A Promise of Love (39 page)

Tynan seemed to be the likeliest spot for the unlikeliest of men, traveling north in search of work. Alisdair hired these sheep men, young men who labored in the fields and did not seem overwhelmed by the pace he set for them. Meggie was planning on marrying a MacLared, and Sara had her own plans for Malcolm. Even Fiona had ceased to be a burden, choosing to reside with her aunt in Inverness while she shopped for a husband.

Judith did not miss her.

She did miss Sophie. A small brick enclosure had been erected around the cairn stones, and Judith went there often in the first days and talked to Granmere, not noticing the swift, compassionate looks directed her way. Somehow, it eased her mind to be there, as much as the tears she shed when no one saw.

This was a strange place, Scotland, full of rolling hills and tall peaks etched with snow, and the sea which never remained the same color. There were pines which seemed to scratch the sky itself so tall were they, green gorges of valleys, layered hills of slate and rain which fell continuously, making the Highlands a gray and black place, warmed only by courageous hearts.

Judith learned to love the chill days, and the stark beauty of the sea flowing into the cove. She stood on the top of the moor and welcomed the change of seasons with joy, anticipating Alisdair's warmth in the coldest winter nights, the spring beauty of an awakening landscape, the summer smells of rich, fertile earth, and the poignant farewell of autumn.

She began to love this land, and with each passing day she began to realize something else.

It was home.

When the wagon finally pulled into the courtyard a few days later, more than one prayer was answered. Judith was ecstatic, Malcolm was jubilant.

Alisdair threw down the first of the trunks lashed to the top of the wagon. There was barely enough room in the courtyard for the second wagon, he thought, but somehow he would manage it. Both conveyances were filled to overflowing, accompanied by a menagerie that looked to have come straight from Noah's ark.

Malcolm greeted him with an almost hysterical fervor. He flung his arms around his laird and squeezed Alisdair tightly, which was as effusive a greeting as he had received in his lifetime from his dour clansman. He insisted upon shaking his hand, too, and it was only Alisdair's insistence which finally ended their clasp.

"Is everything well, Malcolm? " Alisdair asked, That set Malcolm off again.

"Aye, now that the laird is home, it is," he chortled. "Aye, aye." He would wait until later to inform Alisdair of how unruly his wife had become, even rounded with child. Stubborn lass.

A new litter of border puppies barked at a cage filled with spitting cats, pets of his companion. Alisdair yelled at both sets of animals. Judith only laughed as she carefully descended the steps, and threw herself into her husband's arms.

Granted, his eyes were shadowed, as if he had not slept much, and his face needed a shaving, but he looked tall and strong and fit, clad in his usual attire of white linen shirt and black trousers. She sniffed the air experimentally. Clean, soft linen.

"What are you doing, wife?" He picked her up and whirled her around in his arms.

She laughed, bending down to meet his kiss.

Malcolm leaned against the bronze doors, shook his head at the sight, prudently closing his eyes. He opened them long moments later, but they were still kissing and the young lass sitting primly on the wagon seat looked more than a little lost. He sighed, went to her and held out his arms and she allowed him to help her down.

"Elizabeth!" Judith screamed, as she disentangled herself from Alisdair's embrace. She hugged her sister, turned her round and round in inspection, and then hugged her again.

"Oh, Alisdair, how? Why?" Judith's overbright eyes were brimming with tears, Malcolm snorted in disgust. He'd seen enough of those these days.

"I share Malcolm's feeling about your father, love," Alisdair said, noting Malcolm's disgruntled look. He could just imagine what his old mentor was thinking. But Elizabeth wasn't just one more English woman, she would always be a child, incapable of understanding more than a child would, but with an innocent's grace and charm. But, Squire Cuthbertson was still a stupid man and had bargained once again with the Scots. David and Daniel would be arriving in a few days, with more free sheep and the MacLeods had been blessed with another of his daughters.

Malcolm turned away from all of them, shuffled up the stairs burdened by one of the heaviest trunks. The puppies swarmed around him, raced in search of the kittens. “I’ll not handle this on my own,, man," he roared at his laird. "Give me a hand! How am I ta wrestle with this bunch of surly creatures?"

Alisdair could not prevent the grin that touched his mouth. The normally quiet courtyard was marred by hissing, spitting, and barking.

"If you will look to that green trunk, Malcolm," he called out with a broad smile, "you will find a store of brandy and other spirits which once belonged to Judith's father." He didn’t bother telling Malcolm he’d bought the lot, somehow purloined brandy tasted better.

Malcolm brightened, his ire transformed magically into rapture. Aye, things were looking up after all.

Alisdair had been home five hours before he was able to be alone with his wife. There was a welcome to be had and that small matter of a rounded belly to investigate. But Elizabeth needed to be settled, and while Judith took on that responsibility, Alisdair apportioned the supplies, then reported to the elders as to their profits. When, finally, every question had been answered, every duty either performed or delayed, Alisdair went in search of his wife.

He found her in the laird’s room, bending to fluff the covers on the bed. When Judith saw him standing framed in the doorway, she straightened, the sheet still clutched in her hand. The dazzling sun entered the windows, shone brightly over the large bed, the chair in the corner. The air wafted in from the sea, forever chilled, laden with heavy moisture and a salt taste.

He did not coax her into his arms, but pulled her there impatiently. She laughed as he jerked her closer. She raised her face and drank in the sight of him with wide eyes. Her hand smoothed over his bristly cheek, her palm gently abraded by the touch of it, He closed his eyes at her touch, and that one small gesture deepened the blue of her eyes and caused her tremulous smile to shift a little.

Her tears made slow, delicate tracks down her cheeks.

She touched the line of his neck, up to where it met his jaw. His skin was soft there, then turned rough with a day's growth of beard. The tip of a finger brushed against his feathery lashes, as long and as black as a crow's plumage. Two fingers brushed across his brow and down the arched expanse of his nose to that jutting chin with its cleft. She reached up and placed a tender kiss there, right at the spot where it stubbornly faced the world. She mapped his face with her fingers, and her wide, wide eyes.

She angled her head, clasped her hands around his neck and brought his mouth closer to hers. He lapped at her tears, and the roughness of his tongue brought a smile to her lips. A smile that soon vanished under the tender onslaught of his mouth.

"Alisdair," she whispered, "oh, Alisdair." It was a litany of love.

Her other hand entwined in the hair at his nape, but he needed no urging. He brushed his lips against hers, tasting the moistness still there, the salty remnants of tears and kisses. His tongue traced the outline and her lips opened spontaneously.

His hand brushed back her hair, that glorious mane of red and gold and brown which swirled around her face. He placed his lips on her forehead as if in benediction.

How they disrobed, she could not remember. It somehow did not seem important, the only reality in the world was the touch of his naked body against hers. She did not demur as he carried her to the great bed in the middle of the room.

They both knelt on the bed, equals in love. Her palms slid up his forearms and he cupped her elbows in his hands. They sat only inches apart, her

breath exchanged with his, his smile a broad echo to her own tremulous one. He did not imagine the pulse racing beneath her skin.

It would be hours until it was dark in the room, but she said nothing as he studied her, made no protest as his brandy eyes burned a path from shoulders to hip. She was as avid in her own exploration, eyes and fingertips, as if searching for a sign that the weeks apart had changed him in some detectable way.

He placed his hand against her rounded belly, his eyes filled with wonder, joy, fear.

“You did not tell me.” His fingers traced a path across her skin. His child.

“I did not know.” She bent her head until her forehead nestled into the space between shoulder and neck. “I am supposed to be barren, Alisdair, “ she whispered. ”I am not supposed to be full with your child.” She leaned back and smiled at him. There was no more beauty in the world than Judith in love.

“It’s all the practice, Judith,” he said with a grin. “And being Scots.”

He leaned down to touch her breasts with his fingertips, and then his lips, and she moaned softly as he caressed the delicate curve beneath one breast.

His hands reached around her waist and slid down her hips. One of hers strayed to his back, feeling the taut strength of those firm, long muscles. He lowered his lips to hers and she traced the outline of their warm wetness with her tongue.

He spread her hair across her breasts, to where it ended at her knees. She stroked that pelt of hair on his chest and smoothed both palms across it.

He slid his hands up from her knees to the tops of her thighs. Where they parted, she was wet, and it was that wetness his fingers sought even as his tongue delved deeper into the grotto of her mouth. She leaned weakly into him, and he became her support.

He placed both hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer until her head was leaning against his chest. His heart was beating in hammer strokes against her cheek. When he pulled back, she protested, a slight whimper of negation. He only smiled and kissed the tip of her nose.

He left her then and she watched him as he walked to the other side of the room, not as curious as to his errand as admiring of his form. Was there ever a man more gloriously made? The bright sunlight would have exposed any flaw, but as she studied him, she could see none.

When he returned to his position on the bed, his smile was rakish.

"Would you like me to turn around, so you can complete your inspection?"

"I've seen enough," she said, smiling softly, "and there is nothing I would change."

"Be certain of that, my love," he said, his easy teasing replaced by a more somber tone, “I’ll not give you another chance.” With one hand, he opened her palm, in the other he held Granmere's ring.

"Alisdair, what are you about?" she whispered.

“Something I should have done a long while ago. Judith," he said gently, "there are four ways to wed in Scotland. Since I do not see a Kirk nearby, and since we have already been wed by declaration, and lived together as man and wife, I feel that we must seal the deed again by marrying thrice over." He smiled. "Therefore, my sweet and lovely wife, we are performing the last way of marriage left us. Declaration of intent followed by coupling."

She smiled tenderly.

"Will you live with me and be my wife? Will you love me, my clan and my home? With no regrets and of your own free will?" he asked softly, the rasp in his voice betraying his emotions.

She nodded her head, her heart too full of love, and her throat too choked with tears to speak. He slid Granmere's ring onto her finger.

He lowered her onto the bed, and stretched out beside her, one hand gently resting on her breast, the other supporting his head. He did nothing else for a long moment, as if creating a space for her to breathe.

She wanted no respite.

She pulled his head down, trying without words to thank him for his tender care of her. Small sounds, not quite words, punctuated their kisses, each soft stroke of finger, of mouth. In those moments, they created a cocoon of comfort, bathed in yellow sunlight, a perfect delicacy of feeling, carved from life itself.

When her liquid warmth flowed around his fingers, Alisdair slipped slowly into her, filling her so full that he checked his movement to give her time to adjust. Judith had other ideas. She clasped her arms around his hips and pulled him into her. With his invasion, she became neither the conqueror nor the conquered. She was simply loving.

Each separate step of this dance of love had been ordained from the beginning of time, yet it felt fresh and new between them now. He arched his hips back at the same time his tongue began to stroke hers. She lifted her hips up against his, a tender tyrant, imploring him to fill her again. A gasp slipped from her lips as he reached down with one hand and stroked her open wetness. Faint tremors of need shook her as she clutched his back.

Her fingers traced weak patterns on his flesh, her mouth opened against his skin, tasting, licking, gently scraping with teeth and tongue. He traced her full lips with one finger, then traced his handiwork with his tongue, savoring her winsome smile. Her hands roamed from his wrists to his shoulders, to the corded muscles and their strength.

Through it all, he moved slowly, gently, coaxing her to soar with him, invading, relinquishing, moving, creating a sweet and unbearable feeling of need within both of them.