"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.

For the next few days they rode across the wilderness of Scotland, avoiding settlements. Finally they reached the west coast and crossed to the island of Jura. Here the land was very mountainous, and covered with deer forest. The island was bisected by Loch Tarbert. Finally they reached the far side of Jura facing upon Islay Sound, a narrow stretch of water. A small cockle was drawn up upon the shore.

Colin MacDonald directed two of his men to cross over and inform the Lord of the Isles that his brother of Nairn was waiting to pass over the water to Islay. The men were eagerly off, for this end of their journey meant hot food, good ale, and willing wenches.

"How will we cross?" Fiona asked.

"A barge will be sent for us and the horses," he told her. "Ye must ask permission, however, to enter my brother's domain. Islay has never been taken by strangers or our enemies, or even the Irish."

"Yer brother behaves as if he were king."

Colin MacDonald laughed. "He is a king, Fiona mine. The Lords of the Isles have always been kings. That is why James Stewart is so eager to have their fealty. The northern clans will not pledge to him without the approval of the Lord of the Isles."

"Scotland can only have one king," she wisely told him.

"This is not Scotland. These are the Isles," he explained patiently. "It has always been this way. It was only in the time of The Bruce that the Isles became of interest to the Scots kings. We prefer being left to our independence."

"But ye don't even live in the Isles."

"True, I live near Inverness on the opposite side of Scotland, but I am a MacDonald, sweeting," Nairn said proudly. "And from the time I was six I lived here on Islay with my father and my siblings. I visited my mother only once a year until I was sixteen. Then my father sent me back to Nairn so my grandsire might teach me to govern my own lands, small as they are." He smiled. "I was already a seasoned warrior, having earned my spurs at Harlaw fighting with my father and brothers. My father knew I was competent at sixteen to rule Nairn, though I did not inherit it until I was twenty, and my grandsire died."

She was amazed. He had been a mere lad of fourteen when he fought in one of the bloodiest battles in Scotland's history. And he had survived! "Ye loved yer father, didn't ye?" she asked softly.

"Aye, I did," he admitted to her. "I was fortunate to be here last year when he died. Almost all of his children were here. Donald MacDonald had a great heart. He loved all his offspring no matter which side of the blanket they were born on. His own mother was Princess Margaret, a daughter of King Robert II. She taught him kindness and duty to family, he always told me."

They walked along the beach, and the air from the sea was fresh and invigorating. Above them the gulls swooped and mewled raucously, scanning the waters below for food. As they gazed out to Islay, they could see a large flat-bottomed vessel making its way toward them.

"Fraoch Eilean!" They heard the cry.

Nairn grinned, and stamping down to the sea's edge, he cupped his big hands about his mouth and called out, "Fraoch Eilean!"

"What is it?" Fiona asked him, puzzled.

"What?"

"Fraoch Eilean. I know the words. It means 'the heathery isle,' but what does it signify?"

"It's the war cry of the MacDonalds of the Isles. My brother himself is coming to meet us!"

The barge was finally anchored in the shallows off Jura, and a ramp was lowered. A man leapt forth into the waves, wading ashore to join them. He was every bit as tall as Colin MacDonald, but his hair was a dark brown to match his eyes. He embraced Nairn warmly.

"So yer safely back," he said, sounding faintly relieved.


"Aye, and I've much to tell ye, my lord," Nairn replied.

"Let us to Islay, then, brother," Alexander MacDonald said, pausing when Fiona caught his eye. He smiled winningly at her, the look identical to Nairn's. "What have we here, Colly? Have ye brought me a wee giftie from Perth?" His look was both admiring and lustful as he took in the girl, who gazed boldly back at him.

"No, Alex, 'tis not a gift for ye that I have brought to Islay, but the lass I am to wed with. This is Fiona Hay. Sweeting, my brother, Alexander MacDonald, Lord of the Isles."

Fiona curtsied politely but said nothing.

"Ye can tell me of this on the way," The MacDonald of the Isles said, surprised.

The horses were led into the surf and up the ramp onto the barge. As the winds were light, the sea was relatively calm, and the journey was a gentle one. Nairn had warned her that it could also be rough, with waves crashing over the barge and soaking them. Fiona was thankful it was not that sort of day, since her wardrobe was scant and could take no more damage.

"So ye've finally found a woman who satisfies ye enough to wed," Alexander MacDonald said, sounding pleased. " 'Tis past time ye were married. I am three sons up on ye already, Colly."

"I stole her," Colin MacDonald said quietly.

"Ye stole her?" Alexander MacDonald laughed in delight. "I'm glad to see yer heart is all MacDonald, brother. 'Tis rare in these days that we steal our wives. Why was it necessary for ye to do so? Has she a hard-hearted guardian who could not see that young lovers will not be denied, and attempted to keep her from ye so he might wed her to some rich old lord? If that is the case, ye were wise to steal her."