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Kenna slid off Erebus and ran down to the water’s edge, delighting in the tireless swoop of swallows rushing back and forth from their muddy nest, tucked under the bridge. Conall tethered the horse and went back to her where she stood, face upturned to the sun, eyes closed, and hair swaying over her back. Perhaps he should leave her be, all calm and peaceful and happy in the sunshine but he could not. He went up behind her and circled his arm around her waist, nuzzling his head into the nape of her neck. Breathing in the scent of her, he thought, ‘This must be what sunlight smells like.’ The need rose in him so he took her hand and led her under the bridge.
It was cooler in the shadows and all he could do was kiss her over and over with the rushing of the river echoing against the stone. The look in her beautiful blue eyes made him catch his breath. He pushed her up against the wall. ‘Kenna, give yourself to me.’
In reply she kissed him hard and pushed her hands into his shirt where it gaped at the neck, stroking his chest. Conall raised her skirts and put his hand on her, just where she liked it and Kenna gave a little moan of pleasure and closed her eyes.
‘No, look at me, Kenna. I want to see the expression in your eyes when I take you. I need to know you belong to me now, me and only me.’
‘Of course, I do. You know I do.’
‘Then you can prove it.’
His mouth claimed hers and he pulled down her bodice and stroked her perfect sweet breasts. He looked down at them and laughed. They were kissed with a yellow shimmer where the pollen had fallen from his hand to her skin. He bent and licked it off in smooth hard strokes of his tongue which made her wriggle and groan. She was all softness and summer sweetness. He was so swollen and hard now he could not delay and grabbed her tightly, taking his fill of her quick and hard. Her head fell back against the brick and as Kenna gasped his name to the river, he knew she was completely his and always would be.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The next day Kenna was all alone. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, and the air had become heavy by the time Kenna had walked down to the loch’s edge. It took her mind off missing Conall, who had ridden out at first light.
Rory had suggested going hunting and seemed keen to get out of Dunslair. He had a willing companion in Murray, who had jumped at the chance.
‘A nice bit of freedom,’ he had exclaimed, ‘before I have to return to Cailleach and all that fussing and mewling and women telling me I am in the way.’
Duncan had gone along too, with a big party of over-excited clansmen, and the castle seemed empty without their masculine, booming voices about the place. Kenna couldn’t wait for them to return so they could all go to Dunslair to see the new baby, though she did have some apprehension at meeting Conall’s mother, for Ailsa Campbell was reputed to be very beautiful and clever. Kenna hoped she would not be disappointed by her new daughter-in-law.
Kenna looked out over the water, which was becoming choppy in the rising wind. Far along the loch, she spotted Monnine sitting hunched on the grassy shore, with her knees pulled into her chest, head down on them, a tight ball of misery. Kenna hurried off to see if she was alright.
When she called out, Monnine sat up with a start. She was always a bit jumpy, but the misery in her red and puffy eyes seemed beyond the usual.
‘Monnine, is something amiss? A storm is blowing in. We should get inside.’
She looked away at the dark water. ‘It is more than a storm, Kenna. For days now, I have felt something hanging over me, like a black cloud, something dreadful.’
‘Is it the sight?’
‘Maybe, but there’s something else too. Rory Campbell has asked for my hand, a laird no less. He says he wants me to be his wife, to protect me from being married off again. My father is sniffing about trying to find a man willing to take a woman who is barren and no longer a virgin.’
Kenna was appalled by the bitterness in Monnine’s voice. ‘Can your father do that?’
‘I don’t know, but it would seem my situation is now a little like yours. I must marry one man for protection from all the others.’
‘Rory is not like all the others, as you well know. Do you not care for him then?’
Monnine sighed. ‘He barely knows me.’
‘He knows you well enough to see your qualities even though you do not see them yourself. Rory is a fine-looking man. I like his face, it is rugged, strong, and I’ve seen in his eyes such kindness. Most women would kill for such a husband, and if he is offering his hand in marriage, it is because he would do right by you. I am sure he would never compel you to accept it.’
‘Rory honours me by asking, but I just can’t see a future with him. I have been sitting here for hours, but I have not seen it.’
‘Because you don’t want him?’
‘I do want him. I want to be his wife. It is more than I could ever hope for. I have felt safe with him these last months, and I have found happiness here at Dunslair, but Kenna, now there is desire in Rory’s eyes and a need on his face when he looks at me.’
‘And that is bad?’
‘Sometimes, I have let myself think of him in that way. I imagine him kissing me. I think of us sharing his bed. Just the other day, I looked down at his hands and thought of what it would be like to feel them on my body, holding me, caressing me.’ Monnine shuddered.
‘It repulses you?’
‘It thrills me, and it terrifies me.’ Monnine looked her square in the eye, and her words were bleak and angry. ‘My other husbands ruined me, Kenna. The first was gentle enough but pious. He wanted a woman to be pure and godly and obedient, so we made love to please him and produce a child. My feelings did not matter. At first, lying with a man was a bit shocking but, well, after a while, I got used to it, and sometimes it felt nice. But when I moved against him or made any sound, he would put his hand over my mouth and say, ‘Be quiet, be still, stop squirming and moaning like a common whore.’ So I would become a statue, looking up at the ceiling and just lying there while he used me. When I could not get with child, he would have me more frequently, and it was worse. It became a chore to him, something to get over with at the end of a day’s work, something tiresome, cold, pointless.’
