Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

W hen the goats’ bells began to chime in a sudden chorus, Mercy’s hands paused and her breath caught in her throat. The two older Macleods were home. She bit down on her lip a little too hard and forced herself to keep working. She was pulling down the bunches of dried tobacco in the barn and, after she’d thrown them all in her basket, would set about tearing it all into pieces small enough to light in a pipe. Most of the out-of-towners who grew tobacco sold the entire leaf, but Mercy mixed her minced leaves with dried mint and sold the concoction in jars, which were bought up before anyone else’s whole tobacco had a chance at the market. Granny had taught her how to make the mint tobacco at a young age, and to this day, the smell of it smoking in a pipe reminded Mercy of Granny, who had loved the stuff.

When she heard a muffled conversation between Rory and Cailean, she swallowed hard. She’d spent the day in turmoil but had managed an impressively serene countenance, and was pleased when both Amity and Cailean had seemed to buy it. Now that he was back, however, she felt wildly unmanageable. She found it strange that she was starting to think of herself as two people: one, the old Mercy, severe and wanting control, and two, the new Mercy, a reckless woman who needed controlling.

She was at the back of the barn and Cailean was up in the rafters near the front, replacing the roof. She heard him laugh, and she involuntarily gritted her teeth. It wasn’t that she’d hoped Rory would be in a foul mood, but the fact that he was in a playful one, after abandoning her alone in the woods after taking every intimate part of her into his mouth? After rejecting her advances this morning and leaving her summarily? Well, that was infuriating. She hoped like hell that he wouldn’t come into the barn to find her. She pulled the last of the tobacco leaf bunches from the nails and dropped them into the basket when Cailean dropped from the rafters, his voice growing distant as he walked away. After a few long minutes alone, she felt her blood boil with rage when she realized he hadn’t come into the barn to find her.

“Mercy,” Amity called from the doorway.

“What,” Mercy snapped, and was shocked at how short she’d been with Amity, who’d done nothing at all. “What is it, dear,” she amended, her countenance and her voice softening immediately. It was ridiculous, Mercy knew, to let him make her feel this way, and even more ridiculous to take it out on sweet Amity.

“I was wondering if we could call in on the Clintocks this week,” Amity said as she made her way deeper into the barn, squinting in the dark to find her sister.

“Amity,” Mercy said hesitantly as she drew close.

“Now that you’re married,” Amity said calmly, as if she’d rehearsed this, “you and your husband can present me to the Clintocks.” Amity’s dark blue eyes were wide and sincere. Mercy shut her mouth and mulled it over. Though Amity was well-loved by the Clintock girls, she was never allowed to be properly presented in the Clintock parlor, as she’d never had a married sponsor. Her sister’s new circumstances could afford her many new opportunities.

“But he’s a fugitive,” Mercy sputtered.

“No one knows that,” Amity said placidly, “and besides, his last name is Miller now.”

“Yes,” Mercy said, furrowing her brow. “Such an odd choice.”

“You’re serious,” Amity said in surprise after searching her face. When Mercy frowned, she couldn't help but smile. “Come on,” she said, turning. She glanced back, her smile widening. Mercy, suspicious and concerned, grabbed her shawl and walked rapidly through the familiar woods until she heard voices. She followed the sound and reached the clearing where her beloved white willows graced the creek bed.

A few yards away, Rory was gesturing wildly, pointing at the ground, the trees, and then the creek. Cailean nodded, and Rabbie listened quietly, his arms crossed. She stopped before they noticed her presence and watched shrewdly. Rory had a light in his eyes that she had never seen. He was as excited as a boy, throwing his arms this way and that. His waistcoat and cravat had been removed and were hanging from a nearby tree branch, and his crisp white shirt was gaping open over his hard chest. An unruly mess of shiny black curls, unfettered by a tie at the back of his head, cascaded to his shoulders. Mercy swallowed hard and reminded herself that she cared nothing for him, yet she could not stop herself from appreciating his raw beauty.

“What, exactly, are you all doing out here?” she finally mustered up the courage to ask. The three Macleods whipped their heads in her direction as she approached.

“Building a gristmill, Mercy,” Cailean said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “I mean,” he said, suddenly grinning, “Mrs. Macleod. No!” he said then, his eyes sparkling with laughter, “Mrs. Miller! How many names does a lady need, anyway?” he asked.

“A gristmill,” Mercy repeated slowly, ignoring Cailean.

“Aye,” Rory said. He stared at her and stayed very still. His brothers glanced from him to Mercy, then back to him. Cailean looked puzzled, and Rabbie wary. A new kind of anger bubbled up inside Mercy now, as she realized exactly why he’d married her: he intended to make a profit off her land. Her land. He was just as bad as Teague.

“No,” she said quietly, heat radiating off her. She was so angry that she began to sweat in the cold autumn breeze.

“Nae?” Rory repeated, as if he didn’t understand the word.

“Nae,” she spat, then spun on her heel and stomped back to the farm.

The nerve of him, she thought, steaming. He’d played the knight, saving me from Teague, when really he was in it for profit. She was shaking so badly that she decided to forgo the cabin and facing Amity and instead grabbed a bottle of applejack from the barn and headed back into the woods, in the opposite direction of the site of the Macleods’ new gristmill.

Finding a quaint spot by the creek under a willow she’d never been to before, she plopped herself down and practically poured the applejack down her throat. She groaned as it burned and made her eyes water, then took another deep pull from the bottle. That unfamiliar heat behind her eyes had returned, and she felt like loosening her stays to alleviate the weight in her chest.

“What have I done?” she asked the wind miserably. She felt the liquor warming her from within and basked in the numbing effect. So she had married a strange scoundrel who meant to take advantage of her. A laugh escaped her lips at the absurdity of it all. Would they try to throw the Barnetts off the land? Somehow, she doubted it. And what of the Macleods’ plan to move west in the spring? Had it all been a ruse? Or had the opportunity just recently occurred to them? That they could stay on, make a profit, with her land. She felt as if she’d made a deal with the devil. Then, she felt very, very tired.

Rory was at his wit’s end. Mercy had been gone for more than two hours, and Amity had sworn up and down that she had no idea where her sister had disappeared to, though she was certain she hadn’t gone into town. He’d gone from elation at finally having another project to employ his mind and body to utter dread that some danger had befallen his wife. The deep crease between Amity’s brows only made his anxiety worse.

“It isn’t like her,” Amity said, picking absently at her apron. She was sitting by the cooking fire on an overturned log, but kept looking out into the woods as the sun set over the mountaintop. Cailean and Rabbie had returned to the barn roof to continue their work, but Rory had sat down to join Amity. He followed her gaze to the dark woods and was surprised when he heard muffled crying. He looked back at Amity, whose face had twisted in anguish. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “I can’t remember the last time I cried. It’s just that Mercy is everything, everything…” her voice caught in her throat.

Rory descended over her and wrapped her up in a tight hug.

“Little sister,” he said softly as he held her against his chest. “I will find her. I promise. Don’t cry, Amity. That’s it, good girl.” Amity put her arms around his waist and sighed.

“You promise?” Her voice was muffled by his shirt.

“Aye. Now let me go so I can find yer blockheaded sister.”

Rory frantically jogged to the creek, then walked its length up to the white willows, fallen leaves crunching under his boots. When he didn’t find Mercy, he retraced his steps and started through the woods. The light was dwindling, and panic began to spread through his chest.

“Mercy,” he called, his voice cracking. There was no answer. Blindly, he made his way back to the water and headed downstream, using it as navigation. He knew he could find his way back as long as he stuck to the creek. “Mercy,” he called again, and heard rustling. “Mercy?” A dark shape moved on the ground a few yards ahead of him.

“Yes?” she asked sleepily. Rory was not in control of his own body as he sprinted to her and dropped to his knees before pulling her body roughly to his. She let out a squeak. “I can’t breathe,” she wheezed.

“Good,” he said gruffly, savoring her scent. Then he pushed her away from him and held her by the upper arms. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he yelled, his blood on fire. Mercy, startled, had both brows raised and her eyes swollen from sleep. He shook her hard and she grimaced.

“Let me go,” she said, her voice suddenly dripping with venom.

“Nae,” he said viciously, his tone matching hers. They stared at each other like this, on their knees, for a long moment. The two seethed until Rory lunged forward and captured her mouth with his, taking her lips in what felt like ownership. Mercy opened her eyes wide in astonishment and weakly tried to break free, but his arms pulled her closer.

Her body betrayed her bit by bit, softening in his hands. She cursed her arms, which went around his neck, and her hips, as they pressed forward to feel more of him. He licked her tongue, sucked on her lips, pressed his hand to the back of her head and positioned his over hers. Her toes curled disloyally in her boots and her heart unfaithfully beat against her ribs. Her body had completely abandoned her mind and its resolution to loathe Rory Macleod, who was whispering what Mercy imagined were Gaelic curses between spellbinding kisses.

Rory touched her cheeks with the warm pads of his thumbs and cupped her face, filling her with mounting heat. His mouth drew over hers again and again in unbridled passion and Mercy felt herself falling into him. He caught her firmly by the waist and held her steady, exploring her mouth with urgency.

Suddenly, Rory growled and pulled away from her roughly. Mercy was left dazed, her mouth swollen, her body aching for him. The light had all but faded, yet Mercy saw his face twist with a mix of fury and something else. Before she knew it, he had stood and hauled her up by the hand. He dragged her behind him as he set a punishing pace through the woods.

“Rory,” she complained, trying uselessly to pull her hand from his.

“Do ye have any idea how ye’ve scared yer sister?” he asked, his teeth clenched.

“Amity?” Mercy asked, surprised.

“Do ye have any idea…” he started to say, then stopped himself.

“Is she alright?”

“She will be, when she sees that ye’ve not been harmed.” Mercy felt hollow. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, to disappear for so long and worry Amity.

“I didn’t think,” she started to say.

“No, ye didn’t think,” Rory barked. Mercy’s temper from earlier rebounded swiftly.

“Excuse me,” she said, ripping her hand from his tight grasp and planting her feet. “Perhaps I wouldn’t have needed time to myself had I not happened across your grand designs for my farm.” Rory whirled around to stare daggers at her. “Yes, I understand now. You’ve married me to take this land and build a thriving enterprise of your own.” Mercy was fuming, her hands balled into fists. “Will we be allowed to stay on, Mr. Miller ,” she asked caustically, “or will you throw us out on our rumps?” Rory’s features melted and Mercy wasn’t sure what to make of the face he was giving her. He stayed there, studying her. “Well?” she asked haughtily. Rory snatched her hand from her side and pulled her along, doubling their pace.

“Come,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. His behavior was baffling to Mercy, who followed now without protest.

Once they had broken through the trees into the clearing, Amity was upon them.

“Mercy,” she whispered, hugging the breath from her sister as Rory went to the barn.

“I’m so sorry, Amity. I fell asleep.” She tried to say more but Amity cut her off.

“I never knew what it was like,” she said, breaking free and looking over her sister for injuries.

“What what was like?” Mercy asked, furrowing her brow.

“Worrying,” Amity said when she was convinced Mercy really was fine. “I’ve gone out a hundred times, never telling you where or how long I’ll be,” she said, her voice breaking. Amity did have a tendency to wander.

“Oh, dear,” Mercy said, bringing her sister back into her arms. “It’s alright. It’s alright,” she murmured.

“Amity,” Rory said gruffly. Mercy tensed. She hadn’t heard him approach them. Amity surprised Mercy by swinging her arms around Rory’s waist and then standing on her toes to offer him a kiss. Flushed with embarrassment, Rory leaned down so she could press her lips to his cheek.

“Thank you, Rory,” she whispered. Mercy was overwhelmed by the affection between them. Of course, Amity always brought out the softer side in everyone, but it was a marvel to watch the giant Rory Macleod...Miller...soften at her sister’s calming touch.

“Little sister,” he said quietly, “I hope ye don’t mind me stealing Mercy away from ye.” He lifted his eyes to meet Mercy’s, and they were cold and black as wet stone. “We’ve some matters to discuss.” Mercy gulped and opened her mouth in protest, but Amity nodded vigorously, gave her sister’s arm a squeeze, and was off to the cabin.

Rory grabbed her hand once more and led her back into the woods, though it was dark enough now that he had to slow his pace to keep his footing. Soon, the smell of smoke infiltrated her nostrils and. she was surprised to find herself back at their little campsite, set up exactly as it was before she’d torn it all down that morning, except that the fire was banked.

“Rory,” she said when he let go of her hand, but she was stunned into silence when he grasped her hard by the shoulders and bent down to face her. She could smell his breath, the faint sweetness of mint.

“Ye’ll promise me right now that ye’ll never do that again.” His voice was hard.

“I can’t promise to...” she began.

“Ye’ll promise me,” he growled, gritting his teeth. “Promise me ye’ll never scare me like that. Ever. Again.”

“Scare you ?” Mercy asked, incredulous. Rory dropped his hands, then raked his fingers through his thick black hair, letting his fingers twine together behind his neck. He sighed deeply then, and his strong shoulders slumped as he sat heavily on the makeshift bed and stared into the smoking embers of what was left of his fire. “Scare you?” she asked again, lifting her eyebrows in concern. He looked nearly as pitiful as when Cailean had been ill. “Rory,” she said, touching his arm lightly with her fingertips. The muscles in his arm tightened but he didn’t turn to look at her. Mercy bit her lip. “I promise,” she said softly.

“What kind of a man do ye think I am?” he asked quietly as he slunk off the bed and kneeled by the firepit, striking the flint until a twig caught. “Ye think I married ye for yer land, that I would kick ye and Amity out?” He sounded completely defeated and she was surprised to find that it devastated her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaking. “I thought...” She clamped her mouth shut and let herself feel utterly wretched. She sat down on the bed and clasped her hands together in her lap. After a while, she glanced over at Rory, who was now staring blindly into the flames. “I’ve spent my whole life looking after myself and my sister,” she said quietly. “If I don’t trust your intentions, it’s purely out of habit.” He surprised her by shifting so that he was on his knees in front of her, bracing his hands on either side of her hips.

“Ye must trust me, Mercy.” His eyes were burning as brightly as the fire behind him. “We need to make money. I don’t know how much yer father owed to Teague, and I’d rather pay him than kill him,” he admitted. Mercy blinked in surprise. “Once we pay Teague, ye’ll need a source of income to survive up here. I ran the Laird’s mill back in Raasay,” he continued. “My father built it. I watched him, I know how. And it sounds to me like this town could use one.” Mercy shivered involuntarily with pleasure when he placed his hand gingerly over hers in her lap. So he meant to build her a mill, to leave her with a thriving business when he left in the spring. She had never misjudged someone so severely.

“You said you’d sold your soul for our wedding,” she pointed out weakly, desperate for something to justify her accusations.

“Aye, lass,” Rory said, his eyes softening in sudden understanding. “I’d made promises in town to arrange the wedding,” he explained. “I needed to repay my debts.” His voice had changed, had grown thicker, and his eyes were vibrant with desire. “I’d sell my soul for ye every day, Mercy,” he said softly as he stood and drew her up, too.

Her heart thundered so loudly that she was sure he could hear it. He drew her closer to his powerful body and she felt his strong hands explore the curve of her spine, the neckline of her dress. His fingers pulled the kerchief from her neck, then the bedgown from her arms. They slid into the knot at her stays and pulled until they loosened. Mercy looked up into his eyes and felt dizzy and awful and altogether too hot. He stared back, their eyes locked, neither able to look away. He pulled the last laces away and she dropped her arms to let the stays fall to the ground between them. Her skirts quickly followed, billowing around her ankles.

He ran the back of his fingers against her bare chest and down across her body, over the thin cotton of her shift. Her nipples hardened in the cold air, then even more with his light touch. He turned his hand and cupped a breast, drawing his thumb over the hard peak again and again. Mercy moaned and grabbed his shirt to steady herself, but he picked her up and placed her lengthwise on the hay and blanket bed. He laid alongside her and lowered his mouth to her breast, licking at the pink bud through the shift, wetting the cotton. Threading her fingers through his curls and twisting into them, she elicited a low groan from his throat. He leaned up and found her mouth with his. He teased and licked at her lips in a way that she loved until he invaded her with his tongue, and when she shyly met his tongue with hers, he began to breathe raggedly.

“God, lass,” he whispered, leaning up onto his elbow. She should have been frightened by the ravenous look on his face, but she wasn’t. He slipped a finger under the hem of her shift and dragged it upwards, revealing her legs, then her stomach. She sat up to let him pull it from her completely, then her shaking hands went to his cravat and afterwards, his waistcoat. His breathing was hot and fast on her neck.

“I’m sorry, Rory,” she said softly. He allowed her to lift his shirt over his head, then stood and unfastened his trousers, letting them fall to the ground.

“Hush, lass,” he replied, as his boots went next. He crawled in next to her and pulled the blanket over her bare skin. They lay there, naked and panting, Mercy’s eyes feasting on every ripple of muscle, every hair on his body. “Ye’re going to drive me mad,” he huffed, and she laughed.

“I won’t,” she whispered, leaning her head to his. He nuzzled against her face and drew wet kisses along her cheek.

“Yer skin, it’s so soft,” he said, his voice muffled by her hair. He touched his fingers to her back and traced the length of her. She was momentarily jealous of the moon, whose light fell over his skin as she wanted to. When he drew back, she saw with a ripple of pleasure that he was gazing at her like a man who knew he would soon lose the power of sight. She leaned back onto the bed and drew him down over her, his perfect chest pressing against her breasts, and he reached down and parted her curls, resting the tip of his finger just over the pulsing peak of her flesh. Her breathing became shallow as she waited for him to relieve her of the thrumming heat that threatened to destroy her.

“Rory,” Mercy murmured his name, and he bent down to nip her ear carefully between his teeth. “Oh, Rory.” Her moaning only sent him higher into blinding pleasure.

“Yes, lass,” he whispered, entering her swollen flesh with a finger. Her body tightened as he slid his finger in and out while rubbing the pink bud with a thumb. When he stood up, she threw her hands out in surprise. “Turn around,” he said softly from beside the bed, and she looked up at him quizzically. “Turn around,” he repeated, his knees falling onto the bed beside her. Mercy rolled over and squeaked when he lifted her hips easily, helping her onto all fours. “Yes, lass,” he moaned from behind her, sliding his giant hand over her lower back and to her buttocks. The hand slid around her thigh and found her wet with anticipation. “Do ye think ye can take me again so soon?” he asked, his voice fragmented with desire.

“Yes, Rory. Please,” she cried softly. He was rigid and throbbing and he truly didn’t know what he would have done had she said no.

“Thank God.” He positioned himself between her legs and, in one fluid motion, pulled her up against him by her chest and entered her quickly from behind so that they were both on their knees, the back of her head resting against his shoulder. The invasion made her cry out, but he soothed away the pain with his free hand, his fingers stroking, and squeezed her breast gently with the other.

“Mercy, God, oh,” he breathed into her ear. “Yes, just like that,” he said unsteadily as she found his rhythm and arched back to meet him at each thrust. He felt her knees widen as she tried to take more of him. The fire beside them sparked into larger flames as a log broke and mimicked their mounting passion. He could feel her grip him every time he entered her, resist every withdrawal. She began to shake and moan with every flick of his finger, and when he gently pinched her nipple, her entire body tightened in ecstasy. The pulses of her release drew him along with her, and he growled as he spilled inside of her, shuddering in all-consuming rapture.

They fell onto their sides in a sweat-slicked heap of limbs, their hearts thundering together.

“What is this?” he asked when at last he could speak, his finger trailing lazily over a scar on her lower abdomen.

“Oh, that,” she said, and she sounded so nervous he put a finger under her chin to see her eyes. “It’s nothing,” she said, and when he tilted her head up farther, she closed her eyes and sighed. “A glass shard. Many years ago, now.”

“A glass shard?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“A rather large glass shard. My father found his bottle of whiskey empty, and he thought that I’d…” she trailed off, looking fearful of what he could only assume were murderous eyes staring back at her. Yes, he wanted to dig her father up from wherever they’d buried him in town, resurrect him, and bury him again. Alive. “I can’t have children,” she said quickly, then began to inch away from him.

He pulled her close and tempered his rage. Did she think this would displease him? He honestly wasn’t sure.

“As a child brought into this world for the sole purpose of continuing the family business,” he said carefully after she’d relaxed bit by bit into his arms, “who watched his sisters get cast aside because they were no’ male, I’ve no romantic notions about siring children.” He could hear her breathing, soft and shallow. “It’s no matter to me,” he said honestly, hoping that was what she wanted to hear

When she didn’t say anything, Rory pulled her closer and whispered in her ear.

“The mill is for ye, Mercy. A wedding gift.”

“Are you sure it isn’t for you?” Mercy asked, relaxing in his arms. “You seemed as giddy as a schoolboy, making plans.”

Rory laughed into her hair. “I’d be lying if I said I don’t thrive when I have a problem to solve.” Mercy wondered vaguely if that was why he’d married her. “I don’t do well when I am idle. Purpose gives me great happiness.” Mercy snuggled her back against his furry chest. “I would love to build ye a mill, lass,” he said plainly, “but I’ll only do it with yer permission. It is yer land.”

“Our land,” she said, and yawned. “You’re my husband now, are you not?” He was startled at her words. She couldn’t have pleased him more if she’d tried.

“Aye,” he said gruffly, and pulled the blanket over their naked bodies. “Sleep well, lass,” he whispered, squeezing her to him gently.

“Goodnight, Rory,” she murmured, half asleep.