Seducing His Sassenach

by Ashe Barker

  They could only hope, and trust that Robbie’s judgement about his brother would be correct.

  The cloaked Scot leading the stallion paused. He raised an arm and drew their column to a halt.

  “Are ye all right?” he called up to her.

  She nodded and hugged her tartan bundle closer. At least the little one was warm and dry.

  “I recognise this place. There is an inn, perhaps three miles to the east. It’s no’ much of a place, but they’ll have a fire an’ warm food. We can stop there and wait out this rain.”

  Jane nodded and managed a wan smile.

  Robbie urged the horse into a steady walk once more. They plodded on, followed by the rest of their bedraggled party.

  No one spoke.

  Heads down, they continued on their slow way, every step bringing them closer to home.

  * * *

  The inn was small, just a low, smoky room with a few tables and upturned barrels for seats. The innkeeper was able to offer them two rooms though, tucked away in the eaves of the squat little structure, and was happy enough for the rest of the men to bed down in his stable.

  “Are ye back from the fightin’, then?” asked the man as he sloshed ale into mugs. “Was it as bad as we ‘eard?”

  Archie answered, “We have been in England, though not for the fightin’. What news is there?”

  The innkeeper shook his head, his features betraying his anguish. “‘Twere bad, I ‘ear. Very bad. Our armies were outnumbered. Brave men, one an’ all, but up against impossible odds, so I be told.”

  “Were there many killed?” Archie pressed him.

  The man shrugged. “I ‘eard it were as many as ten thousand Scotsmen lost, many o’ them nobles an’ clan leaders.”

  “Holy fuck,” Robbie breathed. “Ten thousand? D’ye ken who...?”

  The innkeeper was unable to expand on his account, but they were joined in the tavern a couple of hours later by three men of the McDougall clan, battered and bedraggled and seeking to make their way back to their glen. They were glad enough to provide a report of the battle in exchange for ale and a trencher of partridge stew.

  “We were up against the Earl o’ Surrey,” the least battle-scarred among them announced. “‘E ‘ad ‘is cannons set up high so they was able tae rain their fire down on our brave lads. Arrows, too. We ‘ad little chance against that.”

  It occurred to Robbie to wonder what on earth possessed the Scottish king and his generals to pit precious Scots’ lives against the English on those terms, but he held his own counsel. There would be time enough later. “We were told there were many casualties,” he urged.

  Another of the McDougalls nodded, before being seized with a violent fit of coughing. He spit blood into the grubby rag he used to mop his face, then carried on. “Aye, there’s plenty o’ clans wi’out their leaders this night. There were Douglas, an’ Hepburn that I saw for myself.”

  “Aye, an’ Argyle, too,” added one of his comrades. “I ‘eard tell that both Bothwell an’ Caithness ‘ad fallen.”

  “Dear God.” Robbie could scarcely credit the carnage they described. The very flower of Scotland’s brave and strong, perished, left still and cold to rot in a muddy English field. “Were there any McGregors among the dead? Did ye see this tartan?”

  The three peered at each other and at the purple and green, then they shook their heads. “I cannae say that I recognise that,” said the man with the hacking cough. “But, ye havenae yet heard the worst of it.”

  “There is more?” Robbie thumped the man between the shoulder blades in the hope that he might seize his wheezing long enough to complete his tale. “Out wi’ it, then.”

  “‘Tis the king. King James,” the man spluttered. “An’ his son, Alexander Stewart.”

  “Aye, what o’ them?” Robbie could barely contain his impatience. He had met King James of Scotland on several occasions and knew his son also. Though born on the wrong side of the blanket, James had never failed to acknowledge and honour his natural offspring, rather to the contempt of young Queen Margaret. Bastard or not, Alexander Stewart was Archbishop of St. Andrews and Lord Chancellor of Scotland, second in power only to the monarch himself.

  “Dead,” the man croaked. “Both dead.”

  Robbie was speechless. He gaped at the men.

  “Are ye certain o’ this?” Archie demanded. “Did ye see them for yourselves?”

  One of the men nodded. “I did. At least, I saw ‘is Majesty. They took ‘is body tae Berwick-upon-Tweed.”

  “Sweet Jesu,” Robbie muttered. “The clans decimated and the king dead... what is tae become o’ Scotland now?”

  * * *

  His appetite gone, Robbie groped along the hard wooden seat for Jane’s hand. “‘Tis time we were abed.” He wanted nothing more in that moment than to sink his throbbing cock into her warm, willing body and fuck her until he found some sort of oblivion. He tugged her along the seat in his wake. “Lady Falconer, ye will see tae the bairn, aye?”

  “Of course.” Cecily was already fast asleep on her grandmother’s lap. The countess stroked the baby’s soft downy curls then met Robbie’s gaze. “I realise we may have differing allegiances, but I do sincerely hope that we hear good news of your family tomorrow.”

  Robbie’s response was a curt nod. “Archie, will ye stay wi’ the men tonight so that the countess an’ the wee one may have the other room?”

  Archie raised his mug in agreement

  “Jane could share with myself and Cecily,” the countess offered. “Then you and Robbie—”

  Archie and Robbie exchanged a look, then Archie shook his head. “I think not, my lady.”

  His jaw set, Robbie stalked from the smoke-filled room, towing Jane behind him. He did not speak again until they entered the small chamber in the eaves of the tavern, and he slammed the door behind them.

  He did not stand on ceremony. “Remove your gown, lass, an’ spread your legs.” He paused to drop the bar across the door. Robbie had no intention of entertaining any disturbances this night. When he turned to face her again, Jane had not moved. “Are ye hard o’ hearin’, Jane?”

  His tone was soft, deliberately, deceptively so, but still her eyes widened.

  “That is a lovely gown, Let us no’ ruin it, eh?”

  “Are you angry with me?” she asked him, eyes starting to glisten now.

  “I am angry with the whole fucking world right at this moment, but most of all wi’ bloody King James.” He slanted a fierce glance her way. “Why are ye no’ naked?”

  “If you want to talk, I could—”

  “I dinnae want tae talk. I want tae fuck. Hard. Fast. Until your teeth rattle an’ ye spend on my cock like the fine English slut I ken ye tae be.”

  Her eyes widened. “Robbie, I—”

  “I said, no more talkin’.” He advanced upon her, forcing Jane to take one step backwards, then another. Her knees were pressed against the straw mattress when he reached forward and lifted her bodily in his arms. He crouched beside the mattress and deposited her there, on her back. Done with asking her to undress and not prepared to wait another moment, he grabbed the hem of her skirt and hiked it up around her waist.

  “Robbie, what are you doing?” Jane wriggled in his grasp and tried to squirm away from him.

  He slung his leg over her thighs to pin her to the bed, ignoring her punches to his shoulders and chest. He sank his fingers into her unbound hair and twisted it tight to hold her head still, then leaned over to fix his steely gaze on hers.

  She was scared, and a part of him loathed the fact that he had put the fear in her eyes. He was acting like a brute, an animal, but he could not help himself. Anger, fear, disappointment, gut-wrenching worry for those he held dear... all warred within him. His emotions demanded release in the only manner he believed might suffice.

  “I want ye, Janie,” he ground out. “Dinnae tell me no.”

  “Robbie...?”

  “Spread your legs, Janie. Please...”


  Her lips parted as though she was about to say more, to argue, to demand that he release her. Then, her eyelids closed, her struggles ceased, and she slowly parted her thighs.

  “If it will help you, then take what you need.” Her voice was soft, quivering with a mix of desire, surrender, and residual fear.

  He loved her.

  In that moment, with a glaring, blinding certainty that stunned him, Robbie McGregor knew that he adored Jane Bartle and would never let her go.

  He loosened his trousers and moments later he sank his cock balls deep into her snug channel. She was tight, not prepared as she usually would be to receive him.

  She gasped.

  He had hurt her, he knew as much but could not find it in himself to regret it, not quite. Not when she was so tight, so hot, so fucking responsive.

  Even as she let out her small cry, her channel convulsed to caress his length. She wound her arms about his neck and her legs around his waist. He was as deep inside her as it was possible to be, yet it still did not feel to be enough. He withdrew, plunged in again and again. Each driving stroke sent tremors through the slender body beneath him, forced the air from her lungs and she gasped for more.

  Robbie buried his face in her neck and pounded her with his solid cock. His grunts and snarls of passion at first drowned out the small sounds she made, but soon she matched him. They rolled over, still joined, and briefly Jane was on top. He seized her hips and lifted her, only to slam her body down again, impaling her on his rod.

  He reached for her jaw, cupped it, then heaved his upper body up to find her mouth. The kiss was hungry, open-mouthed, a greedy taking.

  His balls clenched. He was close and he sensed that she was also. Robbie rolled again to put her back underneath, then he drew back his cock and drove into her again with all the force he could muster.

  “More,” she mewled. “Again.”

  He withdrew and slammed back inside her, watched her face contort with pleasure or pain or something in between.

  “Robbie...” She lifted her hips, ground against him.

  He rested his forehead on hers and delivered another punishing thrust, then another. On the third stroke, her body convulsed. Her fingernails scored a trail down his back as she rode her climax, shudder after shudder roiling through her as she panted for breath.

  Robbie relinquished the iron control he had been exercising to hold back his own spend. He let out a shout that was pure savage and shot ribbons of hot seed deep into her snug warmth.

  Just for one brief, splendid moment, God was back in His heaven and all was right with Robbie McGregor’s world. All that he needed on this earth was right here in his arms.

  * * *

  Later, they lay side by side on the straw pallet. He should apologise, Robbie knew that. He should seek her forgiveness. Robbie had never treated a woman so roughly before. His father had taught him better than that. Blair McGregor always impressed upon both his sons that they must treasure the women in their lives and treat them with respect, with gentleness, with reverence almost. God knew Robbie had seen a perfect example of this in the way his parents were with each other. Blair McGregor was absolute master in his keep, but Lady Roselyn McGregor was mistress of his heart.

  “Jane...?” he began.

  She rolled over to face him, still wearing her red velvet, the skirts still hiked up to reveal her slender legs. “I thought you were asleep.”

  He reached for her, stroked her face. “I am sorry.”

  “Sorry?” She blinked up at him. “Is something amiss?”

  “Aye, ye know that it is. I should ha’ never—”

  “You blame me? Because I am English?”

  What? Robbie shook his head, bemused. “Dinnae be daft, lass. Why would I blame ye?”

  “You said it. You called me an English slut.”

  “Did I?”

  Holy fuck. He grimaced when he recalled it. Those had indeed been his words, spoken in the heat of passion, of anger at the senseless killing of so many of his countrymen for a cause he could barely comprehend. His own brother, his father might even now be rotting on English soil, but that tragedy had nothing whatsoever to do with Jane Bartle.

  “I am sorry,” he repeated, hating the lameness of his apology. His actions had been unforgiveable. “I shouldnae have said any such thing tae ye.”

  “You said it before. You said so long as I was your slut, and yours alone, you did not mind.”

  He blinked and vaguely recalled some such exchange between them. The words had seemed less... cutting then. “Janie, I—”

  She reached and laid her fingers across his mouth. “I am yours. Your slut, if that is what you need. I love you, Robbie. I want to be whatever you need me to be.”

  “Christ, Janie, I dinnae deserve ye.”

  Her lips curled in a slight smile. “I have often noted that we do not always get what we deserve in life, but it happens anyway. I am not so much interested in what you deserve as in what you want. Do you still want me, Robbie? Even after... all of this?”

  “Want ye?” The word did not come close to doing justice to his feelings. “Christ, aye. Aye, I do.”

  “Despite me being English? A Sassenach?”

  “That has nothing tae do wi’ it.” He sighed. “I spoke in anger. I did no’ mean what I said. Can ye forgive it, and forget I was ever such a lack-witted oaf?”

  Now she grinned widely. “I always knew you to be a logger-headed clout. I believe I may have mentioned it before. But you are my logger-headed clout, so I shall overlook your failings. Tell me, do you feel better now?”

  He would not describe himself as better exactly. Calmer, perhaps, and able to think a little straighter. “I think ye can rely on me no’ tae pounce on ye again.”

  “Well, that is disappointing, though I suppose it is late and we have an early start in the morning. You do intend to reach your brother’s keep before nightfall tomorrow, do you not?”

  He flopped onto his back. “Aye. I need tae know how they fare. My brother will ha’ been on the battlefield, an’ my father too, likely as not. Maybe Archie’s father also...”

  Jane snuggled in close and he wrapped an arm about her.

  “Robbie, do you intend that we should continue to be... like this? Once we reach your brother’s castle, I mean?”

  Now he startled again. “Aye. Of course.”

  “Then, we shall have to be discreet. We must not give Lady Eleanor any cause to dismiss me.”

  “What the fuck are ye sayin’, Janie? Of course she willnae dismiss ye.”

  “I am a servant, and although I am sure Lady Falconer will speak up for me, I did not know Lady Eleanor especially well. And... I do not think she ever liked me that much. If I offend her or cause any scandal, I am quite sure she will send me packing and I do not want that. I love Cecily, and I love you. I would not wish to lose either of you.”

  “Jane, this is nonsense. I need ye, I want ye. That is enough. Eleanor will have nothing tae say in the matter.”

  “It is not nonsense, but I would not expect you to understand. You are the son of a laird. You have noble blood. Your fortunes do not rest on the whims of those better than yourself.”

  “Where is this coming from? I have never had the impression that ye considered anyone on God’s earth to be better than yourself, Jane Bartle.”

  “I am being practical, that is all. For the son of the laird to be sleeping with a servant... there will be those who will talk. Your family...”

  “My family will hold you in as much regard as the countess already does.”

  “Maybe they will, as a servant. I am not your equal, despite the way we are when we are together. I know it, and you do too. So, if you want me to come to your chamber I will, but I shall be discreet, as I have said, and not attract attention.”

  “Fuck discretion. I am no’ ashamed o’ ye, Jane. I cannae believe I am hearin’ this.”

  She continued as though he had not spoken. “One day, you will
need to wed. I know that, and I accept it. Our... liaison will have to end then, as I will not sleep with another woman’s husband.”

  “Another woman’s husband?” Robbie repeated her words, his incredulity growing by the second. “I shall no’ be another woman’s husband. I mean tae wed you, Jane.”

  She stiffened in his arms. “Do not say such things. You know that is impossible. Your family would never permit such a thing.”

  “I shall no’ be askin’ permission. I love ye, Jane. I will wed no other.”

  “And I love you, but that is all it can ever be. I have nothing to offer you, apart from this.”

  His anger stirred again, though for a completely different reason. He leaned up on one elbow. “And what d’ye think ‘this’ tae be, then? Are you no more than a willing woman tae fuck?”

  “I would not have stated it quite so crudely, but in essence, yes, that is it. I shall share your bed, and—”

  “Ye share my heart, Jane. ‘Tis a lot more than just my bed.”

  “And you share mine, but we must face the truth. We come from different worlds. We find comfort in each other, and that is wondrous, it truly is. But we cannot wish for more, and we must protect what we have.”

  “God’s bones, Jane, if I were no’ so fucking angry right now I would turn ye over my knee an’ give your arse a paddling ye will never forget...”

  “Why? For speaking the truth to you? When you have finished throwing your weight about, you will eventually see that I am right.”

  “I will see no such thing. You and I will be wed, an’ there’s an end tae it.”

  “And now you are back to being an addle-pated oaf, I see. Even if the whole thing were not so ridiculous, that would have to be the worst proposal of marriage a woman ever had the misfortune to receive.”

  “I apologise for my lack of gallantry, which is dwarfed only by your stubbornness,” he growled. “Now, go to sleep, Jane. We shall discuss this again when we are both calmer.”

  “We can discuss it as much as you like, the facts will not alter.”

  “Harpy,” he ground out. “Remind me tae take a switch tae ye the first opportunity I get.”