Page 27 of Kidnapped by her Highland Enemy

T he castle was in a state of frenzied preparation for the wedding, but even so, Lucas, after spending morning with his father to prepare for any attack, took her out to explore the lands beyond the castle walls.

Hills, plains, sacred grottoes, and the village below, she saw them all.

A night ago, they had sat before his firepit, on thick rugs, sipping wine while talking about the many ways they could join their clans.

They had fallen asleep that way, and Lucas could not find another memory he treasured more than waking with her in his arms, pillowed on his chest.

On the third night of preparation, after a long day of riding in the woods and lands, Maisie ached for a bath. It had been a few days since he had touched her, and as they headed to his rooms, he planned to change that.

“The bath is ready,” he said while peeling off his tunic.

“Wonderful,” she smiled. “And thank ye for getting the seamstress to make me a new wardrobe. The dresses are lovely.”

“Good,” he smiled, “Wear one for dinner tonight.”

She left for the bathing chamber and Lucas allowed her the time to slip into the tub, then, with a sly smile, went in as well.

She was leaning back, her head resting on a rolled towel on the edge of the tub with her eyes closed.

The tips of her breast were above the water, and he traced the supple line of her body underneath the surface.

Doing away with his clothes, he stepped in and her eyes flew wide open. Silently, she watched as he settled in and reached for her, turning her so she rested between his legs.

“Ye kent I wouldnae take this chance to be with ye?” he murmured in her ear. “Ye draw me like iron to lodestone, Maisie.”

His hands roamed over her at will, stroking, caressing, her, drinking in the soft sighs of pleasure she let out. She moaned softly as he nibbled at a tender earlobe, sending piercing shivers of passion through her body, while suddenly lifted her set her down ever so slowly upon his lap.

Wordlessly, he wrung out one of the cloths in the hot water and gently bathed her slender body. Her alabaster skin was flushed, glowing with a fine sheen of the oil she had added to the water. She was pressed on his arousal, and with how her eyes darkened, he knew her blood was heating.

Dipping his head, he kissed her, his hands stroked the curved indentation of her waist and the swell of her hips, while his lips gradually became more demanding, plundering her mouth.

He then trailed a molten path of fiery kisses down one delicately boned shoulder to the crest of her breast, his tongue tentatively flicking the pale nipple.

Cupping the perfect mound with his hand, he suckled hungrily.

Maisie arched her back at this new sensation, her fingers unconsciously entwining in Lucas’s blond hair.

He stroked the silken skin of her inner thigh ever so lightly.

Then his hand strayed purposefully to the moist core of her, probing, searching.

“Ah, love…” Lucas murmured thickly, kissing her breasts, her throat, her kiss-swollen lips.

A ragged sigh tore from her as his expert fingers found the sensitive point he had been seeking.

She arched against his hand, as wave after wave of heady sensation rippled through her, and Lucas was no longer able to contain his own burning desire.

The sight of her writhing wantonly on him was more than he could withstand.

His hand encircled the narrow span of her waist and lifted her up, then eased her down on the pulsating shaft and their mouths barely parted as she rocked atop him.

She arched against him, lifting herself, riding him until her moans of pleasure lapsed into incoherence.

She thrashed in delight, only aware only of the glorious building ache inside her as it spread, heating her flesh, until orgasm sliced through the haze of sensation.

It struck like lightning, fizzled through every nerve as her body claimed him.

Maisie cried out again as another wave of pleasure surged through her body, her slender hips moving instinctively against him as she reached out to pull him to her. At the height of her ecstasy Lucas brought his mouth down upon hers in a crushing kiss and plunged himself into her.

Pulling away, he nibbled at her jaw, “I love ye, Maisie and I cannae wait to have ye as mine.”

She shuddered and kissed his neck, “Me too.”

It was the night before the wedding and while the feast carried on below, Maisie sat in her chambers, staring down at her gown.

The underskirt of dove gray silk clung to her slender curves, while over it an emerald tunic shimmered in the light of the lamps, its silken hues perfectly matching the color of Lucas’s tunic.

In less than ten hours, she would be wed to Lucas, and her hand trembled. Who would have thought this day would come? It still felt like a dream.

The door creaked and she looked up as Lucas came into the room, his gaze dropping to her form. “Lass, are ye all right?”

She looked up, “I—I still cannae believe where I am and that I am marrying ye.”

He sat aside her, and took her hand, “I understand, but ye are here with me, nay matter how unbelievable it seems.”

Holding his hand tightly, Maisie ran her thumb over his knuckles. “I feel stunned still.”

Twisting to cup her face, Lucas nodded, “I know it’s still strange, lass, but we’re heading into a better part of our lives, ye and I.” Leaning in, he kissed her cheek, “Now, please put yer doubts behind ye and come with me to the feast that is waiting for us.”

With a decisive nod, she stood and took his hand, descending the stairs and entering the great hall.

Every table was packed with townspeople and the honored guests in bright tartans and elaborate dresses, while the music thrummed through the hall.

Servant girls meandered the tables, pouring wine and drink aplenty and serving trenchers of food.

Lucas aided her to the high table and she took her seat near him, two spaces ahead of her father and one aside Laird McKenna who greeted her with a smile.

“Good to see ye, me lady,” he bowed his head.

“Ye, as well,” she replied.

An emotion crossed Lucas but it vanished before she could decipher it and she reached for her wine.

Baskets filled with wheaten Bannocks, spiced breads, were on the table with crocks of butter cheese and honey.

Smoked beef, and lamb, salted fish and roasted vegetables came out of the kitchen in an endless stream.

“Looking at this splendor, I can only wonder how great the wedding feast will be,” Laird McKenna said in her ear. “Ye’ll certainly nay want for naythin’ with this clan, me lady.”

His tone was light, but Maisie detected an envious tone, and looking around, she understood. Lucas’s family was prosperous, their rich rivers, gold mountains and iron stores had made them so, not to mention their flocks of sheep and herds of goats; even allies of such a clan would be envious.

“Aye,” she replied while breaking her bread. “I daenae doubt it. Yer clan has been allied with the Barclays for how long again?”

“Two decades and a half,” the man replied. “Matter-of-fact, I believe we formed the alliance when Laird Barclay was born. I was the Laird’s age back then, ah, how time slips by.”

Again, she heard gracious words, but she still heard the envy underneath.

Laird McKenna caught her eyes and gave her a repentant smile.

“I ken I sound like a friendly foe to ye, eh? I must admit, I would give me eyeteeth to have a fraction of this wealth, but me and me clan gets by, and we have Laird Barclay’s kind help when we need it. ”

“That’s good,” Maisie replied, happy that he had admitted what she had begun to fear.

He lifted his goblet, “To firm friends, eh?”

“Aye,” she agreed, then turned to Lucas, only to startle. His gaze was narrowed and searching, pinned on Laird McKenna before it flickered to her and his expression lightened.

She leaned into his ear. “What’s the matter?”

“We’ll speak later on that,” Lucas said lowly, his tone broking no objections.

His tone was not hard, nor angry, and while she enjoyed the feast, a part of her kept wondering what he meant. The hours slipped away and after the feast ended, they cleared a part of the room and dancing begun.

Maisie looked apprehensively at the doors; if an enemy were to attack, it would be best to do so when everyone was otherwise occupied. Lucas leaned into her ear, “Will ye give me the honor of this dance, Lady Maisie?”

“I—” she looked around. “I would like to but…”

“Me faither and I have posted armed guards all around. Ones on the roof too, armed with bows and arrows to start an aerial attack on any ambushers. Daenae ye worry about it. Remember, this is a celebration of our pending marriage.” He bowed and extended his hand. “Please, dance with me.”

Heat rushed over her face as she took his hand. “It has been ages since I’ve danced.”

“With a suitor?’

“At all.” She shook her head. “I’m sure I’ll make a mess of it.”

“That matters not. Come, we’ll enjoy it.”

Brows lifted with an expectant look, he held out his hand. “Ye do remember what it is to enjoy something, aye? If not, I would like to remind ye.”

She allowed him to sweep her onto the middle of the room. “Very well. But if I tread on yer toe, ye must nae blame me.”

“Me feet will withstand your wee foot.” He laughed and leaned her toward the other couples already dancing.

When they joined in, she was glad to see that he was light on his feet as they danced.

The energetic steps swiftly tired Maisie but she kept on with Lucas who did not look even sapped at all.

On the third song, Maisie made a misstep and almost toppled sideways; Lucas caught her and laughed loudly, prompting Maisie to laugh too.

The sound of her laughter surprised her as they danced again. How long had it been since she had laughed and danced? More than five years? After two more dances, Maisie begged off and was both relieved when Lucas helped her to a seat.

“I have forgotten how to dance,” she confessed as she settled in the chair.

“Nay. Merely out of practice, but I ken well how to remedy that,” he snorted as he kissed her cheek, bowed, and went to talk with his guests—the other Lairds and their families.

She sat and allowed the merriment around her to lull her into thinking all would be well—until an unholy scream from above, louder than the music, had half the revelers jumping for another reason.

Before she could blink, Cinead was at her side while Lucas, Oliver and another man rushed out.

They had barely yanked the doors open when a body fell, with a sickly thump, dead at their feet.

She screamed then—dignity be damned— as hoof-beats grew fainter in the distance; the attackers were gone.

Maisie felt her pulse roar in her ears as the guests parted from the body, leaving a clear view of the man.

The training she had gotten from her healers sparked in her heart and she picked up her skirts and ran to Lucas’s side.

Even in these horrifying circumstances, with the blood of the freshly fallen at their feet, she crouched, and attempted to press her hand against his chest to feel his heartbeat, but a rolled-up parchment lay in her way within his doublet.

In the dim light, she could barely decipher a few of the Gaelic words inscribed in bold letters across the top.

Plucking it out, she handed it to Lucas and strived to find heartbeat—even while the man’s vacant eyes told her none was to be found. Blood soaked through his leather doublet and with a sigh, she closed his eyes and stood to find that Lucas had disappeared into the dark.

Finding Cinead’s eyes, she simply shook her head. Angus came to her side, and rested a hand on her shoulder, “I’d hoped this threat would have stopped after we went to find the King, pardon, our Guardian, but I suppose the unity has only made him determined to kill one of us.”

Two liveried guards came and took the body away while others began ushering the honored guests out of the hall and into the rooms above. She heard others arranging for the villagers to go home safely with soldiers accompanying them or in carts.

“What was on the note?” she asked.

Cinead looked grave, “I wish I could tell ye, lass, but Lucas took it with him when he went off to follow the attacker’s horses.”

Firming her jaw, she decided to go and see the dead man. If he had anything on his person, that would tell her where the attacker came from.

“Take me to the healing hall,” she told Cinead.

“Why?” Angus questioned her.

“If he fought the attacker who was wearing any remarkable livery of the clans nearby and snatched something off him, we can get a clue as to who is behind it,” she explained, grasping her skirts.

Cinead’s brows lifted, “Yer speaking like a cannie war-queen, lass. Smart of ye.”

As he took her through the halls to east of the main hall and to a low, flat room, she smelled the tangy scent of drying herbs.

There were women, clad in gray and white, the seniors of them with their graying heads wrapped in a white kertchs .

The fire smoldering in the center of the room supplied little light but it was enough.

The man on the bed wore the Barclays’ clothing and did not hold anything his hand. Even worse, he had not tussled with the attacker—the arrow wound in the middle of the man’s neck showed her the killer had not come close.

Hence the horses.

Disappointed, she sighed and tugged a blanket over him and sat back, ready to wait on Lucas’s return. While the ladies moved around her, she gazed at the herbs dangling on a drying rack at the end of the room and spotted the roots of a few she knew well.

I wonder what Lucas will think about the lady of the house being a healer as well?

Time slipped by and while fatigue tugged at her body, she waited for Lucas; when he did come into the room, grim-faced and tense, Maisie already knew the answer to his search.

“They got away,” she surmised.

He nodded curtly then looked at the body on the bed. “And that nay all, lass—” he took the scroll from the inner folds of his kilt and handed it to her. “—read it.”

The words were Gaelic, but she understood them perfectly enough that ice chilled her spine, “The next target will be your heart, Laird Barclay…”