Page 25 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

G od’s hooks, she’s a difficult lass. What is she asking of me now? Isnae me duty tae her enough that she still wants tae bind me soul tae hers?

He gave a soft huff of indignation. “I dinnae ken what ye’re asking me lass. I am willing tae make ye me wife, what more is there tae say?

She turned away and he could only stand helplessly, watching the play of firelight in the gold of her hair and the soft curves of her body in that red dress. He was on fire; it was as if the very flame were leaping inside him.

Her scent of flowers was intoxicating him, and every scrap of him was slowly being consumed with wanting. When he’d watched her tending the men, he’d admired her gentleness yet, behind it, he’d glimpsed a steeliness that showed him her strength and, at the same time, her kindness.

It was only now, as his shaft thickened at the sight of her, that he became aware she was everything he would ever want, that she had wound her way into his heart and there would never be another. He wanted – no, he needed – to make her his wife.

To hell with the clan, to hell with MacDougall, he wanted to be with this woman for the rest of his days and the devil could take the rest.

She pshawed, narrowing her eyes. “I dinnae ken what it is I wish from ye, Laird Tòrr, but what I dinnae want is tae be wed tae a man who sees me only as an obligation. Yer clan wishes tae see us wed and ye are willing tae dae their bidding.”

He reached for her hand. “Ye dinnae understand, Lyra. ‘Tis more than the clan’s wishes that makes me want tae wed wi’ ye.”

She lifted her head and thew him a haughty look. “I’ll nae accept being used as a pawn in the games ye men play fer greed and power.”

He groaned, tightening his grip on her hands, drawing her closer. Her scent filled his senses, her nearness was almost more than he could bear.

She stood close, holding her head proudly, her breasts rising and falling with every breath she took, while his body throbbed with longing. To hold her and feel her pressed close and never let her go.

His heart was hammering and he hauled in a despairing breath to steady himself. The answer he dreaded was on the tip of her tongue. She would choose to leave him and return to her own lands.

He raised a hand to brush her hair from her shoulder and cupped her chin. Her eyes shone bright in the firelight as she waited for him to speak.

He groaned. “Lyra. If ye wish to leave Dùn Ara and return tae the MacInnes lands and take yer rightful place, I’ll dae everything in me power tae see ye safely there.” He glanced away momentarily, gathering his wits, and turned back to her. It was time he unburdened his heart.

She nodded gravely, meeting his eyes. Yet the fact that she did not pull her hands away gave him a sliver of hope.

“I understand. I am grateful fer everything ye’ve done tae protect me. And I am grateful that ye’ve offered me a choice tae go or stay.”

He shook his head. “Mayhap ye dinnae understand, me lady. I dinnae wish ye tae leave me. Me whole heart profoundly wishes fer ye tae stay beside me as me wife.” He shook his head, trying to make sense of what he wanted to say to her.

“I’ll nay beg ye tae stay, fer I understand ye long fer freedom. But I dinnae think me heart can stand it if ye are far away from me. Me spirit lifts each morning when I see ye again, I long fer the moment when ye are by me side. At night when I lie in me bed, me body burns fer wanting ye.”

A smile appeared on her face, her eyes softened and he felt something pass between them, a stroke of magic that bound them, spirit to spirit.

“I cannae bide another minute waiting fer yer decision Lady Lyra. Ye are the wife me soul longs fer. I care naught fer the Council and whatever they wish, I care naught fer the Laird Alexander’s threats tae ye, I ken in me heart the simple truth. Ye are the only lass I will ever love and desire.”

Tears sprang into her beautiful green eyes and his heart sank. She was shaking her head preparing to refuse him . He released her hand and drew in a sharp breath, steeling himself for the words he was certain she would utter.

“I’ve been thinking of naught else but the offer ye made tae take me tae me clan,” she began, her eyes misting over. “I have come tae understand that ye are nae prepared tae use me the way yer Council wishes, as a way of gaining more lands and power.”

He huffed. “Well, lass, I’m glad ye’re able tae see reason at last.”

“Ye offered me me freedom, and that means almost everything tae me.”

He breathed out slowly, letting the air seep from his lungs. Did he dare hope?

“So, there is something else that means more?”

Now she was smiling, a wide smile that gave his heart a wrench.

“’Tis ye, Tòrr. Ye have come tae mean more tae me than even me freedom and me lands. I’ve come tae trust ye wi’ me life and ye have become more precious tae me with every passing day.”

He grinned. “’Tis a great joy in me heart tae hear those words.” His senses were reeling. “I can scarce believe it. Are ye saying ye’ll agree tae our marriage?”

She gave a shy nod. “Indeed, I am agreeing tae wed wi’ ye and make me home here at Castle Dùn Ara. We can then find a way to sort the situation with me clan, and perhaps visit.”

Soaring somewhere above the clouds, he let out a wild, jubilant whoop.

Eyeing him askance, Lyra held up a finger to his lips. “Dinnae be too confident of me devotion. If I am displeased wi’ ye, I might yet change me mind.”

“Dinnae tease me, lass,” he growled, “or I may change me mind.”

“Ha.” She snorted. “I dinnae believe ye.” Then she met his gaze, her green eyes serious as they met his grey. “One thing I am certain of, Tòrr, is that ye are a man who is true tae his word.”

He laughed, a great belly-laugh of delight as his happiness ran free like a river overflowing its banks.

“Ye are tae be me bride, Lady Lyra MacInnes, and tomorrow Father Pádraig will publish our bans. We will wed after the third time the banns are read, in two weeks from that day.”

He seized her in his arms, lifting her from the floor and twirling her so that her golden hair floated around them and the skirt of her red dress flew up above her knees.

She shrieked, and he finally placed her, unsteadily, on her two feet before him without releasing her from his arms.

Her body was warm and soft as he held her tight, her breasts crushed to his chest, her heart pounding against his. Her alabaster skin was like silk beneath his fingers as he traced the creamy curve of her throat to the hollow of her neck.

He was helpless to resist her perfect, unspoken invitation as she turned up her face, her eyes dark emeralds as they met his gaze. He bent his head in desperate longing for the taste of her moist, plush, lips.

She sighed as his mouth claimed hers. His tongue toyed with her bottom lip and then, with a tiny sound in her throat that made the blood roar in his temples, she parted her lips. Their tongues joined in a sensual dance, every second piercing him with burning darts of pleasure that shot like arrows to his ever-hardening shaft.

He was lost.

She filled his senses: the sweet scent of her in his nostrils, the softness of her molding to his body, the silken touch of her under his fingers, the tiny sounds issuing from her throat, the feel of her hands tangling his hair.

His entire being thrilled at her very presence. He was hungry for her, wanting more, helpless against the tide of passion that was sweeping him away.

His hand sought the rounded globes of her backside and she gasped as he drew her even closer. The feel of her against his erect shaft caused him to groan loudly. Now that he had his heart’s desire, he burned even brighter and stronger for her than he had before when he was almost weak with longing.

She moved slightly closer, her hips tipped in response to his pressure, and she wriggled against him.

He groaned again. “Lass, lass,” he whispered. “Mayhap ye dinnae ken what torture it is tae feel ye against me manhood.”

She pulled her head back. “Torture?”

“Aye.” He nodded. “It makes me want ye even more. If we were alone in yer bedchamber now, I’d strip ye of yer gown and petticoat.” His voice was husky as he went on. “I’d lay ye on yer bed and kiss every bit of that soft body of yers.”

There came a muffled giggle from where her head was buried in his chest.

“Now it is ye who is tormenting me, Tòrr. Fer ye paint a picture that is tae me liking.” She looked up, at last. “I’ve seen how ye look when ye’re nae clad, but ye must promise that if ye have yer way and lie me naked on me bed, that ye will lie naked beside me.”

“Ye have me word. I will lie naked beside ye.” His voice was croaky at the very thought of such an enticing prospect that it robbed his breath entirely.

He groaned again, his hands circling her backside. He joined his mouth with hers for yet another torturing kiss, that had them both panting and pressing against each other as if this was to be their last moment on earth.

A rude intrusion into their bliss came in the form of loud knocking on the solar door.

They drew a little apart at the sound, catching their breath.

“Who comes?” Tòrr called.

“’Tis yer supper, me laird,” came a small voice.

Throwing a rueful glance to Lyra he arched an eyebrow. She nodded with a shrug.

“Come,” he responded, suddenly aware that he’d eaten little since he’d broken his fast with a few bannocks early that morning. His belly rumbled at the prospect of supper.

But apart from straightening his belt while Lyra was smoothing her hair, there was nothing he could do to hide the protrusion under his kilt where his still erect shaft jutted mightily.

Three scullery maids hastened in carrying laden trays, ewers of ale and carafes of wine. Keeping their eyes averted, they laid the supper out on the table at the center of the room.

He waited until they’d left and closed the door behind them, smiling a little at the sound of the lasses’ giggles retreating down the passageway.

Holding the chair for Lyra while she seated herself at the table, he felt a rare thrill at the sight of he still slightly disheveled hair and her swollen-from-kissing reddened lips.

She was his, and tomorrow he would speak with Father Pádraig and ensure that the banns were read for their marriage. The letter had been sent to her clan before his scouting trip and he was hopeful to receive an answer very soon.

Once they were married, in two weeks’ time, he would release his two prisoners from the dungeon and send them back to MacDougall with the news that his would-be bride had already wed another.

He took a certain amount of malicious satisfaction from that prospect.

They took their time with the meal. There were so many titbits to feed each other, each mouthful an exquisitely tortuous reminder of their kissing. Lyra opened her mouth as he held up a particularly plump raspberry. He sucked in a breath as she took it between her teeth, a tiny speck of juice appearing in the corner of her mouth as she bit into it.

“Allow me,” he said leaning forward to place the tip of his tongue on her lips.

She gasped, her lips forming a smile. “Are ye hungry fer more kisses, Tòrr?”

He chuckled. “Why ye’ve turned from a wee nun into a charming coquette before me very eyes.” Taking her hand, he pressed it to his lips. “And, much as I was delighted by the beauty of the nun, I have tae be honest and confess tae ye that I’m more in love wi’ the coquette.”

“Ah,” she said and laughed. “I shall keep that knowledge uppermost in me mind.”

He smacked his palm to his forehead. “By all the saints, have I just handed ye a wicked weapon ye can use against me, Lyra?”

“Mayhap that is so. Only time will tell.”

He filled her goblet with the ruby red wine and raised his own glass. “Slàinte mhath me love, may our lives be free of care.”

She took up her glass in response. “Slàinte mhath tae ye, me laird, and may our time together on this earth be lived in happiness.”

His own joy and the glow in Lyra’s eyes and the high color in her cheeks told him that, at least for tonight, they were both untroubled and happy. A sliver of cold crept through his belly. It would be too much to hope for long-lasting serenity for them while Laird Alexander MacDougall remained in Castle Duart, spinning his web to ensnare them both, like an evil spider.

He shrugged the thought aside.

Tonight he would not allow a troublesome foreboding to intrude into the joyous occasion of his betrothal to the beautiful lass who had taken possession of his heart and soul.

After their meal was done with, they retired to the fireplace where Tòrr took her on his knee, marveling at Lyra’s grace and beauty and still in wonderment that she had agreed to wed him.

They spent the remaining hours touching hands, kissing and whispering lovers’ words, reminiscing about the events that had brought them together and their journey from Fionnphort mounted together on Paden’s stalwart back.

“And ye tried tae sit upright all day, fer fear of touching me.”

She laughed at that. “And I cannae forget the pain in me backside after a day crouching on yer saddle.”

“Ye thought me a mad man then.”

She tossed her head and laughed, looking up at him through her long dark lashes. “Aye. But ye’re still a mad Laird, Tòrr MacKinnon.”

He dipped his head. “Me apologies.”

“Dinnae tell me ye’re sorry, Tòrr, fer I’ve come tae realize that yer madness is somewhat tae me liking.

He laughed and kissed her again.