The Sweet Surrender of Janet Buchanan

by Paula Quinn

  But though he looked like a big cat about to devour her, she risked her heart and brought the apple back to her lips. “Thank ye fer yer generous…”

  His laughter trickled across her ears as he pounced, catching the apple and her in both hands. He looked down into her eyes for a moment, then tossed the apple over his shoulder and dragged her closer, locked in his embrace.

  Clutched against him, she could feel the thunderous clang of his heart against her chest. Did he care for her? Was she only another notch on his belt?

  “Darach?” She slowed her laughter and gave him a serious look.

  “Aye, lass?” he asked, then devoured her neck.

  “Did ye think of me at all after ye left me in Killiecrankie? Speak plainly. I can take the truth.”

  His mouth paused on her throat. She could feel his warm breath along her pulse. Could she really take the truth?

  When he lifted his head and stared at her with firelight in his eyes, she didn’t think she could and wanted to get up and run from embarrassment.

  “Janet,” he whispered, sounding unsteady and hoarse. “Ye never left me. I penned songs aboot ye that I’m certain will someday get my arse thrashed by m’ kin.”

  She wanted to smile. He penned songs about her? But…

  “Then why did ye not return to me?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Darach stared into Janet’s smoky eyes and wished he could disappear into them. How was he to answer her query? He didn’t want to tell her that he’d been a coward. He tried to turn away, to move away from her, but her fingers along his jaw stopped him.

  “D’ye truly want a wife, Darach?”

  Och hell, what was it with her and these questions? “Claiming ye is the only way Roddie is goin’ to leave before I’m forced to kill every one of his men,” he said, supposing he should answer at least one.

  “So ye’re hoping he’ll leave before we must marry.” This time, it wasn’t a question.

  Nae, he wanted to tell her. The thought of marrying her was altogether, shockingly pleasant. And that’s what scared the shyt out of him at night. He was already lost to the spell love cast over otherwise rough men. He reveled in the way her soft, curvy body trembled in his arms and made him hard as iron. How the hell was he going to stop himself from having her? Worse, how was he going to stop Roddie from wanting her without having to kill him, or most of his men?

  “I willna’ let Roddie have ye, Janet.”

  “But why? Ye dinna’ owe me anything.”

  “Because I want ye fer m’self, lass,” he confessed, his voice deep with emotion he appeared extremely uncomfortable with. “Must I write it oot fer ye in the mud? Because that’s how my heart feels presently. Like mud.”

  She quirked her mouth at him, wrenching his heart from its place and into her hands. “Yer father would be quite proud, bard.”

  Och, but she was a sharp-tongued viper. He laughed, slipping off her body to lie beside her. So what if she knew his deepest, darkest secret… that he was a poet at heart? She thrilled him, ignited his senses like no one before her. He would give her what she wanted and he didn’t give a damn what it meant.

  “Love, is it pretty words ye want?” Before she could answer, he wrapped them loosely in his plaid and set his words loose upon her.

  “The first time I laid m’ eyes upon ye, I thought, here is the bonniest lass m’ poor swollen eye has ever looked upon.” He smiled with her while they remembered his battered face when they first met. “Like the frost of a clear winter night,” he continued softly, sweeping a coiled spring of hair off her cheek, “yer gaze chilled m’ blood, warnin’ m’ soul that ye were no’ a common lass.” He traced his fingertips over the outline of her plump lower lip. He wanted to kiss her, to feel the sweet surrender of her mouth, her body, and her heart. “M’ heart’s enemy, not due to yer name, but because of what ye did to it.” He met her gaze in the firelight and saw his heart there, laid bare before him.

  He kissed the soft smile from her lips and drew her closer against him. “But ’tis worse without ye. That’s why…”—it alarmed him to think of what was about to come from his mouth, and the ease with which it arrived—“I want ye to consent to be m’ wife.”

  Her senses and logic seemed to have abandoned her as well. “I consent,” she promised quietly.

  He took his time with her, knowing her submission didn’t come without a cost to her. He wanted her to pay very little.

  “I’ve dreamed many times,” he told her while he pulled the laces of her gown loose, “of freein’ yer lush breasts into m’ hands, of kissin’ each in turn.” He yanked on the last lace and her shift stretched open, almost spilling out her breasts precisely where he said he wanted them.

  Dipping his face to her bosom, he tugged at her gown with his teeth and then pulled the wool away, exposing her to his masterful tongue. She trembled against him, setting his blood aflame. He took her into his mouth and basked in the feel of her hard nipple against the caress of his teeth. All the while his deft fingers shed her of her garments. He wanted all of her, every inch. If he was going to truly claim her, he was going to do it properly.

  “Is there a priest at Ravenglade?” he asked roughly, pausing in his assault on her breasts.

  “Of course,” she answered, then bit down on her lip, tempting him to ruin. “But we’re not going to wait until morning, are we?” She sealed her fate the moment she ended her query by tugging on his shirt.

  She wanted him out of his clothes, and he obliged without haste. He didn’t want to wait. His interest in the priest was more for Menzie than them. Tomorrow they would plan the days ahead. Tonight was for them alone.

  Janet couldn’t believe that this was truly happening. Darach’s hard, naked body above hers convinced her that it was real.

  All the fighting she’d done to rid her thoughts of him, brought to naught by the slant of his lips, a flick of his gaze. She couldn’t resist him, was completely lost to him, and she didn’t care.

  She’d never been intimate with a man but relied on her instincts… and her instincts were not shy or delicate. Besides, Darach seemed to like when she clutched him by the hair and met the passion of his mouth with equal fervor.

  She didn’t try to stop him when he dipped his fingers between her thighs, lost in the rhapsodic rhythm of his breath, and then in the shameless pleasure she took in his careful ministrations.

  She opened her eyes many times to remind herself that this was Darach Grant above her, about to make love to her. She couldn’t stop him even if she wanted to, which she didn’t. She tried to calm her thrashing heart, but it wouldn’t listen. It never did when it came to this rough and rugged Highlander.

  His lean muscles rippled against her palms as she ran them over the hills and valleys of his chest, down his back. He was carved to please, and he pleased her well. He smiled at her when their intimate gazes met, turning her bones to water. In her weakened state she was no match for his strength when he wrenched her knees apart and settled down atop her.

  She nearly squeaked at the steel lance pressed against her opening. If he thought that beast was going to fit inside her, he was…

  He bent his head to hers and kissed her, fracturing all her thoughts until nothing remained but his touch, his breath blending with hers. Was this one of her dreams? She’d had many with him, but the caress of his erection was real, and difficult to ignore. His face above her was real and so much more beautiful in the flesh. He kept her warm in his arms while her nose filled with the scent of him. He didn’t plunge into her like an eager diver but encased her in his embrace and kissed her senseless instead. So much better than her dreams. He had soft lips… soft, firm, and demanding. She loved how they felt moving over her mouth, her throat.

  They fit comfortably together, nestled in each other’s curves and angles. He caressed her with his tender hands over her face and moved like a rushing wind against her crux, taking her close to the edge. But he didn’t force or rush their coming to
gether. Like a sorcerer, he wove her deeper and deeper into his spell with softly whispered promises of making her happy, making her laugh, and, of course, making her angry.

  He entered her with slow, tantalizing thrusts, conquering her on the forest floor. After a few short, sharp pains, he broke through her maiden veil and moved with more purpose. The pain ebbed at his masterful caress until nothing remained but jolts of pleasure that curled her toes. She lifted her legs around his waist to satisfy some base desire to take every inch of him. She did, with long, scalding strokes, smiling between kisses at the passion in his gaze. He cared for her. She could see it there, deep within the verdant depths of his eyes. The thought of it made her want to pleasure him more, until he burst inside her.

  She gyrated against him and licked her bottom lip when he groaned like a bear injured in the woods. She moved under him like a veil in the wind and grasped his buttocks in her palms. She pushed him deeper, harder, crying out at the smoldering iron lance driving in and out of her.

  He came in an eruption of thick groans and a wide, open smile so salacious, it brought her to climax with him.

  She loved him. God help her, she loved him hard.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “May I ask ye something?”

  “Aye.”

  Janet leaned up on one elbow and stared at Darach stretched out on his plaid beside her. “Why are ye doing this?”

  His gaze traced her features against the golden flames. He smiled as if he couldn’t help himself. “Doin’ what?”

  “Wedding me. Ye speak pretty words, but ye’re a rogue.”

  He quirked his full, sexy mouth at her. “Ye think m’ words are empty?”

  She met his deep gaze and searched him straight through. “Then, ye meant them?”

  “Aye, and if I dinna’ wed ye, I’ll have to kill all the Menzies.”

  “Hmm.” She nodded and smiled at his face. For a poet, he was very practical. She’d have to work on that with him. She tousled a lock of his golden hair with her fingers and moved her body a wee bit closer to his. “Killing all the Menzies might be better than having me as yer wife.”

  He laughed, looking up at the moon, setting her heart to ruin. “It doesna’ matter. Yer mine now… aye?”

  Was she? What exactly did being “his” mean? She asked him.

  “’Tis Highland law, lass. Ye’re familiar wi’ it.”

  Aye, she was. Normally, marriage was carried out under canon law, but Highlanders still wed by consent, present or future. For a marriage to be valid it didn’t matter if there were witnesses. Witnesses, including priests, only made it easier to prove. It didn’t matter if banns had been posted in advance or not. Exchanging consents in the woods with only forest creatures for witnesses was legal and binding, especially to a clan proscribed by the law and who were refused the sacraments by the church.

  She had consented. Good Lord, what would William say? He would think it was a clever move to save the castle. Everything always came back to the castle. Ever since she was a babe and the men in her clan used to sit around the fire and discuss what Ravenglade meant to them and why they should always fight to get it back.

  Now she was being wed to save it. Now she was a Grant. Or was she?

  “Is it not true that both of us must consent?” she asked, tilting her brow at him. “As it stands right now, only I agreed. Ye did not.”

  “Of course I did,” he insisted after he thought about it for a moment.

  She shook her head. “Ye did not. A clever way, mayhap, to annul what ye claim is binding.”

  He stared at her for a moment as if she’d lost her mind. Then he burst out laughing. “I consent to bein’ yer… husband.”

  “Ye paused,” she pointed out.

  He shook his head, his laughter fading into a smile. “Only because I never thought I’d hear myself sayin’ it. Not until ye.” He pulled her back down, close to him.

  “Janet Buchanan,” his silky voice against her halted her words, her thoughts. “I consent, in the sight of God, to be yer husband. I promise no’ to ever strangle ye, though the urge is sometimes overwhelmin’. I promise—”

  His vows ended abruptly when the click of a pistol sounded against his ear.

  When Janet saw the man standing over them, she began to scream. A hand over her mouth silenced her. Another hand around her arm wrenched her from Darach, and from his plaid.

  Everything happened so quickly she didn’t have time to think. She could only watch as Roddie Menzie dug the sole of his boot into Darach’s neck where he lay and pointed the barrel of his long pistol between Darach’s eyes.

  “Shoot me,” Darach growled. “Because I’m goin’ to kill ye if ye dinna.”

  Four more Menzies surrounded them. One of them pointed the tip of his pistol at Janet’s temple.

  Darach went still. He met her terrified gaze and seemed to crumble to pieces inside his skin. Soon enough though, fury filled him and spilled out in the glistening of his eyes.

  “Cover her!” Roddie shouted to his leering men. “I’ll cut out the eyes of the next man who looks at her. That includes ye, Grant.” He dug the edge if his boot deeper into Darach’s neck. “Ye’ll never touch her again.”

  “Ye’ll never see yer home again,” Darach warned him through the slight air coming into his lungs.

  Roddie lifted his pistol high in the air and before Janet could scream, the Menzie chief swung the metal hilt and smashed it into Darach’s head. She watched, horrified, while he fell unconscious—or dead. She begged God it wasn’t the latter while one of the Menzies tugged Darach’s plaid free from beneath his body and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  She wiped her eyes when Roddie marched toward her. She was determined not to let him see how terrified she was. Anger filled her when he struck Darach and she wanted to tear out Roddie’s heart. Her daggers, unfortunately, lay useless in the grass.

  “Whore,” he said in a low snarl, then pulled back his fist and struck her in the face. “Fortunate fer ye,” he said while she fell to the ground, unconscious, “I still want ye. Fer now.”

  “What about him?” One of his men kicked Darach’s limp body while they were preparing to leave. “Should I kill him?”

  Roddie looked over his shoulder after hefting Janet over it. “And have his kin ride out of the mists and kill every damn one of us? They won’t stop until there isn’t a Menzie left in Scotland. Nae, leave him there. The shame of losing her to me will be enough punishment fer him.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Darach came awake slowly. He opened his eyes, then shut them again when pain shot up his temple like a fiery lance. Had a tree fallen and hit him? Nae, it was… All at once the fog cleared and he remembered. Janet! He sat up, ignoring his throbbing head and the wave of nausea that coursed through him.

  She was gone.

  He wasn’t sure if he felt relieved that she wasn’t lying in the grass, battered and used, or scared to death that Roddie had taken her back to his holding to do it.

  His heart pounded like a fierce battle drum in his chest. She was naked when last Darach saw her. Naked with the Menzies. He groaned. He clenched his teeth and made a sound from the back of his throat that would have frightened anyone, had they been there to hear it. As it was, a rabbit, nibbling on the grass, took off running.

  Darach rose up on his feet, unsteady for the first moment or two. Then he looked around for his clothes. He found them strewn in a nearby bush, her gown along with them. He reached for his sword and swung it hard across him, ignoring the pain from Menzie’s hilt. She was alone and naked with the Menzies! If they touched her… If they hurt her… He dressed swiftly, attaching to various parts of his body all the weapons he’d hidden in the campsite. He was going to find her. He was going to hunt them down and take her back, and then he was going to make them all wish they had never laid eyes on Janet Buchanan.

  He felt his temple and pulled his bloody fingers away. He’d bled before. Nothing mattered but getting Jane
t back.

  How long ago had Roddie taken her? He squinted, looking up. The sun was high. Hell, he’d been out cold for several hours. With his blood turning cold in his veins, he prayed that Janet was still alive and took off to find her.

  He wasn’t as good a tracker as some in Camlochlin, but he spotted a few broken branches and flattened leaves and followed the faint path. He moved quickly, running at some points when the trail was easier to find.

  A short while later he thought he’d found Menzie’s camp when he heard men’s voices in the distance. Pulling his dagger free, he ran, staying low so as not to be seen. He came upon the first man within minutes and coiled his arm around his throat from behind.

  “Grant!” It was William’s voice coming toward him, his hands outstretched. “Stop! ’Tis Kevin ye’re about to slay!”

  Darach’s blade paused in midair while he spun Kevin around to have a good look at him. The cook trembled in his boots and choked out a garbled prayer.

  “What the hell are ye doing here?” Darach demanded the chief, angry that he’d come so close to killing Kevin.

  “My sister wasn’t in her bed this morn. I suspected she followed ye out here. We left through the tunnel and have been searching since this morn.”

  When Darach’s hard expression faltered, William grew pale. “Where is she?” the Buchanan chief asked. “Have ye seen her? What happened to yer head?”

  “Roddie Menzie has her,” Darach admitted, then continued despite her brother’s pale complexion. “He came and took her from me just before dawn.” He didn’t tell Janet’s brother that she was naked, or that they had made love for most of the night. “I must find her. We’re wasting time. Do ye have any horses?”

  “Nae,” William told him. “But we can run.”

  “Aye,” Darach nodded, they would run.