Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (33 page)

In that simple question, Iain detected all of Yvette’s most deeply held desires. As well as her closely guarded fears.

His expression considerably sobered,
Iain said, “Aye, because I’m old enough and wise enough to know ’tis a gift from God. Kenneth and Fiona died within months of one another; and for nigh on three years I was but half a man. Now I am made whole again because
you
, Yvette, are my other half.”

A long silence ensued as they continued walking beside the loch.

Casting his wife a sideways glance, Iain observed the way in which she worriedly gnawed her lower lip.

“Do you still intend to avenge Kenneth’s death?”
Yvette inquired, finally breaking the silence.

Having intuited that the question would b
e asked, Iain had a ready reply. “No, I willna seek revenge against yer father. Because of my lust for vengeance, Fiona died alone with our unborn bairn in her belly. I canna bear the thought of that same fate falling upon ye.” Iain paused briefly before continuing, the memory of Fiona’s death still a painful one. “Kenneth is dead by yer father’s hand. And there is naught I can do to bring him back. I can only honor his memory by living righteously. I will leave vengeance to The Almighty. He will know how best to punish Lyndhurst for his brutal misdeeds.”

“But what of the blood debt?”

“The debt is cancelled.”

Yvette
made no attempt to hide her astonishment, her brown eyes opening wide. “How can that be? You refused to accept the ransom.”

“Aye, I did
. But what I have gained is far more valuable than a chest full of gold,” he said with quiet emphasis.

“
Do you speak of love?”

“Aye
, I do. And I would have ye tell me—” Iain clamped his mouth shut, suddenly as nervous as a green lad. While he had declared himself, Yvette had yet to disclose the contents of her heart.

Taking
a deep, fortifying breath, he allowed his gaze to fall upon his lady of the mist, taking note of each beloved feature.
The rose bloom of her lips. The luxurious tangle of sable locks. The lush swell of breasts. The graceful curve of her hips
.

As he beheld Yvette’s image
, Iain tried to envision her thirty winters hence. But even the thought of graying hair and a crone’s wrinkles could not diminish his yearning. For what he felt for her was a love that transcended the passage of time.

Determined to know whether she returned his affection
, or if he loved in vain, Iain clasped both of Yvette’s hands in his and asked the question uppermost in his mind: “D’ye love me?”

Overcome with e
motion, Yvette stared at Iain.

In silent reverie
she gazed upon his countenance, her pulse quickening.

Surely death
will find me long before I weary of gazing upon my husband’s face.

“Yea, I do love you, Iain MacKinnon
. And have done so for a very long time. ’Tis like a sweet fire that doth burn brightly,” she told him, the warmth from the flame beginning to swell within her heart.

“Then why did ye leave Castle Maoil?”

“’Twas not because I was desirous of marrying the Earl of Angus,” Yvette was quick to assure him. “I left because I wrongly thought you had betrayed me. And I beg your forgiveness for not having more faith in you. In my defense, I can only say that I have been ill-used by your sex. And because of that, I am unaccustomed to placing my trust in a man.”

Iain gently
pushed a wet hank of hair behind her ear. “If it is mine to have, I will do all in my power to keep yer faith. But I am no’ above blame in this affair; for I couldna bring myself to tell ye that I forfeited the ransom. I didna trust ye no’ to use it against me.” Then, somewhat sheepishly he added, “I thought if I did, it would make me look weak and monkish.”

Taken aback by his honesty, a lu
mp settled in Yvette’s throat. “I would never have thought thusly. On the contrary, it would have raised you in my estimation. As only a strong-hearted man can put love above avarice or vengeance.”

“
Now
ye tell me,” Iain good-naturedly grumbled as he enfolded Yvette in his arms and clasped her tightly against his chest. “Although we both suffered greatly, I am thinking there is a lesson in all of this.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“That love without trust is naught but a passing dream.”

“Yea, ’tis true,” she readily concurred. “In order for
love to be more than the stuff of dreams, there must be trust between a husband and his wife. And respect,” she added, tipping her head to hold Iain’s blue-eyed gaze. “For I believe the two go hand-in-hand.”

“Trust and respect.
Aye, they do go hand-in-hand,” Iain agreed. Suddenly releasing her, he yanked his dirk out of his belt and charged toward a large willow that bloomed nearby.

“What are you doing?”
Yvette anxiously cried out when he cut a small branch from the overgrown tree.

Grinning, Iain next cut a long strip of fab
ric from the end of his plaid. “Trust and respect were missing the first time around, but I intend to rectify that here and now.”

Baffled, Yvette shook her head.
“Your meaning eludes me.”

“Our handfast vows,”
Iain clarified. “When we were handfasted, there was no mention of trust or respect in the vows. So I would have us amend our pledge.”

“But we are already handfasted.”

“Aye, we are.” Placing the piece of willow between their two left hands, Iain proceeded to entwine the length of plaid around their joined palms. “But who says we canna be handfasted a second time?”

After securely tucking the fabric strip into one of the plaid folds, Iain
peered deeply into Yvette’s eyes. Whereupon, she lost herself in the breathless enchantment of his gaze.

In that deep
, burred voice that never failed to thrill her, Iain said, “I vow to give ye my trust, my respect, my protection, and my heart. May our love, like this willow, bend but not break. And I will cherish this love for a year and a day . . . and for all the days and years to come.”

Able to
feel her heartbeat pounding in her ears, Yvette said in reply, “And I vow to give you my trust, my respect, my comfort, and my heart. May our love, like this willow, bend but not break. And I will cherish this love for a year and a day. And for all the days and years to come as I am forever your mate in body, mind and heart.”

“Well said, wife,” Iain murmured just before he
bent his head, pressing his lips to hers.

As t
he two of them stood by the shimmering loch, their hands entwined, their lips sealed, Iain kissed her with all the ardor of a man who’d lost love; only to have it suddenly, and unexpectedly, returned to him.

When
Yvette swayed toward Iain, pressing against his chest, he groaned . . . right before he slid a hand between them and gently cupped her breast.

“I would have us consummate our vows,”
Yvette whispered against his mouth as she unraveled the strip of plaid that bound their two left hands.

At hearing that,
Iain enthusiastically swung her into his arms. “’Twould appear that we are of like mind,” he husked, carrying her behind the leafy willow, out of sight of prying eyes.

Laying her on the bed of soft grass,
Iain raised himself on his forearm. He then parted the folds of her plaid, exposing her lower body to his gaze.

At that moment,
Yvette thought there was something savagely beautiful about Iain, passion lending a leonine cast to his handsome face. Sensing he was in the mood for leisurely loveplay, she shoved his kilt to his waist, her desire more urgent. Brazenly smiling, she stared at his man’s body, the muscled flesh so different from the soft curves of her own body.

“You are truly magnificent,” she
whispered as she wrapped her hand around him, taking his measure with a caressing stroke. “Which is why I cannot wait.”

“I would not thin
k of making my lady wife wait.”

In the next instant,
Iain obliged Yvette’s desire, thrusting deeply into her welcoming body.

A squalling heron drowned out their mingled moans, causing both of them to laugh as they belatedly realized they were but a stone’s thro
w from their encamped kinsmen.

Giggling,
Yvette said, “Mayhap we should exercise a bit more stealth.”

“Aye,” Iain grunted
, quickening his pace, driving into her with what she knew to be a pent-up hunger.

Fast approaching her release, she arched
her back and sunk her nails into Iain’s muscled flanks, holding him close as her body began to take flight. Her desire,
her love
, for her husband was so great, she could only express it with her body. Mere words could not do justice to so powerful an emotion.

“Ye’re
so beautiful,” Iain whispered.

Yvette gasped
. Struck with a wave of radiating pleasure, her body forcefully shook in the throes of her climax.

Iain plunged deep, the end coming for h
im in a shuddering convulsion.

Bracing her face between his hands,
he rained tender kisses on her flushed cheeks.

“We are now truly bound, one to the other . . . ’twas worth every tear,”
Yvette murmured, thinking of the heartache they both had endured over the course of the last few days.

Iain threaded his fingers through her hair and gazed deeply into
her eyes. “The moment that I saw ye emerge from the mist, I was bound to ye. And no force under the heavens can unbind us. For there is no greater power than that of a man and woman joined in love.”

Yvette smiled
warmly, overcome with a surfeit of emotion. “Hands to hold, hearts to cherish.”

“A
ye, ’tis so, wife of my heart. But I would have us put actions to words.”

“As would I, husband
.”

October
, 1306

Castle Maoil

“What name will ye give to the bairn?” Laoghaire asked, pointedly glancing at Yvette’s midsection.

“We shall call him Kenneth if it is boy and Esmé if it is a girl
. After my mother,” Yvette added, placing a protective hand over her gently rounded belly.

The bailey where they stood was a flurry of activity
– horses whinnying, dogs barking, men cursing – as all made ready for Laoghaire’s imminent departure to Glencova. The betrothal contracts had been signed several weeks prior; with the wedding between the laird’s sister and the Earl of Angus to take place two weeks hence. And though she’d initially balked, Laoghaire now wore the emerald betrothal ring that had once adorned Yvette’s finger.

Admittedly, the magnificent gem appeared incongruous given the young woman’s mannish attire, Laoghaire having refused to don
léine
and
arisaidh
for the journey. Just as she’d refused to relinquish her sword. Diarmid, who would be accompanying his cousin to Glencova, had been issued strict orders from Iain to disarm Laoghaire before they reached Castle Airlie. And to also make certain that she wore feminine garb when they arrived, forcing the issue at sword point, if need be.

“Ach, Laoghaire, ye’ll be having bairns of yer own soon enough,” Iain said
with a jovial grin.

“And I willna be naming any of them after
ye
,” the red-headed beauty huffed, belligerently jutting a cleft chin at her brother.

“’Twas the king who ordered the marriage between ye and Angus, no’ I.”

Because Yvette had heard this particular argument numerous times over the course of the last three months, she knew it verbatim. As Iain spoke, she silently mouthed the words along with him.

“Ye couldna do better than the Earl of Angus . . . unless ye were t
hinking of wedding the Bruce.”

Glowering, Laoghaire uttered the oft-spoken refrain,
“If it is such a great honor why didn’t Yvette marry the earl?”

Although Yvette had
heretofore remained neutral, today she placed a hand on Iain’s arm, forestalling his reply. “I declined the honor because I chose to wed for love,” she informed Laoghaire, well aware that her decision to do so would be deemed injudicious by most.

“Aye
. And I thank God every day that she did,” Iain added as he leaned over and tenderly kissed Yvette on the forehead.

Peering at her sister-in-law,
Yvette fully commiserated with the young woman’s plight; for it was not so long ago that she’d traveled to Glencova, forced into a betrothal not of her choosing. If not for the fact that the betrothal linking Clan MacKinnon and the House de Ogilvy had been ordered by royal edict, Yvette would have strenuously protested the match.

Teary-eyed
, Yvette wrapped her arms around the much taller Scotswoman, hugging her close. “I have always wanted a sister; and my wish has finally come true. May God go with you.”

To Yvette’s surprise, Laoghair
e warmly returned the embrace. While their relationship had vastly improved, this was the younger woman’s first affectionate overture.

“I, too, have always wanted a sister,” Laoghaire w
hispered shyly before stepping away.

Her escape was short-lived,
however, Iain pulling his sister into his arms and soundly kissing her on the cheek. “Ye’ll make a beautiful bride,” he gruffly muttered. “I regret I canna be at yer wedding.”

Her eyes shining
with unshed tears, Laoghaire mutely stared at Iain, no vestige of her earlier anger evident. Instead, she had about her a forlorn sadness.

“We may never meet again
, brother, and . . . and I would have ye know that I love ye well,” Laoghaire murmured, her cheeks flushed with color.

“As I love ye, Laoghaire.”

Tersely nodding, the red-headed beauty swiped a balled fist across each cheek as she glanced at the stone keep that had been her home since birth. Then, a resolute gleam in her blue eyes, she swung herself onto her steed and kicked her booted heels into the horse’s sides. Diarmid, already mounted, waved his hand in farewell as he led the riders toward the gatehouse.

“Shall we watch thei
r departure from the parapet?”

“Aye.”

Yvette heard the catch in Iain’s voice. She knew that having to bid farewell to the sister he knew and loved was a difficult duty to discharge. Eventually time would soften the blow. But not this day.

E
ntering the keep, the two of them silently trod the circular staircase.

A few minutes later they stood side
-by-side on the parapet. From the elevated vantage point they watched Laoghaire and her mounted guard traverse the winding path that led to the small galley bobbing along the shoreline.

A robust breeze whipped at Yvette’s woolen skirts, tossing loose strands of
dark hair all about her face. The summer season was fast dying, the wind invigorated with a chill crispness. Already the birds had summoned their flocks to warmer refuge, each passing day falling shorter than the one before it.

Staring at the horizon, Iain smiled
ruefully and said, “Even though Laoghaire will wed one of the great earls of Scotland, I am worried for her. She has never left the isle.”

“Then I pray God that Laoghaire finds her h
eart’s desire.”
As did I,
Yvette silently added, content to live out her remaining days at Castle Maoil with the man she loved.

“I wish the same for her
. But as with everyone in Scotland, Laoghaire’s future is uncertain,” Iain replied, the addendum made in a grave tone of voice.

Yvette knew her husband referred to the resounding defeat that King Robert suffe
red several months ago ago at Methven, Iain having been at the king’s side. As was Sir Galen de Ogilvy, the knight having remained true to his oath. Forced to retreat, the Scottish troops had scattered to the four winds. And while Robert the Bruce was again in hiding, Yvette knew another armed confrontation with the English army was inevitable.

“No matter what the future holds, no matter what happens, your plight shall be my plight, your people mine,”
Yvette avowed as she leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder.

Iain gently cupped her cheek in a callused hand. “Come what may, ye’ll always be my refuge, sweet Yvette.”

“And you shall always be my rock.”

“A rock?
I am naught but a bloody rock?” Iain good-naturedly teased.

“A rock is strong and impermeable to destruction,”
Yvette made haste to assure him. Noticing that Iain still wore an askance expression, she gestured to the mortared stones before them. “A stronghold can not be built without a rock.”

Iain
placed his hand upon a weathered merlon. “Aye, ’tis true.” Placing an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close. “Mayhap a rock is no’ such a bad thing, after all.”

Their arms entwined,
Yvette and Iain watched Laoghaire’s fading entourage, the moments slipping past in a companionable silence.

“Upon further contemplation, I would have us
be more than a rock and a refuge to one another,” Yvette hesitantly ventured, breaking the quietude.

“And wha’ would ye have us be?”

About to test the waters, Yvette cast her husband a sideways glance before she said, “We should be . . . partners.”

Clearly befuddled,
Iain’s brows drew together in the middle. “Partners? But I am a man and ye’re a woman. How can we be partners?”

“
’Tis simple enough, assuming that we both desire a happy and felicitous union.”

“
I’d be a fool no’ to want that,” her husband conceded easily enough. “But wha’ does that have to do wi’ being partners?”

“As partners we would treat
each other with equal measure,” she matter-of-factly replied. “But more importantly, we would treat one another with love, respect, compassion and tolerance.”

“Tolerance?
” The furrow between Iain’s brows deepened. “Wha’ the bloody hell does
that
mean?”

“
It means that we recognize, accept and appreciate the differences between us. Thereby facilitating the happy and felicitous union.”

C
hortling, Iain shook his head. “’Tis plain to see ye’ve given this much thought.”

“Yea, I have,” Yvette confessed, convinced that as marital partners, their union would be made perfect in all ways.

Iain curved his hand around Yvette’s elbow as he ushered her toward the stairs. “Mayhap we need another handfast pledge,” he husked, a suggestive gleam in his eyes.

Peering
at her husband, Yvette recalled the passionate aftermath of their last handfast vow.

“Mayhap we do.”