Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (18 page)

“My mother was Scottish but had not been to Scotland for years. There was a church across the plaza and every morning the bells of the church would ring. I would awaken to that sound, to the smell of honeysuckle and stone baking in the street. From behind a curtain, I would peek out the window at the crowds of people and the scaffolds in the distance and I would remember how I’d sketched the executions, the expressions on the victims’ faces when they mounted the scaffold, and then their bodies when they were hung. I would imagine my own execution, my body swaying from the end of a rope, my father and mother weeping and broken, and some artist eagerly sketching my last agonizing moments, making sure to get the shading exactly right. I could almost hear the people chanting ‘whore!’

“I left Italy in secrecy and was married to Lulach Kerr. It was arranged through my mother’s contacts in Scotland. He was promised a large dowry, for my father had been wise and had not given all of it to the convent. My father made the arrangements somehow. It all had to happen quickly. Of course he’d never met Lulach but felt assured he was not like Monsignor Rosso or the men I’d met at the convent. I looked forward to my life in Scotland, to a new life, where no one knew me. Lulach was only too happy to agree to the match, for his keep was crumbling and he owed large debts.

“But for my father, I have only known violent men. Maybe I am meant to suffer for my art.”

Gillis placed his hand gently on her shoulder and she did not flinch or move away.

“I did not know at first what a monster Lulach was.” She lifted her sleeves higher, revealing bruises. “He takes pleasure in hurting women…and men. He rapes them both. My art, my painting, is the only reason I have survived all of it.”

“When he is caught, he will swing from the end of a rope,” Malcolm said. “And he
will
be caught.”

Caterina was quiet for a moment, the only sound the crackling of the flames in the hearth. Gillis seemed to realize he was being forward and removed his hand.

“So, that is the long answer to your question,” Caterina said. “Yes, I will help you find Lulach. I will do whatever it takes. And given the chance, when he is dead and swinging from a rope, I will be happy to sketch his final moment.”

27

Sorcha and Malcolm returned to the great hall. When they announced they would retire to the bedchamber, the men tried to outdo each other with ribald comments.

Malcolm swept Sorcha into his arms and carried her up the stone steps and across the threshold of the bedchamber, followed by a throng of well-wishers. He set her on her feet and the priest blessed the bed and then the well-wishers drifted out of the room, leaving them alone. The sounds of continued revelry drifted up from the hall below.

“’Tis an incredible and vera sad tale Caterina told,” Sorcha said. “I would like to see her paintings.”

“Aye, so would I,” Malcolm replied.

“Gillis is quite taken with her,” she said, frowning.

“Aye, he is. Why do ye frown? ‘Tis natural for a man to take an interest in a woman.”

“She seems a forthright and practical person. I dunna wish to see Gillis hurt when she doesna return his affections.”

“Dunna be so sure she willna return his affections. They seem to ha’e a certain bond, the painting and his woodworking. She didna ask him to remove his hand when he laid it on her shoulder.” He smiled. “Yer concern for yer brother is touching but ye dunna need to treat him as a child or a piece of delicate pottery. He is a man.”

“I havena been yer wife for a full day and already ye tell me how to behave,” she teased.

“I will always speak my mind with ye, wife, and I hope ye will do the same.”

Every nerve of Sorcha’s being throbbed with life and curiosity in Malcolm’s presence. Nervously, she lit only one candle and then bent to stoke the fire in the hearth. When she straightened and turned to look at her new husband in the shadows, he was gazing at her intensely, the firelight a sheen on his black hair. His feet were planted apart as he poured wine from a flagon into two goblets and handed her one. “A toast to our union,” he said. “May our lives together be…affectionate…as I order ye about. And may ye come to despise me less.” His mouth twitched with amusement.

She clinked her goblet against his. “Aye, may our union be…affectionate...as ye learn I am nae easily ordered about.”

She looked away from him, slightly disturbed by his words.
For she realized fully now she did not hate the Highlander. In fact, she felt something that was quite the opposite of hate.
It still stormed outside and lightning flashed. Rain lashed the keep and thunder rumbled over the hulking bens. “Malcolm,” she said quietly, “I dunna despise ye.”

He raised his glass and drained it, setting it on the table. “An auspicious start to our union then. I will sleep on the pallet.” He began to undress, removing everything but his trews. She stared in wonder at the rippling muscles in his back and arms as he spread the blanket over the pallet with a flourish.

“Nay. Ye are my…husband. Ye will sleep in the bed.”

“Is that a command, wife?”

Sorcha stared at the pallet. “Nessa slept there many a night….”

His look turned serious. “We will ha’e it removed posthaste. Ye need no reminders of that horrible day at the burn.” He looked as if he would cross the room and take her in his arms but held back, unsure of her emotions or her acceptance.

Her eyes fell on Malcolm’s black bow, which sat in the corner. “Malcolm, I wish to return yer bow to ye.”

“By rights, it is yers.”

“Nay. ’Tis too heavy for me, for one thing. And for the other, it doesna and willna e’er truly belong to me. I dunna feel right ha’ing it.”

He nodded. 

Unable to avoid undressing any longer, she set her goblet on the table next to his. Slowly, she stripped down to her shift, aware of his eyes on her, and undid her braid so her hair fell heavily and wildly about her shoulders.

She recognized the hot flare of desire in his eyes and it made her feel powerful. She thought of the painted sky on the chapel ceiling, torn and ragged, of her puppet princess slashed with a dirk, of Nessa and Lulach and the mysterious Caterina with smudges of paint and soot on her hands and wrists and vicious bruises on her arms. She heard her mother’s voice at the edges of her mind urging her to live. She had nearly drowned in the Black Burn of Sorrow. She had nearly taken her last breaths. She had nearly missed this night with Malcolm and all that would follow, battling wills with the dark Highlander in the years to come.

She looked at Malcolm and his virility affected her. She could not deny it. He was every inch the male. Her eyes touched his face, his square jaw, his wide shoulders, his strong chest, his legs. She’d never felt more alive.

She crossed the room and stood before him. His amber eyes were questioning as she took his hand in hers, tracing her fingers across his scars. “They say hands that ha’e kent pain and wounds are the most gentle.” She let his hand go and put her hands on his shoulders. Stretching against him, she stood on her toes and kissed him softly. The feel of his lips sent a jolt of heat ribboning through her body. She caressed his face in wonder. “’Tis nae often yer speechless, Highlander,” she breathed. “Can a wife nae kiss her husband? I find I dunna mind kissing ye.”

“Dunna mind?” He laughed softly. “Aye lass, I can see ye dunna mind it.” His lips captured hers slowly and then he claimed her mouth in a hard kiss, his hand tangling possessively in the threads of her silken hair. There was the pleasant scent of whisky on his breath as he drew her in for more.

The yearning that surged through her was raw and primitive, the brush of his sensual mouth intoxicating. Reluctantly, she pulled away and placed her hand on his chest, the thump of his heart wild and strong.

              “Lass, I only ha’e so much restraint and ye tempt me so.”

She raised her deep green eyes to his. “Malcolm, I want ye to touch me,” she said quietly. “Do ye want to touch me?”

He stood so still she didn’t know what to think. His eyes blazed dark gold. “I dunna ken,” he said.

Sorcha felt an overwhelming stab of hurt.
He didn’t know if he wanted to touch her? He didn’t really want her. He didn’t really desire her. She had mistaken his look for one of desire and maybe it was loathing. Maybe he didn’t wish to consummate the marriage this night after all. He had said he would wait until she was ready, but maybe that meant he was not eager for their union. She felt so foolish.

She made to unwind herself from him and he caught her arms, keeping them in place. “I mean, lass, what if I find out yer insatiable?” A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. His hand caressed her back and gripped her buttock, pressing her fully against him so she could feel the extent of his arousal. “Aye, lass, I want ye. I am near bursting from desire.”

Joy flooded her being, a joy she couldn’t explain. “Malcolm, ye make me ache for something. I dunna understand it. Yer look, yer touch, it sets me afire.”

His fingers tangled more possessively in the soft silk of her hair. “I like it so much better when ye tell the truth. The feel of ye sets me afire. I want to drive into ye and lose myself in yer softness. Ye taunt me, ye tempt me beyond what I can endure. If yer nae ready, ye must tell me now.”

“I am ready, Malcolm. I want to ken how it will be between us.” She went to the bed and drew back the bed hanging. Before she could turn around he was behind her, gently pulling her shift above her hips so she was bared to him. He palmed her backside, gently caressing her curves with his scarred hands and kissing her shoulders. She shivered and a small moan escaped her mouth.

“God, lass, yer beautiful. Lift yer arms.” He lifted the shift over her head and tossed it on the floor. She wore nothing now except the Viking love pendant he’d given her.

He left her for a moment and she turned to see him remove his trews. She marveled at the strength in his thighs and stared at the bold part of him that was swollen with need. He was beautifully made. Fear warred with desire.

He was behind her again, pressing himself against her back, skin to skin, and then his fingers were between her legs, exploring her warmth, plunging inside her.

She arched instinctively, crying out in pleasure, the back of her head resting on his shoulder. “Oh, Malcolm,” she breathed. His other hand wrapped itself around her and traced the length of necklace at her throat, caressing the smoothness of the stone pendant and then firmly cupping her breast, his fingers roughly exploring the creamy mound and circling her nipple. “Yer mine, Sorcha Douglas.” His breath left him in a rush. “Truth be told, I was fascinated by ye the first time I saw ye in that tree.”

She began to move against him, breathing harshly, closing her eyes, needing his hands everywhere, needing his fingers deeper. His lips trailed along her shoulder as his hands came to span her waist now. “I want to take my time with ye but I fear I canna wait.”

She tipped her head back further so he could capture her lips. She made a sound low in her throat and he ground his jaw against hers, his dark stubble rough against her cheek. “Sorcha,” he breathed, their lips moving ravenously together. Then his mouth drifted down her throat.

He turned her around to face him and sat her on the edge of the bed. “Lay back, lass.”

She did, watching him as his hands gently explored the silky skin of her inner thighs, pushing them open, her lips still throbbing from his kiss. He groaned, lost at the sight of her, the part of her so ready to accept him.

She watched as they were joined with one powerful thrust and cried out at the brief, stinging pain she felt. She closed her eyes and he stilled. When she opened them his face was a mask of concern. “Sorcha, oh lass, ye should ha’e told me ye were a virgin. I….”

She reached out her hand and pulled his head toward her own, kissing him softly. “Dunna stop. I kent there would be pain. I was told. I expected it. But I was also told there could be great pleasure after. Please, Malcolm, I want to give ye pleasure and I want to take it.”

Her words undid him. He began to thrust, slowly, gently, taking his time, until he was sure she was ready, until she arched and writhed beneath him, matching his thrusts, and he could hold back no longer.

With each powerful thrust he found her womb, his hands on her shoulders now, moving hard inside her, groaning in keen pleasure, unable to stop, his body demanding her response as he made her his.

“Sorcha,” he cried as he released his seed into her womb and her fleshed clutched at him in a spasm of heat and pulsing waves. She released her own cries of pleasure into his ravaging mouth and dug her nails into his back.

They clung to each other, hearts thundering.

They coupled two more times that night, and when Sorcha awoke late the next morning, her eyes were pink-lidded from lack of sleep. She’d hadn’t removed the necklace, and the light from the fire in the hearth caught the blue sheen of the stone so it seemed to pulse with a life of its own. She wondered if a Viking had really owned it, if it contained magic, or if, as Isobel’s father had once said, a person needed to create their own magic.

Absently, she toyed with the stone, thinking about Vikings and the Daughter of Time, a goddess of Norse mythology called Freya, who was the patron and protector of the human race. Her greatest treasure was a necklace crafted by four dwarfs with such artistry it glittered like a constellation of stars in the night sky. When Freya’s tears fell upon rock, they turned to gold, and when they were shed at sea, they turned to amber. Freya was a skilled warrior and the goddess of lust and love and her husband Odin was the god of battles. It was said she was a Seer who could discern destiny and alter its course.

Malcolm still slept. As she studied him in wonder, she was reminded that destiny was indeed a strange, exotic creature. She remembered what he’d said before they took their vows.
Sometimes, Sorcha, we must work toward a future we want to see
.
She caressed his chest softly and he stirred at her touch.

“Good morning, wife.” He smiled, his eyes brimming with male triumph. “I trust ye slept well.”