Page 22 of Bride of the Wicked Laird (Sparks and Tartans: The MacKinnon Clan’s Romance #11)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

D avina had only the patchiest recollection of her kidnapping and the return to Castle Kiessimul. She recalled her great fear, and the joy she experienced when she regained consciousness and found it was Everard who loomed over her, with the gentlest expression in his eyes.

She’d drifted in and out of sleep, aware once or twice of some kind soul spooning broth into her mouth.

Opening her eyes, she was astonished to find herself in her nightshift, her head on soft feather pillows. The air was scented with lavender and the peaty, smoky smell of a fire in the hearth. The bed was the softest, plushest, billowy down she’d ever experienced. Crimson velvet drapes surrounded it, making it impossible for her to see the room she was in.

One thing she was certain of, this was not her little cottage. Even as she pondered this, there came a plaintive ‘meow’ and Feather leaped up beside her. She chuckled. “Ah. I am at Kiessimul, little soul. And this bed has a familiar feel tae it.”

Then came that deep honeyed-voice, sending ripples of delight along her spine. “Lass, ye’re awake at last. May I draw the drapes aside?”

“Aye,” she said, suddenly shy. Making a feeble attempt to smooth her hair, she was surprised to find it was free of tangles. Someone must have combed it while she slept.

The velvet hangings were pulled aside and there was Everard, grinning down at her. He held a small pewter tray with a goblet that he handed to her before taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside her.

She took the drink gratefully and gulped some before placing it on the tray. “I ken this is yer bedchamber. How long have I been here, me laird? I ken it is more than one night?”

“Ye’ve slept a whole day and night away.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “I am more than grateful fer saving me from the clutches of those men.” She looked around, almost fearfully. “What became of them?”

Everard shook his head as if this was of no concern. “The two ruffians will never trouble ye or anyone again.”

She levered herself into a sitting position, clutching the linen sheets and the fur quilt to her chest. “But what of the MacKinnon? Daes he still live?”

“If I’d had me way, he’d be feeding the fishes even as we speak.” He shook his head, a look of regret in his eyes. “But when I had tae choose between yer life and his, I chose yers. And the villainous rogue made it away in his birlinn.”

He handed her the cup again. Sipping daintily, she finished the lavender-flavored water.

“I thank ye. I am fair parched. This is good.” After replacing the empty cup on the tray she sank back against the pillows. She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “So after ye fished me out of the water, ye carried me back tae the castle and took care of me.” Cheeks flushing with heat she looked down at the night-shift, realization dawning. “Someone took undressed me and clad me in me night attire?”

He nodded, “Aye. Mildred and I took care of yer torn and wet kirtle and tunic. Mildred went tae the cottage and brought yer nightshift and this wee one.” He gestured at Feather, who had curled up on the pillow and was washing her paws.

“And ye? Did… ye… see me… without me kirtle and petticoat?”

Chuckling, he shook his head. “Only the smallest glimpse of ye was I allowed after I’d sliced through yer torn garment. Mildred made me turn away. So…” His eyes roamed her face, “there’s nae need fer those blushing cheeks. I saw only an inch of yer satiny skin.”

She felt the burn in her face. She looked up at him from under her lashes, a smile curling her lips.

He reached a hand and stroked her wrist offering a mischievous grin. “I’d have liked tae look upon all of ye, but Mildred wouldnae stand fer it.”

She liked his boldness. His words started that strange thrumming in her veins. The same feeling she’d had just before he’d kissed her at the archery butt. Only this time it felt as if all her body had caught the sparks from the fire and was igniting bit by bit.

“And, did ye comb me hair?”

“Aye. I helped Mildred tae wash the salt from yer locks. She rinsed ye with lavender and left me tae dry it wi’ linen towels. I ran yer ivory comb through yer tangled tresses and smoothed it with scented oil.”

He reached a hand and took a strand of her long hair between his fingers and raised it to his lips. “’Tis sweet wi’ lavender.”

“And I was asleep while ye and Mildred tended me.” Her body tingled at the thought of his hands on her while she slept.

“Now and again ye smiled, and mumbled a word or two. Ye whispered me name, calling tae me. But ye didnae stay awake fer more than a heartbeat or two. The ordeal has left ye tired.”

She put a hand on his arm, letting out a gasp at the feel of cloth binding him from his shoulder to his elbow.

“Ye’ve been wounded, me laird.” She looked in horror at his arm. “Was that on me account? Did ye fight with the MacKinnon fer me release and get wounded by wi’ his sword?”

He clasped his hand over hers as her fingers explored the bandage. “Aye. Maxwell came tae me aid. It was a close-run thing, lass. MacKinnon was taking ye tae sea. Had many more minutes passed, he’d have had ye away.”

She shuddered. “I must attend tae yer arm.”

“’Tis nae need. Broderick has seen tae it.”

She studied the bandage. Then she looked up, catching his blue eyes on her and her heart jumped like a skittle. “If he’s left the salve wi’ ye, I would like tae care fer the wound ye took on me behalf. “

He took a small jar from the table near the bed. “If ye insist.”

After rolling up his sleeve, taking great care as she did so, she unwound the linen strip covering the wound. The cut was long, but not deep. A failing slash from MacKinnon’s claymore.

She shuddered. Laird Everard risked his life fer me.

“Can ye take off yer shirt so I can more easily see tae yer arm?”

He shook his head, “I dinnae take off me shirt fer any living soul.” Something flashed in his eyes that caused her to wonder what he might be hiding beneath his shirt.

“That is of nae moment” she said, hiding her curiosity. “I can see tae yer arm if ye can but push up yer sleeve.”

He wound the offending sleeve up past his elbow.

After pouring water from the jug into the bowl on the table she looked around. “Is there a clean cloth?”

He got up and hunted around, finding a fresh cloth which he handed to her.

She wet the cloth and dabbed his wound. Some blood was still seeping from it and he winced as she wiped that away and cleaned the cut. Once she’d dried it, she smoothed on the salve and bound it again.

He watched intently as she worked. “Ye’re a good deal gentler and neater than Broderick.”

“Mayhap Broderick doesnae share me concern fer ye. I was careful nae tae cause ye more pain.”

He took her hand and laid a kiss on her palm. “Ye have a healer’s touch, Davina, I thank ye fer attending tae me wound.”

She looked deep into his eyes and smiled at what she saw there, a ripple of pleasure coursing through her. There was no doubt in her mind, that her touch had fired his blood just as his touch on her hand had done to her.

“That wound demonstrates, in yer flesh and the blood ye shed, how great is yer care fer me. How could I nae wish tae dae all I can tae heal ye?”

He was close enough now for her to smell his peaty mix of whisky and leather, she could feel his breath in her hair, and all but hear the beating of his heart. She reached a hand again to roll down the sleeve of his shirt, allowing her fingers to brush his arm, toying with the fine hairs on his arm, and feeling the strong, muscled flesh beneath his skin.

Then, heart pounding and every scrap of her body shouldering, ready to burst into flames, she glanced up again to meet his gaze, her heart stammering. His chest rose and fell as he breathed deeply in and released the breath, their eyes locked. Inside she was hot, melted gold replacing the blood in her veins.

She willed him to lean in and kiss her.

Her heart hammered against her ribcage, but still he didn’t move, holding her pinned in his gaze. The air between them thickened with longing as Everard’s eyes changed from clear blue to the dark of indigo

She could not bear it a moment longer. Letting slip a tiny moan, she reached up and seized his shoulders, winding her arms around his neck and straining up to reach his lips with hers. Not caring a fig that her night shift was unlaced and falling off one shoulder she swayed against him. He groaned and bent his head, crushing her mouth against his. Her lips parted, her tongue searching greedily for his.

All the sparks that had already been dancing through her blood suddenly came together, igniting a blazing fire that was like a fever. The only thing that could quench the fire was his mouth, his touch, his caresses. Yet the more she felt his touch, the higher rose the flames of her passion. She was mad for it all, as he pressed her close.

She felt his heart thumping solidly in time with hers as the sweet, thrilling sensation of her breasts crushed against the roughness of his chest washed over her, possessing her. The delicate nubs puckered and hardened under the thin fabric of her shift, her throat constricted, robbing her breath

It was another way of drowning, but this gasping for breath was different. It was like being swept over by a waterfall of desire, lifted by the force of it and flung into a sensation of bliss that stirred a need in her she’d never before imagined.

He outlined her jaw with his fingers, dipping them to trace the arch of her throat, teasing the place where her shoulder joined. Then, when she could scarcely bear the waiting, he slid her shift from her shoulder and along her am, so that the loose top fell away exposing her naked breasts. She shuddered, catching her breath, almost afraid of her own anticipation, wanting his touch, yet feeling a sense of shame that seemed to come from nowhere. It was almost as if Dame Maria was tapping her on her shoulder and hissing in her ear.

She closed her eyes, wishing the unruly thoughts and the heartless image to some far distant place, wanting nothing more than to give herself completely to Everard.

His hand toyed with the fabric of her shift, as if he was restraining himself from touching the soft bud that was so tantalizingly close to his fingers.

“I want ye, Everard. I want yer caresses and yer kisses. I’m nae afraid of whatever it is that happens between a lass and a lad.”

With a groan that was something between despair and desperation he rolled onto the bed, taking her with him, so that he was lying alongside her while she lay back, her hair spread on the pillow. Looking up into his dark gaze, she lost all ability to breath evenly, her breath coming in short ragged puffs.

“Lass, ye’re an innocent. I cannae take yer maidenhead. ‘Tis nae right.”

She met his gaze. “I dinnae care fer me maidenhead. I wish tae taste what it is tae be a woman. Sequestered all those years in the convent, I longed tae be free of me bonds and play as others did. I heard of the wonders of love from lasses who were brought tae the convent. I kent then, I wanted tae find a lad I could love.”

“Mayhap ye dinnae understand. I want ye more than I’ve ever wanted a lass. Ye haunt me dreams. Even in sleep yer scent of roses and lavender comes tae me, I long tae hold ye.” He shook his head in wonderment. “When we kissed, I could scarce keep control. Me body aches fer wanting ye.”

Thrumming with need, she reaching her hands to his shoulders drawing him down, her face turned up for his kiss.

“Ah lass,” he whispered, “I cannae resist ye.”

Their lips met in a kiss that held all the longing and desire Davina had ever dreamed of, driven by the same hot, wet, need she’d felt in her fantasies.

This was a primal longing for touch, for closeness. For the feel of another beside her, hands on her bare skin, her own touch on another’s body, the rightness of being desired and the ecstasy of desiring. All this and more she found in his kiss.

She toyed with the coarse hairs on his chest, reveling in the warmth of his body under her stroking fingers, her heart beating faster at the sound of the desperate, urgent groans issuing from somewhere deep in his throat.

Exploring, she brushed her fingers across the roughness of his jawline, the stubble of his beard. She marveled that it was bristly, yet soft to her touch.

And then there was the formidable hardness of his manhood pressing against her, causing a surge of heat between her thighs.

At last his hand found the tip of her breasts and he took to the puckered nub with fingers that were both gentle and rough. Sensations ripped through her, igniting the fire that was already smoldering between her thighs.

“Oh…” she pressed herself against his hardness, moving her hips wantonly and unbidden in a stormy rhythm of rising passion. She heard herself moan against his mouth, as his hand abandoned her breast, stroking down her belly. She wriggled to allow him to lift her night-shift high, granting him access to that most private part of her, that she’d only dared once or twice to touch, in secret wickedness.

His finger slid between her already slick and swollen folds, and she raised her hips to meet his hand. He drew in a sharp breath as his finger found the hard place, the core of her sensations, and she moaned loudly, thrashing her head on the pillow. How could such a simple thing cause such ecstasy?

“Please,” she begged, without knowing what it was she begged for.

She would die if he stopped his touching now.

He lowered his head to take the tip of her breast in his mouth, his finger stroking, her hips reaching for him, wanting more. And even more.

She lost track of herself and time, as whatever strange force keeping her tethered to the earth gave way and she soared to the stars. All she was aware of now, was the man whose lips and hands were building a wild flame inside her that would surely consume her, until all that was left was ash and smoke.

Yet the flames rose higher and higher still, each moment taking her headlong to the brink of… something she yearned for with all her being.

Spasms of bliss and rapture seized her body, causing her to cry out.

“Everard!”

He held her tight while she clutched at him recklessly, wildly, with bold abandon, not caring for her wanton nakedness but only for the sheer joy of his hands on her body and the exquisite, dizzying, sensations convulsing her.