Captivating A Highland Warrior (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance)

by Maddie MacKenna

  The Laird stopped as well and stepped closer to Marion. He put his hands on Marion’s shoulders, sending a vibration through her already agonizing body.

  “Marion, I want ye,” he said frankly. He looked deeply into Marion’s eyes. She felt like she had suddenly forgotten how to speak. The blaze in his eyes was something she had never seen before.

  “I… what did you say?” Marion stuttered.

  “Ye heard me. And I reckon ye care fer me, too, am I right?” the Laird said, his face now closer to Marion’s.

  “Yes… you… fascinate me,” Marion said after getting her ability to speak finally back.

  “I fascinate you?” he said and ran the tip of his finger down from Marion’s ear to her chin. He gently grabbed her chin between his thumb and index finger and lifted Marion’s chin up.

  Marion couldn’t hear or see anything else but the Laird’s face. Her ears were filled with the whooshing of her own blood and her nose could only smell the smell of leather and brandy coming from the Laird. His eyes looked intensely into Marion’s.

  He moved his hand gently up from Marion’s chin and onto her cheek. Then, he pressed his other hand lightly against her other cheek and held her face between his warm hands. It was like a hot prison from where Marion couldn’t escape, even if she wanted to. But she didn’t really want to move. Her mind kept telling her to move back, to tell him no, to remind him that she was a noble English Lady and that this wasn’t right… but her lips just couldn’t form the words.

  For a moment, she was captured by the Laird’s closeness and presence and it filled all of her senses.

  Then it happened. The Laird pressed his lips against Marion’s and they moved together like pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly. Marion placed her hands on the Laird’s face and let them run behind his head, knotting her fingers together and grabbing his hair.

  The moment felt like it lasted forever. The Laird pressed her gently against a tree and for a minute, Marion felt like she couldn’t breathe. But she didn’t mind that—for this, she would survive without oxygen.

  Then reality took a hold of her and she stopped, her lips finally being able to form the words she couldn’t before. She pushed the Laird’s face away from hers.

  “Wait… this is wrong. You are engaged!” she said, gasping for air.

  “Sure, to a lass I have seen once in me life,” he said and pressed his lips against Marion’s neck.

  This made her forget the day, the time, the year and her entire existence. She fell into the moment, while her brain was trying to piece together the reasons to not do this.

  “But… we can’t. I cannot… It’s not… ladylike,” she finally said.

  Suddenly, the Laird stopped and he burst into a howling laugh.

  “Not ladylike? Marion, why don’t ye name one ladylike thing ye have done since yer arrival here?” he smiled, his hands still on both sides of Marion’s face.

  Now it was Marion who hesitantly moved closer and kissed him. His lips were running down her neck and kissing her chest. Marion’s hands were in his thick brown hair.

  The Laird swooped Marion off her feet and carried her to the benches in the middle of the rose garden. Not once did his lips leave hers.

  Marion was nervous, but curious about what was going to happen. She didn’t want to stop kissing him, though she knew she should. It wasn’t right. But it was so… good.

  The Laird laid Marion down on the bench, kissing her passionately, down her neck and chest.

  “No, Laird Fionnghall, stop,” she whispered, realizing that this could not go any further.

  “Why?” he asked, but didn’t stop. He was now kissing her collarbone.

  “We cannot do this, it is not right,” Marion replied, but not very convincingly.

  “Dae ye nae like this? Tell me ye daenae like this and I will stop,” he said.

  “I…,” Marion started but was interrupted by a wonderful warm sensation that took over her entire body. There was no way she wanted him to stop.

  The Laird’s hand grabbed her hem and pulled it up. That made Marion’s heart jump.

  He ran his warm hand up her leg slowly. It made Marion’s skin tingle in satisfaction. His fingers were rough and yet so gentle.

  He took his hand from underneath Marion’s hem and moved his lips to hers again. His soft lips were dancing on hers, and she put her hands around his neck. The Laird’s muscles tensed and he carefully bit her lower lip.

  The Laird put his hand on Marion’s hip. From there, he moved it upwards, slowly and gently, until he was touching her chest. It was a very intimate touch and Marion didn’t know how to react to that. She knew he shouldn’t have been touching her like this, but her thoughts were hazy and blurred.

  His finger ran along the neckline over her breasts and set her skin on fire. She exhaled in enjoyment while the Laird moved his lips onto her chest.

  Marion ran her hands down his shoulders and muscular arms. His muscles were vibrating and with passion, Marion grabbed his arms. It seemed to give the Laird more confidence in what he was doing and his kissing became even more hungry, if that was possible.

  Marion thought she was going to faint.

  “Laird, please, stop,” she whispered, this time more convincingly.

  He looked up into Marion’s eyes.

  “Fine,” he grinned, “no more tonight.”

  11

  Visitors

  It was morning, but Fionnghall had already poured himself a glass of brandy and he was sitting in his bedroom, enjoying breakfast. Last night with Marion had been something he never could have imagined and it wasn’t until the early hours that either of them had returned to the castle.

  Fionnghall was sitting in his chair with his feet up on the ottoman. He was still wearing his clothes from last night and there were grass stains on his white shirt. He definitely looked unpresentable, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about much this morning. Bliss had taken over him and all he wanted was to stay in his bedroom until the next time he would see Marion’s face.

  Unfortunately, his thoughts were soon interrupted by an insisting knock on the door. He grunted, but asked the visitor to come in.

  His servant, Addair, opened the door.

  “G’morning, Laird Gille Chriost,” he greeted. He was carrying a letter on a silver plate. “Ye have received mail,” he continued and offered the plate to Fionnghall, who was the most displeased by this interruption.

  “Might I read it later, Addair?” he asked lazily and set down his drink.

  “M’lord, I am afraid the matter is quite urgent. This was delivered by the servant of Laird Brun earlier this morning,” he explained.

  Fionnghall’s good mood was gone in an instant. He grunted again and took the letter. After sending Addair away, he ripped the letter open carefully by the seal and started reading.

  Laird Gille Chriost,

  We hope this letter finds you well. Myself, my wife and our daughter are planning to call on you soon. I believe it is time we discuss the marriage proposal further and set a date. Sincerely,

  Laird Brun

  Fionnghall crumbled the letter in his hand into a small ball and threw it across the room. It landed inches away from the fireplace.

  Ugh, what timing!

  He had been meaning to ask for Marion to stay with him at Gille Chriost last night, but they never quite got to it. And now this.

  “Addair!” he called. Though he had sent his servant away earlier, he was sure that he was still within hearing distance. That’s how the servants always found out about everything. The door opened within a few seconds.

  “Aye, master?”

  “Laird Brun and his family are arriving soon. Possibly today or tomorrow. Arrange a feast, will ye? And inform me sister about it as well,” he said reluctantly.

  “As ye wish, master,” he bowed and disappeared out of the door.

  Fionnghall took another sip of the brandy and cursed Laird Brun’s timing. The only reaso
n the Laird and his family were coming was to set a date for the marriage. Fionnghall had only seen Beitris MacDheorsa once in his life, but that one time had been enough to tell him exactly what kind of woman he would be dealing with.

  Laird Brun wasn’t exactly the image of kindness and goodness himself, and it looked like his daughter had taken after him. Lady Brun seemed a lot more likeable.

  Fionnghall grunted again and gulped his brandy.

  Has God cursed me soul? Am I never to have the woman I desire?

  Anger and frustration rose up his chest. He cursed out loud and threw the empty glass with all his might across the room right after the letter. The glass hit the wall behind the fireplace and shattered into a thousand pieces.

  * * *

  It was early morning still, but Marion was awake. Last night had never ended, and she didn’t want it to end, either. She was afraid that if she went to bed and slept, the whole night and what had happened between herself and Fionnghall would turn out to be nothing but a dream.

  After Marion had returned to the castle, she went directly to Deirdre’s room and knocked on the door. Though Deirdre didn’t like being woken up so early, her eyes had immediately started glittering after Marion had told her about the events. Sparing the details, of course.

  “Marion, ye have no idea how happy I am! I knew all along this would happen,” Deirdre said and held Marion’s hands in her own.

  “You must not say anything to anyone, though, please. Not even your brother. I don’t believe he would appreciate me telling you everything,” Marion said with a dash of embarrassment in her voice.

  “Oh, hush! I won’t say a word. Nae yet, anyway,” she gave her a coy smile.

  “But Deirdre, it cannot become anything, can it? He is engaged, I must remember that. Last night was such a mistake,” Marion said and shook her head.

  Before Deirdre could answer, there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Deirdre called.

  Fionnghall’s servant, Addair, stepped in.

  “G’morning, me Lady,” he started. “I am to inform ye that the Laird has ordered a feast fer this evening in honor of Laird Brun and his family, who will be arriving later on,” he continued.

  Marion’s heart sank. Her high from last night was instantly shadowed by the arrival of Fionnghall’s betrothed. What timing.

  “All right, thank ye, Addair,” Deirdre said and waved him away.

  “See?” Marion whispered after he was gone.

  “I see our dilemma,” Deirdre replied and the coy smile disappeared from her face. “But I have never been known fer givin’ up,” she said and an optimistic smile returned on her face.

  Marion didn’t quite feel as optimistic as Deirdre looked. She couldn’t help but wonder if Fionnghall had known about their visit all along. Maybe it had been nothing but a game on his part. She bit her lip and shook her head.

  “Marion, daenae look so defeated before the fight has even started!” Deirdre said and let go of her hands. She stood up and pressed her fingers against her temples, as if she were thinking about something really hard.

  “We will come up with a solution,” she finally declared and Marion looked up at her glimmering face. At least Deirdre was on her side, no matter what happened.

  * * *

  The evening came much too fast and Fionnghall had been dreading it the entire day. To have to act civil towards a family he couldn’t care less about. The only thing holding Fionnghall together was the promise his father had made to Laird Brun, that Fionnghall would marry his daughter to keep the peace between the clans. It would be a great union from a political and prosperity standpoint, but Fionnghall never really cared for politics.

  He was sitting at the end of the long wooden table, with Laird Brun to his left and Lady Brun to his right. Beitris was sitting next to her mother. Beitris was a small woman with strawberry-blonde hair. Her eyes glimmered green like emeralds and he couldn’t help but think that, on the outside, she was breathtaking.

  But no matter how beautiful she looked, Fionnghall’s heart was pulling towards Marion like a magnet. Beitris may have been stunning on the outside, but her face always looked like she was smelling something bad. Her nose was a little wrinkled and her expression condescending. Besides, what made Marion more beautiful than anyone, was her good heart and her exquisite laugh.

  Deirdre, as subtle as she was, had taken Marion a little bit further down the table, so they wouldn’t be sitting right next to the Brun family. Though Fionnghall wasn’t sure, he had a hunch that his sister knew exactly what was going on. There were a few other visitors from Brun at the table as well, and Jack and a couple of others from Gille Chriost.

  The table was covered with a white cotton tablecloth and set with excellent food. There was freshly made bread, pigeon, potatoes, and lamb with vegetables and of course bottles of the very best wines Gille Chriost had.

  Though Laird Brun was keeping the conversation going with him, telling him about the events of Brun and asking about Gille Chriost, Fionnghall was barely listening.

  His eyes were glued on Marion, who looked wonderful in the clan colors. Purple suited her very well and this evening she was wearing a new gown. It was definitely Deirdre’s doings. Marion and Deirdre were chatting to each other inaudibly and every now and then, he saw Marion take a glance at him as well.

  “So, Laird Gille Chriost, we must discuss the details of our agreement, daenae ye reckon?” Laird Brun asked.

  It brought Fionnghall back to the moment and he turned reluctantly to respond to the Laird.

  “Surely, Laird Brun. I assume that is why ye are here after all?” Fionnghall said, trying to keep his voice calm.

  “Aye, indeed,” he replied. He started with the details about the lands and how they should be united, but his daughter interrupted him.

  “Laird Gille Chriost, I see that there is a visitor in this hall that I dae nae ken,” Lady Beitris said with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

  Fionnghall looked at his future wife with an expression that barely hid his true feelings towards her.

  “Aye, that is Lady Marion Bewforest, of Ackworth,” he replied shortly, returning his attention to Laird Brun, hoping it would be the end of that conversation. That hope was in vain.

  “From England?” Laird Brun asked in astonishment. “Why would ye let an English lass in yer castle? Such a waste, she must of course be a spy. And if nae that, most definitely trouble of some sort,” Laird Brun whispered a little too loud.

  “I trust she is nae stayin’ long?” Lady Beitris said in a tone that was more of a statement than a question.

  “Aye, indeed, I assume she is just a guest for a short time,” Laird Brun echoed his daughter.

  “Husband, please, she is Laird Gille Chriost’s guest, just like us,” Lady Brun pleaded with her husband.

  Fionnghall wasn’t the kind to endure such comments and opinions from anyone, let alone people he couldn’t have cared less about.

  “Laird Brun, Lady Marion is here because she is lookin’ fer her lost parents. She is a good friend of me sister’s and she may stay as long as she’d like,” Fionnghall said with a sharp edge to his voice, which did not go unnoticed by the Laird.

  Lady of Brun turned to look at Fionnghall and she gasped slightly. Then she bowed her head.

  “Oh, that must be very hard on her. I remember me daughter and still think about her every day. We lost her years and years ago. But I cannot help but miss her,” she said barely audibly.

  “I am sorry fer yer loss,” Fionnghall said, feeling truly sorry for the older woman.

  “Is there somethin’ I should ken, Laird Gille Chriost?” he asked and took a sip of his wine.

  “Nae at all,” Fionnghall replied through his teeth.

  “Father, I am sure Laird Gille Chriost kens the sensitivity of this issue. An English? I trust we are stayin’ in the rooms that are as far from her as possible. It would nae be appropriate fer us to run into her in the halls,”
Lady Beitris continued.

  Anger was boiling below the calm surface of Fionnghall.

  “Aye, Lady Beitris, ye can trust ye will be stayin’ as far away as I can possibly accommodate ye.”

  * * *

  The feast was delicious, but Marion couldn’t enjoy any of it. She was thinking about her home in England and she missed it. The happy feast and the Laird’s plans felt like Marion was watching through a glass—interested but not quite there.