by Laurel Adams
CONTENTS
Product Description
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
At The Laird's Command
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
DEAR READERS
ABOUT LAUREL ADAMS
ALSO BY LAUREL ADAMS
And now another installment of the popular Historical Highland Romance Series…
At the Laird’s Command
Laird John Macrae is in love with a woman whose reputation he ruined. A woman he cannot keep safe unless he allows the unthinkable…
With his castle under siege and a traitor within its walls, the laird counts his days as numbered. What he wants is to ensure the safety of his clan and the spirited Scottish lass that he loves—a simple crofter’s daughter he took for his harlot and cannot now give the protection of his name. But he believes his kinsman, Ian Macrae, can give her protection that he cannot. And to save her from the enemies who would use her against him, he must find the strength within himself to give her up.
But the Highlander’s mistress has grown accustomed to the unusual demands of her laird—a hardened warrior whose rough touch and domestic discipline ignites her deepest passions and fills her heart with love. And when he commands her to seduce his kinsman, she is heartbroken. Will she obey her laird—and if she does, will they ever find their way back together again?
Reader Advisory: This is a historical erotic romance novel set in Scotland, approximately 45k words in length, and in addition to a heartfelt love story, it also contains sizzling menage sex scenes, domination and discipline, double-penetration, voyeurism, exhibitionism, spanking, dark kink and taboo acts. For adults only.
AT THE LAIRD’S COMMAND
A Sword and Thistle Novella
Laurel Adams
At the Laird’s Command
Copyright © 2014 Laurel Adams
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Cover design by Laurel Adams. Plaid Attribution: Sg647112c at English Wikipedia under Creative Commons. Photo of castle by Dave Conner, also licensed under Creative Commons: https://www.flickr.com/photos/conner395/6469038583. Use of photos and art shouldn’t be taken as an endorsement of those artists of this work.
DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story engage in some risky behavior and make some questionable decisions; it should go without saying that this behavior is not to be encouraged in real life. But that’s the beauty of fiction; they can do this, and we can enjoy thinking about them doing it, without anyone getting hurt.
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At The Laird's Command
Chapter One
THE LAIRD
Laird John Macrea had three problems.
The first was that he was in love with an entirely unsuitable woman. The second was that his castle was besieged. And the third was that he couldn’t stop thinking about the first problem long enough to solve the second.
As for the siege—well, he’d trusted too much that allies would come swiftly to his aid. It was often jested that the Macrae clan served as the coat of mail for the more powerful Mackenzies; John had trusted the Mackenzies would return the favor if ever the castle at Eilean Donan should be under siege.
But the siege had lasted on past Christmastide with no word of reinforcement and the situation was bleak. The enemy was demanding his clan’s surrender, generally.
And his head, specifically.
The laird wanted to keep his head, for all the usual reasons, but also because he’d need it to defend the unsuitable woman that he loved. A woman he had, in fact, made unsuitable. She’d been a simple highland lass, the wholesome daughter of a crofter. Heather was her name. And he’d wanted her from the first flower of her womanhood. With raven hair and enchanting violet eyes, she had seemed to him the sweetest, most innocent, most pure thing in God’s creation. And given the very impure nature of the his desire—a desire that manifested itself in a much darker way than with most men—he’d never intended to lay a finger upon her.
No. Tender-hearted virgins without lands or powerful fathers were not for the likes of Laird John Macrae. The needs of his body were meant to be sated in bawdy houses where brothel girls weren’t likely to be shocked by his rough ways. The needs of his line were meant to be satisfied, only if necessary, with a marriage for political alliance. And the needs of his heart—well, he’d told himself that he didn’t have a heart.
He’d convinced most of the clan of it as well.
He believed it too, until Heather…
“Can’t you sleep?” she asked, groggily, from the bed beside him, daring to take the liberty of stroking his cheek. God, but he loved the feel of her touch. The warmth of her long, slender fingers upon his cool cheek both soothed him and stirred his ardor.
“Just a bit restless is all,” he confessed, for there was nothing worse to make a man restless than being caged up in a castle defending against a siege. The waiting—constant waiting to see what the enemy would do next—was enough to drive a man mad. “But don’t trouble yourself about it, lass. I’ll drift off beside you soon enough.”
“Are you certain?” she asked, her voice sweetly soft in the dark. “You said—you said once that you don’t sleep easily with someone beside you. I can go to my own chamber. I should hate to be the reason for you to lose sleep, my laird.”
She was the reason he was restless, though not because she was spending the night in his bed, and it pained him to have her think otherwise. “Stay,” he said, turning to kiss her palm, which had picked up the scent of lavender from the linens.
Stay and never leave my bed.
Never leave my side.
Stay with me and be mine for all your days.
These things he could not say to her, of course. But he could not stop thinking them, either.
“Are you cold?” she asked, curving her body tighter against his side and bringing the blanket with her. The gesture was meant only bring him warmth against the winter, but it actually filled him with heat. With only her thin nightclothes between them, he felt the brush of her pillowy breasts against his ribs, the tickle of her womanly thatch against his hip.
He growled a bit in response. “No, not cold. Not anymore, anyway. You always warm me up nicely, lass.”
She laughed, softly. “As it happens, I might know of a way to cure your restlessness, too.”
He turned upon his pillow to face her. “Do you now?” he asked, with interest, in spite of himself.
“Oh, you’ve taught me many things…but I’ve some ideas of my own.”
He tried not to betray his anxiety about what her ideas might entail. The laird was a man who knew exactly what he liked when it came to sexual pleasure. He didn’t take suggestions. And yet, this girl—this surprising girl who had opened herself freely to his every depraved de
sire—made him wonder. “What ideas might those be, lass?”
He heard her swallow. Was she nervous? That made him even more curious.
“I—I have a gift for you,” she finally said.
“A gift?” he asked. “But it’s past Christmastide.”
And what a lean, grim, Christmas time it had been, too, with everything rationed in the castle and no goods coming in or out. His fault; all of it. Well, at least all of it that wasn’t the fault of the Donald and MacDonald clans who wanted to take the castle from him.
Heather didn’t seem to be worried about that. With a bit of mischief in her voice she said, “I couldn’t have given you this gift at Christmastide…or during the day. In truth, I’m a little frightened to give it to you now.”
He brushed a tendril of her dark hair away from her face, hoping to see her expression in the firelight, “Well, then, now I must know what it is.”
She rolled away from him before he could see her face clearly. Then she rummaged about over the side of the bed, returning to press a bundle wrapped in twine into his hands. “Should I light the candles for this?”
“I’d much prefer you didn’t,” she said, shyly lowering her violet gaze. “It’s a thing meant for the dark.”
Curiouser and curiouser…
The laird tore the twine with his teeth and cast aside the linen wrap, his fingers tracing along what seemed to be wood. In the dim light of the fire, he held up the mysterious object, which felt very much to him like… “A spoon?”
“It’s a stirrer,” she said, bashfully. “Or at least, t’was a stirring paddle.”
His whole body gave a start. A paddle. She’d given him a paddle. What a reckless lass to give a man like him such a gift. Surely she must know what he would want to do with such a thing! The laird’s prick hardened immediately. He was instantly aroused at the very thought of it, even though his emotions were a jumble.
In the dark, she rambled, “It’s—it’s badly scorched on one side and the cook said that it was ruined, so I swiped it before she could use it as firewood.” Heather took a deep breath. “But I didn’t ask her permission, so I s’pose I must be disciplined for it…”
The coquettish lilt to her voice was coming more naturally now than it did when he’d first seduced and debauched her. Truly, given all the ways in which he’d taken this girl’s body—even allowing his men to witness it—she ought to be as jaded as a brothel girl by now. But even this flirtatious suggestion, lewd as it was, carried a note of sweetness.
“Are you suggesting that I paddle you tonight?” he asked, his mouth going dry both with the temptation, and with the way both his heart and cock swelled with adoration. She knew how it excited him to dominate and discipline a woman. And she made herself obliging to those desires in every way. It filled him with even more tenderness toward her than it did desire. “I don’t want to hurt you, lass.”
“Yes, you do, my laird,” she said, daring to contradict him.
He kissed her very softly on the lips. “No. I want to give you pleasure. Only pleasure,” he said, trailing kisses down her beautiful neck. It was a lie, of course. That is not all he wanted to do to her. But at war within him were the tenderest feelings of protective love and the carnal desire to paddle her rump until it glowed red before taking her in every orifice and position possible.
She slipped her arms around his neck and bit her lower lip. “Have I—have I displeased you, my laird?”
The question startled him. “Why should you ask such a thing?”
“Because you once told me how you need to take a woman. Roughly, and with force. But you haven’t done that in weeks. Haven’t even found it in yourself to call me wicked names…haven’t let me submit myself to you truly.” She trailed off with a wistful sigh that might be because of his kisses, or might be because she missed the rough treatment.
John knew some women did like it; in truth, he prided himself on the way he could make women scream both in pain and pleasure. But those were either women of great sophistication or brothel girls. He still found it hard to believe that such a soft and soft-hearted lass like Heather could possibly like the dark things he did to her. And because he held within him a sliver of doubt he had to ask, “Why should it trouble you if I should wish to use you gently?”
“It—it shouldn’t, of course, my laird. As your harlot, it’s my duty to serve you in any way you like…”
She used the shameful word harlot affectionately and with pride. She used the word the way he’d wanted her to. The way he’d taught her to when he’d claimed her for his own. And in the midst of their pleasures, he often made her use this word and others far more vulgar. But on a quiet night like this, when his heart was filled with such love, he disliked the word immensely. Especially when applied to her. In truth, it pained him that he had ever used it.
But it also aroused him.
Which made him fall silent in shame…
Chapter Two
HEATHER
I clearly have displeased my laird, I thought, as he went quiet.
I didn’t know exactly how or why things had changed between us in the weeks since the siege had begun. It was natural, in a time of fear and doubt, for him to withdraw. He was the chieftain of my clan. And as the constable of a castle, he had larger concerns than the burning need for him that I felt between my legs each day and night. But the more gentle and infrequent our bedding together became, the darker a fear grew inside my heart that he was already tiring of me.
Of course, once, I would have welcomed such a thing…
I had only offered my body to John Macrae in exchange for my father’s life, when he was caught stealing from the laird. And the laird had only accepted my offer to teach my father a lesson. I was to serve as an example that any man who defied the laird might have his daughter turned into the laird’s harlot.
But instead of being taken into the laird’s bed, I’d had to fight my way there.
Because Laird John Macrae was nothing like he seemed.
He was a kind man. A good man. A thoughtful one. And instead of using my body, he’d let me roam the castle baking pies and wearing new dresses and learning my letters like a lady of leisure. He wouldn’t take my maidenhead until I pleaded with him to do it. And on the glorious night he’d finally made me his own—he unleashed inside me a depthless hunger for him.
I could not stop wanting him. I could not stop craving the way it felt to be possessed by his rough hands. To be held down, to feel the welts his belt left upon my backside. To feel the sweet release of giving myself over to him body and soul. I wanted him so badly, this handsome, rugged, stern man.
I was too disgraced now to be his wife or even his mistress, but I could be his whore and I felt there was some honor in that. But I also loved him. That was the tragedy of it. Because now, when he tired of me, I knew it would break my heart.
Reaching quietly for the paddle I’d so foolishly gifted him, I wanted to fling it into the fire. To burn away the humiliation of having so boldly offered my laird such a thing. What a selfish wanton he must think me to initiate carnal games when his mind was occupied with weighty—
His hot mouth closed over mine, in a sudden, startling way. And gone was the gentleness there before. Oh, how I had missed the bruising kisses that stole my breath away!
When he grasped me hard against him like this, it felt as if he had let loose some ravaging creature inside him. As if I was so desirable that he couldn’t keep himself caged. That he was mad for me. Mad. And though I should’ve been frightened by the ferocity of his bruising kiss and the way he yanked my nightclothes up round my waist, some part of me wanted to laugh in delight.
I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders, marveling in the size and power of him even as his rough hand found its way between my legs. “So hot, lass. Do you always burn here for me, my little slut?”
“Always,” I confessed, not minding the vulgar names he called me when his passions were high. I had come to hear them
as endearments. The more vulgarly he spoke, the higher his ardor rose, so I tried to encourage him. “I’m wet for you, too. My whole body ready to be used by you as you desire.”
“Then get this off before I tear it off,” he said of my flimsy sleeping garment. “In fact, you’re never to wear it to my bed again. You’re to sleep naked beside me so there is never any barrier to my taking you when I want you.”
He was working himself up into an irritation over the shift that separated his body from mine, and I knew, from experience how deliciously things would go if he could made to be angry about it. He was angry about the war and so many truly horrible things in the world that were beyond his control; if he could made to be enraged about my nightdress, well, that he could conquer.
“I shouldn’t have worn it in the first place,” I whispered.
“No.”
“You’ve said many times that I must be available to you when you wish.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his gaze darkening.
“But still, I wore it to bed, all to behave as a modest maiden—”
“Which you have no business doing!” he snapped.
I liked doing this to him. And I liked what he did to me because of it. So I dared to take the game a step further. “You’ve taught me to please you. To anticipate your needs. A girl so well-trained should have known better.”
“A mistake you willna make again,” he growled, his brogue more prominent as he gave me a little shake. Then, all at once, he began tearing the gown from me. Tugging it open with a rip so that my breasts spilled forth. I gasped when he did it, then gasped again as he continued to tear it. Shredded it, really, so there would never be any mending it. “I’ll make of it nothing more than a rag. That and anything that ever comes between us, until you learn your lesson.”
