The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  Ignoring the question, the old woman bent to gather a handful of moss from a nearby rock and stuffed it into her pouch. “Do ye suppose Mr. Brodie’s uncle will attend yer weddin’, lass?” A daft sigh. “Ah, that would be a grand surprise. I havenae enjoyed a good caber toss in far too many years.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  TlU

  Annie waited to change into her lilac gown until after Betty had gone home. She sat with Broderick until she felt him ease into sleep and waited until Angus’s door had closed to don her half-boots. She waited until the house was silent but for the night insects and owls outside.

  Then, she made her move, slipping out the door into the bright, silvery night. Took the road north into Glendasheen, enjoying the crunch of gravel and the scent of green and the silken summer air on her skin. Soon, she was rounding the loch and approaching the castle.

  Next, she was opening the door.

  Near midnight, the castle stood quiet and dark. The MacDonnells had all gone home or gone to their beds. Now, standing in John Huxley’s entrance hall with moonlight pouring through his new windows, she wondered if she’d find him in his bedchamber or awake in his library or milling about his kitchen in search of food that Marjorie MacDonnell hadn’t ruined.

  She wondered if she’d find him alone.

  God, she hoped she found him alone.

  Her body shook. Her hands sweated. Her throat was dry.

  There was nothing for it now. She’d come here with an aim, and she meant to have it done. Slowly, she picked her way across the slate stones her English gentleman had laid with his own hands. She journeyed down the corridor to the stairs and felt her heart pounding thrice for every step she took.

  She’d begin with his bedchamber, she decided. If he was there alone, she’d have her say, and that would be that. If he wasn’t alone … well, she didn’t know what she’d do. Probably something unladylike—insults about copulation with farm animals followed by sudden, vicious thrashing of tender body parts, perhaps. If he was elsewhere, she’d search until she found him, for she did not intend to leave here until her Englishman had been set straight. The pain in his eyes as he’d walked away haunted her.

  She paused as she reached the upper floor. His door, made of planked oak that he’d repaired and refinished himself, was the last one on the left. Her heart squeezed. She took a breath. Found the handle. And went inside.

  The room would be dark if not for moonlight beaming through three arched windows on the southern wall. The planks beneath her feet creaked a bit as she padded nearer the center, where she knew she’d find his bed—the green-draped bed she’d witnessed last year being hauled from his long cart, along with a massive carpet, several tables, and two tall leather chairs. Both chairs now sat facing the hearth on the east wall. It was summer, so no fire. No lantern. No light except the moon.

  She could hear her own heart, her own breath, clamoring with frantic speed.

  Pushing away from the door, she moved a few paces deeper into the room. That was when she heard the clink. A glass being placed on a table.

  “E-English?” she queried softly.

  Leather creaked, so she knew he was in one of the chairs. But he didn’t rise.

  “Are ye …” She swallowed. “Are ye alone?”

  A deep, cynical chuckle floated past the empty bed. “I was.” A sip and then another clink. “Until a Scottish hoyden decided she fancied another taste.”

  Her heart twisted. “That’s not what I—”

  “Why are you here?” he snapped. “Eager to be bedded, are you?”

  “No, that’s not—”

  He stood beside the chair, a dark, ominous presence. “Perhaps you desire a good tupping before you sell yourself for a pedigree.”

  “I dinnae intend to—”

  “A title offers no assurances, you know. Titled men take mistresses with some regularity. Titled women have their playthings, as well.” He tipped back his glass before setting it on the table. “Perhaps you’d care to keep me, hmm? A bit of sport when the man you marry fails to satisfy.” With long, slow strides, he stalked toward her. He gripped the hem of his shirt and yanked it loose. Then, stripping it off over his head, he tossed the wadded fabric across the room.

  When his face passed through a shaft of moonlight, the wounded fury there cracked her heart in two. “English. Listen to me.”

  He didn’t want to listen. He wanted to rage. “Perhaps you simply like the idea of bleeding your prey before you devour him.”

  “No. God, no, I would never—”

  “But I am no easy prey, for I’ve survived the hunt before.” He drew very near. Inches away. Then, he lowered his head until she smelled whisky and pine and her beloved Englishman. “This stag has horns, love.”

  “I ken ye’re angry.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “Aye. Ye are.” She wanted to touch him, but she feared his reaction, so she laced her fingers together at her waist. “English, please. Just listen.”

  His head snapped up. “Do not call me that. My name is John Huxley.”

  “Very well. John.”

  Something about that seemed to disturb him, but he merely stood there, his face so starkly shadowed, she could only see the faint gleam of his eyes. They were not gold in this light. They were ice. “Tell me why you’re here.”

  “Ye misunderstood me this mornin’. When ye offered … when ye said … what ye said.”

  “That I wanted you to be my wife.” The statement was so flat, she winced.

  “Aye.”

  A corner of his mouth twisted into a snarl. “Say it.”

  “When ye asked me to marry ye.”

  “And you reacted as if I’d thrust a knife in your belly.”

  “Ye didnae understand, and I couldnae explain.”

  “That, as they say here in the glen, is pure shite.” He tilted his head. “I understood perfectly. You didn’t seek to marry a title in order to save your brother.”

  She blinked. Frowned. “I told ye that wasnae the reason.”

  “You told me outrageous tales of devotion to a phantom.”

  “Aye. That was the truth.”

  “No. The truth has nothing to do with devotion and everything to do with greed.”

  “Ye’re anglin’ in dangerous waters, English. Best pull yer rod before it gets bitten off.”

  He wasn’t listening. Didn’t seem aware of her growing anger. Too blinded by his own, she reckoned.

  “Admit it, Annie. You sought to marry a lord because, like most women, you wished to elevate your station. What better way to ensure your bairns never have to haul whisky or muck out stables? That you needn’t—”

  “Speakin’ of pure shite.”

  “—settle for a man offering only callused hands and a decent kitchen.”

  “Ye bluidy arrogant English arse!”

  His scowl deepened into a menacing snarl. “Think you’ll enjoy having some ancient prune rutting on top of you? Provided he can manage such a feat, of course. Age does unfortunate things to a man’s caber.”

  “I dinnae want to marry another man, ye daft, insultin’, arrogant—”

  His sneer disappeared as his voice deepened to a wounded rumble. “Then why in God’s name didn’t you answer!”

  “I would have if ye’d granted me a bluidy minute to think!”

  “That’s where we differ.” His eyes flashed. His nose flared. “Whenever I’m near you, all thinking stops. Perhaps that’s the problem.”

  “There is no bluidy problem, ye great, arrogant, insultin’ English boil on the arse of a worthless donkey!”

  He stared at her for long seconds. Slowly, his lips curled again, and his tongue darted out to wet them. His breathing now matched the racing rhythm of hers. His eyes weren’t flat any longer, nor cold. They gleamed with a strange fever. “Arrogant, am I?”

  “Aye,” she panted.

  “What else?”
/>   “All the things I mentioned. And impatient, besides.”

  “Is that so?”

  “An impatient arse who doesnae listen when a lass tries to tell him—”

  “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  “—that she’ll happily be his wife if he’ll give her—”

  “Because an impatient, arrogant man has no reason to swallow his hunger.”

  “—a bluidy minute to say how much she—”

  Suddenly, she was bent in half with her belly over his shoulder. He lifted and hauled her four paces to the bed, then tossed her like a bag of tatties onto the mattress. She bounced and oophed.

  “Marry me,” he rasped.

  She braced herself on her elbows and eyed his naked chest. “I’ve already said aye.” She arched her back. Licked her lips. “Or perhaps ye’re eager to convince me.”

  “By God, you drive me mad, Annie Tulloch.” He was unfastening his fall. Staring down at her like some English conqueror and unbuttoning his damned trousers.

  She could scarcely believe the turn of events. This wasn’t how she’d pictured things going. Worse, she was so aroused, her skin fairly pulsed.

  The muscles of his chest and belly were even more pronounced in the moonlight. The contours of his face remained shadowed, but the muscle in his jaw flexed and flickered.

  Her breasts swelled their approval. Her legs slid against the coverlet, and her thighs squeezed against a drumbeat of desire. “Mad for me, are ye, English?” she taunted. “A wee, greedy Scottish lass has ye wound up tight, eh?”

  Stripping away the last of his clothing, he ran a hand over his face as though the end of his rope was a frayed memory. With careless, practiced flicks, he found the hem of her skirts and tossed them above her knees. “Yes. And I mean to claim you.”

  That rendered her breathless. Her nipples peaked until they cast moonlit silhouettes on lilac silk. Until they ached to be stroked.

  “I’m going to marry you. And you’re going to sleep here in my bed. You’re going to cook for me, woman.”

  Her voice turned low and husky. “What will I cook, hmm?”

  His knee staked a claim on the mattress between her legs. As he crawled over her, she caught a glimpse of his naked cock.

  Oh, heavens. Her belly gave a needful squeeze. Her heart kicked faster.

  “Bread,” he rasped. “You’ll toast it with butter and feed me pieces with your fingers.”

  She licked her lips, glancing to either side of her head where long, muscular arms now braced his body above hers. He hadn’t even touched her yet—not really. Yet she was slick and ready.

  “When I’m satisfied with that,” he continued, “I’ll carry you up here and plant my babe in your belly.”

  Her entire body shivered with the thrill that burst through her. “Ah, but bairns dinnae simply happen, English. I do believe ruttin’ is required.”

  “A lot of it,” he growled. “You said you’d let your husband do as much rutting and touching as he wants.”

  “Aye.”

  “I bloody well want, Annie.”

  She glanced between them at the intimidating proof of his statement. “As do I.”

  “So, you’ll marry me. And cook for me. And laugh for me. And let me touch—”

  “Aye.”

  “—you everywhere. And you’ll never think of letting another man near you. Title or no.”

  She reached up and stroked his flickering jaw. “Why would I want another man when I have my bonnie Englishman?”

  His arm scooped beneath her back and raised her up into his kiss. While his tongue slid inside to play with hers, she gripped his neck and ground herself against him wherever she could—lips, breasts, hips. Nothing mattered but getting closer.

  She didn’t know how he managed it, but between one kiss and the next, he removed her gown. By the third kiss, she was entirely naked, sprawled half beneath and half beside his naked body. How John Huxley knew so much about removing women’s garments, she’d rather not know. All she wanted was him. But giving a man everything without demanding anything in return was a certain path to misery. So, she gripped his thick hair and tugged until he looked her in the eye.

  “Listen, English. Ye’ve said what I’m to do for you. What will ye be doin’ for me?”

  “I’ll give you sons.”

  She snorted, pretending derision. “More mouths to feed.”

  “I’ll give you a castle and a kitchen.”

  “A castle to keep clean and a kitchen to cook yer meals, eh?”

  His eyes burned with a silvery light. They raked across her breasts and belly, down to the hungriest part of her. “I’ll give you pleasure, woman. Endless, torturous pleasure.”

  “Hmm. A fine beginnin’. Go on.”

  “I’ll give you more gowns to wear so I can strip them from this delectable body.”

  She swallowed. “I like gowns, English.”

  “In winter, I’ll take you places you cannot even imagine, where the rain is warm instead of cold. Where you may lie naked in hot sand and gaze up at a cloudless sky.”

  “What if I wish to stay here, where there’s nothin’ but snow and darkness?”

  “Then, I’ll build a fire in your hearth to rival Hades.”

  Where had the air gone? Not in her lungs, certainly. “I suspect ye’ll have no trouble in that quarter.”

  “When summer comes, I’ll take you standing beneath the waterfall.”

  She groaned. “What of autumn?”

  “I’ll wrap your naked body in a plaid. Then I’ll hold you while you tell me outrageous tales about bats and poorly framed windows.”

  “And spring?”

  “Rutting season.”

  “I thought that was every season.”

  “It is.”

  She laughed husky and low. How could any lass ever resist this man?

  “God, you are beautiful.” His hand traced the bones at the base of her throat before sliding down over her left breast. “These are … an unmatched wonder.” He cupped and plumped and squeezed. “I must warn you, I’m a bit obsessed.”

  She had no response, for he’d begun dragging his palm across her nipple in a steady, entrancing rhythm.

  “I’ll want to suckle these rather vigorously, you see. Might make them a bit tender.”

  “Oh, God.” Her hips arched off the bed. “Best get on with it, English. All this talkin’ has me ready to—”

  His mouth engulfed her right nipple at the same moment his fingers tightened on the one he’d been stroking.

  Pleasure burst from her breasts and rippled in every direction. She gasped, dug her heels into the bed, and sought his cock with her thigh. He was hot and hard and so ready for her, she didn’t know how he’d last.

  Of course, everything she knew about this process she’d learned from overhearing men boast and rib and talk pure nonsense when they thought she wasn’t listening.

  Nobody had ever told her how she would feel. How badly she would need to cradle his head closer and dig her fingers into his neck and beg him both to stop and never to stop because the pleasure was like liquor and too much for her sanity.

  Her nipples wanted more of his mouth, his teeth, and his tongue. They pouted when he switched, abandoning one to the solace of his fingers. They swelled and grew almost unbearably sensitive to every stroke.

  She writhed. She cursed. She called him vile names and promised she’d cook him venison with gravy every blessed day if he would only finish what he’d started.

  “Oh, love,” he groaned with a grin in his voice. “Honey is all I crave.”

  His suckling grew stronger. Her gasps grew sharper. He refused to touch her between her thighs, even though that was where she most needed him. Desperately, desperately needed him. He wouldn’t even allow her to grind her needy center against his legs or his cock.

  “What are ye tryin’ to do to me, ye bonnie devil?”

  “
Make you come.”

  “Then touch me here—”

  “No. This first. I’ve waited so long. Dreamt of making you come with only this.”

  He went at her again. Mouth and nipples and fingers and—ah, God. Just his voice. Just that. Desire turned that crisp, cultured English voice raw and graveled.

  The sheer pleasure he drew from her—and the thought of him fantasizing about doing this to her—coalesced low in her belly. Hot between her thighs. Deeply pulsing inside her core. She groaned and arched into him, letting his mouth and hands carry her higher. Letting the waves of pleasure grow stronger and tighten. Letting them burst and then hold and then burst brighter. Higher. Rolling and blissful.

  Then, she was floating, sifting her fingers through his hair while he kissed his way down her body.

  “English?” she murmured. Her voice was in shreds. Had she been shouting?

  “This will only take a moment.”

  She blinked, confused.

  He was nibbling her belly. Then lower. Then he grasped her hips and shifted her until her thighs fell open. He pressed them wider. The air blew cool across the dampness of her inner thighs and swollen folds. He positioned himself with his shoulders between her knees and his head between her legs.

  Right there. His mouth was … right there.

  “Er—English?”

  “You don’t believe you can be aroused enough to come again, but I’ll show you. Not to worry.” His fingers stroked down in a long, strumming motion that made her eyes flare wide and her entire body jerk. “Shh, love. Easy. You’re very swollen here.” He touched her center with his fingertip.

  She whimpered.

  He pulsed a bit of pressure.

  She arched and ground her hips against the mattress.

  Something wet and sleek touched her there. Right there. Right where all the pleasure of the universe resided. It flickered and danced like light upon a rippling loch. It drove her up the same slope as before. Faster this time, as though her body knew the way by heart.

  A long finger slid inside her sheath. Then a second. Then, he stretched her. And she came apart. Flew into a thousand shimmering pieces and came back together and flew apart again.