"Ye’ll simply have to ride wet, my lord," she mocked him, disappearing into the greenery to come face-to-face with the startled Nelly. "Quick!" she said, "Give me my chemise, lass!" She flung off her cloak, slipped on the chemise, and drew the cloak back about her shoulders.
"What have ye done to him?" Nelly asked, hearing a string of colorful oaths from the beach behind them. "He sounds as if he would kill ye if he could but get his hands about yer neck, my lady."
"I just gave the bastard a taste of his own medicine." Fiona laughed. "I pushed him in the loch, and he's verra wet, I fear. Offer to dry his kilt for him, will ye, Nelly? I don't want to kill him-at least not yet." She smiled. She might not like the task the king had set her to, but there was no reason she couldn't have a little fun while she was about it.
Reaching the comfort of the fire, she gratefully accepted a plate of oatcakes from Roderick Dhu. When he handed her a steaming cup, she looked surprised. "What is it?"
"A wee bit of wine mixed with water and heated in the fire, my lady. Ye must be chilled after yer swim," he told her, the ghost of a smile hovering about his lips.
"Ye had better fix a similar draught for yer master," Fiona said sweetly. "I fear he, too, fell in the loch." She turned away, sipping the heated drink thankfully, for it was strong, and set her blood to warming beneath her cloak.
She sat herself on a small outcropping of rock, daintily eating the oatcakes and sipping her wine, Nelly beside her. Colin MacDonald came grimly into the clearing, taking the cup of hot wine from Roderick Dhu. He was soaking wet, his hair hanging lankly about his shoulders, the droplets sluicing off his kilt. He drank the wine down in several gulps, accepted his portion of oatcakes, and ate. He was stonily silent, speaking to no one.
Finally, when he had finished eating, Nelly dared to approach him. "If ye like, my lord, I'll dry yer garments by the fire with my mistress's."
"Aye," Nairn answered her, standing up. He beckoned to the two women. "Follow me," he said shortly. "Roderick Dhu, ye have the responsibility of Nelly's virtue until we reach Nairn."
"Aye, my lord," the clansman answered, looking menacingly at his companions.
Fiona and Nelly followed Nairn back to the little beach, where he stripped his garments off, heedless of Nelly's gasps and blushes. Handing them to the serving girl, he said, "Your mistress and I will sleep here tonight, lassie. Lay yourself next to Roderick Dhu. He will protect you."
Dismissed, Nelly hurried back to the campfire.
"We'll sleep wrapped in your cloak," The MacDonald told Fiona.
Mesmerized, she stared at his big, naked body. Everything was large, arms, legs, torso. His back and shoulders were very broad. His buttocks were rounded and tight. She was unable to prevent her gaze from dropping to the fiery red bush between his thighs from where his male member hung, a thick, pendulous length of pale flesh. Even chilled from the water of the loch, it was a formidable and impressive sight.
He pulled her chemise-clad form against his nudity, nuzzling her ear. "Fiona mine," he murmured, "do you know how very much I desire you? How difficult it is for me not to possess you?" His teeth gently worried her earlobe.
She could feel the maleness of him against her; she could tell how much he strained to curb his fierce lust. She swallowed hard, saying, "It really makes no difference to me when you effect your rape of my person."
"When we finally couple," he told her evenly, "you will be my wife."
"I will be unwilling nonetheless," she hissed at him.
"Truly?" he whispered, pulling her down to lie with him upon the sandy beach. "How old are you, Fiona Hay?"
"Seventeen this Lammastide past," she told him. "How old are ye, Colin MacDonald of Nairn?"
"Twenty-seven," he said. "Jesu, yer sweet," he said thickly, holding her ever so tightly against him. His hand smoothed slowly down her back. It swept over the curve of her buttocks again and again while he nuzzled into the tender curve of her back, murmuring unintelligibly. Then, suddenly, he sat up, drawing Fiona with him.
"Loosen yer hair, sweeting," he said low.
Fiona drew the pins from her tresses, unplaiting the braid and combing the dark locks with her slender fingers. "Does that suit ye, my lord of Nairn?" she queried him.
"Aye," he said, drawing her back down, taking a bit of her hair in his fingers and sniffing it. "Ye wash yer hair with heather soap," he noted. "When we return to Nairn, I shall take ye to Inverness one day and buy ye a silver comb, sweeting. Then ye shall sit by the fire in our hall on a winter's night and comb yer raven tresses. Ye must never cut yer hair, for it is beautiful. I watched the sun shining off it yesterday as we rode." Then, pressing her lightly back, he kissed her, softly at first, but with growing ardor that did nothing to mask his lust for her.
Fiona, curious, allowed herself to taste and savor him. He was not at all unpleasant, she discovered. She found herself unable to keep from yielding to those kisses, from kissing him back just a little before a wave of guilt overwhelmed her, and she tried to draw away from him.
He immediately sensed the first breach in her defenses, and pressed forward eagerly. The tip of his tongue ran along her lips. Fiona turned her head, but he instantly drew it back and repeated the gesture. She shivered, but whether from cold or her rising excitement, he was not certain, but her lips softened beneath his. He was able to push his tongue into the dark cavity of her mouth. Their tongues began to touch, and it was as if she had been struck by lightning. Fiona wanted to flee him but suddenly realized she could not.
His lips left hers and began to wander across her face. They sought her throat, feeling the pulse in the base of her neck beating a wild tattoo. He moved on to her chest, whispering to her, "Ye want this, sweeting. I can tell that yer own lust has been engaged."
"Nay! Nay!" she denied.
He laughed softly, his lips brushing the hillocks of her breasts. They were swollen with their longing, and as firm as two round apples. "No?" he mocked her, and his tongue licked teasingly at a nipple through the fine lawn of her chemise.
"Ohhh, don't do that!" she moaned, squirming nervously.
His mouth closed over the nipple, and he began to suckle upon her. Fiona's body arched up. Cradling her with one arm, he let his other hand caress her torso. Her skin was fiery to his touch. His mouth drew fiercely upon her flesh until her belly felt cramped and knotted. He moved to her other breast, and it was torture. Aching, sweet torture, and to think she had believed only Angus Gordon capable of such power over her. His long fingers slipped beneath the chemise, moving up between her nether lips. Finding her little jewel, he worried it and worried it until she was gasping with her own desire. How, she managed to think in a clear moment, could she work effectively for the king if she was filled with all this passion? She needed release, and this man offered her that release. Letting go of all her common sense, Fiona soared.
The sudden knowledge that she was yielding to him drove him onward. "Fiona mine!" He groaned into the softness of her perfumed hair.
The moon was risen now, lighting the waters of the loch, making dark shadows from their fair bodies lying upon the sandy beach. He reached for her hand. It felt small in his, but not helpless. He was proud that she was a strong woman. He drew her cloak over her and said only one word, "Sleep."
Colin MacDonald awoke to find Fiona swimming in the cold silver waters of the loch. He joined her, but neither spoke to the other. Nelly came along the beach with their garments. They dressed, returning to the campsite to eat the oatcakes and drink hot, watered-down wine again.