Chapter Three

Go plant a wee lass in her womb.

Rabbie’s harsh whispers, when he’d walked out to the fire, weighed on Adam’s shoulders as much as his responsibility to raise his clan from the ashes. She’s not fighting ye off. Go do your duty, man.

Rabbie could certainly take the fire out of tupping. Beck had come to Adam’s defense, but hearing his brother extolling Adam’s prowess with women hadn’t helped him relax. Sard it. He’d been bedding lasses since he was seventeen, but this was different. Lark was a virgin, and she was his wife, a wife who might leave him when she found out where she would be living.

Darkness from the cloudy night made seeing Lark nearly impossible, but he could tell that she wore her long white smock where she sat on the blanket. He’d already pulled off his tunic, hanging it outside on a branch, but had kept his kilt wrapped around his hips. “’Tis hard to see,” he said.

“I am right here.” She thumped the ground next to her. “There is room for you.” Her voice was a rushed whisper.

Was she nervous? Adam knelt onto the blanket. “Lark.”

“Yes?”

“I will not touch ye if ye do not want to be touched.”

“Oh.” He watched her pull her legs up to cross under her. “I am fairly sure I already knew that.”

“Good,” he said, sitting down on the blanket. An awkward silence made the pinch in the back of his neck even tighter.

“Sleeping next to a man,” she started, her voice seeming loud in the silence, and she lowered it, “is something I have never done. My maidenhood is the only dowry I bring then. I am sorry about that.”

“Your father gave me a barrel of fine Montgomerie whisky,” he said. “’Tis tied to the back of Rabbie’s horse.”

“I suppose I bring spirit to the marriage, then,” she said, but the jest fell flat with the nervousness in her voice. She sighed. “Maybe I should have a gulp of that fine Montgomerie whisky.”

Och. “Lark, do ye know what happens between a man and woman? In the marriage bed?”

“I have been told…how things work.” Her toes brushed his leg, and he could feel that they were bare. He remembered their perfection as she clung to the branch to hide from the two arses hunting her.

Adam grasped the back of his neck. “There is a whole range of things that can happen…” He stopped, looking closer at her. “Good things that do not have to lead to full on tupping.”

“Then you need to tell me about these things, because I despise being ignorant.” Her words came out in a rush like she’d been holding her breath. “You will realize that fact once you get to know me. If I do not know how to fix an illness or bake a certain bread or throw a sgian dubh to hit its mark, I go out and learn it.”

“Ye throw sgian dubhs?”

“Yes. Quite accurately.”

“Are ye armed now?” he asked. “’Tis something a bridegroom should know.”

A small laugh came from her, and he felt the tension across his shoulders lessen. “No. Since you did not try to paw my breasts or ruck up my skirts while riding here, I left it in the satchel tied to your saddle.” Her voice lowered, and he could tell her smile had faded. “Although, I suppose since you are my husband, you are allowed to do such things, and I am not allowed to gut you.”

Adam leaned forward in the darkness until he was on level with her face. It was pale in the darkness, her eyes wide, and her hair down around her shoulders like a shawl that he knew was red and gold. “I do not know what type of husbands ye have met before, and I have never been one, but pawing and rucking are not something I would do unless ye ask, wife or not.”

She watched him for several heartbeats. Her mouth opened, and she whispered, “Ask with words or with…a kiss or a touch?”

The timid encouragement that tinged her tone shot heat through him, making him harden immediately. His jack was ignoring his intent to remain a gentleman despite Rabbie’s insistence that Adam climb upon his bride like a randy stallion.

He exhaled. “Lark, lass, ye could write it out in the dirt or whisper it in my ear or even sing it at the top of your voice.”

“Rabbie might take exception to my loud singing about tupping,” she said, the smile back in her tone.

“Highly doubtful,” Adam murmured. He lowered to his side, straightening his legs, his boots still on as he faced her in the dark. She imitated him by lying on her side so that they faced one another. He was close enough to her that he could smell flowers coming from her unbraided hair.

Her toes were a distraction where they curled, slightly brushing his shin. “So ye have no personal experience with men?” he asked.

“A kiss or two, nothing like…our wedding kiss. The others were…unpleasant, stolen, wet things.” She swallowed. “Or unwanted.”

Had her suitors caught her before? The thought made his fist clench. “Like I said, I will only kiss ye if ye want, Lark.”

“It is my decision alone?” she asked, leaning forward slightly. “Even if you do not want me to touch you?”

A grin crept onto his face. He leaned in toward her the same amount. “Lark, lass, ye have my permission to touch me whenever ye wish.”

She narrowed the separation to inches. “Even when I have been rolling in mud or dancing in the rain?”

“Do ye dance in the rain often?”

“No, only when it is raining,” she answered.

He snorted. “Aye, even then.”

The shadows were thick, shrouding them, making it easier to talk freely. Maybe he should give her more information about Ulva Isle and the condition of Gylin Castle and Ormaig Village behind it.

Before he could utter a word, she crossed the shadowed gap. His words deserted him as her hand slid up to cup the side of his face, and she pressed her lips to his. Instead of the tentative touch of their wedding kiss, Lark immediately melted into him, tilting her face and sliding closer. Her soft body molded against the muscles of his chest and torso, her leg hitching up to slide over his hip. She tasted of mint, and the hesitant touch of her tongue cracked like a hammered chisel through his restraint.

Lark’s hand slid up his chest, her palm skimming along as if exploring. “Your skin is so warm,” she murmured and stroked up over the expanse to his shoulder. Lush breasts pressed against him as if they were begging for attention, and her leg hooked up higher onto his hip, bringing the juncture of her legs closer to his aching jack.

He caressed a trail up the linen of her smock to cup her breast through it, and he felt her nipple harden. She made a soft mewing sound as he lifted and squeezed it, his fingers rolling her sensitive flesh. She rocked into him, her pelvis rubbing, and the rest of his restraint shattered.

Adam’s fingers tangled into her silky hair as he pushed her onto her back. Their kiss became wild, slanting and breathy, as his fingers edged up her smock. He moved slowly, seeing if she would stiffen or pull away, but she only pressed further into him.

Skin soft and smooth spanned across her hip as he stroked upward along her thigh and the bared curve of her waist. She moaned against his mouth, kissing him and arching her back. Her breast was soft and heavy in his hand. “Lord, lass,” he murmured. “Ye are made of curves and softness everywhere.” He moved to the second breast, loving it like the first.

Lark stroked a hand down his chest in the small crevice separating their bodies. “And you are hard everywhere,” she whispered as her hand pressed flat against his rigid jack through his kilt. She slid along it as if testing the length and thickness.

Her bare feet stroked up his shins, and her fingers began to pull up the length of his kilt. If she went much further, he might be taking Lark there in the dirt with Rabbie and Beck not too far off. The silence around them was no cover to the moaning he wanted to tease out of her.

“Lass,” he said against her mouth but then lost himself again as she maneuvered one of her feet under his kilt to rest on his naked arse. Kissing Lark was like submerging into warm water where all thoughts dissolved except her. Without the gawking people at the festival, alone here in the tent, Adam felt as if he could drown in her sweetness and little noises.

His hand slid from her breast, stroking a path between them to her stomach and lower, brushing against her mound at the juncture of her legs. “I ache,” she whispered, pressing upward into his hand.

He touched her heat, sinking his finger into the proof of her pleasure. She moaned into his mouth as he caught the sound with a heated kiss.

“Where is she?” The rough voice, coming from the clearing, jarred Adam, dousing him in ice. He jerked his hand from Lark’s willing body, breaking their kiss.

“Where is who?” Beck asked, loudly for Adam to hear.

Adam slid his mouth to Lark’s ear. “Stay still and silent.”

Lark’s hitched foot slipped back to the blanket beneath them. She lay flat, her breath coming fast but quiet, and she stared upward at him. He shifted, pressing backward onto the balls of his feet, and unsheathed one of his daggers. Without a word, he found Lark’s hand in the dark and wrapped her fingers around the handle.

“The lass ye left with.”

“The one who chose Adam Macquarie to wed.”

Rabbie’s voice rose a bit too loud in a poor attempt to sound natural. “They went on without us to be left alone for their wedding night. Probably a few hours ahead.”

“What do ye want with her?” Beck asked.

“I could think of a thing or two,” one bastard said with a dark laugh.

“The captain wants her, you idiot. Him first, as usual.”

Rage swelled inside Adam as they talked casually about abduction and rape. The bastards would die today, probably saving countless lasses like Lark. And who the bloody hell was their captain? He’d seen no English reds in Glencoe, and these men did not have English accents either. Mercenaries?

Lark sat in the dark in her white smock, and he gestured for her to stay. She held the sgian dubh before her, her mouth set in determination even though her eyes were wide.

Adam crept out the back and circled the edge of the camp. There were four bloody bandits, three with swords and one with a matchlock pistol aimed at Beck. The men were dressed in mismatched trousers and shirts and grinned as if they had the advantage. But being hungry to rebuild the strength of the Macquarie clan, made daily training in combat mandatory. Even Rabbie could topple a head from a set of shoulders.

But it was the gun trained on Beck that made Adam hesitate to charge into the clearing. He slid a double-edged mattucashlass from his boot. He raised his arm, but motion on the other side of the clearing made him pause. Blast and damnit! Lark was sneaking up behind them, nearly naked in her white smock. She clutched the sgian dubh he’d left her over her shoulder as if poised to throw while her other hand held the length of white linen so she wouldn’t trip. Mo chreach!

If they heard her, they could shoot her before realizing she was the prize they sought. Would he shoot if Adam hit his head or chest? Damn, Adam needed him to drop his gun. Stepping out of the bushes with a powerful thrust, Adam sent his blade sailing. It struck the man’s upper arm. Yelping, he dropped the gun, but one of the other men leaped over to yank it off the ground, turning toward Adam.

Before Adam could roll out of the path, the man yelled, falling forward, face into the dirt to show a sgian dubh embedded in the back of his skull. Lark stood, her arm extended with her follow-through. Without hesitation, Beck and Rabbie lunged at the men before them while the one he’d hit first leaped for Lark. She stood without her blade, eyes widening as the man ran forward, his meaty hands grabbing her.

Adam surged forward, his sword coming out as his boots ate up the space across the clearing. The man caught Lark’s arm to pull her into him with his one good arm in an attempt to use her as a shield. But the lass had other plans and used the heel of her palm to jam against the hilt of the knife protruding from his arm.

“Foking wench,” the man yelled as the knife cut further into his muscle.

“Let go! Let go!” she screamed, twisting like a caught fish. Her knee jerked up several times, until she made contact with the bastard’s ballocks. She jumped back as he collapsed to his knees, a groan coming out with another curse.

Adam caught her arm, and she spun as if ready to strike. “Lark!” he said. She blinked and nodded quickly, like a bird tapping a tree, as she breathed in hard gusts. She shook all over.

Rabbie dispatched the bastard before him. Beck yanked his bloodied sword from the fourth man and ran over to them.

“We will keep him alive,” Adam said, crouching before the man who was curled into a tight ball, clutching his ballocks, as his arm bled. “Who the hell sent ye? Captain who?”

He didn’t answer.

“We will let the lass at ye again,” Beck said. “If ye do not start talking.”

“Bastard might not be able to with her shoving his ballocks up into his stomach,” Rabbie said, bending to look into the pained face.

“’Tis what he deserves for grabbing me and trying to kill you all,” Lark said, her arms crossed, fingers curling into the fabric of her smock.

“Do ye know a captain?” Adam asked, but she shook her head. “What type of captain leads ye?” he asked the man.

In response, the man turned his face to the dirt and vomited.

“Pretty powerful kick there, lass,” Beck said, his voice a mix of impressed amazement and trepidation.

“Aye,” Rabbie said as he walked over to the man that had grabbed up the fallen musket. The sgian dubh that Adam had given Lark was embedded in the back of the bandit’s skull, killing him before he got a shot off. “Mighty fine aim, too,” he said and yanked the knife out.

Lark hurried over to him, staring down as he wiped the blood off the blade with the edge of the man’s shirt. She stared down, clasping her smock in tight fists. “Are his eyes open?”

Rabbie turned him over. “Seems to be.”

“Should we close them?” she asked, looking up at him. She blinked, her lips tightening in a frown. “Or will leaving them open let the birds peck them out?”

“Peck them?” Rabbie asked.

She stood straight. “He deserves the worst. Was going to take me to his captain where he’d be having me first,” she said, repeating the man’s threat.

She narrowed her eyes, her face flushing with hot anger. “Why is it that wicked men always want to steal away women to rape and enslave us?” She threw her arms out. “Men they just kill off. I would rather be killed, but women must endure vile cruelty and terror before eventual death.”

She strode over to the man she’d kicked. He’d stopped vomiting but still clutched himself on the ground. “Tell me! Who the hell is this captain of yours?”

He spit toward her but didn’t say anything. Instead of leaping back, Lark spit back at him, hitting him in the face. “You tell this captain of yours he better stay well away from me or else he’ll be vomiting in a ball in the dirt, too, or stabbed through the brain.”

“Foking doxy,” he ground out, his face pinched with hatred. “We will each take a turn f—”

Adam didn’t let him finish but grabbed him by the throat, lifting him straight up, fury adding to his strength. “Ye finish that sentence and I’ll be slicing ye slowly from your ballocks up to your throat so ye can watch your entrails roll out.”

“Tell him who your captain is or he will do it,” Rabbie said next to him.

Adam loosened his grip slightly so the bastard could swallow but leaned forward, a snarl on his face to match the threat in his eyes. “Look at the lady and ye’ll be writhing back on the ground.”

The man pulled back his lips. “Captain Jandeau always wins the prize he seeks.”

Lark stood off to the side. “Well, if he tries to seek me, I will…” She seemed to be struggling with thinking up something vile. “I will have him tied up and find someone to defile him, strip him down, and…and do dastardly things to him before he is killed.” They all stared at her, Rabbie’s mouth hanging open and Beck’s eyes wide. She nodded, her frown fierce. “See how he likes it.”

Adam shoved him at Beck and stepped over to pull Lark to him. She trembled like a brittle limb in a storm. A need to protect her flooded him, and he turned her away from the sight of the dead men. He looked over her head toward Beck and Rabbie. “Tie him to a tree,” he said. “We ride tonight.”

…

Lark racked her brain.

She didn’t know any captains except for the few Roylin had paraded her before in Edinburgh when he’d brought her on one trip, none of which were a Captain Jandeau. “Jandeau,” she murmured where she rode, her back pushed against Adam’s chest. “The name sounds French.”

“He may have lied about the name,” Adam answered.

“His accent sounded foreign. Perhaps he is a sea captain.”

They had ridden all night, stopping at dawn to rest the horses while the men took turns guarding the camp. Even though they didn’t work her into the rotation, she’d stood guard, because Rabbie fell asleep on his shift. But no more scoundrels came upon them, and they had ridden on their way to the coast, boarding a ferry over to the Isle of Mull.

Lark stifled a groan at the ache in her back as she twisted in the saddle to see the bustling harbor where they had led the horses onto the island. “So this is not Ulva Isle or Wolf Isle? They are the same, correct?”

“Nay and aye,” Adam answered.

Since their kiss in the tent… Actually, it was well past a kiss, bordering on ravishment. After that, Adam hadn’t said but a handful of words to her, his frown increasing the closer they rode to his home. Was he disappointed they’d been interrupted? She certainly was, although having a wedding night in a tent on the hard ground was not what she’d imagined in her foolish girlhood dreams. Adam was not the smiling, flower-giving swain she had imagined, either. No, he was much more…everything. Larger, more serious, and as rugged as the Highland landscape. The only softness she’d detected in him were his lips and the gentleness of his touch when he brushed her hair back from her cheek. Lord, how that set her heart flying. And now she was his wife and would likely share his bed that night. The thought brought a blush to her cheeks and an ache melting down to the crux of her legs.

Lark shifted in her seat and tried to divert her carnal musings. She stared up at the castle on the water’s edge, the sprawling village winding out from it. People bustled about, their day drawing to a close. A lady with a cart of tarts for sale wrapped them in linen to save. A lad with a lamb about his shoulders hurried to keep up with his father. Warriors training in the meadow drank from bladders as they walked toward the castle.

Mull Isle was civilized and bustling. A lady churned butter outside her doorway as she laughed with an older child who held a babe for her mother. Several elderly men sat on a bench talking with large arm gestures. A small group of children ran together as they chased a dog who had a woven reed hat clasped in its teeth. And none of them knew her shame. Not one, not even Adam. She could forget about her past and move forward. She breathed in the salt air, a relaxed smile settling on her mouth.

“Adam Macquarie,” one man called, stepping from a thatch-roofed cottage. He had light brown hair and an easy smile. “Good to see ye. Not dead yet, then?” He laughed, his eyes assessing.

“Macquaries are made of tougher stuff,” Beck called out, a large grin in place. “We will see ye at Julia’s wedding next week.”

“I did not expect ye back so soon. Did ye get run off from Glencoe Beltane like Skye last year?”

Her smile faltered somewhat. Had they been hunting brides then, too?

“Adam found a wife,” Beck said, and the man’s gaze fastened onto her.

Lark smiled. “I am Lark Montgomerie. I am part of the Macquaries now.”

“Wife?” the man said, glancing at Adam.

“Lark, this is Liam Maclean,” Adam said from behind her. The deepness of his voice sent a calming warmth through her. If he talked more, she would be less nervous.

“Cousin to Tor Maclean, the laird of the Macleans of Aros Castle and Mull,” Liam added and gestured to the castle at his back.

Lark nodded in greeting.

He kept his gaze on her as he spoke to Adam. “I will let Tor know ye’ve returned.”

“Thank ye,” Adam said. “We have no time to pay our respects.”

Liam waved off the comment, surprise still bright in the pinch of his brows. “And I will say a prayer for ye,” he said to Lark. With a final bob of his head, he walked briskly off toward the castle.

Lark frowned. Pray for her? Was she in need of divine help?

The hooves of Adam’s horse clipped on the rocks laid out in the cobblestone road. Thunder rumbled far in the distance. They passed the dark window of a milliner’s shop, headed toward the dock.

“We are not staying here for the night?” Lark asked. “An inn perhaps with dinner, a bath, and a bed?” Lord, how she wanted a bath. “And I will need to purchase a few things, unless your village has an apothecary and milliner. My mother left me some coin to use once I wed.”

“We will stop to eat at the tavern,” Adam said. “Ye can make a list for Beck of the things ye need, and we will go on to Ulva this eve. Beck can return tomorrow.”

Disappointment added to the slight nausea that still plagued her from the first crossing. “Will the trip across to Ulva Isle be as far as the one across to Mull?”

“Nay, lass,” Rabbie said. “Ye can practically spit on Ulva from the back side of Mull. A quick float across and then we be home.”

Lark relaxed in the saddle, leaning against Adam. The hardness of his chest had grown familiar, and his warmth seeped through the cloth of her bodice. Of course, he would want to sleep in his own bed after days of travel. And she would share it. Giddy heat spread through her limbs with her quickened heartbeat.

“Well, then, let us eat and float our way across. I will enjoy a warm bath and clean sheets in my own dwelling.” She would be lady of her own house at last. One without fear or shame or penance.

She caught an uneasy glance passing between Beck and Adam. Pray for her? No matter. Like the Macquaries, she was made of tougher stuff. If there wasn’t a bath in the castle, she would find one.