The Highlander's Return

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘And I love you,’ Ailsa whispered, ‘with all my heart.’

  ‘The last few weeks have felt like years,’ Alasdhair said, slowly and deliberately extracting the many pins that by a miracle had held her hair in place throughout the day. ‘You have no idea how much I’ve longed for this moment.’

  ‘Oh, but I do,’ she said, with a shy smile. ‘I do.’

  He ran his fingers through her hair to spread it out over her back. He cupped her face in his palm. She tilted her head up, then he kissed her. Warmth spread through her blood like a flood of sunshine. With a sigh, she kissed him back and melted into his arms. Such strong arms. Such familiar arms. Arms that would keep her safe and hold her close for the rest of their lives. ‘Make love to me, Alasdhair,’ she said, wrapping her own arms around his neck and pulling him back on to the bed with her.

  ‘I intend to,’ he said.

  And he proceeded to do just that, slowly divesting her of her wedding finery, lavishing kisses on every bit of flesh he exposed in the tantalising process, until she was alight with his touch. Her stockings were the last thing to go. She lay completely naked, excited, exalted by the way his eyes feasted on her, damp with anticipation at the thought of his possession of her.

  ‘You’re so lovely,’ Alasdhair said, ‘I can’t believe you’re really mine.’

  He was lying on his side, running his hand over her breasts, down her stomach, to the top her thighs, dipping into the heat there, then running his fingers back up again, tantalising and teasing, stroking and stoking her into a tingling mass of clamouring nerves and throbbing heat. She could not believe she had ever hated her body. She could not believe she had ever wished her curves away, not when he looked at her so. Not when he touched her so. They were made for him to enjoy. For him to pleasure. For her pleasure. Ailsa moaned as he dipped his hand once more between her thighs. She grabbed his wrist. ‘Take off your clothes. I want to see you,’ she said.

  He grinned and obliged far more quickly than her own fumbling fingers could have managed. When he stood before her, completely naked, she sat up, catching her breath at his stark male beauty. Her head was on a level with his stomach. She wanted to touch him as he had touched her. She wanted to learn his body as he was learning hers. She wanted to share. She stood up and reached for him, daringly fluttering her fingers over his buttocks to his flanks, round to the softer skin between his thighs, then up, to the proud length of his manhood.

  Alasdhair moaned.

  ‘Show me,’ she whispered.

  ‘You’re torturing me, wife,’ he said with a twisted grin, but he could not resist when she already had her fingers loosely, tantalisingly tentative, on him, and all he could think about was doing what she bid him.

  Taking her by surprise, he lifted her by the waist, pulling her with him back on to the bed, so that she lay on top of him, her breasts soft mounds of delight on his chest, her nipples grazing his skin, streaking sensual pleasure. He moaned again, half-sitting up, in order to kiss her mouth, to twine his fingers into the fall of her beautiful hair, before pulling her to him and kissing her deeply, lingeringly, rousing them both to an intoxicating heat that was nigh on unbearable. They had the rest of their lives for slow pleasure; he wanted to be inside her now. Alasdhair tried to roll her over on to her back again, but Ailsa had other ideas.

  She slipped from his grasp, slithering down his body, skin on skin, to kneel between his legs and drink in the shape of him. The length of him. The curve and weight of him. Awed, she touched, running her fingers over him intimately, lightly stroking, then enclosing, then cupping, and with every touch more blood surged to engorge him further, so that he wondered if he could endure without exploding. She leaned over and her nipple grazed the tip of his shaft. She gasped with the pleasure it gave her and repeated the action so that she did it again.

  She wrapped her fingers around his shaft and stroked him. Alasdhair moaned, thrusting his hips upwards. She remembered that feeling when he touched her, too, and did it again, enjoying the answering surge in herself at seeing the pleasure she could etch on him, feeling him throb and pulse in her hand. She stroked again, then leaned forwards to touch her tongue to the tip of him. He tasted exactly as she felt inside. Hot and delightful. She could feel herself tightening between her legs. She wanted him there. But she wanted to touch him more. She wanted both.

  Watching the pleasure and concentration on her face, seeing how her touch touched her, despite the wholly untutored nature of her caress, Alasdhair had never felt anything so deeply arousing. But he needed to be inside her urgently, now. He pulled her forwards so that his shaft nestled against her curls.

  Ailsa writhed with pleasure. Below her, Alasdhair’s face was flushed. His hands held her thighs. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Her own, too. She leaned forwards to kiss him and he gripped her bottom and tilted her and the tip of him nudged and slipped inside her and she kissed him as he filled her, and almost immediately he did, the pulsing, tightening coiling inside her started.

  He kissed her swiftly, hard. Then he pushed her back upright, so that his erection surged up inside her, and when she moved, the twisting tantalised and teased the burgeoning bud between her folds. With his encouragement she lifted herself, then dropped back on to him, closing her eyes briefly at the whoosh of his release and plunge. Again, bracing herself, tilting forwards, and as she did, crying out with the pleasure of it. Alasdhair reached to stroke the swollen, swelling pulsing roundness and just one touch and she was lost, lost, swirling and moaning his name, but still he gripped her, and even as she pulsed around his shaft she felt it swell and surge and explode high, impossibly high inside her, and heard his answering moan, heard him say her name, and she collapsed on to the damp of his chest, just holding on to him, clinging on to him, and knowing, really knowing, what it meant to be one.

  It was rude, it was ungrateful, but they were reluctant to return to the wedding feast. Wrapped in one another’s arms, they wanted only to stay there for ever. It was Alasdhair who finally moved first, kissing the top of Ailsa’s head and gently forcing her into an upright position.

  ‘We have the rest of our lives,’ he told her when she protested. ‘We really should get back.’

  They dressed slowly, with much kissing and touching and whispering of tender endearments. While she struggled with the laces of her robe, Alasdhair leaned over to pin a brooch just above her breast. A luckenbooth made of gold, two hearts entwined, with a thistle and a crown. ‘A present to mark our wedding day,’ he said, kissing the irresistible curve of her neck. ‘I love you, Mrs Ross. I told you that we were naïve six years ago, that love changes nothing, in the real world. Well, I was wrong because love changes everything. It’s certainly changed me.’

  ‘And me,’ Ailsa concurred. She smiled. ‘Mrs Ross. I like that, it just sounds so right.’

  ‘I like it, too.’ Alasdhair wrapped his arms around her and kissed her deeply. ‘Ailsa Ross, you have made me the happiest man in the world.’

  ‘Then we are a well-matched pair,’ Ailsa said, rubbing her cheek against his chest and drinking in the delightful essence of him, which seemed to linger at that precise spot, ‘for I am most definitely the happiest woman in the world.’

  ‘I think, then, that we’d best return to our wedding and spread that happiness among our guests.’

  So that is what they did. Eventually.

  One day and for always. A solemn vow. And today was that day.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II BV/S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ® and TM are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

  First published in Great Britain 2011

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited,

  Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

  © Marguerite Kaye 2011

  ISBN: 978-1-408-92369-6

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Author Note

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Copyright