Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

K endrick could feel his manhood fighting its way out of his kilt as he slid his finger in and out of her. The warmness, the wetness, the softness of her; the way her throat opened in delicate moans to respond to every thrust of his fingers. His world. Her face in the light mesmerized him beyond comprehension. He wanted to take every piece of her for his own. He slid his finger in one, deep, final thrust then pulled it out. She quivered; her body was begging to be filled by him, but it was not time—not yet.

He drew her own finger down, his atop hers, teaching her how to touch herself.

"Right there, like that," he said, and he removed his finger to observe her. Indeed, she was a good student, following the rhythm of his strokes.

The skin on her cheeks turned pink. He could tell that she was shy. He would be sure to drink that innocence dry until she was drenched in sin.

He would make love to her until her screams filled the den.

Under the fluttering light of the fire, she appeared like a goddess; her pale skin taking on the color of the flames. Her hair had fallen around her face, running down her breasts, atop which sat her hungry nipples.

She moaned—a sweet groan that tickled every part of him. Kendrick knew that, if he let her, she would finish right there and then. He grabbed her hand away from the pink bud between her legs, growing drunk from the flames in her eyes. They were begging for him, pleading for every bit of him…

Gently, he grabbed her and lowered her down onto the cot, unbelted his kilt, letting it fall to the ground. Her brown eyes widened at the sight of his cock. She reached down, curiously, stroking it. Next, she wrapped her hand around it and looked up at him. She was asking for permission, and he'd let her explore him. She continued to massage his shaft, clumsily but eagerly, letting out tiny, pleased sounds as Kendrick reacted to her touch.

He could not hold back a warrior's groan as she ran her fingers over its head.

When he could no longer bear the touch of her, he raised her up, and flipped her around, but Sophia had plans of her own. She resisted, turning him back on the cot instead. She straddled him, riding him like a steed into battle. Kendrick put a hand between her legs, the other hand exploring her bosom. He was doing careless things to her. When her walls tensed around him, he effortlessly flipped her back onto the cot.

"Come for me," he heard himself whisper, and then he drove into her hard . She was obedient—aye, she was. A few strokes in, and she started trembling, her guttural scream filling the cave just like he had promised. He was not left behind, a surge of satisfaction bursting through him.

When all was done, he collapsed on the bed beside her.

"Sophia…" he breathed, drawing her in close. "I want ye to return to the castle with me. I want… to marry ye."

He waited for a response. When none came, he thought she must have fallen asleep. He turned to cover her with his plaid, but there she was, fully awake, staring at the burning fire.

"Sophia, did ye—"

"I am sorry," she rose up from the bed gingerly. "I cannae marry ye. I cannae return to the castle." She started putting on her garments.

"Why?" He sprung up to stand behind her. "Catherine is nae carrying my bairn—it was all a lie."

"Because ye did nae trust me enough to tell me. Ye looked me in the eye and made a promise ye couldn't even keep." Her eyes glittered with tears. "This was a mistake."

"Sophia…" He could hear his voice soften. "I am sorry—I swear, I will be better. I promise it."

"Did ye even care for me? Really?" Her eyes bore down on his own. "Or did ye want to marry me just so ye could remain laird?"

Her question struck at his heart, just like his sword had driven into the chests of the Munro warriors the day before. "Sophia, how can ye even think I dinnae care for ye?"

" How can I nae ?" she retorted. "Ye took yer maidservant as yer mistress! Ye proposed to my sister! Ye did nae even think to gift me a brooch while we were betrothed, did nae talk to me either."

"I was going to give ye one after—"

"That morning, I was coming to give ye one. Did ye nae see it with my letter?"

"Truly, I did nae. I swear it… I need ye, Sophia."

"Ye had yer chance. Truly, ye did. I gave ye a chance, but ye tossed it aside like a caber in a game." Tears were dripping down her face. "It ends here—everything. I am so tired of ye, Kendrick. First, ye avoided me for years. Then, when I thought we were starting to get along again, ye made a promise—a promise ye broke as quickly as ye made it." She hung her head back as if it could stop the tears that were already swimming down her face.

"Nae, Sophia…" His voice was low with remorse. "I understand ye."

How could he not? After all, he was the son of a man who had killed his own wife. He started to think that he had truly become the same as his father: hurting deeply the one he loved.

"Yer right—we should end this here."

She blinked. "Kendrick—"

Those sad, dark eyes of hers—it almost looked like she was feeling pity for him. He hated the idea. It was evident her mind was made up, and so was his.

He would truly stay away from her this time.

Aye, that's the right thing to do. I must let her go this time… I dinnae deserve her.

After putting on his own clothes, he made to leave but soft hands wrapped him tightly from behind. She was crying.

"Just this once Kendrick… let me hold ye this one last time."

He could not refuse her; he would try anything to quiet his sadness. Together, they stood crying until the fire that gave light to the cave fell dark.

Kendrick's boots clicked ever so slowly against the ground as he walked the path up the hill. He had left his horse further down. Smells of fresh grass quieted his sadness for a moment. He came to a halt when he reached a certain gravestone covered with wildflowers. On the gravestone, there was an inscription:

Lady Anne of clan MacNeil;

Beloved wife of Laird MacNeil

Kendrick's legs felt shaky, the weight of his body too much for them to bear. He knelt before the grave of his beloved mother. He closed his eyes, trying to recall her face but all that came to mind were the events of that night.

Her wrists were twisted. Her bones pushed through her skin. Her bright blue eyes had darkened with death, and her skin was ghostly white.

He tried to imagine her alive, with her dark, wavy hair tied back and dressed in a beautiful, silken gown...

But there was nothing, nothing at all—not even a faint image of her in that form appeared. The sweetness of her smile had died with her that night. Only her corpse remained—the one that haunted him every night. He opened his eyes, settling on the overgrowth around her stone.

"Mother," he whispered, "How have ye been?" He pulled some of the weeds away. "I must apologize for abandoning ye here, all by yerself. I haven't been a good son, have I now?"

His throat turned dry, and he swallowed then let the words flow freely. "I must confess to ye, for I still haven't been able to get anything right. Every passing day, I become more and more like him."

Clearing the gravesite, he pulled at a thorned plant, and it sliced through his fingers. Anguished, he could hear himself roaring at the skies. Perhaps it was the pain from the cut on his finger. Perhaps it was something more than that. Either way, it was unbearable.

A chilly wind swept up, whipping mercilessly against the hill. A flock of birds flew overhead, mocking his torment with the freedom of their flight.

It was only when the night fell on the corners of the earth that Kendrick somehow found the strength to move. He got to his feet and bowed before his mother's grave.

I will be different from Father. I will find a bonny lass and marry. She will never be like Sophia, nae. I will nae love her, but I will take care of her until I join ye up there. That way, I'll keep Sophia safe. I promise ye that.

With one last glance at the stone, he walked his way back to his horse.

"Where is my uncle?" he asked as soon as he entered the great hall. All the servants inside lowered their heads to him. The table was set for dinner, with nothing that could stir his appetite. The servants didn't seem to have heard him; their gazes were all fixed on their own feet causing Kendrick to grow suspicious. "What is wrong?"

Reed emerged into the great hall with as sour an expression as the servants on his face. "Milaird!" He was panting. It was obvious he had been running.

"What happened?"

"Catherine! She… she went to clan Munro."

Today must somehow have been cursed , he thought. He had lost Sophia forever, and now, there was news that Catherine had found refuge in Munro's clan. He knew it was not only refuge she sought but revenge .

"When did this happen?"

"Just this evening."

"And my uncle?"

"He is not aware. He left for his own home almost as soon as you did," Reed sighed, and Kendrick pulled a chair and sat. "I heard ye went to the Gibson manor."

Kendrick nodded. "I did."

"How did it go? Will she return?"

Kendrick dipped his head. "She will nae return. Her mind has been made up."

"What do ye hope to do? The council grows anxious..."

"There are many other lasses in the Highlands. I'll settle with one of them."

"And Sophia?"

"What about her?"

"How will she cope with everything that has happened?"

"Listen, Reed—I cannae force her to marry me. I am certain she'll be well." He got himself up from the chair. "Help yerself to some dinner, if ye wish."

"How about ye?"

"I have had a long day. I'm too exhausted to eat." Kendrick turned to one of the servants. "Ask the healer to fetch me something to sleep."

Kendrick freed himself from his clothing as soon as he arrived in his chamber. Wearing only his breeches, he collapsed into his bed and withdrew his father's brooch from under his pillow. He touched it over in the same way he always did.

"Milaird, I've brought what ye requested," a footman announced from outside.

"Bring it in."

The servant entered, handed the small while container to Kendrick. And after a second more, he was gone.

Kendrick opened the container. A light grey powder lay within. He found the odor repellent, but if he were to get a chance at sleeping that night, he would have to push aside his reluctance.

He dipped his finger into the powder and then into his tongue. Kendrick found its bitter taste strangely satisfying, for every lick of his finger vanquished the pain in his heart. He dipped and licked, over and over, until his eyes started spinning around his head, cloudy and light. One final taste, and he drifted into darkness.

A thud accompanied by a scream woke six-year-old Kendrick from sleep. He took the stairs two at a time and caught the shadow of a man leave his father's study. He ran right into the room, his little, bare feet tapping against the stone.

"Ma?"

He lowered himself to his mother's motionless body. He shook her violently until her palms opened to reveal his father's brooch.

Da said strong lads don't cry.

"Kendrick," his father's low voice called from behind, "What are ye—"

His father froze, taken aback.

" Anne ?" He fell to the floor, soaking his knees and night shirt in his wife's pooling blood, tapping her cheeks as if to wake her. "Anne, wake up! Wake up," he was shouting at the top of his voice. Then he turned to Kendrick. "What happened? Who did this to yer mother? Tell me, son!" he roared.

Kendrick was cold all over, terror seizing his heart at the darkness in his father's eyes, at the coldness that was embracing his mother. He held tightly onto the brooch he had found her holding as his father shook him.

His father stilled his breathing. "Ken, we… we must get ye out. Close yer eyes! Let's go, son." The Laird lifted himself from the pond of blood and placed Kendrick over his shoulder. They started out of the study.

When they reached the staircase, Kendrick swore he saw the same dark figure at the end of the hall. He could make out the shape of a very familiar face from the silhouette that was hiding itself there.

His uncle.

Logan.