My Highland Lord (Highland Lords)

by Scott, Tarah

  "And, while I forgive you, you are correct," he said. "We didn't consummate our marriage."

  He shifted and the moist warmth of his lips touched her throat. His mouth moved in what seemed infinitesimal increments along her neck. Shivers raced along her flesh. His mouth slid onto her ear.

  “This is, perhaps, not the most fitting place,” he whispered, his breath skimming across her skin, “but you have me at a disadvantage. Your touch drives me wild.”

  She vaguely remembered trying to drive him wild, stroking his engorged member—that she remembered too well—but he'd gotten the better of her.

  “Technically,” he went on, his deep voice moving over her like silk as he ran his tongue along the edge of her ear, “this isn’t our wedding night. Therefore, it’s not as if I’m a complete cad. Can you forgive me for, yet, one more transgression?” His mouth glided across her cheek. “I promise to be a better husband afterwards.” He covered her mouth with his and dragged her against him.

  Her breasts, crushed against his chest, ached. She exhaled, her breath mingling with his. A soft moan emanate from her throat. He slid a hand up her back and ran his fingers along her neck just below the hairline.

  Phoebe shivered.

  He pulled her to her feet. Her legs felt like rubber.

  "Steady, sweetheart."

  He turned her until her back faced him and pushed aside her hair. With one arm around her waist, he held her close while kissing her neck. She was vaguely aware of him unbuttoning her dress, but the sensation of his mouth on the sensitive skim of her neck muddled her brain. A moment later, he pushed the dress from her shoulders and it slipped to the floor. He grasped her chemise and began pulling it over her head.

  "My lord," she cried, but he had the garment off her and a chill raced across her flesh.

  He turned her and her skin heated when his gaze dropped to her naked breasts.

  "Sir," she began, but he cut her off with a kiss, then lifted her into his arms and crossed to the bed. He laid her on the mattress and she knew she should push him away, leave, run as far away from him as she could. But when he lowered himself onto her, a dizzying current spun the room. Then he kissed her and she was sure she was drowning. He trailed kisses along her cheek and down her throat to her shoulder.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, and Phoebe felt herself floating between the real and unreal.

  He filled her senses.

  Kiernan shoved off of the bed and in seconds had his boots off. He rose, loosened his belt, then unwrapped his kilt. Phoebe's heart jumped in the instant before the plaide dropped to the floor and she couldn't tear her gaze from his shaft. He was just as he'd been that night in his chambers: thick, rigid, and—heaven help her—in definite proportion to his size. He began unbuttoning his shirt.

  Her heart beat faster. What in God's name was she doing? She hadn't come here to seduce her husband. She had come looking for her father. Kiernan braced one knee on the bed, then bent and kissed her. Phoebe started to shove him away, but her palms connected with the hard flesh of his chest. Her eyes flew open and the sight of her fingers splayed against the dark expanse of muscle caused her to knead the unyielding flesh. He drew back a fraction and she tore her gaze from the mesmerizing sight to see that his blue eyes had darkened to a hard glitter.

  He shucked his shirt, then came down on top of her. Her breath hitched and she clutched his shoulders. The softer contours of her body submitted to his hard planes, and his engorged member lay thick and heavy on her belly. Her nipples rose to marbled points against his chest and the juncture between her legs tightened in response. She couldn't halt the reaction and a throb thrummed from the most intimate part of her.

  Kieran covered her mouth with his as he shifted, then began a slow glide of his shaft through her curls and along her belly. Phoebe sucked in a breath and he slipped his tongue inside her mouth. He gave another slow thrust of his shaft, this time caressing the tip of the throbbing point between her legs. Phoebe startled at the pleasure that radiated through her. Feather light, one hand skimmed along her arm, over her shoulder, then covered her breast. Kneading the breast, he broke the kiss and slid his mouth along her cheek, down her neck to the other breast. An instant later, he sucked a nipple into his mouth.

  She was slowly going insane.

  He reached between their bodies and Phoebe gasped when his warm finger stroked her heated sex. He flicked his tongue on her nipple as his finger teased, stroked, urged her to want more…to want him. She gripped his shoulders in an effort to halt the whirl of sensations, but the feel of steel beneath her fingers compelled her to pull him closer instead.

  The stroking ceased and she realized he was fitting his shaft to the entrance of her channel. Her stomach did a somersault. This was as far as she and Brandon had gotten—though the journey had been nothing like this. She hadn't lost her mind with Brandon. The tip of Kiernan's penis eased into her. Phoebe tensed.

  "Easy, love," he whispered. "We have all night."

  She flushed. He had guessed the truth? But how?

  He inched deeper. She held her breath as his girth stretched her. This was strange. He reached between them and began stroking her again, this time with more fervor. She clamped her legs around his hips.

  "That's it," he coaxed, and massaged her faster.

  Her mind confused the sensation with his deeper penetration. He had stopped, hadn't he? Need rose on a tide and she remembered this same feeling from the night he'd given her pleasure. God forgive her, she wanted that now. He began flicking her sensitive nub. She lifted her hips and in the next instant he shoved into her hilt deep. A split second of tearing pain, then he lay on her unmoving.

  She waited, suddenly lucid and uncertain. Did a wife tell her husband to get himself off her when he had just taken her virginity?

  His chest rose then fell with a deep breath…and he kissed her. Warmth began a slow spread through her. He grasped her hands, raised them over her head and threaded his fingers with hers. Then he began moving inside her. This was nothing like a moment ago. He slid effortlessly in and out of her slick channel. Her heart rate kicked up. His hips rocked against her with each slow stroke of his rod along her walls. Phoebe laced her fingers more tightly with his. He thrust faster, harder. She drew a shaky breath. Pleasure tickled at the edges of consciousness. She clamped her legs around his hips and startled at the sensations that radiated through her. Tentatively, she lifted her hips to meet his surge. The tip of his penis seemed to crash into the back of her wall.

  He groaned and crushed her deeper into the mattress with a fierce thrust. A mixture of pleasure and pain shot through her. His hips slammed into her with each powerful plunge deeper. Kiernan abruptly shifted and sucked a nipple into his mouth. Blinding pleasure surged through Phoebe. She squeezed her eyes shut. A bright white light blurred her vision behind her eyelids. Her muscles tightened around Kiernan in climax. A hoarse groan rumbled through his chest and he ground himself against her. He released her fingers and slid his arms around her, squeezing so that she could scarce catch her breath. But the discomfort was flooded by the ripples of aftershock that radiated through her body. He pounded into her, then gave a final thrust that seemed to reach clear to her core.

  "Phoebe."

  The hoarse whisper sent a strange ripple of emotion through her as the pleasure subsided on smaller then smaller waves. He thrust again, slowly. Phoebe wrapped her arms around his shoulders in the last seconds as he moved inside her then finally relaxed.

  They lay unmoving for a long moment, their bodies slicked with sweat, then Kiernan slid from her. Cool air washed over her heated flesh. He pulled the blanket up over them, then tugged her backside against him. Phoebe blinked at the stars that winked in the night sky through the window, then closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Phoebe awoke chilled. She glanced around the darkened room, her eyes unfocused. She shivered and tugged the bedcovers up over her shoulders—then remembered. By heavens, she had let he
r husband bed her in a brothel. Worse, she'd liked it.

  A faint noise sounded. She shifted her gaze to the left where a sliver of light shone beneath a door she thought opened to a closet. Did the door connect to another room? She threw back the covers and grimaced when cool air rolled across her naked body. Phoebe pulled a blanket from the bed, wrapped it around her, and crept to the door. She placed her ear against the wood but heard nothing, so lowered herself onto her knees and looked under the door. Another door was visible fifteen feet away. A closet connected another room, she realized, and the opposite door was open.

  Phoebe stood and slowly turned the knob. The door clicked open, and she waited for any sounds of alert, but silence followed. Carefully, she inched opened the door and the murmur of Kiernan's voice reached her. She strained to make out his words, but his voice was pitched too low. She tiptoed across the floor to the door and peeked through the crack. Her view included an armoire beside a window. She eased closer to the door and cocked her ear as close to the opening as possible.

  Kiernan quieted, another voice murmured something, then Kiernan said, “What better way to catch a traitor?”

  “We should go,” the man said.

  Kiernan sighed. “I had more pleasant plans for the morning, but if we hurry, I may make it back before my wife wakes. Give me a moment."

  Phoebe's pulse jumped. Footsteps approached the door. She sprinted for the opposite door and reached it in two leaps, carefully shut it, and ran the last few paces to the bed. She threw the blanket over her as she turned toward the wall. A moment later, the door softly clicked and the soft pad of feet neared, then stopped. Phoebe forced even breathing as if asleep, and he left. She waited another moment, then sprang from the bed and dressed.

  Moonlight shone through fast moving clouds, illuminating the two men's tracks in the moist ground. Not that Phoebe had to track them. In the distance, they walked down the main street, their great coats fanned out around them like bat wings. She hugged her cloak tighter, keeping a hand pressed against the pistol in her pocket, and hurried through the shadows cast by the shops that lined the deserted street.

  The men took a right turn down a narrow lane. She rushed to the edge of the building and peeked around the corner. When they were far enough ahead, she hugged the wall and followed. They wound their way through the streets for another fifteen minutes as the tang of salt air intensified.

  They walked another ten minutes and she grew concerned. Sunrise was but an hour away. Minutes later, the distinct caw of the sea’s scavenger birds broke the nightly silence.

  Kiernan and his companion slowed and Phoebe halted at the nearest cottage and pressed close to the building. The men angled toward a house and she watched as they reached the door and knocked. The door opened and dim light splashed out into the darkness. They stepped inside and the door closed.

  When Phoebe reached the cottage, she made a quick inspection that revealed no open windows. She glanced up at the sky and prayed she didn't have long to wait.

  Light fingered across the dark sky in gray streaks. Another quarter of an hour and the sun would peak over the horizon. A door clicked open and Phoebe crept from the side of the cottage to the rear. A low murmur of voices was followed by the light crunch of boots on the rocky terrain. Their footsteps began to fade and she hurried to the edge of the cottage and peered around the corner. Four figures silhouetted by the gray dawn passed along the lane.

  Minutes later, the sun's rim edged up the sky. Shops had replaced cottages, and sailors and merchants milled about the street. Phoebe kept the hood of her cloak around her face while walking on the opposite side of the street a safe distance behind the men. The man who had accompanied Kiernan from Madam Duvall's was with him, along with Mather, but the third man was a stranger.

  The street veered to the right and Phoebe slowed as she rounded the corner. A bay jutted inland and several ships stood docked in the water. The men rounded a shop and disappeared from view. She slowed in front of the shop and gazed in the window at the nautical almanacs and supplies displayed in the window. Two men appeared from around the building and she waited until they passed before continuing to the building edge. At the end of that lane, past several buildings, a single ship bobbed at the dock. The lane was empty except for Kiernan and two of companions—Mather was gone—and they stood near the gangplank.

  The stranger to Kiernan's right clapped him on the back as a sailor appeared on deck and called to them from the ship. The stranger raised a hand in salute, turning so that she glimpsed his profile. The sailor waved back then disappeared below. Phoebe stared at the man, whose back was once again facing her. There was something—

  “Are ye lost, lass?” a deep voice rumbled.

  Phoebe turned toward the speaker. A large Highlander stood beside her, a revolver shoved into one side of his belt, and pistol in the other.

  “Oh, no.” She smiled. “I am just wondering who that man is. He looks familiar. Do you know him?” She motioned toward the stranger.

  The Highlander glanced at them. “Which one? I know them all.”

  “Who are they?”

  "A lady doesn't ask about strange men," he said.

  "A lady can ask about her husband's associates," she replied.

  He gave her a curios look, then said, “The one standing to your husband's left is David MacKenzie.”

  She scowled. "How do you know which man is my husband?"

  He raised a brow. “I know David's wife. The other,” he motioned to the man with his back to them, “is fifty-seven years old."

  "Men his age marry," she said. “What is his name?"

  "Clachair."

  “Clachair?” She jerked her gaze onto him and, as if finally realizing she was there, Kiernan looked in her direction.

  Clachair turned, and Phoebe stared into eyes identical to those belonging to the man in the portrait that hung over the salon fireplace in her uncle's London home: her father's eyes. Recognition registered on his face, and her surroundings swam around her in a swirl of black. Iron fingers closed around her arm. Phoebe snapped from the faint and nearly tripped when the man pulled her toward Kiernan and Clachair, who were now walking in her direction. Her legs felt like jelly and she suddenly didn't want to talk to either of them—ever. A strange sense of panic welled up and she yanked in an effort to free herself from the man.

  "Sir." She yanked harder.

  A shot rang out, whizzing past them from the street behind them. The man shoved her to the ground and yanked the revolver from his belt. She started to scramble up.

  “Androu!” Kiernan shouted. “Get her out of here."

  Phoebe twisted in an effort to look in Kiernan's direction, but Androu swept her into a bear hug and in three long steps, reached the gag between the nearest building, and dropped her onto her feet. She pulled the pistol from her cloak.

  Androu glanced back. “By the Saints, are ye daft, woman?” He knocked the weapon from her hand with a heavy-handed swipe.

  She cried out as the pistol sailed into the lane. "You fool! Hand over your revolver."

  His brows snapped down in a frown. "I'm not of a mind to be shot by a woman."

  Another gun report sounded. A woman screamed.

  Androu's head whipped around and he peered past the building toward the ship. "Run, MacGregor," he shouted, and fired.

  Phoebe hugged the opposite building and peered out toward the ship. She caught sight of Kiernan an instant before he lunged into their alley. Another shot blasted, this time, from the direction of the ship, and Androu fired back.

  Kiernan seized Phoebe's shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded.

  “What in God’s name are you doing here? Never mind. In the future, I’ll entertain guests someplace other than a room next to our bedchamber.”

  “Kiernan.” Phoebe gasped his lapel. “That man—Clachair—is my father.”

  Kiernan’s expression softened. “I know. I meant to tell you, but," he flashed a lo
psided grin, "you distracted me. That's why I'm here. I had to tell your father I'd married you.”

  Tears threatened again. “What?”

  “Stay back!" Androu shouted, then, "There the bloody bastards are!” He fired again.

  Kiernan gave her a hard shake. "Do not move, Lady Ashlund, or I swear by God Almighty, I'll spank your bare arse in the town square." He released her and pulled the revolver from his waistband as he sidled up to the building's edge and peered into the lane. “Your handiwork?" he said to Androu."

  "Aye, got him through the heart."

  "Damn good shot. No sign of the others. How many did you count?”

  "Two, maybe three. They made MacDougal's place, nearest the ship.”

  “Clachair," Kiernan shouted, "Stay down.”

  “Has Clach—my father—no weapon?” Phoebe demanded.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Kiernan's attention remained on the street. “He’s a man of peace, Phoebe.”

  A tremor shook her. “I always knew he was a peaceful man. No such man could be a traitor.”

  Kiernan's gaze shifted onto her. "I believe we discussed this last night."

  She felt her eyes widen and he lifted a brow in confirmation of her thoughts: her father was the Clachair wanted by the Crown because, like Kiernan, he was aiding criminals. He was, indeed, a traitor.

  Her jaw tightened, then she whirled on Androu. “Give me your spare pistol.”

  He cast a shocked look at Kiernan.

  “Do as she says,” Kiernan instructed.

  Androu looked dubious, but pulled the pistol from his waistband and extended it butt first.

  She looked at the pistol. “Had you not knocked my Blanch pistol from my grasp, I would not have to make do with this archaic piece of machinery.”

  Androu looked offended. “‘Tis a respectable Scottish pistol.”

  “Flintlock,” Phoebe muttered. "Care to trade the Pepperbox for this pistol?”

  His eyes narrowed, then he swung his gaze onto Kiernan. “I’ll go find the bastards for you.”