The Taming of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  It was too much. Heart frantic, she grasped at his arms. Clawed at his hands. Reached for his hair and only managed to dig her fingers into his hard nape.

  “Luik at ye, lass. Luik.”

  She forced her eyes open. Looked down at her own body, utterly possessed by his. Dark-red nipples stood hard and eager on the white swells of her breasts, which trembled as he steadily, rhythmically claimed her sheath. He held her splayed wide open, fully accessible to his dark, thrusting cock and commanding hands. His arms were darker than her skin, his muscles bulging, his strength enormous. The sounds of their joining—the wet sighs and faint collision of his hips with hers—blended into the soft rain outside and the fire crackling nearby.

  Feeling him inside her had grown essential. The way water was essential. Or air. Or light. Without him, she would die.

  She’d wanted to believe she could keep a part of herself whole. She’d wanted to believe she could gorge herself on him until her love grew more manageable. More sane. But he wouldn’t leave her a blessed inch. On the contrary, he seemed intent upon making it worse.

  Now, the tempo of his thrusts increased, stoking a blaze of friction. Deeper and deeper he went. Harder and harder he drove. Faster and faster his harsh breaths sounded in her ear. “Tight,” he growled. “Sweet Christ. I feel yer need. Give me everythin’.”

  Soon, she was right back where she’d started—begging, sobbing, out of her mind with the craving only he could invoke.

  And that was when the panic set in.

  She couldn’t see his face, but it didn’t matter. He controlled her completely. He managed her pleasure the way a conductor managed a symphony.

  Her body wasn’t hers. Her mind wasn’t hers. Every part of her belonged to him alone.

  She stiffened against him, resisting the urgent pleasure he commanded from her. His arm flexed where it wrapped around her body. His hand tightened on her thigh, draping her leg over his. He banded her shoulders and lightly gripped her neck. Increasing the pace of his thrusts, he cupped her jaw gently and stroked her below with his other hand. His fingers and thumb worked her harder.

  “Pleeeeaaase,” she groaned, her body wracked with shivers. “Broderick. Oh, God.”

  She was pinned. Trapped by her own hunger. Her muscles tensed, but she couldn’t make them do the one thing they should—break free.

  “Give me yer pleasure,” he growled. “Dinnae fight it. Ye always fight it, lass. Let it come.”

  She clawed his forearm. Drove her hips back into him, forcing his cock impossibly deep. She turned her head into his shoulder and bit. Tasted his skin and wanted more.

  All the while, he held her tight and drove her higher.

  The cataclysm broke over both of them with concussive force. She screamed and fought it. But the pleasure consumed her like a wall of fire devouring dry grass. It left her nothing.

  No pride. No room. No Kate.

  Nothing but him.

  He remained inside her, his arms squeezing, his breath hot against her neck and shoulder, long after he’d roared his pleasure and flooded her with his own release.

  Gradually, she caught her breath. Gathered her strength. And untangled herself.

  He grunted as she rolled away and sat at the edge of the bed. She hunted for her dressing gown but only found her shift draped across a bench. She tugged it on and moved to the washstand behind a screen to clean herself.

  “We dinnae have to leave for another hour or so, ye ken.”

  She was shivering, half from the chill of the water and half from panic. “I’d like to get an early start. Do you think we’ll reach Edinburgh today?”

  “Aye.” The bed creaked as he rolled to rise. As usual, he moved slower first thing in the morning before he’d applied his liniment.

  She continued washing—her face, her teeth, her body—with automatic motions. But inside, she quaked. Her hands trembled. Her belly shook.

  “Are ye all right, lass?”

  Drawing a shuddering breath, she gripped the edge of the washstand and closed her eyes. “Yes, of course.”

  She smelled the aroma of his liniment, cool and delicious. It made her want him again, which intensified the panic. Swiftly, she dug through the valise on the floor, searching for a bottle. There! She dabbed drops of perfume on her neck, her belly, her thighs. The scent was strong, but not strong enough. She could still smell him everywhere.

  “Ye dinnae need all that.”

  Startled to find him directly behind her, she fumbled and nearly dropped the bottle. She would have, in fact, if he hadn’t shot an arm around her and cupped her hand and the bottle from beneath.

  “Steady, now.”

  She tugged away. “I shouldn’t need steadying if you hadn’t given me such a start,” she snapped, depositing the bottle back in her valise and spinning to confront him. “This perfume was a gift from Francis. I almost dropped it because you cannot seem to grant me the slightest bit of room.”

  He frowned.

  She noted he’d donned his patch, a shirt, and trousers, but he hadn’t yet shaven. Shamefully, the roguish look of him further sparked her lust.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Ye’re nae fine.”

  She shoved past him, scanning the chamber for her gown and corset. She found the gown draped over a chair, but the corset and her dressing gown remained missing. She rushed to the bed and yanked at the bedclothes.

  “Tell me what’s ailin’ ye, Kate.”

  “Nothing!” she shouted, her breathing fast and her pulse faster. She tore at the sheets, wadding them into tight balls and tossing them into the corner. First one, then the other.

  “Calm yerself.”

  “I must find my corset. Where is it?”

  “We’ll fetch Janet. Mayhap she—”

  She threw a pillow at his head.

  He caught it against his chest, but his eye flared with alarm. “Kate.”

  “Stop being reasonable!”

  “One of us has to be.”

  She threw another pillow. It bounced off his knee and plopped at his feet. “You are infuriating!”

  A corner of his mouth twitched. The devil was fighting a smile.

  “Oh, do I amuse you, husband?”

  “I could say no, but …” He shrugged. “I dinnae like to lie to ye.”

  She blew a curl out of her eyes and started toward him. Pain erupted from her toes as they collided with something metallic. The momentum sent the thing sliding from beneath the bed out into the middle of the floor. Releasing a whimpering yelp, she stumbled and caught herself against the bed.

  Before she could blink, Broderick scooped her up and set her on the mattress, tucking the pillow she’d thrown at him behind her back. He grasped her leg and raised her foot for closer examination.

  “Broderick,” she gasped. “There’s no need for … ow-ow-ow-ow.”

  “Easy,” he murmured. “I reckon they’re a wee bit sore, but naught’s broken.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Lass.” He arched a brow. “Ye’re askin’ me that question?”

  Her throat tightened as she reviewed his scars. “I suppose not.”

  He cradled her foot in his hands then reached for his liniment. After applying the soothing mixture to her toes with whisper-light strokes, he slid a hand up her calf and squeezed. “Now, do ye wish to tell me what sparked this wee fit of temper?”

  No. She couldn’t tell him. She’d sound like a mad, desperate, besotted fool.

  Which she was, but she had no desire for him to realize it.

  Avoiding his gaze, she locked on the source of her injury: a hammer, the same one she’d previously seen beneath their bed at home. “Why do you keep a hammer beneath your bed?”

  “Dinnae change the subject.”

  “That is the subject. I should like an answer, please.”

  H
is jaw flickered. He withdrew and left the bed to retrieve the hammer, hefting it with a considering gaze. “Makes a fine weapon.”

  Something in his voice sent a chill down her spine. Bleak. Flat. Dark. She studied his face, his grip upon the handle. He caressed the thing with his thumb as though he’d worn it smooth. That was when she knew. This was about his time in the Bridewell.

  “Why do you keep it where you sleep?”

  For a long while, she didn’t think he would answer. He kept his gaze averted, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing the tool he held. Finally, he said, “They’d come at me, ye ken. Sometimes one by one. Sometimes two or three. More when they planned better.”

  She drew her knees up to her chest, holding tightly as though that could keep her intact. She’d wanted to hear this, hadn’t she? She’d wanted to know.

  “Nights were worst. The noise. The attacks. There was nae sleep to be had. Nae weapon apart from one ye’d made.” A small smile tugged. “Or one ye took. Kept within reach. Used to make certain if they didnae bring twenty bruisers to the fight, they’d pay a dear price.”

  Outside, she heard rain. Inside, she heard crackling fire. But in his voice, she heard pain. She breathed away the ache in her chest and asked, “Was there nobody to defend you, nobody to help?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Lockhart has deep pockets. The turnkeys who wouldnae accept his bribes were replaced with ones who did. Skene’s men were cheap fodder, easily purchased, easily discarded. Da and my brothers did what they could, but they were overmatched in a game of that scale.”

  A game. What a strange way to describe such evil.

  Before Kate had known Broderick, Annie had described what had happened to him. Kate knew Lockhart had formed an irrational jealousy of Broderick, that he’d arranged for the murder of an exciseman to be laid at Broderick’s feet and had methodically targeted him for destruction over months of unjust imprisonment. Kate knew his injuries might as well have been inflicted directly by Lockhart’s hand and that Lockhart had confessed before witnesses that he’d done everything possible to “fell the tower into ruins.”

  When she’d asked Annie about the source of Lockhart’s jealousy, Annie had hesitated before explaining that Broderick had unwittingly involved himself with Lockhart’s mistress. She hadn’t gone into much detail at the time, only saying that the mistress had fallen in love with him “as many poor lasses have done before. ’Tis a sad thing to see, Katie-lass. They cannae help themselves. To be fair, he doesnae make promises he cannae keep, and he’s gentle about sendin’ them on their way, but the pinin’ fair breaks yer heart.”

  Kate hadn’t thought much about Annie’s explanations until recently. Until she’d become one of the “poor lasses” who’d fallen so deeply in love, she couldn’t imagine her next breath without him. Pining didn’t begin to describe it.

  Even now, she had to physically grip herself to keep from going to him. Touching him. Offering whatever comfort she could.

  “I wish I had been there,” she whispered. “I wish I had been with you.”

  His gaze flew up to her, burning with a mad fire. “Dinnae say that,” he growled, stalking toward her. He tossed the hammer onto the foot of the bed and sat next to her, gripping her shoulders. “Never think it, mo chridhe.” He stroked her cheek, her hair. His eye traced her features and squeezed closed for a moment as pain crumpled his brow.

  She couldn’t bear it. She rocked forward onto her knees. Wrapped herself around him, cradling his head against her and burying her hands in his hair. She wanted to take every ounce of pain from him, even if she must feel it in his stead.

  His grip upon her tightened until she could scarcely breathe.

  “I had someone, there in the prison,” he whispered against her neck. “A friend. Her name was … Magdalene.”

  Kate froze. Hearing him say another woman’s name with such anguish pierced her through the middle. A sickening wave of jealousy followed, hot and unwanted. She bit down upon it. Waited for him to explain.

  “I told her nae to help me, that she’d be harmed. I warned her over and over, but she wouldnae listen.” He cinched her waist harder, held her tighter. “She brought me soup at Christmas. She took me to the infirmary when I was nothin’ but a foul-smellin’ madman. She was kind. And they killed her for it. They told me they wouldnae. They said if I let them do all the damage they wanted, they’d leave her be. She was walkin’ free that day. I watched her from the window. I watched, and she passed through the gates. She was free. But they killed her. They raped her over and over, and—Christ, they took my eye. They took everythin’. And they killed her anyway.”

  Kate rocked him back and forth, his pain becoming her pain. Jealousy was a pebble washed away in the tide. She wept silently, intent on offering only comfort. He grieved. He didn’t weep or wail, merely shuddered. But grief roared like the sea inside a lightless cavern.

  “Ye wonder why I keep a hammer beneath my bed? That’s why. Because those animals willnae take another goddamned thing from me. Not one more thing.” He gripped her nape, pulled back, and brushed away the wetness on her cheeks. “Especially you.”

  She couldn’t stop her tears. They kept flowing, even while he kissed her.

  Even while he whispered, “I’ll keep ye safe. I’ll nae let them touch ye.”

  Whatever slim hope she’d had for keeping a piece of her heart for herself vanished. She was his. And he was her forever man.

  “I love you so much,” she choked. “My God, Broderick. How I wish I could take this pain from you.”

  “Ye do, mo chridhe.” His eye roamed her face, heated and raw. “In the Bridewell, the only safe place was the Dark Cell. No window. No light. I came to crave it, would have the gaolers toss me in there as often as possible.” He stroked her hair, knuckling the curls near her damp cheek. “That’s where I live. In the black. But every now and then, my wee, bonnie wife smiles, and a bit of light comes for a visit. Then, she laughs, and that light dances.” He quirked a smile of his own. “Ye’re a flame in my darkness. I wouldnae have predicted it, given how we met. But nothin’s ever been truer.”

  Her throat burned. Tightened. “I’m so dreadfully sorry about Magdalene.”

  He touched his forehead to hers. “That was the worst of it.” His voice was pure gravel. “The rest was scars and bone damage. Losin’ her stole all hope that any of it meant anythin’. That’s why I didnae want ye to set yer heart on me. I had nothin’ much to offer. But I’ll nae be such a fool again. I’m keepin’ ye, and ye’ll be glad for it. I promise ye that.”

  Because he seemed to need it, she gave him a smile. But inside, she ached with the knowledge that his worst wound—the one nobody could see—might be the loss of a woman who would never return.

  A woman Kate could never hope to replace.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Do you suppose a legendary Highlander who slays the last wolf in Scotland might also be a skilled dancer?” Kate rested her chin on her hand and stared out the morning room window, her fingers tapping her cheek.

  No answer came from the mountainous male seated near the fireplace.

  “Campbell,” she nudged.

  Broderick’s oldest brother glanced up from the piece of wood in his hand. He rested his carving knife on his knee. “What sort of dancin’?”

  “Waltzing?”

  “Nah.”

  She smiled and hooked an elbow over the back of her desk chair. “You sound very certain.”

  “Highlanders who waltz are the soft sorts.” He resumed carving what appeared to be a wing. “Same ones drink brandy instead of whisky. Takes ten of ’em to hunt a wee fox.”

  She sized up his shoulders, which made his chair look ridiculously small. “Could you lift a fully-grown cow?”

  He raised a brow.

  “Assuming it is the only way to rescue, say, a woman you fancied.”

  “Mayhap if the coo is attached to a winch.”

  Campbell
was the least talkative of Broderick’s brothers, but in the three days since they’d arrived in Edinburgh, she’d enjoyed his company best. He was quiet. Patient. Despite his gargantuan size, she found him less intimidating than Alexander and less exhausting than Rannoch. That mattered a great deal when her husband dictated that she be constantly guarded while he scoured the city in search of a “putrid pile of shite” named Kenneth Lockhart.

  Kate’s restlessness was nigh unbearable.

  They’d arrived at this pleasant townhouse under the cover of darkness several nights earlier. Broderick’s family had rented the place during his recuperation and decided to keep it as a secure base in the city. The house was four stories, fully staffed, and while modestly furnished, quite comfortable.

  Still, being confined here with little to do apart from struggling to write the final act of her novel-play had been frustrating. She’d seen little of her husband, nothing of the city, and far too much of the guards Broderick had posted to keep watch.

  Sighing, she turned back to the watery window that looked onto the wide, cobbled lane. A new guard appeared, huddled against the rain and furtively scanning the neighboring houses. “Campbell, are you certain we cannot—”

  “I’m certain, lass.”

  “But, there is a vast park not forty yards from here. Surely we could take a short ramble without—”

  “’Tis called the Meadows. And no, we cannae.”

  Broderick had given strict instructions that she was not to leave the house. “If Lockhart discovers ye’re here, he’ll have only to find a way in,” he’d warned her two mornings ago. “Ye must stay hidden, mo chridhe. Ye must do as I tell ye.”

  She’d done precisely that. And certainly, he’d provided for her every comfort. Whatever she asked, he or his brothers delivered it to her within hours—bolts of tartan wool, reams of paper, a full-length tub for bathing, a warmer pair of gloves for Janet. Anything except a blasted half-hour outside this house.

  She stabbed her pen back into its holder and shoved away from the desk. “Perhaps I shall make you another scarf.” She’d spent the previous day making one for each of the MacPherson men.