Highland Flame

by Mary Wine

  Aylin was nodding his agreement. Brenda refused to allow Jane to linger over the matter, tugging her toward another merchant to make good on her promise to spend as much money as possible. Brenda’s joy in living was infectious, pulling Jane into the moment and away from her doubts. Happiness had always been such an unreachable thing, something that existed in stories along with the fae folk.

  For that moment, though, Jane was laughing with Brenda, and her feet were lighter than they had ever been as the morning gave way to afternoon. There were food and sweets, late harvest fruit, and what seemed like endless cider. As the light begin to fade, the music started up. Jane sat on a straw bale, sipping at a new mug of cider that Muir had brought her when he traded duty with Aylin. It was spiced with cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg, making it a potent mixture that hit all of her senses at once. Sweet and spicy and warm, it made her giddy.

  “Come,” Brenda announced after she finished her own mug. “Let’s dance.”

  There was a long line of people forming for a new dance. The musicians were strumming out the first notes to signal they were about to launch into the song. Brenda pulled Jane into the mass of skirts and kilts. Someone took her hand as the music began. It was a country dance that had them changing partners over and over as they laughed.

  Jane was no exception. She turned and clapped and then dove under a pair of clasped hands before reaching out to grasp her partner’s hand so they might provide an arch for the couple behind them, and then she turned again to face a new partner.

  Only this time it was Diocail. There was only a moment to absorb his arrival before they were swept along in the motion of the dance. He kept time with her, pulling her around and off her feet as they moved through the figure.

  She was breathless in his embrace as the music came to a stop.

  “Hmmm.” He leaned close, his hands on her lower back. “Ye smell delicious.”

  She liked the way he felt. That seemed to be the only thought her mind cared to hold as she relaxed against him, laying her hands against his chest with a little contented sigh. “Muir brought me spiced cider.”

  Diocail’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Did he now?”

  She nodded, captivated by the way Diocail smelled. It was better than cinnamon, and she drew in a deep breath, letting out a little hum of approval.

  “Come.” He turned and captured her hand in his.

  His grip fascinated her. It was so strong, so full of life, yet it didn’t bite.

  Henry had often bruised her.

  Diocail didn’t. He led her away from the dance as the evening breeze teased her with cool air. She needed the relief, for the dance had left her overheated. Even with dusk falling, she felt like kicking her boots off and trailing her bare feet through the stream.

  Diocail took her toward the water. The sound of it was soothing, and the grass was still green along the riverbank.

  “Now let me see if ye taste as sweet as ye smell.”

  He captured her in his embrace as he spoke, folding his arms around her as she made another little breathless sound before he tilted his head, cupped her nape, and pressed his mouth against hers.

  It felt perfect.

  Far better than anything she had ever done. Brenda’s words rose from Jane’s memory as she kissed Diocail back. That made it all feel even better.

  So she kissed him more firmly, slipping her hands along his chest, delighting in the feeling of his hard body beneath the fabric of his doublet. It wasn’t enough, and when she found the open buttons near his neck, she slipped a hand inside and settled it against his skin.

  “Touch me, lass.”

  In all honesty, she could not stop. The connection between them was enchanting. She stroked him, pressing her hands against his nape the same way he did to her and stretching on her toes as she gently pulled his head toward hers.

  He let her complete the kiss, following her lead as she shyly moved her mouth against his. There was a tenderness in their connection that she had never encountered before nor expected to find. All that mattered was kissing Diocail back, and she discovered that boldness suited her very well. She loved reaching for him instead of being dutiful and submitting.

  But his doublet frustrated her. She pulled on one of the buttons, breaking away from their kiss as she struggled to pay enough attention to the task to accomplish pushing it through its hole.

  “Aye,” he growled. His tone was a low rumble.

  She trembled in response, but not out of fear. No, she wasn’t afraid of him, at least not in the way she had been of Henry. What she feared was the idea that he would come to his senses and not touch her again. She was certain she would writhe in agony if he abandoned her.

  Diocail didn’t disappoint her. He tossed his doublet aside, and in another moment, he unbuckled his belt and spread his kilt on the grass.

  “Come, lass.” He scooped her up and lowered her onto the wool. “And lay with me.”

  The light was only a memory in the sky, a faint scarlet glow that turned him ruby as he settled down beside her. Somehow, darkness suited the moment, enhancing the way she was so very keenly aware of him. The way he smelled intoxicated her, making her head spin and scattering her thoughts. Which left her with only sensation.

  So much of it, and she was eager for more. Reaching for him, smoothing her hands over his body. Only his shirt remained as he kissed her again, this time parting her lips and teasing her tongue with his own.

  It shocked her.

  Anticipation was a living, breathing thing inside her, like a fire that crackled and popped as it caught. She discovered herself as needy as the flames licking along a new log added to the hearth, hungry for more fuel.

  Diocail didn’t disappoint her. He pulled at her laces, freeing her breasts and boldly cupping one. He was looking at the way he handled the soft globe. For a moment, cruel memory intruded, but there was no leer on Diocail’s face.

  His expression was pure enjoyment. “Ye’re beautiful, Jane. Christ forgive me, but I’ve thought about baring ye nearly without end for the past two days. Now…” He brushed his thumb gently over the tip of her nipple, sending a shiver across her skin. “Now, I can nae resist the opportunity to taste one of these…”

  He leaned over and did just that, licking her nipple before opening his mouth and sucking it.

  She gasped, arching beneath him. Was she rising up to offer it to him? She honestly didn’t know because she couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except twist as it felt as if there were too much sensation inside her to contain. A sound escaped her. So breathless, so passionate, she opened her eyes in surprise.

  Diocail laughed softly and lifted his head, locking gazes with her. “I like that. The way ye sound when I touch ye.”

  There was a smugness in his tone. It should have needled her, but instead all she felt was a very strange surge of shyness, as though he was seeing a part of her she had always kept tightly concealed.

  He released her breast and stroked the side of her face. “Do nae hide from me, lass. I promise ye, I will nae wound ye.”

  “I don’t know you…” She was struggling to form thoughts. She needed to recall why she couldn’t lay there, with the rising moon casting its white light across her bared breasts.

  He was so close she felt his breath against her wet lips. “So tonight I’ll give ye a glimpse at what I bring to ye as a husband.”

  The word husband was too restricting, but he pressed a kiss on her mouth, cradling the side of her face to keep her from turning aside. That was as much resistance as she had left in her. His kiss pulled her back into the heat where she felt like one of the flames dancing along the wood.

  He cupped her breasts again, increasing the amount of delight in the moment. She was twisting again, pressing herself against him. One of his legs came over hers, slipping between her thighs and pulling them apart. He was r
ucking up the fabric of her skirts, stroking her thigh as she gasped and arched.

  It was pagan.

  Or savage.

  Or something sinful.

  She couldn’t form the thought, only respond to the way he touched her. There was a throbbing at the top of her sex far stronger than she had ever experienced. It made opening her legs feel correct, as though she needed to spread for him.

  “Aye, that’s the way, Jane.”

  His voice was a mere rasp, one she barely heard as he smoothed a path from her thigh to her mons. She shivered, feeling as though she couldn’t survive being touched on her mons and yet certain she would perish if he didn’t stroke that throbbing spot.

  “Diocail…” Her voice was strained.

  In fact, there was perspiration on her forehead, the bare skin of her chest a blessed relief from the heat coursing through her.

  “Trust me.”

  “I do,” she muttered, forcing her heavy eyelids up. “I shouldn’t.”

  And yet there was something about him that drew her to him. Perhaps it was that thing she’d been lectured on so often in her youth.

  Lust…

  Yet for all the stern warnings she’d heard, tonight the word only drove her closer to the edge of unbridled abandonment. She reached for him, slipping her hand along his neck, rejoicing in the feeling of his skin. A little hum of enjoyment escaped her lips as she pulled him down for another kiss, opening her mouth as she kissed him back.

  He groaned low and deep, his chest rumbling with it. This time the sound was one of male enjoyment. She liked hearing it, deep inside herself, past all the layers of rules and expectation. In that place where she was only herself and faced with the realities of what she truly desired.

  Which was him.

  It was a craving. They weren’t close enough. He felt it too, leaning further over her, and she shivered as she felt his weight. His kiss was harder now, and she answered him by kissing him back just as hard.

  Brazen.

  Fine, so be it. She’d never felt so alive, and she wanted more. Diocail didn’t disappoint her. He teased the curls on the top of her mons before boldly cupping her sex. She gasped, opening her eyes to find him watching her from a mere inch above her face. There was a glitter of challenge in his gaze as he rubbed her, one of his fingertips slipping between the folds of her sex to find the spot that throbbed.

  The touch sent a bolt of sensation through her. It was white-hot and searing. She arched, but he held her down, rubbing.

  “Diocail—” Her voice came out as a strangled sound.

  “Let me show ye, lass.” He was applying more pressure, increasing the need building in her belly for…for something.

  “Show…me what?” She couldn’t seem to draw in enough breath. Her heart was working at a frantic pace inside her chest.

  “What yer last husband was too selfish to do…”

  There was an edge of determination in his voice. His face was drawn taunt, and she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. In fact, staying still was impossible; she wanted to twist, but he held her down, kissing her hard as everything seemed to center under his hand. She was nearly frantic for release, lifting her hips in the final moments to press herself against his hand harder as she clamped his hand between her thighs.

  She cried out when it hit her. The pleasure ripped along her insides and slammed into her head. It sent her reeling, making it fortunate she was on the ground, for there was no way she would have remained standing. For endless moments, she was caught in a burst of pleasure so intense she writhed. It stole her breath, wringing her like a length of wet cloth before dropping her back down into reality in a heap of quivering limbs, more spent and more sated than she had ever been in her life. As well as more pleasured than she’d ever experienced.

  She shifted, trying to make sense of everything. Diocail smoothed her cheek and gathered her close. The scent of his body was so welcoming, the way he cradled her more tender than anything she’d ever experienced. It was bliss, and there was nothing more important than drifting off into the soft waves of it while Diocail rolled onto his back and held her.

  * * *

  Brenda Grant knew more than she should.

  It was a condition that came with being at court, among those who peddled everything they had—including their souls—for power. What should have been private was not, and to survive, she’d learned to read men very well while maintaining perfect poise to ensure they didn’t know her own feelings.

  “Ye’re watching me.”

  Brenda didn’t care for how hard she struggled to control herself as a man stepped into her path. He’d been shadowing her for several hours now, and she’d done her best to ignore him.

  However, her best was not as solid as it should have been. Her gaze had strayed to his too many times, and now he thought it was some sort of invitation.

  “I watch where I go, sir,” she replied firmly. “Do ye know me cousin, Laird Symon Grant?”

  “Scared of me, are ye?” He cocked his head to one side as he peered down from his greater height.

  Brenda looked up to meet his eyes. “I said no such thing.” There was a touch of heat in her voice. She chided herself for responding so dramatically.

  “And yet ye feel the need to make sure I know who yer relatives are.” He had midnight-black hair but blue eyes.

  Brenda offered him a flutter of her eyelashes. “I find it distressing to see foolish men being…dealt with by me kin. It’s more of a Christian duty to warn ye how hot Grant tempers run.”

  It was a double warning, one not lost on her company. His lips twitched as he grinned.

  “Christian duty?” he asked slowly as he ventured closer.

  Brenda offered him a confident nod as she fought the urge to step back. She forbade herself to show such weakness. All around her people were enjoying the early evening, so there was no reason to think she was in any danger. And yet her insides felt unsettled.

  “Well then,” the man muttered. “Would it be wrong to admit I find yer description of yer blood to be more of an enticement than deterrent?”

  “It would be arrogant.”

  He offered her a shrug from his massive shoulders. “I can nae admit to being too distressed.”

  No, he wasn’t. She was caught in the grip of a sensation. One that she’d rarely felt in her life. It made her pause as she took a moment to enjoy it but forbade herself to linger in the memory. Or in his company.

  Brenda made to step around him.

  “Ye’ve no’ allowed me to introduce meself.”

  He’d stepped into her path. What made her stiffen was the fact that she spotted other men wearing his colors. They hung back, making sure no one interrupted their conversation.

  “Ye are a Gunn.”

  His expression became serious. “And ye are Brenda Grant, widow of a Campbell, who took a lover before ye landed in the keeping of the Earl of Morton.”

  “I’m no’ flattered by how much ye know.”

  He contemplated her for a moment. “Ye should be. I do nae waste me time, Mistress Grant.”

  “If that is so, why do ye listen to so much gossip?” she asked pointedly.

  “Clearly ye do nae know what a sensation ye cause when ye pass by.” He offered her a soft chuckle. “There I was this morning, set to enjoy a mug of fine cider, no’ even looking at the lasses.”

  He put on a mock innocent expression that made her clamp her lips tightly together lest she laugh.

  “Ye strike me as the sort of innocent to be doing such a thing on harvest festival morning.” Her voice was dripping sarcasm, but it was also husky, betraying how much she was enjoying the encounter. He made her feel strangely alive, as though she’d been half asleep.

  His lips thinned in a purely sensual fashion. One that sent a touch of heat into her cheeks.


  “Aye, as I said, ye passed by…” He made a walking motion with his fingers. “And the good wives began to chatter about ye.”

  “And, of course, their word is so very reliable.” Brenda bit her lip because she realized she was jumping to defend herself. She shouldn’t care what he thought of her.

  “Which is why I doubt ye truly intend to dance naked under the moon tonight.” He sounded pitifully disappointed, even pushing his lower lip out. “Truth be told, I was holding out hope for that one to be true. I do nae suppose ye might consider being generous toward me opinion of ye?”

  Brenda snorted and propped her hands on her hips but couldn’t help but admit to being amused by his humor. Not that she intended to allow him to know it.

  “Bothan Gunn.” He opened his arms and offered her a low courtesy, but he winked as he rose back to his full height.

  “Far from home, aren’t ye?”

  He shrugged. “I was summoned to court on account of a relative of mine behaving poorly.”

  “I’d worry more about what the Earl of Sutherland has to say about the matter, considering that relative was killed inside his hall.”

  Bothan’s expression tightened. “Ye can be certain I agree with ye.”

  She knew him now. She had known the name of the successor of the Gunn chiefdom, but now she had a face to go with it. The Gunns lived very far north, and the hardened man standing before her was a prime example of the strength needed to survive in the extreme Highlands. It was admirable, and he was impressive, but there was no way she was going to allow him to know she thought so.

  “Excuse me.” Brenda stepped around him.

  “Something pressing to attend to, mistress?”

  She couldn’t resist the urge to look back over her shoulder. “I’m sure the good wives will be happy to tell ye what I am about.”

  “Perhaps I’d rather hear it from yer own lips.” His gaze lowered to them as he stepped closer.

  Her insides tightened—he aroused her. She was tempted to linger in the moment, allow the sensation to tease her flesh and remind her what joy there could be between lovers.