She’d thought that when she heard she was no longer married, she’d be instantly relieved and happy, and then exhilarated. But Zarabeth instead felt as though she’d been cut adrift on a roiling river, her craft spinning out of control. She put her hand to her mouth and choked back a sob.
“Are ye all right?” Egan’s hand was warm on her back. “Did ye love your husband so much?” He sounded puzzled.
“Love him?” Zarabeth jerked away from Egan, her heart pounding until her lungs ached.
The wedding band on her finger burned her and she wrenched it off. With a cry of fury, she flung it away from her as hard as she could, the gold winking as it vanished into the tall grass.
“I hated him with every breath!” she shouted into the wind. “I wished him dead so many times. Dead. And gone from me!”
The words spilled out before she could stop them. Zarabeth, who’d learned day by painful day to control her tongue, suddenly screamed out what she truly felt.
“Why?” Egan asked in a hard voice. “What did he do t’ ye?”
“Do not ask me.” She shook her head, pressing her arms into her stomach. “Do not ever ask me.”
“But I am asking ye,” Egan said firmly. “Here and now. Tell me, lass.”
Zarabeth wanted to keep the shame quiet at least, but the words jerked from her. “He punished me. If I did not do exactly as he said—speak, behave, dress, think—he punished me.”
Egan’s eyes went sharp with fury. “Ye mean he beat ye?”
“He didn’t need to—he knew so many ways to be cruel. If I spoke to someone he didn’t wish me to, or went somewhere he didn’t like, he’d lock me in my rooms for days and allow me no food or drink. My maid at first tried to smuggle me scraps from the kitchen, but he caught her and had her beaten. I was afraid to ever let her try it again, though, poor thing, she begged me to …”
Egan’s body was still. “What else?”
Zarabeth swallowed. “If I did not dress the way he wished me to, he took away my clothes and left me nothing but a shift. I could have defied him about that, but he did the same to my maids, and they were so miserable and humiliated.”
“What else? Tell me all. Get it out.”
“Why do you wish me to?” she asked, every word hurting, but they continued to come. “If I dared say anything he didn’t approve of in public, or even when we were private, the punishments would come. He took away everything I loved—even a cat I’d brought with me from home he was going to have killed because it hissed at him. One of my maids smuggled the cat to a friend to look after, thank heavens. I don’t want to imagine what Sebastian would have done to him.” Shaking tears rolled down her face. “I could not run away, couldn’t flee back home, because Sebastian had my every step guarded. He watched me always, or had his secretary watch me. I was like a prisoner—no, more like a madwoman in an asylum.”
Zarabeth found herself against Egan’s chest, buried in his scents of wool and man. Egan’s arms came around her, shielding her like a blanket against the cold.
“Ye should have told me,” he said into her hair. “Why didn’t ye tell me? I’d have come for ye.”
She shook her head, her cheek rubbing his coat. “I could not. Sebastian had his servants search my rooms and take away my paper and ink—I had to beg for them whenever I wanted to write a letter—and then his secretary took the letters to Sebastian to read. I tried to devise ways to deceive him, but after a while, it was easier to give in. If I gave in he left me alone.”
Under her ear, Egan’s heart pounded rapidly. “Damnation. I’ll kill the bastard.”
Zarabeth wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “You couldn’t have known. My father didn’t know, or Damien, so they couldn’t have told you either. No one knew. I became a master at hiding the truth. I don’t even know why I’m telling you now.”
“’Tis the Ring of Dunmarran,” Egan rumbled. “Legend says that within its circle, ye can only speak the truth.”
Zarabeth raised her head. “Really? How awful.”
“Aye. That’s why no one ever comes here.”
Egan’s expression was somber. She’d never seen him look so sad, not even when he spoke of his brother. Behind the sadness was the rage of the savage man he was deep down inside.
“Why did you make me tell you?” Zarabeth asked, anguished.
Egan gentled his voice. “I thought ye could now that ye were out of his reach. I wanted to know what my Zarabeth was hiding from me.” He put his strong finger under her chin and raised her face to his. “Ye are safe now, lass. I’ll never let ye be hurt again.”
Zarabeth shook her head, breaking his hold. “I might be free of my marriage, but he won’t let me go easily. Sebastian loves revenge. A man who voted against him in the council ended up so violently ill he had to retire to the country for a year to recover. Sebastian would not have him killed outright because he might need the man again, but he let his displeasure be known.”
“A monster,” Egan said grimly.
“Oh, yes. But no one knows it, you see. Sebastian is more of a master of hiding than I am.”
“Well, ye don’t have to hide anymore,” Egan said, his hand stealing to her back. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell ye, love. You’re under my protection. As laird, I take care of all within my domain.”
Standing against his hard body, sheltered from the cold wind, Zarabeth did feel safe. She allowed herself to wrap her arms around his waist, which she hadn’t done in weeks.
“Except now he’ll try to kill you too,” she said into his plaid. “For hiding me.”
Egan rumbled with laughter, vibrating her body. “I’m a formidable enemy. I have every clan in this part of the Highlands behind me if I need them, and besides, Prince Damien and Grand Duke Alexander count me as a friend.”
Zarabeth rubbed her cheek on the soft wool. “Sebastian is more insidious than that. He does not fight outright—he pays others to creep about and assassinate for him.”
“I’ve cast a wide net,” Egan said with confidence. “No fish will get in or out without my permission.”
Zarabeth wanted to laugh at his metaphor but felt too brittle. “This isn’t real freedom. I am confined here as much as I was in Nvengaria.”
Egan’s voice softened, his hand on her back caressing. “Is it so bad? I know Castle MacDonald isnae elegant, and my family tumbles all over it. Enough to drive anyone mad.”
Zarabeth looked up at him. “I like your family. They are wonderfully sane, and being here reminds me of life in my father’s house.” She at least was able to smile. “Only a little louder.”
“Aye, the Battle of Flodden couldn’t have been as loud as Angus and Hamish and Gemma when they get to shoutin’ at each other.”
They could be noisy indeed, but Zarabeth enjoyed the Scots rumbles of Angus and Hamish, Gemma’s voice always firmly cutting through theirs. Sometimes they spoke Gaelic, and Zarabeth understood not one word, but she loved to listen. “It is kind of you to let them all live here,” she said.
“Huh. Not so much lettin’ them as them knowing I won’t turn them away. Angus and Hamish’s father—my uncle—didn’t have a penny, and we all grew up in the castle together. ’Tis their home. And now yours.”
Zarabeth sighed wistfully. “Sometimes I think I never want to leave here. At others, I want so much to go home. Nvengaria is alive with color and pageantry, and everyone lives so intensely. Sometimes it’s wearying, sometimes exhilarating.”
“Aye, Nvengaria’s an … interesting … place.”
Zarabeth closed her eyes, for once able to reminisce without pain. Perhaps the Ring of Dunmarran’s magic allowed her this. “I remember the marvelous masked balls my mother used to give. I’d creep downstairs and watch the guests, and when I came of age and could attend myself, I’d spend weeks planning my costume. Once I appeared as a frog princess. No one knew who was inside that giant frog’s head. It was the very devil to walk around in. But I won the prize for being the m
ost unique.”
Egan shook with laughter. “I am sorry I never saw that.”
Sebastian would never have allowed Zarabeth to appear in green wool held in shape with wire, with a little crown on top of her head. The gowns she’d worn as Sebastian’s duchess had been magnificent and expensive, and her costumes for masked balls had been made to keep her identity obvious. Everyone should know that the best-dressed woman in the room was Princess Zarabeth, wife of Duke Sebastian.
“Now, I think I shall always attend balls in plaid,” she said softly. “As a Scotswoman.”
Egan’s voice was soothing. “A fine idea. I’m t’ make ye an honorary member of Clan MacDonald at Hogmanay.” He stopped and made a noise of exasperation. “Damn the Ring of Dunmarran. ’Twas meant to be a surprise.”
Zarabeth took a step back, her mouth going dry. “Oh.”
He frowned. “Ye don’t look pleased. ’Twas Gemma’s suggestion, since ye seem to like everything Scottish, and I thought it a grand idea. And my clansmen will be loyal to ye as a lady of the clan.”
“Oh,” Zarabeth said again.
Then she nearly sagged to her knees as gratitude swamped her. She’d spent five years holding herself apart from the world so no one would be hurt because of her. And now Egan’s Highlanders were embracing her in good-natured affection, welcoming her as one of their own.
“Not much of a gift,” Egan was saying. “But I haven’t had time t’ visit our jewelers in Edinburgh and fetch a bauble for ye.”
Happiness flooded Zarabeth, her eyes stinging with sudden tears. “I don’t want a bauble. Spare your coachman and horses the journey.”
Egan blinked, then dragged his wind-whipped hair from his eyes. “Are ye sure?” he asked, sounding perplexed. “Ye’d turn down a diamond necklace t’ join a pack of thundering Highlanders?”
“Sebastian gave me boxes of diamonds. I hated them all.” Zarabeth wanted to laugh, a wild, unconstrained laugh. “I’d rather have porridge and heather, and tartan dresses.”
Egan chuckled. “Ye’ll be easy t’ please, then.” His half smile warmed her all over.
Zarabeth knew right then she’d better get herself out of the Ring of Dunmarran before she made a fool of herself once more over Egan. She tried to push away from him, but his strong arms held her in place.
This was far too dangerous. She wanted to blurt out that she loved him, that she always had loved him, even whenever she was angry at him—especially when she was angry at him.
She pushed again. “Egan, please let me go.”
Egan’s hands tightened. “If I make ye an honorary MacDonald, ye have to pledge yourself to me.”
Zarabeth gulped and looked up at him. His dark eyes sparkled with mirth. “Pledge myself?” she asked in a faint voice.
“Aye, t’ have me as your laird. T’ come to my aid when need be, to follow me when I ask it.”
“Oh, is that all?” She wanted to laugh. Why was it that when Sebastian expected her unquestioned obedience, she’d been torn with rage and fear—but when Egan asked, she felt only amusement?
Perhaps because Sebastian demanded submission without quarter, and Egan only asked for her word. One man bound her with chains, the other would accept her pledge as a gift.
“Is that no’ enough?” Egan asked, frowning. “’Tis a devil of a lot more than I’d promise anyone else.”
Zarabeth grinned. “I thought I’d have to polish your boots as well, oh great laird.”
His hold tightened. “Your pledge will be fine. At Hogmanay, in front of the clan.”
“I will give it.”
His teasing fled. “Then I will swear t’ protect ye with my sword and my strength.”
Egan’s body went still. Zarabeth could feel the foolish young woman rushing up inside her, ready to clasp her hands behind his neck, to draw his head down to hers for a long, tongue-tangling kiss.
She let her fingers slide along his chest. “You never did tell me, you know,” she said softly. “What a Highland laird wears under his kilt.”
Egan started as though that were the last thing he’d expected her to say. Then he began to laugh, slow laughter that vibrated his body.
“I knew the first day I laid eyes on ye that ye’d be a vixen,” he said.
“I simply want to know.” Zarabeth slanted him a sly glance. “And if we’re in the Ring of Dunmarran, you have to tell me the truth.”
Egan released her, still laughing. Then before her startled eyes, he spun around and flipped the back of his kilt up over his hips. “There now,” he roared.
Zarabeth froze in place, all breath deserting her. Egan MacDonald had nothing beneath those plaids, except his tight thighs and firm, pale backside. She’d seen Egan when he’d stood up in his bath, but that had been through a slit in the door. Now the winter sun touched his skin, everything bare for her to see.
Gods above, he was beautiful.
He dropped the kilt but before he could turn around, Zarabeth was behind him, sliding her arms around his waist. She leaned into his warm back, her body thrumming with need.
Egan didn’t jerk away, not even when her hand found the arousal pressing the front of his kilt. She eased her fingers over its length through the fabric, her heart fluttering as she felt every inch of him.
“No, lass.” His voice was broken.
Zarabeth leaned her cheek on his back, enjoying touching him in a way she’d always wanted to. His shaft was long and thick, and her intimate spaces grew damp. She imagined him pressing his hardness into her and barely held back her groan.
“Gods, Zarabeth, stop.”
“I don’t want to,” she whispered.
In spite of his admonishments, Egan made no move to push her away or still her hands. She loved the hard, full feel of him through the plaid. When she’d been eighteen, her innocent need had run to kisses, but after reading about bed-play, her dreams of him had become specific and bawdy.
“The Nvengarian Book of Seductions,” she said softly, “instructs a lady to measure her lover with a piece of ribbon and to keep the ribbon by her bedside as a reminder when he is absent.”
“I’ve heard much about Adolpho’s Book of Seductions,” Egan said, his voice rasping. “Required reading, is it?”
“When a lady comes of age, she studies it most carefully.”
“Why, so she can drive a man mad?”
“I believe that is the intention.”
Egan’s groan turned into a growl. He swung around and seized Zarabeth by the shoulders, backing her into the nearest standing stone. The magic from it seared her body, and she gasped at the heady sensation.
Even better was Egan leaning into her, his knee sliding between her legs, her skirts draping it. “Which seduction is this?” he asked.
Adolpho of Nvengaria’s Book of Seductions was a practical manual, with elaborate seductions numbered One through Three-Hundred and Twenty. Each had specific accouterments—dress, props, setting, technique.
“I don’t remember one for stone circles,” Zarabeth said, giving him a demure look.
“But ye remember others?”
“Oh, yes.” She let her smile turn impish. “But do not worry. I am not one of your debutantes, chasing you through the halls of your castle to corner you.”
“I keep telling ye, those young ladies were not mine.”
“You didn’t feel the least bit flattered with their determined pursuit?” Zarabeth asked in feigned surprise.
“No, I did not,” he said flatly.
“You are a rare man, Egan MacDonald.” Zarabeth traced his cheek, fingers trembling as she brushed the sandpaper roughness of his whiskers.
“Are ye cold, lass?” he asked, voice low.
“Not cold at all.” Not with six feet and more of Highlander to heat her.
Egan pressed her shoulders into the stone, tilted her head back, and kissed her deeply. No more slow, innocent exploring. He opened her mouth in hot, hungry strokes, lips and tongue demanding.
Za
rabeth melted back into the stone, feeling its magic surge through her. Or perhaps those were her desires responding to Egan. She clutched his sleeves and closed her eyes, answering his kiss with a mouth as hungry as his. He tasted of spice and himself, his warm scent melting her as she clung to him.
Egan’s hands left her shoulders. In a few swift moves, he pushed her cloak out of the way and unbuttoned the top of her bodice.
Zarabeth’s bosom swelled out into the cold, held in place by a small corset. Her nipples pressed the fabric, the boning beneath her breasts holding her tightly.
Still kissing her, Egan flicked one thumb over her nipple beneath the thin cotton. Zarabeth arched toward the feeling, the slow friction of his hand. Her breasts were tight and hot, his touch a point of fire.
He would break away soon, as he always did. Egan would come to his senses, and this sensation would be gone. And who knew when she could convince him to touch her again?
Egan kissed her, his tongue strong in her mouth She had a heady vision of him pressing his tongue into the heat between her thighs, and she shuddered hard.
She’d read the theory of such things, but never put them into practice. Her husband had taken her to bed only to produce a child—when he wanted to, how he wanted to. He’d wanted a son to carry on his name and had been very angry that Zarabeth never conceived.
Egan would take her slowly, and it would be powerful.
I want this man, Zarabeth thought desperately. She craved him with a hunger she hadn’t imagined she could feel. She slid her arms around his waist and let her palms ease down to cup his buttocks through the kilt.
She couldn’t read his mind, but she didn’t need to at this moment. Egan’s restless fingers on her breasts and his hot kisses told her all she needed to know.
“Love,” he whispered hoarsely. “Love, we have to stop.”
“No.” The word came out a moan. “Not yet.”
“They’re watchin’ us. My riders and your baron friend.”
She couldn’t drag her gaze from his lips. “They are too far away to see.”
Egan’s breath was hot on her skin. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll no’ ravish ye out here with my men peering through the trees.”
Highlander Ever After: Nvengaria, Book 3 Page 16
