MacKinnons' Hope: A Highland Christmas Carol Page 6

  * * *

  The fire spat glowing cinders against a twilight sky.

  ‘Twas said the winter solstice was a time for rebirth, a time for growth, a time for atonement. For those who believed in faeries and brownies, it could easily be said that for any who came ill prepared for the long winter, the solstice would be the hour of reckoning. On the other hand, if one did not believe in faeries and brownies, it could also be said the hour had come…

  Afric smiled.

  The fire had been a ruse, a means to draw his prey out into the open. If, in fact, it had been his intent to devastate the entire clan beyond restitution, he would have killed them all whilst they’d slept in their beds. But nay, he already had a long list of souls he wouldst need make amends for, and he had no desire to add to that list unnecessarily.

  Earlier, as he’d stood inside the hall—a stranger in their midst—listening to the laird’s son attempt to convince his father that there must be foul play at hand, Afric worried his opportunities would all be lost. But then the MacKinnon dismissed the lad, and here they were, none the wiser.

  Celebrating like filthy Pagans, no one appeared to care that flames destroyed half the village little less than a week before. In his arrogance, the MacKinnon had ordered yet another bonfire, one that was even bigger than the last.

  Of course, it was easy enough to believe all was right with the world, when neighboring clans all came together this way.

  For an instant, it left Afric with a guilty pang…

  For only an instant.

  These were not his people. Given the opportunity, they would mete him the same fate. Survival depended upon which side you were on—and Afric was most assuredly not on theirs. Neither was he on Hugh’s—stupid bag of wind.

  Did Page truly believe their father’s apathy was reserved only for her?

  Nay. He treated Afric as he did all his bastards—with very little regard, ordering him about like a common servant. He couldn’t even be bothered to read his own letters—a fact for which Afric would be eternally grateful, because he still had not heard the news…

  Everything was going according to plan.

  It was simple enough to hide amidst so many faces, old and new. Afric could come and go as he pleased. No one had the first notion who he was, or whence he hailed.

  Not even Hugh had yet to spy him. His father was a doddering old fool, far too easily deceived. Whilst he’d run about gathering supplies and men for the journey north, Afric had ridden ahead, under the pretense of racing toward France. Instead, he’d come here, and set the stage to see his mission done. Once he was rid of his competition for Hugh’s lands, and Hugh, as well, then he would go to Lyons-la-Foret and claim his prize.

  Smiling, despite the fact that they’d lost nearly everything save the clothes upon their backs—poor dumb Highlanders—the clansmen all ate, drank and made merry, kicking up their heels and singing obnoxiously to the accompaniment of the pipes.

  Oblivious.

  Obnoxious.

  Obligors.

  Once they heard the news, all else would pale in the face of it. Music would end in a discordant note. The skies would darken with the dimming of hope. The air would chill with heralding fate… Henry Beuclerc was dead—poisoned some might say.

  Upon the king’s death raged the winds of war. Agents had been disbursed at once, like a sickness transmitted unto the lands. All pawns were now in place, and everyone who’d sworn fealty to Henry’s shrewish daughter Matilda would mete their makers one by one—including the man who’d impregnated his mother.

  Even this very instant, the King’s nephew, Stephen of Blois, was moving to seize the English throne and David of Scotia—Henry’s ally in the north—would needst fight to hold all he owned. No Davidian supporter would be allowed to assume control in Normandy, and that included the baronetcy of Aldergh. No one was left but Hugh’s estranged daughter who might take his place, and Stephen would never endorse a woman.

  On the other hand, were Henry’s daughter to sit her arse upon England’s throne, she’d no doubt sanction Page’s claim. Albeit, if Page were dead, and the baronetcy forfeit after her father’s death, that would weaken Matilda’s claim in Normandy, and most conveniently ’twould leave control of Aldergh… perhaps to someone who’d facilitated its end.

  Thinking of all the things he would change once returning to Aldergh, Afric tamped his foot merrily as the bride and groom came dancing near. None of Hugh’s men would even think to question him when he came to seize control, for Hugh was stingy and mean and one good turn with these Highlanders would hardly buy him indulgences.

  “Long life to ye,” he shouted at the happy couple, raising a toast to the pair. Little did they realize it was a flout in their faces.

  “Thank ye kind sir!” exclaimed the bride. She rushed over to kiss Afric upon the cheek, her breath warm and sweet.

  All too easy, he thought to himself. How fortuitous this would be… in one fell swoop he would rid himself of father and daughter both.

  “’Tis a bonny pair they make, dinna ye think?”

  Careful to hide his accent—for his mother had been a Frankish maid—Afric nodded to the man who’d spoken—the Montgomerie laird, he surmised, for he wore the Lion-head livery beneath his blue tartan cloak. His lovely wife stood at his side, unmistakable in her beauty, her face the inspiration for bard’s tales for leagues around.

  Some day, Afric could have a wife like that—bought and paid for with his father’s gold.

  Piers de Montgomery stared at him a bit too long and Afric realized he was waiting for him to speak. “Indeed,” replied Afric. “To you and yours, sir.” He raised another toast.

  Lyon Montgomery smiled uncomfortably and so did Afric as he took a heaping swig of his uisge—the only good thing to come out of these Highlands. Although he must be careful not to drink over much, or he’d end up again in a pile of limbs. Moving slowly away from Lyon Montgomerie, he watched and waited for the opportunity to strike…

  * * *

  Amid laughter and drink, Malcom’s warnings were already forgotten, though he wasn’t so much angry as he was frustrated. He did realize his Da had reason to question his intuition, but he had good cause to feel the way he did…

  He had very nearly become a prisoner of a cold war. That he was a free man now was in no small part due to the piggishness of Page’s Da, who’d valued his king over the love he’d born his own flesh and blood.

  His father so often said, “If ye’re no’ fighting for the ones you love, who the devil would ye be fighting for, son?”

  Even so, not once had Page ever spoken a cross word about her father, despite that Malcom had spent enough time at Aldergh to know how her father had valued her—which was to say, not at all. The oaf had ignored Page, leaving her to sup at the lower tables in the great hall. In fact, he’d sometimes give Malcom a seat at the high table—the son of his enemy—sharing his trencher, whilst his daughter scraped her morsels from the bottom of the pot.

  All in all, Hugh FitzSimon had treated his daughter more like the daughter of a servant, leaving her to wander free without aim. Even at the tender age of six, Malcom had felt sorry for Page.

  Peering over his shoulder, he watched as his father took her now by the hand, luring her away from the celebration.

  A tentative smile returned to his lips, pleased to see them happy, even after all these years. But more to the point, with his father’s attention now on Page, Malcom was free to follow his gut… he didn’t need his father’s men. He could search the woodlands alone.

  It might have simply been rotten luck—the direction of the wind and the trail of kindling that had been so conveniently left between huts, but something about the fire raised Malcom’s hackles. Coincidentally—or perhaps not so coincidentally at all—the flames had remained clear of the woodlands. Had the fire but swept the other way, there would have been far more to lose, for it would have burned through the lands of three adjoining clans—the MacLeans, the Brod
ies and Montgomeries. Yet it left the woods untouched, despite them being so near, and that was rather fortuitous, Malcom thought, although his suspicions were not so much drawn toward the neighboring clans. Nay, for they were at peace now, had been so for more than ten years. It was more the fact that it left a perfect hiding space in full view of their village. Yesterday he’d examined the burn line, and the fire seemed to have halted in a perfectly straight line, as though its boundaries had been set beforehand. This, and something about the quality of the air left Malcom ill at ease. No matter what his Da believed, it had little to do with the company they were keeping—strangers though many might be.

  Something was amiss.

  With or without his father’s blessings, Malcom intended to discover what it was. At twilight, when the darkening sky descended into the treetops and the fire’s glow swallowed the light of the sun, he slipped into the woods, leaving the sound of music and laughter in his wake. As Glenna had said he must do, he let intuition be his guide…

  Chapter 5

  “Iain, mo dhuine…”

  My man.

  His Scot’s tongue flowed like honey from his wife’s lips. He placed a finger to her mouth. “Shhhh, my love.”

  At thirty-one, Page was scant older than he’d been on the day he’d met her, but her hair had yet to show a hint of gray. She still looked like a maiden. The only lines she wore on her face were the laugh lines about those lovely lips—sweet, bonny lips that had pleasured him so verra well throughout their years.

  “Iain,” she complained as he drew her into the stable. “We have guests, my love.” Still, her lips curved a bit mischievously and she reached down to plant her soft hand against the back of his. But instead of slapping him away, she merely caressed him, her eyes hooding with desire.

  “I’ve a craving for plums,” he teased.

  “Céadsearc,” she said. My first love. And her answering smile made Iain’s heart trip a beat. “You’ll find no plums beneath my skirt,” she chastised.

  He pulled his wife close, his cock hardening beneath his plaid. “I disagree … for that is where I will find the most delicious plum of all.”

  She didn’t fight him, so he drew her against him, whispering softly, “I have dreamt endlessly of that plum, the delightful taste, the tantalizing scent. I long to sink my teeth into that tender flesh, and lift my tongue along the cleft…”

  Page shivered in his arms, and he knew by the way she melted against his embrace that his fingers would find her ready and wet. And yet, even as he rediscovered the treasure he sought, the silky feel of her body sent a violent shudder through him.

  He was no longer a boy, she no longer a girl, but she was as beautiful as she was the day he first saw her, dressed in naught more than a flimsy chemise, her hair sopping wet. He loved her more fiercely now than he ever did before. Page—his heart, his only love—had given him years of loyalty and love, a daughter with a smile as beauteous as her own. She treated Malcom as though he were her very own, and his clan with every bit of affection as Iain did himself. They could not have been anymore blessed in his choice of bride. In truth, Iain would give Page anything in his power—anything at all, but alas, there was only one thing she ever asked for of late… and that he could not provide.

  A reunion with her father.

  “No one will miss us,” he coaxed. “Constance and Kellen have everyone’s attention, as it should be.” His shaft nestled happily against the crook of his wife’s thighs, lifting of its own accord to her most delicate place. “On the other hand, you have my undivided attention.” He sent a hand to her bottom, pressing his arousal fully against her, so as to make his point.

  Her eyes widened and so did his grin.

  Page laughed. “You are insatiable,” she complained, although she lifted herself on tiptoes to kiss his mouth, automatically sliding her arms about his waist.

  As she had done only seconds before, Iain melted against his wife, as subject to her wiles as she was to his. But then suddenly she put a hand to his chest, pushing him gently away. “Alas, but we cannot, Iain. There are too many people. How can we?”

  Iain wiggled his brows. “Quite easily,” he argued.

  She gave him a lovely, chastening glance beneath hooded lids. Her cheeks bloomed with high color. But she nevertheless shook her head.

  Iain felt like a young lad who’d been shown a sweet tart and then had it ripped out of his hand. He pouted like a boy. “How about the tip … to whet my appetite for later?”

  Her shoulders shook gently, but this time with quiet laughter. “Only the tip?”

  Iain nodded quickly, excited by the prospect. “Only the tip,” he promised, “and then I will be a verra good boy and tend to all my guests.”

  “All of them? Even the wet nurse who came with Broc and Elizabet? The one who seems to be all eyes for the verra handsome MacKinnon laird?”

  “Nay. Well, not her.”

  Page smiled sweetly. Reaching down between them, she lifted her skirt, allowing him access, “Only the tip, and no more, Iain.”

  Iain nearly laughed, because she sounded like a mother rationing cookies to her son. But laughter was forgotten and his heart nearly leapt from his chest as he pushed his plaid out of the way, taking himself into his hands. They had not made love for days, and it was driving him mad. He could scarcely contain himself as his flesh touched her silky warmth and he shuddered savagely as her body welcomed him inside.

  “Only the tip,” she whispered against his ear, her breath hot and sweet. It gave Iain yet another shiver.

  “Aye,” he agreed with a guttural moan. “But how many times?”

  Her lovely brow furrowed. “How many times?” It took her a full moment before she realized what he was asking.

  She was silent so long that Iain made to withdraw, though she pulled him back, arching slightly, laughing softly. “Five,” she said.

  Relieved, Iain fell back against her, closing his eyes, savoring the feel of her soft skin melting around his cock.

  Intending to make the most of it, and savor every second, he withdrew the first time with a little shiver and then pushed himself back inside … only the tip.

  “One,” he said, and withdrew again.

  “That was two,” Page said firmly, although her breath now sounded labored to his ears.

  Iain groaned with pleasure. With careful control, still savoring the moment, the way her body stretched and closed about him, he withdrew once more, and Page said, “Two.”

  Iain tried not to laugh.

  “Three,” she whispered.

  “Four,” he said.

  “Five.”

  The tension in Iain’s shoulders was palpable. He froze, dreading the moment of separation. If she just let him do it a few more times, he would gift her with the seed of his love—and mayhap give her another child—mayhap a son.

  The stable went completely silent.

  It was dark now, the air musty with the scent of sex.

  “Six,” his wife said quietly, and Iain remained very still, not wanting her to claim he’d gone against his word. “Six,” she said again and moved provocatively against him, tilting her hips so as to give him better access.

  Iain pretended to resist. “But you said…”

  Her hand moved behind his arse, pulling him back. “Dinna mind what I said, now I want six,” she demanded.

  Iain laughed. “And now who is the insatiable one?” But he gave her what she asked for, pushing himself inside once more—this time much more than just the tip.

  He waited to see if it pleased her, and when she buried her lips against his neck and nipped his skin, lifting one leg about his waist, he knew he had.

  Page sighed contentedly. “You can have ten,” she offered, pulling him down toward the ground. Iain followed her down, covering her body with his own. He moved against her, worshipping her body, withdrawing and pushing back inside with arousing slowness, wanting to pleasure her first. Each time, she took him more fully, widening he
r legs a bit more, nibbling his neck a little harder…

  “Page,” he whispered, “Cèol mo Chridhe, Keh-ole moe chreeyeh.”

  You are the music of my heart.

  * * *

  “And you mine,” Page said, feeling every bit the wanton.

  Her senses heightened.

  Her husband was a master puppeteer, knowing her only too well. They had a houseful of guests, a wedding to see to, and that was only if you somehow managed to forget that they had a village to rebuild. With so much work to be done, this was not where she should be right now, though she must confess, at the instant, there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

  Iain loved her sweetly, filling her wholly, caressing her body from the inside out. Here, alone in the stables, she felt like a new bride lying beneath him, arching for his loving, letting him fill her as deeply as he pleased.

  It was easy to see how young folk could get carried away, and Page was so pleased for Constance. This was the reason for life…

  She cared not one whit that the ground was cold, or that the smell of pigs and horseflesh surrounded them. At times like this, she was again that lost little girl who had loved her reluctant champion so madly.

  But she detected other scents… scents that were hardly suited to a stable. Cinnamon and ginger. Lavender. Cloves. Page froze.

  “Iain?”

  Her husband stopped loving her at once, responding to the tone of her voice.

  “Did you order supplies to be stored in the stables instead of the storehouse?”

  “Nay.”

  “It’s dark,” she said. “Light a lamp.”

  “Right now?”

  His voice sounded incredulous, but Page had a sudden and unshakable sense of peril. Before either of them could entirely regain their senses, she heard the crack of metal against bone and felt Iain crumble against her.