Chapter Twenty

“Tell me about your home.”

The request came at Diarmad out of the darkness. Three days—and nights—had passed, and they still traveled a difficult and tortuous course over the hills. The journey took its toll on both them and their mounts, but somehow, when they paused to camp, they had always ample strength for loving.

This night they lay out under the open sky beneath a raft of stars. Diarmad had just finished satisfying Mara full well, and the taste of her still lingered on his lips.

Funny that she should ask about his home, for he had been thinking about just that place and wondering if he might not steer a course there since they already traveled northward. His thoughts and Mara’s seemed to mesh uncannily and with ease, of late—just like their bodies.

He ran his hand up the soft skin of Mara’s belly and captured one breast for the sheer pleasure of it before he answered.

“What do you wish to know?”

She returned his caress, one hand dancing upon his chest. Mara seemed to have left her doubts about the wisdom of them coupling well behind her and now touched him as if she owned him.

He wondered if she did. Pertinent parts of him—quite possibly. He had never imagined responding so to any woman.

“Tell me what it was like for you growing up there.”

“Ah, a boring tale, that, and surely of little interest to you.”

“I am interested.” She leaned up and kissed him. “In more than just this princely body of yours.”

Princely. Diarmad’s own doubts—those he’d managed to banish over the past few days—roared back at him. Did Mara MacIvor want him, or did she still fantasize about Charles Edward? Wondering about that consumed him for several moments.

But aye, perhaps speaking about his youth would make her see him as him.

“Aye, well,” he began softly, his eyes on the stars, “’twas a good enough childhood save for the fact that my mother passed when I had but seven years.”

“Do you remember her?”

“I do, and I remember how my da changed after we lost her. He remained gentle and loving wi’ us, but some of the laughter we used to know went away.”

“If you do no’ mind me asking, how did she die?”

“A fall while out riding the hills. ’Twas not the injuries that took her but the chill that set in on her lungs while she lay.” Diarmad narrowed his eyes. “I think my da always blamed himself because he did not go with her that day or find her as soon as he might.”

Mara said nothing and, mindful of the fact that she had recently lost her own mother, Diarmad caressed her shoulders and drew her closer.

“But he proved a good father, as I say, and did all he could to make her loss up to us.”

“He never married again?”

“Nay, never. There was a woman of our clan, a widow, wi’ whom I believe he took comfort for his physical needs. At the time, innocent as I was, I supposed them just friends.”

“Ah, I wonder that they did not wed.”

Diarmad said simply, “She was no’ my mother. You should ha’ seen my parents together—no other woman could match her, for him.”

Mara tensed in Diarmad’s arms, and he felt her emotions spike. Why?

After a moment she asked, “Are you Ramsays one-woman men, then?”

Diarmad had once supposed so; all this while he’d believed for him it would be Una or no one. Oh, he’d had women in the past, but like his father with Meg, that had been a thing only of the flesh. He had never considered wedding any of them.

Now, lying beneath the night sky, he wondered what life would be like if he married Mara MacIvor. To him, she felt as limitless as those stars overhead, but quite possibly her loyalties lay elsewhere.

“I suppose so,” he confirmed.

She withdrew her hand from his chest. “Tell me about Cainnech.”

“Ah, Cainnech.” Diarmad smiled. “He is everything a son and older brother should be. Almost five years separate us, and it seemed my whole life I followed him in everything. Learning to ride, wielding a sword.”

And desiring Una? For the first time ever, Diarmad wondered about that.

“What is he like?”

“Good, a good man. Always patient wi’ me—far more so than I would ha’ been if I had a young lad forever on my heels. And a fine teacher—I learned nearly all I know from him, with some from my da.”

“He taught you well at arms. I ha’ rarely seen a man fight as you do.”

“I am not a patch on him.” Diarmad drew breath. “That is why I believe he must ha’ survived that battle. He will be home when I get there, I am thinking—strong and hale and already in Da’s place.”

“Tell me about Una.”

For the first time, Diarmad balked. He stirred and tried to peer into Mara’s face, half turned from him. “What would you know about her?”

“Have you lain with her as you now lie wi’ me?”

“To be sure, no!” He might have thought about it—and about little else—dreamed of the length of her legs and the softness of her breasts. But nothing more than dreaming. “She belongs to Cainnech.”

Mara’s voice insinuated itself into the night. “Did you no’ want to?”

As if answering his own thoughts, he admitted, “A man could no’ look at Una and fail to think of her in that way.”

“Is she so very beautiful, then?”

“Aye.”

Mara fell abruptly silent. Again Diarmad sensed her thoughts moving, but he failed to identify them.

At last she said, “She—Una—holds your heart.”

Did she? Or did she only hold his imagination? “It does no’ matter,” he murmured, half to himself.

“You say she is betrothed to Cainnech?”

“Aye. They meant to wed this autumn.”

“If I were she,” Mara said slowly, “and the man I loved came home to me from such a battle, I would not wait for autumn. I would have him now, wed and done.”

Diarmad wondered if Una might feel the same. A woman of mystery was Una, the opposite of this woman in his arms. Mara MacIvor usually made her feelings—and her desires—evident. Una hid hers always. Diarmad still could not say for certain which of them she truly wanted—him or Cainnech.

Cainnech, no doubt. How could it be otherwise? What sane woman would not prefer Cainnech to him?

Yet, if Cainnech never came home…

“What if your brother who is betrothed to her does no’—well, does no’ return home?” Again Mara echoed Diarmad’s thoughts uncannily. “If you take the place of Chief, will she then expect you to wed her?”

Would she? Diarmad’s mind reeled at the thought. The unattainable Una, his bride. Una shedding her clothing for him, her beautiful body naked beneath his.

“I do no’ ken.” His mind elsewhere, he did not fully notice how Mara once more stiffened against him. “Why would she accept me whilst grieving for him?”

Mara sat up abruptly and glared at him. “I ha’ never met your brother. From your description, ’tis clear he is a man of inestimable worth, but has it never occurred to you this Una might prefer you?”

Only in his dreams, when he lay alone in the dark of night thinking on the unlikely and the impossible.

“’Tis kind of you to champion me, but you are right. You ha’ never yet made acquaintance with Cainnech. If you had, you would understand.”

“Champion you! Is that what you think I am about—encouraging you to go home and claim Una?”

Diarmad answered honestly, “I very rarely know what you are about, Mara MacIvor.”

Her expression, which he could see only dimly by starlight, altered. “Except?” she prompted.

“Except?”

She returned her hand to his cheek and slid it downward in a manner that needed no interpretation. He immediately sprang to life.

“Ah,” he said.

“I am here,” she told him fiercely. “The beautiful Una is not. Do you close your eyes, Diarmad Ramsay, and pretend I am her?”

He struggled for breath before he returned the challenge. “Do you?”

“Eh?” She appeared baffled.

“When we lie together, when I enter you or when you taste my seed, do you imagine I am him?”

“Whom?”

“The Prince—the accursed Charles Edward.”

She gasped. “Is that what you ha’ been thinking all this time? ’Tis absurd!”

“No more absurd than you supposing I want Una when I am with you.” Mara MacIvor wooed him so ferociously, consumed him so completely, he had no thought to spare for anyone else.

“Hmm,” she granted before she leaned down and peered into his eyes. “A convincing declaration, but I am not sure I believe it.”

She still had her fingers wrapped around the standing length of him, which made it difficult indeed for Diarmad to think clearly.

“Believe it,” he growled. “Or, better yet, let me take you again, and see do I lie.”

“You—take me?” She reared back, but did not let go of him. “Why should I not take you, instead?”

Pure Mara MacIvor, that, Diarmad thought—and one of the things about her that so delighted him.

“You,” she ordered, “will just lie back and endure it like a man.”

Diarmad did.