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AT THE LAIRD’S COMMAND
A Sword and Thistle Novella
Laurel Adams
~~~
Laird John Macrea had three problems.
The first was that he was in love with an entirely unsuitable woman. The second was that his castle was besieged. And the third was that he couldn’t stop thinking about the first problem long enough to solve the second.
As for the siege—well, he’d trusted too much that allies would come swiftly to his aid. It was often jested that the Macrae clan served as the coat of mail for the more powerful Mackenzies; John had trusted the Mackenzies would return the favor if ever the castle at Eilean Donan should be under siege.
But the siege had lasted on past Christmastide with no word of reinforcement and the situation was bleak. The enemy was demanding his clan’s surrender, generally.
And his head, specifically.
The laird wanted to keep his head, for all the usual reasons, but also because he’d need it to defend the unsuitable woman that he loved. A woman he had, in fact, made unsuitable. She’d been a simple highland lass, the wholesome daughter of a crofter. Heather was her name. And he’d wanted her from the first flower of her womanhood. With raven hair and enchanting violet eyes, she had seemed to him the sweetest, most innocent, most pure thing in God’s creation. And given the very impure nature of the his desire—a desire that manifested itself in a much darker way than with most men—he’d never intended to lay a finger upon her.
No. Tender-hearted virgins without lands or powerful fathers were not for the likes of Laird John Macrae. The needs of his body were meant to be sated in bawdy houses where brothel girls weren’t likely to
be shocked by his rough ways. The needs of his line were meant to be satisfied, only if necessary, with a marriage for political alliance. And the needs of his heart—well, he’d told himself that he didn’t have a heart.
He’d convinced most of the clan of it as well.
He believed it too, until Heather…
“Can’t you sleep?” she asked, groggily, from the bed beside him, daring to take the liberty of stroking his cheek. God, but he loved the feel of her touch. The warmth of her long, slender fingers upon his cool cheek both soothed him and stirred his ardor.
“Just a bit restless is all,” he confessed, for there was nothing worse to make a man restless than being caged up in a castle defending against a siege. The waiting—constant waiting to see what the enemy would do next—was enough to drive a man mad. “But don’t trouble yourself about it, lass. I’ll drift off beside you soon enough.”
“Are you certain?” she asked, her voice sweetly soft in the dark. “You said—you said once that you don’t sleep easily with someone beside you. I can go to my own chamber. I should hate to be the reason for you to lose sleep, my laird.”
She was the reason he was restless, though not because she was spending the night in his bed, and it pained him to have her think otherwise. “Stay,” he said, turning to kiss her palm, which had picked up the scent of lavender from the linens.
Stay and never leave my bed.
Never leave my side.
Stay with me and be mine for all your days.
These things he could not say to her, of course. But he could not stop thinking them, either.
“Are you cold?” she asked, curving her body tighter against his side and bringing the blanket with her. The gesture was meant only bring him warmth against the winter, but it actually filled him with heat. With only her thin nightclothes between them, he felt the brush of her pillowy breasts against his ribs, the tickle of her womanly thatch against his hip.
He growled a bit in response. “No, not cold. Not anymore, anyway. You always warm me up nicely, lass.”
She laughed, softly. “As it happens, I might know of a way to cure your restlessness, too.”
He turned upon his pillow to face her. “Do you now?” he asked, with interest, in spite of himself.
“Oh, you’ve taught me many things…but I’ve some ideas of my own.”
He tried not to betray his anxiety about what her ideas might entail. The laird was a man who knew exactly what he liked when it came to sexual pleasure. He didn’t take suggestions. And yet, this girl—this surprising girl who had opened herself freely to his every depraved desire—made him wonder. “What ideas might those be, lass?”
He heard her swallow. Was she nervous? That made him even more curious.
“I—I have a gift for you,” she finally said.
