The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  She thought he whispered something about a wee bit of pain, but her mind was roaring like the pounding ocean. Her muscles quivered and went limp. His hand streaked along her thigh, gripping and raising and finally, hooking her legs around his waist.

  Then, a blunt, hot pressure began to open her sheath. Demanded entry, which she gladly gave. The way was eased by her immense arousal, and she was glad of it, for his size was difficult to accommodate.

  She supposed it was because she was untried. And he was big. And—blast, why was this stretching not finished yet? She shifted her hips and tilted them up. He gripped her hard, holding her still.

  His neck muscles strained and his jaw clenched. “Bloody hell,” he cursed. “Stay with me, Annie.”

  She tried to relax. It helped a bit. But then, he thrust and the stinging pain intensified to a peak. He thrust again and slid deeper. Again, deeper. The sharper pain faded as the pressure grew. He moved easily, or at least it seemed so. She gripped his hips with her thighs to encourage him.

  The man was obviously trying to impress her with his stamina. But she had already reached her peak twice. He should take his pleasure so they could sleep.

  She stroked his hair and kissed his mouth while he tried not to move. Then, she made a decision. The man needed a good tupping, and she meant to give him one. So, she placed her mouth at his ear, nibbled a bit, then whispered, “Is that all ye’ve got, English?”

  He uttered a foul curse. Groaned her name. Thrust deep and wickedly hard. Then hammered away at her like she was a post that needed setting.

  It should have hurt. But oddly enough, the friction and the pressure and the pleasure in his groans were stimulating. Heat inducing. Heart stuttering. Her breasts slid against his chest, her sensitive nipples scraping skin and hair with each bruising thrust. The astonishing rebirth of a fire she’d thought well quenched made her wonder if John Huxley weren’t some sort of magician.

  Whatever the root of his powers, when he slightly altered the angle of his hips to hers, she caught fire for the final strokes. What she could see of his face looked red and mad and desperate. “Again,” he growled. “Give over to me again.”

  She ran her thumb across his perfect lower lip. Below, where they were joined, her sheath rippled a warning while her swollen nub dragged with every long, hammering thrust of his cock.

  He reached beneath her to cup her buttocks and bring her hips higher. Tighter. Then, he did the last thing she expected. He stopped. His hips halted at the top of a thrust, and rather than withdraw, he held himself still inside her, pressing the head of his cock hard against the mouth of her womb. “Again, love.” His chest heaved like a bellows. Sweat slicked his skin. Yet, he held still. Then kissed her with near chasteness. “Do you feel it? How tight you are around me?”

  She shook her head, not as a denial but simply because all thought had ceased. She spun inside a whirlwind.

  “Yes,” he insisted. “Tight because you were meant to be mine alone. Wet because your nipples need my mouth. We’ll do that again tonight if you’re not too sore. You want me to move?”

  She nodded. Whimpered. “English.”

  His cock slid deeper, the pressure intensifying. “There. Better?”

  Her answer was to arch her back and gasp for air. For bloody sanity.

  “There it is.” He sounded utterly pleased. “That’s the way. Your body longs to be filled, love. Let mine be of service. That is why I was born.” His eyes burned and his arms shook and his muscles hardened to stone. “You are why I was born.”

  Her pleasure broke open. Her body seized upon his with screaming force. The relentless waves milked and milked him, demanding he do precisely what he’d promised—to fill her completely. And so he did. With a hard, agonized groan, he applied himself to the task, taking her and taking her and taking her. Pounding and pounding and pounding. Heat coiled. Friction ignited. A few more ramming strokes, and she rejoiced as ecstasy consumed him in a blaze. He roared with it. He shook the bed with it. His body strained and writhed in its grip, filling her with his seed. His need. His pleasure and strength. Burying his face in her neck, he collapsed upon her, his muscles slowly easing, but his hot, damp breaths a pulsing remnant of his pleasure. In the aftermath, he eased his weight to the side but slid her thigh up over his, refusing to pull free of her.

  Happily replete, she lay half beneath him, still joined, running her fingers over his remarkable arms and savoring the thought of lying like this each night. Of touching him whenever the whim took her. Of carrying his bairns inside her womb. Of watching him laugh and eat her food and become a father.

  He would be a good one, she thought. Then, she tried moving a bit and grinned when he sleepily gathered her closer, refusing to let her budge an inch. John Huxley would be good at most things. Best of all, he’d be a spectacular husband.

  “Marry me, Annie,” he murmured against her throat, the words slurring and drowsy. “Say you will.”

  “Aye, English. I want nothin’ more.” She stroked his jaw with all the tenderness aching inside her—and regret at the pain she’d caused him. “I’m sorry it took me so long to say so.”

  A long breath whooshed from him as though he’d been holding it in for years. He held her tighter. Wrapped himself around her. Then, as his heavy muscles relaxed fully into sleep, he muttered, “Sorry it took me so long to find you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  TlU

  Why had she ever accused John Huxley of being dainty? The man weighed a ton. And he slept harder than a bloody rock.

  Annie managed to lift his hand from her breast, but his other hand immediately squeezed her bottom and scooted her further beneath him. She’d be pleased to accommodate him if daylight weren’t already pouring through the window. But she must return to MacPherson House before Angus sent her brothers to kill the man she loved.

  “Devil’s ballocks, English,” she panted, cradling her future husband’s head, which lay between her bosoms. He was impossible to wake. She patted his cheek. No response. “I’d reckon ye up and died on me if yer cock hadnae decided to wish me a good mornin’.” She stroked the length of his braw, strong back and stretched to caress his equally braw backside. “A very good mornin’, indeed.”

  She longed to stay. Sore though she was, she wanted to remain with him until he awakened. She wanted to watch his eyes burn gold for her in this bright dawn light. But she had to go.

  With a great heave, she shoved his shoulder. It took an additional four shoves and a lot of sliding to accomplish her aim. He turned onto his back, but his grip on her lower back rolled her with him until her body plastered atop his. Their position suddenly spread her legs wide over his hips and nestled his cock in the seam between her thighs.

  She dropped her forehead onto his shoulder and laughed. “Even when ye’re dead asleep, ye’re ready for another tuppin’.” She raised up to kiss his bonnie lashes and perfect lips. “If I didnae ken better, I’d think ye were Scottish.”

  Heavens, he was arousing. Every hard, delicious inch of him. But she had to go.

  Really.

  She sighed. Really, she should …

  She kissed him once more. Caressed his jaw and traced his handsome, patrician nose with her fingertip. “Do ye have any idea how much I’ll miss ye, English?” she whispered. “Even an hour feels like torture.”

  But she must leave. So, she braced her hands on his shoulders and sat up.

  His eyelids fluttered. Then lifted. His body tensed—and not in a lustful way. Rather, he seemed startled and threatened, like hunted prey.

  One moment, she sat astride the man she loved.

  The next, she lay pinned to the bed with a madman above her.

  “What were you doing?” he growled, his hands gripping her wrists with hard pressure. “What the devil did you think you were doing?”

  All the hues of his eyes, green and brown and gold, were visible because his pupils were pinpoints. But as beau
tiful as they were, they didn’t see her.

  “English?” She kept her voice calm and low, as he was holding her much more tightly than he would have done if he were not in the grip of something ferocious. “Perhaps ye were dreamin’, but ye’re awake now.”

  He shook her. “You were on top of me.”

  “Aye.” She winced. “I didnae mean to give ye such a start.” Despite the discomfort of being pinned, she attempted to lighten the mood. “Och, ye’re a hard sleeper, English. In more ways than one. I had to grow new muscles to roll yer dead weight off of me. And ye still refused to loosen yer grip on my backside. That’s how we wound up playin’ rider and mount. Not that I’m opposed to new positions, mind. Standin’ on my head might be out of the question. But most other things, I’m available for persuadin’.”

  His brow crinkled. He blinked. His breathing slowed from a harsh pant to a steady rhythm. “Annie?”

  “Good mornin’, English,” she said with a gentle smile.

  He glanced to where he held her. Went a bit peely. Then instantly released her and rolled away. “God. I’m sorry. I—did I hurt you?”

  “Nah. I’ve had worse tussles with a leg of lamb. Nearly put out an eye once.” Cautiously, she sat up. Her wrists were a bit red, but they didn’t hurt. “Was it a nightmare, then?”

  He didn’t answer. Merely ran a hand down his face then plucked up her hands to examine her wrists.

  She scooted closer. “Can ye tell me what happened?”

  Frowning, he shook his head and laid the gentlest kisses on the insides of each wrist. “I am a deep sleeper. Sometimes when I first awaken, I’m a bit … disoriented.” More kisses. A nuzzle or two. “I am dreadfully sorry, love,” he whispered.

  She slid into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Seems ye thought ye were bein’ attacked, hmm?”

  Again, he didn’t answer.

  Sighing, she cupped his jaw, kissed his mouth, and stroked his cheek with her thumb. “I ken ye’d never hurt me, English.”

  “I would die first.” Blazing gold, his eyes lifted to hers. “And I would kill anyone else who tried.”

  Enchanting, ferocious Englishman. She grinned. “Aye, of course. Now, I dinnae need anyone killed today, but I could use a bit of help with my gown.”

  “Why? You’re ravishing like this.” He stroked her loose hair and dragged his lips along her naked shoulder.

  “I must dress so I can return to MacPherson House.” She kissed him and slid off his lap. “Before Angus arrives with his huntin’ rifle.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  She climbed off the bed and began gathering up her gown and underclothes. “Nah. Ye should stay here.” After tugging her shift over her head, she bent and plucked a stocking from beneath one of the leather chairs. “I’m more than a wee bit fond of yer bonnie face.”

  “I am coming with you. End of discussion.”

  Glancing at him over her shoulder, she arched a brow. “Ah, ye’re amusin’, English. Come help me with my corset.”

  An hour later, Annie sat in her lilac gown upon Jacqueline’s back with her amusing Englishman’s arms wrapped around her. She didn’t know which of them had won the argument. Once he’d begun helping her fit her bosom into her corset, she’d completely lost track of her point.

  But as MacPherson House came into view through riffling birch leaves, she began to fret about Angus’s reaction.

  “Best let me do the talkin’,” she warned.

  “Your father and I have an understanding.”

  Her da wasn’t the understanding sort.

  “Everything is fine.”

  She snorted. “Mayhap ye enjoy havin’ yer teeth removed by another man’s knuckles, but I’d prefer to feed my husband more than soft tatties.”

  “Hmm.” His chest rumbled on a deep chuckle. “Soft tatties sound … appetizing.”

  “Be serious, English.”

  “Will there be gravy on the tatties?”

  “Good God.”

  “How about butter?”

  She swatted his arm then laced their fingers together. “We’ll have to wed straight away. Angus will insist. Ye ken that, right?”

  He nuzzled her ear. Tightened his hold on her belly. Then whispered, “I’m counting on it, lass.”

  TlU

  On the rare occasions when John imagined the woman who might one day become his wife, he’d pictured someone pleasant. Agreeable. Perhaps even boring. He’d imagined a proper English rose from a good family, a gentle lady who took her tea in delicate sips and complimented his mother’s new settee and embroidered handkerchiefs with subdued enthusiasm.

  Perhaps that explained why he’d resisted marriage for so long. He hadn’t known Annie Tulloch existed.

  Because no other woman came close to matching his Scottish lass.

  As he lifted her down from Jacqueline’s back, he fought to contain himself. Nothing had prepared him for how he felt now, knowing she was his. The pressure expanded against his bones, demanding he take her over and over. Demanding he shout his claim to everyone in the glen. Everyone in the bloody world.

  She was his. His.

  This fiery, foul-mouthed, uncouth, unacceptable woman was his.

  This doggedly loyal, tenderly sweet, fiercely passionate woman was his.

  “What are ye starin’ at, English?” She frowned up at him, smoothing the sides of her hastily pinned hair. “Do I look a proper mess?”

  Doo I luik a proper meiss? Those enticing lips pursed along the rounded vowels and trilled r’s while a hint of vulnerability creased between scarlet brows.

  God, how he loved her. Boundlessly. Inexpressibly. And, because he loved her, he must tell her the truth.

  “Annie.”

  Cornflower blue raised in question.

  A deep bellow sounded from the doorway of MacPherson House. “Where in bluidy hell have ye been?” Angus stomped out onto the drive and held up his hand. “Dinnae answer that. I’ve just eaten.”

  Annie spun, tripping herself as she faced her father.

  John steadied her and met the man’s glower. “Angus, I must speak with—”

  “Haud yer wheesht, lad. Annie, yer brother is up and about and complainin’ about his stomach. Said somewhat about havin’ eggs for a change.”

  Annie frowned. “Rannoch never wants eggs. He doesnae care for ‘em.”

  “Not Rannoch. Broderick.”

  Grasping John’s hand, she squeezed and caught his gaze with wide, hopeful eyes before turning back to her father. “B-Broderick? He’s up?” Her voice thinned with emotion. “He’s askin’ for breakfast?”

  Angus grinned so broadly, John thought his jaw might crack. “Aye, lass.” The man’s eyes shone with suspicious moisture. “He’s askin’ after ye, as well.”

  Tears shimmering, she brought John’s fingers to her lips, kissed his knuckles, then flew into her father’s arms. “Thank heaven, Da,” she cried. “Ah, thank the Lord.”

  No sooner had Angus patted her back than she tore away and rushed into the house.

  Angus’s grin disappeared as soon as he caught John’s eye. “Ye’ll marry her today.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “I dinnae give two shites whether ye’d planned a grand ceremony in a London church with yer entire clan there to pass judgment.”

  “No, I—”

  “Ye’ll marry my daughter today, Huxley, and we’ll never speak again about where she was last night. Ye ken?”

  John ran a hand over his jaw, then looked at the ground, then back at Angus. Then, he laughed. Likely a mistake, but he couldn’t help it.

  “What the devil’s so amusin’, lad?”

  “You know very well I am desperate to marry her. Nobody has to force my hand.”

  Angus crossed his arms and angled closer, attempting intimidation with his superior height. “Well, ye’ve bluidy well forced mine, havenae ye?”

  John shrugged. �
��A man does what he must.”

  Angus snorted. “And when do ye plan to tell her who ye are?”

  “How do you know I haven’t?”

  “Because she still treats ye like her favorite wee lamb. Once ye’ve felt the raw side of Annie’s temper, ye’ll be fortunate if ye merely find yerself in her stew pot.”

  A cold sensation sank into his gut. “I was hoping she’d be pleased at the news. She did aim to marry a lord.”

  A boy ran from behind the house to take John’s horse. Wanting privacy, Angus nodded toward the south corner of the front garden, inviting John to follow. When they both stood beneath a tall willow, Angus released a breath and shook his head. “Annie doesnae tolerate lyin’. I’m walkin’ naked through a bramble thicket, myself, keepin’ yer secret as I’ve done.”

  Blinking at the image, John frowned.

  “There’s thorns gougin’ away at tender bits, ye ken?”

  He stifled a grin. “Yes, I take your meaning.”

  “My wee lass is a mite proud.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “She willnae care that she might be carryin’ yer bairn. If ye prick her temper, she’ll make ye pay.”

  John considered his options. “You think she’ll refuse me, then?”

  “For a time, aye. Forever? Dinnae ken.” Angus scratched his chin. “When she was naught but thirteen, I fibbed to her about a calf she’d grown fond of. She’d given the beastie a name, fed it by hand, doted on it. I told her she shouldnae grow attached, as it was meant to be meat. But she’s stubborn. Time came, I had to tell her I’d sold it to a man at the fair who had a farm on the Isle of Skye. A big farm with acres and acres of grazin’ land and grand plans to raise the wee beastie into a bull that could breed his herds.”

  “What was your fib?”

  “Her calf wasnae sold. It strayed from the herd and was torn apart by feral dogs. Alexander tracked the dogs and put them down. I buried the calf. Changed my shirt. Then, I went home and lied to my daughter.” Angus shook his head. “Tenderhearted lass. She kenned straight away. Forced me to tell her the truth.” He sighed. “Didnae speak to me for a fortnight. It isnae when she’s shoutin’ fit to bring the roof down upon yer head that ye must fear, lad. ’Tis when she goes quiet.”