Highlander Ever After

by Jennifer Ashley

  Gemma nodded. “Ye did him good then. I’m glad. Poor Angus had t’ look after the castle and the farms and do his best while Egan was gone. He’s a good and competent man, is Angus, but he’s not the laird, and the people know it.” She laced her fingers together. “So I don’t want Egan runnin’ off and leaving Angus to it again. Not if I have to chain Egan to the castle gates.”

  Zarabeth knew the fiery Gemma would do just that. She couldn’t help imagining it—Egan in his kilt and linen shirt and flyaway hair, arms raised, wrists cuffed to the gate. He’d be furious, and Zarabeth wouldn’t be able to resist coming to him, teasing him, lifting his kilt when he couldn’t stop her …

  “You don’t want me to take him away,” Zarabeth said hastily, cutting off the vision.

  Gemma turned serious. “We need him, lass. Ye’ve given him back a bit of life, and that can only be good for Castle MacDonald. Did ye know Egan is one of the few landholders around here who hasn’t given all his tenants the push so he can load the land with sheep? He’s got a few flocks, but he hires local men to look after them and the rest continue to farm. The people stay loyal to Egan because he’s loyal to them.”

  Zarabeth remembered what Adam had said about Egan making certain his tenants and crofters were snug and dry even if Castle MacDonald leaked. “I have some money,” Zarabeth said. “My mother left me a nice legacy. The tenants never need worry, because the income from my legacy can repair all the roofs in the county. Including this one.”

  She gestured up at the torn plaster where the ceiling beam had come down. It still hadn’t been mended, and with all the bouncing she and Egan had done on the upper floors …

  Gemma gave her a grateful look. “I think you’re the answer to our prayers, lass. We’ve been prayin’ an awful lot that Egan will stay home and be laird as he should. And from the noise comin’ from your bedchambers, I’d say we’ll have a little lairdling soon?”

  Zarabeth lost her smile, her heart squeezing again. “I don’t know. I’ve never conceived a child. It might be that I can’t.” Saying the words hurt—she could barely form them.

  Gemma watched her narrowly. “This Nvengarian husband of yours, he came to your bed, didn’t he?”

  Thankfully Sebastian’s visits to her chamber had been few and far between. He’d been too busy to demand Zarabeth’s compliance in that area very often, and he’d made it clear he was bedding her only to get an heir.

  “He did. Every month or so—when it was clear I hadn’t conceived.”

  Gemma’s cheeks dimpled. “Well, ye need t’ try harder than that. With Angus and me, it’s been near every night for a year. That’s why I’m askin’ for help. But ye and Egan—ye keep at it every day, and ye’ll get there. My ma had a hard time conceiving, so I’m not surprised I do too. There was ever only one of me at home.”

  “There’s only one of me too. Perhaps my mother had difficulty as well.”

  “Do ye know for certain?”

  “No,” Zarabeth said with regret. “My mother passed before we talked about starting families.”

  “Ah—I’m sorry, love. Well, I know I need a bit of a boost, which is why I’m willing to try your charm—and I’ll frolic with Angus every chance I can get. But ye find out whether you’re barren before ye give up. Take Egan t’ bed as often as ye can. The MacDonald men have stamina.”

  Zarabeth’s face heated as she recalled just how much stamina Egan had. She’d been half dead with sleep by the time he’d finished the second time, and then he’d sprung up and ridden off over his lands, while she’d blearily scrubbed herself and stumbled downstairs for her fortifying bowl of porridge.

  Gemma laughed out loud. “There, now ye know why the ladies love a MacDonald.” Zarabeth’s blush deepened, and Gemma laughed again.

  “Tellin’ funny stories, are ye?”

  Egan’s voice rumbled from the doorway, and Zarabeth jumped a foot, her face scalding. He could move quietly for such a large man, drat him.

  “Nothing that would interest ye,” Gemma said in sudden innocence.

  Egan gave her a suspicious look. “Where’s Jamie?”

  “Gone t’ the village,” Gemma answered.

  “Doing research on the curse,” Zarabeth put in. She hoped her face had returned to its normal color.

  Egan looked heavenward. “Aye, Jamie and his curse.”

  Gemma rose from the table, her face merry. “Thank ye, Zarabeth. Ye tell me what I need t’ do, and I’ll follow your instructions to the letter.” With a smirk for Egan, she left the room.

  “What was that about?” Egan asked, his face creased in a scowl.

  “She wants a baby,” Zarabeth said, keeping her voice steady. “She and Angus.”

  “Aye, well, she’s always loved bairns. She’d have the castle running over with children if she could.”

  “It should be.” Zarabeth looked around the vast Great Hall, with its heads of slain animals and weapons of war. Egan, Mary, and Charlie had played here as children. Mary’s and Charlie’s sons had grown up here, and Egan’s should as well. They needed to fill the place with life and merriment, not death and fear.

  “There’s Jamie and Dougal,” Egan pointed out.

  “They’re almost grown now. In a few years, they’ll be having children of their own.”

  Egan rolled his eyes. “Aye, dinnae remind me.”

  “I look forward to it,” Zarabeth said, her wish sincere.

  Egan came to her, his presence filling even this large room and making her feel very small. Zarabeth stood up to meet him, her body growing warm with longing. All Egan had to do was slant that lazy smile at her, and she melted into a pool of yearning.

  “Look forward to it?” Egan asked. “But you’ll return to Nvengaria soon.”

  Zarabeth looked at him in surprise. “Will I?”

  “Aye. With your husband killed, Damien and Grand Duke Alexander will put down the uprising quick enough. It will be safe for ye to go with your father in a few weeks, I’ll wager.”

  Zarabeth’s heart sank, but she kept her voice light. “And you?”

  “I’ll journey wi’ ye if I may,” he said quietly.

  “No.”

  Egan had opened his mouth to continue the argument but stopped in astonishment at her firm syllable. “No? Are ye tired of this marriage already?” He spoke evenly, but she saw watchfulness in his eyes.

  “No—I mean, I should stay in Scotland and be the lady of Egan MacDonald, the lady of the castle.”

  Egan’s brows shot upward. He glanced at the ruined ceiling and cold walls then back to her again. “In this tumbledown place? I can never replicate what ye had in your father’s house, lass, nor the riches your husband gave ye. Here ye’ll be hostin’ fairs with farm women, not entertaining royalty.”

  Zarabeth tried a laugh. “Goodness, I care nothing for that. You belong here. This is your land, your clan, your castle.”

  “Ah, Gemma’s been talking at ye.” Egan gave her a wise nod. “Keep the family together, tend to my duties as laird, that sort of thing.”

  “But she’s right. The castle needs to be filled with family. That’s what will drive away the curse, not breaking the sword or saying the right words.”

  Egan’s gaze went to Ian MacDonald’s sword lying where Jamie had left it on the table. “Five Highlanders live in the castle already. Seven if ye count the Rosses who are here too often. Is that nae enough?”

  “You have a fine family, Egan,” Zarabeth said quietly. “It shouldn’t die out.”

  He barked a laugh. “There’s small danger of it dyin’ out. Angus and Gemma will have children, and Jamie and Dougal, as ye said. And Hamish has yet t’ wed. The place will be knee-deep in bairns before long.”

  “With you to look after them all.”

  Egan’s amusement vanished. “Ye can never understand what this place means t’ me—or doesn’t mean t’ me, Zarabeth. I was never happy here, not like ye were as a girl in your father’s house. My memories are haunted, and I dinn
ae think that can ever change. Curse or no curse.”

  Zarabeth went to him, liking how he towered over her. It wasn’t only that he was so tall, over six feet to her five feet. There was so much of Egan, a force to be reckoned with.

  “Perhaps we should fill it with happy memories then,” she said in a low voice.

  Egan’s eyes darkened. “Are ye trying to seduce me again, love? Last night didn’t sate ye?”

  She gave him a disdainful look. “Are all Scotsmen so certain of their prowess?”

  A flush stained his cheekbones. “Well, I am a MacDonald.”

  “Yes, Gemma mentioned that you are all full of yourselves.”

  Egan cupped Zarabeth’s shoulders with warm hands, his fingers caressing as he leaned closer. “And ye are the lass so keen to get a MacDonald into bed.”

  Zarabeth slanted him a teasing look and rested her hands on his chest. “Must it always be in a bed?”

  She felt his heartbeat quicken. “Little vixen.”

  “I’ve read so many books, you see,” she said, pretending modesty. “And lovers in those do not always stay in bed.”

  Egan’s voice went low and gravelly. “No, but the Great Hall isnae so very private.”

  “Perhaps not.” Zarabeth gave him a little smile as she ran her hands down his chest to his kilt.

  Egan stepped away, his breath coming fast. “What were you and Gemma truly talking about?”

  Zarabeth remained in place, trying not to feel cold without him against her. “I told you. She wants a spell to give her children …”

  Zarabeth trailed off, remembering Gemma’s advice for Zarabeth to keep trying for bairns—children—every chance she could. If nothing else, the deep pleasure Egan made her feel would be worth the effort.

  She smiled at him, the flirtatious smile she’d learned from Adolpho’s Book of Seductions, turned her back, and sauntered out of the Great Hall.

  The little anteroom that lay across the landing was far more private that the Great Hall, this was true. The small room also had a dainty key to fit the gilded eighteenth-century lock.

  Before she was halfway across the landing, Egan overtook her, growling like a bear. He snatched her up in his arms and barreled into the anteroom, slamming the door behind them and locking it tight.

  Chapter 19

  The Lineage of Morag the Witch

  Egan’s blood boiled hot, and Zarabeth’s sly little smile didn’t help at all. He’d never understand her, never, ever—and it didn’t matter whether she could read his mind or not.

  Trust her, Olaf had been trying to tell him. Believe in her.

  Of course, Olaf didn’t know what a mad seductress his daughter was. She stood on the far side of the gold-leafed table, watching him while her tongue touched her full lower lip.

  “Are ye enjoying yourself?” Egan asked her.

  She gave him a shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “Ye must be. You’re driving me mad.”

  “Am I?”

  Oh, heaven save him, that innocent look. “Come here.”

  Egan sat down on one of the absurd gilded chairs his sister liked, caught Zarabeth by the wrist, and more or less dragged her to him. He raked Zarabeth’s plaid skirt to her thighs and pulled her down to straddle him.

  Zarabeth sat face to face with him, her arms around his neck, and watched him with an expectant look.

  “Now then,” he rumbled. “What exactly are ye trying to do to me? You’ve been driving me mad since ye first set foot in Scotland.”

  Her blue eyes sparkled. “How can that be?”

  “Don’t play the innocent, lass. Ye snuggled your bum up t’ me in the inn by Ullapool, and then again on our way home. Ye lured me into kissing ye first in your chamber and then in the Ring of Dunmarran. Ye wanted so bad t’ know what was under my kilt that ye spied on me when I got out of the bath, then ye tricked me into your room and pulled off me kilt. Ye like the sight of me bare ass so much, I might have a painting done of it to hang in your room.”

  Her red lips parted. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “I haven’t even mentioned how beautiful and wicked ye were last night.”

  To his satisfaction, she blushed. “I can’t help rubbing my backside against you whenever we are on horseback. You make me sit in front of you. And at the inn, you were the one who got into bed with me.”

  Egan’s mirth left him. “I was so afraid for ye, Zarabeth. So afraid ye’d die of cold before I could warm ye.”

  Her gaze softened. “I knew I’d be fine, once I saw you were there to take care of me.”

  He scowled. “Now, don’t come over the sweet maiden on me. I know ye better.”

  “I am not joking.” Zarabeth traced his lips, her deft fingers doing insane things to his private places. “Even when I was on those rocks with no hope of escape, I knew you’d come for me, somehow. Like a knight in shining armor.”

  “Huh. That’s only in fairy stories.”

  “Well, you do live in a castle in a faraway land.”

  Zarabeth tilted her head as she studied him. Her lashes were long and black, sweeping downward as she fixed her gaze on his mouth.

  Egan found it difficult to breathe. “I live right here in Scotland.”

  She brushed back a lock of his unruly hair and kissed him softly on the lips. Egan swallowed a groan as she explored his mouth, and then dipped her fingers inside his half-unlaced shirt.

  “I love your hair,” she murmured.

  He laughed softly. “A rat’s nest, m’ sister always calls it.”

  Zarabeth wound one of his long curls around her finger. “It’s thick and soft. I liked it on my face last night.”

  Egan was ramrod hard, and his entire body began to throb. This was why he was happy he hadn’t married a virginal miss, one who had no idea how to set a man’s heart pounding. Zarabeth didn’t fully realize her power, but she wasn’t afraid of saying what she pleased.

  Egan wove his fingers through her coiled braids, loosening them. “I like your hair, lass. Like gossamer it is.”

  Zarabeth smiled as her dark curls tumbled about her face. He feathered a kiss across her lips then another and another, loving the little flicks of her tongue as she tried to catch him.

  “Do ye know what else I like?” he asked between kisses. “You all sweet and damp for me between your legs.”

  Egan heard her intake of breath, and the heat inside him exploded. He thought of how he’d tasted her, first in her chamber when he’d let his tongue dance on her opening, then last night when he’d fully feasted on her. She’d tasted of salt and spice and smelled better than the best Parisian perfume.

  My Zarabeth. My wife.

  Egan slid his hands up her thighs and dipped his thumbs into that beautiful space, wet and heated for him. Zarabeth sucked in a breath as he slid a finger into her, rocking on his lap as he began to pleasure her.

  “Do ye still love me, Zarabeth?” Egan asked softly.

  “Yes.” It was a moan.

  “Good,” he said, satisfied.

  “You don’t want me to, but I do.”

  “I’d never stop ye doing what ye truly want, love,” he whispered.

  Zarabeth didn’t answer. Her eyes were half closed, her lips parted in pleasure.

  “Ye make me want you,” he told her. “Ye make me want you, now.”

  “Yes.”

  Her languid words turned to a frenzy of cries. It was easy to lift her skirt all the way, to shove his kilt aside and slide into her right there on the chair. Egan caught Zarabeth’s cries with his kisses, and snaked his arms around her and held her tight.

  “Well, now, lass,” he said, voice strained. “Is this better than a bed?”

  “Egan,” she breathed.

  “I agree with ye.”

  She felt so good squeezing him, her thighs warm against his, her body arched back so he could kiss her throat and face without moving.

  Egan made splendid love to her on that chair, while the gilt ormolu clock ticked
crisply in the corner and the laughter and shouts of his cousins came through the partially opened window.

  He did not agree with Zarabeth that he belonged at Castle MacDonald—too many bitter memories—but right now, at this moment, he belonged here with his wife on his lap. Egan had never much liked this room, but now it would hold this memory of him making love to Zarabeth while ordinary castle business went on around them.

  When Zarabeth cried out at the highest point of her pleasure, Egan was not far behind with his. He held her hard, burying his face in the curve of her neck as she rocked desperately on top of him.

  If only life could be as simple as a fairy tale. The valiant knight would marry the beautiful princess, and they’d live forever in a palace in which all rooms looked like this one—overly ornate English frippery.

  No, Egan much preferred whitewashed stone and echoing halls and a plain table laden with bannocks and Mrs. Williams’ porridge.

  He hoped for his sake that Zarabeth did too.

  * * *

  When they at last emerged from the anteroom, Egan spied Jamie seated on the lower stairs, his kilt dangling between his splayed legs, fingers twitching impatiently. When Jamie caught sight of Zarabeth he sprang up like a young hunting dog scenting a grouse.

  “Ye were right, Zarabeth,” he shouted. “Ye were right about Morag.”

  Jamie’s brown eyes glowed with excitement. He didn’t seem to notice, or care, that Zarabeth’s hair hung in long, mussed waves, or that her skirt was wrinkled and askew.

  Egan stepped protectively in front of her. “What are ye on about, lad?”

  Jamie loped past him and seized Zarabeth’s hands. “I went t’ see the vicar. He said parish records didn’t go back very far, but Morag was so famous that people wrote down stories about her, and he had some locked away. We read them all.” He bounced up and down on his toes, squeezing Zarabeth’s hands until she winced. “Morag’s son lived, but he had no sons of his own—only a daughter.”

  The curse again. Egan tried to keep impatience from his voice. “Her line might be difficult t’ trace if her descendants were peasants, lad.”