaret. They’d agreed on what he would say as a last resort to convince the cleric. “I’ve already made Margaret my wife, Father.”
For Margaret it wasn’t a lie. She considered she was Rheade’s wife. Let the priest take what he may from the statement.
The cleric eyed her like a harlot, then heaved a heavy sigh. “Verra well, but on condition ye consent to a proper ceremony in the chapel at Dunalastair when ye arrive home, with yer clan as witnesses.”
Logan whooped his approval, earning a glare from the ill-tempered priest. Hannah clapped her hands.
“I hesitate to think what yer sainted father and mother would say,” the cleric chunnered as he kissed his ceremonial stole and put it around his neck.
Margaret gulped. What would Rheade’s parents have thought of her? What would the clan’s opinion be? If Tannoch recovered he’d be livid. And what of Glenna?
But none of that mattered. Before her stood the man who was her destiny, and he loved her! She was confident her parents and brothers would have held Rheade in high regard.
He took hold of her hands. She watched his beautiful lips move as he repeated in a steady voice the promises binding him to her. An irreverent urge to trace a fingertip along his sensuous mouth seized her.
When her turn came, she too repeated the vows, certain of the rightness of what was taking place. She basked in the warmth of Rheade’s half smile, feeling the reassurance of his strong hands holding hers firmly.
As the priest confirmed their union, Logan wrapped the end of his plaid around their joined hands. Hannah giggled as Rheade bent his head to kiss her. Margaret tingled with happiness from head to toe. Even the priest’s abrupt departure didn’t dampen her joy.
But she was humbled when Rheade unpinned his father’s brooch from his plaid. “I have no ring to give ye, Margaret Robertson, but I hope ye’ll accept this token of my love.”
She was ready to protest, but the ardor in his eyes kept her silent as he fastened the brooch to her plaid. “Thank ye,” she murmured, hoping he understood what was in her rapidly beating heart.
He tucked the sachet into his
léine
. “But I’m keeping this,” he said.
Logan shook his brother’s hand heartily, then hugged Margaret. “Welcome to our family,” he declared.
Hannah curtseyed to Rheade. “I ken ye’ll take verra good care of Lady Margaret, my lord.”
Logan laughed and pecked a kiss on Hannah’s cheek. “Of course he will.”
“Like many a young lass,” Margaret said, linking arms with Rheade, “I dreamed for years of my wedding day.”
Rheade frowned. “I hope ye’re not too disappointed.”
“Nay,” she exclaimed, regretting she’d mayhap said the wrong thing. “This is a thousand times better than I ever imagined.”
“Aye,” he whispered. “I hope ye feel the same after our audience with the Queen.”
QUEEN JOAN'S WRATH
Unlike his chieftain, Rheade hadn’t forgotten the ruthless brutality with which a newly crowned King James had slaughtered or imprisoned many Highland lairds at the onset of his reign. Summoned to a parliament at Inbhir Nis, clan chiefs were summarily arrested. Alexander, Lord of the Isles had languished in custody. On the fateful day he learned of the assassination conflicting emotions swirled in Rheade’s heart.
The Earl of Atholl and his grandson had obviously not forgotten that their kin, descendants of King Robert the Second, had been persecuted, evidently to remove any perceived threat to the throne.
Large portions of the heavy taxes imposed to raise money to pay off the English crown for the King’s ransom of forty thousand pounds sterling were diverted to purchasing luxuries for the royal court and into the construction of Linlithgow Palace for the Queen whose wrath they were about to face.
It was an undeniable truth that many in Scotland shared Graham’s view the king was a tyrant. The bitter memories resurfaced as Rheade led his new bride into the audience, followed by Logan.
He repeated over and over they were dealing with a woman still reeling from the brutal murder of her husband, father of her many children, and her own near death experience.
She had a smile on her face, but it seemed like an effort for her to keep it there.
Her ever present Commander stood at her right shoulder, but Rheade was surprised to see Garth, seated below the dais. Neither man’s features betrayed what was in his mind.
Margaret curtseyed deeply. Rheade and Logan bent the knee and bowed their heads.
“Rheade and Logan Robertson,” Erskine began, “Her Majesty bids ye rise.”
It didn’t augur well. Joan was evidently still displeased with Margaret. Rheade deemed it best to hold his tongue as he stood and raised his head, dismayed to see the Queen glaring at his wife.
An uncomfortable silence followed, then the monarch seemed to recollect the purpose of the audience. “I have summoned you to express my deep appreciation for your family’s pursuit and capture of the men who murdered our King, and assaulted our person,” she declared.
Rheade was heartened by the note of genuine thanks and relief in her voice.
“As you know, the Stewarts have been executed and Graham will meet the same fate.”
Rheade glanced at Erskine for some sign he should speak. The Earl nodded.
“’Tis a great relief to all of Scotland that the assassins have been brought to justice and ’twas our clan’s honor to have played a part in their capture.”
“Are you satisfied everyone involved in this treasonous crime has now been arrested?” the Queen asked, staring once again at Margaret, still in full curtsey, head bowed.
Anger surged in his throat. Damned if he’d allow a vengeful queen to persecute the woman he loved, a woman who had committed no crime. Enough innocents had been tortured and executed. “I am, and, with respect, Your Majesty, if you are referring to Lady Margaret Ogilvie, if I’d harbored any doubts concerning her innocence in these matters, I wouldn’t have taken her to wife.”
Queen Joan’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the arms of her throne. For a moment Rheade feared she might leap at him, but she quickly regained her icy demeanor after glancing briefly at Garth. The Black Knight had a strange half smile on his face.
It was the scowling Erskine who spoke. “Ye have wedded Lady Margaret?”
Rheade inhaled deeply. “This very day by bonds of holy matrimony in this castle.”
“And why are ye certain of her innocence?” Erskine asked.
“’Twas she helped me capture Robert Stewart and his grandfather.”
Queen Joan narrowed her eyes. “Your brother captured the Stewarts, not you.”
Logan spoke for the first time. “Nay, Your Majesty, ’twas Rheade and I who captured them, with Lady Margaret’s help.”
Joan looked to Garth again. He shrugged.
“And exactly how did she help ye?” Erskine asked.
Rheade had hoped this question wouldn’t arise, but there was naught for it. “She threw a chamberpot out of a turret window.”
Garth laughed out loud, but quickly composed himself, crossing his legs and covering his mouth with his hand.
“It delayed the Stewarts’ flight from Blair Castle,” Logan explained. “They were evidently surprised by the unusual missile.”
Garth uncrossed and recrossed his legs. Sweat beaded on Erskine’s forehead. The Queen’s mouth had fallen open.
The ironic humor of drains fatally blocked to prevent tennis balls from entering and chamberpots flying out of windows suddenly struck Rheade and he too was tempted to laugh. But he doubted the Queen would appreciate the humor. He gambled on one more ploy. “Graham’s capture was the result of a vision Margaret had.”
~~~
Mention of the chamber pot was bad enough, why had Rheade brought up her vision? The heat prickling Margaret’s nape turned to ice. She feared if the Queen gave her leave to raise her head, she might rave like a lunatic and be judged guilty.
“Explain this vision,” Erskine demanded.
Margaret kept her eyes fixed on the tiled floor, the presence of the man standing at her side the only thing keeping her from swooning. When no one else answered, she assumed the command was directed at her. “My brother appeared to me, in a dream,” she murmured.
“What did she say? Tell her to speak up,” the Queen ordered.
Margaret cleared her dry throat. “My brother Braden drowned a few months since, in the whirlpool at Corryvrechan. Ye may have heard it called Brecan’s Cauldron.”
Rheade shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She inhaled deeply and started over. “Braden appeared to me in a dream when I was at Emanuel Priory. He told me where Graham was hiding.”
“A dead man told ye where Graham was hiding, at Loch Bhac?” Erskine asked, his voice full of incredulity.
It was hard to believe, and she certainly wouldn’t reveal the rest of the mystery, but did the vengeful monarch not realize that were it not for Braden's appearance, Graham might still be at large? She risked raising her head and willed herself to meet the Queen’s icy gaze. “Aye. My brother told me exactly the place. Had he not, you would still be hunting him. I have lived all my life in Oban. I had never heard of Loch Bhac.”