The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “Well? Can you or canna’ you?”

  “What?” she mouthed.

  “Mount.”

  Low snickers came from the horde about them. Brielle didn’t move her gaze from his. “Cup your hand,” she requested.

  “Why?”

  “Have you never mounted a woman before?”

  She had her cool tone back. The one that usually meant immediate obedience. This time it got jeers and laughter. Her face went hot as she assigned meaning. Then she had large hands gripped around her waist as he tossed her on to the span of horse. On her belly.

  Brielle hadn’t time to gasp before he was mounted, an arm about her midsection, plastering her to him with an iron grasp. He wasn’t even breathing hard while her heart felt lodged in her throat, choking off the scream.

  He clicked his tongue and the horse moved. That gave her another bit of information about Highlanders. They knew horses. That could put leagues between her and safety. A flicker of worry started. Brielle swallowed before she got more impressions to deal with. The feel of him made her head spin. This much proximity to any man was alien. Odd. Foreign.

  They hadn’t ridden long before something changed. It might’ve been the slight groan attached to each breath he made. It might’ve been the feather touch of air across her forehead and on to her nose. It could’ve been the heavy thud of heartbeat emanating from where her ear pressed, creating sensations she’d never felt before. And wouldn’t have believed.

  The totality of it got worse as they reached treeline and started ducking and dodging. He seemed to possess a second sense, swaying, bending and dipping to avoid rain-blurred obstacles before they were seen. Brielle tried ignoring the arms about her, muscle flexing everywhere, even in the hard thighs that pinned her legs together. She felt sensitive. Alert. Aware. Alive with a tingle that just kept coming. She had to change it. Brielle moved her head slightly, the only range of movement he left her, to put whispered words against his neck.

  “You shouldn’t be riding,” she whispered. “You’re injured.”

  He grunted but didn’t deny it.

  “Loose me. I won’t escape,” she added.

  “Doona’ fash. ’Tis … little.”

  His words gapped with a catch of breath. Brielle stirred and the hand at her cheek pushed, smashing her to him.

  “I … I’m versed in nursing.” She tried again, biting her lower lip this time. She only did that when beset. Worried. “The longer you wait … the worse it may get. Loose me, and I’ll see to it.”

  She got a grunt. This wasn’t easy. The man was dense. Immune.

  “Why not?” She said it louder, with a cross tone.

  “I canna’ protect you”

  “Protect me? From … what?”

  “A man does na’ claim what he canna’ hold, Lass. We reach Feegan’s Roost … you can nurse me there. Or kill me off. Until then, cease … this argue.”

  “I’m not––” Brielle stopped. Anything she said could be perceived as arguing.

  A slight sniff that could be his amusement touched her eyelashes. It was instantly followed by a tremor all through him.

  “You’ll never make this Feegan’s place,” she informed him.

  “I need rest, Lass. Less … woman-words.”

  “Men.” The word held her disgust. And got a few snorts of laughter from about them.

  He settled somehow, forming a cocoon about her that contained a steady, thick heartbeat at the core. Brielle shifted, but little moved. She debated struggling. Kicking. Twisting. If only he didn’t make such a comfortable berth; kilt-covered thighs about hers; a chest formed for snuggling into; a rocking motion of the horse beneath them. All of it combined to close her eyes and relax into him … and sleep.

  Two

  The woman smelt clean. Fresh. Wondrous. Her form felt good in his arms, too. Almost like she belonged; swaying slightly with every step from Crusader … taking them further from Iain. Gavynn stopped the thought. It heightened the dull ache pumping through his chest.

  “You’re in pain?”

  Her quick breath cursed him, brushing at his chin with sweetness.

  “You should be dead. I saw the stone that hit you.”

  He grunted slightly; tightened the arm about her chest, crushing full breasts against his arm. He thoroughly enjoyed it, before the lass pestered him with words again.

  “You needn’t hide it. I told you. I’ve … nursing skill.”

  Gavynn looked heavenwards, gaining a raindrop for his trouble. She didn’t obey the slightest thing. Her presence caused trouble. Hired men weren’t easy to control when filled with bloodlust. They obeyed a strong leader. One who could keep and protect a captive he claimed. The lass might be versed in nursing, but she knew nothing about warring men.

  “I doona’ need nursing.”

  He heard sounds of amusement from about them. Somewhere in the rain-filled night, men rode pillion, listening, evaluating. Gavynn frowned. He’d hired the strongest, stoutest men silver could purchase. He needed them to pull down a wall. He hadn’t worried over trust.

  “But—”

  “If you doona’ hush, I’ll gag you.”

  “What? Why?”

  Gavynn pulled the rein into his mouth, lowered his freed hand to his kilt hem, and started ripping.

  “What … are you doing?”

  “Getting your gag,” he replied through his teeth.

  The lass went stiff and then she went silent. All about could be heard movement, murmurs, jangling of harness. Gavynn waited, while the lass hardly seemed to breathe.

  “You’ll hush?”

  He whispered it and got a nod along his throat. It came with another tremor from her body. He didn’t like that. And wondered why.

  Feegan’s Roost turned out to be a portion of ancient monastery, frozen in jagged chunks of disembodied stone that reached heavenwards. It was shrouded in a thick layer of mist, lit by the glow of a new day. Brielle opened an eye, caught her breath at such beauty and then yawned. Her eyelids felt heavier than usual, her limbs stiff.

  The moment Brielle moved to stretch, memory returned, awakening her fully and rapidly. She yanked both eyes open, to a span of male chest glossed by air that sparkled. Blinking didn’t change it. Then her vision got peopled with shaggy-looking horses, worse-looking hulks of men, and everywhere they had weaponry. Sharpened spear-tips, arrows, hand-axes and large swords honed to edges that caught light, were speckling the area with glint.

  Brielle felt completely out-of-sorts. Damp. Sweaty-warm. Cramped. Her captor was a brute, too. She wriggled, trying to ease the numbing of both legs. She got tighter arms and legs about her. She’d never slept atop a horse before … nor locked in a man’s embrace. She knew why now: misery.

  “Let … me … go!” Her hiss of voice halted as one of his men spoke up.

  “You need assist with that, MacEuann?”

  One of the hulks lifted a mud-covered head to grin, his teeth brown against a full beard.

  Her captor grunted, and then yelled a name. “Pells?”

  “Aye?”

  “Get to Reeb. As planned. Rory?”

  “My Laird?”

  “Send a message to the earl. Tell him I demand my brother’s freedom.”

  Sounds of what could be hilarity and might be argument, filtered through the throng. Brielle subconsciously leaned back into the mass of man holding her, much to her own dismay.

  “Tell him I offer a trade! This woman … for Iain.”

  “Her?”

  “Aye. And a-fore her presence wearies me further. You write that?”

  Brielle’s eyes went wide as they all looked, grins splitting more beards. She swallowed on the moisture in her mouth, and then again as it got replenished. She didn’t know fear had a taste. Bitter. Metallic.

  “How do you ken he’ll trade? He kept her in his dungeons.”

  “I would house her there, as well. As punishment for a displeasing tongue. Go. Deliver my message. Use Greggor. He’s the
best aim. And you! Get a fire going. Set a kettle to boiling. You! See to the horses. And Gleason?”

  “My laird?”

  “Hunt a stag for roasting. At the verra least, a hare or two. Take as many men as you need. We’ve a long day ahead. And I, for one, am na’ waiting with an empty gullet.”

  He was trembling by the end of his speech, moving Brielle with his tremors. None of the others noted. She watched as men scurried to do his bidding until there were none left. Brielle wriggled again, fully expecting tighter bands about her.

  “You want me to loosen my hold?”

  She hunched her shoulder against the puff of whisper; nodded.

  “You promise you’ll na’ run?”

  Where was she going to run? She didn’t have a weapon, a horse, knowledge of the land, and she was thoroughly exhausted; cramped into immobility. Then there was the threat of so many men … all looking like they wanted to devour her. This Gavynn was dense.

  Brielle tipped her head and suffered the most annoying spate of sensation when she connected with his gaze. He had light green eyes, totally at odds with his hair and brows. He hadn’t grown a beard, leaving lips and jaw uncovered. Brielle gulped, her heart dropped to pound heavily from her depths and there was something wrong with her breathing as well.

  “I … need … a moment.” She replied with such a shaky whisper she knew he felt it. And then he frowned.

  “As do I. But first … your promise.”

  “I’m no fool,” she told him.

  He lifted an ebony-shaded eyebrow.

  “You’re injured, you can’t control your men, and you’re all I have for protection. Why would I run?”

  He lifted his head away, clicked his tongue and that moved the horse around a far wall and into a small cleared area framed by ruined walls and a fringe of trees. Once there, he loosened his hold and slid her to the grass. He motioned her towards the greenery, shadowed and private. She was pushing her way back through to him when she heard the thud as he fell off his horse.

  Brielle was on her knees beside him quickly. She shook her head. “I was right. You’re injured.”

  “Jesu’!”

  The hunch of man cursed it, while the naked back he displayed flexed and moved. Brielle looked over four scars scoring his flesh.

  “Can you move?” She waited long moments before he answered. And then she had to lean to hear it.

  “Aye.”

  “Then do so. Before someone spots you.” She stood.

  “Is this … what you call nursing?”

  “No. This is called survival.”

  He sighed, shuddered, and started unfolding from the pile of limbs until he became a seated male with long legs before him, bare from thigh to socks.

  “How bad is it?” she asked.

  “I’m bruised a bit and numbed to deadness.”

  “Then recover quickly, Gavynn MacEuann.”

  He looked up at her through his lashes. “You ken my name?”

  “Your brother never ceased talking. Or whining.”

  The jibe hardened his face, as well as everything else he’d put on display. She stepped back as he went to a crouch, using his arms for stability. And then he went to a stand, stretched, yawned, and then growled. And then he walked past her to the shrubs.

  Brielle whirled, giving him privacy. But that was stupid. One kept their eyes on the enemy. Then they wouldn’t have to rely on sound to locate them.

  “Verra well, Lass. I’m up. Relieved. What would you have of me now?”

  Brielle kept her back to him while shivers rippled all over her. She crossed her arms and glared at the wall. She refused to let him unsettle her. It made her reply harsh. “You’re not injured.”

  “I dinna’ say I was. ’Twas your summation.”

  A yell came from somewhere. Something about breakfast. Gruel. Griddle cakes fried in fat. Brielle’s belly answered. It’d been two full days since she’d been put on bread and water. The single crust she’d saved was long gone. She studied the ruined wall and tried ignoring the man behind her.

  “You thinking to run?” he asked.

  Of course she wasn’t running. The only thing that changed was his health. Brielle sighed, turned, and hadn’t realized how close he stood. Her spin knocked her into him. Hands grabbed each arm; not to catch, but imprison. He lifted until her feet dangled and even if she had more than slippers on her feet, it wouldn’t have done much as she kicked and twisted.

  “You’re fair … vexing. You ken?”

  He grunted several times until Brielle conceded. If he was injured it didn’t affect his strength. She could only hope her father answered the message … and soon.

  Gavynn felt her give up, but that didn’t loosen anything about his hold. He’d been right earlier. She was a beauty. Lengthy locks of russet-coloured hair covered her back messily, obviously needing a brushing. Nothing marred the perfection of her skin, either. Not one pock, freckle, or even a bump. He was alarmed even before he factored in her smell. He stood, breathing her scent, while his body reacted. She was definitely affecting him. His senses told him even as his mind ordered against it. She was his bargaining wedge. Nothing more. Touching her was foolhardy, holding her like this pure insanity. He almost wished for an injury vast enough to stay his body from the priming that happened. Hardening him. Gavynn pulled his hips back, hoping the sporran hid him well enough. He watched her catch at her bottom lip, tip her chin, and move her gaze to him, and then endured a roar that went right through his ears.

  “You can unhand me now. Truly. I won’t run.”

  Sarcasm filled the words. They still sounded of honey. Gavynn lowered his head and caught her inhalation of breath with his mouth. As he did the strangled cry that followed. If she hadn’t turned it into a moan before flicking her tongue at his, he’d have been better able to stop the kiss and leave her be.

  Maybe.

  A hand snaked around his neck, fingers twined about the ends of his hair, taking him closer, and that’s when Gavynn ceased anything resembling thought. All he could do was feel; firm breasts against his chest, the heft of her buttocks once he slid a hand to lift her, clenching and moulding her exactly to him, and the solid tremor matching her frame exactly to his. It wasn’t just her moan riding through his senses as he sucked his way about her mouth, deepening the kiss into something tangible, raw … urgent.

  A hiss of air at his cheek stopped him. Gavynn went to a crouched spin, pulling his claymore while one arm pinned the lass to him. But it was only his man, James MacPherson, nodding at them before walking past to pull his arrow from a far tree. Gavynn was standing, his sword tip at the ground when James returned. The woman had moulded fully to him, her face hidden against his shoulder. Gavynn watched James note it.

  “I’ll be for paying that back,” Gavynn informed him.

  The man grinned. “I had nae other choice. You dinna’ hear my call.”

  Gavynn shrugged. The woman moved with it. “Now that you’ve interrupted, what do you want?”

  “Rory sent me. He averred you might need … assist. I doona’ ken with what.”

  Gavynn grunted.

  “I’ll fetch your repast. For the woman, as well. Try na’ to miss me.”

  She jerked then started to shiver. Gavynn held her through it. He was still in a fog of want. He tried tamping it. She smelt of womanly delight and warmth. She felt better. She sent small snippets of air feathering across his upper arm. She was in a cling of provocation. None of it helpful. James nodded as if he realized all of it, before he turned and left, whistling the entire time.

  Three

  Purgatory wasn’t deep enough to hold the embarrassment and shock. It was enough that the combination sapped at her strength. Brielle hadn’t any experience with passion and desire … and with a Highlander? It wasn’t fair!

  She kept her head averted, pulling in gasp after gasp of his smell. Her skin rippled with shivers, her frame trembled, and it was difficult to breathe. She felt as tightly strung
as a lyre, with every sense heightened and alert and tensed. She’d been kissed once, by a drunken lord who’d over-stepped his boundaries and received a slap for his effort. It was nothing like this. She’d never felt a whoosh of warmth so vast her entire being throbbed. Such a thing was immoral. Illicit. Unbridled. Wanton. And it just kept radiating outward, sending tremors with it. Why was it this man to do this to her? Within moments of time? Using little more than his mouth?

  Brielle trembled and endured and worked at squashing a reaction she hadn’t known existed. It was so mortifying, tears drilled at her eyes. She didn’t know if she could face him again. Or his man.

  “Lass?”

  She shook her head slightly at the rumble of voice. The motion rubbed her forehead against his skin.

  “You need to unhinge from me. A-fore James returns.”

  Brielle shook her head again. He sighed.

  “Doona’ take offence. I’m na’ against tupping with you.”

  “Tupping?” The word was choked.

  “Aye. With great force and passion. That sort of tupping.”

  Her eyes went wide.

  “I’d na’ thought a Sassenach wench would be so … ardent. Or free. It … makes me hard and readied for you. I vow, I’ve rarely felt such need. Canna’ you face me? ’Tis difficult to speak to the top of your head.”

  “Don’t say … one more word. Not one.” Brielle enunciated carefully and then stepped back. Nothing about the morn felt warm. It was cold. Harsh. Brielle wrapped her arms about her, looked up to face him, and ignored the lurch her body made. He’d lowered his chin, favouring her with a look she had no trouble deciphering. He hadn’t been speaking of his condition idly, either. He was definitely readied for her. His plaid was distorted with size and hardness. All of which was shocking and frightening. And yet enticing at the same time. Brielle forced her eyes to stay focused on his face.

  “Doona’ look at me that way, Lass. You ken I canna’ take you. Na’ now. And for certain, na’ here.”