Highlander's Return

by Hildie McQueen

  Highlander's Return

  Highland Temptations (Book 3)

  Hildie McQueen

  Published by Pink Door Books—Smashwords Edition

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  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Highlander's Return

  Hildie McQueen

  With a frustrated sigh, Victoria Westcott put the thick poetry book down on to her lap, and looked through the window to the back garden. No use in attempting to read the same refrain again.

  That her thoughts strayed too often to the handsome Highlander who'd brought her to Somerset Keep, no longer surprised her. Conor McDougall was now at the forefront of her thoughts and dreams since she'd descended into his bed, into his arms. The impression he'd left with his soft caresses and hard body remained with her.

  No, she would not deny it. She'd fallen in love with Conor McDougall. What a predicament. Victoria pulled her legs up onto the chair and curled into a ball, pressing the book against her chest.

  Footsteps sounded. Victoria started to let her presence be known, until she heard Calum McDougall. "Conor must marry the McNeil lass,” the laird said. “Go to the borderlands and find him. Tell my brother about my missive, it's time to stop this war between the clans."

  A deep voice grumbled a reply she could not hear past the sudden, hard beats of her heart. In hopes they'd not find out she overheard, Victoria kept quiet and listened.

  "What of the Englishwoman?" asked the other male, whom she now recognized as Conor's cousin, Dugan.

  "I've a thought to marry her to you, you're in need of a wife." Calum's flat response gave the impression he found her a bother. "We cannot return her to England, it's too dangerous. It would be an acknowledgement that Conor took her, an admission of guilt in the death of Lord Turner."

  "Aye," Dugan replied, then finished, "I can get my own damn wife." Victoria was astonished, considering how the man openly ogled her every move.

  "As your laird, I have a right to chose for you. It's time, Dugan."

  Victoria cringed. Although she did not wish to marry the huge Scotsman, the thought of Conor put to death for murder brought tears to her eyes. What he'd done was justified. Lord Turner, her cruel husband, had killed a member of the McDougall clan, who defended Conor's sister from Turner’s rape attempt.

  "Several wenches wish to travel to the campsite," Dugan informed the laird and getting her attention once again. "It will be a while yet, before the men return from the battlefield. What say you?"

  The laird replied with a noncommittal grunt. "If they wish to go, they may go."

  The men left, and Victoria did not move, her jaw clenched. The laird planned to pass her off like an object to someone, without discussing it with his brother. Frantic to formulate a plan to escape, she went to the window and looked down into the courtyard. Several groups of people milled about. It was midday; a group of men stood near some women, who stirred a large pot. Single men with no wives to cook for them waiting for their meals.

  A short distance away, three women stood in a tight circle and talked, their attire a bit overstated for daytime. Victoria immediately recognized their ilk. Dugan McDougall's unmistakable large figure went to them. Responding with squared shoulders and fingers twirling through their hair, the women circled him.

  ****

  Conor held down a clansman while the healer stitched up a nasty gash to the unfortunate man's side. The man stopped struggling and let out a breath. Thankfully, he'd passed out. The healer kept stitching, then proceeded to bandage the wound.

  A commotion outside broke out, and Conor exited the Healer's tent to see what happened. A wagon approached, driven by Dugan, who was accompanied by four women, all dressed brightly and waving at the men.

  Camp whores. The last thing they needed right now. They'd not been away long enough for the men to need the distraction. He considered sending them away.

  "Can I speak with you?" Adam, a young clansman, materialized before him. Conor nodded and continued to watch the women climb down from the wagon. They sauntered behind Dugan, towards a tent they'd no doubt take over from the men inside without any protest.

  A trio moved with exaggerated sway of hip towards the dwelling, while the fourth dallied behind, her gait more hesitant. Something appeared familiar about her.

  "Lord?" The young man got his attention. "I must ask if I may return to the keep. My wife is about to give birth our first babe and this…" he waved toward the empty field, "battle seems to be at a stall."

  "Err," Conor tore his gaze from the woman who'd stopped outside the tent, the other whores had gone into. She stood stifly, holding her hands over her mouth and nose while staring at two men carrying the newly bandaged clansman back to his own shelter. He looked at the youth before him. The lad looked to be no more than ten and four. "Did you say babe? How old are you?"

  "I am soon to be twenty," the lad puffed out his chest. "Married almost two years now," he continued.

  "Very well then," Conor scowled at the whore who followed after the injured man, instead of entering the tent. "Go see about your wife and babe. Tell Dugan to take you back when he leaves."

  Alan bobbed his head, a wide smile splitting his face. "Thank you, my laird, thank you." He rushed off toward the tent Dugan and the women had entered.

  Conor followed the fourth woman. Something struck him as odd about her. Did the McNeil send a spy into the camp? If so, she was not very good, stood out right away.

  He closed the distance between them, taking care not to make a sound. The oblivious woman peered into the tent where the men had deposited the wounded fighter. She toed a pebble as if in thought, and brushed her hair back from her face.

  Conor’s brows lifted, and his mouth fell open. For an instant, he almost smiled, but then a heated rage raced through him. He stormed toward the woman. What the hell was she doing here?

  Victoria peered into the tent, hoping the wounded male was not Conor. The man seemed a bit smaller than Conor, but surely there wasn't much to eat in the smelly place. The stench of sweat and rotting food was enough to curb anyone's appetite. The brightness of the day made it hard to make out the face of the man who groaned when the others placed him onto a rustic cot.

  Maybe she could hide behind the tent, and once the men left, go inside to get a closer look. Victoria lifted her skirts, ready to take a step, when she was grabbed from behind and heaved upward. A brute threw her over his shoulder and dashed toward a tent, just opposite the one where possibly Conor lay hurt.

  She kicked and pounded his back, not daring to cry out. She didn’t want to alert Conor, who could hurt himself further if he attempted to help her. When she slammed her elbow against the man’s side, the beast cursed. "Damn it, Victoria, stop hitting me."

  "Conor?"

  He did not reply. Perhaps she heard him wrong, could it be Cono
r that mishandled her in such a way? She hit him again.

  With a swish of skirts, and limbs flailing she bounced onto a cot. "Don't you dare touch me, you cretin, I will alert The McDougall, who will have your head," Victoria informed her assailant, as she flung skirts aside to get a good look at her accoster.

  Blue eyes blazed at her, his mouth in a tight line, a jaw muscle jerked. Conor's hands fisted and loosened while he seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Victoria looked around the tent. They were alone and nothing in the shelter gave her cause to think of anything pending. The cot she sat upon was the only bed in the spacious shelter, so she contemplated this to be his alone.

  She brushed her hair away from her made-up face, and wondered if her lip stain was smeared. "I must speak to you, it's very important."

  Conor's mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Instead he took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

  "Are you all right?" Victoria leaned forward, not daring to move from the bunk. He didn't seem pleased at her presence.

  "What are you doing here?" He opened his eyes and stared at her, his face more composed. "I thought we agreed you'd wait my return at the keep."

  She took in the tall, muscular man. His chiseled face, darkened with a shading of beard at his jaw. A lock of chestnut-brown hair fell over his brow, which he raked back with stiff fingers. Irritation pulsed from him.

  Although she'd not expected open arms, the hostility he displayed made her wonder if she'd erred in coming. "I am my own person, and not one to sit around and darn socks while you play at your war games. I gave you my word to wait, but I've decided to return to England. I must, for my brother has arrived. His ships are docked offshore, but a short day's ride from the keep."

  "You are deft at escaping; why didn't you just go to him?" Conor asked, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Why come here? To me?"

  She bit back a curse and jumped to her feet. "Because I cannot go alone to my brother, I am intelligent enough to know the McDougalls would catch up to me with haste."

  "And your brother is also smart enough to know that it would be suicide to attempt a rescue through McDougall lands. He's survived the war by avoiding direct involvement, I'm sure the pirate won't dare come here."

  "Ugh," Victoria held back the urge to scream. "My brother is a privateer, not a pirate."

  The cocked eyebrow made her look away to avoid swearing at him. "Your brother is well-known. He is called The Red Pirate, correct?"

  Victoria stalked to where Conor stood, and put her finger up to his face. "Conor McDougall, do not slander my brother. I will not argue this point further with you. Nor will I talk anymore until you apologize."

  "Ha!" Conor leaned forward and kissed the tip of her finger. "I will not. I spoke the truth."

  The light kiss made her blink in surprise. "Will you take me to my brother or not?"

  "I will not," Conor replied and went to the tent's entrance. He pulled back the flap and peered out. "You must stay here, out of sight, and return with Dugan in the morning."

  "You're sending me back? Will you not heed my warning?" Victoria sputtered. "You do not understand, I know my brother, he will stop at nothing to come for me."

  "Then he shall die," Conor told her matter-of-factly. "I'm afraid there won't be much I can do to stop my family from defending themselves."

  "Oh, my God." Victoria shoved against his chest. "You are a stubborn, annoying, maddening man."

  "And you dress like a harlot and come here expecting me to abandon a battle to accompany you to the harbor. That I announce I kidnapped you, but wish to return you. At that point, your brother will bow at my gesture, and return with you to England without question or quarrel."

  He had a point. Victoria scowled at him, and then the worst thing happened. She began to cry. Not quiet ladylike sniffles, no, she began to choke on the long, hard sobs that came.

  Mortified, Victoria tried to run from the tent, but Conor stopped her. His arms around her, he pulled her against him with a gentleness that contradicted his earlier behavior. "Shh, calm down, please, Victoria," his husky words made her cry harder.

  Her tears soaked into his tunic. She pulled up the bottom edge and wiped her nose, not wanting to face him.

  "Look at me, Victoria," he pulled her face up to him. "You must stop this crying at once."

  "I do not…have to obey you." Her words a mixture of anger and hiccups.

  "Very well, then cry," Conor replied. Then stopped her retort by covering her mouth with his.

  She pushed against his chest, but he was immovable, his body hard as a rock. His essence surrounded her like a fog, and she gave up and wrapped her arms around his neck. How she'd missed him.

  "Allow me in," Conor commanded and she parted her lips, allowing his tongue access. It probed and immediately she recognized his taste.

  His hand slid down her back to cup her bottom, and lifted her up so he could press his hardness into her center.

  Victoria moaned. She should not allow this, but her body refused to allow for any thought other than taking off his clothes and taking him in.

  "I want you, Conor," she murmured, and thrust her hips into him. Contented when rewarded by his groan.

  "It's all I’ve thought about, "Conor replied, his wicked tongue trailing down her throat. "All I crave right now. You."

  His hand pushed her breast free from the low-cut blouse, and his mouth fell over her hard nipple, taking it in completely, sucking it.

  "Oh!" Victoria cried out, grabbing at his hair.

  He backed her toward the cot, his fingers making quick work of removing her skirts and blouse. Once they fell onto the ground, pooling around them, he kneeled at her feet and removed her shoes.

  His darkened blue eyes lifted to her. "Have you thought of my tongue between your legs, Beauty?" Victoria nodded, and he lowered his eyes to her throbbing center. "Me, as well."

  Calloused hands trailed up her legs to her thighs with excruciating slowness. With his fingers splayed between them, Conor pushed her legs apart to allow him access. His head dipped, his breath hot, tantalizing.

  His tongue darted between her folds. Victoria gasped out loud. Conor chuckled. "Sensitive, are you?"

  Once again, he slid his tongue against the most delicate part of her, and she bucked forward into his mouth. His hands moved to the front and spread her open, exposing the now-pulsating nub, which he began to suckle and tease without mercy.

  Victoria wobbled and held onto his shoulders, while at the same time pumping her hips back and forth against his mouth. "Oh, God."

  Everything began to spin, and she surrendered to the rush that raced to the precise spot where his mouth met her body. She crested, her legs giving out, but Conor held her in place while continuing his ministrations through her orgasm, prolonging it.

  In a haze, she felt him pick her up and lay her upon the cot. She attempted to open her eyes, but could not, her entire being wrapped in a cocoon of sensations. Her body continued to want with an all-encompassing need that only he could fulfill.

  She loved that although not a gentle lover, Conor had taken the time to prepare her for what came next.

  Conor's large body covered hers, and he thrust into her without preamble. His thick cock filled and stretched her. "Suck on my tongue." He pushed his tongue into her mouth, and began to slide it in and out of her, in a steadfast rhythm that matched his hips.

  Hands on his taut derriere, Victoria urged him to continue, as another crest threatened.

  A cliff from which to fall neared, but she did not reach it, because suddenly Conor slid out of her and rolled her to her stomach.

  "You are so tight when I take you from behind, I wish to sample that again." Lifting her hips off the bed, he bent over her and bit into her shoulder, his teeth flat, while guiding himself into her again.

  The combination of slight pain from the bite and ecstasy of his cock moving inside, pushed her to want more from him. She pressed her bottom back to meet
his thrusts. "Yes!"

  He pounded without reserve, standing behind her with his hands on her hips, as he worked his long cock back and forth.

  "Come with me," Conor panted against her ear. "I am near."

  His fingers found her core, and he glided them with quick motions against her crux.

  "Ah!" At once she came, her body milking him as he, too, fell into the abyss brought by their lovemaking.

  Conor brought her up against his chest, his arms around her waist, while his body shuddered and his hips continued to drive, every drop of his seed pouring into her.

  They collapsed onto the cot, Conor on top of her, while she lay on her stomach. Both gasped for air.

  When Victoria found she could speak, she pulled away from his heated body, his length sliding out of her, and stood. She picked up her discarded skirts and wrapped them about her body.

  He lay on the cot and watched her, not bothering to cover his nudity.

  Victoria fought not to study his muscular body for fear she'd go back to his arms. "I am still cross with you, Conor."

  "I would be disappointed if you were not." He teased and sat up. "You must return to the keep, Victoria. Once this skirmish is over, I will return and decide what to do about your brother."

  He stood and began to dress, "I must see about the injured man and speak to my cousin."

  "Conor, we must discuss what your brother plans."

  "Not now. Wait here for me. I promise to pleasure you again tonight." He pulled his tunic on over his shoulders, flashed her a smile and left.

  "You are an arrogant lout!" Victoria called after him. She sunk on to the cot and closed her eyes. Why had she allowed it to happen again? He was about to become betrothed. Her chest constricted, and she blinked to keep from crying again. She got up and began to dress.

  Conor entered the tent where Liam had been taken. The sun was setting, which made the interior of the space too dim to see clearly. He lit a lamp and walked to the injured man's side. "Liam, are you awake?"