Chapter Twenty-One
He filled with fire the moment he touched her.
The kisses began with insistent hunger, then went tender, lips exploring, caressing.
She opened for him there, sighing; she tasted sweet and forgiving.
He felt as if he had known her always, had waited for her, found her on that mountain when she had found him.
No matter how brief their actual acquaintance, he loved her.
The awareness of it suffused through him, taking on the sheen of a miracle, for he had carried suffering privately for so long, had never forgiven himself for what had happened on a bridge in what seemed another lifetime, another man.
What brimmed inside him now was like the blessing of rain after dust, revelation after turmoil, the relief of desire after loneliness.
And aye, he was still a bit drunk. Whisky heated his blood and whirled his head, warmed his heart and loosened his reserve.
He wanted her, had wanted her since he met her, and now he knew she was willing.
That mattered, that changed things. Whatever needed sorting would be resolved in time.
Passion fueled the moment for him and for her; he sensed willingness in her kisses, in her sighs, in the eager press of her body to his.
Taut and lush, she arched against him, stirring his need further.
He moved his lips over hers, caressing, coaxing.
Skimming his hands down to shape her slender waist, he eased up over her torso to cup the side of her breast, and at her sweet gasp, cupped that firm fullness.
He began to undo the small buttons that closed the woolen bodice of her gown, revealing lace and cotton and pale, flawless skin.
Her heart thumped under the heel of his hand, and his own heart thundered as he kissed her more urgently.
But he told himself to slow and bring her along with him.
She moaned and moved against him, pleading, pressing.
He caught her to him with one arm as she curved in wanton grace, her arms encircling his neck, his shoulders.
Though his blood pounded through him, he restrained himself, slowing again, slipping free the last button as she shook free of some of the clothing that separated them.
Then he was sliding his hands inside, under cotton and lace and something silky, soothing over warm skin, her body writhing, moving under his touch.
His body surged, hardened, insistent and needful.
He dipped his head to kiss her here and then there, pushing silk away as she pushed at his shirt, his kilt.
He recalled another night when she had moved like that, then pulled away, and so had he, on the night he had first begun to love her.
This time, she danced against him, beguiling, and it fired him further.
Hands, fingers, his and hers, pulled at tapes and buttons and ribbons until her garments slipped off, his as well.
He hardly marked what they were or where they tumbled, gone, freeing warm and luscious skin.
Overwhelmed by a desperate urge, he kissed the beautiful arch of her throat, tasted the sweetness of her, twined his fingers in cool silky hair.
All of her drove him mad, drove him onward.
When she arched again in deeper invitation, her sweet willingness, her breathy excitement pushed him beyond thought.
She slid her fingers through his hair, traced her sweet breath along his cheek, his ear, her body moved within his embrace like a siren.
He did not know now if he was seducer or seduced—at first he had urged her, and now she drew him, her spirit strong and beautiful, and he was powerless under that spell.
Sweeping her up into his arms, hearing her little surprised laugh, he carried her through the connecting door and into his bedroom, dark as a cave, the forest-green walls and mahogany furnishings dark in the moonlight, the golden candlelight pooling on the bed linens where he set her down and sank with her into that plush softness.
She pulled him down to her, and as he slid his body along the length of hers, marveling at how well they fit, made for each other, long legged, matching perfectly.
Eager and inquisitive, her hand slid to tug at his belt, his kilt, pushing it away to find him, shape him.
Nor could he bear it as she pressed and arched her exquisite warmth and softness against him.
He skimmed his hands over her as she moved and whimpered and sought to be even closer.
He kissed her again, deeply, feeling as if he might burst with the heat rising between them like flame.
On the night they met, they had sought warmth together. Now, as they discovered new heat, he knew without doubt that he loved her. Touching her reminded him that her warm, generous spirit had once saved his life.
That first night, she had said that a little part of the soul could be lost in times of tragedy.
He had known that—and now felt part of his soul coming back.
That was the key, that was her magic, calling back his wandering, troubled soul like a breath of air or a sip of water, enough to revive him as he gained his strength.
A revelation for later—for now as he touched her, teased her, she reached a brink just as he could no longer hold back. As she surged against him, he covered her, filled her as raw need poured through him in waves, cleansing, remaking, anchoring his soul as he gave himself to her.
He was not the man he had been weeks ago.
He was finer, stronger, better, and she was the catalyst. He had never thought to find a love like this, never.
And he wanted her to feel what he did, a natural flow of heart and soul, a bond he would protect, and though she feared he might let her go, he would be here for her, wherever she wanted to be.
*
Turning a page in the accounting book on the desk, Evan glanced at Finlay MacConn again.
His factor—his brother-in-law, he reminded himself—stood before him in the sunlit study, tweed jacket hanging loosely from his wide shoulders.
Finlay bunched his hat brim in his hands and looked at his sister with a questioning frown.
Catriona stood closer to Evan, waiting. The siblings had refused to sit, and Evan felt a curious tension in the room.
Though she seemed calm, she twisted her clasped hands.
Evan glanced up at her, and could not help but notice that she looked demure, her lovely curves subdued in a simple Highland outfit of a dark woolen skirt and prim linen blouse.
Her hair had a warm bronzy sheen in the afternoon sunlight, her translucent skin blushed high pink, and her blue-gray gaze was steady as she lifted her chin proudly, defensively.
Evan resisted a smile at the tender memory of what he and his wife had shared the previous night. Neither MacConn sibling seemed in a mood to smile or even relax. Puzzled, Evan looked from one to the other.
Surely meeting with the earl to go over estate records held no threat. Finlay was a capable factor, he was sure. Perhaps Catriona had spoken to her brother about Evan’s intention to sell parts of Kildonan and Glen Shee.
Another meaningful glance passed between his wife and her brother—and Evan had the distinct sense there was a secret, something they knew that he did not.
Frowning, he turned a page and skimmed his fingertips down more columns of tenants’ names and numbers relating to sheep and shearing, leather tanning, barley crops, whisky production, and more.
Sitting back, he nodded. “Eighty-two thousand acres,” he said, and flipped pages looking for a particular fact. “What was the number of sheep in the last count?”
“Uh, twenty-one thousand, four hundred and thirty sheep, sir. I recorded it in the book last spring,” Finlay said. “Or close enough. Devilish hard chasing sheep down from the hills, let alone counting them accurately. I believe that’s how many were caught and clipped last spring.”
“An enormous task,” Evan said, turning the page. “And twenty-six men hired up from the South for the gathering, clipping, packing, and transport of the wool?”
“Aye,” Finlay answered. Again he looked at Catriona.
“How many tenants do we have on Kildonan lands now?”
“With Kildonan lands added to the whole of Glen Shee,” Finlay said as he gazed up at the ceiling, thinking, “about eighty households. About four hundred residents, all ages.”
“Does that include men hired from outside the glen to live here as shepherds and look after that great number of sheep?”
“That would add eighteen men with their families, sir. Several households, sharing. Those would be Lowlanders and a few Englishmen.”
“I see.” He sifted pages in the large book, looking at the careful rows of figures Finlay had entered. “How many residents did Glen Shee hold before?”
“Before when, sir?” Finlay asked.
“Thousands,” Catriona answered. “Perhaps two thousand, nearly three thousand in your great-grandfather’s day, before the clearings began and the land was turned to sheep runs and hunting grounds. Now there are less than five hundred here.”
“That seems odd to me.”
“What does?” Catriona asked sharply, with a glance at Finlay.
“With so many sheep to be sheared and tended to get the wool to market, it looks like less than thirty men did all that work. It does not make sense.”
“But that was what your father wanted,” Catriona pointed out. “The fewer men and families the better, so we were told. More room for sheep.” She spoke curtly.
He knew well how she disliked, even despised, the earlier situation.
Evan nodded to himself as he flipped pages to find entries from earlier seasons.
“Before that, apparently, we employed many men for the clipping and wool packing. Yet the estate had less sheep then. Twelve thousand in the flocks just five years ago.” He looked up.
“Perhaps the previous factor was not very good at record keeping,” Catriona suggested.
“Aye, he was better at other things,” Finlay muttered.
“Such as?” Evan looked up.