The MacTaggart Brothers Trilogy

by Anna Durand

  Though I had noticed the stone cottage there, I'd assumed it was empty or maybe used for storage. I did recall she'd mentioned living behind the garden on the day I arrived.

  "Before he married the last one," Mrs. Darroch said, "I had a room inside the main house. Una didnae like sharing her home with a servant, though, and I moved into the cottage. Stayed there ever since. It's a bonnie home, cozier than Dùndubhan Castle."

  "This isn't exactly homey," I agreed. Especially with my husband forbidding me to enter his bedroom. "Have a feeling I'd be more comfortable in a cottage."

  She squeezed my arm. "You'll get used to living here. Good night, dearie."

  "Good night, Mrs. D. Thanks for being so nice to the new girl."

  "You're an angel, gràidh. It's no hardship."

  With that, she left.

  Rather than taking Rory's meal to his office, I dropped it off in the dining room and then retrieved my tray as well. Once I'd set our meal out on the enormous dining-room table, I went to retrieve my MIA husband.

  His office door was shut.

  I knocked twice and pushed the door open, traipsing across the room like I owned the damn place. I kind of did, didn't I? Rory hadn't mentioned whether I became a co-owner when we married. He'd called this my home, though.

  Formerly absorbed with the papers on his desk, Rory lifted his gaze but kept his head bowed, observing my approach. "What are you doing?"

  "You ask me that a lot." Alongside his chair, I dropped into a deep curtsy and said with mock graveness, "Your presence is requested in the dining hall, my laird."

  He slapped his pen on the desktop, his mouth warped with his usual effort to defeat a smile. "I eat in here. Mrs. Darroch will bring —"

  "Not tonight." I grasped the top of his chair and forced it to rotate toward me. "I'm tired of eating alone. We're having dinner together, in the dining room, like normal people."

  With his head at the height of my breasts, he seemed unable to resist admiring them. "I take my meals here."

  I bent at the waist to level our gazes. "You take your dinners with me from here on. No arguments. Listen to your therapist, Rory baby."

  His brows snapped together. "You called me that last night, but I assumed it was sarcastic."

  "It was — then." I bracketed his face with my hands. "I've decided this nickname's a keeper. Rory baby."

  "As I've told you before, I don't need a nickname."

  "Yes you do." I straightened and held my hands flat, palms up, bouncing them in the air. "Get up. To the dining hall with you."

  Grudgingly, he heaved his big-and-sexy self out of the chair. His gaze browsed over my body, his simmering interest impossible to miss. "Why are ye barefoot?"

  "I don't wear shoes at home, inside the house."

  "You have no socks."

  "How observant. I like being as naked as possible at all times."

  He gave me an oh please look but accompanied me downstairs to the dining room and took his seat at the head of the table where I'd laid out his meal. I settled into the adjacent seat, with my dinner laid out for me there. The bottle of wine I'd pilfered from the cellar was stationed between our plates, uncorked, waiting for one of us to decant it.

  Rory picked up the bottle, pouring its ruby-colored contents into my glass first, then his. As he set down the bottle, he said, "I see you found the wine cellar."

  "Yep. Hope you don't mind me stealing a bottle."

  "It's not stealing, this is your home."

  He sipped from his glass, and I did the same with mine — though I took the time to swirl the wine and inhale a deep draft of its layered scent.

  "Mrs. D went home," I said, "to her cottage in the garden. We've got full privacy, if you'd rather eat your meal off my naked body."

  His fork tumbled from his grasp, clattering onto the plate. "Bod an Donais."

  Really, he was so much fun to tease. "It's not the devil's penis I want to suck."

  "You're a wicked angel, for sure."

  I remembered him calling me his wicked little angel the night we met. Hearing those words meant more to me tonight, since we'd gotten to know each other a bit.

  My curiosity peaked, I asked, "Which part of bod an Donais means penis?"

  "Bod." His eyes glowed in the soft lighting from the crystal chandelier. "Your pronunciation of Gaelic is impressive. You are impressive, Emery."

  My cheeks warmed at the compliment, and my body followed suit. My husband thought I was impressive. A step in the right direction, I decided.

  Rory set into his meal, consuming it with precision and care.

  Meanwhile, I dug into mine like a woman starved for a month. Mrs. Darroch's food was always scrumptious, and I couldn't resist pigging out on the T-bone and garlic mashed potatoes. Yesterday, I'd mentioned I loved a good steak. And she'd cooked me one.

  I loved that woman to pieces.

  Abruptly, I realized Rory had stopped eating to observe me, his expression both curious and fascinated.

  I swallowed a mouthful of masticated beef. "What? Do I have food on my face?"

  "No." He sat back in his chair, still giving me that oddly fascinated look. "Your enthusiasm for eating continues to amaze me. Isobel ate like a bird, and Lilias was a vegan. Una latched onto whatever diet was most popular at the time."

  I sipped my wine. "I've never dieted, unless you count not being able to eat hardly anything when I had the stomach flu. Never understood the appeal of depriving yourself in the hopes other people will like you better if you're thinner."

  Holding his glass near his mouth, he roamed his gaze over my body. "You don't need to be thinner."

  "Most guys I've dated would disagree. One jerk told me he didn't mind being with a chubby girl, and another one asked if I'd had a baby recently." I took a bite of steak into my mouth, speaking while chewing. "Men these days expect every woman to have a stick figure. With big boobs, of course."

  Rory frowned and set down his glass. The intensity of his gaze sparked a warm tingle that raced along my skin.

  "Those men are eejits," he said in a voice both soft and decisive. "You're perfect. I love your body, love running my hands over every curve and swell."

  The tingle escalated into a full-body fever. "I've never thought I was fat. But thank you for that… compliment."

  The word fell woefully short of describing what he'd said, or the way he'd said it, but I couldn't think of a better term. Couldn't think at all, with him staring at me like he really did want to spread my naked body over the table and eat a decadent meal off my skin.

  "You're welcome," he said, his voice rough, eyes hooded.

  I put down my glass and stretched one leg under the table until my bare foot nestled between his thighs. Every one of his breaths blustered out between his delectable lips. I slithered down in my chair, determined to burrow my foot deeper between his thighs. His leg muscles tautened under my sole, but when I molded my foot over the bulge of his erection, his whole body went rigid.

  "What are ye doing?" he said, his voice strained.

  "There you go again," I replied, stroking his thickening cock with my toes, the fabric of his slacks smooth as cream against my skin, "asking questions that have obvious answers. If you insist I explain…" I rubbed the length of my foot along the length of his shaft. "I'm trying to get you so hot you'll throw me down on this table and fuck me mindless."

  He clapped his hands on the arms of his chair, gripping them so hard I wondered if he'd crack the sturdy wood. "This is your plan to win the wager."

  "Partly." I petted him with my toes. "I want you all the time."

  His hand cuffed around my ankle, he exerted just enough pressure to force me to bend my knee and retract my foot from his groin. "May I finish my dinner without you… tempting me?"

  "I may be shameless when it comes to winning our bet, but I promise." I moved my foot to the floor and sat up in my chair. "I won't tease you, but I can't guarante
e you won't feel tempted. I can't be held responsible for your lustful tendencies."

  "My lustful tendencies?" A smirk tightened his cheeks. "You are the most passionate woman I've ever known. Full of lust and vigor, unafraid of your desires."

  "You're full of compliments tonight."

  "Well-deserved ones."

  Buoyed by his flattery, and buzzed from our erotic interplay, I permitted him to dine in peace while I asked innocuous questions about the castle grounds. When we'd finished our meal, however, I brought up the subject I'd waited all day to discuss.

  I thrust my empty plate away. "Last night, when I found you sleeping at your desk, you had a document out. It looked like our marriage contract."

  His features contorted.

  I turned my chair toward him. "Why were you looking at —"

  "Preparing to file it in the proper folder."

  "Filing. Sure." I swung a leg over the arm of my chair. "Do I look that gullible?"

  He picked at the upholstery on his chair. "Donnae know why I brought out the contract."

  God help me, I believed him. Over the past week, I'd come to understand Rory did a lot of things without any comprehension of why. Most of his subconscious actions revolved around me. His decision to go three weeks without sex had cemented my conviction he was afraid to give in to his desire for me completely, afraid of what he might feel if he did.

  I was afraid too — terrified I'd made a mistake harnessing my life to his, that leaving him after a year would hurt more than I could imagine — but I wasn't fighting those fears. I confronted them every day.

  Rory stumbled through life with his eyes shut.

  He fidgeted in his chair, snaking a hand down to adjust his erection. From the way he winced, I gathered the movement didn't ease his discomfort.

  Poor Rory. As his therapist, I couldn't let him suffer this way.

  I pushed my chair away and got to my feet, one hip buttressed by the table. "You know, we could have sex — right here, right now — and you wouldn't lose the bet."

  His brows inched upward.

  I sloped my body over the table toward him, supported by a palm spread on the smooth surface. "We're not naked in my bedroom."

  His eyes burning into mine, he whisked his tongue back and forth along his bottom lip. Once. Twice. Three times.

  "You may be right," he said, "about the bet. But we are not having sex until after the wedding."

  Despite his even tone, he looked miserable at the reiteration of his decree. The hard-on straining his pants might've had something to do with it.

  "Aw, Rory baby," I purred, crawling across the table, "you look like you need a cuddle."

  His body slackened, a silent invitation.

  I crawled onto his lap, straddling him. His hands cupped the small of my back as I roped my arms around his neck. His fingers trembled against my back. I fitted my body to his like a second skin, my mouth a hair's breadth from his. "Better?"

  "Depends on your definition of 'better.' "

  I closed my eyes, pulling in a deep breath, and my lips curved into a contented smile. "You smell so good. I love being close to you."

  His hands pressed into my back.

  I opened my eyes to spy the surprise in his.

  With a breathy moan, I closed my mouth over his. Determined to stop him from saying anything grumpy that might spoil the moment, I plunged my tongue into his mouth.

  Rory clenched his fingers in my shirt, crushing me to him while he responded to my foray by curling his tongue around mine in a dance of sensual sweetness. I went limp against him, lost in the intimacy of our kiss, of our bodies plastered to each other. The chair creaked beneath us from every little movement, while he splayed his hands on my back as if desperate to hold me close.

  My pulse raced, a lightness fluttered in my chest. This wasn't a lustful kiss. It was… more.

  I tore my lips from his, the loss of his mouth aching like the loss of a limb, stirring an emotion that chased a chill through me beneath the heat. This feeling, I recognized it as more than desire. It was more than I wanted to feel, but I wouldn't fight it. I didn't want to. In his eyes, I glimpsed more than the desire darkening them. I found a softness there, a tenderness he would never admit to — not yet, but maybe one day.

  Adjusting my position on his lap, I noted a surprising lack of hardness under me. His erection had waned. My desire had lessened too, tempered by an affection I couldn't deny. He wasn't my fake husband. He had become my real husband, the man I wanted to stay with, contract be damned.

  The problem? He wasn't ready to hear the truth.

  Rory yawned, though he tried to stifle it.

  "You need sleep," I said. "It's bedtime."

  "Not yet."

  He mashed my body to his for a kiss of pure abandon, of possession and dominance, the kind of kiss that branded me as his and his alone, even as the lush glide of his tongue evinced the tenderness he would never acknowledge. I surrendered to him without reservation, reveling in the wildly erotic sensations.

  With a guttural groan, he abandoned my lips to drag his mouth down my throat, licking and nibbling at the hollow. His hand claimed my breast, the feel of his muscular fingers no less arousing for the fabric separating our skin. I couldn't catch my breath, could do nothing except let my head fall onto his shoulder, my mouth against his skin.

  "Oh," I murmured without conscious thought. "Oh Rory."

  We both froze.

  "I'm sorry," I hastened to say, afraid to peek at his face. "I forgot the rule —"

  "Say it again."

  For a couple seconds, I held motionless in his arms, worried I'd misunderstood his request.

  "Please," he said, his voice hushed but rife with emotion, his arms lashing me tighter against his body. "Please say it again."

  "Rory." His name emerged from my lips as the barest whisper, like a benediction between us.

  He buried his face against my neck, his hands fisting in my shirt and loosening again, repeating the motion over and over while his lips peppered delicate kisses over my skin.

  The intimacy of this moment robbed me of breath, and something inside me clicked into place. I unbent my body, my hands on his shoulders. "You said I shouldn't speak your name when we're getting sexy together."

  "Changed my mind."

  "But why?" God, how I prayed for him to say — I didn't know what.

  With one fingertip, he charted the lines of the tendons in my hand. "When you say my name, I… like it."

  Joy rushed through me, heady as adrenaline. His small admission meant so much to me, I didn't care how silly I was to ascribe deep meaning to it. I loved hearing the words.

  I looked up at him through my lashes. "Does this mean the prohibition on me speaking your name during intimate moments is lifted?"

  "Aye."

  "Hallelujah." I kissed him quick and hard. "It's super hard to make sure I don't accidentally say your name in the throes of passion."

  I wanted to get him to throw out the no-eyes-closed rule too, along with the ones about no daytime sex and separate bedrooms, but I didn't dare ruin this moment by pushing for more than he was ready to give.

  One rule gone. Progress, for sure.

  He turned my hand over to trace the lines on my palm with his finger. "You were right, though. It is time for bed. In our separate rooms."

  Shit. He had to go and wreck our bonding moment by reminding me he refused to share a bed.

  Rory pushed his chair back, set me on my feet, and stood.

  "Good night, Emery," he said, then kissed my cheek and departed.

  I would cling to the memory of this night for as long as it took to convince him to open his eyes and embrace life.

  A life with me. For more than one year.

  God, I hoped I wasn't setting myself up for heartbreak.

  Chapter Twenty

  On day four in Scotland, day one of Rory's abstinence plan, I resolved
to explore the land surrounding the castle compound. Since Rory had absconded to his office before I woke, I'd asked Mrs. Darroch to relay a message to him that I'd be outside all morning. My husband needed a break from me, and I chose to give him the day. We both needed time to decompress after our whirlwind week, when we rocketed through marriage and meeting the family, straight into sharing a home.

  Before my explorations could begin, though, I had to fuel my body.

  Mrs. Darroch polished the silver while I chowed down on the meal she'd prepared, consisting of oatmeal porridge, smoked salmon, and eggs.

  A few minutes later, a scruffy man dressed in denim overalls and well-worn boots trudged into the kitchen doorway. Mrs. Darroch introduced him as Tavish Brody, the groundskeeper and the person responsible for the gorgeous garden.

  "It's beautiful," I said. "You have a real flair for gardening."

  He grunted, nabbed a muffin from a basket on the counter, and excused himself.

  I might've wondered if all Scotsmen were gruff, but Aidan MacTaggart disproved that hypothesis.

  After finishing my breakfast, I made my way out the vestibule door and through the courtyard and gate to the front lawn. There, I came upon Tavish trimming the ivy that climbed the castle wall.

  "Hey, Tavish," I said, waving to him.

  Surprise flashed on his face, but he tromped over to me. "Did ye need something, Mrs. MacTaggart?"

  "It's Emery." I rubbed my palms together. "Would you mind telling me about the garden? I'd love to know the names of all the plants."

  Tavish perked up at my request, and we spent an hour together in the walled garden.

  After a solitary walk in the woods, I returned to the house to unpack my belongings and sort through them. Anything I didn't need in my room could be stored elsewhere, though I'd have to ask my husband where. Ten minutes into my task, I glanced up at the sound of footsteps.

  Rory filled the doorway, as hunky as ever, his gaze skipping over the boxes arrayed around me where I knelt on the floor.

  "This is a nice surprise," I said. "What's up, honey?"

  He did not wince or grouse about my use of an endearment. I squelched the urge to pump my fists in the air, opting for a mental victory lap.