A Gift of Myrrh

  A Gift of Myrrh

  Jodi Lynn Copeland

  Chapter One

  Scottish Highlands, 1746

  Tavish MacBain was going home, claiming the land and title he’d been deprived of these two and thirty years. And all because he’d had the misfortune of being born five minutes too late. Precious seconds that shaped his life for decades. Seconds that sent him away from his ancestral home and into the arms and bosom of the English.

  A brisk gust of wind whipped off the turbulent North Sea directly to his right. The frigidity that had overtaken the land, coating the rugged countryside with snow and ice, settled into his lungs and darted a shiver along his spine. He shook off the bitter chill and breathed in the salt air, thinking back to the few times he’d traversed this same narrow, winding path as a young lad.

  The memories were sketchy at best, and still he could sense how near he was to Castle Wynderon. Once he crested the top of this hill, the fortress’ twin turrets would stand tall and proud several hundred yards before him—they would if the soldiers had kept their word and harmed neither his land nor his people. If those villagers who’d remained in Scotland instead of seeking solace in the colonies had been slain, Tavish would be hard pressed not to go against his vow to the Crown and seek revenge.

  Not that he wanted to participate in treason. He wished only for the fighting to cease.

  There had been too much death these last years, hundreds upon thousands of good men brought down for little more than loyalty to their ruler. Too many of his friends—both Scottish and English—had fallen for their patriotism. While he couldn’t influence the will of King George II, he could do everything in his power to see the villagers of Landon were treated as humans and not the savage brutes so many deemed them.

  Tavish wasn’t foolish. He knew well his battle for respect, if not equality, from those who were now made to call him laird, would be a long, arduous one. It was the reason he’d turned off the village road and taken this rocky path to the Castle’s rear entrance. Had he gone through the village it was possible a foolish few would have mistaken him for his brother Tomas, or perhaps his brother’s ghost. The majority of the villagers however—those whose knew about Tavish’s existence and the allegiance he’d long ago sworn to the Throne—would likely murder him with their bare hands.

  And for that he couldn’t blame them. Not after all they’d lost. All they continued to lose, as the way of life they’d known for over a century was slowly broken down.

  For now, he chose avoidance, veering away from the battle ahead. Later there would be no choice but to stand before his people and play the role of beast. The Englishman who dared to claim their land, to become their new laird. It wouldn’t matter a damn that he’d been birthed on this very soil and from the loins of the same woman from whom their late laird had sprung. All that mattered was he’d been taken away from the Highlands, and turned into a bloody Englishman.

  The wind picked up, howling in its severity when Tavish reached the top of the snow-crested mountain. All but oblivious to its biting sting, he gazed upon Castle Wynderon. The fortress jutted up in the distance to pierce through the dark clouds of early evening. Awe and reverence rifled through his blood, but no sense of victory was to be had.

  He’d coveted this land, this title nearly since the moment he’d been born and, yet, he couldn’t feel joy. For all that stood before him, all that was now his had come at the death of his brother, his twin. A man with identical looks, with whom he had nothing in common and had little love for. Still, he wished there had been some other way.

  The image of Tomas’ lifeless eyes—wide, staring, yet eerily vacant—as he expired on the moor of Culloden flashed through Tavish’s mind. He shook the scene away, refusing to succumb to the sorrow that always accompanied the horrific memory. Instead, he focused on the castle walls. More precisely, on the woman holed up inside them—Tomas’ widow.

  As the two brothers fought on opposite sides of the battlefield, Tavish had heard little of the woman. The scant information that had filtered down to him said the chit was the daughter of the village rector, garish, willful, and detestable in countenance. Word had it Tomas had taken her virginity by mistake and, being the dutiful gentleman, married her for his blunder.

  How a man could mistakenly take a virgin any more than he could fuck a woman portrayed so hideously was a mystery Tomas had taken to his grave.

  Too bad he had not taken his wife as well. For then, Tavish would not be forced to deliberate her future. She was a lady by marriage, but a Scottish lady wasn’t worth much these days. At least, not to most. To Tavish the designation was every bit as notable as his own. He would leave the lady to her own fate. If she wished to return to her humble beginnings then so be it. And if she chose to stay a ward of Castle Wynderon, he would see to her comfort. Her happiness would have to be in her hands. He had more than enough to deal with searching for his own.

  * * * * *

  Lady Kristiana MacBain stepped back on the flagstone steps of Castle Wynderon to appraise the festive adornments that trimmed the castle’s outer walls. As if in protest to the bright yellows and greens that lined the otherwise naked stone, a bitter gust assailed the courtyard. She wrapped her thick, wool cloak tighter, not impervious to the biting nip of the wind, but not wishing to acknowledge it either.

  It was the eighteenth of December, and the full effect of the long, brutal winter ahead had settled over the Highlands, bringing with it a heightened sense of desolation. Many times during the past year and a half she’d ached to give into the doom felt by so many on the MacBain land, but she refused to become a victim of the battle that claimed all of her family and many of her friends.

  The village of Landon, cradled in the glen below, had been stripped of the thriving population of men and women it once boasted. Still, there were many there, a handful of whom continued to pray for the impossible to happen and their quickly deteriorating parish to be restored to its once prosperous culture.

  Kristiana prayed too, for continued triumph.

  For while their numbers might be reduced, those villagers who remained were primarily of sound health if not spirit. Their homes were still erect and their coffers, while sparse, not completely barren. Unlike most of their neighbors, and for reasons only God knew, they had been spared the English noose. For that, they had reason to celebrate.

  And they would celebrate. Festively. Now that the holiday season was upon them, she would see that it would be one of promise for the New Year. One where even the naysayers would be forced to believe in a brighter day on the morrow.

  Pulling free from her thoughts, Kristiana indicated the lush sprig of evergreen her longtime friend, Mary Smith, held just above the castle’s entrance. “A bit higher with that one. I want the color to be seen far and wide.”

  “’Tis a waste of yer time, Kristi. ‘Side from Auld Devlin and his wife, and the widow Barnathy, the people o’ Landon would rather spend their days sloshed and ruttin’, then celebratin’ a folly holiday.”

  Kristiana shook off the temper that flared at her friend’s accurate assessment, and clung to the few—those who still held out hope. It was for them she adorned these walls, as well as for herself. Deep down, she believed in her heart there was something better on the horizon. Something waiting for them all—they need only be patient and bide their time.

  Unfortunately, patience was not a virtue the villagers possessed.

  “That may be, but ‘tis my time to waste.”

  Shaking off her cloak, she tramped inside, past the entrance hall to the drawing room, and gathered the rug that lined the floor before the hearth. She would have this place immaculate, even if she were the only one to be grateful for her efforts.

  She
dragged the thick rug to the courtyard and, hefting its weight, gave it a firm snap. Dust motes filled the chilled air and brought a sneeze to her nose.

  Mary cast her a dubious glance. “’Tis not work befittin’ a lady.”

  “Alaistir and Fiona are gone to Inverness for supplies,” she said of the groundskeeper and his wife, the joint cook and housekeeper. “Besides, you know well I enjoy cleaning. It makes me feel alive. Like I’ve something better to do with myself than sit and sew and while the hours away.”

  “Still, ‘tisn’t right.”

  “Then, ‘tis a good thing I don’t—” Kristiana’s reply died on her lips at the sound of rapidly approaching hoof beats. The hair rose on the back of her neck. She’d been educated enough in survival to know the sound was a lone rider. One rider, even if that person be English, was not cause for concern. And yet, she couldn’t stop the anxiety that overcame her.

  She drew in a long, calming breath of icy air as horse and rider rounded the far side of the castle. From this distance, the man’s worn attire suggested him a messenger. But the proud way he sat his mount told another story. The solidarity of his broad shoulders beneath his dark riding-coat spoke of a regal bearing and, more, of authority.

  Though his features were not yet identifiable, the sudden urge to bolt into the safety of the castle walls swept through Kristiana. No matter what her instincts might warrant, she couldn’t run and hide. She was the lady of this keep. A fierce, brave Scotswoman, and as such she had to stand her ground. To be the chieftain of this soon-to-be disbanded clan. Even if her hammering heart demanded she do otherwise.

  “Get inside, Mary,” she ordered, thankful her voice didn’t give way to the unexplainable dread stiffening her limbs. “I’ll see to this matter.”

  The slightest shuffle of feet ensured the woman had moved, but not all the way inside. Before Kristiana could remark on her failure to heed the command, the rider came to a stop and she caught sight of his face. The formidable set of the man’s strong, shadowed jaw nearly sent Kristiana into her first ever swoon.

  “God Almighty, ‘tis a ghost,” Mary breathed behind her.

  As a rule, Kristiana did not believe in anything as foolish as spirits. And yet, as she stared upon the tall, dark man who resembled her late husband so completely, she knew of nothing else he could be. The hammering of her heart turned to an insistent thrumming that echoed harshly between her ears.

  “Inside, Mary” she managed. And then she was dropping the rug she held in a death grip as her feet moved of their own accord to the man’s side.

  He slid off his mount’s back to the cold hard ground, his booted feet soundless in the crisp snow. The crooked grin she saw so rarely on Tomas’ handsome face spread wide, and the breath stilled in her throat even as hope warmed her heart.

  She drew her hand part way to her mouth, and then paused. “You can’t be…”

  “I’ve come home, my lady,” the stranger, who looked so much like Tomas, responded in a deep baritone, the faintest burr accentuating his words. And then he did the most remarkable of things—he opened his arms to her.

  Not once had Kristiana sought comfort in her husband’s embrace. No woman was welcome there. But as he stood before her, looking like a man arisen from the dead, a man who could bring some form of stability to a people in dire need of it, she couldn’t stop herself from going into the welcoming heat of his arms. Rising on tiptoe, she glided her mouth to his cheek for a chaste kiss. Only when her lips landed, it wasn’t on his beard-shadowed face, but on his full, sensuous mouth.

  She gasped as his steel-muscled arms banded around her, instantly warming her flesh with the unexpected intimacy. Pulling her firmly against him, he used her parted lips to his advantage, sweeping into her mouth, licking and suckling at her inner flesh, devouring her with the potency of his kiss.

  She mewled a soft sigh of pleasure when he pulled back, and then his tongue was claiming her again, robbing her of every thought but that of his bold, masculine flavor and deftly, probing tongue. The idea of him using that clever tongue in far more secret places, places that even now grew damp with the juices of arousal, swirled through her clouded brain and further sped the beat of her heart.

  His ravenous mouth stayed constant, foraging from her parted lips, while his hands chased through her hair, setting strand after strand free from their confines and tingling her scalp with a heady, light pleasure. Her legs weakened at the surprisingly erotic sensation of his short nails on her scalp, and she curled her fingers into his coat for stability. The same reckless need that pulsed through her, pounded in his chest, just beneath her touch, further spiraling the lust that grew thick in her veins. She could not have denied the appetite that consumed her at this moment if she had wanted. She was starving for this man and he seemed to share her appetite completely.

  Kristiana’s thoughts veered far away from the desolation that surrounded them and she responded to his kiss with the same urgency, the same desperation she tasted on his tongue. With a guttural groan of approval, he drove deeper into the recesses of her mouth, tangling and pillaging, taking every bit of what she offered and more. His large, callused hands traveled down her spine and he roughly cupped her buttocks. Could she escape the kiss, she would have gasped at the delicious feeling of his fingers fondling her backside, but she could not escape it, her body wouldn’t allow the separation. Instead, she closed her eyes and arched against his touch, so that his hardness pressed delectably against her belly and sent her limbs atremble.

  And he was hard. Hard, male and virile beneath her hands.

  Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her off the ground and rubbed his thick shaft against her pelvis. For an instant, the magnitude of his engorged manhood overpowered the desire that swamped her. Then his rough, forceful tongue moved faster, in a pace that defied rationale, and it was all she could do to hold onto him for strength and moan the need that burned through her, soaking her undergarments and stealing every ounce of common sense.

  Never had Tomas kissed her this way, so savagely, so demandingly. So arousingly. She had believed she didn’t need him to do so, that she was content to be married to a man who had no use for her body. She knew now how wrong she had been. She wanted this moment to continue forever, to feel his strong, capable hands on every inch of her naked, sweat-soaked skin. To feel his tempting mouth on her bared breasts, his fingers embedded deep in the swollen, tingling flesh between her thighs, setting free the orgasm she knew she was on the verge of. The orgasm that before now, she had only heard stories about.

  Tangling her fingers through his long, black hair, she ground her hips against his erect staff and drank in the slight musk of his sweat and beyond that, the rich scent of soap. He smelled like a warrior, tasted like a man who could take her to places she’d never before been, places she hadn’t even thought to fantasize about. Never would have thought to fantasize about with Tomas, a man whose tastes strayed far from women, deep into the terrain of boys and young men.

  Tomas was not even capable of taking a woman the way she wished to be taken now. The way this man had her ready to beg for.

  But if that was true, then how…

  Her thoughts skidding to a reckless halt, Kristiana stilled her wandering hands and snapped open her eyes. Passion-churned blackness stared back at her. Not blue as Tomas’ eyes had been, but deep, soulless black. Her heart plummeted.

  Holy Mother, this wasn’t her husband!

  A scream on the verge of ripping from her lungs, she uncurled her fingers from the stranger’s hair and pushed against his broad, muscled chest with every ounce of strength she possessed. He didn’t budge. Instead, he took one more, luxurious swipe of her mouth, feasting on her so completely, so carnally, that when he finally set her away, it took her several seconds to recall why she wanted to be let go.

  Then she remembered. And her temper unleashed itself.

  No longer fearing the cold, as her body was heated enough to last the winter through, she wrapped her ar
ms over her chest and glared. “Who in the devil are you?”

  His crooked grin became devious and he did yet another outrageous thing, he bowed to her. “Gaven, my lady, and ‘tis a true pleasure to finally meet you.”

  She arched a brow and took a purposeful step backward, not about to be swayed by his belated show of manners any more than his cunning attempts at seduction. At least no more than she had already been affected. She shivered involuntarily at the unbidden desire still surging through her, and wrapped her arms tighter to her chest in the hopes he’d believe it was the cold she fought against. “Finally, you say?”

  He straightened and nodded. His long, dark hair billowed in the breeze, and her fingers itched to find their way back into its lengths. Her body burned to do much the same, until the thickness of his shaft was buried deep inside her core and the restless ache in her womb was brought to an end.

  Damnation, she could not stop herself! It was madness and, still, she wanted him, be he stranger or ghost.

  “My brother went on and on about you. I can’t think he wouldn’t speak of me too.”