by Mariah Stone
“But you didn’t?” Rogene said.
Angus shook his head. His chest ached, hollowed out, scraped from inside, and only pain remained there. He studied his arms, his giant fists that knew battle, that knew death and violence.
“Raghnall darted away again, but this time, Father was faster,” Angus continued. His chest ached but also itched, as though he was healing. “He grabbed Raghnall. God’s blood, he was strong. He brought his arm back for a hard blow. The wall was right behind Raghnall, and an image flashed in my head: my brother’s skull crushed against the rough rock, blood flowing from the gash. His skin deadly pale.”
Angus’s throat contracted.
“Something snapped within me,” he said. “I was stronger than my younger brother. My skull was as hard as rock, as Father often said. Before Father’s fist could slam into Raghnall’s face, I launched myself and crashed into him with such force that we fell on the floor, dragging Raghnall after us. Father swore and pushed me away. His face was almost purple.
“‘Ye son of a whore,’ he roared. ‘Ye dare to challenge me?’
“He stood and yanked me up, then slammed his fist into my face. Through the burst of pain, I saw his distorted face and bloodshot eyes. His teeth were bared, yellowish, and glistening with spit. He looked like an animal, emptiness and fear behind his eyes.
“Fear? I thought distantly as Father drew his fist back to throw another punch into my face. What was he afraid of?
“’Twas the man who ordered the priest to write a book of legends about him. The man who had a castle that had been built to protect Scotland from Viking invasions in the west and that controlled three lochs at once.
“An important man.
“Was he afraid of his own sons?
“The iron ring on his fist crashed into my cheekbone, and I stopped hearing for a moment.
“Then a thought came. While he was busy with me, he couldn’t harm my siblings and my mother. As his fist slammed into my face over and over, I knew this wasn’t so bad. I could take it. I could protect Ma, Raghnall, and Catrìona.
“Mayhap that was why I was so sturdy, so strong, so big.
“To be a protector.
“Because as long as there was danger out there for my family, my needs weren’t important. I had to put them and their safety first.”
Rogene laid her hand on his arm, and her tenderness picked him up and carried him away from the horror of that memory. She shifted closer, and her gaze was so warm and so full of compassion that his heart ached.
“I understand why Sìneag said we’re destined for each other,” she said. “We both do anything to protect our siblings.” She squeezed his arm. “But your father is dead now, Angus. Don’t you think you’ve sacrificed enough and fulfilled your duty?”
Jesu, hearing her say that was like a knife cutting open an infected wound. Painful, but he knew it would bring healing.
Raghnall had said the same thing: I think ye’ve done yer duty enough for our family. ’Tis time to put yerself first. Because this time, ’tis for the rest of yer life. Catrìona had never liked Euphemia, either, and she had asked him several times whether he was sure.
The rest of his life…
When his father had died six years ago, it had been sudden. Although Kenneth Og had been having pains in his stomach and chest for a few years, he’d seemed immortal. So when one of the servants had found him stiff and cold, sitting in the garderobe with his breeches down, it had seemed to Angus like it was one of Father’s cries for attention.
But it wasn’t. He was dead. As much as Angus had been grieving his death, part of him felt free. Laomann was the new laird, who wouldn’t be violent or manipulative. He had other weaknesses—too many of them—but the castle had breathed in relief. Everyone had tiptoed for a while by the sheer power of habit, but, finally, they’d settled into their new life.
He had a strong suspicion that this narcissism, as Rogene called it, might also be something Euphemia suffered from. How would he be able to live with a female version of his father for the rest of his days? Would he become another punching bag for his wife, a shield she’d use to gnaw her teeth on? Was there truly no other way to repay the tribute and stop her from attacking Kintail?
He’d wanted Rogene from the moment he’d seen her. His desire for her only grew the more he got to know her. And there she was—he could just reach out with his hand and touch her. And she wouldn’t want to bend him to her will and make him submit. She was healing, and light, and she was putting him together, piece by piece…
Just look at those pink, rosy lips, the gentle curves, the feminine body, all warm, smooth, and soft. And he wanted not just her body, but also her heart, her compassion, courage, and strength. He wasn’t married to Euphemia yet. He hadn’t yet said his marriage vows.
He could still choose desire. He could still choose freedom. If his brother and Rogene were right, he’d fulfilled his duty to the clan. He’d sacrificed enough. Was it time for him to put himself first?
It was, he thought. He’d had enough of living under the weight and the curse of a man who was long dead. He’d wanted to rebel against him then, but he never had. It was time he rebelled against that legacy of fear now.
Making the decision felt as if he’d cracked open a shell he’d been living in for years.
“I wilna marry Euphemia,” he said, his voice rough.
Rogene’s eyes widened, and the brightest smile illuminated her face. She beamed like sunlight, her cheeks growing rosy, but then her face fell. “Wait, what?”
“I’ll tell her now,” he said, rising up, but Lady Rogene caught his arm and pulled him back.
“Wait…”
He sat down and lost his balance a bit and leaned into her. Her face was so close now, her big eyes bright, and dark, and shiny. And those lips… Oh, dear Lord, those lips were so tender, and so beautiful his heart squeezed.
“I wilna marry her, Lady Rogene,” he whispered against her lips and claimed her mouth, swallowing the words I want to marry ye instead…
Chapter 20
Angus’s lips were soft but firm, his beard tickling her face. Rogene melted against him as he wrapped his strong arms around her and drew her to himself. Her head spun, as though she were on a helicopter that was spiraling out of control.
What are you doing? a voice screamed in her head. Did you just break off the marriage of Angus Mackenzie and Euphemia Ross? Did you just change history?
No, she couldn’t do it! She couldn’t give in to her own desires. She’d come here and mixed everything up. If Angus didn’t marry Euphemia, she wouldn’t bear him Paul Mackenzie, who’d save Robert III, the founder of royal Stuart line. Hundreds of years of Scottish history would be erased and changed. All because of her.
She pushed herself away from him. “I need to tell you something,” she said, breathing heavily, her body feeling like it were dissolving and melting into warm wax.
“What?” he asked, kissing her again.
Oh dear Lord, those lips… He kissed her gently once, teasing her. Then a second time, bringing her blood seething like a flow of lava.
“You need to marry her,” she said through those kisses.
“Nae, I dinna,” he said, dipping his tongue between her lips, invading her mouth. “Nae more.”
As his tongue began a teasing, lashing, seductive dance against hers, all thoughts disappeared, and her head went blank. “Hmmmm,” she moaned into his lips.
The electricity she’d always felt when he touched her came back a hundredfold. Meeting his skillful tongue, she felt that an electromagnetic field went through her body, charging her every cell with life and energy and light. She rubbed against him as he teased and licked her tongue like he couldn’t get enough of her. Like he’d finally gotten his prize.
He buried his fingers in her hair and held her head like a precious gift. Probing, playing, his sleek tongue glided against hers, and her insides burned and squeezed.
He smoothed his han
ds down her neck and farther down her body. His fingers brushed against the naked skin of her back, the touch like a brush of heat. Even through the material of her sleeves, her skin tingled as his hands went down her arms. She realized she was wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. He grabbed the edges of her torn dress and began kissing down her jaw and her neck, spreading small bursts of pleasure through her.
He was so hot, as though he were running a fever, and smelled like the Highlands: woods and earth, thistle and heather, and something otherworldly and magical. He was a Highland warrior, making love to her, impairing her thoughts. She felt as if she were in a dream.
He leaned back a little as he dragged the edges of her dress down her chest and stared there.
Right…her wound.
“Doesna it hurt?” he asked.
There was no such thing as hurt in a world where he filled her whole body with endorphins. “No.”
“Good.”
With one swift movement, he drew her dress all the way down to her waist, exposing her breasts. He stared at them with awe and hunger, and her stomach squeezed in delicious anticipation.
“By God’s body, lass, those are beautiful breasts,” he whispered and leaned down.
He cupped one breast with his hand and took her nipple in his mouth, sucking it in. His mouth was warm and soft and wet around her flesh. He tugged and gently nibbled, and a shudder ran through her. She put her fingers through his silky hair, as he massaged her second breast. Her skin feeling flushed and burning, she tilted her head back and arched into him, allowing him the most access she could.
Growling like a wolf, he teased her breasts until she was breathless and so pliable he could knead her like Play-Doh. He leaned back and pulled his tunic over his shoulders, and she froze, mesmerized by the sight of mighty pecs and a hard stomach with six distinct bulges. His shoulders were broad, his biceps like those of a Viking who rowed daily. Fine dark hair covered his upper chest, and she put her palm on his chest to feel it. Soft…
On a whim, she leaned down and kissed him under the collarbone, inhaling his masculine tang, the musk of his skin that made her want to straddle and ride him. She put out her tongue and licked down towards one of his nipples, feeling with satisfaction how his muscles hardened and a shudder ran through him. She found the nipple, small and hard, and licked around it.
“Ah, God’s arse, lass…” he spat. “What are ye—”
“Do you like it?” she whispered as she looked up at him.
“I like this more.” He lifted her and put her on his lap so that her legs were on either side of his hips. Their naked stomachs flattened against each other—hers soft and squishy, his hard. His chest firm against hers, her breasts tingled and her nipples drew into two hard buds. She was suddenly aware that she didn’t have any underwear on—medieval women didn’t use them—and that her very wet sex was nestled against his very hard cock.
A fact that he became aware of, too, as he pushed his hips into hers. The pressure on her clit made her gasp as a burst of liquid pleasure spread through her core.
“Aye, lass,” he growled against her neck. “Moan, groan, sing my name. I’ve wanted ye since the moment ye slapped me.”
Undoing his leather belt, she giggled a little. But as she dragged his breeches down and revealed a triangle of hard muscle pointing towards a huge cock that was long, and looked as hard as marble, all her humor died. She gulped, imagining it buried inside her to the hilt.
His sex jolted.
“Lass…” he groaned. “Enough of waiting. Enough of looking. Enough. God knows, I’ve been waiting for ye all my life. Ye’re my only desire.”
He wrapped his arms around her and flipped her onto her back. She lost her breath for a moment and inhaled as his pleasant weight settled on top of her, pinning her to the bed.
“Damn it to hell, what are ye doing to me,” he whispered and kissed her again.
This kiss was different. Demanding. Possessive. Taking.
Claiming. She was his, and he’d make sure everyone knew that—including her.
He brushed against the inner side of her thigh, his fingers warm and callused, and so sexy. His hand went up, higher and higher as he was still kissing her. Her inner folds throbbed as he got closer to her sex. Then he spread her folds and found the most sensitive part of her. She gasped into his mouth and felt moisture wetting her entrance. He rubbed her clit, massaging her wet lips, and she ground against him, letting the sweet bliss take her higher and higher.
Then he inserted one finger inside her. She moaned, and so did he. He looked down at her spread thighs. “God, lass, ye’re so tight and wet and warm…”
He kept thrusting his finger into her, then inserted another one. She felt him eyeing her, his gaze heavy and attentive on her face.
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” she kept saying, as every thrust found the right spot inside her.
But, again, just before she reached the edge of pleasure, he withdrew, and she panted, watching him with what was almost anger.
“Patience, lass,” he purred with a satisfied smile. “I waited too long for ye to spoil this with a hurry. Ye’re mine now, and I will enjoy every moment. And have ye see the stars on the way.”
“You’re killing me,” she half whispered, half whimpered.
He positioned himself between her thighs.
His jutting erection was pressing against her entrance. She looked into his eyes—the eyes of a wolf on a hunt, the eyes of a king conquering new land, the eyes of a man who has tasted love and freedom for the first time. At that moment, she knew that Sìneag was right. This was the man for her. The man she could be happy with forever, every single day of her life. The man who was probably her soul mate, who was opening up the best in her, and she in him.
And at that moment, nothing else existed besides them, their bodies, and the pounding of their hearts.
She saw that he felt it, too. This connection that went deeper and further than anything that he’d felt before, that was more profound than a blood oath, more magical than crossing the borders of time.
Slowly, he sank into her. She stretched, feeling filled and complete. Involuntarily, she spasmed around him once, twice, and he groaned a half oath.
Then he moved back and forth, picking up speed. As the brightest, most amazing bliss of her life was spreading through her core, she dug her fingers into him, trying to hold on. He tilted his hips, and was grinding against her most sensitive spot, bringing her higher, to the point of no return, faster than she’d ever thought possible.
She hugged him with her hips, urging him deeper. He growled, making animal sounds of pleasure that spurred her own joy further.
And then she was right there—staring into the face of the sun, or of God, or whatever was pure joy and love and bliss and pleasure, and he was right there with her. She fell apart with a gasp, and she heard him call her name as he was emptying inside of her. The orgasm slammed through her in a scorching wave. She vibrated with elation as he delivered the last few slamming thrusts. She shuddered as he sagged against her. Breathing as one with the man who had just become more important and closer than anyone had ever been, she fought feelings towards Angus Mackenzie that resembled sheer happiness. It spread from her heart and through her whole body, and sated, boneless, heavy, and exhausted, she fell into sleep.
But a dark thought chased her through her dreams…
She couldn’t be the one who’d change the history of Scotland forever, no matter how much she wanted to be with him, no matter how much she wanted to stay.
Chapter 21
Angus got up from the warm bed, leaving the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen sleeping peacefully. He covered her with his blanket and marveled at the translucent perfection of her skin, of her beautiful breasts, of her thin waist and her full hips. She was tired, his fiery lass, and he didn’t want to disturb her.
It was already night now, and he knew that the guests must be at supper. So he didn’t need her w
ith him to announce his decision.
As he was dressing, he realized now that he’d had her, he’d never be able to forget her. Having her, choosing his desire over duty, felt right, even though he still had that worm of guilt deep in his gut.
But he’d made a decision, and he’d stand to face the consequences of his action. Raghnall was right, there were other ways to achieve the safety of Kintail than tying himself to a woman he didn’t love and didn’t respect. To a woman who was dangerous for him.
He’d already put on his breeches and now that his tunic was on, he made his way downstairs to the great hall.
The scent of cooked meat and vegetables meant he was right. He was surprised that Euphemia hadn’t besieged his bedchamber or sent anyone to interrupt him and try to take Rogene again. He wasn’t complaining, of course. But something told him there was more to that and he needed to be careful.
He entered the hall. It was quiet there, and only a murmur of voices came from the table of honor where Laomann and Catrìona sat together with their guests: Euphemia, William, and Malise. Mackenzie men greeted him as he came through the aisle between the rows of tables. The Ross warriors eyes him heavily.
Euphemia lifted her head as he approached the table. “Ah,” she said with a raised brow. “My betrothed. The man who openly took a mistress.”
She cocked her head and pressed out a smile that didn’t reach her cold eyes.
“How was the whore?” She licked her fingers, which were slick with chicken fat from the drumstick she was holding.
