Chapter Nine

No bastards can be born on the isle.

Ida Macquarie’s words played through Lark’s thoughts as she watched the fires being lit and sipped on honey mead. The woman had been sharp and frowning, her gaze judgmental as Ava introduced Lark.

It took only a handful of words from Ida to make Lark certain she could not live with Adam’s aunt if they annulled their marriage. However, the words she remembered from the family Bible were encouraging. No Macquarie can father a bastard. It had nothing to do with permitting bastards on the isle. Still, she would like to read the words herself, but it seemed no one had to know that Roylin Montgomerie was not Lark’s father. Not even Adam.

The mead caught in her throat. Trust. Honesty created trust, which was the one thing she told him that she must have in a marriage.

A set of pipes played along with two fiddles. People gathered in small groups, laughing and raising their cups for the happy couple as they made their way amongst them. Lark breathed deeply. No one here knew anything about her, about her birth, about her life, about her shame. And she could keep it that way, not risk their judgment if somehow it got out. The thought made her clutch her shawl tighter about her shoulders.

If she kept her secrets to herself, forgot they even existed, she could stay wed, have legitimate children, and help rebuild Ormaig, Gylin, and all of Wolf Isle at Adam’s side. Her life could be full of purpose and maybe even love. Her gaze drifted to Adam across the field where he spoke to Beck. Her husband was the perfect combination of intelligence, rugged good looks, and brawn, and yet he did not lord his position over people. And he had been patient and gentle with her. Could Adam give her acceptance, a true home, and maybe even love? Her heart raced with hope.

As long as no one finds out about my past.

“Iain MacLeod has not shone his ornery face,” Beck said next to Adam and raised his tankard to toast the observation. “Although having that handful of MacLeods around is bloody irritating.”

“The groom is a MacLeod,” Adam said, his gaze following Lark as Meg and Ava walked over to her. The presence of their rival clan had been plucking at his brothers’ tempers all day, and he’d had to remind them several times not to start a fight, for the sake of the bride, Liam’s sister. And for Lark.

Beck frowned. “I thought Julia knew better than to tangle with them.”

Adam watched Lark with the ladies, her head turning to the shadows where couples were starting to wander off to find privacy.

“The only MacLeods I have met are ornery sots,” Beck said and took a drink of his ale.

Adam watched Liam Maclean stop next to Lark, pulling her aside. He spoke, and her gaze slid out, stopping on Adam. He gave her a nod. “If I am not back,” Adam said, cutting Beck off, “ye are in charge of keeping our brothers peaceful. Do not come looking for me.”

Beck laughed softly. “Aye. Best bed her, brother, for ye cannot think straight until ye do.”

He kept his gaze fastened on Lark even as she looked to Liam. When she turned back to Adam, her smile had fled. Damn. What was he saying to steal away her smile? Liam was against them moving back to Ulva. Was he telling her that he believed the curse was real? That it was dangerous for her and any children they had?

As if noticing his rapid stride, Liam suddenly turned and walked away as if on an important mission. “What was he saying?” Adam asked, stopping before her. “Ye were smiling and then ye looked like a mad hornet.”

“Well…he was telling me how the isle is cursed and that I could sway you to abandon it because you seem to like me more than all the lasses you’ve bedded before.”

“Mo chreach,” he cursed under his breath. “He has never been in favor of us moving back.”

“Maybe he likes your company here on Mull,” she said, her gaze following another couple who walked off into the growing night, hands clasped. “So…you have slept with a lot of women? Anyone walking around here that I should know about?”

Adam rubbed a hand over his short-cropped beard. “God’s teeth, Lark. Do not listen to bloody Liam. He is an arse.” Adam was going to make Liam listen to him when he caught up to him.

Adam met Lark’s hard stare as the silence between them lengthened and grew awkward. Was she jealous? The thought warmed him enough to stop him from walking off to pummel his long-time friend. He took hold of her shoulders. “I know we are learning to trust one another, that it is the most important thing to ye in a marriage. I will not step out on ye, Lark.”

She studied him. “Because you will not allow yourself to father bastards?”

He frowned. “I have managed to do that without remaining celibate.” She looked away. Mo chreach! He huffed. “I have no idea what ye want me to say.”

Her shoulders seemed to sink, and she glanced up at him. “What is the most important thing to you in a marriage?”

He knew better than to say anything about tupping, even if after a week of dreaming each night about Lark writhing and moaning his name had made it instantly jump forefront in his mind. He looked up at the darkening blue that was quickly changing to black in the moonless night sky. “I suppose trust, too. Honesty, so there is no need to worry over what the other one is thinking.” He rubbed his chin. “And being able to work together toward a goal.”

“A goal of bringing life again to Ulva,” she said. Her brow furrowed as if she thought hard on a matter.

He reached up to smooth the worry lines on her forehead with his thumb. She pulled back, and he dropped his hand. “Aye. I would have ye work next to me to do so.”

She turned her face toward the flames. Adam breathed deeply. Even past the harsh tang of woodsmoke, she smelled warm and sweet. “And to be honest with ye, lass, I would also have us lay next to each other like we did in the tent.”

Her face turned to his. “You do?”

The softening in her face stirred him with hope. “Aye, lass, very much.”

Beck was right; he couldn’t think straight without taking Lark to bed. He slid his hand down her arm and captured her hand. “Lark—”

“I think several of the ladies would like to visit Ulva,” Ava said, walking back over with her daughter on her arm.

Damn. There were too many people on Mull.

“Thank you for bringing it up with them,” Lark answered, which was good since he was suddenly surly.

“Thank ye,” he repeated.

His sudden impatience roughened his voice. “It is getting late, so we are leaving soon,” Adam said as Drostan walked up, his gaze on Meg.

“No,” both Ava and Meg said at the same time. Ava smiled. “We were hoping you would all stay for tomorrow. There will be contests between the clans, a small festival in honor of the wedding.” Ava lowered her voice. “And I am certain you and your brothers would like to show the MacLeods they shouldn’t try to raid Macquarie property again.”

Meg reached for Lark’s free hand, and for a moment, Adam felt like tugging her away. “Adam and you can stay in Aros Castle with us. There is an extra room ready since Cullen and his wife, Rose, went back to Islay. Their twin boys are a handful, and they dare not leave them overnight. Lark, you can have a warm bath here.” She glanced at Adam. “In a bathing tub, not a horse trough.”

“A warm bath would be wonderful,” Lark said.

Och but he would look like a brute to refuse her. Adam exhaled slowly and turned to Drostan. “Let the others know we are staying the night.”

“Aye.” Drostan glanced at Tor’s daughter and walked off into the dark. Would he try to find Meg later? Adam should warn him that her father might just put a blade in his gut if so.

“Wonderful,” Ava said. “One of Tor’s men is always on watch and will lead you to the empty room. I will ask for the tub to be moved in there, along with several buckets of water to be warmed.”

“Thank you, milady,” Lark said, excitement lighting her tone.

Adam stood patiently, listening to them discuss coming over to Ulva to clean until some of Ava’s friends drew them away. He clasped Lark’s hand so she wouldn’t follow. “A word,” he said. Glancing side to side, to see no one approaching, he pulled Lark gently over to the other side of the fire next to the chapel where the shadows were thick.

He cleared his throat. “Do ye like to dance?” He nodded toward a group of laughing ladies forming a ring about one of the fires.

“Sometimes,” she answered and took another sip of honey mead.

What should he say next? Can I share your bed in the castle? Can we put aside the ridiculous idea that you might still want an annulment? How did one woo a virgin? One who might still be angry with him? Adam made a straggled noise, and she glanced his way. He straightened his shoulders, his legs set naturally in a battle stance as he grew determined to say something, anything.

“I am not…I do not woo lasses like Beck. My whole focus has been on starting our clan over, building it up, so I never learned to be clever while talking to lasses.”

“You do not need to be clever,” she said, her mouth softening as she turned toward him. “Just say what you are thinking.”

The shadows and shards of firelight played over her high cheekbones and lovely chin. Lord, how he wanted to run his finger over that soft skin. Say what he was thinking? Can I throw up your skirts right here and kiss every inch of your lush body? Then carry you into that castle and make you scream my name as you burst with pleasure?

He opened his mouth and paused. “Uh…are ye hungry?” Bloody hell.

“No,” she said with a shake of her head.

“Do ye need to use the privy?”

She shook her head again, her lips turning up slightly.

They stared at each other for another breath, and he curled his hand around her small one. It felt fragile in his large palm, and yet he knew how strong Lark was. “Can I kiss ye?”

The world around him vanished into darkness as he waited for her answer. She gave a small nod, and he inhaled. Stepping into her, his lips bent toward her, and he waited to see if she would pull away. Lark kept her head tipped up to him, her eyes open, and he pressed a gentle kiss on her soft mouth.

The heat of her body soaked into him. He wasn’t sure if he’d pulled her into him or she’d melted forward, but his arms were around her so that he could feel the softness of her curves pressed into him. Softness to mold against his hardness.

The feel of her, the delicious smell of her, mixed with the detailed memories of his dreams, erupted a firestorm within him. He stroked down her back. She trembled slightly, and Adam caught her face with one hand, guiding her against him to deepen the kiss. She was letting him touch her! Slow. Keep it slow. Do not ruck up her skirts and rut with her against the chapel wall.

His rational thoughts faded quickly to fragmented whispers. He’d been so close to her, yet she’d been untouchable, for days and uncomfortable nights. But now…now he would touch her. “Lark,” he managed to say against her lips as she spread a trail of fire with her fingers down his chest to the hardness beneath his kilt. Through the wool wrapping, she stroked over him. He inhaled swiftly, her touch robbing him of his mind.

Pent-up raw want funneled through Adam as he held her to him. She fit him perfectly, and the fact that she hadn’t pulled away at the feel of him released his worry over bedding a virgin. Lark was brave and soft with a good dose of wild.

Lifting her against him, he stepped back until the shadows of the chapel swallowed them. Along the side of the building, they were out of sight from the revelers. As her hands began to explore him again, he caught the edge of her petticoat, catching it as he rucked it up until her bare arse lay in his hands. The skin was soft, and he stroked lower, seeking the wet heat between her splayed legs.

“Do you not want an annulment?” she murmured against him.

“What?” he asked. “Nay, I never have,” he said, kissing her as he bent forward, surrounding her with his body.

“But you do not know…about me,” she said around shallow panting. “Who I am. Where I come from. What if…” Her words turned into a whispered moan as he found the spot he sought. As the sound grew, he caught her mouth in another kiss.

Yet a moan still filled his ears, a moan that was not from Lark. He felt her stiffen in his arms.

“Oh God, yes,” came a woman’s voice from the dark. “You know right where to touch me, Keir.”

A low growl came from the back side of the chapel.

Adam slowly let Lark’s skirt drop into place and held her close where they leaned against the chapel wall. Adam leaned his forehead against Lark’s as they both breathed, and he tried to summon enough strength to pull away from her. But the noises coming from the couple were so filled with passion, they boiled his blood even more. From the way Lark clung to him, she might be having the same reaction.

“Right here against the chapel,” the woman whispered, her voice coming in pants.

“Aye, my wanton Sassenach.”

“God may strike us down for sullying his house, but Lord I want you inside me now,” she said.

“We are wed, Grace. God wouldn’t mind me tupping ye inside, spread upon the altar.”

Fok. They were listening to Keir MacKinnon and his wife, Grace. Without a word, Adam grasped Lark’s hands and silently led her back the way they’d come in front of the chapel. Before stepping out into the light, he tried to adjust his raging jack, but it would take a dousing from the North Sea to tame it.

“Oh…” Lark whispered, her hand going to her mouth. She was flushed, the bun on her head toppled to one side, and her gown askew. He bent toward her. “Ye look ravished.”

Her hand went straight to her hair. “So do you,” she whispered.

“Best we get ye out of the light and up to the castle,” he said, catching her chin for a lingering kiss. When he pulled away, she stared at him with a look of confusion and almost pain. Was she on fire inside like him? She opened her mouth.

“Adam, ye need to come.” Eagan jogged up to them, making Adam pull Lark slightly behind him to shield her rumpled appearance.

“I am seeing Lark to the castle. She is tired.”

“Bloody hell, Adam, I mean it. The MacLeods are starting trouble, and Beck and Drostan are about to begin a clan war with them.”

“Dammit,” Adam said.

“You need to go stop that,” Lark said, her voice shaky.

Only the threat of all-out war could tear him away from his warm wife who seemed to have forgiven him. He spotted Meg Maclean striding across the road.

“Meg,” he called, and she waved, coming over.

“Have you seen my aunt Grace?” Meg asked. “My mother is looking for her.”

“No,” Lark answered quickly, glancing at the chapel that hid the lovers. “Maybe she needs to be alone for a bit.”

Meg rolled her eyes as if Lark had told her exactly what Grace was doing. “Like my parents, Aunt Grace and Uncle Keir are always finding places to be alone. It is quite scandalous.”

“Adam,” Eagan said, his voice heavy with warning.

“Can ye take Lark up to her room at the castle, Meg? I have to stop a clan war from starting.”

“Lord, no blood spilled on Julia’s wedding day,” Meg said and took Lark’s arm, her gaze taking in her appearance. She smiled. “And we will get that bath set and ready.” She looked over her shoulder at Adam. “The room is the third one on the second floor over the main keep.”

“Thank ye,” Adam said. He met Lark’s eyes. “I will find ye.” For he would after this mess was cleaned up. His damn brothers couldn’t keep the bloody peace for one night.

She walked into the darkness with Meg. Adam turned with Eagan, following him past the fire.

“Your jack is tenting out your kilt,” Eagan said.

“If ye had a wife as bonny and curvy as mine, yers would be, too,” he answered, his words surly as they trudged across the clearing.

“Get the fok out of my face,” Iain MacLeod yelled as Drostan stood directly before him. A small group of onlookers included his other brothers, more MacLeods, and…the priest who had married Lark and him at the festival. The cleric wore bland monk’s robes and a slight grin, his large hand wrapped around a tankard. How and when had he come to Mull?

Adam shouldered his way through the Macleans gathered on one side. “Drostan, stand down.”

“He poured his ale on me,” Drostan said, shaking his damp head.

Adam stepped straight up to Iain MacLeod. He was stout and crass and always ready for a fight. His brother was the chief of their clan that was trying to re-establish themselves on the Isle of Skye. Being brother of the clan chief made Iain think he could raid and cause trouble without getting his arse kicked or throat slit.

Adam slid his sword free of his scabbard, the hum of steel singing in the cool night air. The MacLeods behind Iain drew their swords as well. Adam didn’t see the groom there, but he would hear of it if there was a bloodbath on his wedding night. As much as Adam would like to see it done, he wouldn’t curse Liam’s sister’s marriage if it could be helped.

He held his sword out to the side, point down, and opened his hand. The blade dropped, piercing the ground. The length quivered where it stood with its tip embedded. “I suggest,” Adam said, his voice low in warning, “that ye walk away knowing luck was with ye tonight. Or has your brother told ye to start a war with the Macquarie Clan?”

Iain smiled coldly. “Ye mean all five of yer clan?” He leaned close to Adam. “And an old man and a doxy to share between ye.”

Before Iain could even blink, Adam clenched his fist and brought it across with the strength of his shoulder, slamming it into Iain’s nose. The idiot howled as he fell, arse first to sit on the ground in the puddle he’d made by turning a full tankard of ale over Drostan’s head.

Adam yanked his sword from the ground and kicked Iain in the chest, making him fall backward flat, his men jumping to get out of his way. The lethal end of Adam’s sword pricked the valley at the base of Iain’s hairy throat. “If another word about my wife falls from your foking lips, MacLeod, I will slice your head from your shoulders.” Even though Iain’s fool posse stood with their swords before Adam, he knew his brothers stood more than ready at his back.

“Stad!” Rearden MacLeod strode up with Tor following him, both of them looking like they were about to rip into someone. “Not on my wedding day,” the groom yelled. “What the bloody hell, Macquarie?”

Adam looked in the fault as Iain lay back, sword at his throat and blood gushing from his already crooked nose.

Keir MacKinnon walked out of the shadows from the direction of the chapel. His shirt was untucked, and he definitely looked like he’d been tupping, but he didn’t seem to care as he stepped before Rearden and Tor. “The fool on the ground started the fight and then slandered the Macquarie’s wife.”

Tor stepped around Keir. “Adam, stand down. He is not worth the mess. Beat him in the contests tomorrow.”

Damn. Iain deserved more than a punch in the face for his words about Lark. The MacLeod, who had been only a pain in Adam’s arse, was now an enemy.

Adam breathed deeply and lowered his sword. Taking two steps back, he glanced at the large crowd that had witnessed his response. So much for his legendary control.

The idiot stood up, spitting into the dirt, blood-smeared face screwed up in a snarl. “The Macquarie Clan’s days are numbered,” Iain said and jabbed a finger at him. “Ye are cursed. No women will survive it to make more of ye.”

He turned away, and Adam realized he held his sword ready once more, but words and foolish curses could not be killed with a sword.