Loving Two Highlanders

by Loving Two Highlanders (lit)

  He took her hands, holding them steady in his own. “I know, Meg, I know. Relax. You’ll be fine.”

  She shook her head violently, staring at their hands. “No, no, I’ll never be fine again. I can’t stop trembling. My blood feels hot.”

  “Because we didnae finish,” he said softly.

  Her head snapped up. “I felt you…”

  “I finished,” he said, “but we didnae finish, and ’tis cheated you’ve been, but I can fix that. There’s more I can give you, much more. I just needed to take the edge off. ’Twas too much after too long a time, and you felt so fucking perfect.”

  She groaned, closing her eyes. She felt him shift closer to her, his soft voice and breath touching her like a burning brand.

  “How did I feel to you, lass?”

  “Perfect,” she whispered.

  “We cannae give up perfect, love. ’Tis something people search for all their lives. We’ve not finished anything between us.”

  She wanted to look at him. She wanted to see what was in his eyes. His voice was deceptively lulling. If he kept talking, she would press herself against him and beg to have that feeling again, beg to have more.

  “We’ve finished,” she whispered, yanking her hands from his. “Oh God, we’ve finished.” Her face burned. Her body was on fire. She ran trembling hands through her hair, expecting to feel the snap of flames.

  “No, lass, we’ve not yet begun.”

  “Please don’t say that.”

  Megan did the only thing she could think to do. She cast a quick glance over him, memorizing each detail of his face, every emotion she saw in his eyes, and the thrust of his body toward her, eager and ready again to give her more of that feeling. She pushed those images deep into her mind where she kept her secrets and moved away from him as fast as she could. As his hand reached to capture her wrist, her eyes flooded with tears she didn’t understand. She turned away from everything she had ever dreamed of and fled.

  * * * *

  Trevor stared at the closed bedroom door, listening to his wife pacing in the keeping room. It was hours past midnight and hours until dawn, the time when Meg usually found her most rest, thinking him deep asleep. He’d heard the telltale creak of the doorsill as she went into the shop and heard it less than an hour later. He knew the reason for her unease but wondered just how much unease she might feel. He smiled in the darkness, but it brought no joy. As bad as he knew Meg felt, it couldn’t possibly mirror his own distress.

  What kind of man whored out his own wife to a man in chains?

  He dropped back to the pillow, feeling the erratic thump of his heart. Each fast beat echoed within him like a clock wound too tight, ticking too hard. The beats counted off the days he had left and all the things he had to accomplish before he could leave this earth in peace. Everything he’d done was for her.

  He was dying, and he knew it better than anyone. His body, once strong, threaded with hard, lean muscles, was wasting away. He had little strength most days. His lungs could not draw enough air inside to nourish him. He could barely raise his arm some days to cup his wife’s face, let alone pleasure her the way she deserved. His beautiful wife…he remembered how wonderful their first few months had been, how her body had welcomed him. She’d been vulnerable and frightened, lost because of her father’s death, and he’d been gentle with her because of her youth. He’d held his natural aggression in check, but the desire he felt for her had nearly overwhelmed him. He’d wanted nothing more than to forget propriety, abandon all decorum, and fuck her senseless, but he hadn’t. Had he known what the future held, he would have taken advantage of every moment with her and could have given her a child. Even now his lust for her surged through his thoughts, but he could find no way to appease it, no miracle to make his body generate the strength it needed to take what he wanted and give her what she deserved.

  He never wanted Meg to be alone. She deserved to be loved, cherished. Her spirit needed to be embraced by a man who held as much vitality as she did. Mostly, though, he wanted to ensure she had the protection she needed, not only for the future and the business, but against any outside influence that might seek to use her love and generosity as a weapon against her.

  He’d begged Sam to promise to care for her, and he had easily. His gruff “you know she’s my life, old man” relayed what Trevor already knew. But when the conversation had drifted into possible marriage, a horrified Sam had backed away, shaking his head. Trevor had to try, though he’d anticipated that exact response. Sam loved Meg more than life itself, but it was not the love of a man for a woman. She would always be his little Meggie, the little girl who’d arrived with her father to a foreign place. That day, the boy Sam had held her close and rocked her, ensuring a lifelong friendship and the bonds that would also forever hold them apart as man and woman.

  So Trevor had been forced to make alternate plans.

  He’d now either made the best decision of his life or the worst. He supposed the results of that decision rested with his wife and the indentured servant he’d just purchased for her. With all the information Trevor could convey without revealing exactly why, Barton had chosen as well as he could and done a damn good job. He’d told the broker he needed an apprentice in his shop, someone industrious and trustworthy, because his business was at stake, as was the safety of his household. His laundry list had included such attributes as courageous, loyal, principled, and intelligent. Barton had glanced at him with a great deal of speculation, but hadn’t commented, when Trevor added “well-favored” at the last possible moment. Trevor had paid handsomely to have Barton’s choice segregated from the others during the voyage and fed extra rations, but no amount of money could have kept Campbell out of chains. In the eyes of those currently making the decisions, Campbell was a traitor.

  Of course, the definition of traitor resided with those who won, and Trevor made his own judgments. He’d seen the list of charges, and he knew Campbell’s history. From that he gleaned what kind of man Alexander Campbell really was. Campbell offered as much hope for the future of the MacGregors in Virginia as anyone could, perhaps more. He couldn’t have received a better candidate had he searched the Highlands himself. In Campbell he’d found a fierce patriot, an unparalleled warrior, a loyal and honorable man. Those attributes made him a prize, but his face and form could make him a godsend.

  He heard Meg crying in the keeping room, quiet sobs that signaled all had gone according to plan. She’d obviously succumbed to the man’s charms. If they hadn’t joined physically, Meg felt the eventual betrayal in her own mind and heart. If she knew how much he loved her, how much he ached inside for having to relinquish her to another man, would tears still fall? He wanted to tell her what he’d done, tell her everything was a gift for her to cement her future, but…

  He shook his head against the pillow. No, his young wife would never forgive him. He’d just have to hold on to the hope she could forgive herself.

  Chapter 4

  Alex thought the man was bloody impossible. Trevor MacGregor could barely take three steps without losing his wind and his strength, and yet he continued to work twelve hours a day. The man hadn’t the stamina of an infant, but he had the disposition of a despot. He would have things accomplished. Alex watched as the MacGregor pulled another sheath of papers across the table toward him. The giant, Sam, a man who would have put a Viking warrior to shame with his riot of golden curls and intimidating physique, watched cautiously from across the room as he set type into a large, narrow tray. Alex had already learned one thing about Sam. The minute MacGregor took it upon himself to try to stand, Sam was at his side. Alex wished he’d been blessed with such a friendship.

  In three days they’d settled into a fairly ritualized routine. Sam set type and worked the massive press, printing out newly established rules and regulations for the colony and circulating news that the government wished to share. What they didn’t wish to share remained a secret, but Sam cared little for secrets. He just did his
job, watched after the MacGregor, and kept the shop neat and tidy. He did all three well with minimal effort. His unnatural strength and bulk made him a perfect candidate to handle the large and unwieldy press, but his huge hands seemed unable to do the fine work that binding entailed.

  MacGregor trained Alex to do the binding. He was an exacting man, insisting on excellence even in the less-expensive ledgers Alex was instructed to bind. For all MacGregor’s expectations and perfection, he displayed patience with his new indenture and taught with a skill and dedication that rivaled the best teachers Alex had known.

  Each hour Alex spent with the two men ate at his resolve to cling to the hatred he held in his heart. Though the Campbell clan had battled the MacGregors for land, resources, and power in the Highlands of Scotland for hundreds of years, Alex found that living with a man under the same roof gave one a sense of closure. This MacGregor had nothing to do with his past, had not been in Scotland for years, and the deep animosity he held for the man’s clan seemed a needless emotion here and a waste of his energy. Something had forced Trevor MacGregor to leave his native land and come here. No Scotsman left Scotland of his own volition. There was every reason to believe MacGregor too had felt the unlawful and painful persecution of English justice, and that gave them something in common besides a violent history that had nothing to do with either of them.

  Eventually Alex determined to find out what had led to MacGregor’s emigration from Scotland, but for now he was content to learn and pleased to have something to occupy his time. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was also grateful to be alive. He was surprised at that.

  “You’ve skilled hands, Campbell,” MacGregor said.

  “I was apprenticed to a carpenter at a young age,” Alex said, “and had a bit of talent for it, but life had a way of getting in the way of my training.”

  “Life has a way of doing that.”

  “’Twas hard to think of making pretty things”—Alex paused and allowed his gaze to drift to MacGregor’s—“once the killing and maiming began.”

  “Aye,” MacGregor said, “the killing and maiming. I’m thoroughly familiar with both those pursuits. There are hard lessons to be learned in the Highlands, but those that learn them are better men for it.”

  “They’re alive at least.” Alex laughed, though he wasn’t comfortable with the sound of it. Thinking of his earlier years was something he avoided, and yet MacGregor had lured him into a topic dangerously close to his past and intimately close to his arrival in this world.

  “You were at Dunbar last fall,” MacGregor said.

  Alex folded his arms across his chest and stared into the man’s calm blue eyes. “Aye, though if ’tis the same to you, I’d wish not to discuss it.”

  “Even here, we heard of things,” MacGregor said. “The battle at Dunbar appears to have been hard on those that support the monarchy.”

  “If you heard of atrocities committed against mankind, you heard truth.”

  “’Tis often hard to find the truth in tales we hear. Information can be sketchy.”

  “Then I’ll enlighten you. ’Twas a death march at the battle’s end, all leading to the cathedral in Durham. It appeared we were to be offered sanctuary, and yet the English promises brought nothing but famine, disease, and more death. We lost at least thirty men per day, and that is a conservative estimate. Men murdered one another for a taste of stale bread. They desecrated and ransacked tombs to find fuel for the fire and stole from one another for any tidbit to barter. If you’ve heard these things, then you’ve heard something near to the truth.”

  “What else do you know of truth, Campbell?”

  “I know that there are worse things than lying in your own filth. The feel of lice crawling on your skin is a welcome thing because it means you’re still alive enough to feel. I know that watching your kinsmen being skewered alive after the battle’s been lost leaves one with a guilt so thick and nauseating it steals the ability to draw a breath or hold down food. And yet there are worse things than even that.”

  MacGregor pushed the sheath of paper away. “Do you wish to talk, Campbell? You seem to have much on your mind.”

  “No, I’ll not be telling more because ’tis something I’ve been trying to put out of my head for over six months. After Durham, they held some of us in prison, unable to decide exactly what to do with us. Many of us were leaders, either military or clan. ’Tis obviously hard to decide a leader’s fate. Eventually someone thought Virginia might need men of our caliber. I found myself on the ship and arrived in your fair town.”

  “Most of the men that sailed with you survived Dunbar. I’m curious…” MacGregor let his eyes fall down the length of Alexander’s body. “How is it you seem in far better shape? Most of those men were near death when they arrived.”

  Alex frowned. “I survive better than most.”

  “I would say you’ve survived surprisingly well.”

  “Barton took great care of me on the voyage. I’m still unsure why. I stayed in fairly good shape in Durham and later in prison. When I began the journey, I still had my strength and…” He had a hard time meeting MacGregor’s eyes as his voice softened. “I’ve done things to survive. Things I’m not proud of, things I’ll not tell another soul, including you.”

  The older man nodded thoughtfully. “We’ve all done things we’ll not share with another man…or woman.”

  He glanced out the window of the shop. Alex followed his gaze and found his eyes riveted on the mistress. She carried a basket, and her hips swayed provocatively under that pretty blue skirt. Until the other night, he’d not fucked a woman since June, when the Campbells pledged themselves to the Stuart cause. Nearly a year. He would have bed anything within grabbing distance, and yet the most delectable morsel he’d ever seen had been within his grasp, and he’d botched it like a green lad in the arms of a woman for the first time.

  The only woman he wanted stood mere yards away through a pane of glass, and he couldn’t seem to get her alone. As much as he wanted to lift her skirts and fuck her hard, reveling in the heat between her legs, there was more he wanted to do to Meg MacGregor. Lying in bed the last few nights knowing she was nearby had been torture, possibly more torture than anything he’d ever been through. Aye, there were many things he wanted to do to Meg.

  That mane of auburn hair begged to be stroked. He imagined the softness of it, the way it might curl around his fingers, the feel of it caressing the skin of his thighs as she hovered above him. Between her legs there were would be more auburn, achingly soft, a secret nest that hid the mystery below. The feel of her soft folds and warm hollows had been more than he could bear, and his quick come had proven that. If he could slide a finger into her, he feared his hand would tremble with the want. If he dipped his head and allowed his tongue to taste the cream between her legs, he would never need sustenance again.

  Her small but perfect breasts were entirely visible to the edge of her rosy nipples. They spilled over her bodice, pure mounds of temptation. What kind of man allowed his wife to display her wares so immodestly in front of strangers? If Meg MacGregor were his wife, she’d be buried beneath yards of fabric, and he’d keep her assets to himself. Not that he didn’t enjoy looking at her, because he did. The sight of her made him feel more alive than did the air he breathed and the food he ate. The swell of her breasts and that tiny hint of darker flesh peeking so furtively beyond the bonds of her blouse filled his mind with such erotic imagery, he could practically feel the heat of her pussy throbbing around his hardening cock again.

  He gradually became aware that MacGregor watched him studying his wife. He didn’t think he flushed, but he couldn’t take the chance that he had. Alex rubbed his hands over his forehead and struggled to focus.

  “Dunbar was a glimpse of hell, and Durham was a bloody nightmare,” he said shortly. “Those of us that survived will not be sleeping well for the rest of our lives.”

  MacGregor’s gaze drifted back toward the woman, and Alex
had no choice but to follow his stare. The pounding in his groin spiraled into something worse than a nagging ache. It turned into an acute, throbbing pain.

  “You can find peace here, Campbell. ’Tis not the world you have known.”

  “The world I’ve known can crash back upon me at any moment,” Alex said. “’Tis best I stay prepared. I’m not one for a sound sleep in either case.”

  MacGregor laughed. “The soundest sleep is often found in the arms of the prettiest woman after you’ve been between her legs.”

  “Or the worst sleep,” Alex said. “’Tis not something I’ve been entitled to for quite some time, and even then, the Campbell luck finally ran out. What’s between my legs might be best left undisturbed. At least for the next seven years.”

  The older man winked at him. “Luck has a way of changing.”

  Alex glanced once more toward the window. She was gone. “Not mine. I’ll not expect more than one bloody miracle per lifetime. Getting out of Durham alive was mine.”

  * * * *

  Alex knew a fool’s errand when he was sent on one. He’d come to the conclusion that Trevor MacGregor was insane. He’d already witnessed Alex fairly drooling over his wife, and he was pretty certain MacGregor had seen the erection that stirred in his pants, yet the man seemed determined Alex and Meg should occupy the same space at the same time. He thought he was pretty much walking into a lion’s den without a weapon or a shield and wondered vaguely if he’d survive Mistress MacGregor’s presence. In the last few days, she’d already made it pretty clear she couldn’t stand the sight of him, or couldn’t handle the sight of him. Either way he couldn’t get near her.

  As he strode across the yard, he stole a backwards glance. He had no idea what thoughts spun through MacGregor’s mind, but he was beginning to think the man had more on his mind than bookbinding.