Highland Hunger Bundle with Yours for Eternity & Highland Beast

by Hannah Howell

  “Perhaps you should speak sweeter words.”

  “And what of the French comtesse who arrived, seeking an escape from the guillotine? According to my grandfather, she was still screaming when he drove off with her, tied into the carriage for good measure.”

  “So that’s where she went,” Iain mused.

  “And you recollect the shipwreck in ’82?”

  “Barely,” Iain replied.

  “According to the tale, every lass aboard went from weeping survivor to lovelorn wretch. In a matter of days. Just from your appearance.”

  “My appearance?” Iain put a hand over his shoulder and grabbed the hilt of Empirical again. Lenn backed a step as it happened.

  “My brother misspeaks, my laird. ’Tis actually said how your great-great-grandsire set their hearts aflutter. ’Tis a family trait, this . . . handsomeness. Passed down from son to son, as normal.”

  Iain looked from Grant to his twin, released the sword, and felt powerfully sheepish. “Oh.”

  “ ’Tis also said they had to be physically forced to leave Castle Blannock. En masse. Not one would leave without the others.”

  “Ancient history, lads. Ancient.”

  “And then, there’s that Spanish contessa.”

  “Which one?” Grant asked for him.

  “The one haunting the east tower at Glencairn.”

  “That explains the weeping sound. Great story there. All about unrequited love.”

  “Aye. ’Tis said she perished of a broken heart.”

  “She took a fine time of it, then. She was nigh a century old.”

  Iain did his best to ignore them and squelch the reactions: remorse, guilt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt those. It didn’t help that he’d asked for this listing, either.

  “ ’Tis also rumored the MacAvee chieftain has a fondness for wenches with reddish-shaded hair. Exactly like Miss Tira. Mothers with daughters of that ilk make certain to cover them. In the event the duke is out and happens to see.”

  “I’ve heard ’tis far worse if the aforementioned lasses happen to spot the duke. Then the mothers really have their hands full.”

  Iain knew he flushed. He didn’t need to see it. He could feel sweat at his hairline. He disguised it with a move to bind his hair back into a queue. “Enough lads. Perhaps you could tell me something helpful.”

  “Well . . . you did start it.”

  Rory pointed it out. Iain regarded him for long moments before deciding to ignore it. He pulled to his full height and looked them all over in turn. They made an impressive sight, all attired in MacAvee plaid, all looking like perfect Scot gentlemen.

  “Why is it this particular lass above all others?” he asked.

  “We doona’ ken why, we’re only grateful.”

  Iain pulled back at Grant’s answer. “For what?”

  “Being there to assist with keeping the other lasses away. Have you na’ been listening?”

  “Oh. Should I wear the English trousers, then?”

  “Nae!”

  Several voices said it together. Iain winked.

  “You should actually be shrouded with a full sett . . . only that would simply show your size.”

  “Why is that an issue?”

  “The more you’re out and seen, the worse the attention gets and the more we lose sleep.”

  “Lenn’s right, my laird. Trying to keep the lasses from you is akin to damming a burn with a bit of piss and peat.”

  “Why . . . much more time in London and we’ll have a riot, and then we’ll have you in their Tower, and then we’ll have prices on our heads for taking their stone rampart apart to rescue you.”

  Iain looked at his second-in-command and sobered. “I guess I’ll leave the trousers for another time.”

  “We sail with the tide?”

  “We’ll board ship the moment we wed. You keep the path open.”

  “And grant me the aunt this time. That Ophelia has the mind of a bog fly.”

  “Unfair. And as the eldest, I call escort rights,” Grant replied.

  “By half a minute, you weasel. Half.”

  “Wrestle for it.”

  Iain ignored where the twins tussled, deciding the issue with strength while he worked at gathering it. He had to be strong enough to tell his Tira about his curse and await her decision. He wanted her with need that hampered each step, but he wanted her freely, with full knowledge, and of her own free will.

  “Hold!”

  The twins smashed into a chair, then another. Iain watched Sean sidestep them. He only wished there was someone capable of putting a hold on him.

  Chapter Nine

  Every candle had been lit in the earl’s chamber, sending light onto every available surface: her father’s wasted body beneath the cover, the servant’s worried expression, three MacAvee Honor Guardsmen attended as witnesses . . . and her. Ulrich was presiding over the wedding, looking and acting official, and much older than his thirty years. The twins were missing, their bruises telling why Lenn was escorting the sister. They had orders to keep those ladies occupied or lock them into their rooms. Either way, there wasn’t to be any disturbance that might upset his Tira.

  And that included him.

  But then she appeared, the silk skimming her frame as he’d known it would when he’d purchased it and ordered the design. All the while knowing it was self-destructive, but he hadn’t changed it. The torment was ceaseless in nature and ever increasing as well. Iain realized it as the barely leashed beast within him stirred, striving to release all the pent passion, power, and lust. The combination went to a threatening degree as he approached and took her hands within his, the contact adding to his ordeal and heightening its effect, as if the creature within him laughed at any effort of control and was determined to undermine it.

  Tira had her neck craned, meeting his gaze with eyes as clear and bottomless as Loch Nyven, looking lit from some glow within and not simple candlelight. Iain’s suffering worsened the longer he delved into her eyes, his heart quickening, his loins thickening, and his frame trembling, and yet he was powerless to change it. It was impossible to keep hold of her and equally impossible to let go. Everything on her seemed to vibrate, as if calling to him, and no one seemed to notice as Ulrich started the ceremony.

  The chieftain feile-breacan was woven of thin, barely tensile strands of wool to a drape that shouldn’t be a problem, and yet as Tira’s unblinking regard continued, the plaid grew hot, cloying, and thick . . . as restrictive as those Sassenach trousers. Words swarmed about his head, barely denting the incessant buzz sound in his head, and he watched Tira open her mouth to answer.

  “I do. I take Iain, uh Evan? James. And did you say Duncan as well? Yes?”

  Her words carried laughter, and Iain pulsed in place although nothing on him moved. He worked at control, holding every muscle to a painful degree to keep the hunger for her at bay. Her laugh threatened all of it. He’d warn her if he dared as she continued adding to his distress by more words exchanged with Ulrich.

  “Alexander, too? The fourth? Very well. All of those names. Him. I do take this man with all those names as my husband. Forsaking all others until death. Yes. Definitely. I do.”

  Iain forced his gaze to where Ulrich stood, smiling broadly at both of them. Then came his names in order, all of them; a listing of his titles, all of them; and then his clansman listed all the responsibilities and honors and properties that came with his hand, although Iain didn’t hear much, if any, of it.

  “I do.”

  He choked on the vow. He was in a new hell. Or he’d been granted heaven. Or they’d joined the two. Iain wasn’t thinking as he pulled at her hands, stepping close in order to take their conjoined hands to his lips. He felt her gasp as he grazed teeth along her knuckles, bumping along the ridges and sending flickers all through him. In over two centuries he’d had little issue with the harassment caused by lusting for women, yet everything altered when he met her. Iain shifted forward, got
the heavy solidity of his sporran against his loins, and hoped no one else noticed how it moved, flashing silver glint off the embossed edges.

  He was drunk and hadn’t touched a drop of whiskey, dizzy like excessive battle once caused, confused as if he’d taken a blow, and this lass was at the center of it. He was certain of it. It was obvious with the way she clung to his hand, as if she needed it for balance and stability. Balance and stability? The thought was laughable. The lass rocked his world off-kilter so much he shook. And then he realized why, as want and need and absolute desire worked away at his control, clouding the scene. Iain tightened every muscle in search of control. More . . . Harder . . .

  He heard words through the fog that seemed to envelope her, highlighting and showcasing her perfect features and lush woman curves. It was a fog of his creation, imbued with her scent as it surrounded and then impaired. Iain swallowed hard, heard the words pronouncing them joined: husband and wife. Then he heard something about how he should cease standing there like a Druid stone and kiss his bride.

  Kiss her? Had Ulrich gone mad? Iain didn’t dare kiss her. He was barely keeping his powers at bay. He didn’t know what might happen if they got released. He was terrified to find out. Him. Iain MacAvee. Creature of doom. Afraid.

  He felt and heard her pulse increase, gaining cadence and volume until it dragged his into rhythm with it. She lifted her lips, sweetly pursed and holding every form of rapture. Iain groaned as the beast flexed against its leash. He pulled her right up to his chest and lowered his head to brush his lips with the lightest touch against hers.

  And then she moaned.

  Iain latched on to skin, feeling his teeth elongate despite everything he used to stay it. There was just this perfection of moment, encased and defined . . . for them. Her palms were flat against his chest for a buffer. It didn’t work. Iain could feel and sense every bit of her heart as it raced. Time ceased to function. The room ceased to exist. Nothing mattered save her breath as it touched on his cheek . . . his nose . . . his upper lip, her touch moist as soft skin got bruised beneath his; and then he tasted the absolute nirvana of her blood as it flicked against the cage of muscle and will he had about the beast with a temptation no man should ever have to endure and survive.

  Nae!

  Tira’s eyes flew open as Iain pulled his head back to roar a guttural word toward the ceiling just as both casement windows burst open, sending gusts of rain-filled air into the chamber. Candles extinguished, plunging the room into darkness. Tira heard her father’s garbled exclamation and a thud as his servant dropped to the floor, and from far into the depths of the house, what sounded like screams of rage and anger from Aunt Adelaide and Ophelia. Then she was fully in Iain’s arms, moving out the door and into the hall as if every sconce held a torch and it wasn’t complete blackness. If she had any experience with the absolute wonder of what had happened to her with his kiss, she’d have done more than cling with her arms about his neck and her face pressed tightly to his shoulder.

  “Sean, fetch Grant and Lenn! Rory, see us to my ship and doona’ waste another moment. And Ulrich? If you ever do anything so stupid again, I vow—”

  She barely felt his lunge into a carriage before speaking the punishment Ulrich might earn, then she experienced the rapid sway of a vehicle in high motion combined with the harsh rhythm of breaths Iain huffed continually and with absolute precision all over where the bodice left her skin exposed. His ship was impossible to see through the fog-warped dock, but without stopping, Iain jumped from the carriage, crossed the gangway, a deck, and then entered a cabin, with doors shutting behind him seemingly of their own accord.

  And then he set her unsteadily to her feet and pulled away, holding his hands over his face while he shoved more harsh breaths through his lips. And with them came words.

  “Forgive me, leannan. I’m a fool and a wretch.”

  “Iain—”

  “Nae! A wretch and then a fool! For what I’ve done! Doubly so for na’ stopping—Hellfire! Get this ship underway!”

  He yanked the door open to yell, sending waves of sound with it. Tira heard the noise of running feet, a grinding clatter, shouts and hollering from somewhere in the night, and she was almost afraid Iain meant to leave her if she didn’t do something to stop him.

  “Iain?”

  She said it softly and got a stiff back and then a shut door. Iain turned toward her and appeared to hunch his shoulders slightly, as if expecting a blow. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, either.

  “Aye?”

  “What . . . have you done?”

  He pulled in a huge breath, looming so large he nearly touched the decking above his head, which was where he appeared to be looking. “I’m na’ entirely certain I can tell you.”

  “But . . . can you do it again?”

  His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Then he lowered his eyes to hers, and the moment they met, the lantern behind her flared, sending light onto all of him, while superimposing her shadow on the wall behind him. A blink later the light dimmed, returning her indistinct shadow to one caused by the faint golden glow basking on wooden walls.

  “Yes. Like that. Just . . . like that.” She was panting and the words revealed it. Oddly, it seemed to create the same exact reaction in him.

  “Leannan—” he began.

  “What does that mean?”

  “What?”

  “This leannan. You promised you’d tell me after our consummation—”

  He swore in Gaelic. She understood it perfectly. Her eyes went wide. The light behind her flared again. Dimmed.

  “You promised, Iain.”

  As a temptress, she was going to need work. Tira realized it as he paled and actually took a step back to the door at the low tone she used. His answer was garbled and difficult to understand and sprinkled with intermingled Gaelic and English words, coming in spurts with every ragged huff of air he used. It was visual and doing erratic things to every nerve ending in her body.

  “I promised a lot of things, leannan. And I’m vexed. I’ve words that need saying. Truths you need to ken. You have the right to it.”

  “Now?”

  “Lass . . . please. I ken you need civility and gentlemanly behavior. I’ve such little grasp of either, and nae control at the moment. I’m terrible afeared if we touch, I’ll—”

  “Kiss me, Iain.”

  “What?”

  The high pitch of his voice surprised him, matching the width of his eyes as he noted where she’d moved and how she’d done it. If he looked closely enough, he’d note all the gooseflesh roving her skin, creating the most delicious shivers. She licked her lip and tasted blood and wondered when she’d bitten it.

  “I said—”

  He put a hand up, stopping her as much as the tremor that scored him did. “Lass, please. Dinna’ you hear me? I’m afeared of what might happen if I touch you again. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Another step put her at where his hand was still out, defensively, the sensation as vivid as if it touched her. Tira stood, her entire being attuned to the vibrations emanating from just one open palm.

  “There’s nae going back! You doona’ ken! I may na’ be able to keep from taking . . . and I—Sweet mother of—”

  The rest of his words disappeared into his intake of breath as the ship got underway, the sway rolling Tira right into contact with the hand meant to stay her, and that got her pulled into an embrace of trembling flesh-covered iron. Her feet left the floor and she barely felt it as Iain swung her into his arms, lowered his head, and gave her the kiss she’d asked for.

  The lamp flared, sending brightness through her closed eyelids. It competed with the arc of lightning racing through her, spreading a hum of anticipation in its wake. Tira felt him moving across wood that pounded with each step, and then the cool crispness of sheeting met her back, her shoulders, her upper arms. The green silk filmed her skin as an afterthought, pulled away by one hand while the other held her head in place, her no
se next to his, her lips matched to his, building roar of elevated sound all through her with every licking and sucking motion he made.

  Tira undulated sinuously against the smooth material at her back and rasp of wool everywhere else, impatience and something else feeding her movements, something indefinable and raw, basic and elemental . . . and orchestrated with perfection by her new husband, Iain MacAvee.

  Her fingers roved him, delving beneath buttons and around heavily woven leather belts and fastenings, pulling up on his shirt and yanking down on the plaid until she found flesh. The sensitive skin of each fingertip trilled along ridges of muscle, about the thick ropes of brawn in his belly, all over his chest, belly, shoulders . . . learning the shape, texture, and movement of them before she wrapped as far about him as she could, not even noting the wool getting yanked completely away, matching rockhewn male to quivering female, skin to skin and heat to heat.

  Thick, hard male slid along her belly, went between her thighs, teased along her core, came out again onto her belly, tendering heat and scorch and energy. Everything on her craved and demanded more and she didn’t know how to request it. And then knew she didn’t have to. The grunt accompanying each motion promised more as he moved his body to some primeval rhythm . . . sliding his maleness between her thighs, tormenting and teasing the wetness, back along her belly again, until Tira beat at his back with frustration and ache and absolute wantonness. A hand enveloped her hip, filled with her buttock, lifting her into position about him as he continued his massage, building passion that grew with every breath she pulled in and huffed back out.

  Tira’s legs wrapped about him, assisting her shoves upward, every fiber on her begging, pleading, sobbing with all-consuming fever. And then he shifted, lifting onto his free arm, putting chiseled male into view, his rod readied and at her apex, where everything that was quivering and suppliant about her strove for what he’d prepared her for. Gaelic words escorted the slide of his lips, licking down her chin and to her throat. Tira clung, lunging up at him in unrhythmic surges, begging him to fill the throbbing need, thirst, and want.