Highlander of Mine

by Red L. Jameson

  She furrowed her dark brows, but smiled. “When my grandpa was alive, we had a small garden. We grew corn. I think I remember how to do that. Why?”

  “Mayhap we should grow some here.” He hoped she hadn’t noticed how he’d said we, as if it hurt a little to say it. It had, for he was terrified of the future, scared she’d leave at any second.

  “It’s too late this season,” she said. “But maybe next year? I really don’t know how it would grow in humidity like this, but we could see, huh? How long is the growing season here? We could figure out what kind of corn to grow, depending on how long it’s warm. Oh, wait, what am I saying?”

  He held his breath as she widened her smile.

  “There’s probably only a couple varieties of corn right now. But we could experiment with the crops, make a corn just for the Highlands, something that would work with this humidity. And in your spare time you’d write me your mystery story about Pocahontas.”

  His heart almost burst. That’s how it felt. He’d been feeling surprisingly warm and comfortable about the people of Durness, making his heart grow. But this—Fleur talked of their future. A long one with many seasons for growing.

  He crushed her all over again, but this time he just held her, too afraid he’d make an arse of himself and say something too profound or not nearly thoughtful enough. She wanted to be here, experiment with the crops, live with him. Well, he hoped she wanted to live with him. Mayhap it was time to ask her to marry him, to be his.

  “We’ll have fun growing corn, growing a garden together,” she whispered. “You’ll have to show me how to do some things, since I probably forgot.”

  He nodded, his throat so damned tight.

  “We should get back to the wake, don’t you think?”

  With his future looking so bright, he nodded again. Releasing her, he then helped her to stand beside him. Ach, she might stand beside him for the rest of his life.

  She took his hand, while giving him the lantern. Even though he held the light, she guided him. Extracting himself and Fleur out of the cellar, he felt a completely changed man. Gone was the bitterness he’d had as a companion for so many years. Gone was the worry about his mother. It was all replaced with hope and love. He still worried. Hell, he had no clue if Fleur loved him, but it seemed possible she did. So much seemed possible.

  She had the whisky in her hand when he closed the doors to the cellar, her back to him.

  “They left.”

  He glanced up and around. Sure enough the crowd of mourners had left in the short while he’d been gone.

  “Do you think they went inside?”

  Not on such a hot day. He shook his head. Had they left because they could sense he might need to grieve for years to come, but he was done with the heavy sadness? Done with the solemnity of the ceremony?

  He was ready for the next phase of his life . . .

  Fleur turned toward him. “I guess I should have been quicker about getting that whisky.”

  He laughed. God, it felt good to do that.

  Carefully he reached for the whisky, took it from her and set it on top of his wide, round tree stump of a chopping block. When he straightened, he caught sight of her, as he had that first time. She smiled at him as if she knew something, but was surprised by it too. Her full lips thinned with the expression, but only a little. The skin around her eyes crinkled a tad. One day she would have wrinkles. And he’d love every single one.

  He grabbed her by her waist and forcefully drew her against him.

  She giggled, but he caught her lips, curbing her laughter. He fisted her hair again, and the loose knot weakened in his grasp. Her black silk flowed free within a few moments, and he loved her wild mane gently caressing him as he kissed her. Thrusting his tongue in her mouth, he loved how she easily opened for him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. The second her breasts touched his chest, he’d had enough of waiting.

  Lowering his hands to her backside, he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around him as he’d wanted. There were too many layers between them, but he’d remedy that soon enough. Marching to the back door, he nearly kicked it down, but somehow opened it, then closed it behind him. The kitchen was too hot, even though they hadn’t lit the fire for days, eating the tavern’s food or snacking on apples grown in the back of his ma’s land. Actually, it was his land now. Where he would live the rest of his days, loving Fleur.

  His erection had lessened when he’d known he’d have to be amongst people again, but now he was rock hard in an instant, thinking of his Fleur. The woman, his woman furiously kissing him back, her hands grabbing his plaid and shirt and pulling. He found her bedchamber. She’d left the windows open, which should have made it too hot like the rest of the house, but the room was surprisingly cool with a gentle cross breeze. Lowering her onto the bed, he landed on her, needing to feel every inch of her wee body. She rocked into him. Somehow she tugged his hair free and tunneled her fingers through.

  He feared he would be too fast, too frantic for her. But he wasn’t sure how to slow down. Each time he told himself to do just that, she moaned or arched or touched him, sending him another jolt of energy to keep escalating, until they were both sated. She tore at his plaid over his shoulder, unlatching the broach in a hurry and dropping it with a thud on the floor.

  “I’m sorry. Should I have been more careful with that?”

  He shook his head and dove in to kiss her all the more.

  She had his belt in her wee hands before he could think about anything other than her breasts against his chest. Surprising him even further, she unbuckled it in a flash and his plaid was loose around him. In a few more moves, she somehow had the plaid off, and was lifting his shirt over his head.

  “I still have my boots on.”

  “I don’t care.”

  That made him laugh. But not for long as her dexterous hands traversed his body, down his arms, then found his waist. She took advantage of the little space between them and had her hand around his cock, making him moan.

  Lord, she was stripping away his fortitude. He’d explode soon at this rate.

  Gripping her hand, he made her stop.

  “Was I doing it wrong?”

  The look on her face was so innocent, as if she wanted nothing more than to please him. His chest tightened. He’d thought she might have had a lover or two before him, but now he wondered.

  “Nay, darlin’. Doing it too good.”

  Her smile melted his heart.

  “I want you.” She lifted her skirts, showing him her amazingly long stocking-clad legs. Black hose today. His mouth went dry. He liked the stockings. Loved her legs. She didn’t have shoes on, and he wondered how and when she’d kicked them off.

  “I do too,” he said.

  “Now.”

  He sat on his shins between her legs, then cupped one of her breasts, while the other unlaced the dark dress she wore. It was plain, and he promised himself that he’d buy her prettier ones. Buy her silk with her favorite flowers embroidered all around it. Something bonny that she’d like.

  Why hadn’t he done it before now?

  Jesus, since she’d been here, it had been such a whirlwind of time—getting to know her in the dark of night, smelling her light floral scent and letting it drive him mad as she’d lean against him, then she’d gotten spirited away. His heart barely endured that. And now...now she was his. Except she’d never said so, and there was the constant fear of her vanishing into her own time. But she was making plans to live here with him, grow crops, share a future. She was his.

  It seemed to take an eternity to disrobe the layers of her dress and petticoats. Now for the stays and shift, and...Lord, her skin. He loved her golden flesh that flared pink when she came. His cock tightened all the more when he thought of it. Then he wondered if they might look absurd, him already naked except for his hose and boots, and her finally unpeeled to her undergarments.

  “Do you remember what you did to me last time you too
k off my corset?” Her dark eyes went wicked with lust.

  He smiled and nodded.

  “Do you want to do that again?”

  He wanted to do all of it again. But he swallowed, not sure how to articulate, “God, aye, and so much more.”

  She lifted herself up on her elbows, her legs still open around him. Reaching around, she unlaced her stays.

  “Yer so bonny, Fleur.”

  “So are you, big guy.”

  Her stays loosened, revealing more of her rounded perfect globes. Her breasts were the perfect size, just fitting in his palms. She maneuvered so she knelt in front of him and wiggled free from the corset as she called it. Her dark nipples hardened and poked through her shift, as if begging to be kissed. Deciding it was best to follow orders, he curved his body to fit one of her nubs in his mouth, even though she still wore her shift. Utterly fascinating him, she arched into his touch at the same time she lightly clawed up his back, her fingernails gently scraping him. That felt ridiculously good. No one had ever done that before. Oh, he’d jested with men who said their wives or mistresses did such a thing, but he’d never thought it might feel—it might feel as though she was getting into his skin, branding her mark onto him, into him. Making him hers.

  He caressed her other breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and finger. She arched into him again, pulling him closer by fisting his hair. Lord, he really liked that. Loved everything she did to him. But suddenly her hands were on his shoulders, forcing him away from her. He ached when he obliged and removed himself from her breasts. Scurrying off the bed, she lifted her shift to her thighs where she rolled down her stockings. One by one her extra-long legs were revealed, showing him the curves of her calves, the way her muscular thighs sculpted inward but then flared out toward her hips. So feminine. So perfect.

  In a quick move she had her muslin shift up and over her head, exposing her naked, luscious body. Her breasts lifted, her stomach fluttered flat, he loved the way her waist curved in, her hips though never particularly flared out. She didn’t have an hourglass figure. Nay, hers was stronger, revealing little lines where her stomach had worked hard for her, her legs even more so. Her tiny body was nonetheless divinely womanly. He liked her form, her frame. Nay, that wasn’t a fervent enough word. He loved her wee body.

  He was panting by the time she placed her knees back on the bed.

  “Lay down, Duncan.”

  He settled back with a thump, making her softly chuckle. Still with his bloody boots on, he adjusted his head on a pillow and stared at her as she looked at him. He loved watching her gaze take him in. Her face had gone serious, her eyes glowed. Her little nose flared, especially as she gazed at his length, lying on his stomach.

  “You are the most beautiful man.”

  Before he could reciprocate a compliment—and, Lord, how it swelled his chest, head, and even his cock—she straddled his legs then scooted up, placing the heels of her hands on his chest. Reaching down, she kissed him. Over and over again, she teased, her body hovering too far away. Her hands on his chest and the inside of her thighs touched him, but that wasn’t enough. He wrapped his arms around her hips, trying to lower her, but she snatched one of his hands and had him cup her breast. He massaged and caressed, while the other hand pulled her down. Then finally her warm, wet core met his. They both moaned at contact.

  Her kisses became frantic and needy. Her tongue invaded his mouth, then her hips bucked, sliding up his length. Slipping back down, she mewled. Such a thoroughly feminine noise, so full of pleasure, making him worry he’d come soon. He wasn’t even inside her, but it felt damned good, her grinding against him, her sex wet and slick. Every time she’d ride up on him, his cock would strain to be inside her, just entering her opening. Then she’d ride back down, teasing him senseless.

  He pinched and rolled her nipples, while her kisses became clumsy, almost knocking her teeth into him. The sounds she emitted were frantic. But he loved it all. He wasn’t going to grab her hips and force himself inside her as he so wanted to do. This was driving her crazy, mayhap as much as him. Her body began to shake, starting with her legs, then he felt the vibrations along her chest. Fisting her hair, he kissed her then, deep and meaningfully. God, he loved her. Loved this.

  Then she slid up his member and let him enter her. So slowly she descended. Her breath caught. She made a small noise that sounded like she was in pain. And he worried, pulling away from the kiss.

  “Duncan.” Her eyes were glassy, she sounded drunk.

  “Did I hurt ye?” He reached for her hips to stop the slow movement she made, even though it was torture to do so.

  She shook her head. “It’s so good. Nothing’s ever felt this good.” Her breath was hot and sweet like the berries she’d eaten at the wake. “I—I can’t believe how good this feels. I know I keep saying that, but...has anything felt this good for you?” Her eyes worried.

  He finally did stop her, making sure she was looking at him when he said, “Nay. Nothing compares to you, my Fleur.” Then he was going to tell her he loved her. Instead, he kissed her when she smiled at him, her hair all over her face, down her back, hiding her breasts.

  She swayed against him again. Her internal muscles squeezed him tight, making any other thought in his mind evaporate. All he could think of was the way she moved, the way she felt on him, the way she felt inside. She straightened, sitting erect, then lowered and lifted herself on him. Well, that was going to do him in.

  He held his breath, trying to hang onto some control, while he traced down her flat stomach, then found her little love pearl at the juncture of her legs, circling around it, over it. She moaned and arched her back as she swayed. He wrapped a hand around one of her buttocks, loving the firmness of it. Then she had him unhinged as she lightly hugged herself, pushing her breasts together. Her fingertips drew up her arms, then she tunneled them through her own hair, splaying out the black silk in a fan of dark beauty.

  He growled, loving the display, even though he was nearly going to explode. She reached behind her, and he was quite surprised the little vixen cupped his bullocks, squeezing just right.

  “Lord, I can’t hang on much more.”

  She chuckled then rode him faster.

  He thought she was trying to push him, tease him until he begged for release, but then he felt her internal muscles tighten. She moaned and rolled her head back as she kept lifting her hips. Applying just a bit more pressure to her clitoris, he watched amazed as her motions quickened. She hugged herself again, this time sliding a hand over her breast, contracting the nipple hard.

  “Look at me, darlin’.”

  She did as he asked, and then she suddenly stopped, her body spasming internally. She swayed, lifted on him, jerked, then moaned. “Duncan.”

  He held her hips as she leaned forward, her shaking hands on his chest. Pounding into her a few more times, he quickly found his own release, feeling it pour through him, from his head to his toes, the intense heat flooded with something special and soft. A feeling that was only for her. He poured himself into her, holding her still as he shuddered.

  Slowly, gently she reached down and kissed him. That was when he realized she was still coming.

  “Čhaŋtóóčhignake,” she whispered.

  His breath was stuck in his throat. He had no clue what she’d said, but could guess the meaning. “Tha gaol agam ort.” His heart spoke and in his original language. He loved her. God, so much.

  She fell on him, wrapping her arms around his. Her hair spilled all around, enveloping him in her floral soft scent. It was such a dainty smell, but always there. He held her tightly to his sweaty body. Her breath came in quick gulps, and he loved her heat, the slickness of her skin against his. His cock appreciated the feel of the smoothness inside her still quivering body. Lord, he could have another go at making love to her.

  Slowly, he circled his hips. She moaned. It was a happy little noise, and if she made even the slightest protest he’d stop. But she never di
d.

  “I think you have to be on top this time.”

  Smiling, he rolled her under him. “’Tis my pleasure to do as my princess wishes.”

  She giggled. “I’m not a princess, and you know it.”

  He lifted himself enough to look at her, stare into those dark intense eyes. “That’s right yer not. Ye’re a queen, my Fleur. My wee flower queen.”

  She caressed his cheek as he slowly found a rhythm. Pulling him down, she kissed him, kissed him so powerfully. Kissed him hard enough he forgot all over again to worry if she’d vanish.

  Chapter 32

  Rory couldn’t believe his eyes. Nay, he couldn’t be seeing what he was.

  He’d gone back to Mrs. Cameron’s house because when he’d left with his young troops, they’d divulged the latest town gossip. Lady Fleur and Duncan were allegedly in love. It was quite fitting since Duncan was so traveled and so rich, someone had said. Another in the crowd agreed, saying Duncan deserved a princess like the bonny Fleur. They made a handsome pair, a nearby woman had said. The whole town was abuzz with their upcoming marriage vows, wondering if they would wed here or in America or mayhap even in Sweden, where the king could bestow them with an elaborate ceremony. As sad as it was that Mrs. Cameron had passed, it brought Duncan and Lady Fleur all the more closer, a chit had swooned.

  Duncan would be flogged. Nay, Rory thought, the man would have his entrails out before nightfall, for allowing the rumors in the first place. However, the English Captain had told him strapping men like Duncan were worth three times more when sold. And Rory had been bragging about Duncan’s strength, saying he could plow a field himself without need of an ox. Which could be true, but by that time Rory had been drunk with the idea of money, finally feeling it roll around in his pockets. It was enough to secure the lairdship, the coup nearly complete, save for selling off the last batch of men that included Duncan, which would happen soon enough. It had been a difficult decision, selling off his own men. But worth it. The English promised a band of soldiers to assist with the takeover. Then Rory would toughen his troops, and, with the aid of the English soldiers, they’d capture all the mosstroopers, sell them to the Fever Islands or America, ridding his land of criminals. Aye, he’d not only be laird soon, but a good one at that.