The Niece of His Highland Enemy by Alisa Adams
20
There was a week of preparations leading up to the wedding. Flowers were gathered by the bushel mostly by the Campbell siblings, who had taken to wandering the hills outside the walls of the Brodie castle together during the daytime. White silk banners were strung around the courtyard of the castle, along with wreaths and garlands. Sawney and the other Campbell elders were invited to attend, and most of them did, bearing gifts and glad tidings. It seemed that Sawney had been truthful in his promise to be a steward of the clan rather than its new ruler.
Moire was glad of that. The last thing they’d have needed at that point would be to fight the Campbell legions all over again for control of a land that was rightfully theirs to begin with. She was gratified to learn that Sawney was a man of his word, and she made a mental note of that. She would remember to treat him with respect going forward and to ensure that he remained one of the clan’s most prosperous patriarchs.
The Sinclairs, such as they were, received invitations as well. They attended more out of curiosity than anything, it seemed. They were received politely enough, and they made no trouble. They may have been brutes and savages, but they respected those who bested them as a wolf respects the leader of its pack.
As the vows were exchanged and the handfasting ceremony took place, tears shined in the eyes of the bride and groom. The kiss they shared felt like some sublime force of nature, a continental shift so big that it could scarce be pictured, creating a new and beautiful nation formed wholly for the pair of them to enjoy together forever.
The revels came next, naturally, and they lasted nearly until the break of dawn. The music was loud, the dancing was merry, the drinking was wildly excessive, and all the guests were consumed with absolute rapture at the happiness of the occasion. The Sinclairs started a few fights here and there, but it was clear that they meant nothing by them. They were intended as nothing more than friendly contests of strength, and they were treated as such until everyone involved was bruised and sweating and toasting each other with raised tankards of ale.
After the first dance of the bride and groom, Fergus kept inviting Moire to dance with him again, but she smiled coyly, shaking her head. “Save the strength of your legs, Laird Fergus,” she purred. “You shall need them later.”
Those words sent shivers of anticipation up his spine and down into far more sensitive areas.
The sun came up on the last of the revelers carrying themselves to their chambers or settling onto the ground to sleep where they’d been standing. Fergus turned to Moire, taking her hand. “Shall we retire to my chambers, my lady?”
She gave him a mischievous grin. “Not quite, Laird Fergus. You may recall I advised you to save your legs for later use? Now they shall have it. Follow me.”
Mystified but intrigued, Fergus followed her as she led him past the gates of the castle and on a long walk through the hills until they reached the shore where the boats had been moored.
“Are we to sail somewhere?” he asked, tilting his head quizzically.
“No, this is our destination,” she answered, sitting down on the sand and motioning for him to do likewise.
“Our destination?”
“Yes,” she said. “This is where we shall consummate our marriage.”
The frankness of her tone stunned him, and she saw it in his face and laughed.
“Why here?” he sputtered.
“Because it is a shore like the one we met upon,” she explained, “yet it is the inverse of that one and the evils which led me there because it is your shore instead. In this way, we may bless our marriage and the three children it will produce.”
“Oh, so it’s to be three children, is it?” Fergus joked. “You have decided this for yourself?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,” she replied primly. “Three, because of the sacred number that brought us together: Sea, sky, and earth. And they shall be named as such. Moray, Speur, and Talamh.”
“Is there anything else you’d care to tell me about them?” Fergus asked, amused.
“There is.” Her tone and demeanor grew suddenly serious. “They shall live to see the Campbells retake Dunscaith.”
Now he did sit down on the sand next to her, taking her hand and peering at her intently. “Tell me of Dunscaith.”
“It is a stronghold which was built by our clan many generations ago.” Her eyes grew misty at the memory of the story as it had been told to her since she was a wee bairn. “It took nearly a hundred years in its construction, and it was a marvel. Impregnable, a place of utter sanctuary for my forebears. My parents swore they would reclaim that sacred land which was stolen from us by the accursed Gale Clan, but alas, they did not live to reach their goal. I want my sons and daughters to walk the gardens and ramparts of Dunscaith, Fergus. It would mean a great deal to me.”
Fergus nodded. “Then I swear to you, my beautiful bride, we will retake that place for you, and our children and their children shall rule from its magnificent confines.”
“But before all of that,” Moire whispered, leaning forward and nibbling on his earlobe, “you will have to sire the first of those children. So perhaps we had best get started?”
He kissed her fiercely, devouring her, pulling her so close to him that it felt as though their two bodies might join to become one. He was hungry for her, and she was voracious in her need for him in return. Their pulses quickened, and their sweat joined into a single dizzying musk that made both of them feel as though they might swoon from the strength of it.
Their bodies merged and rolled on the sand together, the grit and seashells grinding into their hair, but they cared not, for in that moment, the entire world only existed in each other’s eyes and arms. The green in Moire’s gaze was Fergus’s earth and sea and sky, all in one delirious and all-consuming color.
He felt her nipples stiffen through her wedding dress, pressing against his tunic, his chest. The desire radiated from her, as certain and relentless as the surf that pounded the shore behind her.
Fergus found himself possessed by the certainty that this was where they belonged—cosmically, celestially, eternally, like the primal and inevitable cycle of the earth around the sun. They were tied to each other, fated, destined, from that moment until the stars in the sky burned out.
His mouth explored the side of her neck, appreciating the salty tang that the sea air had left there. It was as though the very tides were approving of this final stage in their union.
Moire hitched the damp and clinging hem of her bridal dress up around her waist, smiling at Fergus invitingly. “Give us a son, Fergus,” she cooed.
He obliged, undoing his trousers and spreading her pale and trembling thighs -- they were wet with the morning dew and beaded with the moisture of her desire as well.
Fergus entered her, and the firmness of him went straight to her head, making the world spin and dance around her. The sensation was a heady mixture of pleasure and pain, her maidenhead breached beatifically, the wall of her innocence tumbling down. She could even hear it, deafening, filling her entire world with its power. The feeling that blossomed within her at their climax was like the eruption of a volcano, sending its lava seething in every direction and hardening to change the landscape forever.
And that was her. Changed forever, the black glass within her settling into new and interesting shapes of womanhood.
A foreign and fascinating topography that would endure forever, forged entirely in her love for him.
Meanwhile, far from there, the man with the scars on his body traveled from town to town across the Highlands.
He was handsome, tall, broad-shouldered, his skin dark as a walnut from spending so many of his days wandering beneath the blaze of the sun.
He did not bother to make himself inconspicuous.
He wanted to be seen and remembered wherever he went.
He had business with those who had wronged him and ruined his family. He had long since learned that notoriety was hugely preferable to obscurity in that it was good to have a formidable reputation that preceded him so that when he required food or drink or information, he was given those things without any resistance.
So sure enough, he became known by nature if not by name: One who was to be treated with the utmost deference when he entered any tavern or inn, lest the man who dared offend him lose life or limb.
And in the last inn he’d visited—one within the boundaries of Campbell property, and managed by a man named Connell—he had learned an interesting thing indeed: that the rightful Campbells, in the form of Moire, Aodh, Sorcha, and Freya, had been reunited and regained their birthright. That Ronald had been tried and executed for his heinous crimes, including the murder of his own brother.
It seemed, then, that the time had come at last for him to reveal himself. To ascend to the role he had initially been born to…as the eldest of the Campbell children.
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