A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,83
stubbly cheek.
“You’re a wonderful, wonderful man.” Fiona clasped his arm while Padruig peered down at her, his gaze softening. “Thank you.”
Chapter Eight
Stuart escorted Fiona up the stairs to the private chamber where Gair had retreated with Tavin—he could hear Tavin yelling all the way—to find that Gair had done a competent job of bandaging Tavin’s arm.
Fiona studied Gair’s work, ran skilled fingers over the splint, and nodded. “’Tis well done. You’ll heal fine, cousin, so cease your wailing. Broc has kindly allowed you to stay the night, but you’ll be off in the morning.”
Stuart did not like the idea of Tavin spending one more evening in this house—what would he get up to, even injured? But Fiona, smiling sweetly, gave Tavin a thick liquid to drink, explaining it would ease his pain.
It must have eased it quite a lot, because after Tavin downed it, he slumped onto his brother, who reposed worriedly on the edge of the bed, and fell fast asleep. Gair, chuckling, retreated from the chamber and went back downstairs.
After a moment, they heard Gair’s voice rise from below. “What? Ye bastard, ye dragged me across frozen Scotland and nearly got me shot and ye had the bloody sgian dubh all along?”
“Shut it.” Padruig’s growl made Gair’s bluster fade. “The whisky’s good.”
Gair trailed off into mutters, and Fiona smothered a laugh.
She rose, but her legs immediately folded, as though she’d drunk the potion she’d given Tavin.
Stuart caught her. “You’re all in, love. Come with me.”
With a curt good-night to Neilan, Stuart half-guided, half-carried Fiona up the next flight of steps to the rooms two floors above the hall. Here Broc and Fiona had their private chambers, spacious quarters high in the tower. The view, Stuart recalled, over the glens and to the mountains beyond, was worth the steep climb.
The vista was hidden by darkness now, the windows black. Stuart had been inside Fiona’s sitting room before, and had kissed her in it, but he’d never ventured into the room beyond that, her bedchamber.
He took her there now, and Fiona did not stop him. The chamber held a tall bedstead with delicate posts—very modern—as well as brocade-upholstered chairs, a bookshelf filled with leather-bound tomes, a soft carpet, and hangings and paintings on the stone walls. Fiona had taken a cold room in an ancient stone castle and made it comfortable.
The fire had been lit, its small heat already permeating the room. Someone had turned down the bed as well, and Stuart saw the lump of heated bricks at the foot of it. The efficient Una, he guessed, looking after her mistress while the men brawled at the supper table.
Stuart shut the bedchamber door one-handed and clicked the key in the lock. “Lass.”
Fiona turned in his arms, lacing hers around him. “Stuart.”
Silence surrounded them as Stuart kissed her. Their lips met, parted, met again. Fiona loosened in his arms, her strength returning. She rested her hands on his back, and as he kissed her, she inched her touch down to his hips.
Stuart broke the kiss. “Lass.” This time the word was tinged with laughter.
“I missed you.” Fiona pulled him close. “I feared you gone forever.”
“Nay.” Stuart kissed her cheek, her throat. “I knew I had to live, to be free. To see my love again.”
“Love?” The word warmed his ear.
“Aye.” Stuart raised his head and cupped her face. “I love you, Fiona.”
Fiona’s answer was an unintelligible gargle as she launched herself at him. Her next kiss burned, her lips parting his. Stuart started when she suckled his tongue, then he deepened the kiss, letting her do what she would.
They were betrothed, in front of witnesses. No matter it hadn’t yet been proclaimed to the world or announced at the nearest kirk. Fiona was his, and Stuart belonged to her.
Stuart slid off his coat, glad to be done with its weight. He unlaced Fiona’s stomacher and eased her bodice open. Both of them wore many layers of clothing against the cold, and they came off one by one, the two of them starting to laugh as they unbuckled, unbuttoned, and untied endless garments.
Finally they stood together near the heat of the fire, body to body, nothing between them. Fiona traced his cheek.
“I love you, Stuart Cameron. Thank you for coming back to me.”
“Ah, lass, I couldn’t have stayed away from ye.”
The next kiss erased all past sorrows. Stuart ran his hands down Fiona’s pliant body, rejoicing in the silken smoothness of her skin.