The Laird Page 16

“Yet you have done so. By the strength of your courage and your heart, you have gained this glen. I trust in your ability to hold what you have earned.”

  His bitter laugh bruised the air between them. “Aye, but what will you say should I lose it all? If we must take to the caves and live on boiled nettles?”

  A risk . . . a risk to say what was in her heart when she didn’t know his, but how else did she answer him?

  “I will say,” she whispered, “that I am the richest in the world to love such a man.”

  His gaze was shadowed by the black brush of his lashes over his eyes, but she saw the quick spark of light in them. He put his hands on each side of her head, fingers tangled in her hair, his thumbs light beneath her chin to tilt up her face. “Brave lady . . .” He brushed his mouth over hers. “Foolish lady . . .” His hands tightened, and a tremor shot through her at his intensity. “Sweet lady mine, God help us both.”

  Then he released her, stepped back, and drew in a deep breath. “There is no priest near, nor could he say us vows, were he sitting in my hall. But there are vows we can say to one another by Scots law, just as binding though none but the birds of the air hear them. Do you ken my meaning?”

  She nodded. “A consent-made marriage.”

  “Yea.” He reached out, dragged a hand along the slope of her cheek, his voice low and husky as he said, “A handfast is legal, but once we lie together, ’tis as binding as a marriage made in front of priest and kirk. It will need only vows made on the kirk steps to be irrefutable.”

  Handfast . . . a betrothal ceremony that usually entailed the giving away of the wife for a bride price. And she had nothing to give, save her heart.

  A faint smile rode his lips when he said, “I give you this chance only to say me nay, for once we are handfasted, I intend to consummate our vows.”

  It took only an instant for her decision.

  Later, few things stood out in her memory; the rest was like a blur, but those memories were sharp and precious.

  The laird of Glenlyon, tall and straight, his hand holding hers and his eyes never leaving her face as they stood before the fire in the hall with Simon MacCallum and Morag the tinker’s wife to witness their vows. “I, Robert Campbell, will take thee, Judith Lindsay, to my spouse wife as the law of the Holy Kirk allows and thereto I will plight thee my troth.”

  Her response was made in a trembling voice, aware that he had left no room for possible repudiation with vows taken before witnesses, and that in itself was a confirmation.

  Simon’s face, unaccustomed to solemnity, aware of the importance of his presence, eased at last into a grin as he called for wine and cakes, and Morag bustled about, tears glinting in her eyes, while those without the keep were invited in to celebrate.

  “Och,” Morag said, shaking her head, “’tis not lucky to have a May wedding.”

  “The wedding proper will come on All Hallow’s Day,” Rob said. “This is just the handfast ceremony, binding as it is.”

  “Not binding until the bedding,” Morag said without a hint of a blush as she waggled her finger at him.

  “It will be binding before the morrow comes,” was his answer, and Judith felt the heat rise to her cheeks.

  OUTSIDE, LIGHT HAD faded, but the revelry in the hall below had not, when at last they stood alone in the chamber where shadows blurred the corners and the only light was from the hearth and a single lamp. An awkward silence fell between them, strange and clumsy. Judith was aware of him watching her, too aware, and her heart beat so fast and hard that she marveled he did not remark upon it.

  “You did not ask for a bride price,” she said to break the silence.

  He smiled, a dark curve of his mouth in a face half shadowed. “There was no need. Even if you had aught to give, I would not ask.”

  “No?” She moved to the table, poured them both some wine from a jug into cups, though her hands shook slightly. Foolish, to be so nervous, for she was not an untried maid. She knew well enough what came on the bridal night and after, though with this man it would be different. Yea, it would be far different, for he kindled desires in her that she’d never thought to feel.

  She turned, pressed a cup of wine into his hands, said, “Yet I should give you something—”

  “Oh,” he said, taking the wine and pressing his hand over hers, “you will, sweet lady.”

  A hot flush burned her face, and it was difficult to draw in an easy breath. Flustered, she set down her cup.

  “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant, lady mine.”

  She watched him, waiting, her heart a thunder in her ears as he sipped his spiced wine, his eyes regarding her over the rim of the cup.

  “This all . . . happened so swiftly,” she said after a moment, and he nodded.

  “Aye, so it did. More swiftly than I thought it could.” He paused, took another sip of wine. “I have never abducted a bride before.”

  “No,” she said, laughing softly, “I did not think you had. Nor do I think you meant to do it this time.”

  “Oh aye, I meant it,” he said, and his gaze was potent as it rested on her face, “I meant it full well.”

  Something hovered in the air between them, and then he set down his wine, took two long strides to her side, and she was in his arms. His mouth found hers, and the heat in his kiss sparked fire in her, as if a lightning bolt struck. The world tilted, ablaze, and when she moaned, he slid his hands into her loose hair, combing his fingers through it.

  Her hands spread on his chest, soft wool cushioning the steady thud of his heart beneath her palm. His tongue slid between her lips, opening her with a sweet ferocity, tasting of heady wine and need. She breathed him in, and the slow, steady pulse between her legs grew sharper, more insistent.

  “Lady fair,” he muttered finally, dragging in a breath that sounded frayed and uneven, “I see that there is now a proper bed.”

  “Yea.” A laugh trembled on the air between them. “It was brought up early today, as you commanded. The mattress is newly stuffed . . .”

  “It would be a shame to waste it.”

  Silent now, she quivered as he untied the laces to her léine, unfastened the clasp that held the plaide around her, and slid them free. She closed her eyes, shivering in the cool air. Morag had helped her bathe earlier, had entwined blossoms in the circlet around her head, sweet-smelling and her only adornment now.

  Still clothed, he slid his hands along the arch of her throat and lower, his touch light, caressing. Her knees were weak, and she put out her hands to grasp his arms to keep from collapsing. The bed loomed at her back, draped in green curtains like a bower in the greenwood. She felt light-headed suddenly, awash with cool air and heat and anticipation and the pounding need that throbbed relentlessly inside.

  Skimming one hand down her back, he tested the curves he found there, then slid to the front, his hand between them as he cupped her breast in his palm. Fire shot through her, searing and rampant, and she gasped. He raked a thumb across the beaded nipple, provoking another spear of heat, and the pounding beat between her thighs increased.

  He shifted slightly, lifted her in his arms, and sank with her onto the yielding mattress beyond the curtains. A sweet fragrance surrounded them. He tucked her body next to his so that she fit full against him, breast to thighs, the slightly abrasive scrape of wool against her bare skin oddly arousing. Murmuring softly, he stroked his hands over her, his fingers playing along her ribs, the flat surface of her belly, then up again, cupping her breast in his palm. Her breath caught in her throat, and an excited shiver swept through her.

  Again his mouth found her, tongue washing a path from her mouth to her throat and lower, until he came at last to the taut, aching pebble of her breast. Agitation fluttered as he drew it into his mouth, a steady pull that sent heat plunging to her belly.
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br />   “Glenlyon,” she heard herself moan, a sigh and a plea at the same time, asking for something that hovered just out of her reach.

  “Rob,” he said against her breast, and he lifted a gaze to her that was hot and smoldering. “Use my given name . . .”

  Her hands tangled in his hair, and her hips arched when he nibbled lightly on her breast, tongue teasing her until she could hardly bear it, until the steady, pounding pressure threatened to explode into some bright, unknown force that waited just beyond. There was a primitive need to have the sound of his name on her lips, a familiarity that signaled that he belonged to her now.

  She must have cried out his name, for he was whispering her own name in her ear, his breath hot and making her shudder, as his hand slid lower to the aching fire that blazed between her thighs. When his hand slipped inside, she cried out softly again.

  Plucking fretfully at the wool tunic he still wore, she tried to slide her hands beneath, needing to feel his skin, wanting to touch him. He took his hand away, and she looked up at him, green-hazed with the light streaming through the thin curtains, the fire behind him a rosy glow, and his face in shadow. But she could see his eyes, the silvery light that gleamed down at her as he sat up.

  She started to protest, but he stood to remove his tunic and boots, and she watched, shameless and brazen, wanting to see him as he saw her. Outlined against the scant light, Rob stood at last with only his pride to clothe him. Her breath caught a little.

  A bonny laird, indeed, with powerful shoulders and sculpted bands of muscle on his chest and belly, tawny skin only lightly furred with hair on his chest and lower, marked with badges of courage from sword and life. Potent strength in every line, his fluid grace and sleek beauty summoned images of primeval warriors.

  The thudding of her heartbeat was loud in her ears when he returned to the bed and leaned over her, intent hot in his eyes, and she arched up for him, arms wide and welcome, with love in her eyes and heart.

  He settled between her thighs, braced on his arms, his hands gently pushing the hair from her eyes. With his body so close, his hard length a throb of heat at her entrance, he pressed his forehead against hers and slowly eased inside. A moan escaped her, and his mouth found hers, tasting of wine and urgency, until he was fully sheathed within. The heavy fullness pulsed, almost to the point of pain, but he stayed still for a moment until the discomfort eased, and she relaxed beneath him.

  Sliding her hands over the sleek contours of his muscled back, she felt him shudder. A sensual haze that she had never experienced enclosed her, erotic and shutting out everything but Rob, the feel of his skin beneath her hands, his weight atop her, the sweet scent of wine, and the elusive fragrance of heather from the mattress. The world narrowed to just this moment, just this bed, shut off from the past and the future, where nothing existed but this moment in time.

  And she wished it would never end . . .

  Then he whispered her name, a husky sound like a sigh as they shared a rhythm of body and desire, sweeping faster and faster toward the same end, toward the unknown that still awaited her, haunting and sweet and powerful.

  And when she found it, that melting wave of soaring ecstasy flowed over her like heated honey, until she drifted at last, weightless, on wings that brought her gently back to earth.

  “DRUNKEN LOUTS,” ROB said, but his tone was amused as they passed through the hall the next morning, stepping over the sprawled forms of the revelers.

  Judith laughed softly. “Even Simon snores.” She pointed to the steward where he lay draped over a table, an empty wine jug clutched beneath one arm.

  “Aye, well, give them their rest. One day cannot matter much. The work will still be here on the morrow for them.”

  It was quiet in the bailey, and Rob saddled two horses, a smaller one for Judith and his own black steed. They rode through the open space where the gates would be and into the soft morning light beyond the tower keep. Judith let the hood of her léine fall back and the sun warm her as they rode down the narrow, rutted track that led toward the loch.

  It was rocky and hilly in places, leveling to a wide stretch of field that bore a single standing stone. Beyond, a huge ancient yew spread its branches wide, casting deep shade.

  They paused beneath it, and the sharp, spicy scent filled the air. Rob reached up, pulled loose a needle, crushed it between his fingers. His mount snorted, danced, and finally lowered a sleek head to graze on tufts of grass.

  “’Tis said that Pontius Pilate was born beneath this tree,” Rob said, frowning at the ruined yew needle in his hand, “of a local woman and a Roman soldier. The Romans once ranged free here. They conquered all in their path, but now they are gone.”

  Slightly puzzled, she nodded. “Yea, so they are.”

  “Now Glenlyon is mine, granted me by the Bruce, to hold as I can.” He tossed away the yew needle and looked up to meet her eyes. “I mean to do what I must to hold it.”

  “Yea, I have no doubt of that. You will hold it against all who might try to take it from you.”

  He nudged his mount closer, until it sidled next to her smaller pony, and leaned down to cup her chin in his palm. In a low, fierce voice he said, “I keep what is mine, sweet lady.”

  Her throat tightened at the possessive emotion in his tone and eyes, and she nodded. “Aye, so keep me well and long, laird of Glenlyon. I belong to you.”

  While there had been no words of love from him, there had been vows of fidelity, and that would be enough for now. One day, he would say the words she longed to hear from him, more than sweet words of passion, but those of love.

  His mouth brushed over her lips, first lightly, then with growing need, and she had no doubt that the day would come, whether he knew it or not.

  Part II

  Chapter 17

  WARM DAYS CRADLED Glenlyon, when fields grew tall and green beneath a summer sky. Sheep and cattle grazed on the hills and grew fat, and the barnekin walls were almost completed around the tower. Work stopped only when it rained, as it was now, a steady beat that turned the ground to mud and sent all indoors.

  “Whitsun rents paid for some,” Simon said, frowning as he studied ledgers spread on the table. A rack of candles shed light on the pages. “If all goes well, Lammas rents will see us through.”

  “Thank God for quarter days.” Rob rubbed idly at his leg, almost completely healed now, paining him only when it rained, as now. “What else?”

  “Two new plow oxen for the fields at a cost of ten pounds, offset some by the rents, since they are used by tenants as well. Eight pounds for iron for nails, but the wood for beams came from last quarter’s accounts. Stone as well—though the cost for stonecutters increased to four shillings a week.”

  “Each?”

  “Christ, no. Total. Most of the stone has been cut. All said, the rents are in now, in coin or kind. I have totals.”

  Rob’s attention drifted from the neat figures Simon had so painstakingly copied to the hearth across the hall. Lady Judith sat before the fire, mending in her lap, a look of fierce and utter concentration on her face. Rain rattled the shutters, but the incessant sound of hammers and awls was absent. He thought of the bed upstairs and an afternoon spent beneath the green canopy with Judith.

  She fascinated him. Tawny firelight caught in her hair, an amber gleam, and turned her cheeks a rosy pink. A ribbon was entwined in her thick plait, draped over one shoulder as she worked, squinting slightly at the stocking she plied with needle and wool.

  Simon continued his talk of rents and expenses, of the costs of wine and spices and cloth, and the number of sheep at the last count, but Rob had ceased listening.

  Much more pleasant to think of hours whiled away on a mattress stuffed with heather, of the lady in his arms and the sweet mysteries of her body discovered anew. He would loosen her hair so that it spread beneath he
r and carefully remove her garments, kissing her as each layer was peeled away, until she was as ready for him as he was her. The soft scent of heather would envelop him, until he drifted away on it—

  “Are you listening to me?” Simon asked with his brows tucked into a frown, and unwilling to be caught mooning over the lady like a callow youth, Rob nodded.

  “Oh, aye. Sheep.”

  Simon put down the ledger sheets and glanced toward the hearth. A faint smile pressed at the corners of his mouth.

  “No, I was talking about wine casks. Now I find myself in need of some.”

  He rose from the bench, and with another amused glance at Rob, left the hall. It was quiet, the sound of rain a steady song, the snap of the fire reassuring.

  Rob moved across the hall to Judith, sweetly scented rushes rustling beneath his boots. She looked up when he touched her shoulder, green eyes lit with gold from the fire’s dance.

  “Are you finished with your accounts, sir?”

  “Yea, for now.” He put out a hand, saw her hesitate a moment, then a slow smile bent her lips. “Come with me, my lady, for there is another account in arrears.”

  The mending abandoned, she went with him up the curve of stairs. His heartbeat quickened when the door was closed behind them and she turned, diffuse light through the glass window creating a misty halo behind her head. A Madonna, but more lovely than the paintings and statues he had seen in kirk and abbey. Slowly, she reached up, fingers tugging at the ribbon in her hair, freeing it, then loosening the plait so that her hair fell free around her shoulders, a glorious mass that gleamed with a life of its own.

  It never failed to stir him, her pristine beauty like a beacon that drew him close enough to burn.

  And he burned . . . God above, he burned.

  He lifted her chin with a finger, his hand dark against her pale skin, then bent his head to capture her mouth. He sucked in a deep breath, drawing in her breath with his own, and savored the taste of honey and ginger. Potent, powerful, a flash of heat went through him like summer lightning. She undid him, this lovely lady. He wanted to tell her, wanted to put into words how he felt, but it was beyond him. He was no minstrel to say pretty words, but only a man who felt them.