They bombarded the sea walls methodically, testing the strength of the ancient fortress. Rory’s master gunners fired their cannons with the precision of surgeons dissecting a cadaver. As he’d suspected, the castle’s outdated ordnance couldn’t match his advanced naval artillery. Dhòmhuill’s ponderous culverins boomed from their keyhole gun ports, but the iron balls fell far too short to do any damage.
As they searched for the weak spot in the castle’s defense, the trio of galleons moved along the low-lying cliffs, well out of range of the stronghold’s ineffective guns. They found what they were looking for on the eighth day. A crack appeared in the northeast wall.
After that, the three crews took turns pounding away, hammering through the old stone and dry mortar with relentless accuracy. The guns boomed day and night, respites given to the cannoneers only long enough to cool down and regrease the iron barrels and their pivoting mounts.
Thick yellow-gray smoke, pungent with sulfur, drifted heavily on the moist sea breeze, and the constant noise of the cannonade ate away at the defenders’ spirits. The explosions shook the battlements on which the Macdonalds stood watching in cold dread as their enemy, true masters in the art of war, worked with dispassionate expertise.
By dusk of the tenth day, the weakened rampart had been breached. Rory stood at the Sea Dragon’s landward rail and studied the fortress that tomorrow would be his. The reflection of the ships’ lanterns bobbed on the cold, black sea, creating a shimmering pathway to his heart’s desire.
“She’ll be fine,” Fearchar said, standing quietly beside him.
Rory nodded, his eyes fixed on the highest tower of the keep, where a single taper shone in the window. He smiled crookedly. “My only worry is who my wife will be pretending to be this time. Will I find Joanna disguised as a hackbutter or a faery princess?”
Fearchar scratched his whiskered jowl and laughed deep in his chest. “The bonny wee lass knows how to lead a poor laddie on a merry chase, ’tis certain,” he agreed. “Your sailing days are fair numbered. You’ll be too busy at home to be looking for any trouble abroad.”
Rory hefted the astrolabe up to shoulder height to sight the Pole Star. He’d soon be charting their course for the return voyage. “Lady MacLean has a penchant for playing dress-up that I’m only now beginning to appreciate,” he admitted, the warm affection in his voice undeniable. “I think I’ll gift her with harem pajamas for Hallowmas and teach her how to salaam.”
Later, under the protective fire of his cannons and the smoke-filled midnight sky, Rory took a squad of men in a skiff, scaled the low slopes to the west, where the fortress walls reached nearly to the water, and blew open the castle’s sea gate to create a diversion. As the Macdonalds rushed to protect the small, insignificant portal, the three ships’ crews clambered up the cliffs to the east.
At daybreak Rory and Fearchar led the first wave of assault through the gaping castle wall and into the teeming outer bailey. Behind them rushed their clansmen, the MacLean war cry loud and fierce in their throats. Lachlan and his kinsmen, followed by Keir and the MacNeils, made up the second and third waves. Screaming and shouting, the Macdonalds met them with arquebuses, swords, dirks, pikes, and Lochaber axes.
Rory, armed with broadsword and dirk, slashed his way through the initial line of defense. In the clamor and confusion someone bumped into Rory’s back, and he whirled to find Fearchar, who grinned with a fearsome happiness.
“’Tis a great day for a fight!” the colossus bellowed before wading back into the fray.
From the corner of his eye, Rory caught sight of Keir, pounding a Macdonald down to his knees with mighty blows from the pommel end of his heavy hilt. A second fellow attacked from behind, and Keir impaled the man neatly on the spike of his targe before turning to kill his first opponent.
Rory fought his way steadily toward the keep, continually scanning the melee for a glimpse of Ewen or Godfrey. Across the length of the inner bailey, three husky men in half-armor, one brandishing a long-handled ax, were charging Lachlan. Light-footed and resilient, he ducked just in time to avoid decapitation, then lunged low with his dirk, skewering the Macdonald axman.
As Rory raced to his brother’s side, one of the remaining two foes turned in belated awareness of danger. Rory rammed the thickset fellow with his shoulder so hard his helm flew off, then struck his nose a vicious blow with his sword hilt. The soldier staggered beneath the shock. Rory adroitly kicked his legs out from under him and slit the bastard’s throat with his dirk on the way down.
By that time, Lachlan had dispatched his third opponent. He scowled at his older brother. “Are you trying to spoil my fun?” he called over the tumult. “Find your own Macdonalds to kill.”
“I’m trying to find Ewen and Godfrey,” Rory shouted.
“Haven’t seen them.” With a salute of his sword, Lachlan hurried to meet two pikemen coming toward him. “Try the keep,” he shouted back over his shoulder.
Once engaged in close combat, the Macdonalds proved unable to sustain the shock of the first charge, and the battle’s outcome was quickly decided. The invaders’ initial violent rush swept through the defenders, isolating them in pockets. MacLeans, MacRaths and MacNeils were now systematically annihilating any of the enemy who refused to surrender. By Rory’s orders, prisoners were not to be killed and the wounded were to be tended. He didn’t want any more Macdonald blood on his hands than absolutely necessary.
Knowing victory was inevitable, Rory raced to the door of the donjon, which had been left ajar, its guards dead on the flagstones. The vestibule stood empty. The tables and benches in the great hall had been shoved willy-nilly in a jumble of furniture and half-eaten food.
He crossed the floor, stirring up the scent of the herbed rushes, ironically sweet in contrast to the gore and mayhem just outside the thick walls. Halfway across the chamber a blur of movement caught his eye, and he turned toward an inside staircase.
Cool and collected, Ewen stepped down from the last stair. With a faint smile, he moved confidently to the wall by the huge fireplace, where a pair of claymores hung, their blades approaching four feet in length, and calmly dropped his broadsword on the floor at his feet. He took one of the great swords down, and with the large hilt grasped in both hands, whipped it about, testing its strength and flexibility. He appeared fresh and relaxed. Clearly, he hadn’t bothered to participate in the defense of another laird’s castle. He’d left the fighting to his unfortunate kinsmen, along with the valor.
“So it comes to this,” Ewen said with a smirk of satisfaction as he moved across the floor. “We can decide now, just the two of us, once and for all, the ownership of Kinlochleven and the chieftainship of Clan Macdonald.” He gestured for Rory to approach. “You want the other claymore? Come get it. Or is it your wife you’ve come such a long way to recover? Come and get them both, MacLean—for you’ll not have one without the other.”
Rory advanced cautiously, the broadsword in his right hand, his dirk in the left. Without forewarning, Ewen charged, swinging the huge, double-handed sword like the scythe of death.
Parrying the claymore with its wide, drooping cross-guard, Rory dodged and feinted, edging sideways across the floor, moving whenever possible in the direction of the hearth and the other weapon. Fighting for his life, he used his agility and fleetness to avoid the limb-severing blade.
Again and again, Rory retreated before his opponent’s aggressive, slashing attack. Ewen narrowed the distance between them relentlessly. He struck the smaller, lighter broadsword with his heavy claymore repeatedly, the jarring impact vibrating up Rory’s arm and numbing his fingers. Canny and skilled, Ewen stayed out of range of the two shorter blades as he hacked viciously, trying to drive Rory to his knees.
Emitting a sudden shout of rage, the Macdonald war commander struck downward with all his strength, and the violent impact forced the broadsword to the floor. As Rory sank to one knee beneath the punishing blow, his blade snapped at the hilt and the blue steel clanged, useless, on the stones.
Ewen stood over him, breathing quickly, with a look of triumph on his dark, bearded face. He raised the claymore high over his head for the deathblow.
Rory sprang out of his crouch and propelled himself forward, striking out at Ewen’s exposed thigh with his dirk in search of tendon and bone.
Ewen jumped back, the razor-sharp blade missing him by a hair’s breadth. Off-balance, he staggered, crashed heavily to the rush-covered stones, and rolled to his knees, weapon ready.
In those few precious moments, Rory dashed across the floor to the fireplace and reached the other claymore just in time to turn and meet Ewen’s slicing blow. With the great sword in his hands at last, Rory moved directly into the attack.
The claymores exploded together as the two enemies fought fast and viciously. Lunging, traversing, wrenching, parrying, they moved around the floor. The blades gleamed, wicked and deadly, in the flickering candlelight thrown from the brackets on the wall.
Two swordsmen of great strength intent on beating down the other’s blade, they eddied back and forth across the chamber. They stepped over benches and tables, kicking the discarded trenchers and flagons out of their way, both men gasping for breath. Sweat poured down their faces and soaked their shirts.
Ewen’s strength slowly waned before the furious onslaught of his more powerful opponent. Chest heaving, eyes bulging, he was no match for a man who’d spent the last ten years training in close combat. Swordplay was embedded in Rory’s bones. Getting his second wind, Ewen thrust, dodged, and thrust again. The blades rang and slid.
Then Rory saw the opening he’d been waiting for. He parried, feinted, and slashed. Ewen dropped his weapon and stared blankly, knowing the clang of his heavy blade on the stones sounded his death knell. With a final lunge, Rory administered the coup de grâce, sending his claymore straight through his adversary’s heart.
Then drawing in great drafts of air, he turned and started up the stairs, claymore in hand. Andrew stood at the top of the landing, holding a broadsword and targe. The youngster stared down at his mortal enemy, his beautiful dark eyes wide and terrified.
“Your father’s dead, lad,” Rory said quietly as he hurried up the stairwell. “Don’t make me kill you, too.”
His face stark with fright, Andrew took a step back, opened his hands, and let the weapons fall to the stones. As his circular wooden shield rolled down the stairs past Rory, he leaned his back against the rough stone wall and slowly slid down it. Resting his arms on his knees, he hid his face from sight.
Rory paused on the step below. “Where’s my wife?”
“Up there,” the boy answered, pointing one raised finger to the landing above.
Rory climbed the stairs to the third floor and found a door standing open. When he entered, Lady Beatrix flung herself at his feet.
“Don’t kill us!” she implored, her hands lifted toward him in supplication. “Oh, my God, don’t kill us! Idoine and I are innocent of any wrongdoing.”
Idoine began to screech, her ear-splitting shrieks filling the room. She didn’t emit a single comprehensible syllable, just screamed over and over and over in mindless terror.
His wife stood at the window, her slim, rigid back squarely to Rory. Utterly silent and immobile, she looked out on the carnage below, where her kinsmen had suffered an ignominious defeat at his hands. He had broken the power of the treasonous Glencoe Macdonalds.
Rory tightened his jaw. He’d let her rail and call him names with patient composure. She could scratch and bite and kick if it brought her heart’s ease. Hell, he preferred her clever tongue to this composed, icy silence.
All the while, Idoine’s strident wail, piercing and monotonous, never stopped.
To Rory’s relief, Fearchar appeared at the doorway. “Damn,” he muttered, sheathing his weapons and stepping inside.
“Get them out of here,” Rory ordered, his gaze fixed on his wife.
“Oh, please don’t hurt us, don’t hurt us,” Beatrix moaned as Fearchar caught her elbow and drew her up. With a soft snort of disgust, he pushed her gently toward the door. Then he clapped his big hand over Idoine’s mouth, lifted her up, and hauled her bodily out of the chamber. The muffled sound of the girl’s squawking could be heard going all the way down the stairs.
Still Joanna didn’t turn. With one slender hand braced on the stone casing, she stared straight ahead. Rory had no idea what she was thinking or feeling, for she gave no sign. His spirit shriveled inside his chest at the possibility that she hated him.
With a mighty thrust, he buried the claymore’s tip in the oak planking at his feet. Then he held out one hand and tried to speak in a cool, dispassionate tone, though his hoarse voice betrayed him. “I’ve come to take you home, Joanna. ’Tis time to go home to Kinlochleven.”
Joanna bent her head and blinked back the tears. The words spoken in that marvelous deep baritone were achingly familiar. They were nearly the same words Grandpapa had said when he’d come for her at Allonby Castle. “’Tis time to be going home, darling of my heart. ’Tis time to go home to the Highlands.
She didn’t need a bonny knight in shining armor to come riding up on a white steed to rescue her. Her magnificent husband, in his green and black plaid and clan bonnet with the three chief’s feathers, had saved her from her evil, perfidious cousin Ewen.
Night after night, she’d dreamed of Rory coming to get her and take her home. And now he was here.
Her heart soaring, Joanna turned…and gazed in paralyzed revulsion at the barbaric creature standing before her. Here was no romantic Highland chief. This stranger wore leather breeches and long black boots that came past his knees. His full, luxurious beard hid half his features, and his sleeveless jerkin hung in tatters about his grimy, blood-smeared chest. The upper part of his face and his clubbed hair were covered with splotches of soot, and he reeked of gunpowder.
Holy heavens!
She’d been captured by a pirate.
Shocked, Rory stared at his wife, who looked at him in soundless horror. He barely noticed the grimace of repugnance that marred her lovely face. Instead his stunned gaze fastened on her belly, and he grinned in perfect delight as an extraordinary joy filled his entire being.
Joanna was big with child.
His wee bonny bride was gloriously, marvelously, unequivocally pregnant.
“Joanna,” he said, the single word a harsh rasp.
She lifted one shaky hand toward him, confusion in her violet-blue eyes. “Rory?” she whispered with a catch of hesitation, and then slowly crumpled in a faint.
He reached her instantly, sweeping her limp form up in his arms before she touched the floor. His heart in his throat, Rory looked down at his wife. Her long hair spilled over his arm in strands of copper satin. Her delicate features with their sprinkling of faery dust were shadowed with circles beneath the long lashes. The firm mound of her abdomen pushed tautly against her bright yellow gown. As he looked at the unmistakable evidence of his child growing within her small body, a feeling of awe came over him.
Rory turned and discovered Lachlan standing at the doorway, one hand braced on the jamb, the other loosely holding his broadsword. He had a superficial cut on his arm, but was otherwise unscathed. “Is she hurt?” he asked with a frown of concern.
Shaken to his boots, Rory gazed at his beloved wife. “She fainted, is all.” His heart swelled with pride. He glanced over once again to meet his brother’s worried gaze, and the unimaginable joy he felt made his deep, twenty-eight-year-old voice crack like an adolescent’s. “She’s pregnant.”
“Well, there goes the annulment,” Lachlan replied with a wry grin.
Holding her close to his chest, Rory carried Joanna Màiri Macdonald MacLean out of Castle Dhòmhuill’s keep and into his surrendered heart.
Joanna sat on the edge of the narrow bed, listening to the muted sounds of activity as the Sea Dragon got under way. She could hear her husband’s shouted orders to the helmsman and the muffled rattle of the rigging above decks as the sails were unfurled. Wrapped snugly in a warm plaid, she looked about her. Rory had been plotting the course home; the materials were spread across a worktable bolted to the wall.
Curious to see his things, she wandered about the cabin, touching the sandglass, the lodestone enclosed in a filigree case, and the unfamiliar maritime instruments.
Fascinated, Joanna studied the mechanical compass and rulers, the tables of high and low tides, the magnetic navigational compass, the mariners’ maps and charts of the heavens. Like so many Scotsmen, Rory appeared to have a natural gift for mathematics and science. She’d ask him to show her how he used his nautical tools, though she doubted she’d understand the half of it. Her studies at Allonby Castle had centered on languages, deportment, and religion.
The baby kicked at that moment, a strong, sudden blow, and she pressed her hand to the spot. “Do you want to be a seafarer like your da?” she asked happily. “Who are you, I wonder, my wee love. Are you a comely laddie who’ll sail to exotic places and bring back marvelous treasures, or a bonny lassie who’ll stay home with your mama when she’s old and gray-haired?”
Restless and impatient to see the babe’s father, Joanna peeked out the stern windows to the castle, where a cloud of billowing black smoke drifted across the leaden sky. She finally sank down on the edge of the mattress and drummed her fingers on her knees.
Rory came inside less than twenty minutes later. He entered the cabin stark naked, and she jerked at the sight of his imposing figure, bare-arsed and splendrous. The three-headed sea dragon on his upper arm glistened in the lantern light.
“I washed up on deck with the other men,” he explained with a sideways grin at her startled reaction. “Our clothes and hair stink of gunpowder after a battle, and we’re covered with charcoal dust. So we strip and suds down, then empty casks of fresh water over our filthy hides before coming below.”
There must have been lots of Macdonald blood to wash away as well, though he was too polite to mention that.
He came closer, and she could see a row of blisters on one arm, where he’d probably brushed against the barrel of a cannon. In addition, he had several cuts and scrapes on his hairy chest and long legs, though nothing appeared serious.
“You’ve been hurt,” she said, pointing to the raw weals.
He shook his head briskly, and drops of water sprinkled about his wide shoulders. “Only minor scratches.”
“And you’ve grown a beard. ’Tis why I fainted,” she explained. “I didn’t recognize you with the whiskers and the pirate clothes. Godsakes, I’ve never seen you in breeches before. You looked like an English sea rover.”
Her husband smiled, not saying a word.
“I don’t usually faint, I can promise you that,” she announced, unnerved by his enigmatic silence. “Idoine’s the one who passes out at the least provocation.”
Rory came over to the bed and sank down on one knee in front of her. He took Joanna’s hands and gazed at her, the light in his brilliant eyes dancing. God’s truth, having just successfully stormed an impregnable fortress and vanquished his foes, he certainly had the right to be happy.
He traced the callused tip of his forefinger in a half-circle beneath her lower lashes. “Have you been ill?” he asked tenderly, though the smile never left his eyes. “You look a bit pale.”
So he hadn’t noticed. Well, wasn’t that just like a man who’d spent all his time being the scourge of the seas? What would a dragon know about women and babies, anyway?
Joanna had regained consciousness just as Rory laid her on the bed in his cabin. The moment she looked into those mesmerizing green eyes, she’d realized her foolishness. She’d forgotten back there in the tower room that her husband was a pirate. A predatory, half-civilized sea raider, who’d gone to great pains to ensure that his bride had the most romantic wedding day possible—until she’d ruined it by threatening him with a crossbow.
But they hadn’t had time to talk then. He’d only stayed a few brief moments before returning to the castle to oversee the final stages of the siege, collecting the prisoners, treating the wounded, tallying the movable ordnance, and loading the sacks of shot and casks of gunpowder onto the skiffs to be taken to the waiting galleons.
“I haven’t been sick, exactly,” Joanna said as she adjusted the ample yards of wool tartan about her swollen body. She’d wait until the right moment to tell him he was going to be a father. “What happened to Beatrix and Idoine?”
“They and the other women, along with Andrew, are on board the Hawk. Lachlan will return them safely to Glencoe, where they can find shelter with kinsmen. After Dhòmhuill’s arsenal is dismantled and the remaining armaments loaded into the holds, Laird Angus will be on his way to Edinburgh with Keir on the Raven.”
“’Tis a shame Ewen’s greed and ambition brought another man down with him,” she said. “I told the chief of Clan Uisdean the day I arrived that I was being held against my will. He refused to help me leave.”
“Joanna,” Rory said in a thoughtful tone, “we searched the entire castle and never found Godfrey.”
“He was never there.” Inhaling the clean scent of her husband’s freshly scrubbed skin, she caught the medal of St. Columba on the tips of her fingers and rubbed the pad of her thumb absently across the engraved gold.
“When did you see him last?”
“He left us on the road out of Archnacarry Glen, after they’d fired the byres and outbuildings. Beatrix and Idoine were waiting on a fishing boat in the loch, which took us to the ship in Loch Linnhe. Apparently Godfrey was supposed to meet us at Ballachulish, but he never came, so we sailed without him. I don’t think even Ewen knew his whereabouts.”
“Godfrey’s been declared a fugitive from the law. He’ll eventually be brought to ground.” As Rory talked, his fingers slid along the edges of the plaid covering her, and Joanna clutched it tighter.
“I’m cold,” she said, feigning a shiver. Actually, the cabin had grown cozy from a glowing brazier in the corner.
Her husband glanced around the small space with a scowl, and his voice grew sharp with displeasure. “Hasn’t Arthur seen to your comfort?”
“He’s been very helpful,” she said in the young man’s defense. “He brought me food and drink and lit a fire in the stove.”
Satisfied, her husband began to peel away the sheltering green and black tartan once again.
“Rory, there’s something I have to tell you,” Joanna blurted out, clasping the plaid to her. She could feel her color rising as she wondered frantically how best to approach the delicate subject of fatherhood.
He lifted her tangled hair off her shoulders and smoothed the stray wisps away from her face and lashes. Then, as he cupped her cheeks in his rough palms, the smile in his eyes faded.
“Joanna,” he said quite seriously, “I know how you must feel about this. Believe me, darling, I’m not happy about it myself. Often we have no control over the events in our lives. We must learn to accept the tragedies fate brings us and carry on.”
For a moment, she thought he meant the unborn babe, and her shoulders drooped at the possibility that he felt such repugnance. Then she realized he was talking about the siege and the spilling of Macdonald blood.
“That’s so true,” she said softly. “And sometimes wonderful things happen without forewarning—at least, I hope you think it’s wonderful, because I certainly do.”
For the third time, Rory began to lift the wool from her shoulders, and Joanna gripped his fingers and held them in place. Though he outmatched her strength tenfold, he waited patiently for her to go on.
“’Tis been over five months since we were wed,” she stated in her most prosaic manner. “But we never really had a chance to get to know each other. That is, to know how the other one felt about…well, even small, inconsequential things.”
He nodded encouragingly. “Such as?”
She took a quick breath and the words came out in a rush. “Such as how you feel about children.”
In sudden and jubilant relief, Rory comprehended the cause of Joanna’s creased brow and the troubled look in her eyes. His wife didn’t blame him for Ewen’s death or the deaths of her other kinsmen. She recognized that her clan had left him no choice. But for some inexplicable reason known only to Joanna, she believed he was unaware of her pregnancy.
He spoke to her with perfect solemnity, though the effort not to laugh nearly strangled him, as he quoted an old Gaelic proverb. “‘A house without a dog, a cat, or a little child is one without affection or merriment.’” He pressed his lips to her forehead, then added, “I think ’twould be a sad thing for a man not to have several offspring, at the very least.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
The violet-blue eyes flashed with happiness as she released his fingers. “Then I have something to tell you.” She shucked off the plaid that wrapped her small figure, flung her arms wide, and smiled delightedly. “I’m carrying your child.”
“I noticed.”
Her throaty contralto squeaked in surprise. “You did?”
“I did,” he said softly, busy removing her shoes. Sliding his fingers up her shapely leg, he brought down one garter and hose.
She braced her hands on Rory’s shoulders, scarcely aware of his movements or of his body’s fiercely intense reaction to her nearness. “Are you happy about the bairn?”
“I’m very happy.” He disposed of the other stocking, and cupping her high arches in his hands, he massaged her dainty feet until she sighed with pleasure. Then he lifted the hem of her gown and brought it up to her hips. “And now I’m going to show you just how very happy I am, Joanna.”
Easing her legs apart gently, Rory kissed her bare thighs. Slowly, tenderly, he pushed the yellow gown higher and drew it over her head, then removed her petticoat and chemise. His heart thudding with elation, he sank back on his haunches and gazed at his pregnant wife.
She blushed as he studied her in wonderment. Her small breasts had grown fuller, their pink nipples slightly enlarged. Her previously flat belly protruded in a firm, compact ball.
Lifting her in his arms, Rory laid Joanna on the bed, where he searched for any bruises that might indicate she’d been mistreated. When he found no sign of injury, he breathed easier.
“No one hurt you?” he asked gruffly as he bent over her. His manhood brushed intimately against her thigh, hard and pulsing with need.
“I wasn’t harmed,” she assured him, then gave him a trembling smile. “Though my cousins were certainly unhappy when they noticed my condition.” She touched his bearded cheek, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I attempted twice to escape. After the second time, I was never left alone. I think Ewen planned on trying to do away with the baby once it was born. That’s why I prayed for you to come day and night, Rory. I was so frightened you wouldn’t find me in time.”
“I was imprisoned in Innischonaill.” He kissed her fluttering lids and the tip of her nose. “Otherwise, I’d have been here much sooner.”
“Why were you put in that horrible place?” she asked in alarm. “Who took you there?”
“I don’t know, lass. ’Tis something I’ll have to find out later. Right now, I’m just grateful you’re safe and here in my arms where you belong.”
He kissed her deeply, tasting her sweetness, and their tongues met with frantic eagerness. Joanna threaded her fingers through his wet hair as Rory moved across her body, raining kisses on the creamy skin. He caressed her soft breasts, laving their crests; then he progressed lower and kissed her distended belly. The babe stirred in her womb, and tears sprang to his eyes as he saw the living proof of the seed he’d sown. The seed her body had so lovingly nurtured.
His vision blurring, Rory pressed his mouth again to Joanna’s rounded abdomen. His heart ached with happiness as his hands roved over the smooth, taut mound. Teardrops crept down his bearded cheeks. Had anyone who knew him been told that the chief of Clan MacLean broke down and wept, he’d never have believed it.
“Rory,” she whispered, touching her fingertips to his face, “you’re crying.”
“They’re tears of joy, lass,” he said. He caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips. “Joy that I’ve been so undeservedly blessed.”
He lay beside her and spoke quietly. “I’m going to take you now, darling, but I promise to be very, very careful.”
“Oh, Rory, I’ve wanted you so,” she murmured against his lips, then kissed him passionately.
He turned Joanna on her side, her back against his chest, her rump pressed enticingly against his thickened sex. His aroused, eager body reacted with a sexual energy that pulsated through every muscle and vein. The vibrant ache of lust threatened to steal his control, and Rory clamped down hard on his rampaging instincts. He clenched his teeth and set his jaw, promising himself he’d be slow and gentle if it killed him.
His arms around his precious wife, he caressed her breasts, playing tenderly with the tightened buds. With his other hand, he delved into the nest of auburn fluff at the juncture of her thighs and lightly teased her silken folds until she grew sleek with moisture. She arched her back and released a long sigh of gratification.
“Does this please you?” he whispered in her ear as he stroked her delicate nub with the pad of his thumb.
“Mm,” she hummed, moving against his hand. “’Tis unbelievably pleasurable, milord dragon. I can’t think why I wasted so much time dressed like a laddie. ’Tis so much more enjoyable being your wife than your gillie-in-training.”
He nibbled on her earlobe and inhaled the perfume of her hair. “I was afraid I’d have to guess what guise you’d adopted this time. I wondered if I should look in the armory for an armorer’s wee apprentice or search the donjon for a redheaded barber’s assistant.”
She laughed softly. “I’ll wager you didn’t expect to find me costumed as a pregnant lady.”
“Not in my wildest dreams, sweetheart,” he said with a low chuckle.
Carefully, Rory lifted her slender thigh to allow him better access and eased into her. Their physical joining nearly robbed him of his breath, the tight warmth of her narrow passage squeezing his turgid erection with dazzling currents of pleasure. He was far too big to sheath himself to the hilt in her diminutive body. When he bumped cautiously against her womb, he paused and waited. He closed his eyes, marveling at the wondrous feeling, as he enfolded his wife in his arms while buried deep inside her. He just held her, wanting the moment to go on forever.
“Oh, God, Joanna,” he whispered. “How many nights I have dreamed of this.”
She laughed softly and brought his hand up to her bulging tummy. “Not quite like this, I don’t think.”
He grinned and nipped her shoulder. “Only because I’m too much of a jackass to even think of such a splendid thing. I spent months worrying about an annulment that could never have been granted.”
Slowly, leisurely, Rory moved inside Joanna as he stroked and caressed her with his hands. He kept the pace steady, using more restraint than he’d ever thought himself capable of.
Joanna made a short, breathless sound in the back of her throat, part sigh and part sob.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he said thickly, though ’twould be the death of him to stop now.
Her breath coming heavy and fast, she ran her hand down his arm and lightly touched his fingers, urging him on. “It feels wonderful. Don’t stop, Rory. Oh, please, don’t stop.”
He played with her gently as he thrust steadily in and out, bringing her to fulfillment and then prolonging her pleasure, till she grew limp and relaxed in his arms. Drawing her closer to his straining body, he climaxed with great, shuddering jerks. The physical ecstasy heightened the overpowering feelings of tenderness and caring that Joanna and the baby had awakened inside him. The joy he experienced at that moment surpassed everything he’d ever longed for, ever dreamed of.
“Ah, Joanna,” he said on a hoarse rush of air, “darling of my heart, I love you.”
Rory stopped, dead still, as he realized what he’d just said. The words had come unbidden and unrehearsed, torn from deep inside him.
Her head came back sharply against his shoulder, but she didn’t say a thing. He could tell she was as startled by the admission as he’d been. For breathless moments, he waited, hoping against hope that Joanna would tell him she loved him in return.
But ’twas not to be.
Rory bent his head and kissed her cheek. The taste of her salty tears seared the open wound that once was his unconquerable heart.
He told himself that it would be all right. In the years to come, he’d teach her to love him. But his pragmatic brain warned his battered soul that Joanna might never love him—not unless he confessed to a guilt and repentance he didn’t feel for the capture and execution of Somerled Macdonald.
Rory eased his wife around in his arms and cuddled her close, and while she quietly cried herself to sleep, he silently and bitterly cursed the Red Wolf of Glencoe.