Chapter Nineteen

She knew what he was going to do as he leaned toward her. She could stop it, but nothing in her wanted to. Whatever regret might come, it was worth this moment. His warm lips touched hers in a gentle brush that sent the pit of her stomach swirling. One moment he was behind her, and in the next instant, he was standing in front of her, pushing gently between her thighs while his hands slid into her hair to cradle her head.

He tilted her head back ever so gently as his lips came to hers once more. This time, the kiss held more pressure, but it was slow and drugging, and caused need to sing through her veins. As his demanding lips began to caress hers, she was shocked by her response. For someone who had believed for years that she did not want or need a man in her life, every argument she'd whispered to herself, along with the warning of her mother, crumbled under his gentle touch.

Her lips went between his with each tug and nip, and sensations she'd never experienced burst to life within her. Heat flamed at her core and coursed through her veins to her breasts, her heart, her head. She ran her hands up his solid arms as he kissed her, then traced his tongue along the crease of her lips, asking without words for her to open her mouth for him. She did, and when his tongue met hers, and they twined and tasted, she could no more have stopped the moan that escaped her than she could quit breathing.

She left his arms to splay her hands over the wall of his chest, and beneath her fingertips, his heart pounded a hard rhythm that made her gasp. His lips left her mouth to trail fiery kisses down one side of her neck, across her collarbone, then up the other side of her neck to find her mouth once more. This time, she parted her lips without his having to ask, and she tugged him closer to her, even as her leg protested the movement.

Their kiss went from one of control to one of wild, frenzied, devouring kisses. Her lips throbbed, her core throbbed, and she felt certain in that moment that she would expire if she did not get some release, so when his hand fell to her breast and he rubbed his thumb over her hard nub, she nearly came off the table at the exquisite pleasure it caused. But then the door creaked, and they were apart as fast as they had come together, except now they both panted and stared at each other with a look of knowing that no matter what happened in the future, there was this one moment, this one extraordinary kiss that would tether them together for life.

"Da?" came Beatie's voice.

"Sorcha?" came Hew.

Sorcha's gaze clashed with Alasdair's, which was equal parts desire and panic. He stood to the left of her now, his hair disheveled and his breathing still labored enough that she could see each rise and fall of his very muscular chest.

"Just here, Beatie and Hew," Sorcha responded, because Alasdair didn't appear that he was going to. He gave his head a little shake, like a clearing of the cobwebs, just as Beatie appeared in the room holding a wine skin with Hew behind her.

She entered the room, eyes wide, and her forehead puckered with worry. "I brought the wine," she said, holding up the wine skin as she walked toward the table. She held it out to Sorcha. "Are ye going to die?"

"Aye, are ye?" Hew asked.

"Nay," Sorcha assured them as she took the wine skin, opened it, and tipped it up. The liquid slid down her throat, relaxing her. She drank more heartily than she would normally, but between the wound on her leg and the kiss, she needed to settle her nerves. When she was finished, she started to secure the wine skin again, but Alasdair took it from her and took a full drink himself. When he was done and he had lowered the wine skin, their eyes locked and a knowing look passed between them. Apparently, he needed to settle his nerves as well.

The thought made Sorcha smile. That she could rouse his desire made her warm, and as their gazes held and her heart squeezed, she sucked in a sharp breath when a new feeling invaded her: affection. She liked him a great deal. Actually, she suspected she more than liked him. She had developed a deep affection for him in the short time she'd known him.

He'd opened her eyes and shown her that not all men were created the same, and he had given her hope for a future she'd long ago shelved. But was it foolish hope? She was about to be taken to a stranger to wed, but what if... what if Alasdair changed his mind? What if he decided he wished to keep her here? Keep her as his? The idea was very appealing. She tried on his name in her mind. Lady Sorcha MacLachlan.

Oh, she was a featherbrain! Sharing one kiss—albeit a very passionate one—did not mean anything had changed. Except for her, it had. She didn't want him to take her to wed Laird Campbell, and it wasn't simply because she didn't know him. She wanted him to want her to stay. She was, she realized, now desiring the sort of love and devotion it would take a man six years to recover from losing. She wanted the sort of love he'd had for his wife.

"What are the two of ye doing?" Beatie asked.

Startled, Sorcha looked to Alasdair, who appeared just as uncertain about what to say as she felt.

"With the bottles," Beatie added.

Sorcha let out a sigh of relief and saw that Alasdair did as well.

"Well, yer da put lint on my cut to stop the bleeding. Now he'll remove the lint and put on honey to heal it, and then he'll add a layer of animal grease to protect the cut from getting dirty again."

"Can I help?" Hew asked.

"Me, too!" Beatie.

"Ye can watch," Alasdair responded before Sorcha could.

As Sorcha once again pulled up her skirts to reveal her cut, Beatie said, "Da, how do ye ken healing ways?"

His surprised chuckle made Sorcha smile. "I dunnae ken them, Beatie. Sorcha does."

"How do ye ken them?" Hew asked her.

"My mama taught me some of it," Sorcha responded. "I have lovely memories of looking for healing herbs with her in the woods near our home." She gave a wistful sigh.

"I dunnae have any memories of my mama," Beatie said, her voice dropping low.

Sorcha wasn't surprised that Alasdair had avoided speaking of his deceased wife with his children, but she also knew speaking of her would help him heal, so when he looked like he was going to refuse his daughter's silent plea, she said, "Now would be a perfect time for yer da to tell ye some stories. It would aid me tremendously in keeping my mind off what he's doing." Her breath caught in hopes that she had not gone too far, so when amusement danced in the eyes that met hers, she released it.

"Yer mama taught me to swim," he said as he picked the lint from Sorcha's cut. She gritted her teeth against the pain, not wanting to interrupt his story, and she looked to him. A small smile turned up his lips, and it did not appear to be one of sadness but the sort that came along with a fond memory.

"Ye could nae swim?" Beatie asked eagerly.

Alasdair shook his head. "Nay, I could nae. I was scairt of the water because my cousin Looki told me creatures dwelled in it. So, yer mama told me she would nae allow me to kiss her until I conquered my fear, and then she helped me to do so." As he spoke to Beatie and Hew and told them the story of going to the loch every day with Mariot, Sorcha pictured the scene of this small woman teaching the brawny warrior to swim. She didn't feel that same slither of jealousy she had before, just a deep longing to have stories with someone she loved that she could one day share with her own children.

"What did ye do when ye could nae find her?" Hew demanded loudly, interrupting Sorcha's silent musings.

Sorcha glanced down at her leg, surprised to see it slathered with the animal grease and honey. Alasdair's touch had been so light and his rich voice so deep and soothing that she had not even noticed her pain. Alasdair was staring down at Beatie and Hew, and he bent over suddenly, scooped them both up, and looked directly at them. "I searched all night, and when I learned that Laird Duncan had taken her, I gathered all my warriors and went to wage battle."

"Against the Duncan clan?" Sorcha exclaimed, now caught up in the story. They were one of the largest clans there was and well-known for the ruthless, dishonorable way they fought.

"Aye," Alasdair said, his intense blue gaze meeting hers.

"Da would have risked everything for Mama!" Beatie exclaimed.

"That's right, Beatie," Alasdair replied, kissing his daughter's forehead. "I would have given my life for yer mama's."

"But the gods are nae ready for ye, Da," Beatie said with conviction. "They were ready for Mama because her purpose here was done."

Sorcha could see a faint sheen in his eyes, so that she knew he was struggling to hold back emotion. "And what do ye think her purpose was?" he asked.

Beatie tilted her head in silent thought for a moment. "Well," she finally said, "to give life to Hew and me, of course. Oh, and to teach ye to swim so ye'd nae drown."

Sorcha and Alasdair chuckled at that.

"Also," Hew said as Alasdair set them both on their feet, "to find a good mama for Hew and me. One who has red hair and blue sparkly eyes."

Sorcha stilled at those words, as did Alasdair, who stood suspended, halfway crouched still from setting his children down. A blush heated Sorcha's cheeks as he stood, his focus still on his son.

"The gods told ye this, did they?" he asked, standing all the way up.

Hew scoffed. "Dunnae be silly, Da! We figured it out on our own," he said with a grin.

Alasdair grunted at that. "I see," he finally said.

"Do ye want to be our mama?" Beatie suddenly asked.

Just then the nooning horn sounded, saving Sorcha from having to fumble through an answer. Beatie gave an excited yelp and scrambled toward the door, looking back at the last minute before exiting the room. "May I be excused? I'm famished and Cook promised to make a mince pie for me and Hew."

"Mince pie!" Hew squealed and ran after his sister.

The room fell silent as the children left and the horn stopped. Sorcha found herself staring at the back of Alasdair's head of dark hair as he was looking at the door Beatie and Hew had gone through. Sorcha knew he was probably not turning around because he didn't know what to say to her after what his daughter had asked, so she decided to make it easy for him so he'd not worry about injuring her feelings.

"Children," she said slowly, searching for the right words, "fixate easily on whomever is in front of them and has shown them interest," she said as Alasdair turned toward her.

She was going to say more, but the heartrending tenderness in Alasdair's eyes stole her breath and her words. He stepped toward her, closing the distance between them, and her heart pounded hard in her chest. He raised his hand and tucked back a strand of her hair. "I am wishing," he said slowly, his voice deep and silk-lined, "that I will hear news that yer betrothed is nae worthy of ye, and I am wishing that Calan takes his time returning so I will have more time with ye."

The joy she felt warmed her all over. She swallowed the emotions clogging her throat. It wasn't a declaration that he'd die for her, scour the ends of the Earth for her, give up everything for her, but it was the perfect declaration for now. "I'm wishing that, too," she admitted.

A slow, triumphant smile turned up the corners of his lips as he stepped even closer. His warmth invaded her, and his manly scent surrounded her. "Ye have awakened me, Sorcha. Ye have awakened me when I thought I'd sleep forever."

His words, the awe in his voice, made her heart ache. "And ye," she said, her words coming out husky, "ye have stirred a longing in me for things I had believed impossible."

They both fell silent, staring at each other. Was he wondering, as she was, what was possible for them? Was there any sort of future? She did not want to ask him to give up his means of saving his clan, and if he offered it, could she take it and stay with him, knowing he was putting his clan, his children, in continued jeopardy? She didn't have answers yet, but after the time she had spent with him and what had already been revealed to her, she felt certain answers would come. She prayed they were the ones she wanted.

There was nothing she could do in this moment but lower her guard, open herself up, and pray for the best. She might come away with a shattered heart, but a shattered heart was infinitely better, she now realized, than one that had never been warmed by desire, by longing, and, she felt certain, by love.

So she rose on her tiptoes and wound her arms around his neck. He, in turn, put his hands on her hips as he tilted his face down to look at her. "We kinnae ken what fate has in store for us," she whispered. "But we have here and now, so let us nae waste the time."

He answered her by claiming her mouth for a ravishing kiss. There was nothing slow or gentle about this one. There was an urgency of two people who knew they may be living on borrowed time. Their tongues tangled and retreated, and did so again before he moved on to tracing the fullness of her lips with his tongue. Fire began to spread through her, leaping from her heart to her breasts to her loins. His hands moved from her waist to her bottom, and he was lifting her off her feet when the door slammed open.

He jerked away from her, and she from him, and they both turned to see Esmerelda standing there. The look that passed quickly over her features was unmistakable disgust. Alasdair jerked at the look so she knew he saw it as well. Esmerelda saw his reaction to her also, if her flinching was any indication. She flicked her gaze to Sorcha, and for one breath, Sorcha could have sworn hatred danced in the woman's eyes. But then a resigned, sad look came over her.

"I supposed it was inevitable that ye would forget Mariot," the woman said before turning and leaving the room.

The arrow of guilt was well aimed and fired. It struck Alasdair, if Sorcha had to guess, straight in the heart. He stepped back from her, tugged a hand through his hair, and said, "I'm sorry for her words."

Whether he was apologizing to her for Esmerelda or for withdrawing, she did not know. She opened her mouth to ask when a rap came at the door. "Laird, 'tis Ewan. Ye are needed on the training field."

The look of relief that came over him was the answer to the question she'd not yet voiced. He wanted to escape her. Mayhap even if she could remain here, his guilt for wanting again would always live between them and keep them apart. That was not the sort of husband she desired. Now that she knew she did indeed want a husband, she wanted no less than the sort of love that was consuming, unwavering, and unconquerable even by death.