Authors: Anna Markland
Tannoch narrowed his eyes. “Ye woke me in the middle of the night to tell me this?”
Rheade straightened and turned to his younger brother, whose face now showed a glimmer of understanding as he shoved up his sleeve. “Logan has the same mark.”
Tannoch’s eyes darted to Logan’s bare arm.
Glenna gaped. “Tannoch has it. So what?”
Tannoch shook his head. “Means naught. We share the same mother.”
Rheade recognised life would never be the same after his next words. He waited until he had Tannoch’s full attention. “We inherited it from our Da.”
The guards shifted their weight from one foot to the other, plainly having no idea what was transpiring.
Fion stared at Tannoch.
Tannoch stared at Rheade.
A tic twitched at Tannoch’s right eyebrow. Rheade doubted anyone else would notice it, but he was anxious to witness his brother’s reaction to learning the truth.
Tannoch stole a cautious glance at Glenna. Rheade happened to follow his gaze. Her puzzled frown was like a blow to his gut. She knew nothing of the doubts surrounding her husband’s parentage.
His intention had been to honor his brother, not shame him in front of his wife.
He slapped his thigh, then swayed as if off balance, leaning heavily on Margaret. “Forgive the interruption, my laird, I imbibed too much of Fion’s ale at supper. Ye canna blame a man for overindulging on his wedding night. My poor bride. What must she think of me?”
Logan frowned.
“And I dragged poor Logan away from—” He hiccupped for effect. “—From something, or should I say someone.
“Margaret, my darling. I apologise to ye. Come let us return to our nuptial duties.”
They left arm in arm, not exchanging a word until they regained his chamber.
“She has never known,” Margaret exclaimed once they’d cocooned themselves within the heavy draperies of their own bed.
He gathered her into his arms. “Nay. I suppose I shouldna be surprised. I only found out recently myself. But Tannoch knows the truth now. That’s the important thing.”
“One thing is for sure,” Margaret whispered.
“What?”
“Ye certainly made this a night I’ll ne’er forget.”
~~~
A loud banging woke Rheade. The light seeping through the draperies indicated it was well past dawn. Margaret still slept, tucked into his body. Despite the revelations of the previous night, or perhaps because of them, Rheade had made love to her again when they’d returned to their chamber. He’d gone slowly this time, his heart more at peace than it had been for many a year.
He nuzzled Margaret’s nape and decided to ignore the knocking.
A moment or two later, the draperies were thrust open, waking Margaret. Irritated, he drew the linens over her nakedness. “Get out, Logan. I’m nay in the mood for reprisals. I plan to lie abed with my bride all day.”
His brother snarled. “I’d like to accommodate ye, but our chieftain has summoned us.”
Margaret smoothed the backs of her fingers over the stubble on his chin. “I’ll give ye a shave before ye go.”
The notion of Margaret shaving him was appealing. “Mayhap in the bath,” he suggested.
“No time,” Logan insisted. “Get dressed. I’ll wait outside.”
His younger brother’s unusually abrupt demeanor was perturbing. “I suppose I’ll have to go. Tannoch’s likely mad as a bull I woke him last night. Did I actually do that?”
She kissed his nose. “Aye, but it was the right thing to do, and when it dawned on ye Glenna was ignorant of the suspicions, ye were masterful in yer withdrawal.”
He rose and set about seeing to his needs while she slipped into the blue nightgown.
“Logan wore his best plaid. Ye must wear yours too,” she said.
“Aye,” he agreed, feeling more awake once he’d donned a clean
léine
and
trouzes
.
Margaret helped him put on his plaid, then handed him the trefoil pin he’d given her. “You must wear this. One last time.”
He inhaled deeply. “What did I do to deserve a wife like ye, Margaret. Ye’re a treasure.”
“Go,” she said. “Greet yer brother.”
RECONCILIATION
Rheade tapped lightly on Tannoch’s door, but didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. He and Logan were expected.
He’d thought their brother would still be in his sick bed, but a freshly shaved Tannoch stood with legs braced in front of the cold hearth. He and his raiment were clean and his unruly hair had been tied back in a tight queue. He looked like a stern chieftain about to dispense judgement on two juvenile miscreants—like their father.
He didn’t invite them to sit, but Rheade sat anyway, deliberately choosing his mother’s favorite armchair when she’d been Mistress of Dunalastair. He’d made the first move last night. The tennis ball was in Tannoch’s court now.
Visions of the king’s last moments flashed behind his eyes. Seemingly trivial things sometimes resulted in monumental changes—the decision to stop up a drain, an insignificant birthmark, the betrothal of a young lass from Oban many years ago.
Tannoch nervously smoothed his good hand over the folds of the plaid concealing his stump. He cleared his throat. “I ken ye were both surprised to discover I am yer brother.”
Rheade glanced at Logan, but said nothing. What was there to say? Tannoch was right, but he wouldn’t apologise for it.
“Truth be told,” Tannoch continued, “I was a mite surprised myself.”
The scowl hadn’t left his face, yet Rheade sensed a shift in his demeanor. He tried for humor. “Fion was too.”
“Huh!” Tannoch replied. “The
auld
bugger has never treated me with anything but respect, despite his belief I was a bastard.”
“Well, that’s water under the bridge now,” Logan offered.
Tannoch shot him a lowering glare. “Nay. There’s much remains to be said about the past.”
Rheade worried his brother might be spoiling for a fight when the chieftain fixed his gaze on him again.
“First off, I thank ye, Rheade, for sparing Glenna. It dawned on ye quickly I’ve never shared my suspicions with her. Ye might have made hay with the knowledge, but ye didna.”
A thousand thoughts assailed Rheade. If he’d been in Tannoch’s boots, he couldn’t conceive of not sharing his deepest fears with Margaret. Or mayhap his brother cared naught for Glenna’s opinions in the matter. Or was he genuinely glad she’d been spared the nagging doubts? Whatever the case, he didn’t wish to embark on an argument on that front, so all he said in reply was, “Aye.”
“I hafta say ye do a poor impression of a drunken sot.”
Rheade shrugged, relieved the tone seemed to have shifted. “I havna had much practice.”
Tannoch scowled. “Unlike me, ye mean.”
Rheade got to his feet and stood nose to nose with his brother. “Listen. I see no point in recriminations. Until a short while ago, it never occurred to me ye might not be my father’s son. We’re different. Always have been and I dare say always will be. Ye’ve done things in the past I havna approved of, but yer my brother, and I love ye.”
Tannoch gripped the mantel over the hearth, but said nothing.
Rheade unpinned the trefoil brooch from his plaid and fastened it to Tannoch’s. “Ye made sure this came to me because ye had doubts about yer parentage. Now I’m returning it to its rightful owner.”
Tannoch swayed, fingering the brooch. “I hafta sit. This maudlin’ sentimentality takes it out of a man.”
He slumped into their father’s chair. Rheade knew he would never admit his injuries had taken a toll on his strength.
Their brother needed to heal, in more ways than one. “Much as I would love to continue this conversation,” he quipped, “my bride is anxious for my attentions. Get some rest. Life will go on as before. Ye’ll be our chieftain, and Logan and I the carefree—”
He’d been about to say
bachelors
, but—
Tannoch looked up at him through half-closed eyes and raised his stump. “Nay, Rheade, life will never be the same again.”
~~~
She’d only recently taken up her position at Dunalastair, but Hannah had wasted no time asserting her authority as lady’s maid to the chieftain’s sister-by-marriage. A wooden bathtub filled to the brim with hot water stood ready.
Margaret eyed the water. “How did ye manage this?” she asked.
Hannah shrugged. “Folk here like my lord Rheade. There was no fuss when I explained it was for ye.”
The servants who’d carried in the pails of water had indeed seemed happy in their task. She trailed a finger through the water. “I’m in need of a bath—”
Hannah winked. “Aye. ’Tis the morn after yer wedding night.”
Margaret felt the blush heat her cheeks. She wanted to sink into the tub, but a little voice urged her to wait for Rheade. It was a wife’s responsibility to help her husband bathe.
One of her duties at Ogilvie House had been to assist her brothers with their bath in the winter. She’d scrubbed their backs and washed their hair. It was expected of the girl of the family. And of course her brothers had been gentlemen, never rising from the water until she’d left the chamber.
In the summer the family spent a good deal of time swimming in Oban Bay and baths weren’t deemed a necessity. How glad she was for those precious memories now.
“Shall I wait?” Hannah asked, jolting her from her daydream.
“Wait for what?” Rheade asked as he entered.
Margaret didn’t bother to reply. As soon as he set eyes on the tub, he’d know.
“Aha! Wonderful. A bath,” he exclaimed, throwing off his plaid. “Ye can go, Hannah. My wife will assist me.”
He grinned at the blushing maid.
She hurried out as he drew his
léine
over his head.
Margaret took the garment from him. “I see ye no longer have the brooch.”
He shoved down his
trouzes
and stepped out of them, holding his arms wide. “Aye. Why am I naked and ye are still clothed?”
She went into his arms, inhaling his male scent as she rested her cheek against his chest. “I plan to do my wifely duty and help my husband bathe,” she explained, curling her hand around his manhood. “Are ye always in this state?”
“Aye when I’m near ye,” he replied. “And ye’ll be in the tub while ye do yer duty.”
LYING ABED
“My parents raised their children to believe only sloths stay abed after dawn,” Margaret whispered.
Rheade tightened his grip around her waist and draped one leg over hers. “I sense ye are trying to make a point,” he drawled, kissing her nape.
She relished the softness of the golden hair on his leg against her skin. “Aye. It must be midday, and yet I am content to lie here with ye.”
“If we consider the matter carefully,” he replied, blowing on her neck, “I did actually rise earlier for a meeting with my chieftain, whereas ye have lain abed all day.”
She turned to face him, feigning outrage. “I got up with ye, Rheade Robertson.”
He pulled her to his arousal. “Only because ye canna abide being in the bed without me.”
She traced a fingertip over his lips. “’Tis true. I never shared a bed with anyone afore this. Now I canna bear the idea of sleeping alone.”
He sucked her finger into his mouth. It was astonishing how such a small gesture of intimacy fired her body with intense longing. “Ye’ve awakened the wanton within me, husband,” she breathed, licking his nipple.
“That’s a good thing, Margaret,” he growled, nestling his shaft between her legs. “Mmm. Wet.”
He coaxed her to turn her body so her back was pressed to his chest. “Open yer legs,” he whispered, placing a gentle hand under her thigh.
She tensed, unsure of what was about to happen. “What are ye doing?”
“Dinna worry,” he reassured her, “’tis a different way of making love.”
His shaft probed, causing her private place to clench.
“Guide me,” he whispered.
She put her hand between her legs and pushed the swollen tip of his manhood inside her sheath. She gasped when he plunged deep, deeper than before.
He cupped her breasts, squeezing the nipples, hard.
She reached back to dig her fingertips into his thrusting hip as his maleness filled her, heated her. She relished his grunts, the sheen on his skin, the increasingly delightful sensations that combined into a frenzy of all-consuming euphoria that carried her over the edge of a precipice. She screamed as she fell, but knew she was safe in Rheade’s strong arms because he growled his reassurance as his seed filled her.
~~~
He’d teased Margaret, but Rheade was surprised by his own indolence. He supposed the tumultuous events of the past months had caught up. Never one to linger between the sheets, he was content to lie with his dozing bride in his arms, breathing in her scent—the scent of a woman well-bedded.
They had fallen asleep in each other’s arms after their last lovemaking. He was fairly confident he’d penetrated deeply enough to plant a bairn.
He’d given only fleeting consideration to being a father, but the notion filled his heart with expectant pride. He smoothed a hand over Margaret’s flat belly, imagining her growing round with his son.
She stirred. “Tickles,” she whispered.
“Mmm,” he replied, tucking away for a later time the knowledge she might be ticklish. “I was petting my bairn.”
She snuggled closer. “Already?”
He was about to reply when someone tapped at the door.
“Probably Hannah with food,” Margaret said with a sigh. “Shall I let her in?”
“Enter,” he shouted. “I am peckish now ye mention it.”
She lifted the linens, eyeing his contented manhood. “Doesna seem like it to me.”
He grabbed her. Mayhap this was the time for tickling. “I mean for food, wench.”
“Leave the tray, Hannah,” he shouted over the giggling shrieks of his wife.
Someone cleared their throat. Definitely not Hannah. Margaret gaped at him, her eyes filled with uncertainty and amusement.
He came to his knees and stuck his head out between the draperies, the sight of his wife’s rigid nipples fixed firmly in his mind. “Logan! What are ye doing here? Go away. We’re busy.”