X Marks the Scot (14 page)

“Ye cannae say that I didnae warn ye,” he jested.

“Ye are a beast!”

Liadain pulled back her arms and splashed him repeatedly, refusing to stop until the man yielded. To her dismay, he ducked his head, grabbing her around the waist. He hefted her up over his broad shoulder and threw her backward. She quickly found herself again in the same predicament. She stood, pushing her sopping tresses out of her eyes.

She approached him and smiled innocently. “Do ye know what I love about the water?”

“What?” MacGregor responded in an obviously humoring tone.

With stealthy moves of her own, she made a swift undercut with her leg and swept her husband from his feet. “Ye are much lighter.”

He disappeared under the water, his expression priceless. When he did not immediately emerge, an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Too much time had passed. She kicked the soft bottom of the loch with her feet, searching with her hands underneath the water in front of her.

Without warning, he sprang up behind her with a boisterous battle cry that made her scream at the top of her lungs. He hauled her from her feet and lifted her above his head, tossing her once again into the cooling depths of the loch.

She pushed her soggy pieces of hair out of her eyes for a third time. “Ye are verra humorous.”

He gave her a smile that remained on his extremely handsome face. “I thought as much. Are ye ready to take your leave?”

Bending her knees, she dipped herself deeper into the water. “Nay. This feels delightful. Must we?” She could not stay the whine that escaped her voice. She did not want to play the part of the weaker sex, but the temperature away from the loch was insufferable.

The amused look suddenly left his eyes and he closed the gap between them. Liadain stood and he fingered a loose tendril of hair on her cheek. Tenderly, he traced the line of her cheekbone and jaw. When his fingers brushed her collarbone and lingered against the cut on her throat, she covered his hand with her own.

“’Tis time I made ye my wife in truth,” MacGregor said with quiet emphasis.

She stared wordlessly, as though his words released her from some type of inner torment. His hands explored the hollows of her back, the warmth of his arms so male, so bracing. He brushed a gentle kiss across her forehead, and then his glance slid slowly to her shift and his mouth softened.

Her thoughts were jumbled.

“What are ye doing?” she asked. His change in behavior was confusing.

His gaze roved as he lazily appraised her. “Ye are verra beautiful, lass.”

“MacGregor, your emotions range from one end to the other. Ye are either verra kind to me or verra cruel. Why donna ye make up your mind and let me know when—”

His mouth covered hers hungrily, his kiss hard and searching. Her last words were smothered by his lips, and his touch was becoming more persuasive than she cared to admit. Raising his mouth from hers, he gazed into her eyes.

Without looking away, she backed out of his grasp. Lifting his fingers, he gently brushed her cheek, the touch of his hand almost unbearable in its tenderness.

“What do ye want from me?” Liadain whispered. When his eyes sent her a private message, she quickly added, “Besides the obvious.”

“Cannae we reach a truce?” He rubbed his hands gently up and down her arms.

“Isnae that what I have been asking of ye all along? Why now?” Mixed feelings surged through her.

“Mayhap I acknowledge the fact that I cannae change King James’s…There is nay need to look to the past. We are each other’s future. What is done ’tis already done.”

Her heart jolted, her pulse pounded, and her body suddenly ached for his touch. The idea sent her spirits soaring. MacGregor wanted peace between them—a chance to start anew. Her feet seemed to be drifting along on a cloud. That could have been due to the fact that they were standing in water, but frankly, she didn’t care. All that mattered was this moment.

Her husband cradled her, weightless, in his arms, and she buried her face against the corded muscles of his chest. She had no desire to back out of his embrace. She was aware of where his warm flesh touched her, feeling the occasional jolt of his thigh brushing up against her. Her body tingled from the contact.

As he carried her from the loch, his breath was uneven upon her cheek. Lifting her head, she gazed into his eyes. He pressed his lips to hers, caressing her mouth, and she quivered at the sweet tenderness. The dreamy familiarity of the moment left her weak but wanting more.

He gently lowered her onto his plaid and pulled her shift over her head. When his roughened hand slid across her silken belly and down to the swell of her hips, she could barely contain herself.

“Ye are verra bonny, lass.” He took her mouth with a savage force and his lips brought smoldering heat to hers. His hand outlined the circle of her breast, and she surged at the tenderness of his touch.

He lowered his head, his tongue tantalizing her hardened nipples. Instinctively, her body arched toward him.

He was surprisingly, touchingly restrained. He began to slip his hands up her arms ever so slowly, while she caressed the strong tendons in the back of his neck. Aroused now, she drew closer to him. He rubbed the bare skin of her shoulders and kissed the hollow of her neck.

She gasped as he lowered his body against hers, the evidence of his desire rubbing against her belly. Moving his hands below her, he gripped her thighs, lifting her gently to straddle him. It was flesh against flesh, man against woman. His tormented groan was a heady invitation.

Slowly, his hands skimmed her body and she trailed tickling fingers up and down his strong arms. Passion pounded her blood, and she could sense the barely controlled power that coiled in his body.

Her desire for him overrode any sense of thought or reason. She needed him. She needed this.
Now
. At that moment she knew she would yield to the searing need that had been building from the first time their eyes met.

She slid down his shaft and gasped in sweet agony. She took him fully, his expert touch sending her to even higher levels of ecstasy. Together they found a rhythm that bound their bodies as one.

The pleasure was pure and explosive, the feel of his rough skin against hers exalting. Her eager response matched his. The involuntary tremors of arousal began and her senses spun.

She could not control her outcry of delight as he threw back his head and sought his own release.

For once in her life, she was filled with an amazing sense of completeness. They were as one—man and wife—forever bonded.

Giving her a brotherly peck on the cheek, MacGregor patted her on the top of the head and rolled to his feet. “Come, healer. We donna have all day.”

Liadain closed her eyes and prayed for patience. To be truthful, it was more of an attempt to keep her feet from trailing after MacGregor and throttling his massive frame. Why must his behavior range from hot to cold in a matter of seconds?

Pulling herself to her feet, she grabbed her balled-up shift and donned her dress quickly. Her deep, calming breaths did not work the way she had hoped. She seethed with anger and humiliation, furious at her vulnerability toward her new husband.

When she could no longer rein in her temper, she thundered toward the infuriating man with fire in her blood. Unfortunately, it was not the same heat that had warmed her body only moments before. She flashed him a look of disdain, but the lively twinkle in his eyes incensed her even more.

“What is the matter with ye?” she bellowed, slapping his arm.

He lowered his head and gave her a rakish gaze. “I donna believe anything was the matter with me. Ye seemed to enjoy yourself.”

She huffed. “’Tisnae what I meant and ye know it. After what we shared, why would ye pat me upon the head and then say to me that we ‘havenae got all day’ as if naught had happened between us?”

“I didnae just pat ye upon the head. I kissed ye,” MacGregor said defensively.

“On the cheek, as a brother!”

“Is that your problem?” He wedged her tight against his naked form and lowered his mouth to hers.

She was both excited and aggravated, the kiss sending the pit of her stomach into a wild swirl. Her thoughts were becoming jumbled, her husband’s lips sending a shiver through her. She knew she was trying to make a point, but the rogue’s ministrations were so utterly distracting. If she did not know better, she would have sworn he did this on purpose.

He raised his mouth from hers, his eyes flashing with amusement. “Ye see? There is naught wrong with me. The taste of ye still lingers on my lips, and yet ye clearly want me to pleasure ye again.”

Liadain laughed to cover her annoyance. “Donna flatter yourself, ye rogue.” She found herself inexplicably dissatisfied, not from the act itself, but from MacGregor’s behavior. How can one man make one woman’s blood boil from passion and then anger within a matter of seconds?

When he chuckled in response, something within her snapped. Completely aggravated, she shoved the solid wall of her husband’s chest and he fell backward—flat on his naked arse.

“I am your
wife
, ye beastly man. I didnae expect flowery words of love, but you cannae dismiss me as though I am one of your whores.”

Somewhere in the middle of her rant, MacGregor sprang to his feet. His features tightened and he reached behind himself, rubbing his arse. Without warning, he whipped around and raced into the loch, repeatedly plunging himself under the water.

When he finally stood, he snarled at her. “Why did ye push me in
deanntag?
”
Stinging
nettles.

Her mouth dropped open. “I didnae know they were there. My apologies. I didnae see them.”

He thundered out of the loch and she involuntarily jumped. She would not have been surprised if her husband attempted to throttle her. He grabbed his kilt and turned. “Ye want me to acknowledge ye are my wife, but lest ye forget, I am your husband…”

Trying unsuccessfully to mask the guilty expression upon her features, Liadain paled. “I am so sorry.”

***

Declan grabbed his mount and muttered under his breath. The woman was completely daft. Against his better judgment, he’d given her a good tupping, admitting the lass was his wife in truth. But was that good enough for the stubborn wench? She threw his arse in
deanntag!
Must the bloody Campbells always be a thorn in his side—well, in this case, his…never mind.

They rode in blissful silence for several hours and he welcomed the quietness. The woman had apologized so many times that he wished she’d hold her tongue. Even though a part of him enjoyed her groveling, her expressions of regret were starting to grate on his nerves. He gathered by the fifth declaration that she had not deliberately pushed him into the dreaded plant, but the fact remained that his arse still stung. And he swore the woolen material of his kilt only made it worse. He reached around and gently tugged the fabric away from his skin.

“Donna scratch,” she called from behind him. “Do ye want me to take a look?”

“I think ye have done more than enough,
healer
.”

She mumbled something under her breath and he could have sworn it was not too kind.

Without warning, pounding hooves rounded the bend as five men rode toward them at breakneck speed. Declan stiffened, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Stay by my side and donna move.”

A portly man with a scruffy beard that grazed his rounded middle stopped before them. The man’s clothes were tattered, and he had several layers of dust and grime upon his face. His mount pranced impatiently, unhappy from the restraint.

Declan held his breath. The man reeked and was in desperate need of a bath. Upon further inspection, all the men were unwashed and filthy. The man eyed him with a curious look as the others encircled them, glancing to their leader for direction.

With a toothless grin, the disheveled man gave Declan a nod. “Give me your purse.” Pausing, the man then gave the healer a raking gaze. “Or your woman. Or mayhap both.”

There was a heavy silence.

“Aye, I will have the woman. Her mouth looks soft,” said another one of the men, grabbing his cock and positioning his mount closer to the healer.

“Mayhap the English cur is deaf,” spoke another man in a taunting tone.

“And mayhap he is only trying to figure out which one of ye to kill first,” said Declan, his tone harsh.

The leader let out a hearty chuckle. “Ye arenae English. I see now ye don a kilt.”

Clearly, the leader was not the brightest of the bunch. Declan’s eyes narrowed. “I am nae English.”

“Dè an t-ainm a th’ ort?” What is your name?

“MacGregor.”

The leader’s eyes lit up in surprise and his men glanced around with uncertainty. “As in the man who killed the Campbell?”

“We are of the same blood,” he said without inflection in his voice. He unsheathed his sword and rested his weapon casually over his lap. The men measured him for a moment, weighing their options.

“And the woman?” One of the men licked his lips, and his eyes undressed the healer from head to toe.

Declan did not dare glance in her direction, refusing to give these men any opportunity to see weakness. But something within him stirred at the sight of the man’s raking gaze upon the healer. The thought of that man—
any
man—touching the lass made his blood start to boil. He would need to ponder that revelation later because, as of this moment, he needed all of his might to rein in his temper.

“She is a MacGregor,” he simply stated.

The leader gave a brief nod to his men and made a dismissive gesture. “Come, lads. There are other spoils to be had.” One corner of the man’s lips turned upward as he turned back to Declan. “MacGregor.” When their leader kicked his mount into a gallop, the other men followed suit, their foul stench lingering behind.

Declan twisted around in the saddle. “Come, healer, I donna want to be around if they change their minds and return.” He sheathed his sword and moved his mount back onto the path.

“Aye, we were surely outnumbered,” she spoke softly.

“
Outnumbered?
I could have ended their sorrowful lives where they stood. I speak of their stench. ’Tis enough to make a grown man cry.”

Her gentle laugh rippled through the air.

“I was going to set up camp nearby, but we need to place more distance between us and them. We will ride until the sun sets.” When she nodded in agreement, he was proud of her. Most women would have cowered and fallen apart before such repulsive men, but not her. It should not come as a surprise. He was discovering that his new wife was not like most women.

***

When Liadain managed to convince MacGregor that the vagrants had long since passed and were probably preying upon some other weary travelers, he finally agreed to stop.

She sat before the open fire with her legs folded under her, studying her husband intently. The man was a mystery. When the brigands had surrounded them, he had remained strong and composed, confident in his every move, his every word. Her heart had lurched madly when he claimed her as his own. Well, she was his, but hearing him say it was comforting nonetheless.

The light from their fire cast him in a radiant glow. He grabbed another piece of wood and bent over, adjusting the embers. She recalled the passion of being held against her husband’s strong body. Attempting to keep the memory pure and unsullied, she tried to forget how easily the man had dismissed her.

MacGregor pulled himself to his feet and stretched his back. Must his every movement remind her of his attractiveness? When he reached down to adjust the back of his kilt again, she had had enough.

Her guilt got the best of her. “Enough, MacGregor, ’tis enough. Let me see it.”

He placed his hands over his heart in an exaggerated gesture and turned up his smile a notch. “I am now your husband. I am nay man-whore. I didnae expect flowery words of love. Howbeit I hoped ye would have at least asked me nicely to see it.”

Rolling her eyes, Liadain brought herself to her feet. “Ye are verra humorous,” she said dryly. She approached her husband and reached out and touched his arm. “
Deanntag
should only sting for a bit, but most men donna place their entire bare behind in contact with it.”

He chuckled in response. “I think ye mean to say that most men donna have their entire bare arse thrown into it.”

“Mayhap,” she replied sheepishly. “Just let me take a look.” When her husband’s kilt fell to the ground and his eyes clung to hers, analyzing her response, she slapped him playfully in the chest. “Cease, ye rogue.” She could not help laughing aloud to herself.

One corner of his mouth was pulled into a tight smile. “All right, healer. Have yourself a look,” he said, facing forward in all his Highland glory.

She grabbed his brawny arm and twisted him around. “Turn aroun—” Her words stopped in mid-sentence. Even in the dim light of the fire, she could see that his firm buttocks were reddened with an angry rash.

“Well?”

“Ye have a rash. Does it itch or burn?”

“Both.”

“Umm…I need to…er, what I mean to say is—”

“For god’s sake, healer, just touch it already.”

She rubbed her fingers gently over his tight buttocks and felt small, raised bumps brushing against her hand. Damn. It was worse than she had thought. “Sit down and hand me the water,” she ordered. MacGregor lowered himself to the ground and draped his kilt loosely over his lap. He handed her the flask, and she turned and walked away from him.

“What are ye doing?” he asked with a puzzled look.

“I am making mud.” Liadain dropped to her knees and dumped a healthy portion of water into the dirt.

“For my arse?”

She nodded. “Aye, for your arse.”

“And mud will stop the burning?”

“Ye place the mud on the infected areas and let it dry. Once it dries, ye brush it off and it should pull out any remaining nettles. It should also help with the rash.” She continued to stir the dirt until it formed a thick and pasty mud. “There. That should do it.”

He stood, once again dropped his kilt, and walked over to the mud mixture. He bent to scoop up a handful and rubbed a portion onto his buttocks, missing the rash entirely.

“Ye missed the bottom part of the rash. Move lower.” She shook her finger at the spot. “There. There.”

“Healer, I cannae see it. Ye will have to apply it,” he said impatiently. He stood there as naked as the day he was born. Well, although he did not look like a newborn bairn, he was bare. He looked vulnerable.

Liadain grabbed the remaining mud from his hands. “Verra well. Turn back around.”

She knelt to the ground so his naked bottom was at eye level. At what point in her life did fate decide she needed to be here at this particular moment? Fate was surely laughing at her expense. As she delicately applied the mud to the lowest possible part of his infected area, another thought came to mind. What if other
parts
were having a similar reaction as well?

Swallowing hard, she stood. She was a healer. She could handle anything—well, almost anything. “I am finished, but I have to ask this of ye. Did the
deanntag
reach other areas of ye as well?”

MacGregor turned around and cast a roguish grin. “Ye mean my co—”

“I mean your other parts,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Aye. My bollocks.”

“Verra well,” she growled. She grabbed some more mud and knelt before him. “I give ye fair warning…”

She lifted her hand to her husband’s bollocks and was just about to apply the mud when he mumbled, “A wee bit to the right.”

Liadain rose in one fluid motion. With a quick swipe of her hands, she rubbed the mud all over MacGregor’s arrogant visage.
“Se do bheatha.” You are welcome.