Page 2 of Taming the Heiress
Now he recalled a night of drinking, mourning, music, and fond stories of the deceased. He had tossed back too many drams out of politeness and camaraderie—it had been a fine wake for a good man. When friends had dared him and another fellow to row around the reef in the dark—and brave the kelpies of the sea—Dougal had taken the challenge. When the other man had paused to retch over the side of his boat, Dougal had rowed onward, straight into the mouth of the gale that suddenly opened.
Now the girl cried out as the wind whipped hard, and Dougal held her tightly, peering through the haze of rain. He was determined not to die here on this rock, and he would make sure that this lovely girl—fairy or not—would survive too.
Seeing the dark crease of a cave entrance, he tugged the girl toward it, sweeping her into his arms when she stumbled, carrying her inside the rocky crevice. The niche was just large enough for them to huddle together. He set her on her feet and they stood close together, watching the storm's fury.
Fierce rain and wind broke stones loose from a nearby slope to send them skating into the wild sea. Waves crashed over rock, drenching the plateau, sliding away, arching upward again. Water washed into the little cave, swirling around their ankles.
Shielding the girl from the biting spray and the wind, Dougal was aware that he was half nude and she nearly so as they pressed tightly together, her body curving against his, generating a little blessed heat between them. After a moment she relaxed against him, and he felt their breaths fall into a rhythm, felt her calm and grow lush and warm in his arms.
Desire, raw and sudden, flamed through him. The girl felt it too, pressing closer, her arms around his neck. Their soaked, light clothing was no barrier, her breasts soft against his chest, her hip fitting his hand as she seemed to meld into him.
A tilted cheek, the nudge of a chin, then their lips touched, caressed. Her mouth was tender and willing, his exploring. Thunder boomed, the sea slammed, and the kiss grew wild, deep and desperate. New kisses followed like rushing waves. Urgency blazed through him as he slanted his mouth over hers, wove his fingers through her damp hair, tilted her head. Her lips were fervent beneath his, her passion so willing that it seared through him like a whisky brose, all cream and fire.
The storm faded from his awareness—all he felt was this exquisiteness, this passion and salvation offered at the gates of hell. He drew her tightly into his arms, tenderly kissing, finding her mouth to be as inquisitive as his. Her small waist, the flare of her hips, made his heart pound. Some dreamlike haze told him he should stop—he drew back.
But she took his face in her hands and flattened her belly against the hard, urgent core of him, and her hands moved over him with genuine need matching his own. Rain pummeled the cave entrance and he drew her further into shelter, leaning his back against slick rock, the plaid shawl a damp curtain around them. She leaned against him, her kiss feverish and consuming.
Lightning crashed, rain sheeted, stones skittered—the very rock shivered underfoot. She was his refuge from fear and death, the tender sanctuary of her embrace gave him life, made him feel invincible. She seemed to draw strength from it too.
Sweeping his hands down her back, he snugged her against him, let her know—how could she not?—what he burned for now, the desire and the storm that was taking what was left of his reason. He cupped her breast, stroked, and the girl, the fey creature moaned breathlessly, urging him, arching against him as he slid fingers downward, beneath her damp garment to find the heat of her as she surged against him, graceful as the sea.
Lightning flared and the girl whimpered in his arms, arched and opened for him, wild, luscious, the sweetest rescue he could have. He lifted her and she spread for him—he sank into her and she shuddered with him as he leaned his back against the wall, heart slamming, holding her, breath ragged.
As she kissed him, he tasted salt tears or the sea.
He felt an exquisite power, two souls raw with fear, desperate for solace. Cradling her head, he kissed her brow. She felt fragile; he felt filled with regret.
"I am sorry," he said in English. He could not find the Gaelic. She only pressed closer as the storm continued.
I am dreaming,he thought.Surely I am dreaming.
* * *
You know what you must do.
Margaret MacNeill leaned her back against the stone of the cave and looked out. Veils of fog obscured the sea and the long reef, but she saw that dawn approached. Rough greenish waves frothed over the edge of the great rock. Through the mist, she could not see the Isle of Caransay, her home, but she knew it lay a mile east of Sgeir Caran.
She glanced at the man who lay sleeping in the shallow cave beside her. All the while, her fingers worked the red thread she had plucked from the plaid that covered him.
You know what you must do,her great-grandmother had said. Well, and so it was done.
She wove the little thread with golden hairs from her head, deep brown from his. She had dreaded staying alone one night on Sgeir Caran, as island tradition demanded of her. Expecting a lonely, fearful night, she had never imagined that a legend would spring to life.
The legend snored as he slept, swathed in her plaid. His dark head and a broad shoulder were visible. Shivering with the memory of secret, exciting touches and soul-stirring kisses, Meg smiled to herself.
Deftly she plaited the threads and the hairs into a love knot, then used the gold and brown strands to create two tiny braids that she tied into two circlets. Sliding one on her finger, she crawled toward the sleeping man and slid the second one onto his long ring finger.
There. She had done as Mother Elga had instructed. The marriage was fixed. Touching his head for a moment, she sat back.
If the kelpie appears to you when you wait on the great rock,her great-grandmother had said,you must offer to ease his loneliness, for such is the ancient agreement. Every hundred years, the lord of the deep claims a maiden from Caransay for his bride. In return, he will protect the island. If the maiden bears his child, he will bestow great favor and fortune on the islanders. And we need his help now more than ever.
Meg had been educated in the island village and later on the mainland too, so she felt part of the modern world that existed beyond their remote little island—and she had dismissed the old beliefs as she grew to womanhood. But Great-grandmother Elga and Grandmother Thora accepted the old legends as absolute truths. The tradition of the kelpie of Sgeir Caran, unique to Caransay, was treasured on their island.
So she had agreed to sit one night on the rock, certain that nothing would happen to her but a little drenching in the rain. But she had to agree—the islanders faced broad eviction by an owner who preferred sheep and money to tenants. Aware of the threat, Meg accepted. A night on Sgeir Caran would do no harm.
She had never counted on a gale—or a kelpie. Bursting from the sea like a muscled arrow, the man had appeared on the rock while the storm that birthed him raged on. He was hard and beautiful and so very real. She was not frightened, feeling surprising compassion instead—he seemed in need of help.
He had smiled, and her heart had melted, and his arms and his kisses whirled her helpless into his spell. She lingered still.
