The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “I … don’t understand, then.”

  “What?”

  “Last eve … when you – you––”

  Her voice trailed off. His pulse ramped up, sending rushing water noise through each ear. “When I … what?” he prompted.

  “You forged proof of … the consummation.”

  He guessed from her lips what the words were. It wasn’t possible to hear them. “I will na’ take an unwilling woman to my bed, Lass. Ever.” His answer was cold. Curt.

  “You … thought me … unwilling?”

  Gavynn went still. Coiled both hands into fists about his sporran. Gulped.

  “Aye.”

  “Oh, no. I mean … I––” She lifted dark eyes to his, and blushed. He watched the pink suffuse her cheeks. “I don’t know … what to say,” she offered.

  Gavynn cleared his throat. “Here is what you say. ‘I am na’ averse to wedding with you, Gavynn MacEuann. And I am willing to tupp with you as well.’”

  She gasped. He watched her silver-satin-encased bosom rise with it. “I can’t say that!”

  “Infer it, then.” He was stirring. Growing heavy and hard for her right then. And right there. He couldn’t help it.

  She twisted her fingers together. Looked away. Flitted back to look at him. Away again.

  “Perhaps you could just nod, Wife. That would suffice for the same.”

  She nodded and went even redder. The rush overtaking his body was severe enough he shook with it. She lifted her gaze to his. Stilled. He watched her eyes widen at what she saw.

  “I’ve a great need of privacy. And little need of food. Or drink. You agree?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  “But … the guests.” She waved a hand out towards the faceless crowd.

  “Can finish without us. Rory! Greggor! Reeb!” Gavynn yelled the names as he stood.

  “My Laird?”

  There was reaction happening about him. Laughter. Jibing. Hilarity. Gavynn wasn’t facing it. Maybe tomorrow, when tales of his eagerness would probably get written into love-imbued sonnets. Maybe then. But not now.

  “See us to my chamber. Now!”

  She was walking at first, taking steps so small they irritated with delay. Gavynn had her in his arms before they reached the archway leading to the towers. Much to everyone’s further amusement.

  Six

  They’d given him the largest tower room, where a fireplace warmed the interior. Brielle kept her face firmly into his neck the entire time it took to reach there. She knew the sounds of entertainment filling the great room they’d left, felt the firm grasp holding her for a jog up the stairs, heard the slam of the door, felt the instability of shaky legs on a wooden floor, and then watched as he dropped the bolt, sealing them in.

  Alone.

  Her legs were trembling, threatening a drop as he approached, moving with steady silent strides towards her, before stopping within reach, his chest expanding with huge gulps of breath.

  “I … uh …” Her voice was missing. Brielle swallowed.

  “Doona’ say anything. Please?”

  “But, I—”

  “You doona’ obey the slightest thing! I warn you, Wife.” He moved a step closer, taking up her entire vision, while both hands reached, stopping just shy of clasping her about the waist.

  “You’ve a voice to melt ice, breath that torments, and words that steal wits. I’ve little left to fight it. Verra little.”

  “Fight … what?”

  “This!”

  He had her yanked into an embrace, her feet off the floor, and his lips at her forehead. Heavy heartbeats pumped from his chest into hers, while each breath cooled heated cheeks. Brielle’s heart met each and every beat. Her breaths mingled with his, and then he trailed his mouth to hers, taking her lips in a kiss unlike any before. If she could have, Brielle would’ve swooned. She knew it would feel like the disembodied sensation of him carrying her to his enclosed bed, tossing her without thought on to the coverlet and following the motion with his body.

  She felt her shoulder strap slide, warmth following as his fingers trailed her arm, pushing fabric. He went to a bow shape to press his kiss to her throat. His hands shoving and sliding fabric, until the naked awareness of her nipples met the linen of his shirt. Brielle gasped, moved her hands to his shoulders, rubbing and massaging and gaining vast reservoirs of wet and want that started at her core and spread from there. And then he was sending the torment to higher levels, using his tongue to trace a trail of ice and fire right to where her nipples were hard darts of ache. And then he lapped at a nipple, sending her body into an arch of sensation and wonder.

  Brielle melted. Throbbed. Pulsed. Careened. And sent a cry until her breath ran out and she had to gain another. His chuckle made the sensation worse. So much worse, Brielle grabbed at his arms to hold him in place. Was still there as he lifted, brought his kiss back to hers, and lapped where she couldn’t gain enough.

  His belt fell, landing momentarily at where the satin pooled at her waist, before he shoved it aside. His kilt followed, as a sail of fabric she barely saw. Brielle was beyond it. Her arms were wrapped about his chest, glued there to keep the sensations of both nipples to a livable level. Panted with him. And then accepted his weight.

  Her skirts tore. She heard it as well as felt the release of material separating their loins, and then she felt the strangeness of him. Hard. Thick. Hot. Huge.

  “Open for me, Love. Open …”

  The whisper trembled through her ear, sent in gasps of breath that slithered over where he’d lifted in a push-up from her. His hair had come untied as well, leaving strands to brush and tickle her cheeks, her nose … her lips. Brielle held on.

  “Wrap your legs about me.”

  He lowered his head, into the space beside her shoulder, using it as a fulcrum to release his hands. Brielle felt them at her hips, lifting her. Holding her in place so he could slide against her innermost area, toying. Exciting. Stimulating. Inciting and agitating and creating a whorl of pleasure unlike anything she’d ever known.

  Brielle went wild.

  Surges of absolute bliss flew into her, and she shoved back, accepting and expanding, and then learning absolute agony.

  “Easy, lass.”

  “It … hurts, Gavynn. It—”

  “I ken, Love. ’Tis only the first time. Truly, and – Lord! Doona’ do that again!”

  Brielle’s eyes went wide as red suffused every bit of his flesh. His entire body went tense, taut, and statue-still, trembling with a vastness that moved her with it. A long groan fled his lips, pushed with his exhalation. Gavynn dropped his head, found her mouth, and sucked every breath she gave.

  Brielle’s moan matched his, her tongue as well, rinsing the pain into a memory with every lunge he made. Every pull from the embrace of her flesh. Return. Over and over, with increasing need and energy fuelling each thrust.

  Brielle clung harder, holding to every bit of the wild thing that was Gavynn as he bucked and heaved. Her arms and legs strained, filled with the ache of holding, her mouth moved, sucking on the delicate skin just below his ear, while her entire experience filled with tension. Building. Rising. Sending flickers of excitement with every touch of his body into hers. Creating tendrils of sensation that kept coming. And just when she didn’t think she could catch another breath, everything erupted.

  Brielle cried aloud, her eyes clenched tight as waves of wonder flowed over her, taking her higher than the room could contain and wider than the sky could manage. And keeping her there for entire heartbeats of time while he continued pumping into her, sending waves atop the others. And just when she thought she might die of the ecstasy, he ceased all movement.

  Brielle held on as Gavynn’s entire body tightened as he groaned, long and low, his body heaving and pulsing against hers. And then he stopped, opened his eyes to look down at her, and then collapsed; rolling at he did so, and taking her with him.

  His heartbeat was at thu
nder level, hurtful to her ear, while each breath was heavy, matching hers and sending his muscled belly into hers. He was covered in a thin film of wet, making a godlike creature that glowed with each flare from the fire. Brielle had never seen or experienced anything so beautiful. She reached with a finger and trailed it alongside his face, and then traced his lips. He kissed it.

  “Gavynn?”

  “Aye?”

  One eye slit open, catching her rapt gaze, and then his body pulsed alongside hers, moving her with it.

  “That was …” Brielle stopped. She didn’t know how to describe the ecstatic feeling still filling her.

  “I dinna’ hurt you overmuch?” He asked.

  Brielle’s eyes widened. “You meant to hurt?”

  He smiled, showing every bit of handsomeness and making her heart lurch. She was frightened for what that could mean. And with a man she barely knew. She watched him lift a lock of her hair and take it to his lips. And place a kiss reverently on the hair strands, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “Nae. Never. The first time always pains, love. ’Tis na’ much a man can do to prevent such. ’Twill na’ pain the next time.”

  “Next … time?”

  His smile widened. “I’m verra certain there’ll be a next time. And a time after that. And then more. That is how a man shows his wife he’s verra much in love with her.”

  “In love?” Her voice was missing. It got lost in tears that obliterated him until she blinked them out of the way.

  The smile spread to his eyes. “Damn my tongue for admitting it, but aye. I’m in love with you, Wife, or I’m ill. Either frightens me.”

  It wasn’t the best time to cry, but that didn’t stop her. Brielle would tell him later why. For now he had to guess it from her happy embrace.

  Curse Me Wicked

  Elle Jasper

  Village of Dunmorag, North West Highlands, Scotland, October

  “So you think you can handle this one, huh, newbie?”

  I glanced at Paxton Terragon, the arrogant, senior field agent I’d been training with for the past three months. He was in his mid-thirties, wore white spiked hair and looked like Billy Idol. I narrowed my gaze, sick to death of being called newbie. “Hell yeah.”

  Pax laughed, grabbed the keys from the ignition, jumped out and slammed the door. I did the same and Pax peered at me over the top of the car. “Fearless Ginger Slater, WUP’s most notorious risk-taking newbie field agent is ready for a little action, huh?”

  The agency we worked for, WUP – Worldwide Unexplained Phenomena – had partnered me with an idiot. A biting wind whipped across the car park and sank clear to my bones, and I pulled the edges of my leather jacket closer. I frowned at Pax. “I was a shape-shifters/curses specialist for two years prior to joining WUP so lay off and let’s go.” As I rounded the back of the Rover, my eyes searched the grey, bleak village of Dunmorag.

  Pax chuckled. “So you have a couple of years behind you and what?” He cocked his head and stared at me. “Think you’re ready?” He shook his head and popped the hatch. “I’ve been at this for ten years, newbie, and trust me – you’re never ready.”

  I met Pax’s stare for a few seconds, told him to eff-off in my head, grabbed my pack and shouldered it. Then I really took a good look around at the secluded Highland village. Desolate was the first word that came to mind. Half-dozen grey stone and white-washed buildings hugged the pebbled crescent shore of a small lake – rather, loch. Beyond the village were the Rannoch Moors, which were even more desolate than Dunmorag. Tufts of dead grass, brown heather and rock stretched for miles. Far in the distance, dark, craggy mountains threw long shadows and loomed ominously. The skies were grey. The moors were grey. Even the water in the loch was grey. Well, black.

  Foreboding. That was the second word that came to mind.

  “You gonna stand here all day and take in the scenery or what?” Pax asked.

  I gave him a hard look, which he ignored and instead inclined his head to the pub behind us. “I’m ready,” I said, shifted my pack, shrugged my leather jacket collar closer to my neck, and together we crossed the small car park. The wind bit straight through my clothes and I shivered as I stepped on to the single paved walk that ran in front of the stores. I glanced down the row of buildings. A baker. A fishmonger. The post office. A grocer. An inn and a pub. And absolutely no people around. Weird. Very, very weird. Good thing weird was our speciality.

  A black sign with a sliver of a red moon painted on it swung above the pub on rusted hinges, and the creaking noise echoed off the building. In silver letters the sign read The Blood Moon. Pax pushed in through the double red doors – quite befitting, the red – and I followed. Inside, it took my eyes several seconds to adjust to the dimmer light. A hush fell over the handful of people gathered in the single-room dwelling. “Guess we found the villagers,” I whispered to Pax. Everyone stopped what they were doing, or saying, to stare at us. No one uttered a word.

  I glanced at Pax, then all around, until my eyes lighted on the man behind the bar. He had dark, expressionless eyes, reminding me of a shark’s, and they bore straight into me. His head, shaved bald, shone beneath the pub’s overhead light. He said nothing. I walked up to him and met his gaze. “We’re looking for Lucian MacLeod,” I said. “Know where we can find him?”

  The bartender shot a quick glance to someone behind us – I don’t know who – before returning his heavy gaze to me. “He’s no’ here,” he said, his brogue so thick I barely caught all the words. “Best you and your friend just go.” He stared. “Lucian willna be back anytime soon.”

  I smiled. “Could you just point us in the right direction? We came a long way.”

  The bartender looked first at Pax, then back at me. “From America, aye?” he said, regarding both of us. Then he leaned across the bar, his hard gaze settled on me. “You know the moors, do you girl?”

  I shrugged. “Not really but we can find them. Why, is that where he’s at?”

  “Callum, dunna do it,” an older woman said in a hushed voice from a table near the window. She looked at the bartender, but not me. “’Tis wrong.”

  Callum shot the woman a hard look.

  “Look, Callum,” I said. “Lucian contacted us for our services, so,” I leaned forward, “why don’t you just tell us where to find him and we’ll be on our way.”

  The bartender studied me for several seconds before answering. “He’s on the far north of the Rannoch Moors, in a little stone bothy,” he said. “’Tis the only one out there. But I’m givin’ you fair warning, lass,” his voice dropped. “Get your business done and off the moors by nightfall. If you canna find MacLeod, leave.”

  I held his gaze. It took a lot more to frighten me than a moor warning. Besides – ole Callum had no idea what we were used to. “Thanks.” I glanced at Pax and inclined my head towards the door. “Let’s go.”

  Outside, I swear the wind felt ten degrees colder. And it had started to rain. Freaking great.

  “Food.” Pax wasn’t asking, he was telling. His gaze wandered up the walk.

  I glanced first at my watch, then gauged the darkening sky.

  “There’s no time.”

  Pax swore, then headed towards the car, muttering something about fish and chips and beer.

  I followed, and as my stomach growled – yeah, I was hungry too – I looked up the one-track lane of Dunmorag, at the bleak buildings, the grey skies, at The Blood Moon pub. A sharp gust of wind whipped by and I squinted against its harshness. An uneasy feeling crept over me. Something wasn’t right; something about this whole case didn’t sit well with me and I couldn’t put a finger on it. And something about Dunmorag wasn’t right, either. Creepy. It was just so freaking creepy.

  It made me wonder just who Lucian MacLeod truly was. To say he’d been vague when he’d called the agency was an understatement; he’d simply asked a few questions, requested a specialist in curses and paid a hefty fee up-front just to procure that specialist. But it was
his final plea that had stuck with me when we’d spoken on the phone; you’re my last hope. I don’t know if it’d been the desperation in his voice, or the words themselves; either way, I found I was fascinated. Even if it meant suffering a trans-Atlantic flight and three hours in the car with Pax Terragon, I was still enthralled and interested to sit down and find out the full scoop on Lucian’s problem – whatever it was.

  We left the dreary Highland village behind, with only four and a half hours left of daylight – if that’s what you called it – and headed for the even drearier moors.

  “Crisp?” Pax asked, shaking his chip bag at me.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said, turning sideways in the seat to look at my partner. “You stick your hand in the bag. You pull out a chip; put it in your mouth. Lick your fingers. Then back in the bag they go.” I shook my head. “I’ll pass.”

  Pax laughed and crammed several more chips into his mouth. “Whatever, newbie.” He jerked a thumb towards the window. “Doesn’t look like we’ll find anywhere out here to eat.”

  I glanced around the barren moors and decided Pax was right. There wasn’t anything in sight, in any direction, except dead heather, grass and rock. Several brown bunnies had shot across the one-track lane but that was it. No other signs of life existed. Heavy grey and black clouds had claimed the waning afternoon light, throwing the moors into a weird sort of eerie, shadowy hue. The rain had continued, a light drizzle, but constant. I pressed my palm to the window’s glass and shivered at its coldness. The temperature outside was dropping. By nightfall, with the rain? Almost unbearable. I preferred the warmth, sunshine, sandy beaches and crystal-clear waters. Neither cold nor gloom ranked as one of my top five faves but both seemed to go hand-in-hand with WUP assignments. Go figure.

  “There it is,” Pax said, pulling me out of my thoughts. I glanced in the direction he pointed, across the moors, to a small, single-storey stone cottage. A mist had drifted in and settled like a sheet of wispy fog over the dead clumps of grass and heather. Smoke puffed out of the chimney. “MacLeod’s here.”