Page 23 of Bride of the Wicked Laird (Sparks and Tartans: The MacKinnon Clan’s Romance #11)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

E verard watched her sleeping, her long lashes resting on her still flushed cheeks. Her lips plush and swollen from kissing, chest rising and falling under the covers. Her bright hair spread across his pillows, the wee kitten asleep under her chin.

She was tender and passionate, sweet and wicked, wanton and dignified. Most of all, she was an enchantress who had taken his heart and dusted it with magic. She occupied his senses in an all-consuming way that no other had ever come close to.

He got quietly to his feet, laced his shirt and tucked it into his britches, fastened them, threw on his fur-lined tunic and his boots and made his stealthy way out of his bedchamber. Once he was out in the passage, he strode to the stone steps leading to the tower.

He needed to clear his head. Yesterday had passed in a jumble of events that had left him reeling. From the moment he’d become aware that Davina had left the castle, the horror and terror he’d experienced when he realized she’d been abducted, to the blind rage that had overwhelmed him at the sight of MacKinnon and his men holding her captive and most terrible of all, the man’s attempt to take her life by tossing her into the water.

He’d fretted by her bedside after he’d brought her back to Kiessimul but, thankfully, after sleeping for a full day, she’d wakened seeming little the worse for the ordeal she’d been through.

And now, his passion for her had overridden everything he’d vowed to himself he would not do. Knowing Davina wanted him so badly, it had taken every scrap of his willpower to reel back his desire. He chuckled softly to himself, aware that she did not know quite what it was she actually wanted.

He could have taken her and she’d have welcomed him. Even now his shaft and his groin were aching for her.

But to have taken her maidenhead when she was so trusting and vulnerable in his bed, viewing him only as her savior, would not have sat well with him.

Standing on the battlements, he let the cold wind scour his face and tangle his hair, clearing his thoughts. He rubbed his hands together to keep the blood flowing in the frigid air.

He’d called another Clan Council meeting for two days later to alert them to the danger posed by Laird Murchadh MacKinnon, despite knowing that attending a further meeting would displease them. They would have scarcely reached their homes after the previous meeting and were now being called back.

He’d given orders for extra preparations to be made by the kitchen for a feast, and dispatched two of his men to Vatersay to bring back supplies of honeyed-mead.

Good food and a surfeit of mead to drown their sorrows would soften them. Although, when they would hear what he had to say, they would be greatly displeased.

They had accepted his need to appease MacDougall, although they’d chaffed at bending to the man’s will, and they would not take kindly to learn of MacKinnon’s exploits on the island.

The peace between themselves, MacDougall and MacKinnon was as threadbare as a beggar’s britches. He had no wish to clash with the two powerful clans. Even though, through kinship, the MacLeods of Skye were bound to them as allies.

What there was between him and Murchadh MacKinnon was a personal enmity. It did not concern the Clan. He would deal with the man without consulting the Council, even if it meant bringing their wrath down on his head.

He headed back to his bedchamber to check on Davina, still assailed with doubts about his own behavior, yet with a spring in his step as he recalled her abandoned cries of passion.

Mildred was just leaving as he arrived at the door.

She smiled. “Mistress Davina is well. I have just brought her some sausages and broth and some oatbread. D’ye wish me tae send one of the maids wi’ yer supper?”

He nodded. “Thank ye.”

Mildred hurried off.

When he entered, Davina was seated by the fire. She was dressed in her blue kirtle and over-tunic, her hair was brushed and her eyes sparkled as she caught sight of him.

He bent to place a soft kiss in her hair. “I am pleased tae see ye looking so well, me sweet Davina. The blue of the kirtle makes much of the golden lights in yer eyes.”

She smiled up at him. “I thank ye fer the compliment, me laird. I am unused tae hearing such things.”

He glanced at the tray she had before her. “Please, feel free tae continue dining. I have asked Mildred tae send me supper.” He glanced at her, offering a mischievous smile. “That is, if ye dinnae object.”

She laughed at this foolishness. “I can hardly object, when this is yer bedchamber.”

The scullery maid bustled in with a platter of sausages, a bowl of broth, some cold chicken, boiled carrots and honeyed walnuts.

He took his seat beside the small table where the food had been laid.

After Davina finished her supper, she dabbed her lips with a linen napkin and wiped her fingers. She was frowning as she gazed at him. “Have ye forgotten that I promised I would tell ye the story of me early days, now that me memories have come intae me mind?”

He shook his head. “I think we had other things… on our minds, lass.” He grinned. “And very pleasurable things they were, indeed.”

Her cheeks flushed a most appealing shade of pink. He took her hand and squeezed it.

“After ye’re done wi’ yer supper are ye ready tae hear me tale?”

He nodded, taking his last mouthful of the chicken broth. He rose and took both their platters to the door and placed them outside in the passage. He placed the honeyed nuts on the table between them. He smiled as Davina at once reached for one.

“I dinnae wish ye tae be interrupted. I ken this story of yers will contain sadness.” He met her eyes, which already shone with unshed tears.

She nodded. “I’ll dae me best tae tell ye all I ken. But there is much I dinnae understand, even though it is me own life I recall. There are some puzzles, yet.”

Regaining his seat, he turned the chair to face her.

She took a deep breath and shifted in her chair as if needing to find the most comfortable spot before she began what he knew would be most uncomfortable in the telling.

“First, I recognized that terrible man. She paused, and he nodded for her to continue. “Ye named him MacKinnon. ‘Faither,’ I called him.”

His jaw gaped. “Are ye telling me that Murchadh MacKinnon, that dastardly man, is yer faither?”

She nodded, a single tear trickling down her cheek.

Everard got to his feet, his hands forming fists. He paced in front of the fire. “I dinnae ken, Davina. It is against nature fer a faither tae attempt tae end the life of his child. That is beyond me understanding. And yet, I heard his evil words and saw his evil deed, tumbling ye intae the bay. Ye’d have met with certain death?—”

“If ye’d nay been there tae rescue me.” She looked up, meeting his eyes, and he felt himself burn inside. How was it possible that anyone could wish to do her harm?

He took his seat again, leaning his elbows on his knees, his hands cupping his chin, wanting to catch every one of her words.

“Was it yer faither who banished ye tae the Prior at Iona?”

She shook her head. “Nay. ‘Twas me braither.”

“Ye’ve a braither?”

“His name is Tòrr. I recall his face, although it is a dim memory. What I remember is that he was kind. When I was little more than a babe, he would sit by the fire with me and play.” She looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “He used tae make me laugh. And when me faither…”

The tears flowed at the mention of her father. Everard’s heart went out to her. His father had been cruel, and even though he, himself, had felt his own father’s harsh punishment at times, doing this to a daughter was not something Everard could not understand. Everard’s father also had not loved Raven, Everard’s sister, but he had married her away. He hadn’t tried to kill her.

He reached for Davina’s hand, holding it firmly in his.

“And yer faither?”

Mayhap he should never have asked her, for her tears turned to sobs and she turned her face up to his, clutching a napkin to her cheeks. “Methinks that what occurred yesterday between meself and the Laird MacKinnon when he was bent on ending me life, had happened before.”

Everard waited until the sobs had turned into hiccups. He had no intention of pressing her further, what she’d said so far had taken a toll. It was clear she was exhausted. Reliving the horror of her childhood was causing her intolerable pain.

Davina gave her nose a lusty blow. She turned her head away and stared into the fire, as if struggling with the memories that tormented her.

His heart went out to her and his rage toward MacKinnon took on a new and fearsome magnitude. If he could have gotten his hands around the man’s throat at that moment, he would have wrung the very life from his body.

He took a deep, steadying breath, at last trusting himself to speak. “Can ye tell me how it was that ye came tae Iona?”

She nodded, the tears beginning to streak her cheeks once more. Turning red-rimmed eyes to him, she whispered. “As I said, I wish tae tell ye everything I remember.”

“If it brings more tears, ye dinnae have tae tell it tae me now.”

Clutching his sleeve, she shook her head. “Nay, fer all I ken the memories willnae stay. I must tell ye while they are still fresh in me mind.”

Reclaiming her hand, he nodded.

“I cannae recall a time when me faither wasnae angry wi’ me. I dinnae think he was aught but disgusted by me very presence. He was caught in a wild temper whenever I was in his sight.” She gave a little snort of laughter. “I became very quick at making meself as small as a mouse and hiding meself away whenever I heard his footsteps approaching.”

Everard stroked her hair, picturing the wee bairn’s fear. He marveled at the strength it must have taken the lass to escape from the Priory as she did. He cleared his throat, swallowing the lump that had formed there as he’d listened to her talk.

“What of yer maither? Was she nae able tae keep ye safe from yer da’s temper?”

“I dinnae recall me maither. All I have is the sweet scent of roses when she was near, and the warmth and comfort when she held me. But she was gone one day, and I had naught left of her.”

“She died?”

“Aye. But me faither did nae grieve fer her. He laughed when he told me I’d never see her again.”

Davina grew silent, her eyes fixed on the flames, and when she turned to him, the tears were gone. Her face was drawn and her jaw was set in a tight line.

“Me faither hates me. He wanted me dead. He tried tae drown me in the burn, holding me beneath the flowing water. I remember the water filling me nostrils, the fear as I couldnae breath, the feel of the pebbles at the bottom of the burn, pressing against me face.”

Everard could only groan at the picture of horror she painted. “I ken now, why ye have such a fear of water.” He grew cold at the thought of what she’d endured at the hands of the man who should have been her protector. “How did ye manage tae escape him?”

“It was me braither Tòrr. He was but a lad, but he fought hard tae free me from our faither’s brutal cruelty. He managed tae drag me from the stream. I could scarcely walk, but he took me in me sodden clothes from the burn. He placed me in his little boat and rowed across tae Iona. Then he carried me in his arms tae the Priory. He saved me.”

She moaned, trembling all over, as she proffered this revelation. It was if the vicious attempt on her life had only just happened and she was again at the gate of the Priory, wet, cold and terrified.

“God’s hooks, Davina.” Everard rose to his feet. He laid a hand on the mantel above the fire and pressed his forehead there, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to keep his fury and his deep sorrow and pity from overwhelming him.

He took a seat on the footstool before her and took both her hands in his. She clutched his and look at him with fear-filled eyes.

“Davina, ye’re safe now. Yer faither cannae reach ye. The men who hunted cannae reach ye. The gates tae the castle are bolted, me men are standing guard and me Gockman, Ranald Dunbar, has dispatched his crewmen tae patrol the water.”

He moved into the chair beside hers and tugged her hand. “Come.” She stood and he scooped her into his arms and sat her on his lap. He held her close and she leaned in, resting her head on his shoulder.

It was some time before the tightness she held in her body loosened. As she sagged against him, her breathing became even and slow. She did not sleep but stayed quietly, like a child, nestling snug and safe in his arms.

He vowed then, that whatever it took, he would keep her safe for the rest of his days.

But, he acknowledged, there were still puzzles to be solved, just as she’d said.

Why did Murchadh MacKinnon hate his daughter? Who was her mother and what sad fate had befallen her?

Tomorrow was market day. He would journey to the village and find Jacob, the tinker, who should have had returned by then from Iona. With any luck, the lad would have more information for him that might put paid to some of the mysteries still to be unraveled.