Highland Hunger Bundle with Yours for Eternity & Highland Beast

by Hannah Howell

  Mates, Bridget had said. A mating mark. The thought of that sent a heated shiver through her body as she wanted it to be true, wanted to be marked and claimed by Gybbon. Yet, if he had done that, why had he not told her?

  The answers that cropped up in Alice’s mind robbed her of all pleasure she felt. It had been a mistake. Gybbon had not meant to do it. Or he had done it but did not want it to be true.

  Gybbon rushed into the room and then came to a quick halt. Alice was staring at the mark on her neck. The look she turned on him was not one of joyous welcome and he sighed. Shutting the door behind him, he cautiously approached her. His aunt had seared his ears with her scolding and he deserved it. He should have swallowed his foolish cowardice and just told Alice, offered her all he had to offer and hoped he did not get his heart stomped on.

  “She called this a mating mark,” Alice said, not encouraged by the guilty look on his face. “She thinks we are mated.”

  “We are. That marks ye as mine.”

  “If ye marked me, why didnae ye tell me? Or ask me if I e’en wanted to be yours?”

  Alice wanted to be his more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She would not let that lead her into a marriage, or mating, that did not have any more to hold it together than lust and possession. She wanted what her parents had. They had loved each other. She loved Gybbon and wanted him to love her back. Until she was sure he did, she was not going to be claimed no matter how many marks he put on her.

  “I was surprised when I realized I had done it, done it the verra first time we made love.” He knelt before her and took her hands in his. “I then thought, weel, there it is, ’tis fate and we will sort it all out when we arenae busy fighting for our lives.”

  “Yet ye still didnae tell me and ye have had days where we werenae fighting for our lives.”

  “I ken it but I found that I can be a coward.”

  “If ye dinnae want to tell me the truth, then dinnae, but dinnae say such nonsense.”

  He could not help it, he grinned. “I thank ye for being so certain of my courage that ye think I could never cower from anything. Ah, but I can, my sweet Alice. I called what we shared everything but what it should have been called. Passion.” He brushed his lips across hers, taking strength in the fact that she did not pull away. “Possession.” He kissed the mark on her neck.

  Alice did not know whether to be disgusted with herself or afraid when those two little kisses and the warm look in his beautiful green eyes was enough to make her desire him naked and in her arms. “What should it be called, then?”

  “Love.”

  Gybbon was not sure what he should think when she gaped at him. Just as he began to feel uneasy and was going to demand she say something, a tear rolled down her cheek. His stomach clenched with alarm.

  “Alice?” He brushed the tear away with his thumb only to have another follow it. “Why do ye cry? Is it so appalling to ken that I love ye?” He grunted when she hurled herself into his arms so forcefully he fell backward onto the floor, still clutching her in his arms.

  “I so hoped ye might come to love me,” she said, her words muffled because she had her face pressed into his chest. “I love ye so much that I was willing to accept less if I could just stay with ye, but to ken ye love me, too, is nearly too much.”

  “Ye never said ye loved me.”

  Gybbon was shaking with the relief he felt. She returned his love; she was his mate in every way. He knew of only one way to celebrate such a miracle and began to undo her gown.

  “Of course I didnae. I didnae want to make ye stay with me out of pity, or even worse.”

  “What could be worse?” He tossed her gown aside and started to unlace her shift.

  “That ye would be so burdened and embarrassed that ye would send me away.”

  He picked her up and carried her to the bed. As he started to shed his clothes he looked at her sprawled out on the heavy coverlet, her shift unlaced and falling open, and felt everything that was male in him roar its need for her. The moment the last of his clothes were tossed aside he hurriedly pulled the rest of hers off.

  “Gybbon?”

  “I think I have loved ye from the beginning. ’Tis why I marked ye.” He sprawled in her arms and began to kiss a circle around her breasts. “I accepted it but didnae think much on it except to be pleased that fate chose a woman who could make my blood burn. Then”—he teased her nipples into hard points with his tongue—“when I was held captive I realized it was more, more than passion and possession.” He began to kiss his way down her smooth midriff. “When ye were attacked by Callum, when I woke up to find ye gone, that was when I accepted that the more was love. And now that I have had the woman I love tell me that she loves me, too, there is only one thing I want to do almost more than breathing.”

  Alice was trembling with the need to have him inside her but she said, “Weel, your aunt said there will be a fine meal set out within the hour.”

  Her words ended on a gasp of shock as he kissed her. Right there between her legs. She was so stunned by the intimacy that she could not move. By the time her mind cleared of shock enough for her to speak, passion had roared in to clear every coherent thought from her mind. Alice threaded her hands through his hair and gave herself over to the pleasure he gave her until she could not bear it any longer.

  “Gybbon,” she cried out, tugging on his hair until he began to kiss his way back up to her breasts. “I need ye to be one with me.”

  “Aye, lass, always.”

  She cried out again when he thrust himself deep inside her. Ecstasy swept over her as his fangs sank into her neck. When he placed his wrist against her mouth, she did not hesitate, but cupped his hand in hers and stroked it as she gently fed from him. The moment the spicy taste of him hit her tongue, all clear thought fled her mind and she sank into the fierce passion only he could make her feel.

  Feeling as limp as if he had been in the sun too long, Gybbon rolled off Alice and pulled her into his arms. She was as limp as he felt and he found the strength to grin with male pride. She was his, mind, heart, and soul. He had no words for how complete, how blessed that made him feel, but somehow he would do his best, for the rest of their long lives, to make her know just how necessary she was to him.

  “We will be married as soon as my mother and aunt can arrange it,” he said when he finally had the strength to speak.

  “Can ye get a priest up here?” she asked, idly wondering if she would have the strength to get dressed in time to go have something to eat.

  “Aye, one of our kinsmen. He can abide a fair lot of time in the sun and took a place within the church.” He kissed the top of her head. “I hope we have just made a bairn.”

  “Weel, even though we already have four, so do I.”

  “Ah, my mother found Alyn’s kinsmen. I fear his father was killed even as he was traveling back to Alyn’s mother. The boy does have several aunts and uncles, however, as weel as a grandmother. My mother says they are all madly in love with the lad even now. She is working to see if she can find who ye and the others may be related to.”

  Alice raised herself up on her forearms and kissed him. “I dinnae ken how I can be so blessed. I also dinnae ken how I can be thinking of food right now, but I am.”

  Gybbon laughed and helped her sit up. They dressed, each fighting the urge to toss aside the clothes and return to bed. Their stomachs won that battle and Gybbon was soon leading her into the great hall.

  Her belly full, Alice sipped her wine and looked around at all the MacNachtons. Alyn sat with his newfound family and she could see how their delight in him was easing all that anger and bitterness he had held for most of his young life. Even though Jayne and Norma did not yet know who amongst the crowd of dark, handsome people they might be related to, they were being so showered with love and attention she doubted it would matter if they ever found out. The fact that they were females who would grow up to be the mates of some MacNachton male undoubtedly added to th
eir worth, but Alice could see that the joy the clan felt in all the children had no ties to it. Even Donn, already seen as Gybbon’s son since he was mated to the child’s mother, was being cosseted and feted. Alice knew she was going to have to do her best to make sure the children were not spoiled.

  She knew she was basking a little in the acceptance of the clan. The shyness and uneasiness she had felt as Gybbon had presented her to his clan had fled quickly. It was hard to keep tears of joy at bay as she realized that she and the children had come home. Grief pinched her for a moment as she wished her family could have known this joy, but she shook it aside. She knew they would be happy for her and the children and that had to be enough.

  The laird stood up and everyone went silent. Gybbon took her hand in his and flashed a smile at her. Alice stared at Gybbon’s uncle, thought of how he would also remain so handsome for years and years and almost grinned back at him, but the laird began to speak.

  “We are blessed tonight,” he said, and paused to smile at Alice and each of the children. “We have brought five of the Lost Ones home. The number of fledglings returned to the nest will surely grow. And, since my nephew has had the good sense to mate himself with this fine brave lass who kept these children safe until they could come home, we will soon be celebrating a wedding as weel.”

  Everyone cheered as Alice blushed so hotly she was amazed her cheeks did not catch on fire. Gybbon laughed and kissed her cheek but it did little to ease the heat there. It was several minutes after everyone had returned to their talk and their food, or tankards of enriched wine, before Alice calmed down.

  “All right now, love?” Gybbon asked, a teasing note in his voice.

  “I was just a wee bit unsettled by how everyone was cheering,” she murmured.

  “Ye are a heroine to them, love. Aye,” he said when she shook her head. “As my uncle says, ye kept those children alive. That is no small thing. And everyone is overjoyed to have so many Lost Ones brought home.”

  “And I am home now, arenae I.”

  “Aye, love, ye are. That is what is being celebrated and ’tis a worthy thing to celebrate. Of course,” he murmured close to her ear, “I am eager to return to our bed so that I may celebrate in a manner more to my liking.”

  “Ah.” She felt the desire he could so effortlessly stir in her begin to rise. “I thought ye had celebrated it quite thoroughly already.”

  “Och, nay. Having ye as mine can ne’er be celebrated enough.”

  He sounded so cocky, and looked it, that Alice had to smile. She also felt a strong inclination to wipe that arrogant smirk off his handsome face. “Gybbon,” she whispered in his ear, “ye do recall that, er, kiss ye gave me a wee while ago, aye?”

  “Oh, aye, and I recall how sweet ye tasted as weel.”

  “Tell me, oh great lover of mine, do ye think I would find ye as sweet to taste?”

  He choked on his wine. Alice was still laughing about that when he grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out of the hall. She doubted the joy that filled her would fade anytime soon. She had spent six years in hell, running, hiding, and fighting to stay alive, but now she was home, home with a man who loved her and a people who accepted her because she was truly one of them. Alice realized that she had been lost and she thanked God that the man who was dragging her to their bedchamber as fast as he could was the one to find her.

  THE VAMPIRE HUNTER

  Heather Grothaus

  For my family

  Chapter One

  October 1, 1104

  The Leamhan Forest of the Scottish Highlands

  “Like that, do you?” Beatrix whispered into the stranger’s ear as he moaned and bucked against her body. She had pinned him against the rear wall behind the White Wolf Inn—foolishly close to the patrons reveling just steps inside the kitchen door, perhaps—but the added danger was exhilarating. And although his stealthy appearance had interrupted her countless nightly chores as the inn’s sole proprietor, she could not pass up the opportunity he offered.

  She thrust against him again and her blood rushed in her veins like liquid moonlight when he gave a choked cry.

  “That’s right—take it,” Beatrix gasped. “Take it, you bastard.”

  She felt sudden wetness soaking through her long apron and into the front of her gown and knew a moment’s rue at the telltale stain that would be left behind. But concerns for the condition of her gown whirled away as she felt the cold heat of the stranger’s lips skitter desperately along the side of her neck.

  “Doona…dare,” Beatrix growled and, throwing herself upon him with all her strength, finished him.

  He fell against her fully and Beatrix stepped away from the wall, letting the man’s body tumble into the muddy dooryard behind the inn, near the now-splintered slop bucket she had come outside to empty. She stood over him, gasping.

  A bright bar of moonlight divided by the roof peak above fell across his unnaturally pale and frozen face, setting free a single starburst from a pointed fang only just glimpsed through slack, gray lips as his head came to its final rest in the wet filth. The startling strip of light showed a slice of his torn and dirtied clothes, his ashen and decimated skin, his cratered chest ornamented with—

  “Ah, dammit,” Beatrix muttered, realizing her loss. She stepped to the corpse and, placing one foot on his rapidly sinking chest, grasped the springy fan of her short wooden fork with both hands and yanked it free. A hissing sound chased the fork’s release. She staggered backward and looked at her ruined utensil—the black blood was already soaked into the wood.

  “Third one this week,” she lamented and then pitched the fork in the direction of the refuse heap.

  Her eyes found the body once more, now sizzling away into shimmery dust, the high-pitched squeal of a soulless void being squicked away from the earth causing Beatrix to wince. Before the corpse could vanish completely, she spat on him.

  Beatrix Levenach took her time scanning the black wall of trees just beyond the inn’s back door. She could detect no movement in the thick dark—at least, not of any creature not properly alive—nor was there a return of the ominous prickle that warned her of impending attack. Save for the highland wind on its whistling journey through the elms, carrying a cumbersome winter on its back, the wood was still.

  For now.

  The night seemed colder after her kill, but perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades and breasts as she fumbled with the strings of her apron and whisked it over her head. Beatrix wadded it into a ball and tossed it to the same fate as her muck fork, and then turned into the moonlight so as to appraise the damage to her gown while walking to the rain barrel at the corner of the inn.

  Nae so bad, she thought. A streak of black here, a splotch there. She could disguise the freshness of the stains tonight with a good dollop of her rich, dark stew—Eternal Mother knew she ended each night wearing enough of the stuff, any matter—but her skirt would forever bear the marks of tonight’s kill. She reached the barrel and plunged her arms into her turned-up sleeves, scrubbing doggedly at the cold, sticky black blood.

  “Frocking vampires,” she muttered as her skin burned from both the icy water and the thought of the muck that contaminated her. She sniffed. It happened every time—this delayed release of…not fear, exactly. When faced with the undead she never flinched, never hesitated—she let her hatred for the unnatural beings and her sense of honor lead her into battle with a fearless vengeance. Only when the kill was made and the threat no more did the uncharacteristic tears creep in, the trembling seize her.

  Beatrix gripped the rim of the barrel with both dripping hands, her reddened arms stiff, her head hanging down for a moment. Then she turned up her eyes to the ripe, white moon and took a deep breath.

  You are Levenach, she heard her father say once more, only now that he was dead, the words came from her memory instead of his smiling mouth. Protector. Guardian of the Leamhnaigh, of the forest…of all the highlands.

  A splintering cras
h sounded through the open rear door of the inn, but Beatrix did not flinch. Yet another one of her clay pitchers meeting its empty end against the hearth stones. Likely a retaliatory act by one of the innocent Leamhnaigh—her shoulders hitched in a soundless chuckle—she was sworn to protect, in a pique at not receiving more ale straightaway.

  Beatrix straightened from the barrel and swiped at her eyes so that she could look upon the moon clearly one last time before returning to the common room and the score or so of forest folk impatient to be tended to. The people who whispered about her, who drank her ale and ate her stew while watching her with suspicious eyes. Who grudgingly paid their dues to her in meager rations of supplies—adhering to the centuries-old tradition of supporting the Levenach even as they muttered about her black and wicked ways.

  Beatrix the witch.

  Bring us all to ruin and damnation.

  Nae, she didn’t want to go back into the White Wolf Inn, but she would.

  Because she was Levenach. And she was the last.

  After dropping the bar on the door following the departure of the last, straggling patrons, Beatrix felt as though she could slide to the floor and fall asleep that instant. But she only allowed herself to rest her forehead against the splintery wood and sigh. Her muscles ached miserably with fatigue and her eyelids felt lined with sand. Tomorrow was the Christian Sabbath, and then she could rest all the day.

  But she could not escape into sleep just yet. Although she boarded no travelers, and she had already destroyed one vampire this evening—ensuring that the rest of the demonic pack would likely keep their distance from the inn and townsfolk for mayhap a day or two—her mundane duties were not complete. After another deep breath, she pushed away from the door and turned to face the common room, surveying the damage.