Authors: Bride of a Wicked Scotsman
But her soul, her very being, was anything but tranquil. Doubt crowded her. Everything inside her cried out. Locked in her breast was a world of torment.
She was weary and bleak. Her search for the
Circle had proved fruitless. Was she on a mission of triumph or was Alec right? Was she on a fool’s quest?
She’d promised her father she would find the Circle—promised him on his deathbed. But now, doubt crowded her. How could she possibly find the Circle? Something she had never seen…that no one in two hundred years had ever seen?
Despair wrenched at her. Hope was meager.
It wasn’t just her family lands that were at stake.
Her heart was in jeopardy as well.
From the very beginning she’d felt he was far too dangerous for peace of mind. Far too dangerous to her heart. Oh, Lord, who did she fool?
She’d surrendered to Alec McBride from the very first time she’d laid eyes on him at the masquerade, garbed as a pirate.
He’d stolen her heart.
Captured her, body and soul.
She couldn’t love him. She didn’t dare. He’d scoffed at the existence of the Circle. Aye, he had helped her search, but it wasn’t because he believed…Yet if she didn’t find it, he would die.
He would
die
.
She couldn’t bear to lose him. She couldn’t bear to think he might suffer a long, painful death as his father had.
And he would, if she didn’t find the Circle of Light.
It was but one more curse—her own curse to bear.
Thus were her thoughts when Alec found her.
He stretched out beside her. “Spinning daydreams?” he murmured.
Maura gazed up into the sky. Gazed up at him.
He traced the crease between her brows.
“What troubles you, Irish?”
Her eyes filled with tears. She shook her head, her throat clogged with emotion.
“I think you need a sprinkling of fairy dust.” He clapped his hands and waggled his fingers.
The sound Maura made was half laugh, half sob. His eyes were so pure and blue, filled with tiny silver lights, his expression so tender everything inside her knotted. Her fingers came up, grazing the hollow of his cheek, a wordless caress.
He gave a mock sigh. “I lack your finesse, don’t I?”
With a cry, Maura clutched at him, burying her face against the column of his neck. “Alec,” she choked out. “Oh, Alec.”
All Alec could do was hold her. Her expression cut him to the quick. It was as if she was bruised inside. And in the sound of his name, he heard the anguish in her soul.
His arms tightened. He gathered her against him. She clung to him, as if her heart were breaking.
While his was cleaved in two. He couldn’t keep her here. But her course was already set. How, he wondered, could he ever let her go?
They lay there for a long time, Alec watching the sun spill through the treetops, while Maura snuggled against his side, reluctant to release the shelter of his arms.
But it was impossible for either of them to ignore the way they lay together for long. Indeed, it seemed they both became aware of it at the same moment.
Maura’s head was tucked beneath his chin. Her fist rested on his shirt, just above the buttons of his trousers. Holding her breath, she wondered what would happen if she extended her fingertips down just a wee bit—
She jumped as his rod leapt beneath her hand.
Alec’s laugh was low and full. “What can I
say, Irish? You stir me”—his smile was decidedly wicked—“to great length.”
“Oh! You needn’t boast, Scotsman.”
He noticed that her hand had returned, however, stirring him to even greater length.
“Irish?”
“Aye?”
“Do you wish to see that which you touch?”
Maura flushed crimson.
“Yes, I see that you do.”
Her jaw dropped as he proceeded to strip naked before her.
“Your grace,” she stated primly, “you display a dreadful lack of modesty.”
“Perhaps you should join me, then.” He tugged her upright. Nimble male fingers began to dispense the buttons on her bodice. Her gown was soon tugged from her shoulders and deposited on the ground. Petticoats, stockings, and shoes were tossed on the pile.
She was now as naked as he. And he had dropped to his knees before her. “Alec,” she whispered. Faith, but it was difficult to talk with his tongue tracing slow, tantalizing circles around her nipples. She gulped. “We are here in the open—”
He tugged her down to her knees as well. They were face-to-face now. Her hands climbed to his naked shoulders.
His ran his tongue over the graceful arch of her throat. “So we are.”
Maura could barely think. “Perhaps,” she said weakly, “the boathouse—”
“The next time, Irish.” His mouth closed over hers.
Beneath the pleasure of his kiss, her breath began to fray. Her tongue dueled with his. Conscious thought was abandoned.
“Maura,” he said raggedly. “Touch me, love.”
He dragged her hands to his chest. Maura slid her fingers through the dark mat of hair there, then explored the binding contours of his shoulders, twining through the dark hair on his nape. Her fingertips glided over the tautness of his skin, relishing the texture. She didn’t want to think. All she wanted was to lose herself to the moment. Lose herself to sensation. Lose herself in him.
She was hazily aware of Alec tugging them down. She lay on her side, as did he; the grass was warmed by the sunshine, while she was warmed by him.
His fingers tangled into dark fleece, stroked sleek, pink folds. He found her dewy, damp and ready.
He rolled to his back.
His hands caught her hips. She sucked in a breath, for now she straddled his thighs. His shaft
was poised at the very heart of her, his crown embedded in sleek wet curls.
His features were taut with need, his eyes blazing and brilliantly blue.
“Tempt me,” he said thickly. “Tame me. Take me.”
He brought her down upon his swollen shaft. Impaled, her lips parted in shock. Alec’s hand closed around her hips. He lifted. Guiding. Harder, faster, until she caught the rhythm. And then she was panting. Churning.
It was heated. Blistering. Exquisite. Fever scalded her blood. She braced her hand on his chest and rose above him. Riveted by the sight, she couldn’t look away from the place where they joined. Her hips tilted again and again. And again and again he pierced her, filling her with himself, driving deeper with every hungry, soul-shattering plunge. Her sheath clung tight around his swollen flesh.
Alec gritted his teeth. She was melting him. Into him. Around him. “Yes, Irish. Oh, yes, that’s the way.”
He caught her against him, clamping her tight. Her eyes squeezed shut as she shuddered spasms of release. His…
And hers.
Later in the day, Alec closed the door to his study. Maura had declared her intention to nap before tea. He briefly entertained the notion of joining her, then thought better of it.
The rules had changed. The game had changed. Making love to her had changed everything. He didn’t want to push her. Somehow, he must convince her to stay.
He didn’t want her to leave.
Ever.
He wanted a marriage.
A true marriage this time.
For all the right reasons.
He was cautiously optimistic. Maura’s lips couldn’t disguise her feelings. No, her response to him concealed nothing in her heart. She might deny it, but he knew better. There was every chance she might prove stubborn. Indeed, he expected it. She could be stubborn and fierce, his lovely lady.
But somehow he must find a way to convince her.
He understood her need, her duty to her clan and lands.
But she belonged to him.
She had to realize it sooner or later. And he would much prefer sooner than later. Indeed, he would prefer now.
He directed his steps toward the great hall. Afternoon sunshine splashed through the windows of the corridor, as if to light the way.
But all at once the sunlight vanished, with the suddenness of snuffing a candle flame. Alec stopped, looking up toward the sky.
A single, dark, threatening cloud obscured the sun. How curious. He could have sworn it hadn’t been there a moment earlier.
The thought scarcely flitted through his mind than the hairs on the nape of his neck prickled.
If he were given to such stuff and nonsense, he might have considered it the frosty breath of a presence that lurked directly behind him.
A distinctly ominous presence.
If he were given to such stuff and nonsense.
Which he was not, he reminded himself sternly. He lent no credence to such things. It was simply all this talk with Maura, with her curses and ancient relics.
He turned from the window to resume his way.
Only then, he realized, did he notice that the sunlight ceased before the portrait of James McBride, seventh Duke of Gleneden.
Alec stared at the portrait. It was just as he’d told Maura. He had always thought of this particular forebear as a nasty-looking chap.
No wonder Maura disliked him.
But he’d never before fancied that James, seventh Duke of Gleneden, was somehow gloating. His eyes seemed to glint.
The feeling grew stronger. With every breath. Every beat of his heart.
Alec’s gaze narrowed. He matched James McBride stare for stare.
Something gnawed at him. The feeling that something wasn’t right.
He scoured the portrait. James McBride stood next to a wide, rustic fireplace on the outer wall, one booted foot planted arrogantly on the hearth.
He and Maura had searched that room just a few days earlier; it was like a miniature version of the great hall, the ceiling and walls timbered and whitewashed. It had served as the counting room after Robert the Bruce gave title over to the first Duke of Gleneden.
It struck Alec now that in all those years, it seemed nothing had changed—since the time of Robert the Bruce and certainly not since James McBride had stood there, that smile on his lips. There was an air about the duke. Daring. Bold. Reckless.
Almost before he knew it, Alec was climbing the stairs to the third story and moving down the hallway to the room at the end. He swung the
door wide and strode to the fireplace. The room had fallen into disuse long before his grandfather was alive, when the fireplace was deemed unsafe to burn.
Plagued with some strange sensation, Alec stood where James, the seventh Duke of Gleneden, had posed for his portrait. He placed his boot where James had planted his. Stood where James had stood.
The brick beneath his heel moved. Alec dropped to one knee. His pulse quickened, drumming in his ears. The brick was loose; what mortar remained was pitted with age. He tried to grasp it, only to scrape his nails and fingertips. He didn’t give up. Caught fast in the grip of some inexplicable, unseen force, he glanced around, looking for something he could use to dig away what remained of the mortar. Seizing a remnant of brick that had fallen away from the other side, he scraped at the mortar holding the brick in place.
There! It was free. He didn’t know what possessed him. It was as if he’d been seized by some outside force. He pulled the brick away, then reached inside the hole.
There was something there.
His pulse leaped. Lord above, was Maura right? Could this possibly be her Circle of Light?
Fingers straining, he caught hold of it and pulled it out.
It was a small book, the binding tattered, the pages yellowed. He opened it with painstaking care, then sucked in a breath.
His heart stumbled. It was a diary, he realized.
The diary of James McBride, seventh Duke of Gleneden.
Maura wandered down the path that led to the wishing well. She had tried to nap, but her mind would not quiet. Alec filled her mind, to the exclusion of all else. One kiss. One touch. One look from those heated blue eyes and she trembled with desire. She despaired over her weakness, despaired over what their lovemaking meant.
Her heart twisted. It meant the world to her. Where Alec was concerned, she had no resolve—no will to resist him!
She couldn’t trust her feelings for him. They were too colored by want. By need.
By passion.
Oh, yes, her thoughts were filled with torment.
Her heart with love.
But she wouldn’t admit it. No, not to him. Despite the fact that she yielded her body, her pride was still too strong.
But she couldn’t stay here at Gleneden forever.
And she couldn’t forsake her quest for the Circle.
Her promise to her father. She was needed back in Ireland.
Thinking to soothe her unsettled mood, to distract her mind, she had brought a book of poetry from the library room with her. At the well, she placed the book on the stone bench. She didn’t understand why Alec didn’t find it charming. Indeed, she would go a step further and call it charmingly enchanted. Aye, perhaps it was a trifle plain. But all it needed was a dash of color here and there. She could well imagine how pretty it would be with roses scenting the air.
A faint smile on her lips, Maura moved to the wall of the well. She had no coins with which to wish, but she closed her eyes, inhaled deeply…and made a most fervent wish nevertheless.
All at once there was an eerie sense of quiet. The sunlight faded. She glanced up, stunned to see a thick black cloud.
She sat down and too late realized that the stones were not secure. They shifted beneath her weight and she felt herself tumble, plummeting down…She cried out as she landed jarringly on her side.
Maura tried to push to her feet, then stumbled. Her head ached. She felt battered and bruised
to the bone. Gritting her teeth, she managed to struggle upright.
She steadied her nerves. She was lucky. She wasn’t hurt, not really. Scraped up and bruised, perhaps, but it could have been much worse. But she knew she could not climb out under her own power. It was perhaps twenty feet to the top, and the walls of the well were slick with moss.
She called out. Her voice echoed back at her.
She wouldn’t be alarmed, she told herself. Not yet, anyway. Until someone realized she was missing, she could only wait. There was little point in screaming herself hoarse if there was no one near.
An hour later, the dark cloud had passed, yet it was difficult to see. She glanced down and it was then she felt it—
There was water seeping into her shoes. Within seconds it began to rush around her ankles. For the first time, fear took root.
The water was rising.
Fast.
Still stunned, Alec moved to a wooden chair near the window. No power on earth could have stopped him from reading the words of his ancestor. He handled it with care; many of the pages were loose. Thumbing through it, an entry caught his eye.
At first I hated my father for insisting I follow in his steps and serve in His Majesty’s Navy. I was not meant to serve others. But once there, well, I learned the sea was in my blood. And I acknowledged what I have always known. I braved danger…and relished it. I craved power…and found it. I am, after all, a duke.
And a pirate. I am also a scoundrel.
It amuses me to no end when the ladies whisper and shudder when they speak of the Black Scotsman. How the bold blackguard plunders the seas between Scot land and Ireland. Little do they know the Black Scots man may indeed sit across the table. That he may be at their elbow. Little do they know the Black Scotsman is a man with two faces. A man with two sides. Little do they know the Black Scotsman is a nobleman—a duke yet!
Alec sucked in a breath. There had truly been a pirate called the Black Scotsman. And Maura was right—the Black Scotsman was his ancestor, James McBride. He read on.
No one knows. Not even my lovely Gertrude. Not my daughter, Willa. Nor my sons, Gerald and Robert.
His eyes moved down the page, then stopped at a passage that jumped out at him.
I covet power. I covet riches. I covet the thrill. My ship mates are loyal. They covet riches as I do. But I have heard of a far different treasure, a mystic Celtic circle. They say it whirls and spins of its own power, through day and night. They say it has brought the Clan McDonough fortune through the ages. I have vowed it will be mine, this mysterious Circle of Light. It will surely bring me riches aplenty, and a man can never have too many riches.
Dear Lord, Alec thought. His eyes scanned the text that followed, then came to rest once more as if drawn to a particular entry.
The Circle of Light is mine. But I have paid a terrible price. For when I first touched it, I screamed with pain. It burned, burned like fire. I will forever wear its scar upon my hand, a terrible sight to behold. I must forever hide it, the hand that brought me the Circle, that no one will know I am the Black Scotsman.
There was more.