by Tarah Scott
Desire swept through Jacob. Desire to hold his wife close. To tell her his secrets, his dreams. To take her home and show her the misty hills and clear blue lochs around Dunakin Castle. His chest tightened. Would she love his home as much as he did?
Quietly, he added more wood to the fire, then removed his shirt and plaid. At the bed, he paused and drank in the sight of her. His cock hardened uncomfortably.
He pulled the blanket back, then lay on the mattress and pulled her close. She jerked awake as he yanked the blankets over them.
She tried to sit up.
Jacob tightened his hold on her. “Go back to sleep, lass.”
“Jacob?” she said, her voice sleepy. “You are back.” Again, she tried to sit up.
Again, he held tight.
“Jacob.” She wriggled and bumped his cock.
He drew in a sharp breath.
She froze. “What is amiss?”
“You are driving me wild. Now, lay still and sleep.”
A long moment of silence passed before he realized he didn’t detect any even breathing from her. Was she holding her breath?
“Breathe, lass.”
No reply.
“Linnae?”
“You are angry with me.”
“Angry?” He leaned aside so he could see her face.
She kept her face angled toward his chest. “Ye said I’m driving you wild.”
Jacob laughed and hugged her close. “I mean, I want you, lass, and when you move as you did, it makes me want you more.”
“Do you want to consummate our marriage?”
He wanted that so badly it hurt. “I dinnae want to rush you.”
“I am ready if you are.”
His heart thudded. “Are ye sure?”
“I understand it has been a difficult day for ye,” she said. “I will be patient and wait until you’re ready.”
“Wait until I am ready?” Jacob rolled on top of Linnae.
She stared up at him, eyes bright and curious. Gently, he kissed her. This time, she touched his lips with her tongue. He tangled his tongue with hers, tasting, drinking her in. He’d never needed a woman so badly. But she was a maiden.
Gently, he kissed her. Her arms stole around his neck and he thrust his cock against her belly. She drew a sharp breath. Jacob slid his mouth down her jaw, her neck, downward along the curve of her breast to a nipple that jutted through the thin fabric of her shift. He drew the hard peak into his mouth and suckled.
“Good heavens,” she exclaimed, and he chuckled. “Surely, that must be a sin,” she said in a breathless voice that caused his bollocks to tighten.
“If it is, then God is cruel,” he murmured against her flesh.
She slid her fingers into his hair at the nape of his neck. A shiver raced down his back. Jacob levered onto one elbow and with the other hand dragged her shift up past her waist. His cock made contact with her warm belly and need rammed through him.
With one knee, he eased her legs apart and settled between her thighs. He covered one breast with his palm and gently kneaded as he kissed her. She seemed to melt beneath him. Her fingers tightened in his hair. The curls between her legs brushed his cock, but he kept a firm hold on his desire and thrust his hard length between her moist folds. Linnae drew a sharp breath, and he feared he would spend himself in that instant.
She broke the kiss and buried her head in his shoulder. “This is very…strange,” she said.
With a prayer that she meant a good strange, he reach between them, fitted the tip of his cock to her channel and drove into her.
Her fingers tightened painfully on his hair.
He froze. “Do you want me to stop?”
She shook her head.
Carefully, he drew back and thrust gently. She didn’t move. He drew back and thrust again. Still, she didn’t move. Frustration welled up. Was he doing something wrong? He thrust again, then again, then again. Pleasant friction sent a wave of pleasure through him. He increased his speed.
Linnae arched slightly. There it was. He sped up a little more and discerned her sharp intake of breath. He slid a hand beneath her back and lifted. She drew back her knees, feet flat on the mattress, and lifted her hips to meet his thrusts. By God, the lass was a fast learner.
Her head dropped back onto the pillow and she gripped his shoulders. Jacob thrust faster, faster. His heart thundered. Another sharp intake of breath from her. He drove deeper and gritted his teeth against the need to take his own pleasure. He would not have his wife think him a green boy of seventeen.
Jacob forced himself not to think about her pliant warm body beneath his and concentrated on her breathing. Nae, he realized almost too late. That would sent him over the edge in an instant. He kept his rhythm steady, a little deeper, then a little more shallow.
Sweat trickled down his back despite the cool room. He would need to add wood to the fire after he finished. Faster, he drove into her. She shifted. His mind snapped to attention. He thrust again. She drew a sharp breath. Jacob thrust faster. Linnae stiffened and cried out.
His heart beat so fast that he feared it would burst through his chest as his own pleasure rolled over him.
He stroked her inner walls half a dozen more times, then lowered himself onto her to catch his breath. Her heart thundered against his chest. She drew a deep breath and blew cool air across his shoulder. Another shiver raced down his back. He slid off her and pulled her close. She said nothing. He began to grow concerned.
“Are you well, love?”
She nodded.
He’d never known a woman to talk so little.
“Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head.
“Say something, lass, please.”
She drew back and stared at him, brows drawn. “What would you have me say?”
“Something. Anything. Did I please you? Did you hate it?”
Surprise shown in her eyes. “Hate it? Nae. I simply thought you would be tired and need rest.”
Jacob laughed and hugged her close. He intertwined his fingers with hers. Her small hand fit in his perfectly.
“A few moments rest, and I’ll show you how little rest I need.”
Chapter 10
They were woken in the wee hours of the morning and called to Lyel’s chambers. He didn’t wake again, but Linnae stood with Jacob at his side when he took his final breath.
She wouldn’t have thought it possible to feel such loss for someone she’d known for only a few days. Lyel had adopted her and married her to a chief. She would be eternally grateful. But her feelings went deeper. Lyel loved his clan above all things, and he’d entrusted her with their future by marrying her to Jacob. She couldn’t imagine any higher honor. And she didn’t intend to let him down.
She and Jacob took part in the preparation of Lyel’s body for burial. By her estimation, over a thousand people paid their respects. At last, after three days of mourning, Lyel had been lowered into the ground and she stood with Jacob in the afternoon sun after the last mourners finally left.
“There were times I was certain he would outlive me,” Jacob said.
Linnae slipped her hand into his and leaned the side of her head against his arm. He squeezed her fingers.
“I wish I had known him,” she said.
“But ye did,” Jacob said. “He was, in the end, the same as he always was.”
Linnae couldn’t help a small smile. She could imagine him young, like Jacob, an unstoppable force.
“Thank you,” Jacob said.
She frowned. “For what?”
“For loving him.”
Tears pricked. She had loved him.
“Maybe one day you will love me, as well,” he murmured.
Linnae yanked her gaze up to his. He looked down at her.
“I—” Her cheeks warmed. “Is it wrong that I already love you?”
Surprise shone in his eyes. “Wrong?” He turned toward her. “How can that be wrong when I love you?” He pulled her cl
ose and she melted against him. They held one another for several minutes.
“What will happen now?” she finally asked.
“A messenger has been sent for Robert,” Jacob said. “He has no idea he is about to be named laird of the MacKenzies.”
Wind whipped her skirt. “Do ye think he will refuse?”
“I dinnae know the boy. But I pray not.”
A thread of fear wound through her. “What will Laird Donald do once he learns you killed Malcolm?”
“That is an act of war,” Jacob said as casually as if he were asking to take a stroll. He drew back and looked down at her. “Are you ready to go home?”
Dunakin Castle. Skye. How remarkable that she had a home—her home—to go to.
Linnae covered his cheek with her palm. “Aye, I am ready to go home.”
Other books in the Highland Brides of Skye series
Passion
Redemption
Sneak Peek of Claimed By Tarah Scott
Claimed Blurb
Sometimes, the hero must be the villain…
Fourteen months ago, Lady Rhoslyn lost her husband and infant son to a fever. Now, by order of King Edward I, she is yanked from the healing tranquility of a convent to marry the king’s favored bastard knight. Rhoslyn has no intention of returning to the home where her husband and child died. Neither does she intend to hand over her fortune to the ‘Dragon’—no matter his sweet promises and warm kisses.
Talbot St. Claire tires of war. Seventeen years is enough. King Edward will never release him from service, but the king promises Talbot will find some peace in front of his own hearth. Talbot expects to find a horse-faced, hostile woman in the Scottish heiress Edward commands him to marry. Instead, he discovers a fiery Highland beauty worthy of a man’s respect…and love. Talbot determines to do anything to win his new bride’s acceptance. Anything except the one thing she demands: betray his king and embrace his Scottish heritage.
Chapter 1
August 1291 Scottish Highlands
“Your grandfather awaits you at Longford Castle where you will marry Lord Melrose immediately.”
Had she heard correctly?
Disorientation at being abruptly roused from a sound sleep combined with disbelief caused Rhoslyn’s heart to thud wildly. Pain shot down her left arm as Prioress Hildegard twisted the limb and shoved her hand into the sleeve of a gray, wool dress.
“I am sorry, child,” the prioress said, but she didn’t slow her hurried dressing of Rhoslyn.
Hildegard pulled the dress down over her body, then grabbed the belt she had tossed onto the pallet. She cinched it around Rhoslyn’s waist and snatched up the mantle hastily thrown across a nearby table. Rhoslyn recognized the fur-lined cloak as the one she’d worn the day she arrived at the convent fourteen months ago. The prioress swung the garment around Rhoslyn’s shoulder.
“Hildegard, please,” she began as the nun fastened the clasp at her neck.
Hildegard grasped her arm and started toward the door. “We must go. Your grandfather’s men wait outside.”
Rhoslyn stumbled over the hem of her skirts and barely righted herself as they passed through the doorway and into the convent’s narrow hallway.
“I must speak with Abbess Beatrice,” Rhoslyn demanded.
“She sent me.” Hildegard made a hard right around a bend, her grip firm on Rhoslyn’s arm.
They reached the front entrance, where three nuns stood at the open door.
“Where is the abbess?” Rhoslyn asked.
Hildegard pulled her through the door into the fog that hung in the lit bailey. Shock dug deeper at the sight of men-at-arms, a dozen—no she realized, more, at least two dozen—up ahead. Was her respite at the convent truly over?
The prioress hurried her toward the men who waited near the gate.
As they approached, Sir Ascot, who held the bridle of his horse at the front of the company, dropped to one knee. “My lady.”
“Rise, Knight,” she instructed. “Quickly, tell me what has happened.”
He came to his feet, then reached inside the front of his mail shirt and produced a missive that he extended toward her. Her gaze caught on the broken seal---the Great Seal of England. She jerked her gaze to the knight’s face in shocked question. He said nothing and she took the document.
Rhoslyn unfolded the parchment and her heart beat faster at sight of the boldly scripted salutation addressed to her grandfather from “King Edward I, Lord Superior of the realm of Scotland,” she read out loud.
“God save us,” Hildegard breathed.
Rhoslyn snapped her gaze onto Sir Ascot. “How did King Edward come to be Lord Superior of Scotland?”
“Forgive me, my lady,” he glanced at the nun, “Sister. I assumed ye knew.”
“Knew what?” Rhoslyn demanded.
“The Maid of Norway is dead.”
Rhoslyn felt as if a horse had kicked her. Their future queen dead? “How?”
“She drowned in Orkney on the way to Scotland.”
Hildegard made the sign of the cross.
“She was but seven,” Rhoslyn breathed. Tears pricked her eyes. “When?”
“Eleven months past,” he said.
“Eleven months?” Only a few months after her arrival here.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t fathom all the consequences of Margaret’s death. Why hadn’t her grandfather told her? Because, she realized with a rush of emotion, it was like him to protect her. He had been protecting her since the death of her parents at age five. Then he rescued her again after the death of her husband...and son.
“More than a dozen claimants to the throne have come forward,” Sir Ascot went on. “The Guardians fear civil war between the Bruce and Balliol’s supporters, so asked King Edward to arbitrate.”
Rhoslyn snorted. “He used the unrest to demand sovereign lordship of Scotland.” And the Guardians acquiesced. The pea-brained men had no sense. She forced her eyes back to the missive, ashamed to find that her hands trembled. Her heart stopped cold at sight of the royal command for her to—“Marry Sir Talbot St. Claire.” She pinned Hildegard with a stare. “Ye said I was to marry Lord Melrose.”
The nun looked helplessly at Sir Ascot.
“Aye, my lady,” he said. “Your grandfather has arranged for ye to marry Melrose before St. Claire can obey his king’s command.”
“What? That is madness.” To defy Edward at any time was dangerous, but to do so when he had such power was suicide.
Why St. Claire, a mere knight? A knight born in sin at that, despite the fact Edward legitimized him after their return from Wales. She was the daughter of a baron, widow to a wealthy earl. Her noble lineage stretched back two hundred years. Her mind spun and she wished she could return to her cell and bar the door against the world.
“My lady,” Ascot began, but she waved him off, tilted the parchment toward the light, and read on.
Edward commanded them to recite the vows a month from now. The letter outlined the details of the contract, which endowed her grandfather with property in England. Anger pricked at seeing the properties her husband had bequeathed her listed as part of her dowry to St. Claire—with Castle Glenbarr, the wealthiest of the properties—at the head. The castle abutted Dunfrey Castle, she realized with a flash of clarity. Edward had given Dunfrey Castle to St. Claire after he quelled a revolt in Wales three years ago.
Her property combined with St. Claire’s would make him a force to be reckoned with. But she couldn’t forget—and she was certain Edward hadn’t forgotten—her grandfather’s property would come to her upon his death. Combined, the lands would make the knight one of the most powerful lords in the northern Highlands. Here was why the king had chosen him. Only a man like St. Claire could defend and keep the land should the need arise. And the need would arise. Edward knew it. So did she.
Yet all this wasn’t enough, she read with mounting anger. Edward also demanded a year’s salary from these properties. How much of her dowry w
ould pay the debts for his past military campaigns? She gave a grim smile. He generously allowed her grandfather two years to pay. No doubt Edward had already sent word to his money-lenders that they could expect a large payment in the coming months. How many other Scottish nobles were paying Edward’s debt—a debt he incurred long before he achieved power in Scotland?
The sovereign had planned well. The English estates he bequeathed her grandfather would pass to St. Claire upon her grandfather’s death, and her Scottish property would pass from the house of Seward to St. Claire...and his liege lord, King Edward. Her stomach roiled. The bastard knight would even inherit her grandfather’s title as Baron Kinsley. She pictured the knight rising from their marriage bed ‘ere his seed dried inside her to take possession of Glenbarr. Her heart twisted. She had intended the castle as part of her stepdaughter’s dowry.
Aye, Edward knew his business, she thought bitterly. This was the king to whom the Guardians had handed Scotland.
“Forgive me, my lady.” Sir Ascot’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “We must make haste. Your grandfather awaits us at Longford Castle.”
To prepare her future husband for battle, no doubt. St. Claire was well known for ruthlessness in battle. He would not take well the news that his newly awarded prize had slipped through his fingers. The slight to him—and his king—would not go unanswered.
“We flee in the night like cowards,” Rhoslyn muttered.
Wasn’t that exactly what she had done fourteen months ago? Her heart clenched with memory of her son, not two months old, laid to rest in the cold ground. When he had died two weeks after his father, Rhoslyn begged her grandfather for time in a convent. The guilt she had submerged beneath long hours of exhausting work now resurfaced. She had left her stepdaughter Andreana in her grandfather’s care.
