The MacTaggart Brothers Trilogy

by Anna Durand

  He stopped. Just like that. His fingers rested on my mound, not moving. "Where?"

  "Can't go to my place. My parents are there."

  "My hotel," he growled, and swept me up into his arms as he stood.

  "Hurry."

  Lachlan yanked my dress down to cover my thighs. I managed to snag my small purse off the table before he strode out of the booth, the curtains billowing around us, and down the hallway to the club proper. I padlocked my arms around his neck, certain nothing I said would halt him. He marched straight across the dance floor, and couples scattered to get out of our way. The set of his jaw told me anyone who got in our way would get mowed down by my Highlander. People stared at us in disbelief, but everyone stepped aside for the Scotsman lugging his bride-to-be out of the club.

  Once outside, he paused. "Where's your car?"

  "There." I pointed across the parking lot. The cool night air raised goosebumps all over me. I wrapped my arms around him more snugly as he rushed across the pavement to my car and set me on my feet beside the passenger door.

  "Keys," he commanded.

  I dug them out of my purse, lightheaded from the hormones raging inside me, and handed over the keys. "I see we're back to monosyllabic Lachlan."

  He grunted, unlocked the door, and hurled it open. "Not capable of conversation right now. All I can think about is stripping you naked and ravishing you until sunrise."

  "Well, in that case…" I climbed into the car and, on purpose this time, let my skirt hike up. "Get a move on."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Three Weeks Later

  On a sunny Wednesday morning, I stood in a field of heather, hand in hand with Lachlan as we spoke our vows before our gathered families. Lachlan wore — what else? — a kilt fashioned from the MacTaggart clan tartan, the blue and green I'd seen when I met him in Dance Ardor. I had chosen a simple dress, somewhat old-fashioned in style, with plenty of lace and a flowy skirt, that made me feel like a Highland princess. A breeze ruffled the dress and my hair, but I noticed nothing except him. My hot Scot.

  A tree-cloaked hillside sloped up behind us, while before us a gentle grade extended down to our new house, and beyond that lay the glassy waters of Loch Leven with its smattering of islands. The village of Ballachulish nestled along the loch's shores, quaint and small and beautiful, surrounded by the shadows of the mountains but seated smack in a disk of golden sunshine. Not a single cloud marred the azure sky, though a certain golden retriever danced around amid the guests, as far as his retractable leash would allow. My dad held tight to the leash's handle, but no one seemed to mind Casey's exuberance. Just as the ceremony started, the dog sat down and fell silent as if he understood the importance of the moment.

  When Lachlan slipped the wedding band onto my finger, tears rolled down my cheeks — which I blamed on hormones, of course. Never mind that my heart swelled with joy and I couldn't stop gazing adoringly at my new husband. Lachlan's smile trembled as I placed the ring on his finger, and his eyes glistened — though, being a caber-tossing, hammer-throwing Highland man's man, he didn't cry.

  After the ceremony, my father clapped Lachlan on the shoulder and said, "Glad I didn't have to shoot you."

  Lachlan arched an eyebrow at me.

  With a sheepish shrug, I told him, "The possibility may have been discussed at one point. Weeks ago."

  Dad grinned. "I offered, but Erica said 'nah, don't bother.' "

  "Frank," my mom said in her best indulgent tone, "don't scare the poor boy. We decided we like him, remember? Offing your new son-in-law is rude."

  "I'd only wing him," Dad insisted.

  Both my parents had a teasing gleam in their eyes. I'd warned Lachlan he'd have to get used to the Teague family pastime of harassing our friends and relatives with odd sarcasm. I'd patted his cheek and assured him, "It means we love you, honey."

  Now, as my mom enveloped him in a bear hug while my dad simultaneously gave his hand a powerful shake, Lachlan aimed a bemused smile at me.

  "Okay, okay," I said, pushing my parents away from my husband and linking my hands around his arm. "There will be no winging Lachlan today."

  "Today?" Lachlan asked, eying me askance, with a slight smirk.

  "I need some way to keep you in line." I rose onto tiptoes to peck a kiss on his lips. "Can I have my own sword?"

  "We'll see."

  Lachlan's brothers approached us then, sly grins lighting up their faces, both as gorgeous as their elder sibling, my sexy-as-hell husband. Aidan and Rory — yes, I'd finally met the infamous Rory, Lachlan's solicitor and brother — slapped Lachlan on the back.

  Aidan winked at me. "Picked a hot one there, Lachie. When do I get to kiss the bride?"

  "Never," Lachlan replied in a dead-calm voice. "Don Juan MacTaggart does not get to practice on my wife. And don't call me Lachie unless you're wanting to get skelped."

  "So sensitive," Rory said, sidling around Aidan to get closer to me. "Welcome to the family, Erica. Best get used to Lachie being a humbug. He's a boring, humorless man."

  I didn't miss the glint in his eyes or the upward twitch of his lips. Yes, the Teagues and the MacTaggarts would get along fine, thanks to their shared love of teasing each other without mercy.

  "Oh don't worry," I assured Rory, snuggling closer to Lachlan. "My husband is exciting and entertaining for me. Maybe he just doesn't like you two scunners."

  Aidan and Rory burst out laughing. Lachlan watched them while shaking his head, a slight smile curving his mouth, until Rory managed to say, "She's already taking to our language. Better watch your wife, Lachlan, or she'll be a true Scottish lassie before you know it, cursing at you in Gaelic."

  "Let me help her along," Aidan said, his expression all innocence as he clasped my shoulder in one hand. "Now just say an toir thu dhomh pòg."

  Lachlan slapped a hand on Aidan's chest and shoved him away. His brother stumbled backward, laughing so hard his eyes watered.

  "What?" I asked, glancing between Lachlan and Aidan.

  My husband's mouth twisted into a half-restrained smile. "An toir thu dhomh pòg means will you give me a kiss."

  Note to self: Never repeat a Gaelic phrase told to you by Aidan MacTaggart.

  I met Lachlan's sisters too — Catriona, Jamie, and Fiona. They'd declared me "the fourth sister" while helping me get ready for the wedding this morning, and I already felt like one of the family, thanks to the MacTaggarts' kindness and humor. Though they'd just met me a week ago, they treated me like their long-lost daughter. And both sets of parents had become fast friends as well. Niall MacTaggart was teaching Frank Teague how to play shinty. The game looked kind of like field hockey, but it confused the heck out of me.

  Gradually, the wedding party headed down the hill to their cars parked in front of our house, to drive into the village for the reception. My brilliant husband had arranged to hold the party in the village, so we could sneak off to our house for a private party. Our parents, the last guests to leave, stopped to say goodbye before the MacTaggarts drove the Teagues into town for what promised to be a hell of a shindig. Casey bounded around the group of us, his tongue lolling and flapping.

  As my mother hugged me, she whispered, "I hope you tested his engines already. Doesn't look like he'd have any trouble, but you don't want a nasty surprise on your wedding night."

  "Mom!" I hissed, my cheeks flaring hot. "Honestly. It's a bit late to worry about it, don't you think?"

  She pulled back just enough to hit me with a mother-knows-best look. "Well, did you?"

  "Take him for a test drive?" Had I ever. She did not need to know the details. "Yes, he's… well equipped."

  Thankfully, she left it at that, seeming satisfied with my response. Mothers.

  Not long after that, our parents and Casey piled into a vehicle and departed. Casey would return to our homestead in the morning to settle into his new life as a Scottish farm dog. For tonight, Lachlan and I needed privacy.
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  As the last taillights receded into the night, my husband hoisted me into his arms and carried me over the threshold of our new home — our farm in the Highlands, where we'd raise our bairns. I'd thought my life was over when Presley Cichon framed me for embezzlement. Instead, I'd found everything I ever wanted.

  Lachlan set me down, shut the door, and smiled that smile. "Welcome home, Erica MacTaggart."

  "It's so beautiful, Lachlan."

  He held up a finger. "Got another surprise for you."

  "You know how I love your surprises."

  He trotted into another room, which I thought was the living room, and returned with his prize. My hand flew to my chest. "I thought you were kidding when you said —"

  "A Scotsman doesn't joke about these things." He spread his legs wide, chest high, looking every bit the Highland hero in his kilt and white, long-sleeved shirt. "Like my claymore?"

  "Oh yes."

  The sword must've been five feet long, its blade glinting in the light. He swung the claymore through the air in broad swipes. Right then and there I knew life with Lachlan MacTaggart would never be boring, but it would be sweet and fulfilling and full of wonder.

  Lachlan brandished the sword in both hands. "Better run for yer life, lassie, 'cause ahm coming fer ye."

  I sprinted for the bedroom, giggling all the way like an idiot, with my husband in hot pursuit. When we got to the bedroom, I let him catch me. He tossed the sword on the floor and scooped me up in his strong arms. "Time to pay the tithe."

  "Tithe?"

  "Aye," he said, with overly done solemnity. "Every Highland wife must pay her husband a tax on the wedding night."

  I rolled my eyes. "You've got way more money than I do. Want the five bucks I still have in my purse?"

  "Not money, gràidh." Lachlan heaved me onto the bed, and I yelped as I plopped onto the lush bedding, my butt sinking into it. His grin was wicked and promised many, many things. "I had another kind of tithe in mind."

  "Hmm, in that case…" I stretched my entire body, which boosted my breasts high enough they almost spilled out of the dress. "I'll pay up gladly."

  Lachlan stripped off his clothes faster than I'd ever imagined a man could disrobe, then sprawled over me, his hard body a blissful weight atop me. He thrust a hand under me, fumbling for the buttons of my dress. His lips pinched, his jaw clenched, and the spot just above his nose crinkled. After about ten seconds of jostling and struggling, he sprang to his knees and threw his arms up. "Bloody hell, woman, what kind of contraption have you got holding you in that thing?"

  "Buttons." I pushed up into a sitting position, my face aligned with his waving erection. My mouth watered at the sight of his acres of muscle, his washboard abs, and oh yeah, his stiff shaft. I batted my eyelashes at him, putting on my best innocent face. "Is there a problem, my lord and master?"

  His mouth puckered again, but this time because he was trying so hard not to laugh. "Careful. I might take you up on the lord-and-master bit."

  I got to my knees, shuffling around so my back faced him, and glanced at him over my shoulder. "Surely a powerful warrior such as yourself can handle a few buttons."

  Lachlan growled low in his throat, seized my dress, and ripped the buttons open in one jerk of his hands. Cool air wafted over my now-bare skin, but before I could shiver, his hot hands flattened on my back. He unhooked my bra, and his tongue touched down on my skin, tracing a slick path down my spine, dancing over each vertebra, igniting sparks that set my whole body on fire. He shoved the dress off my shoulders. With his mouth now on my neck, he murmured, "Tha gaol agam ort."

  "I don't speak Gaelic yet."

  He pushed the fabric over my hips. It pooled around my knees as he dispatched my bra, sending it fluttering to the floor. I reached back to slide my fingers into his hair. He clasped my waist in both hands and, with stunning grace, hefted me up and out of the dress, spun me around, and laid me out on the bed, flat on my back.

  Lachlan tore off my panties. "Tha gaol agam ort means I love you." He lowered his body onto mine once again, his erection trapped between our bodies. "Forever, mo leannan."

  "I love you too. Forever and ever." I wriggled, and he sucked in a breath. "You're mine, Lachlan MacTaggart. Gràidh."

  He cradled my head in his hands, gazing deeply into my eyes. "I love the way you say gràidh. You pronounce it perfectly."

  "Is it my pronunciation you're interested in at the moment?" I locked one leg around his, rubbing parts of him into slick, swollen parts of me.

  He made a choking sound. "Couldnae give a fuck about yer pronunciation right now."

  Wrapping my arms around him, I raked my nails up and down his back. "Show me what you are thinking about."

  He slanted his mouth over mine in a hard kiss, full of heat and tangling tongues. He groaned into my mouth, and my sex pulsed, my core aching with emptiness only he could fill. When he pulled away, his eyes burned with a bonfire of hunger matching my own.

  "Now," I begged, arching my hips into him. "Please."

  "Anything for you, gràidh." He drove into me with one long, powerful thrust. I cried out, my back bowing from the sheer ecstasy of him consuming me. He took me with leisurely strokes, driving me to the brink of madness, until I clawed at his back and pleaded for release, only to beg him with my very next breath never to stop. He braced his body on straight arms, grunting and shouting my name, his chest heaving, pumping harder and faster into my inflamed flesh. Sweat sheathed his body and dripped off his chest onto mine where it mingled with my own sheen of perspiration. The smell of sweat and sex permeated the air, the scent of my own arousal so strong I might've been embarrassed, if not for my husband obliterating my every thought with his throbbing shaft.

  My body convulsed as I came with a whimpering scream, clutching at Lachlan until my fingers dug into his upper arms. He exploded inside me with a sharp yell. I spiraled down from the heavens back into my body as he thrust a few more times, then collapsed beside me, breathing hard. I fought to catch my breath, my body humming from the inside out like a guitar string plucked hard. But oh, how I loved the way Lachlan plucked my strings.

  He pulled me onto my side, tucked against his body, my head pillowed against his shoulder. "Are you happy, sweet?"

  I propped my chin on his chest so I could meet his gaze. "You know I am. A few months ago, I thought I was going to prison. Just a few weeks ago, I thought I'd never have what I really want." I snuggled into him, brushing my fingers over his cheek. "Now I have everything. With you."

  He captured my hand, enclosing it in his. "You've given me more than I ever dreamed I'd have. Nothing will ever take me away from you, Erica."

  "I'm not going anywhere. This is where I belong." I cleared my throat and prayed I'd pronounce the next part right. "An toir thu dhomh pòg?"

  A breath rushed out of his nostrils. He hugged me tighter, his voice fierce with passion. "Keep speaking Gaelic."

  "Why?"

  He flipped us both over, with me beneath him and his quickly rousing shaft. "Because hearing you speak Gaelic will keep me going all night."

  "Promises, promises."

  "A guarantee."

  For the rest of the night, he demonstrated that he would always keep his promises. Sometime in the wee hours of the night, we curled up under the sheets, exhausted in the best way, and fell asleep in each other's arms, content in our life together.

  Forever.

  Lachlan's Version

  Dangerous in a Kilt, Chapter One

  I made my way into the club, down a darkened entryway, following a slender woman dressed in a tartan miniskirt. The plaid crisscrossed her breasts, leaving most of her skin exposed, but the sexy outfit couldn't rouse my interest. What the bloody hell had I been thinking? I'd never liked clubs, and this one called itself Dance Ardor, of all things. My dancing was of the foot-shuffling sort, not —

  Christ almighty.

  As I stepped out of the hallway
into the main part of the club, I caught sight of the couples on the dance floor. They writhed and thrust their hips, clung to each other's bodies like cling film on a sausage, and made no attempt to disguise their lustful intentions, evidenced in their hungry gazes and pawing hands. One woman mashed her breasts to her partner's chest and threw her head back, arching her spine so her lover could latch his mouth onto her throat.

  I halted at the perimeter, near one of many tables arranged in a semicircle around the dance floor. I was too old for this shit. A forty-two-year-old Scotsman on the cusp of divorce had no business entering a place like this. It was for the young and unencumbered, not for me.

  But the club's advert in a newspaper had caught my attention. "This Friday is Midsummer Kilt Night," the text had declared, "step into a fantasy world for one night only."

  Maybe I'd needed a fantasy, because I'd found myself drawn to this club.

  The woman who'd preceded me into the club turned to glance back at me, her wide mouth curling into a sensual smile. She'd painted her lips an odd purple shade that glistened like lacquer. The coruscating strobe lights streaked shades of violet, crimson, and sapphire across her blonde hair, the tresses cut into one of those short and haphazard styles. A fashion-conscious lass? I held back a groan, feeling not the slightest inclination to seduce this woman. A casual affair, for one night only, had appealed to me until the moment I walked into this place.

  The woman sashayed up to me. "Hey, babe, wanna hook up?"

  Bod a' chac. Were all American women so direct? I wasn't sure I liked that. Maybe it was my age showing, though forty-two had never seemed old to me until recently. Confronted with this young and attractive woman, I felt like a dirty old man for considering her offer for one bloody second. Half of one second.

  "Thank you," I said, "but I'm, ah… meeting someone."

  I wasn't, but I couldn't think of a better way to dismiss her without causing offense.

  She sighed with all the disappointment of a woman whose erotic fantasies had been shattered. "Oh well, it figures a hot British guy is taken."