“They’re jealous. And it’s our wedding party. What’s a ball without some scandal anyway?” He chuckled against her neck, his palm sliding down her silk-covered side and gripping the top of her hip. “Just ask Evan and Finlay. They’re plotting something terrible as we speak. If I recall correctly, they bare-arsed Niall’s wedding. I think we shouldn’t let them steal our thunder.”
With a laugh, she looped her arms over his shoulders, a pair of mischievous blue eyes meeting his. “My lord Riverley, are ye suggesting what I think ye’re suggesting? That we beat them at their own game?”
“I knew I married you for a reason.”
Her grin was wicked. “What is yer plan, then? Ye want to kick up that kilt a bit?”
“You would love that, wouldn’t you?” He laughed. “But it’s no fun when only one of us is scandalized. We’re in this marriage together and we create scandal together.”
“I agree. What do ye have in mind?”
“Do you love me?” he asked, kissing her brow.
“Aye,” she said. “Do ye love me, my lord?”
“More than life itself.”
With that Julien crushed his mouth to hers, taking her lips in a kiss that was as carnal as it was sweet. He dragged her to him, leaving no space between them, and kissing her as he’d wanted to the minute she’d sauntered down those stairs like a descending goddess. She tasted of wine and woman, of light and love, of seduction and sweetness. And she made him drunk. Dimly, he heard the gasps and the catcalls, and then he broke the kiss.
“Ready for round two?”
She panted against his mouth. “There’s a round two?”
“We should never do anything by halves, my love.”
His hand tightened on her waist and without missing a beat, he whirled her into the throng of dancers, swinging her high and twirling her about. The music of the bagpipes shifted into something she recognized. She laughed gaily, the sound like bells. It was a traditional Scottish country dance, a shemit reel, and she squealed as Julien lifted her again and spun her effortlessly to the middle, skipping and hopping halfway across the floor.
“Where did ye learn that?” she half gasped, half shouted when her brother Niall joined in with Sorcha as his partner, a pregnant Aisla clapping from the side.
“Ronan and Niall taught me.” Julien grinned when they crossed paths again. “When we were supposed to be working in the mines, he was teaching me this sixsome reel. You’re much more fun to spin about, I’ll tell you. Not to mention several stones lighter.”
Her laughter lit his heart.
They were both breathing hard when the dance came to an end. “Now for round three?”
“There’s a round three?” She pressed a hand to her chest, but her eyes were filled with merriment and love. “Ye’ll kill me.”
Julien drew her close in the middle, the cheering around them growing louder by the minute. He kissed her nose, and then tossed her over his shoulder like she was a piece of baggage.
“Put me down this instant!” she screeched. “Julien, this is unseemly.”
Julien patted her on the bottom to the tune of another screech as he hastened from the room, up the stairs, and straight into their bedchamber, hearing the laughter, gasps, and cheers fading behind them. Kicking the door shut behind him with one foot, he shifted her position so she was gathered in his arms.
“Scandal for the ages,” he crowed.
Makenna smoothed the curls from her face and giggled. Her pins had fallen out somewhere between the ballroom and the bedchamber. Good riddance! She looked tousled and delicious, and he was going to consume her the minute he could get her out of those clothes.
Shaking her head, she blushed. “They all ken what ye’re going to do. What we’re going to do.”
Julien deposited her slowly on the ground, letting her down inch by inch so that her body clung to his, letting her know exactly what she did to him. He was grateful for the privacy of the room. Taming an erection in a room full of people was a challenge. But now, he gave it full, free rein, as if the tent in the folds of his kilt weren’t signal enough.
“Chérie, it’s a well known secret that everyone knows what happens between a bride and groom at weddings. They make love until they’re ragged.” He grinned at her. “Now sit and enjoy the show.”
“The show?” she asked weakly, collapsing onto the bed in a heap of aquamarine silk.
“Round four.”
Makenna looked around the room and blinked, taking in the details of the rose petals on the floor and scattered on the bedsheets. A bottle of brandy with two glasses stood on the mantel, and a low fire burned in the grate. “Ye planned all this?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“Always for you.”
Julien removed his coat with excruciating slowness, watching as her eyes darted to him. They stayed there as he divested himself of every piece of clothing and his boots, until he stood there clad only in a Maclaren tartan.
“I am yours, Makenna Leclerc,” he said, his voice husky. “Yours to do with as you wish for as long as you want me.”
His wife licked her lips. “Is eternity long enough?”
Eternity was exactly what he hoped for.
Epilogue
Three years later
Makenna sat within the small embrasure of the window in her bedchamber, staring down at the gardens below where Julien’s mother, now Lady Cranston—she and Maxim had finally taken the leap a year ago—watched over her grandchildren. The spiraled design of Makenna’s newest garden at Duncraigh, one of four, all designed in a formal and symmetrical French style, looked like a nautilus shell from above, the white-and-pink roses, purple harebells, and yellow gorse, all in full bloom. In the center of the garden was a half-moon stone bench and small fountain, where, presently, Malcolm was playing with his little sister, Innis.
The two-year-old’s pudgy arms were up to the elbow in water, dunking her older brother’s beloved carved wooden soldiers into the basin of the fountain. She was splashing enthusiastically, and thoroughly soaking both herself and Malcolm.
She could hear Innis’s shrieks of mischief mixed with Malcolm’s patient pleas for her to stop drowning the soldiers, and Eleanor’s soft trills of laughter from where she sat on the bench, an opened lace parasol blocking Julien’s mother from view. Makenna wanted to capture the moment and preserve it forever, the sights and sounds so lovely and perfect and serene. From time to time, like now, she still caught herself reflecting with wonder on how her life had changed over the last few years. She leaned her head against the frame of the window, gazing down at her loves. Then, with a glance toward the large bed, grinned at the man who had given her all of them.
With his dark blond lashes fanned against his golden skin, Julien somehow looked as sinful and luscious in sleep as he did awake. The bare expanse of his brawny chest, the familiar white scar along his ribs from the fight at the Brodie so long ago, made Makenna’s fingers itch to reach for him. Again. They had made off to their chamber shortly after breaking their fast, ever grateful that Eleanor reserved Saturday mornings for the children to play and read in the gardens. Even after three years of marriage, they still had not developed enough patience or fortitude to wait until nighttime to slip away and make love. And their fervor had not diminished in the least when Makenna had started to round and plump with child shortly after their wedding ball.
It had been a miracle, something she hadn’t allowed herself to dream or hope for until even the second month of her missed menses. And then Innis had arrived, the wee thing squalling with lungs as hale as steel. Seeing Julien holding their bairn for the first time, her tiny fists above her head as she squirmed, Makenna had wept. So had Julien. He’d pressed his lips to her little wrinkled forehead and whispered a simple declaration: “Now I understand.”
As if the new small life inside her was listening to her thoughts, Makenna felt a nudge of pressure at her ribs. She placed a hand over the swelling of her abd
omen. “All in good time, my love,” she whispered.
On the bed, her husband stirred, his strong, muscled legs moving and stretching under the thin draping of linens. Julien reached toward the spot where Makenna had lain, languid and completely satisfied, after their lovemaking, and when he grasped nothing but pillow, opened his eyes.
“What are you doing all the way over there?” he drawled, his voice husky from the midmorning nap.
“Watching ye,” she replied.
“That’s slightly disconcerting.”
“Ye love it, ye arrogant man.”
He showed his teeth and it was as much of a smile as it was a wicked promise. Makenna got up and went to the bed, slowly letting the blanket she’d wrapped around her naked body fall to the floor. Julien’s eyes dropped to her rounded abdomen and heavy breasts, and he responded as he had countless times during this, and her first, pregnancy: the linens around his hips tented. Makenna laughed.
“Ye like my increased figure, I see, my lord husband,” she teased, crawling into bed beside him.
He gathered her close, one hand rubbing her belly gently. His palms were roughened by the work he had been doing in the stables, expanding for the new shipment of horses due the next month. Duncraigh’s stables had become known for its elegant and nimble Arabians, and aristocratic clientele from all over the world, from London and Paris, Madrid and even New York City, were forever seeking quality stock here.
“I like your figure in any state or form, so long as I am permitted to hold it against mine,” he replied, nipping at her neck and cupping a breast. One touch from her husband, and she was honey limbed, every time. This man, he would never cease making her witless with want.
“Permission granted, husband,” she replied.
“Have you read your letter?” he murmured as he continued to lick and nibble her neck, then softly bit one earlobe. She shivered and jolted.
“Dratted man! Ye made me forget about it entirely!” Makenna reached for the envelope that she’d set on the bedside table before the two of them had tumbled into a mass of hands and hips and lips earlier. It was from Maclaren, and addressed in her mother’s hand. With Julien curved around her back, and still wrapped in his arms, Makenna opened the letter and began to read. She gasped, then laughed.
“Please tell me one of your brothers has done something to embarrass himself,” Julien murmured, his lips dropping kisses along her shoulder. “I need ammunition to needle them for the next time we visit Maclaren.”
Makenna continued to giggle. “Oh, ye’ll have ammunition indeed. It’s about Ronan. He’s getting married!”
Julien pulled the letter from her hand. “I don’t believe it. He’s finally found a woman he deems worthy of a second glance? And here you thought I was a snob.”
He tried to read the letter, but Makenna ripped it from his hand. “He isnae a snob. He’s protective of his clan and will only accept the perfect woman to take her place as his lady.”
“Very well, he isn’t a snob. He’s a starry-eyed idealist.”
Makenna jabbed her elbow into her husband’s stomach, but she could not quit laughing. Oh, Ronan was going to be furious. “And nae, he hasnae found a woman. Mother has done the finding for him, per a new codicil in Father’s will. Only, he doesnae ken it yet!”
“An arranged marriage, then? You’d think your parents would have learned their lesson in that regard.”
She rolled over and looked up into her husband’s serious expression. He hardly ever brought up Graeme or her previous life with the Brodies, but when on rare occasion he did, she could still see the tempered anger that made his pale green eyes sooty. Though, Makenna never felt uneasy or sad, or even angry anymore. There was no need. She was in the safest and most loving of hands, and their life together was only moving forward.
“I dunnae think ye need to worry about Ronan. He’ll never stand for it. Though it will be entertaining to see it all unfold,” she replied. “And ye never ken—he could end up accepting our mother’s match. Sometimes, men just need a little shove in the right direction.”
Julien’s leg scooped over hers, locking her into place beside him. He kept his hand against the swell of the babe inside of her. He always loved to feel the bairn kick and wriggle. “I pity the person who dares shove your brother in any direction at all.”
“He’s in need of a good shove, and I’m rooting for her, whoever she is.” Makenna smiled and kissed her husband’s perfect lips. She leaned into him, marveling at how well they fit together. “My mother only wants him to be happy. I hope he is, too, one day. As happy as I am right now, here with ye. With Malcolm and Innis and whoever this wee little one turns out to be.”
“He or she will be the third most perfect thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, after you, Malcolm, and sweet Innis,” he said, kissing her brow. “My God, I’m truly the luckiest man in this world, aren’t I?”
Makenna snuggled closer to him, breathing in his manly scent. “I willnae deny it.”
Julien shook with laughter, and pinched her buttocks playfully. “And I will never stop believing it. Come here, my fierce and radiant wife. I’m not finished with you just yet.”
Makenna opened herself to him and took his lips in an ardent kiss.
“I hope ye never are.”
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Author's Note
Research for historical novels is always fun, and sometimes we get lost down the rabbit hole, particularly with anything of the Scottish variety. For example, kilts. Do not Google “Men in Kilts!” Seriously, we are warning you. You will lose hours of time, maybe more. We’re not saying you won’t be happy, however, so assess the risks accordingly.
One interesting tidbit we discovered while writing this book was levirate marriage, where the unmarried brother of a deceased man was obligated to marry the husband’s widow, in most cases to provide an heir. This is how the villain in A Lord for the Lass planned to get his hands on our heroine. Levirate marriage goes as far back as the Bible and has been practiced by many societies and cultures across the globe.
Although it’s a difficult topic, abuse is a large theme in this novel. In the 1800s, women and children were considered property of their husbands. Upon marriage, the husband exercised legal and exclusive power and responsibility over all matter of his wife’s person and possessions. This was called coverture. A wife had no rights; she was considered her husband’s chattel, with which he could do whatever he wished. Abuse was sanctioned and tolerated widely, and husbands were encouraged to strike their wives as a corrective measure. On top of that, wives had little recourse against a violent partner, though there are examples throughout history of some women filing for divorce because of abuse, like Mary Eleanor Bowes, Countess of Strathmore, in 1785. In A Lord for the Lass, our heroine is the victim of a terrible, abusive first marriage. While she endures her horrific marriage until her husband dies, she does not pursue legal separation. We touched on divorce in Scotland in the 1800s in Sweet Home Highlander (book 1 of Tartans and Titans), but that was expensive, drawn out, and very public, and not an option for the heroine in this book. In A Lord for the Lass, our heroine’s terrible marriage did not twist her, which we think is one of her strongest, most defining characteristics, nor did it undermine her capacity to love or find a love she deserved with a caring partner.
Abuse is not okay in any form. For women who are victims of domestic abuse or intimate partner violence (IPV) and need help, we encourage you to call the National Domestic Violence hotline at 1-800-799-7233 or visit https://www.thehotline.org/ for more information.
As always, we are so grateful to our awesome Entangled editor, Alethea Spiridon, and our wonderful publisher, Liz Pelletier. Thanks to the entire production, design, and publicity teams at Amara, with special thanks to Crystal Havens, Curtis Svehlak, Holly Bryant-S
impson, Riki Cleveland, Heather Riccio, Katie Clapsadl, Meredith Johnson, Candace Havens, Melanie Smith, and Erin Dameron-Hill (for our fabulous cover). To our loyal readers, thank you so much for reading our books and supporting us. Lastly, to our families, we love you.
Be sure to check out and support our amazing small publisher, EntangledPublishing.com, for many more deliciously romantic reads. Happy reading!
Fondly,
Amalie & Angie
About the Author
Amalie Howard’s love of romance developed after she started pilfering her grandmother’s novels in high school when she should have been studying. She has no regrets. A #1 Amazon bestseller and a national IPPY silver medalist, she is the coauthor of the Lords of Essex historical romance series, as well as several award-winning young adult novels critically acclaimed by Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, VOYA, School Library Journal, and Booklist, including Waterfell, The Almost Girl, and Alpha Goddess, a Kid’s IndieNext pick. She currently resides in Colorado with her husband and three children. Visit her at www.amaliehoward.com.
Angie Morgan lives in New Hampshire with her husband, their three daughters, a menagerie of pets, and an extensive collection of paperback romance novels. She’s the coauthor of the Lords of Essex historical romance series, as well as several young adult books, including The Dispossessed series written under the name Page Morgan. Critically acclaimed by Booklist, Publisher’s Weekly, Kirkus, School Library Journal, VOYA, and The Bulletin, Angie’s novels have been an IndieNext selection, a Seventeen Magazine Summer Book Club Read, and a #1 Amazon bestseller. Visit her at www.AngieMorganBooks.com.
Don’t miss the Tartans and Titans series…
Sweet Home Highlander
Also by Amalie Howard and Angie Morgan…
My Rogue, My Ruin
My Darling, My Disaster
My Hellion, My Heart
My Scot, My Surrender
A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans) Page 33
