“Aye,” James’s sister said. The two women still stared at each other from across the room. “I’ve seen your belly.” Margaret calmly gathered the teapot from the floor and placed it back on the tray. “You’ll not hide it from me.”
She walked briskly to Magda’s side and put a proprietary hand on her abdomen. “And did you not know it?” Margaret asked. “Look at those cheeks. And I know your bosom wasn’t nearly so large when first we met. Oh aye,” she said responding to Magda’s blush. “I can always spot a woman with child.”
Tears pricked the corners of Magda’s eyes as she gazed up at James, now standing above her.
“Is it true, hen?” Tenderly, he reached down and cupped her chin. “Could it be true?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” she stammered, even as she realized that she did know. Had known somewhere deep down that she carried James’s child. A vision flashed to her, of a life with James on some small, windswept island, a plaid shawl pulled tight around her for warmth, children racing at her feet, their cheeks flushed with their simple life of green moors, sunshine, and the sea. All of her reservations about life in the seventeenth century dissolved and she thought only of James’s smile, and felt the rightness of it all. “Yes, I think . . . I think I am.”
“Really?” The question exploded from his mouth with a laugh. Sitting, he grabbed Magda and pulled her onto his lap. “So,” he said, quoting the old marching song in an exaggerated Scots brogue, “are you with bairn, my chicken?” He kissed her full on the mouth, for all to see.
“So I’ve been downgraded from a hen, is it?” Then Magda laughed too, her immediate fears for their safety, for the moment, melted away. “I do love you, James.”
“And I you.” He took her face in his hands and gave her a brief, rough kiss. “Oh, aye, I do love you so.”
Margaret turned away quickly and bustled back to the tea tray. “I know that . . . thatman, Lonan was it?” Hesitating, she retrieved her half-filled cup. “That he handfasted the two of you. But I plan to throw you a proper wedding.” She took a dainty sip and scowled at the cold temperature. “The seamstress has your sizing now, and I’d commission her before you grow too large. But we must wait,” Margaret added with great consternation, “until that hideous injury on my brother’s face subsides.” She put the cup back down with a sharp clink. “As if his nose wasn’t already large enough,” she added in a mumble.
Magda simply laughed. “It’s good to be home.”
Chapter 41
“Tell me again, my swan.” Napier backed off the balcony into their bedroom, pulling his wife with him. “Tell me how you did it.”
He leaned in to nibble at the thick flesh at Margaret’s neck. Its softness never ceased to entice him, and the low-necked gowns she favored were a constant torment, showcasing her suppleness as they did. “Tell me how you saved the day.”
“Oh, Archibald,” Margaret gasped. “I . . . I was so afraid.”
“My sweet and delicate swan, you must have been terrified.” He twined his long, thin fingers through her hair, releasing it from its tight bun. “What would I have done had you not found such courage?”
“I had no choice. Oh!” she cried, as Napier spun her around to bend her over the edge of the bed. His lean body folded over hers, an almost perfect match in height, if not in weight.
“Oh, Archie, I was so afraid. But it was the only thing I could do to save us.”
“You brave, brave lassie.” He deftly undid the row of buttons running down the spine of her dress. “My sweet bonny lassie.” Napier loosened the bodice and slipped his fingers in and around the front, taking one of her large breasts full into his hand.
“Oh, Archie!”
They both stood, but Margaret’s elbows and head rested on the bed now, as if that and the force of Napier’s will were the only things holding her upright. He swept her hair up and over into loose tendrils on the mattress above her head. Napier could tell by the rapid rise and fall of her chest that she was breathless now. He could feel Margaret’s eagerness for him, sensed her deep longing cut with the slightest bit of trepidation.
Margaret may have been a force to be reckoned with outside the bedroom, but inside she was as demure as a virgin, always startled and exhilarated by his overtures. Napier tenderly turned her face sideways, tracing his finger along her lips, inserting it into her mouth, and watched with a hooded and hungry smile as her eyes closed with pleasure and the flush spread from her breasts up to her cheeks.
“Do you want me, wife?”
“Oh . . . oh, aye,” she said. And that too made Napier smile. She was so conscious of appearances, of place and class. Napier was always incredibly gratified to watch that propriety slip away whenever they lay together. To watch her blush, to hear her accent grow coarse, and see her face go wild with her passion made him want her beyond reason.
He took Margaret fast then, hiking up her skirt and hitching down his pants, unable to wait. Napier would take her slowly and properly later, but now he needed to be inside his wife. He pulled her close and thrust into her, ignited by Margaret’s pleasured moans and the feel of his flesh against hers. She tossed her head back, and Napier saw the hot flush of her cheeks and watched as Margaret’s lips parted to release a sound, sharp and feral, as her body tensed then loosened in his arms. He fell into her then, losing himself to her, and they collapsed together, sated, onto the bed.
“Oh, you are my Archibald,” she purred when they’d finished. Napier gently pulled her all the way up onto their bed, cradling her body into his.
“And you,” he said in reply, his love for her ragged in his voice. “You are my most adored, my brave and bonny Margaret.”
Chapter 42
They entered their home with their arms wrapped about each other. It was a humble place, but made beautiful by the multitude of wildflowers they’d picked, blooms tenacious enough to brave the late autumn wind that whipped against the crags of the shoreline. Lavender, pink, and white blossoms twined along the rafters, and their sweet, fresh scents mingled with the rich sea air that permeated their life on the island.
Though James and Magda had been joined long ago in a handfasting blessed by Brother Lonan, the wedding ceremony they’d just held was a formal acknowledgment of their union. A few friends and family had come to give witness, and they crowded now into the cottage’s main living area.
Of those who couldn’t attend, they’d gotten news. MacColla still fought in the western Highlands, eager to avenge his father, seemingly unable to rest until he witnessed the total destruction of the Campbell clan. Ewen Cameron had relayed his family’s regrets, but had sent with Napier a gift from his library, a bound copy of the poems of Lucan, whom he knew to be one of James’s favorite authors. And James had been heartbroken to hear that the fine young Jamie Ogilvy had been captured after their escape from Selkirk, and was still imprisoned in the Tolbooth.
