Authors: Mageela Troche
“Once he healed, he vowed to never wed.”
A broken vow for her…
“He is a good man give him time. Treat him well, care for him and perhaps, love him.” She laid her hand on Portia’s knee. “Promise me.”
Her small face hardened, appearing as fierce as her husband. Portia hesitated, knowing she didn’t have love in her.
“I shall.”
* * * *
The small chapel glowed from the dozens of candles spread about. Here in this family chapel, she would stand before a priest and cleave herself to another man.
The last time, she had walked on tippy toes. The dreams of her life—the feasts in the great hall, the nights as they sat before the hearth with her working on a tapestry and him staring into the fire surrounded by the children she would bear.
This day, hope for a future, even her musings of that life, were bleak.
“Father, before the ceremony I wish to confess.”
“Of course, my lady. Laird, will you be confessing as well?”
“Nay, Father, we don’t have time.”
She entered the confessional and crossed herself. “I have taken the Lord’s name in vain. I have prayed for mass to end… I’ve taken a life.” She peeked at the candle, expecting it to flicker from the same chill that danced down her spine.
“A life?”
“More than one—I was escaping from my own private torment. My actions led to the loss of good people who helped me.” The woodcarver and a farmer and his son. It took all her stubbornness not to collapse at the loss of them and the way they saved her life. These men might not have been knighted but were as brave as any man.
“Did you play a hand in their deaths?”
“Never, but their kindness to me sealed their fates. Father, Alec wishes to wed me and I worry his death shall follow.”
“God may have other plans for him.”
“Maybe the devil does too,” she whispered, fearful her words might conjure him.
“This devil you speak of?”
“An English baron who desires my dowry. He shall come for me and will cut down any who stand in the way of his wants. Just as my husband did. And my brother-in-law MacKintosh will retaliate against Alec and the clan. Death can only follow.”
“I understand your fears. One question—what about your life?”
* * * *
Alec listened to Father Murray perform the ceremony. Portia seemed ready to weep and joy wasn’t the reason. Ailsa sighed behind him. He couldn’t decide which female bothered him the most.
There were many reasons for this marriage, but he yearned for it. He had given up a young man’s vow and took on new ones. He would protect Portia.
The troubles increased for him and the clan. They failed to matter to him.
Father Murray looked to him. Alec repeated his vows. Beneath the clouding of her eyes, he swore he glimpsed hope. What she hoped for, he couldn’t answer. But he would move Scotland itself to give it to her.
The ceremony completed on an amen, and he was a married man. A Scottish man married to a Sassenach bride.
Ailsa rushed to Portia and hugged her. “I am so pleased to call you sister.” She kissed Portia’s cheek. “This is the beginning of a grand union.” She threw herself into Alec’s arms.
Alec swore she wanted to say something else, but Portia’s green face had her swallowing her words.
She linked her arm through Duncan’s. “Tis good luck to wed in this chapel. Only happy, loving marriages happen here. When I entered here, I felt blessed.”
“Ailsa, you didn’t want to wed me and you were green as the Caledonia Forest.”
Ailsa shot him a sharp look. “Deep within me, I knew it. You two know it as well.”
* * * *
Portia stared out the window. The cold slapped across her cheeks. Her nose was numb and her ears were chilled and pained from the cool weather. That was not the source of her shivers. She wasn’t afraid. Whatever the emotion, she swayed between jumpiness rushing through her skin and having the hairs on her arm waving like wheat stalks and a fist gripping her chest. With each respiration, the fist tightened so sharp a pain stabbed through her.
Since returning to Cameron lands—her new home—one thought raced. Lairdess Portia Cameron. She was no longer a captive. She was home. For how long?
“Lairdess Portia Cameron.” The taste felt unfamiliar. Her tongue twisted to pronounce each letter. A new existence while haunted by the past. Lady Portia de Mowbray—that sounded true but Lairdess Portia Cameron—too odd as if she didn’t even know the person she was now.
Only one truth explained it—experience dimmed the foolish beliefs of youth. Her wedding night with Stephen had been different. Her nerves had frayed like ripped silk as they were now, except her body jumped from the energy. However, that night, she couldn’t stop primping herself. She hadn’t known what to expect in the marriage bed. Her mother had explained the physical act but she still was unsure. Now, she was no longer an untried miss but on this night, she still didn’t know what to expect with her new husband.
Would he be rough? Would she recoil from his touch? Would her memories of Stephen intrude and fill her with betrayal?
This night, her past and misgivings had no place here. The scrape of the latch captured her attention. Slowly, she turned to the sound.
Alec—her husband—lingered by the door. He was a handsome man. Portia recognized that. His straight hair hung over his forehead and brushed his left brow, giving him a boyish look. The torch light shined over so the dark auburns of his hair shined. He appeared to be nervous, shoulders back and neck tense but he couldn’t be. She was probably picking up on her own jitters.
She tried not to take in his tempting form. His lean chest was bare but for the swirl of chest hair disappearing into the waist of his plaid. The cuts of muscle and sinew wrapped tight around him.
His jaw was tense. Although he stood in the chamber, he seemed somewhere else. He swallowed and came back to here and now.
This night was her second wedding night.
Can she wake and it be the morn after?
What she feared she was unsure. Nay, she knew this marriage betrayed Stephen and the love their union held. This sacrament helped keep her alive until the haunting forces gathered and destroyed it all.
* * * *
His bride leaned over the sill and stared out the window. She stood on the tips of her bare toes. The wind picked up her loose hair, her round buttocks defined by the thin nightgown. The flimsy fabric brushed against her long legs. The garment provided no protection from the Highland nights. He’d keep her warm, wrapping her tight in his arms and cradling her against him.
Usually when he saw a beautiful woman, a tension overtook him. Tonight, it was there, yet languidness spread just beneath him. The bolt clicked into place as the handle slipped from his hold.
Her bright blonde hair swung about her knees as she faced him. She struggled to smile a welcome, only to look pained. Tonight, there was a delicacy to her he had never noticed beneath her stubbornness. Her stiff arms were at her side and pinched the excess fabric, revealing her seductive curves—the full breasts, the soft roundness of her belly and the flare of her hips—to the shadowy center between her lengthy legs.
Just kiss her.
He had before without the tremors. This time was different. She was his bride and he had a God-given right to kiss her and feast on her flesh. He rolled his shoulders to knock off his tension.
Alec closed the distance between them. A lock fell over her eyes. With his index finger, he brushed it away. His hand shook. His muscles contracted to stem his nerves.
He claimed her mouth. At first, her lips remained flat and stiff. He stroked the flesh of her ear. Not releasing her, he waited as he felt her mouth soften and return the caress.
She rested her hands on his shoulders. Her touch was light, unsure, if he had to describe it. He molded her body against his own. Her breast flattened against his chest and rose and fell with each breath. His blood stirred. A roar and beat blared in his ears. He tightened his hold, arching her back. She moaned deep in her throat and into his mouth. His manhood stirred to life, not that it need much help. Her arms curled around his neck and her fingers tangled in the ends of his hair. Her nails scraped the tender skin. A groan built up and he couldn’t stop it from breaking free.
Damn, he desired her. That much he admitted. Slipping his tongue between her lips, he groaned at the rush of sweet wine flooding his mouth. He trailed open-mouth kisses to her neck. Wildflowers and the underlying scent of Portia filled his nostrils. Her smooth, warm skin…beneath the salty flavor was the most dulcet taste he ever experienced.
He swept her in to his arms and carried her to the bed. He came down upon her, cradled by her spread legs. Pushing on his forearms, he gazed down at her. “You are beautiful.” The words rocked him.
“Thank you,” she whispered, not impressed by the compliment.
His fingertips danced along her narrow shoulders. Slowly, he inched his fingers down her chest. She froze as he weaved around her full breast. Not yet. She watched his hands, following every achingly slow caress. She covered his hands and guided him along her curves. She squirmed under his touch. Everything about her was different—round, soft and smooth. He stopped at her hips. Her arms fell to her side. Bunching up the nightgown, he tore the light fabric. Lifting up her hips, fire light fell over her bare legs. Her creamy skin glowed golden. He palmed her calf and slid upward. His roughened hands snagged on her milky skin, leaving faint marks of his touch. Damn, he shouldn’t have touch her. Beneath his palm, her muscles melted, falling open. Her eyes drifted close. Her lips parted slightly.
He halted at her thigh, kneading the flesh. The truth was he had never lain with a woman. Following his manly instinct, he couldn’t let Portia know.
“Tis your right,” she said.
Alec climbed to his knees. Portia rose up on her elbows. Her lips swollen and her hair in a sultry disarray and her brows knitted with confusion. There were words he wished to speak but he climbed from the bed and fled the chamber.
Chapter Eight
Portia made her way through the corridor from the kitchen, chased by the scent of smoke, oats and fish. The day’s rations had been drawn and rolls tallied. She even spent time in the garden. The cook refused to allow her near the vegetable plot and the fruit trees but Portia enjoyed caring for the flowerbeds. On this day, she couldn’t hide there. She lingered before the great hall’s archway and arranged her face in the most noble countenance she could muster when she wanted to glare at him.
Once she crossed into the hall, she would see Alec for the first time since he sprinted from the chamber. Sometime during the night, she had fallen asleep, waiting for his return.
Before slumber overtook her, she had perched on the edge of the bed and listed reasons for his fleeing. He held no desire for her. She struck that one off. She had felt his desire hard against her inner thigh. Next was he respected her and wished to wait for her acceptance of him. That one seemed silly, especially since he had come to the chamber to claim his husbandly rights. Then there was the worst reason she conjured—he was hungry.
As the night faded away, she lost hope that her marriage would develop some tenderness. Ailsa would no doubt give her another speech about not giving up on her promise. There was no chance, not that Ailsa would let her think that way. Did Portia want one?
The great hall filled with clansfolk. They craned their necks for a glimpse of her. A curiosity like the ones at a fair where saints bones were displayed and captured all attention. Alec sat at the dais. An empty chair was beside him—her spot. Quinlan and Hurley flanked the table. A hush blanketed the room, cutting off all discussions in mid-sentence as every eye followed her progress to her seat. She folded her hands on her lap and angled her head slightly, just as her mother did. Hopefully, she hid the flutters beneath her flesh.
Alec never spared a look at her while every clan member’s attention stayed riveted on her. A thick quiet lingered. He motioned for the crofter to continue. The man blinked before he started again. She listened as the man spoke about a beast dying though he was promised the sheep was in the finest of health. Alec pronounced his judgment. The drover who bartered with was to present him with two of his animals.
Next, an elderly man stepped up to the table. His white hair stuck out from the sides. His wrinkled skin hung from his thin-boned face. His creased face appeared to have been earned from scowling as well as happiness, an emotion his slumped boney shoulders belied. “Laird—Lairdess.”
“Brus.”
Portia inclined her head.
“My wife, Cece, has been dead for half a year. My daughters have wed and my last son has set up his household. Men aren’t meant to outlive the wives. The lasses of the clan have been helping Cook and with other chores, but I canna not be takin’ them from their homes and families so I’m seeking a new wife.”
Why he had come to Alec, Portia hadn’t understood. That Alec nodded baffled Portia even more.
“Cece was a good woman. I understand, Brus.” Alec looked at Portia. “The lairdess shall help you find a new wife.”
Brus appeared as shocked as Portia. The man’s eyes goggled. His hair bounced about his large ears. Blinking, he composed himself and lifted a shoulder in acceptance.
“I am pleased to help you. On the morrow, we shall begin.”
Brus smiled, revealing a missing tooth, giving him a playful countenance.
Portia leaned toward Alec. From the side of her mouth, she muttered, “How does one go about finding a wife?”
“Kidnapping.”
She smiled. “Tis one way, but wooing helps.”
“Then help him do that.”
* * * *
The garrison and families gathered for the evening meal. The vaulted room rang with conversations of various topics. Alec sat upon the dais. Portia had yet to arrive. Servants brought in the bread and placed it on the tables along with flagons. Nothing about this meal was different but one thing.