Sins of the Highlander (A Highland Erotic Romance)

by Dawn Halliday

  She crushed her lips against him hard. She tasted blood. She hoped it was his.

  “How could you?” she cried.

  Without releasing her hold on his lips, she found the pin of his plaid, fisted her hands in the fabric, and yanked. His tunic plaid tore, and, grimly satisfied by the ragged screech of ripping fabric, Aileen’s lips curled into a grimace.

  Aileen crashed against the wall, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. She hadn’t even realized he’d pushed her backward. Hooking one of her legs around his hip, she forced his body closer to hers. Niall’s hands fumbled between them, but her fingers had found the flaming hot skin beneath his shirt. She raked her nails up his back, hard.

  Groaning, he jerked her skirts up and clamped his big palms over her thighs. He lifted her clear up off the floor, spreading her legs and pressing her against the cold stone wall. The rigid length of him slid against the sodden, sensitive tissues between her thighs, and she cried out, a low sound of combined pleasure and anger, against his lips.

  His body crushed hers against the wall, and finally their lips separated.

  “I hate you!” she sobbed.

  With a feral snarl, he pushed her down, impaling her body with his cock. The angry words died in her throat. She gripped his shoulders and wrapped both legs around him as he pulled back and heaved inside her, slamming her body against the wall.

  Aileen dug her fingernails into his skin and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting not to scream at the unbearable mix of ecstasy and pain, the opposing emotions of love and hate. After two thrusts, a tidal wave of sensation crashed down over her, and she dove into it, forgetting everything but the rush of tumbling, rolling pleasure.

  Two more thrusts and Niall joined her. Silent, clinging to one another, their bodies heaved as they rode the wave together.

  When the contractions finally began to recede, Aileen found her face crushed into the crook between Niall’s head and shoulder. He supported her weight over him, pressing his forehead into the wall, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs. As if he realized her discomfort, his fingers softened their grip and she slid down the length of his body.

  His hands moved up until they wrapped around her waist, drawing her away from the wall and against his chest. Still, he did not look at her. His harsh breaths resonated around her, the only sound in the room.

  Her intuition blazed, and Aileen knew with certainty that this was not the behavior of a man who’d been well-pleasured by a whore last night. He might have been with a woman, but he hadn’t bedded her.

  Opening her palms, she stroked the welts on his shoulders. Slick blood covered her fingers.

  “Thank you, mo chridhe,” Niall whispered.

  “Why are you thanking me? I thought you…you…”

  “I didn’t.”

  She pressed her forehead against the front of his shoulder, all the pent-up anger and jealousy releasing from her in a flood. “I know.”

  “I only want you, Aileen. No other woman. I…needed you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I hurt you.”

  A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Nay.”

  Finally he pulled away. Through blurry eyes, she gazed up at him. His look was tender.

  “The laird…” He shook his head slightly, and she read the pain in his blue eyes as clear as if it had been words written in a book.

  Her heart shattered.

  Her brother had said no.

  Chapter Ten

  “Sister.” John took both of Aileen’s hands in his own and squeezed. He looked older than when she had last seen him. Gray streaks ran through his hair, crinkles fanned from the corners of his eyes and deep creases lined the edges of his lips. “It has been a long time.”

  She nodded. “Two years.”

  “And I see your beauty hasn’t diminished.”

  She gazed past him at the heavy tapestry on the wall. “Thank you, John.”

  John chuckled and she glanced at him again. His appetite for enormously expensive clothing hadn’t changed, but the English influence was even more present than it had been the last time she’d seen him. He wore a gilt-trimmed jacket and matching breeches with tall boots of the finest quality of leather. His shirt was made of linen, and trimmed with lace. His cloak lay over the back of his chair—wool lined with ermine.

  Yet despite the garish and somewhat feminine attire, something about him seemed gentler than when she’d last seen him. More thoughtful. She hoped this was a good sign.

  “I haven’t much time, Aileen,” he said. “As you’ve probably heard, we are sending Margaret to her betrothed tomorrow.”

  “Aye, brother. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “I did wish to let you know, however, that I have chosen the next man you shall marry.”

  Though she knew she shouldn’t be surprised, she was. Something deep inside her clenched hard, and nausea swelled.

  Stepping forward, she swiped her tongue over her dry lips before she spoke. “John, I’ve come to beg your indulgence.”

  His blue eyes narrowed and the shrewd, hawkish look she remembered so well swept across his face. “Have you, now?”

  “I have done my duty—I married a man of your choosing when I was but sixteen years old. I’ve spent the past ten years mired in a living hell. Please, I beg you, give me some say in my next husband.”

  His expression softened, but he shook his head in denial. “Nay, Aileen, that cannot be. Walter Munro wasn’t so bad. He was old and weak.”

  Aileen stiffened her spine. How utterly stupid her brother could be! In an effort to hide the jumble of her thoughts, she dropped her gaze to the carpet. “My husband is not yet two months in the grave. Please let us refrain from discussing him.”

  “Very well.” John leaned back in his chair, resting one forearm negligently on the carved armrest. “Who then?”

  “The man I have in mind—the man I wish to marry—is kind, generous and honorable. He has served you faithfully for many years. I have watched him with his men and he inspires harmony and loyalty among them. They would do anything for him.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He doesn’t possess a great deal in the way of land or riches, but I can compensate you for your loss. I would offer all the holdings from my mother besides those of Dornoch—”

  “Who, Aileen?”

  Terrified of her brother’s reaction, she choked out the words. “Niall MacRae.”

  The laird’s lips twitched. “Oh, is that so?”

  “Aye, that is so. I know you have already received him. I know he doesn’t have much to offer, but I offer you my lands. Surely that’s enough—”

  “No.”

  “Please—”

  “I said no, Aileen.” The laird’s voice was almost gentle. “I’m sorry, but I cannot grant your fancy based on infatuation.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “It isn’t an infatuation.” The lashing certainty in her voice snapped through the hall like a whip. “I love him. And he loves me.”

  “It would please me to grant your wish,” John said on a sigh. “But unfortunately, the world does not turn on your shortsighted concept of love.”

  “You love your wife,” Aileen said stubbornly. Despite his whores, John was, by all accounts, besotted with his new young wife. Castle gossip did have some value, she supposed.

  “Fortunately, my desires and the clan’s needs coincided on that matter. But in this, they do not. The clan would gain nothing from aligning you with MacRae.”

  “You would gain thousands of acres!” she exclaimed.

  “Not enough.”

  In one last, desperate attempt, she offered the one thing that, until now, had always been most important to her—her home. “Dornoch, then. I offer you Dornoch as well.”

  It hurt her to say those words. But not as much as being separated from Niall forever would hurt.

  The laird’s face softened even more. He knew how much she cared about Dornoch. “It is too late. I hav
e already signed the documents. I’ve betrothed you to Gilbert Dunbar.”

  Oh, God. Black spots swam in front of her eyes. She struggled to remain standing, to keep from sinking into a helpless, suppliant puddle on the floor.

  The laird waved his hand at the door and Gilbert sauntered in, clapping his hands, a subtle sneer turning the corners of his thin lips. “Bravo, Lady Aileen. What a display of affection. One can only hope that you will one day champion for me so passionately.”

  With swimming vision, she stared at his cruel face. Dark, cold eyes, a long, straight nose and a neatly trimmed beard. Some might consider Gilbert handsome, but he made her skin crawl. She knew the truth. He was despicable. Evil. When she had visited his home as a child, she’d hidden behind a barrel and watched him order a wee lad executed for stealing a chicken. “Such a dirty business,” he’d told one of his minions, “or I’d do it myself.” And then he’d simply watched as the man beheaded the lad.

  The scent of mint wafted around him—Gilbert chewed on mint leaves day and night. For years she’d hated that smell because of its association to Gilbert Dunbar, and to her, its association to murder and death.

  He stopped in front of her. His thin lips pressed together but tilted up at their edges in a victorious smile. Aileen gulped in a mint-filled breath. Her stomach gurgled, threatening to release her breakfast.

  Three years ago, he had come to Dornoch to visit Walter. After a rowdy supper in the hall, he had bumped against her lewdly, grabbed her breast and twisted it until she had cried out in pain. To any casual observer, he was merely stumbling drunk. But she’d known he was sober—his movements had been calculated and deliberate. And the way he’d touched her was strangely possessive. At that moment, he’d had the same look in his eyes as he did now—piercing, narrow, intent. It had disconcerted her so strongly that she had escaped to her chamber and pleaded a headache until Gilbert had left Dornoch.

  She turned to the laird, heedless of the raw desperation grating in her voice. “Please, John.”

  John held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It is done, Aileen. All is settled to mine and Dunbar’s satisfaction. I pray for your happiness.”

  Clutching her stomach, Aileen turned on her heel and fled.

  ***

  Niall placed his palm flat on the door to Aileen’s bedchamber and hesitated.

  Two days had passed. In a daze, he had gone through the motions of his daily routine. First, the only emotion he’d felt was rage, then pain and finally a desperate numbness.

  The situation boiled down to one undeniable fact—he had sworn fealty to his laird under God. He had made that vow. He couldn’t betray the laird—to do so would be a betrayal of himself, of his soul, of everything he held holy.

  Niall would never stop loving Aileen, but that love would have to remain the love of a man sworn to protect her family, not the carnal love they had so selfishly indulged in.

  He raised his hand to knock, but just as she had at Dornoch, she called, “Come in,” before his fist struck the wood. Pushing open the door, he found her standing in front of the hearth, her hands clenched behind her back.

  She turned to face him. “Niall.”

  “Aileen.” He balled his fists, hardly able to speak. “I have come to say goodbye.”

  She nodded, but her lower lip trembled. “I know.”

  It was uncanny how she knew him so well, how well they knew each other.

  “I’m leaving for a while.”

  “And the laird approves,” she said flatly. Sadness clouded her violet eyes as she turned to him.

  “He says I must return to Ellandonan by midsummer, but aye. He…understands why I must go.” God forgive him but he would not—could not—stay here and watch the lady he loved marry another man.

  “Where will you go?”

  “To Edinburgh, I think.”

  She grimaced. “The Lowlands.”

  “Aye.”

  The door thudded shut behind him as he walked fully into the room. Suddenly, her scent assailed his senses. Heather and sage. He stopped short, still several feet from her.

  “He has betrothed me to another.”

  “I know, Lady Aileen.”

  The formal title made her visibly cringe. He wished he could comfort her, hold her. But he couldn’t.

  Honor. Chivalry. The words ground through his mind. She deserved those things from him. The laird expected those things from him. But he knew if he touched her, he would sacrifice everything for the joy of feeling her flesh against his. He moved backward, distancing himself from her as far as possible without leaving the room.

  “Niall—” The edge of desperation in her voice made him cringe. “Please. Is there anything…?”

  “Nay, lady. Nothing.”

  Someone else would warm her bed. Never him. She was destined for another man.

  There was nothing he could do.

  The thought clenched his gut, enraged him, curled his fingers, made him want to punch a hole through the stone wall.

  Her eyes shone. “I know. Truly I do. But I cannot help but think there must be something that can be done.”

  The woman standing across the room wanted him as much as he wanted her. She was as hopeless as he was.

  None of that was any consolation. His teeth ground together so tightly, he thought he might break his jaw. “There is nothing, Aileen.”

  For long moments, they stared across the room at one another. The pain in her eyes chipped at his resolve.

  Unable to bear the distance between them any longer, Aileen lunged toward him with a whimper, wrapped her arms around him and buried her face into his chest.

  “How will I survive without you?” she cried.

  As always, she felt safe in his arms. But it would be short-lived this time. He was leaving today, going away from Ellandonan, away from her, because he couldn’t bear to watch her marry another man.

  She had to touch him one last time. Stroke him, feel his skin against hers. Starting at his shoulders, she ran her fingers over the rough wool of his plaid, across the smooth planes of his chest. Would she ever feel his hard, comforting warmth again? Would she ever taste him again?

  Mindless with the need to do just that, she tugged up his shirt, bent down and pressed her tongue flat against the ridge of his stomach just above his bellybutton. Oh, his flavor. Pure male. Pure decadent, carnal promise.

  Hands tightened on her shoulders as she dragged her tongue up his rippling body, savoring the salty, musky tang of him. Then she focused on his tiny male nipple. So flat, so small. She licked it too. Suckled it. And felt it constrict into a tiny bead beneath her tongue.

  Above her, Niall let out a low groan. His hands wrapped around her waist, picking her up as easily as if she were a sack of barley. Aileen threw her arms around his neck and tightened her legs around his tight buttocks. He carried her to the bed, tossed her onto it and took a large step backward.

  Separated from him, she scooted backward, thrill and fear surging through her at the primal look on his face, at the passion he barely held in check.

  The struggle showed clearly on his face—in his narrowed eyes and tight jaw. He wanted her. But he had made the decision to leave her, to never touch her again.

  She pressed her lips together with determination. She wouldn’t accept that. She needed his touch, needed it as desperately as the air she breathed.

  Without breaking eye contact, she untied her belt and flung it across the room.

  Niall turned to watch it fly, then his gaze fastened on her, his eyes dangerous slits.

  Her dress was already hiked up around her knees. She grasped the hem and pulled it, along with her shift, over her head. Now she was naked except for her stockings and shoes.

  She could see the battle still raging ferociously within him. He glanced at the door, his face twisted with indecision.

  “Aileen…” He took a step closer. She could see his thread of control quivering, it was pulled so taut. If it broke… A
shiver tripped down her spine.

  “You shouldn’t do this…” he managed to say through tightly gritted teeth.

  “No,” she agreed. “I shouldn’t.” It was the truth, for all the reasons they both knew so well.

  Also, he hadn’t latched the door. Anyone could walk in, anytime.

  She let her legs fall open, exposing her sex.

  Niall froze. As still as a statue, he stared down at her.

  Slowly, Aileen slid her fingers down her stomach, through the tight curls of her mound and into her hot slit, gasping when they passed over the engorged bundle of nerves.

  He didn’t move.

  “I want you,” she murmured, curving two of her fingers and pressing them inside. Her back arched. It was a tease, a little whisper of the sensation he could give her.

  “Need you. Please, Niall.” As she pulled her sopping fingers away, she groaned, “Please.”

  And with a low, feral growl, he snapped.

  Without taking his lust-clouded eyes from her sex, he tore his plaid off and flung it away.

  Spreading her legs, Aileen thrust inside herself, as far as her fingers would go. Her channel quivered wildly over her fingers. It wasn’t enough. She needed him to fill the void. Only him.

  Harsh breaths resonated through the room. Hers or his? Both, perhaps. They seemed to mingle together and swirl about them, heaving in time with the deep drive of her fingers into her slippery core.

  Niall’s hair was a halo of dark gold, sparkling in the firelight, framing his high cheekbones. His blue eyes were deep with what could only be described as thirst. Thirst for her.

  With each item of clothing he flung away, Aileen’s pulse ratcheted upward. Her slick passage tightened and flooded, and tremors shuddered from her channel down her legs and through her arms.

  He was a perfect specimen of manhood, with thick, strong arms, a narrow waist, a rippled abdomen and thighs that flexed with muscle as he moved toward her. His cock jutted up and out, oversized and flushed darker than the rest of him.

  He crawled onto the bed like a big, tawny cat. A predator, and she was his prey.