Chapter 9 Just One Night
THE EVENING PASSED in a blur of firelight, smoke, dancing, and laughter.
Fiona lost track of how many dances she had with Ailean, or of how many cups of mead she drank in between. In truth, she ignored everything except him. No one else asked her to dance—no one dared.
Ailean never left her side.
Her surroundings faded. She completely forgot Carrie. Instead, she found herself held captive by the man next to her.
The music reached its height, whooping and singing echoing through the night.
Laughing, Ailean eventually pulled Fiona free of the whirlpool circling the fire and drew her away from the dancers.
On the edge of the revelry, he swiped them fresh cups of mead. And there, as they recovered their breath, they talked some more.
Conversation flowed easily. Ailean told her of his adventures defending Scotland’s freedom, of thrilling battles and moments when he’d thought his luck had run out. She told him of her family.
“They think I deserted them,” she admitted with a grimace.
“Och, they’ll manage without ye,” he replied with an easy smile that made something glow deep in her chest. “It takes courage, ye know, to go after what ye want.”
Warmth suffused her. His response meant more to her than she’d admit. Sometimes, she didn’t give herself enough credit. Aye, she was plucky, and she was proud of what she’d achieved so far. “And what do ye want, Ailean?” she asked.
He gave her a heated look that caused desire to twist low in her belly. Covering up her sudden discomfort, she slapped him playfully on the arm. “Be serious … and tell me what ye wish for from life.”
He pulled a face, yet played along. His expression grew serious then, and he paused before finally answering, “Something of my own. Dounarwyse is my home, yet I didn’t earn it.”
She inclined her head. Somehow, she’d forgotten she’d just spent the evening with the future laird of this castle and lands. However, his words sobered her. “Ye want yer own holding?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps … or maybe I just want to build something with my own hands rather than following a family legacy.”
Fiona studied his face with interest. His high cheekbones were flushed with mead and firelight, yet she marked the earnestness in his eyes. Once again, they’d circled back to the restlessness that gnawed at him.
“Maybe ye should find a way then,” she answered.
His sensual lips lifted at the corners. “And how?”
She took a step closer, emboldened. “Ye could talk to yer father … see about—”
She never finished her sentence, for he leaned in, his mouth claiming hers in a bold kiss.
Heat swept over Fiona as his lips moved across hers, and his free hand reached up to cup the back of her head.
Dizziness followed, and she swayed against him, her lips parting for his tongue as the kiss grew lusty.
He plundered her mouth now, not caring if anyone looked on.
They stood in the shadows, at the back of the crowd. Obscured by drifting smoke and half-swallowed by darkness. And yet, it was a reckless move—for them both.
Fiona cared too much about her position to put it in jeopardy, and yet the feel of his mouth on hers, the rasp of his stubbled chin against her skin, the taste of him, overwhelmed her senses.
However, as the kiss drew out, growing hungrier and more desperate with each passing moment, common sense prevailed. Hades. What if someone sees? The laird and lady of Dounarwyse were somewhere in the crowd.
That was enough to rouse her. Lifting a hand, she placed her palm on Ailean’s chest and pushed slightly, a wordless gesture but one he understood.
Drawing back, he gazed at her. He was breathing fast now, his eyes hooded with lust, his lips swollen from the fervor of their kiss.
Fiona swallowed. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that. He made her melt like tallow. He made her ache.
Breathing hard, she glanced around.
Smoke wreathed like fog about them, the nearest figures misty. The drums continued to beat, and the piper played on.
Relief swept over her. No one had seen them. Thank the Saints.
Ailean raised a hand then and brushed her cheek with his knuckles. She trembled under his touch, the ache between her thighs almost unbearable now. Her skin was overheated; so sensitive she could hardly bear the constricting feel of her clothing.
“Come with me, lass,” he whispered. “To somewhere no one will disturb us.”
This was it. She knew it. The crossroads. The moment that would change everything.
Sanity told her to refuse, to step back and take a few deep breaths, to remind herself that this man put everything she’d worked so hard for at risk.
And yet, another voice whispered to her. It’s just one night. It’s Bealtunn. Tomorrow, the world will return to normal, but tonight, ye can be someone else.
And how she longed to leave the world behind, to let herself be reckless and wild.
How she longed to give herself to this man, to give in to the lust that had been building for weeks now.
She fought, pulled in both directions. But in the end, it was the second, beguiling, voice that won.
No one will know.
It’s just one night.
Aye, she let it win her over; let it chase away her fears and common sense.
She found herself nodding, not trusting herself to speak.
Smiling, Ailean took hold of her hand and silently led her away.
A few yards back from the fire, he picked up a lantern, one of many that had been placed there to help revelers find their way home afterward. Still holding Fiona’s hand, he made his way down the hill, far from the revelry.
They didn’t converse as they walked. Tension pulsed between them now.
Just one word would shatter it.
He didn’t lead her back to the castle or along the road to the village. Instead, they entered a small copse, a thicket of hazel and ash that bordered the patchwork of run rigs that stretched east of Dounarwyse.
Their boots crunched on twigs and bracken. Ferns and nettles brushed up against their clothing. But Fiona barely noticed. All she could focus on was the warmth and strength of Ailean’s hand in hers.
A few yards in, they reached a spot that opened up next to a bubbling burn. Moonlight streamed in, illuminating the soft carpet of moss upon the banks.
Ailean put down the lantern and then turned to Fiona, his features frosted in silver light. She stepped forward to meet him, their hands grasping and mouths seeking.
There was something magical about being amongst the trees, bathed in moonlight.
As if she had stepped out of time. She wasn’t living her own life anymore.
Tonight, she was a temptress. Back on the hill before the Bealtunn fire, she’d held back a little.
She didn’t now. Her kisses were as urgent as his.
Their tongues tangled, their teeth clashed in their hunger for each other.
All the while, her hands clawed at his clothing, desperate to reach the skin beneath.
Likewise, his hands slid across her body, cupping the fullness of her breasts before his fingers began to deftly unlace the front of her kirtle.
The shawl she wore dropped to the ground, and then they both heeled off their boots.
Moments later, her kirtle came off, and the thin linen lèine beneath it. Cool air brushed against her naked skin.
Meanwhile, she’d managed to help him pull off his own lèine and unlace his chamois braies. And then they were both naked. Breathing hard, his eyes glinting in the moonlight, Ailean hurriedly laid out their clothing to form a mattress of sorts upon the mossy ground.
Then he dragged her into his arms once more.
The kiss was hot, urgent, and Fiona drowned in it.
She was barely aware of her knees giving way, of the pair of them sinking to the ground. A moment later, she was on her back, and he was crawling over her.
The man engulfed her senses. Chased everything else away.
She was pure sensation. Nothing else.
And having him move over her, blocking out the starry sky above the treetops and the gleaming halo of the moon, made her feel as if she’d come home.
As if she was where she was always meant to be.
In this man’s arms. Fiona’s breathing grew shallow then, emotion tightening her throat.
Finally, she could just let go and be herself.
Finally, she was free of the hurts and insecurities that dogged her from her upbringing. Liberated.
He kissed her again—still hungry but checking himself now.
Drawing the moment out. Fiona let him set the pace.
She was new to this. He wasn’t. He was about to take her on a journey of discovery.
About to teach her things she’d longed for ever since their gazes had locked on the day of her arrival at Dounarwyse.
There was no point denying it. She’d been fighting a losing battle from that moment.
She’d never thought desire could be so powerful, so consuming. But whenever she was in this man’s orbit, it grew harder to resist the pull between them.
Now they were naked together in the woods, and he was kissing his way down her neck, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Cupping her heavy breasts, he pushed them up to meet him, then lowered his head.
The feel of his hot mouth on her aching peaks made her cry out. She’d never realized her breasts could be so sensitive—could feel so much. But the way he sucked and teased sent a deep, aching pulse blooming between her thighs.
“Christ’s blood, lass,” he growled as he transferred his attention to her other breast. “Ye have the most beautiful paps I’ve ever seen … or tasted. Ye don’t know how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on these.”
In other circumstances, she’d have slapped him. Had he spoken such words in daylight, within the walls of Dounarwyse Castle, she’d have been scandalized. Offended.
But not now.
His lusty words merely inflamed her. Freed her. Wantonly, she arched her chest, inviting him to take all he wished. And he did—sucking and lathing her sensitive nipples with his tongue until she was a gasping, whimpering mess beneath him.
Only then did he move on.
He traveled down the length of her body, his tongue leaving wet, heated swirls behind it—dipping into the hollow of her navel, skimming the curve of her belly. Then his mouth slid through the nest of soft curls between her thighs and into the cleft there.
Fiona cried out, pushing herself up, panting hard—but he paid her no heed. Instead, he parted her legs wider still and nestled his face between them.
Then he feasted on her as he had on her breasts.
Shuddering with pleasure, Fiona sank back onto the ground. “Christ,” she groaned. “Ye have a wicked tongue, Maclean.”