Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

T he sun had begun to set as Rory climbed the carriage road with Reverend Hawes in tow. The old man kept complaining that Rory hadn’t brought him a horse to ride. Truly, the only way Rory could get the man up the mountain was to promise him more whiskey at the top. At times, Father Hawes forgot his discomfort and became a rather amusing companion, regaling Rory with all the debaucherous goings-on about town. Rory listened closely whenever he mentioned the soldiers, but it did seem as though the men were in town for the sole purpose of scouting the area for French soldiers and the tribes that were loyal to them.

Rory asked himself over and over again: what were the odds that Crawley would find them in this hideaway on the side of a mountain? Rabbie’s words had rankled him all day, and he was tormented with figuring out a way to keep both his vow to his brothers, which was to keep them safe, and his vow to Mercy, which was to be her husband.

As they drew closer to the farm, Rory’s pulse quickened. Though he was walking next to and occasionally prodding a man of God, Rory’s thoughts were altogether unholy. Until that moment, Rory hadn’t let himself think of his betrothed. He knew there was a good chance that he’d find her amidst the goats, going about her chores, vehemently refusing to marry him, but he also knew that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer from that adorable creature.

Today was his wedding day, and he knew it in every tired bone, every sore muscle in his body. Rory had never thought of a wedding as anything other than a reason to drink, be merry, and steal a few kisses or something more in the shadows, then wake alone the next morning in an empty bed.

Now, on his own wedding day, it felt to Rory like the beginning—of what, he wasn’t certain. Had every other bridegroom at every other wedding Rory’d attended felt the same? He doubted it. Had every woman on the Isle of Raasay been laid out in the finest silks, or in nothing at all, they wouldn’t have interested Rory half as much as Mercy Barnett did. And surely, had any of the men on Raasay spent an hour in Mercy’s company, they’d have felt the same.

“Ah, James Barnett’s farm,” Reverend Hawes exclaimed, pulling Rory from his deepest thoughts. “A funeral, did you say?” he asked, turning to Rory, who caught him as he swayed.

“Nae,” Rory said soothingly. “A wedding.”

“A wedding,” Reverend Hawes repeated, nodding slowly and solemnly. “And where is the bride?”

“She’s here, Reverend,” Amity called. She stepped lightly down the cabin stairs into the encroaching night and turned back, waiting for Mercy to follow. When the cabin door finally squeaked farther open, Rory felt his heart stop in his chest, a maxim he’d never dared to think could be real, and he held his breath.

Mercy appeared in a pale blue dress that accentuated that long neck he’d been wanting to draw his fingers across for what felt like ages. Her hair had been twisted and folded back into cascading curls that fell down one pale, bare shoulder, and her arresting eyes, matching the blue of the dress, seemed to glimmer. Those high cheekbones that Rory had once admired seemed to reflect the dying sunlight back to him, and her rosebud mouth betrayed nothing: no smile, but no grimace, either.

Perhaps she was angry, but in time, she would forgive him.

To her own surprise, Mercy made it down the cabin steps and into the dirt clearing without falling. Or running. She never envisioned herself sacrificing her pride, and the wellbeing of three other men, to keep her sister and the farm safe, but there she was, putting one booted foot in front of the other, walking towards a relative stranger, one she wasn’t even sure she liked.

“No,” Amity said, standing firmly in front of Rory as he walked wide-eyed to meet her. “Go in there!” Amity pointed to the barn. Rory dragged his eyes away from Mercy with what looked like pain, and Mercy was not a little bit pleased with herself. Perhaps she did look as well as Amity said.

“Reverend Hawes,” Amity said after Rory had disappeared into the barn, and took the preacher’s hands in hers.

“Ah, Miss, Miss, Little Miss James,” he said finally.

“Amity,” she said carefully, correcting him.

“Amity,” he repeated, kissing the back of her hand and hiccupping.

“He’s grogged,” Amity mouthed to Mercy.

“Why aren’t we?” Mercy mouthed back.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Reverend Hawes said then. “I think it best if we bless this union quickly, as I have had much to drink today, and will need to relieve myself soon.” He hiccupped and swayed as he smiled.

“Of course, Reverend,” Amity said, grinning. She leaned to Mercy’s ear and whispered, “What a romantic start! Here.” She shoved a bouquet of red, yellow, and orange leaves, perfectly arranged and tied up with string. “I shall see you in there,” she said with a wink before slipping through the barn door.

“Reverend?” Mercy asked, holding her bouquet awkwardly.

“Yes, my daughter,” Reverend Hawes said, gazing down at her with glassy eyes.

“Is it a sin to marry, when you know the marriage will bring nothing but difficulty for your husband and his family?

“My dear child,” Reverend Hawes said, growing sober and taking her by the elbow. “It is a sin to marry thinking only of yourself. If you are so concerned as to ask me, then you will undoubtedly improve the lives of those for which you worry. Bless you, child.” A hiccup punctuated his speech.

Reverend Hawes smiled widely then and took leave of her, swaying on unsteady feet towards the barn. Mercy was left clutching a bunch of leaves in the dusty light of the clearing, with not a goat in sight.

Suddenly, a low voice rang out from the barn, sewing Gaelic words into the air as deftly as a seamstress. The tapestry of song drew Mercy closer to the entrance of the barn like a siren’s call. The soft lilt of the ballad warmed her in the autumn chill, and she stepped into the light of the barn, just to be stunned into stillness.

The half-finished barn was alight with candles. The unearthly glow touched nearly every part of the structure, and the beautiful shadows thrown about would have brought Mercy to tears, had she known how to weep. Her goats were there in attendance, bleating calmly, as though they had never known such tranquility. She bent down to kiss Lady on the forehead, then rose and turned to face her wedding ceremony.

Rabbie and Cailean, the latter of whom was singing, were standing to the right, under the tobacco leaves, each of them holding candles. Though Rabbie’s face was distressingly unreadable, Cailean’s was soft and playful. To the left, Amity grinned, holding a candle, too. Her face shone with a contentment that Mercy was only just starting to get used to. When has Amity ever been this happy? She wanted to smile back, but she was quite unable. Her lips were pressed into a tight line, battling relief and misery. She stepped forward and saw Reverend Hawes at the back of the barn, and then she saw Rory, as he stepped forward into the candlelight.

She nearly lost her footing. He was unaccountably beautiful. Candlelight played off his skin and shone over his severe jawline, softening it. The black waistcoat that Amity had no doubt instructed him to wear was civilizing. His sable curls had been combed back and his days old beard was striking. Mercy fell into his black eyes, even from a distance, and felt herself tremble slightly. Her pace quickened despite herself, and she found her hands in his before she truly knew what she was doing.

“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Hawes began without ado, no doubt eager for the toast that would inevitably follow, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this Congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony.” The congregation, consisting mostly of goats, remained silent. “By what name shall I call you, my son?” Reverend Hawes asked.

“Rory Miller,” Rory answered. Everyone but the preacher looked at him with surprise. Reverend Hawes nodded. Mercy swallowed her shock, remembering that he was a wanted man, and could not bestow his actual name on her. A fictitious name for a fictitious marriage.

“Wilt thou,” Reverend Hawes began, then paused until Amity leaned forward and whispered her name, “Mercy Barnett,” he repeated austerely, “have this Man, Rory Miller, to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s Ordinance, in the holy Estate of Matrimony?” Reverend Hawes looked to Mercy. “Wilt thou obey him, serve him, love, honor and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” Mercy swallowed, then felt Rory’s hands squeeze hers. He slipped a circle of twine onto her ring finger.

“I will.”

“With this Ring, I thee wed,” Reverend Hawes said, “with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” Mercy repeated the incantation, and Rory did the same. “Ah,” Reverend Hawes said unsteadily, and Mercy was surprised to see a tear fall down his wrinkled cheek. “You are now man and wife, and may God bless this union.”

Mercy turned back to Rory, whose dark eyes looked hungry. She opened her mouth to speak, but, Rory placed his strong hand on her back and pulled her to him, taking her mouth gently with his in a binding kiss. Mercy relaxed instinctively and leaned her head back in order to take his lips more fully, and before she knew it, she was wrapping her arms around his neck.

She opened her eyes and he stared back at her with surprise. They stayed there, with their arms wound tightly around each other for a long moment, blinking dumbly. She soon noticed the deafening silence in the barn, and when she let out a breath and searched the faces of those around her, she saw the same astonishment that she felt. Even Amity’s eyes were wide.

“Whiskey?” Reverend Hawes asked at last, and his words seemed to break the spell that had settled over them. Soon, Amity and Cailean had left the barn to find spirits and start supper for the six of them, and Reverend Hawes was humming a tune. When Rabbie clasped his hand around the back of Rory’s neck and pressed his forehead to his, Mercy scuttled away.

“Congratulations, brother,” she heard him say softly, though Mercy thought he sounded slightly cynical. She wandered away from the two and out into the clearing, where a cup of whiskey was thrust into her hand. She thought she might as well be as drunk as she felt, so she threw her head back and drained the spirits in one burning gulp. She was vaguely aware of Cailean’s laughter, and of Reverend Hawes producing an English flute from his sleeve. She sat down onto an upturned log unceremoniously and stared into the crackling fire as it grew as large as her doubt.

As Amity danced to the preacher’s tune, and Cailean drummed on an overturned bowl, Rabbie and Rory poured themselves more whiskey and toasted to the occasion. Reverend Hawes paused the song frequently to partake in the spirits, but that didn’t seem to deter the party. Another glass of whiskey was pressed into Mercy’s hand, and then a plate of roasted chicken and root vegetables. She tried to consume her meal, but it was no use. She was grateful that none of the others, including Rory, tried to get her to engage. She thought it was strange, suddenly, that her new husband hadn’t spoken to her since they’d been joined in matrimony.

With a sinking feeling, she looked around, convinced that he was drinking himself into oblivion, having sacrificed himself, and possibly his brothers’ safety, for her. The guilt weighed heavily upon her shoulders. Rory, she found, was not in sight. There was Amity, finishing her meal, and Cailean and Reverend Hawes seemed to be in some sort of drinking competition, and there was Rabbie, drinking and staring into the fire. Where is my…my…Rory?

Mercy stood up unsteadily, but no one seemed to notice. She felt as if she were moving through a dream, fighting to go forward but her legs wouldn’t work fast enough. She went over to the barn and found the goats bedded down for the night, but there was no sign of her husband. Had he already retired to the cabin? She searched inside in the dark and couldn’t find him. God’s wounds, has he run away? To Mercy, that seemed like the most believable scenario.

She came back outside into the clearing, where her new brothers-in-law, her sister, and Reverend Hawes were all engaged in some degree of merriment, though Rabbie was decidedly on the lowest end of that spectrum. Mercy felt for him, and if she had the strength to go to him, to apologize, to explain that she didn’t expect a true marriage from Rory, she would have. She felt weak, and if she was going to be honest with herself, worried. She left the rest of them by the fire and made her way out into the woods, where she hoped she would find her sort-of husband where he used to sleep under the trees.

He wasn’t there.

She felt a sorrow unlike any she’d felt before. She had avoided Teague’s clammy grasp just to ruin a man—one she respected and perhaps, though she had a hard time admitting it, cared for. She hated herself for going through with it. She wondered, then, if she’d done it just to keep Rory near to her, just for a little while longer. In that moment, Mercy let herself realize that she didn’t dislike Rory Macleod. Not at all. The feelings she harbored were strong, but not at all unfavorable.

“Mercy.” She spun around and was caught by his strong hands. It was so dark that she could barely see him.

“Rory,” she answered, surprised.

“Yes, lass,” he whispered, stepping closer.

“I thought you’d left.” The words tumbled out before she could stop herself.

“Nae, lass,” he said softly, touching her hair gently. “I didn’t leave ye.” Rory picked her up easily, as one would a child, and she was so surprised that she wrapped her arms around his neck as he began to walk deeper into the forest. Heat rolled off the bare skin of his neck and, when he stepped carefully between two trees, she let her face fall into the warmth. She was allowing herself, for the second time in two days, to seek what she most desired.

He smelled of fire and cold wind and wood and earth, and his heartbeat was steady and strong, grounding her in an otherwise unearthly cloud of disarray. He squeezed her gently to his chest with what felt like affection, and she shyly placed one warm kiss on the side of his neck. She felt him go rigid when she drew her lips away. She wrinkled her forehead, worrying that she had displeased him, but he kept walking farther into the dark, so she laid her head back onto his shoulder.

When they broke through the thickest of the trees, Mercy raised her head and gasped. There, just a few yards away, was a roaring fire built beside the babbling creek, and a cobbled-together bed of sorts, made from hay and heavy blankets from the cabin. On the ground next to the makeshift bed was a bottle of applejack and a plate of cheese and smoked meat.

She reluctantly put her boots on the ground and left Rory’s arms to approach the camp, both amazed and infinitely touched that he had gone to so much trouble.

“I told ye I wanted ye to be able to sleep by a fire,” he said softly from behind her. She turned to him, her mouth open in an unsaid “Oh.” She licked her lips and tried to think of something clever to say, something that would make her heart leave her throat and go back to her chest where it belonged.

“Rory,” she managed to whisper at last.

He met her in two long strides and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. “May I kiss ye, Mercy?” he asked roughly.

When she nodded, he tilted her face up with his fingers and pressed a gentle kiss to her mouth.

“May I kiss you back?” she asked softly, and with what sounded more like a growl than anything else, he set about devouring her roughly, taking no time before searching her mouth with his tongue, gripping her waist with both hands. She muttered softly, but not in protest. Excitement and heat flooded her veins, and she struggled to have more of him. Her fingers went to his black curls and she held them tight as she massaged his tongue with hers in a fiery need that threatened to undo her.

Rory let out a low mumble of Gaelic and lifted her legs onto either side of his hips, holding her easily by the buttocks. She locked her ankles behind him and let out a gasp when his lips left hers and traveled down her neck, tracing rough, wet kisses from behind her ear down to her collarbone. He staggered forward, spinning so that when they fell onto the makeshift bed, he was below her to cushion the fall. She straddled him and gazed down, wondering if he was going to stop her abruptly, like he had last night.

Instead, he rolled them both over so that he was above her. Mercy widened her eyes when she felt the hardness of him between her legs.

“Mercy,” he murmured, stroking her cheek with his fingertips. He traced a line across her face to her lips, and he parted them with his forefinger. “Such a sinfully sweet mouth,” he whispered, smiling, and though Mercy wanted to argue, she didn’t. His eyes were bright with passion, and she pretended that she was the only woman he had ever looked at that way, the only woman he ever said those words to. He sat up on his knees and hovered over her, waiting.

“What is it?” she asked timidly.

“I want to please ye,” he said, sounding choked. When she didn’t say anything more, he asked. “May I please ye?”

Unsure of what he meant but wanting to be pleased, Mercy nodded nervously. With a relieved breath, Rory slowly began pulling at the black laces in the front of her dress, setting a more languid pace.

“Oh,” she murmured, blushing. She didn’t know why she was so hesitant now, as this is precisely what she’d wanted the night before. “Rory,” she said, biting her lip with uncertainty.

“Aye,” Rory whispered, “Be easy, lass.” Mercy’s head fell to the side and she breathed deeply, trying desperately to calm herself as she felt her dress loosen in the front. She watched the flames of the fire lap at the wind then closed her eyes, letting the warmth ease her, as Rory finished patiently unwrapping her.

Her eyes flew open as he lifted her up and pulled the dress gently from her shoulders. He stood beside the makeshift bed and she looked up at him, wide-eyed, as he bent down and loosened the petticoat. Her lip was going to be bloody if she continued to chew it while he turned her this way and that to slip it from her hips.

The silk gown lay in an unceremonious pile on the ground next to the bonfire, but Mercy could not force herself to care when she was so focused on her breathing, which was coming too hot, too fast. She felt too vulnerable, lying on her back as Rory stood, half his face illuminated by the firelight, looking down at her. The cold wind mixed with the heat from the fire and Mercy felt the contrast rolling over her skin, leaving it tingling and pricking with goosebumps. She was startled when Rory sank down to his knees beside the bed and ran a warm hand up her leg under her shift, finding the ties to a stocking.

“Shh, lass,” he murmured, but she jumped at every touch. He’d undone her boots and pulled them away, and she felt him roll one stocking down and off one foot, then the other. With soothing strokes, he found the end of her shift and drew it up slowly, inch by painstaking inch, up to her knees, then to her hips. Past her stomach, over her breasts. She instinctively sat up to let him peel it off the rest of her, then laid back down on the bed in a halo of her own hair.

The firelight glowed over his strong shoulders, his hard jaw and his softened eyes. Black as the night around them yet somehow warm. He stood, then, and shrugged out of his black waistcoat. She found herself completely incapable of looking away, as if they were joined together, and the feeling sent pleasure and apprehension rippling through her. When, for the short moment he pulled off his shirt and she lost his gaze in white cotton, she blinked rapidly and began to suck in deep breaths.

“Be easy,” he said again softly, kneeling back down next to the bed.

“Rory,” she whispered, her voice trembling, and he drew in a ragged breath. He was up again, dropping his boots, his socks, his breeches with haste. He was suddenly next to her, searing her skin with his heat, and dragging a heavy blanket over their bodies to seal it all in. When he groaned quietly, she lifted her hands and took his broad face between them. They stayed there, still as stone, transfixed, until Mercy pressed her lips cautiously to his.

Though she lacked experience, her closed-mouth kisses were the most erotic that Rory had ever enjoyed. The combination of her chaste mouth, pressing harder against his, and her hungry hips, writhing unstudied beside him, was enough to undo even the most cold-hearted of men. Calm yerself, he chanted silently, knowing that he needed to be gentle with her this first time. He cautiously opened her lips with his tongue and she seemed grateful for the direction.

They explored each other’s mouths, face to face, as his hands went about discovering all the delicious edges and curves of her, savoring the hot skin, the rapid heartbeat beneath it. He pressed his leg between hers and gathered her up in his arms, dragging his lips to her throat. Her back arched as he drew his mouth downward, and he stifled a moan when she let out little mewls. He cupped her breasts and traced his tongue down to one tight, pink nipple and circled it before covering it with a wet mouth. Mercy quivered beside him, tangling her fingers in his hair and trapping his head against her chest. His lips closed around the nipple and he tugged lightly, knowing that she was wracked with the same coiling heat that he was. He assumed, then, that when she suddenly struggled to break free, she was afraid of the new urgency she was overcome with.

“Nae lass,” he whispered raggedly.

“Oh, Rory, I…” she started to say, but then he covered her other nipple with licks and caresses and the rest of her sentence was an incoherent moan. Yes, he’d been right. He slid his other hand up the length of her bare thigh and stopped just beside her dark curls, feeling the intimate muscles pulse in anticipation.

“Oh,” she whispered, still pulling at his hair, but when his fingers parted her, she bucked away.

“Mercy,” Rory whispered, steadying her. “Ye mustn’t fear me.” She was still trembling violently when Rory gently opened her again and pressed a finger there, stroking gently.

“No,” she exclaimed as if surprised.

“Yes, lass,” he managed to say with her nipple held gently between his teeth.

“Please, it’s too much,” she whined.

“It’s not,” he said, and he caressed her, passing over the wet bud in delicate flicks. With every move she made, Rory grew harder. When her skin began to pink in a flush, he slowly set about kissing away her modesty, down to her stomach, past her navel.

“Wait,” she managed to say through gasps.

“Mercy,” Rory whispered. “I’ll not hurt ye.” He breathed deeply, raggedly. “But I must taste ye.”

“Oh,” Mercy groaned. “Not down there, please.”

“Aye,” Rory said, suppressing a smile. Rory had never felt such arousal, such a yearning to please. “Be still, lass, be still and... yes, love, oh yes.” He took her in his mouth, licking and sucking, tasting the heat of her pleasure with a hunger he had never known before. He slid his hands underneath her and positioned her hips to more fully take her into his mouth, sliding his tongue back and forth, entering her again and again.

Mercy gasped and moaned and stopped fighting him immediately. Her fingers clutched at his shoulders when she arched up in pleasure, shaking with need. She fell back and involuntarily her hips met the rhythm of his tongue, and her thighs clamped tight around his head. She cried out in surprise when he slid a finger into her swollen flesh, exploring the silkiness inside her, but he kissed it away and she relaxed. He pushed deeper, licked harder, until her body began to shudder and a cry left her lips. She tightened around his finger, twisting and closing and pulsing, powerless against the pleasure. Rory luxuriated in it, licked at every last throb, kissed away every vibration.

Afterwards, Rory moved up and gathered her into his arms protectively, holding her against his chest and pressing his lips to her hair. When he shifted and she felt his length against her leg, she drew her hand down tentatively to explore him. Rory laughed softly into her hair and let her hand wander—down his hip, across his leg, to his stomach. Then she turned to face him and looked deeply into his eyes while grasping the length of him. Rory hissed from the unexpected ecstasy.

Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes piercing. The image was seared into him as she stroked him, but her hand was too gentle.

“Like this,” he whispered, curling his hand over hers. He gasped as she learned how he liked to be held. Her hand left him suddenly and pulled against his hips, urging him towards her. “Ye’ll have to tell me ye want me, Mercy,” Rory whispered with yearning, pushing her hair from her face gently. “I cannot take ye unless I know ye want me to.”

“I want you to,” Mercy whispered, pulling uselessly at him. “Rory,” she began to say, but that was all he needed to hear. He rolled on top of her and spread her legs wide with his thighs. “Rory,” she murmured again, and he had to force himself to stop from thrusting into her. Patience, he told himself. She had never done this before, and he wouldn’t hurt his wife more than he could help it.

“It will be easier if I use my fingers first,” he whispered into her ear. At her slight nod, Rory drew his hand down and parted her curls once more. “How is this, lass?” he asked, entering her with one finger. God, she was so tight.

“I’m not sure ,” she said nervously, but as she relaxed, she let out a moan. Rory slipped another finger inside the resisting flesh.

“Yes, lass, just...yes, love. Does it hurt?”

“Rory,” Mercy moaned. “I don’t…I don’t know what I need.”

Rory looked down at her and was drowning in a tenderness that could rip him apart if he let it. She bucked against his fingers and whined.

“My love, my heart,” he said raggedly. “I don’t want to hurt ye.”

“Rory,” she protested, moaning, rocking her hips towards him. In blind euphoria, Rory withdrew his fingers and positioned himself against her. “Rory,” she said again, and he thrust inside her as slowly as he could.

Mercy cried out and balked, and Rory was devastated at having caused her pain while relishing the ungodly pleasure of being inside her. She grasped every movement, inviting him deeper. He leaned over her and took a rosy nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking until he felt her open more.

Her moans drove him higher, and soon he wasn’t able to manage his thrusts. He couldn’t stop himself from moving against her, into her, deeper and deeper as her flesh gripped him, her sweet mouth dragging kisses on his throat. He met her mouth and groaned into it, feeling himself falling into oblivion, a violent release that spilled inside of this beautiful creature.

Rory nestled his head against hers and waited for their heartbeats to return to normalcy. Nothing in his life had ever given him this joy, this pain. He breathed in her scent and closed his eyes. They stayed there, joined together, for a long time, breathing heavily. When at last he had the strength to find her lips, she was asleep. He kissed them possessively and whispered against them.

“Ye’re mine. I am yours.”