Captured by the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  The fire had died down and raindrops pelted against the window. The room was lit by a single candle on the bedside table. It flickered when a knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter.”

  The door opened, and Duncan strode in, carrying a candelabra with half a dozen candles. Shadows swung across the scarlet-draped wall s. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click, set the candles down on the tall chest of drawers, and looked at her.

  He still wore his dinner attire—the black velvet coat with silver trimmings, gray waistcoat, and a white shirt with a ruffled lace collar and cuffs. His hair, however, was falling loose upon his shoulders in wild disarray, and for the first time since her arrival at the castle she felt as if she were looking at the rugged Highlander who had abducted her from her bed at the fort.

  She wet her lips and tried to focus on something other than the rising tide of her apprehensions.

  “Are you ready for me, lass?” he asked, still standing just inside the door.

  Remembering her previous resolution to be brave, she said matter-of-factly, “Yes.”

  He approached the bed and shrugged out of his velvet coat. The movement showed his muscular shoulders and male brawn to shocking advantage. He folded the coat and draped it neatly on the back of a chair. Next he removed his waistcoat, then pulled his shirt off over his head, and Amelia was arrested on the spot, gazing up at his scarred bare chest and massive upper arms.

  “You best be bracing yourself, lassie,” he said, “for the enormity of what you’re about to behold.” His lips curled up in a teasing smile. “Come here now. Unfasten my breeches.”

  He held his arms straight out to the sides, and she found herself obeying his commands with curious amusement, for this was all new to her, and she did not know what she was supposed to do, or how she should behave.

  She slipped out from under the covers and crawled across the bed. Sitting back on her heels at the edge, she released the fastenings on his breeches, which served to keep his enormous erection contained. She swallowed hard as the breeches fell open and her eyes took in the part of him that would soon break through her tender maidenhead. Her blood began to race.

  “Take off your shift,” he gently suggested as he slipped out of his breeches, “and get in the bed, lass. I want to hold you close.”

  Seconds later, she was naked beneath the covers, feeling the cool sheets on her sensitive skin, while he slid in next to her. His large, call used hand brushed over her bel y, and a flash of excitement lit her senses. She tried to stay calm as he rolled on top of her.

  She did not spread her legs. He did not ask her to. She became very aware of his muscular inner thigh rubbing against the top of hers, his lips touching her cheeks in teasing, light kisses, then settling deeply, deliciously on her mouth. A tiny moan escaped her, and she ran her fingers through his hair, surprised that she could feel such desire when she was still so nervous about what was yet to come.

  “Tel me when it is about to happen,” she said, “so that I may prepare myself.”

  His lips brushed over her eyelids. “It’s already happening, lass, and don’t worry. You’ll be ready. I’ll see to it. I’ll do nothing in a hurry.”

  With that, he bent lower and used his mouth to kiss and caress her breasts, her arms, her belly, her thighs—

  everywhere. His touch was light. His lips were moist, leaving her skin damp and tingly with a trail of sensitivity and rapture.

  She, too, caressed his body with her hands. She ran her fingers up and down his battle-scarred back, down to the curve of his muscular buttocks, and lower, to his rock-hard thighs.

  It went on for quite some time—this touching and loving in the candlelight—and soon she reached a quiet mood of tranquility, where her body seemed to melt beneath him like hot butter. She wiggled closer. Any rational thoughts seemed hazy and numb. all that existed in her mind was an awareness of his hands working over her body and the feel of his hot, bare flesh, tight against her own.

  Unconsciously, she parted her legs and wrapped them around his hips, and felt an aching need from within her heated depths. He reached down with his hand and placed himself at her opening.

  “You’re slick and ready for me, lass, but you must tell me that you want me.” He shifted his hips, positioning himself between her throbbing flesh. “I must have you when you’re willing.”

  “Yes, Duncan, I want you. Please. ”

  Something wicked flashed in his eyes. «Well, since you’re begging…”

  Her hips lifted, and with a deep groan of need he drove forward and plunged some two inches up inside her, stretching and filling.

  She sucked in a sharp breath of shock, because there was pain. There was most definitely pain. He was very big, and she was tight and untested.

  But she wanted it. She wanted all of it. And she felt very wanton. She could barely believe this was happening.

  It was permission, at last, to surrender.

  * * *

  Duncan’s whole being shuddered with both ecstasy and agonizing self-restraint as the swol en head of his desire reached only partway into Amelia’s fiery dampness. He wanted to push hard, fast, all the way in, to drench himself completely in her silky heat, but the rupture of her maidenhead—along with the sharp cutting of her fingernails into his back—caused him to hold still .

  She clung to his shoulders. He lay unmoving, suppressing the pounding forces in his head, while he gave her a moment to grow accustomed to the penetration. A tear spilled across her temple.

  “The pain won’t last,” he said, kissing her on the mouth.

  “It’s fine.”

  He looked into her eyes. “Aye, it is, lass. It’s more than fine.”

  He trembled when he tried to breathe and had to take a moment to recover his capacities. Mere seconds was all it required before the pulsing in his loins began again. He pushed forward another inch, withdrew, then slowly thrust in again, steady and deep, until at last he stretched her enough to reach her womb.

  She let out a small cry. He began to move careful y and gently inside her.

  “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “It’ll feel better soon.”

  “It feels better already. It feels…”

  He buried his face in her hair and whispered huskily,

  “What, lass? tell me how it feels. I need to know.”

  She relaxed as he moved within. “Exciting.”

  It was a good thing, because he was quite sure he couldn’t hold off much longer. There was a storm brewing inside him, and he wanted to thrust into her like a ramming bull . He wanted to hear her moan with rapture and delight, and feel her pulse around him as he climaxed mightily inside.

  She parted her legs wider and raised her hips to move in harmony with each of his deep, finely tuned penetrations.

  Together they bucked and squeezed, seeking pleasures they had both been denying since the moment they first struggled against each other on that rainy field at dawn. There was violence in his movements now, but nothing else about it was the same, for she had final y yielded to him.

  Suddenly, with a passionate jolt, Amelia cupped his buttocks and tensed beneath him. Her hips thrust forward savagely, and she gasped. He felt the quick pulsation of her interior, which squeezed around his rigid passions.

  Their open mouths collided, and she twirled her tongue around his. Without further hesitation, he gave in to the heaving pleasures flooding through him, arched his body upward, then pumped into her with a potent gush of release that left him drained.

  He collapsed on top of her and waited for the rhythm of his body to return to normal while struggling to make sense of this strange joy, when not so long ago his world had been reduced to rubble and he’d given up on any hope of restoration.

  He felt stronger tonight, yet at the same time he wanted to be gentle. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps his cruelty could be tempered.

  He rolled off Amelia and lay on his side, facing her in the dim light. She curled up b
eside him.

  “You belong to me, now,” he said. “No other man shall ever have you.”

  “Yes,” she replied in a cool, somewhat distant voice that quavered with uncertainty. “I am yours. And I confess, I am not sorry. It makes no sense. I hated you not long ago. You hated me, too, when I ran from you. Is this some kind of madness? Did you do something to me?”

  “Aye, I did, lass. And I’ll be doing it again as soon as you’re willing.”

  She laughed, and for a while they lay quietly in the dim light, running their fingertips lightly across each other’s bodies; then Duncan rose from the bed and crossed the room. Amelia leaned up on an elbow to admire his glorious nude form, gleaming with perspiration. He picked up a brass snuffer and put out the candles he had brought with him.

  It was suddenly dark in the crimson bedchamber. Amelia held out her arm.

  “I think I am willing now,” she said.

  “As am I.” He returned to the bed and climbed in.

  They slept very little that night.

  Fort William, the following day, late afternoon His Grace, the Duke of Winslowe, was enjoying a fine glass of brandy in his private chamber when a young soldier knocked on the door and entered with a letter, which he delivered to the duke on a shiny silver salver.

  His Grace swept the letter off the plate, dismissed the man, then broke the seal and unfolded it. He squinted irritably, huffed in frustration, then searched his pockets for his spectacles, stuck them on his bulbous nose, and began to read.

  When he came to the end of the elegantly penned correspondence, he tore the curly wig off his head and chucked it on the floor, as if it were suddenly infested with lice. “Good Lord. Thomas! Thomas! ”

  His tall , gangly valet came running into the room. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  The duke rose from his chair. “It’s Lady Amelia. She has been found! Pack everything immediately. We must travel to Moncrieffe Castle and leave within the hour.”

  “Pray God she is safe and unharmed.”

  The duke reached for his glass and tossed back the rest of the brandy in a single gulp. “My word, the whole world has turned upside down on its ear.”

  “How so, Your Grace?”

  The duke stared at his devoted valet in utter disbelief and shook the letter in the air. “The Earl of Moncrieffe has asked for Lady Amelia’s hand in marriage.”

  Thomas froze. “But she is already engaged to Colonel Bennett.”

  “I am quite aware of that, Thomas. I am not an imbecile.

  That is why I shouted your name twice just now. We must reach the castle as quickly as possible.”

  “I understand, Your Grace.” Thomas swept His Lordship’s wig off the floor, brushed it free of dust, and hastened from the room.

  The duke rubbed a hand over his natural white hair—

  which stood on end in frizzy disarray—and strolled to the window. He looked out at the Scottish countryside and watched a line of soldiers training in the field.

  “I believe that when I meet that man at last,” he quietly said, “I will be tempted to brain him with a bottle of his own whisky. I don’t care how fine it is. That man deserves a good thump on the head for taking so bloody long to declare himself.”

  * * *

  Outside in the courtyard, an armed dispatch rider slipped Amelia’s letter into a saddlebag and mounted his horse, with instructions to locate Colonel Bennett, who was heading north with the Moncrieffe militia toward Drumnadrochit.

  The rider galloped out of the fortress gates with strict and rigorous haste, silently cursing the fact that he would have to answer to the despicable colonel while he awaited further instructions.

  * * *

  “Did you know that he defended you steadfastly to Angus,”

  Josephine said to Amelia the next day, “and chose you over him?” They were crossing the drawbridge with baskets hooked over their wrists, on a mission to pick wildflowers in the orchard, even though the weather was quickly turning gray.

  “No, I did not know that,” Amelia replied with a frown.

  “When?”

  “The day you arrived. Angus was not pleased to hear of your engagement. He felt Duncan was betraying Muira’s memory, and Scotland, too, by laying down his weapons to make you happy. Angus takes great pleasure in war. He always has.”

  They stepped off the bridge and headed into the orchard.

  Their skirts swished through the tall grasses.

  “How long have you known Angus?” Amelia asked, pushing aside her discomfort over the mention of Muira’s name. Neither Amelia nor Duncan had talked about his former fiancée since the day they spoke of her in the mountains.

  Josephine looked up at the sky. “I met Angus when he came here with his father to invite the MacLeans to join in the rebel ion, over a year ago. Duncan’s father, as I’m sure you must’ve heard, was a fearsome warlord. He was keen to join the cause, though Duncan opposed it.”

  Amelia was astonished to hear this. She’d thought Duncan was a passionate Jacobite, because that was part of the Butcher’s notoriety.

  “I knew that Duncan’s father was a warrior,” she said, “and that he died in the rebel ion.”

  “Aye, and afterward, Duncan returned home to take his place as laird and quickly established himself political y as a Highland noble willing to support King George and give up the rebel ion. You would know that, of course, because of your father’s visit last spring.”

  “Yes, I am aware.”

  “Duncan desires peace and the safety of his clan above all . He does not sanction war and death for those in his care.

  But when he fights as the Butcher, it’s personal.” A gust of wind blew across the orchard, fluttering Josephine’s hat ribbons.

  Amelia felt a sudden pang of animosity. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked. “Do you think I am wrong to ask that he give up his campaign?”

  Josephine considered it. “Nay, I don’t think it wrong. I understand what you feel, and I would do the same in your position. I wouldn’t wish for my Iain to be galloping about the Highlands picking fights with English redcoats, and I am glad he doesn’t have a hankering for war, and never did. I only want you to know that it may take some time before Duncan is healed of that pain. He may feel some regret over his break with Angus. They were close. They’ve known each other since they were lads, and they’ve been through a lot together.”

  Amelia spoke defensively. “I did not ask him to give up his friend.”

  “Nay, and he wouldn’t have done so, if it had been his choice. But it was Angus who broke the friendship. He’s not one to give up a fight, and he doesn’t have a pretty lass like you in his life to distract him from war.”

  Amelia felt a cold raindrop strike her cheek. «Will Duncan blame me for their quarrel?” she asked, feeling a rush of dread. «Will he resent me?”

  “Not now,” Josephine answered. “From what I can see, he’s infatuated with you. But one day, he might regret the loss of his friend. Angus was there for him when Muira died.

  They shared the same grief. I suspect he’ll regret it if Angus is not there to toast you on your wedding day.”

  They reached a patch of flowers on the far side of the orchard. Amelia bent to pick some daisies. “I am not sure what I can do about that,” she said. “I don’t wish to cause a rift between them, but Angus despises me. He would never listen to anything I say.”

  Josephine knelt beside her and tore some long stems from the earth. “I don’t expect that anyone can do much of anything. Angus will have to resolve the matter himself and find a way to accept Duncan’s decision. If he can’t do that…”

  She rose to her feet and arranged the flowers in the basket.

  “If he can’t accept it, he’ll simply continue to live that hellish, unhappy life that Duncan has final y given up.” She gazed meaningful y at Amelia from a distance away. “Do not mistake me, Amelia. Iain and I are both very pleased with how things have turned out. We believe you are th
e best thing that’s ever happened to Duncan.”

  “But real y, I’ve done nothing.” She glanced around the orchard. “What exists between us is very…” She did not know what to call it.

  Josephine nodded. “I understand, but you must not give up hope that true love will blossom one day, now that you are pledged to one another, and you are able to see another side of him. Everything will change. The clothes make a difference, do you not agree? He’s quite a distinguished gentleman when he puts some effort into it.”

  Amelia couldn’t help but smile. “I must confess, I rather liked the kilt and the unkempt hair. I hope he doesn’t feel it necessary to give that up completely.”

  Josephine chuckled. “Maybe you can convince him to wear his sword to bed on your wedding night, and nothing else.”

  They giggled naughtily and dashed back to the castle gates as thunder rumbled in the distance and murky clouds rolled across the sky.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Moncrieffe coach rolled over the drawbridge and into the shaded stone archway of the gate tower. It was followed by a second coach, drawn by four magnificent grays and bearing the ancestral coat of arms of His Grace, the Duke of Winslowe.

  The vehicles had been spotted by a scout. By the time the duke rolled into the bailey, Duncan and Amelia were waiting at the front door of the castle.

  Duncan took out his timepiece and consulted it, then slipped it back into his coat pocket.

  “Do you have somewhere else to be?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” he replied in an intimidating voice. “But your uncle is late, and my patience is wearing thin. I want you as my wife. He should’ve been here yesterday.”

  She was flattered by Duncan’s impatience. He wanted her, and he wanted her now—not just in bed, but legal y and official y. He wanted to speak vows before God.

  Did she want that, too? Yes, of course she did. She’d already surrendered her innocence to him, and she might as well admit it to herself. She was hopelessly, desperately in love.