Highland Wrath

by Madeline Martin

  She let the tendril of cloth fall away and stepped back from her clothing, entirely unashamed of her own nudity.

  His mouth lifted in a lazy grin and her heart flipped into her stomach.

  He nodded at the ribbon around her neck. “What about that?”

  “No.” The word came out in a hard snap.

  He shrugged, unfastened his belt without getting up, and pulled open his kilt. His cock jutted in eager anticipation and a thrill spiraled low in her stomach.

  He sat up and tugged his léine off, his powerful abdominal muscles flexing and bunching with the movement.

  He got to his feet. “It’s only fair ye see me too.” It was a comment made by a man who knew all too well how he looked naked.

  And he was fine. His body appeared more chiseled from marble than wrought with mere flesh and bone. She could appreciate the effort such a body took.

  Hours of practice. The willpower to do it regardless of the weather, or any life events. Heat scorched through her and left her chest heaving for air.

  Discipline.

  A body like that took discipline.

  Determination.

  Fortitude.

  The pulse of desire quickened.

  She stepped forward and grasped the back of his head in her hand. Their mouths connected with a shared breath of eager passion. His lips were still cold from his recent venture outside, a thrilling contrast to the heat of his exploring tongue.

  He gave a growl and jerked her hard against him. The coarse hair on his naked chest brushed the sensitive tips of her nipples, and the link smoldering between them ignited into something wild and hot.

  His hands roved over her body, skimming over her waist and sliding down her bottom. His touch made her body flame with heat and lust. Husky moans slipped unbidden from her throat, encouraged his brazen hands.

  Her hands were greedy in their exploration of his body as well. His flesh was cool beneath her hands, cool and hard and great.

  He was so damn strong, his body so beautifully honed by dedication to battle. She lowered her head and dragged her lips over the swell of his chest. Her teeth closed gently over his skin, nipping at his strength. Power and desire mingled within her into something uncontrollable.

  His head fell back and he groaned before grabbing her face and slanting his mouth over it once more. His lips were no longer cool, but hot and savage with lust.

  He bent over her, lowering his head, and flicked a tongue over her nipple. Delicious tingles of need slammed through her.

  She sucked in a breath. The warmth of his mouth closed over her and he sucked. Pleasure needled through her. It drilled into her brain and made her want nothing but his touch, his tongue, his cock.

  His fingers slipped up her inner thighs and met the wetness between her legs. Her body almost exploded at his touch.

  She wanted more. She wanted him. Her knees trembled with the desire for him to take her.

  He slid his digit over the slit of her desire several times, rubbing at the place she sometimes touched when she was alone. Having someone else do it was far, far better. None of the few others she’d been with had tried to stoke her arousal like this, with tender touches.

  He groaned and slipped a finger inside her. Her body tightened around him, squeezing at the delicious sensations. She clutched his shoulders and gasped at the pleasure of it.

  He kissed her with ravenous need. His beard rasped over her chin, but she barely noticed when his skilled hand kept her so distracted.

  While it was obvious he was an accomplished lover, she did not want the intimacy to be drawn out. She had a base need pounding between her legs to be sated. It needed to be slaked, and their shared desire extinguished.

  She slipped her leg over his waist and jerked him against her.

  This would be done.

  Now.

  •••

  Ian clutched Sylvi’s round bottom in his hands and stared down at the lust shimmering in her eyes. His cock was clumsily shoved against her stomach, hard and jutting between them. He wanted to draw out his time with her, to love every inch of her body before claiming her.

  Sylvi’s leg tensed, pulling him more snugly against her.

  First, he would lift her to the bed, lie her down, and—

  Her hand wrapped around his cock and positioned him at the entrance of her wet heat. Pleasure raked greedy hands over him and shredded his thoughts of a drawn out lovemaking.

  Her hands slid up his back and she flexed her hips forward, teasing his cock inside her where they stood. Just the slightest bit.

  Enough to drive him wild.

  He widened his stance and lifted her other leg to his waist. She gripped him with her thighs and held her arms around the back of his neck. Holding her upright by her bottom with her wrapped perfectly around him, he thrust deep inside her. She gave a husky cry of pleasure, the sound beside his ear where it mingled with his own savage groan.

  She was tight and hot and wet. He arched his back, easing slightly from her before thrusting back in so the thrilling friction tingled where they were joined. Every flex of his hips drove him deeper into her. She tensed her thighs where she held to him, and the muscles of her sex squeezed around him, teasing him toward the edge of release far faster than he would like.

  His bollocks went taut with the impending release.

  “Yes.” Her whisper was breathy in his ear and tickled the skin of his neck.

  His entire body was alight with prickles of blissful sensitivity.

  But, no, he was not ready to be done with her. Not yet.

  He took two steps back while still holding her to him and sat down hard on the bed so she was in his lap. His thigh muscles burned with the effort, but he barely noticed.

  Ian pulled her bottom forward and she rolled her hips with the action, grinding him deeper inside her. So warm.

  So tight.

  A groan rasped from his throat.

  She put a hand to his chest and pushed his torso down. A wicked smile lit her face.

  She had the power now.

  His cock jerked in anticipation and her eyes closed with pleasure.

  He held her hips in his hands and guided her movements, slow at first. Very slow, lest he release too soon.

  She rocked her body over him, her small breasts with their pert pink nipples bouncing with her effort. And her squeezing around him, clenching with each movement.

  He wouldn’t be able to last much longer.

  Her breathing came faster, more frenzied.

  She opened her eyes and watched him as she moved. God, she looked like a queen riding him. Beautiful, powerful. So tight.

  His cock swelled with the need to release. He clamped his eyes shut.

  He would not release before she climaxed.

  Agnes’s jowls.

  Agnes’s jowls.

  Agnes’s jowls.

  Her sex constricted around him, clenching in telltale spasms, and her cries sounded the pitch of her fulfillment. His eyes flew open to capture the moment of her release. Her back arched so her beautiful breasts pushed forward, and she watched him with red cheeks and sparkling eyes.

  At that very moment, all the memories of Agnes’s quivering jowls could not have held him back.

  His body unleashed and a roar edged through his gritted teeth. He held her to him until their bodies relaxed and their breathing finally slowed.

  Sylvi watched him with hooded eyes, a light sheen of sweat glossing over her body so she appeared to be glowing.

  “Ye’re so damn beautiful, my angel,” he said.

  She tilted her head in chastisement. “I told you not to call me that.”

  He didn’t miss the whisper of a smile on her lips as she said it.

  He pulled her down to him to cradle her against him, and silence descended. Usually women became chatty after being loved, wanting to know about his scars, his adventures, his dreams. Usually such conversation
s led to further arousal and more rutting. It was a cycle he much enjoyed.

  But Sylvi lay quietly at his side. If not a bit rigid.

  “How did ye come about being a mercenary?” he asked. “I mean, ye dinna meet many female assassins.”

  She remained quiet.

  Bad topic, apparently.

  “Have ye always lived in Scotland?” he asked, trying again.

  “Yes.”

  At least it was a reply. Was it his imagination or was she pressing herself away from him? He strengthened his grip on her shoulders ever so slightly. “What does minmore mean?”

  Her body stiffened. “Min mor?”

  “Aye.”

  She swallowed. “It means ‘my mother’ in Norwegian.”

  My mother. What had happened to her mother? “I dinna know ye spoke—”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  He hesitated. “Just around. Why dinna ye tell me ye spoke Norwegian?”

  “Why would I have?” she asked.

  “Ye’re from Norway then?” It made sense now that he thought on it—her pale blonde hair, the light blue eyes and fair skin. Her ferocity and wildness. How could a woman descended from Vikings be anything but beautifully potent?

  Silence thickened the air again.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m from deeper south. Oban. I’ve always been in Scotland. If ye canna tell by my accent.” Though she couldn’t see his face, he still grinned at his own jest.

  “A noble, correct?” The way she asked it bespoke contempt.

  His gut gave a slight twist.

  “A laird’s son. I grew up in Dunstaffnage Castle. My da is Donald Campbell of Oban, Laird of Clan Campbell.” Once he’d finished speaking, he realized his voice was lacking pride.

  He was not proud of his father. He was not proud of what he’d left behind. Obviously—or he’d be there now.

  She turned slightly toward him and regarded him with a wary stare. “Why are you not there now?”

  “I left over a year ago.” He winked at her. “I appreciate yer concern.”

  Her gaze flicked up in a halfhearted eye roll. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the response he’d almost come to expect.

  Here, most women would press him for more information. They’d want to know why he left, if he was still going to be laird someday. If they might have the opportunity to be lady of a fine castle.

  Sylvi lay beside him without speaking. A chill descended on their bodies, and Ian pulled the thin cover over them both. Immediately their shared heat blazed to life and warmed his cool skin.

  “What are ye thinking?” he asked. Never had he needed to work so hard for a post-rutting conversation with a lass.

  “The castle you lived in. Dunstaffnage is highly defensible,” she replied. “The entire mass of it accessed only by one small door, and even that only reached by a drawbridge. It’s impressive.”

  Her blatant disregard for his personal story and the admiration of the damn castle rankled him more than he cared to admit. “Aye. The laird is an arse though. It’s why I couldna stay.”

  “And why is that?”

  Finally. She wanted to know about him. And he suddenly found himself hesitant to share more, especially when so much was shaded with the ugliness of shame.

  Chapter 7

  “I gave up my lairdship.” Ian said it like a boast. For surely it was, in his opinion.

  She rolled against him, with more interest now. “That’s a powerful position. Why would you do that?”

  The fire in the hearth was beginning to die. No wonder the chill seemed to be pressing deeper into him.

  “My da had been grooming me to be laird, to take over for him someday.” Ian eased himself from the bed. The hair on his arms and legs rose with the cold air embracing him. “It was no’ exciting work. Settling squabbles, collecting rents, ensuring farmers were happy.”

  He strode over to the waning fire and added a split log to the hearth. The flames woke with hunger and licked over the dry wood. He added two more for good measure, until the heat blazing against his skin was blissfully unbearable.

  “Why did you leave?” she asked.

  Ian’s heart gave a familiar wrench, the way it always did when he thought of Simon and Simon’s father. The old man had been doomed, and there had been nothing Ian could do to stop it.

  Simon, however, did not understand. After the execution of Simon’s father, Ian’s childhood friend had taken his own life.

  “I have my reasons,” Ian said. He turned to the bed and stopped. Sylvi lay on her side with her head propped on one arm, the blanket draped casually over her shoulder like a goddess’s cloak. The curve of her waist and hip was visible beneath the cloth, a tantalizing dip and swell he longed to skim his palm over.

  She looked so damn bonny, he stood there staring long enough for the fire to practically singe his arse.

  Her brows lifted for him to continue.

  “Aye, well … ” He made his way back to the bed and the beautiful angel waiting for him. “My da did something I dinna agree with.”

  That much was true. Ian had protested the death of Simon’s aging father, but the Campbell laird would have none of it.

  Ian slipped into bed beside Sylvi, eager for the press of her body and the companionship his heart ached for. She kept her head propped in her hand but shifted her leg over his, her skin hot against the chill of his own. He damn near sighed with relief.

  “People in a place of power often have to do unfavorable tasks.” Sylvi spoke with the ease of a woman who clearly had made such decisions herself.

  Ian stared at her for a long moment. This was not the reaction he had wanted.

  But then he hadn’t told her all the details. He couldn’t. Not now. Not when he hadn’t even reconciled them in his mind, and in his heart.

  “Your father did something you didn’t like, and so you left.” She paused, and her light blue eyes narrowed with a perception that pierced into his soul. “And you were afraid you’d have to make a decision like that someday, but without your father to blame.”

  Ian’s blood chilled. Failing anything witty snapping to mind, he simply nodded. Like a fool. A coward.

  Regret lodged like an uncomfortable stone in his chest. He never should have mentioned his past—it tiptoed too close to revealing the ugliness of himself he’d tried to leave behind.

  Another in a string of bad decisions.

  He nodded and clenched his teeth against the memory of Simon’s father, a man he’d known all his life, swaying from a creaking rope. And then his son following suit.

  Sylvi’s gaze sharpened, her expression becoming pensive. “Being a leader is a difficult role.”

  Ian offered a mirthless chuckle. “One I’m clearly no’ made for.”

  “I disagree.”

  He tilted his head for her continue.

  She smirked. “I feel like complimenting you will only make you more arrogant.” She lifted her head and bumped his shoulder with her elbow before returning her face to the cradle of her palm. “There are different types of leaders. There are those whose followers obey out of fear, like I’m assuming with your father. There are ones whose followers obey because they are cared for, like myself. And there are those whose followers obey because they like the person they follow for their humor and skill.”

  “Ye’re saying I’m funny and skilled?” He grinned up at her.

  She rolled her eyes and swatted him on the chest.

  “And ye’re saying ye’re a leader as well.” Finally she’d revealed something of herself to him that he hadn’t had to force out of her.

  The smile teasing over the corners of her mouth wilted, and her eyes narrowed. “Why did you tell me all of this?”

  He knew she meant to change the subject from her and let her get away with it. This time. “I trust ye.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “You’re right. You do make poor decisions.”


  “Why do ye say that?”

  “I tried to kill you.”

  “But ye saved me.” He drew his fingertip over the side of her breast just visible beneath a fold of fabric. “And then ye loved me.”

  Her eyes swept closed with pleasure.

  “I figured it was worth the risk.” He curved the path of his finger over the swell of her bosom. Her nipple drew into a hard bud beneath the plaid. “We have to trust each other now anyway, aye my angel?”

  She opened her eyes to reveal the lust glinting there. Her fingers curled around his cock. “I told you not to call me that.”

  The boldness of her touch sent a thrill of excitement tingling through him. She was as fierce in her passion as she was with her fighting. A woman unlike any other.

  Now was for loving, aye, but he would eventually get her to talk to him. About how she knew Norwegian, about the men she led, and why she cried out for her mother in her sleep. Through loving or persistence or both, he would discover Sylvi’s closely guarded secrets.

  •••

  Sylvi shoved at the covers, but they would not move from their oppressive weight atop her. Awareness tickled her conscience and drew in the realization that the blanket was made of thick muscle.

  The flesh of the arm holding her was prickled with dark hair and created a layer of moist sweat where his body touched hers.

  Ian.

  She shifted in an attempt to escape his smothering embrace. He tightened his grip on her. She tried to wriggle away, but he flung his leg over hers.

  An irrational vein of panic scrabbled through her at his unintentional battle to hold her against her will.

  She pushed at his hands and slipped free, her breath coming hard. He reached out, caught her pillow, and replaced her with it as his captive.

  It had been a mistake sharing a bed with him, sharing a room with him. Allowing him to be close. She never allowed anyone to be close. Certainly no one knew she was Norwegian, unless they happened to guess it. He had pressed her like she was in an inquisition, desperate for information she shared with precious few.

  She cared for the ladies back at Kindrochit—they knew of her past out of necessity.