Highlander's Stolen Destiny: A Medieval Scottish Historical Romance Book Page 4

  Her answer had intrigued him. Brice knew their story and the way they had met inside out. Their love had transcended all of the barriers made up out of society, war, and meddling parents and ultimately their own pride that could’ve hurled them off course, robbing them of their true destiny. Mary and Alastair had never lost faith despite the obstacles thrown in their direction. When they had thought all was lost, love had brought them back together again. They had survived an unwanted marriage, incarceration in one of the vilest prisons in England and two stubborn fathers who would never have countenanced a union between a Highlander and an Englishwoman.

  Mary had said that love was the most powerful emotion that existed. It surmounted all and everything. All it needed to thrive was honesty, the undying belief in its power and two people who knew in their hearts that they belonged together forever.

  It was more powerful than pride or the fear one might feel at getting hurt, or even hate that many claimed stemmed from a love once shared – a person who truly loved and believed in its potency could never hate someone they once loved. This just didn’t fit into the equation of love. Brice’s mother had said that opening one’s heart up was very much like doing something new or dangerous – one had to believe in it and have faith that only love would win out in the end.

  “What’s all that noise?” asked Skye.

  Brice scrunched his brow as he listened. At first, he only heard the lapping of the waves against the shoreline a few paces beyond from where they lay on the grass close to the castle. “It sounds like shouting to me. Nothing untoward. Feasts are always loud affairs – ye ken that, blossom.”

  “Aye, I do. But this is different. It sounds like there’s a fight going on inside the castle.”

  “That does tend to occur as well, my love. Ye ken what the clansmen are like once they are in their cups. It’s all ale, swords, and fornication.” He inhaled another deep breath of her fragrance as he ran his hand down the side of her body.

  “Fornication, eh? That’s been on yer mind a lot as of late.”

  “Naw.”

  Skye giggled. “Is that why ye asked for my hand in marriage then? So that ye can get yer hands on me, ye rogue.” She loved teasing him. It was always so easy to do.

  Brice sat up, gently placing her head on his lap. He looked down into her eyes that were dark pools that became one with the night. The moon’s luminance was still too weak for him to make out the color of her irises. “I asked for yer hand in marriage because I love ye.” He shrugged. “And, of course, I can’t wait to do the other thing with ye.”

  “Can’t ye now?” Skye flashed him a smile of perfect white teeth. “If ye must ken, neither can I.” She slowly slid her hand up his bare leg and under his kilt, circling as she went.

  Brice groaned. “Do ye not want to wait until we are man and woman?”

  “Are we not that already? The last time I checked, I am a woman, and ye are a man. I held the proof of yer manhood in my hand earlier today, and I am going to do so again now.” She giggled again when she saw the eager expression on his face.

  “Stop being silly, lassie. Ye ken what I mean. Don’t ye want to be my wife before we…”

  “No, I most certainly do not.”

  Brice hooted his mirth. Skye was such a handful, and she was proving it under his kilt. If she did not stop what she was doing, he doubted whether he would have the willpower to resist her a moment longer.

  “And besides, ye ken the clan’s rules. A man and a woman lying in coitus are as much of a testament of a betrothal as a priest’s words. It happens under the gaze of God. Your father, the laird, would have to accept it.” Skye’s ministrations became more demanding with her every utterance. “Am I not pretty enough for ye then?” She stopped her hand’s movement.

  “Don’t be daft. Ye are the bonniest lass in the whole of Scotland, and I love ye.” Brice shifted his weight until he lay on top of her. He took a moment to look down on her shadowy countenance. He could only see her pale skin glow under the stars’ shine. The torches lining the side of the castle provided for a little more light. “So, us lying together under God’s gaze is as if we were married in a church, eh?”

  “Aye, Brice. That is so,” said Skye, wiggling a little beneath him. Brice was impatient in most things, but this night he was taking his time – it irritated the life out of her.

  “God certainly is a nosy bugger then. Imagine, he gets to see thousands of couples frolicking in the grass on a daily basis.” Brice shook his head at the notion.

  “Don’t be blasphemous, Brice.” She quickly made the sign of the cross on her chest and mentally recited the Trinitarian Formula: ‘In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.’ “Do the sign of the cross – now, Brice, before damnation befalls us,” she added when she saw he had not imitated her.

  “All right, all right. If it’ll make ye feel better.” Brice followed suit and smiled down at her. She nodded her approval when he was done.

  “Now, where were we before ye turned into a heathen, Brice Macleod?”

  “I ken exactly where we were.” He lowered his head until their lips touched. He felt a jolt of heat wrap around his heart and descend to his stomach. It felt as if his insides were melting. Skye was demanding. She drew him in with her eager tongue and wandering hands. She captivated him like she always did when they kissed. However, this felt different, more powerful as if they had just crossed some invisible threshold that became weaker with their every move.

  Skye felt her body open up to him. She was like a flower’s bloom, spreading its buds for the sun once its rays became more potent. Her heart beat faster. She smiled when she realized that it was at the same pace as his, their bodies already synchronizing as if they were already joined as one. Skye relished the way his lips skirted hers with alternating tenderness and forceful lunges of his tongue.

  Before she knew it, Skye was mewing softly into his mouth. Her arisad was up above her waist. She was bare underneath it. She could feel him press against her skin, his manhood seeking to claim her. He too groaned, his movements becoming more erratic and determined. Skye let him. She would give all of herself to this man she loved with all of her heart.

  It was just difficult to get her head around what she felt at that moment – heat, the undying emotion to be one with him, the tickling of her skin as if his hands were all over her and everywhere, the knowledge that she was safe and forever his, the certainty that they would make a life together and have children. There was just so much to deal with. The sensations assaulted her in ways she never thought possible. Just when she managed to organize her torrid feelings and incoherent mind, she heard him whisper something into her ear in breathy rasps.

  “Are ye ready for me, blossom?”

  She felt him pressing against her as if requesting, no, demanding entry to her most sacred of places. It was magical. Being intimate with him always was. But this was different. They were about to do that which would join them forever.

  Skye nodded. She wanted nothing more than for this man to lay claim to her. “Aye, Brice. I am ready for ye… Just be gentle with me.”

  He felt as if his heart would constrict in his chest. The woman underneath him was a little angst-ridden. He had never seen this side of Skye before. She was always headstrong and fearless. Brice loved this undiscovered side of her. It made him feel like her protector. “Aye, lass. I will be gentle. I would never hurt ye – ye ken that.”

  “Aye, I do… Make me yer woman, Brice Macleod.”

  The expression on her face, despite the darkness, was determined. It was something Brice recognized. She always looked the same when she had made her mind up. He moved his body closer to hers. He felt her yield to him as he pressed against her.

  “Oh, Brice,” she hissed out through clenched teeth.

  “Did I hurt ye, blossom?”

  “Don’t stop; just keep doing what it is that ye are doing.”

  He felt encouraged by her words, but even more so b
y her movements and the sounds she emitted. It felt incredible to feel the heat of her body right on his skin. It rose up his back, claiming everything and all that was him. The sensations were not only physical. Brice felt such undying warmth for this woman that he thought he might burst and shatter into a thousand pieces. Skye took all of him in. Not even when he upped the speed of his movements did she withdraw or slow down her retaliatory plunges.

  A searing heat skirted her skin. It arose from her core, circling outward and beyond. Skye breathed into his mouth that hovered right above hers. She wanted to feel him everywhere. Unconsciously, she grabbed his hands and placed them on her breasts. She lifted her head until her mouth claimed his. She felt her body tense. In sync, his did the same. Skye did not know how to describe the torridness that overwhelmed her. Was it just her body craving his? Was it mere lust? Was it her heart that spread the sensations as a message to her senses that this was what love was all about? Was it her soul and body opening up to his, letting him in and becoming one in both the spiritual and the physical?

  It was all of it. A splendid amalgamation of everything she felt in that moment. Skye started to become more vociferous as the peak of their lovemaking fast approached. When she lifted her eyelids a little, she saw that Brice swam on that same wave of ecstatic bliss. The sounds they made became as one. They both gazed into the other’s eyes, as if attempting to drink in the moment with every sense they had available to them. Brice had never seen Skye look more beautiful and she had never seen him look manlier – they cried out – she in bliss and Brice in pain.

  “What in the name of God is going on here?” came a familiar voice. It was deep and rumbling like the advent of thunder on a muggy summer’s night.

  Brice rolled onto his back, grasping his privates. He began to moan in pain. Skye still floated down from a higher plane. Her voyage home was swift when she saw her father’s face hovering above her. She quickly flattened her plaid over her person. Her hands were uncoordinated and shaky from her climax.

  “It is ye, daughter. Well, I never… I dinnae ken what to say. Yer mother will be horrified when she hears about this.”

  Skye let her father continue with his rambling. The expression on his face was not an angry one. It was more one of surprise, maybe shock, but mostly of incomprehension. She slid over to where Brice lay, still nursing his manhood from Mungo’s violent kick with his leg. He groaned. It was so different to the cries of pleasure he had released a few moments ago. What had once been pure bliss, as he was about to be free of his passion, came to an abrupt halt as searing pain shot up his spine, making him feel nauseous – he still felt that stabbing hollow in his belly.

  “Oh, my darling. Are ye alright?” Skye had to control herself not to laugh. She always found men so amusing when they got hurt there. In mere seconds, they turned from strong beings into whimpering wrecks.

  “Aye, I will be better soon. What happened? Is that… Oh, my God.” Embarrassment surged through Brice as the pain still claimed him and recognition dawned on him.

  “Aye, it is my da,” said Skye. “I think ye better get back to the castle before he comes to his senses. Ye will be better off under the protection of yer father.”

  “I will not leave ye, blossom,” said Brice with a determination he did not feel in the least.

  For the first time in his life, he felt the icy tentacles of fear encircle his body. It defined itself as an infinite pit in the stomach that felt as if it was a portal to hell itself. It was like feeling hungry, but there was no appetite to accompany the sensation, just an empty hollow that tingled as the mind played tricks with one’s consciousness. What made a real man was his ability to control this feeling and thrive on it. To use it as a strength and not a weakness – that was what separated heroes from cowards.

  “Get out of here. I can handle my father. Ye go back to the Great Hall and tell yers that we are to be married. I will do my best to convince my da that this is what I want.” Skye kissed him on the lips. She then pushed him away, encouraging Brice to his feet. In the corner of her eye, she sensed that her father was gradually overcoming his initial shock. Soon it would transform into anger and, after, violence on his target of displeasure would follow.

  Skye had no reason to worry. Mungo might shout at her, call her names, but he would never strike her. He was too much of a man for that. Violence against women was an act he considered one of the basest forms a man could display. It was on the same level as hurting children and being craven in battle in Mungo’s books.

  “Get yer arse over here, girl,” said Mungo, shifting his gaze away from Loch Torridon and the Minch sea beyond.

  Skye froze when she heard the vehemence in his voice. She conducted a quick scan of the area and felt content that Brice had gotten away in time. She loved how he had wanted to remain with her even though he had been aware of the fact that her father might have killed him. Brice was the bravest man she knew along with her father. There was no shame in what he did. Skye had convinced him to leave because there was only one man in the clan who could stand in her da’s way if need be – the laird, Alastair Macleod.

  “The thieving, bastard. I will have his hide by the bawsack. Where are ye, ye malingering, stinking little shit.”

  Mungo stormed into the Great Hall like a charging bull that had just had its testicles pierced with a needle. The hall fell almost silent the moment its occupants saw the wrath etched onto his face. No one moved a muscle as he made his way down the length of it with his daughter in tow, treating her like a common miscreant.

  Skye kept her gaze focused straight ahead. She saw Brice standing beside his father’s chair. Alastair had a big smile on his face. Mary looked concerned, and her sister and Sir Peter looked utterly disgusted. Further down the high table, Murtagh was bellowing his mirth as the only man discharging any actual sound at all.

  “So, what’s all the fuss about, Mungo?” asked Alastair, still grinning.

  “Ye ask me that, my Laird? Yer whelp tried to sow his noble oats in my daughter. Now, if that is not something to fuss about, then what is, I ask ye? I got there just in time to give the cur a right kicking to the bawsack before he could do any more damage to my family’s honor.” Mungo came to an abrupt halt in front of the large table.

  “From what I heard, we are to be brothers, my friend. My laddie loves yer girl and her him. I for one, and my Mary, think it’s a wonderful idea that the two of them want to be wed,” said Alastair.

  Skye’s smile was cut short when her father spat out his next words. “My daughter is not getting married. Yer shite of a son thought he could have all of her like a vile rapist in the night without asking my permission.” Mungo charged forward until he stood on the plinth. “It appears we are to have another fight this evening,” said Mungo. “Do ye have the courage, boy…” he hissed out at Brice, “to ask me properly?”

  “Since when does a woman, our daughter, have to ask yer permission when she loves a man?” interjected Freya, who stood at the other end of the table beside Murtagh who still collapsed in his mirth at his friend’s truculent display. He had known all along. Every time he had tried to tell Mungo, the other brushed him off, telling him that his Skye would never go behind his back.

  “Since she is my daughter… stay out of this, woman. This matter does not concern ye.” He returned his unyielding scrutiny to Brice. “So, boy, are ye coming away from the protective embrace of yer father or do ye want him to fight all of yer battles?”

  Brice tensed at the accusation. He slowly walked around the high table in the incensed father’s direction. “I love yer daughter, Mungo of the Clan Macleod. We wish to be married, and we were going to tell ye on the morrow. We only knew ourselves this afternoon – I asked her up on the hill, and she said yes.”

  “How noble of ye to tell me after ye have feasted on everything else she has to offer ye, like she was some common tavern whore.” Mungo had drawn his sword with a rasp, brandishing it belligerently at the man who was more than twe
nty years his junior.

  Brice howled a cry. He sounded like he was in pain. He dashed the final steps to Mungo in great leaps. He hacked down with his blade that he had drawn the moment the insult registered in his brain. “No one calls the woman I love a whore and lives,” he yelled.

  Skye moved away, unknowingly sliding into her mother’s waiting arms. Freya had walked around the table to get her daughter to safety. She had known that a fight would ensue – not even she could stop her husband when he was on a rampage. The laird could stop it but doing that would make his son look like a coward. Brice had to fend for himself and claim the woman he loved by overcoming his fear. He had chosen the daughter of a seasoned warrior, and this was the price he had to pay in order to obtain her.

  The second fight of the evening was even more violent than the first. Brice’s great speed and agility saved him from three hacks that might have severed the limbs of a lesser combatant. Mungo already had five or six nicks to his person from Brice’s blade that slithered forth like a snake attacking. Brice had the upper hand due to his speed. However, all it would take was one telling stroke on Mungo’s part, and it would all be over. Also, the longer the fight lasted, played more and more into the hands of the bigger fighter with experience. Mungo knew exactly what he was doing. A few scratches would not slow him down, especially when his blood was up.

  Brice’s fear had entered into that place where it could be tapped for acuity and skill but contained from its weaker emotions that made a man’s belly and legs turn to water. He saw everything clearly: Mungo’s every scar, the hair follicles on his face, his father’s serious expression and the worry play on his mother’s face.

  The sword hissed past Brice’s ear, nearly slicing it off in the process. He moved forward, drawing his opponent into the fighter’s dance, the place and time when swords became locked as one and faces almost joined like in a lover’s embrace.