The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  “Oh, my, Miss Tulloch,” Betty breathed.

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Baird concurred. “Ye’re a fair angel, lass.”

  Annie grinned at the two other women in the mirror, and for a moment, she almost believed it. She would never be beautiful, of course. John Huxley would have to resign himself to that fact. Her eyes were too oddly blue. Her lips were nothing special. Her hair was too bright and her cheekbones too wide and her chin too stubborn and her skin too pale. But today, perhaps, she could be bonnie for him.

  She lifted her mother’s necklace from its case. It was the same one Lillias had worn on both her wedding days. The wee silver cross was simple and plain. As Betty fastened it around her neck, Annie remembered playing with it as a child while she sat on her mam’s lap and listened to her read. Today, she would have her mother with her as she became a wife.

  Then, she added the tartan sash and slid her feet into the slippers.

  Last, she slid the small, worn thistle charm into her petticoat pouch and gave it a pat. Finlay would be with her, too.

  Finally, she thanked the three women who had become her friends, hugged each of them in turn, and asked them to meet her in the coach after she checked on Broderick. She entered his room a few minutes later with a soft knock.

  “Broderick?”

  The bed creaked. “Annie?” His voice was a graveled, distorted version of what it had once been. But at least he was speaking. For months, he hadn’t said a word. Now, he turned from where he’d sat on his bed, staring down at his damaged hand. They’d broken it over and over until the fingers were bent at odd angles. He blinked at her. Then blinked again. His scarred cheek tightened. “Ah, ye look bonnie, sister.”

  Her throat tightened. She moved to his side and stroked his hair back from his forehead. “Are ye certain ye’re well enough to come? I want ye there so badly, I fear I’ve pressed ye too hard.”

  He leaned his cheek into her hand for a single heartbeat before pulling away. “Aye. I’ll nae miss it.”

  She folded her hands at her waist. “Rannoch will take ye in the cart. Alexander and Campbell are bringin’ the cider and food. Da will ride with me.”

  He didn’t reply, just stared down at his hand.

  “Broderick,” she whispered.

  His dark, beautiful eye came up.

  “I’ll visit every day. Whenever ye need me. I—”

  “Nah, ye willnae.” Slowly, painfully, he unfolded his long body and pushed himself up until he stood before her. Somehow, she’d forgotten how tall he was. “Yer place is with yer husband.”

  “I cannae leave ye—”

  “Annie. Ye’ve done yer part. The rest is mine.” He reached for her hand and squeezed briefly before turning away. “Now, go. Da’s waitin’.”

  A half-hour later, Annie climbed down from the coach and took her father’s arm. Mrs. Baird, Mrs. MacBean, and Betty MacDonnell had finished fussing over her gown and handing her the bouquet, and now they led the way down the path to the old church. There, the ancient arches were decorated with vines and flowers. The yard had been cleared of weeds and debris, and a path through the stones had been laid with gravel and lined with wood planks. The gravel crunched beneath her slippers as she walked toward the steps then through the missing church doors. Inside the long, open rectangle where a church once stood, her family was gathered. Rannoch with his wicked smile. Alexander with his dark frown. Campbell with his stony strength. And Broderick, scarred and broken but standing.

  Her eyes turned to the priest, scrawny and sweating. She watched her three friends find their places standing on the left side of the “aisle,” a strip of mown grass down the center of the old ruin. Finally, she drew a breath and found him.

  Her Englishman.

  He made her heart stop then pound then swell then ache. Intermittent sunlight touched the gold streaks in his hair. Those hazel eyes flared as they raked her from flowery head to slippered feet. She felt her middle glow hot as his jaw flickered.

  He’d worn his blue coat. And the kilt she’d made for him.

  As she began her journey toward the handsomest man she’d ever seen, she was floating like a tuft on a breeze. There was no music, only wind rustling the trees, carrying the scent of warm pine. Then, the birds began. The sound started as a bit of chirping. Built into more. And soon, the caw and chirp of dozens of birds blended into a strange symphony. She felt rather than saw an entire flock launching into the sky from atop the arches. The flurry of fluttering white disappeared just as she came to a stop before her Englishman.

  For the length of the ceremony, she felt spellbound, unable to look away from him. She saw his lips moving, making promises to her. Felt her own moving, making promises in return. Heard her da saying he gave her in marriage, joining their clans, before he pinned John’s plaid. Then came a moment when Mrs. Baird took her bouquet and John took her hands and a ring slid onto her finger.

  She looked down and saw a brilliant flash as the ring winked back at her. Blue. It was a sapphire the color of the flowers in her bouquet. The color of her eyes. And it was surrounded by wee, sparkly diamonds. Her eyes rounded as they came up to his.

  He raised a brow and gave her an arrogant grin as if to say, “You were expecting cheap?”

  Then, at long last, the sweaty priest pronounced them man and wife, and John Huxley’s eyes went pure, molten gold. His nostrils flared, his jaw flickered, and his cheekbones flushed.

  For a moment, she feared she might leap upon him in front of everyone. Chances were, he wore nothing under his kilt, after all. Fortunately, Angus grumbled about missing breakfast and she regained her senses. As she and John retreated down their grass aisle, she spotted a flicker of white out of the corner of her eye. The white raven gazed down at her for a split second before it launched into the sky and was gone.

  In the churchyard, Dougal began playing the bagpipes and his brothers joined in with their fiddles. Annie shook off the odd moment and, alongside John, led the procession down the path toward the castle.

  For several hours following the wedding, MacPhersons and MacDonnells feasted and laughed, danced and told amusing tales. Annie danced two reels with her new husband, enjoying his flush as he eyed her with simmering hunger. Together, they ate a shockingly delicious cake made by Marjorie MacDonnell and drank MacPherson whisky from their shared quaich until they were both a wee bit dizzy.

  In time, John grew impatient, and he tugged her out into the corridor, up the stairs, and through the last door on the left. Inside his bedchamber, the music was faint and the light was soft. She leaned back against the oaken door, her head spinning after so much cider and whisky.

  John immediately set to work unbuttoning his coat and tearing away his cravat. He was a wee bit more careful removing his sporran, dirks, and belt, but he made quick work of them, as well.

  “Have I said how beautiful you are?” he asked.

  No, he hadn’t. But his eyes had been devouring her since she’d first set foot on the grassy aisle.

  Breathless and burning, she licked her lips while she watched him unbutton his waistcoat. “Ye havenae said much since our vows, English,” she panted.

  “All my thoughts are a bit obscene, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”

  “Gentlemanly of ye.”

  “Your gown is exquisite.”

  She looked down at the swells of her breasts, which he hadn’t torn his eyes from since entering the room. “Do ye think it flatters my shape?”

  His head tilted to a predatory angle. Hazel eyes were little more than amber rings around large, dark pupils. He wetted his lips and took a sharp, shuddering breath. “Yes.”

  It took her a moment to reply. Another. And another. “As this marriage is purely for procreation purposes, I’m glad ye find me pleasin’, husband.”

  “More than pleasing.” He shook his head as if to wake himself and ran a hand over his jaw. Then, he tossed away his waistcoat and crowded closer. A
frown tugged. “Who says our union is meant solely for procreating?”

  “I say. That’s what this marriage is, English. A venue for procreation. I want a bairn. Sooner the better.”

  His eyes burned. His hands braced on the wood to either side of her head. “Oh, love. Did you just challenge me?”

  For a moment, she might have gone a wee bit faint. Her new husband was a potent blaze of seductive power. Luckily, she was able to regain her senses and put him in his place. “Nah,” she replied, her voice only a little raspy. “Merely spoke the truth. Perhaps ye should try it.”

  His body, surrounding her in heat and hardness and pine-scented lust, went still. But he ignored her dig. “A bairn, you say?”

  “Aye.”

  “So, pleasure is unimportant.”

  “Well, I wouldnae say that,” she hedged, though her body wanted to scream the denial.

  “But the point is to plant the seed, as it were.”

  “Aye.” God, her throat was dry. And her knees were weak. And her nipples were so hard they ached. And her skin pulsed with every breath.

  “No kissing, then.” His lips brushed hers with the barest slide. “Or unnecessary touching.” His knuckles stroked her breast’s upper swell before moving down to swirl around her nipple. “Just my cock deep inside you as frequently as possible.”

  She whimpered. Melted against the door. Nuzzled his jaw like a cat in heat and arched her back, begging for more of him.

  “I think you are challenging me,” he whispered in her ear. “And here’s my reply, love.” With swift efficiency, he plucked at her skirts until they were bunched around her waist, leaving her naked to his touch. Then, using his wrist to keep her skirts raised, he slid a knuckle directly over the slick knot of sensation that swelled and pined for him.

  Her shocked gasp turned to a faint moan.

  Only then did he give her his answer. “I accept.”

  TlU

  This woman drove him mad. Her defiant chin. Her feisty tongue. Her taunting smirk.

  He wanted her until his teeth ached.

  And she wanted a babe.

  Far be it from him to shrink from a challenge.

  “First things first,” he murmured, tasting the skin of her soft, creamy throat. Between her thighs, he unfurled his finger and gently slid the length downward amidst her ripe petals. When he reached the tight opening he sought, he circled. Circled. Breached. Then sank his longest finger inside her. “Must ensure you can take me comfortably, hmm?”

  Her head fell back, her inner walls squeezing his finger while her damp thighs gripped his wrist. Her only reply was a deep, throaty moan and a bit more panting. She also gripped his hair with both hands. Good signs, all.

  He added a second finger. “So tight here, love. You’ll need to be very wet.” He nibbled her ear—she loved that—and repositioned his body so his chest teased the tips of her breasts. “My cock is significantly bigger than my fingers.”

  A long, feminine groan. “Ah, devil’s ballocks, English.”

  He grinned and worked her swollen nub with his thumb. “Those are substantial, as well.”

  “If ye mean to say ye’re the devil, I’ll believe ye.” She tried to draw his mouth to hers. “Kiss me. Please.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t like to waste my efforts”—he began thrusting his fingers in and out of her pulsing sheath—“on meaningless pleasures.” He nipped her shoulder. “We’ve a task to attend, after all.”

  Her hands tightened in his hair as she struggled to pull him in tighter. “I’ve changed my mind. Ye may kiss me. I’m certain ye’ve enough energy for all manner of pleasures. Large ballocks, and all that.”

  Despite feeling like his skin was too tight and his cock might burst into flames at any moment, he chuckled. “No, no, love. I’ll just ensure you’re wet enough to take me, shall I?” He moved his fingers in a deliberate rhythm, giving her just a bit more pressure with his thumb. “Focus, now.”

  Her sheath tightened like a vise. She bit her lip, groaned and worked her hips against his hand.

  “That’s it,” he encouraged, watching the cords in her neck and wishing he could bare her breasts. Later, perhaps. Once she’d fully surrendered, he’d indulge himself for hours. “Nearly there.”

  Her patience ended with a growl. Small fists gripped his shirt. He thought he heard a seam tear.

  “Now,” she demanded with harsh, rapid breaths. “Take me, damn ye.”

  Her rough command struck him like a flaming arrow through a gap in his armor, straight into a spot he hadn’t suspected he was vulnerable—the place that itched when she insulted him. Where his need to claim her lived.

  He’d planned to draw this out. Make her come and then pretend disappointment. Pleasure her with his mouth until she admitted he was more to her than a husband to father her bairns. More than a title or a convenience.

  But she smelled like heated sugar and ripe summer fruit. She welcomed his touch with lush eagerness, arching her back and spreading her legs to let him have her. She dared command him to take her.

  All his thoughts burned away. His control slipped. His muscles tightened. His cock was nothing but an aching throb. “Annie,” he whispered, trying to hold on amidst the dark, shocking flood of long-denied need.

  She opened her eyes, midnight with her arousal. Her lips were full and lush, wet from her tongue. They should be wet from his.

  And he lost command of himself. Bloody lost it.

  Light streamed through the windows and painted her skin bright gold. Her hair was pure flame. She was all he saw. He traced her throat with his free hand. Cupped her neck. Withdrew his fingers from her sheath, but only to grip her thigh and yank it wide over his hip. Then he lifted his kilt. Lifted his wife high against the door.

  Blue eyes flared and feminine fingertips dug into his nape as he positioned his cock at her entrance. “English?”

  His first thrust was hard, driving a gasp from her throat. He should have been gentler. Likely his lust made him a bit larger than normal. And she was small. Tight.

  So damned tight.

  She grunted as he thrust again. Deeper. He needed to be deeper. Hot, wet, silken grip. Soft, sweet-scented woman. His fingers held her bare thighs tighter. Wider. Pulled her hips up so she could take him harder.

  More. He thrust. More.

  “… too bluidy massive like this,” she was panting. “But I need ye. It’s good. Move, English. Aye, move. Like that.”

  Harder and harder. The door banged with every thrust, but he didn’t care. Burying his face against her throat, he finally sank as deep as he could go, feeling her soft flesh grind against the root of him. His heart pounded and pounded, drowning out everything but her voice. A sweet Scottish rasp, calling him English. Telling him how much she wanted everything he could give her.

  And the pleasure he’d thought to delay coiled up his spine. Sparked and ignited. Drove his pace to a hammering frenzy.

  “Annie,” he groaned, thrusting and thrusting and thrusting. Needing her so much, his pleasure was pain, his madness pleasure.

  She clung to him, her sheath gripping and giving and rippling a warning. Her fingers raked his hair while her hips writhed into his, riding his cock with helpless cries of pleasure. Then, she seized upon him. Cried and clung as her body was wracked with culminating ecstasy.

  For him, the explosion came when she put her lips to his ear and murmured in a shaky purr, “I’ll have all of ye, English. Ye’re mine, do ye hear? Ye belong to me.”

  He roared as it seized him. Lifted him into the sky and broke him open until he shattered into dust. Shimmered like stars.

  As his body worked to fill hers completely, he gasped against the skin of her neck, smelling sweetness, tasting salt, feeling the thrill of her hands cradling his head and kneading his shoulders. The wrenching spasms of his climax slowly eased. Her lips found his brow, his cheek, his jaw, and finally, his lips. Those she claimed with sweet pass
ion and a determined tongue.

  He answered with a sensual stroke of his own, though he was fully wrung of all his strength and the kiss turned beautifully lazy. They stayed like that, weakened by one another and leaning upon one another, until he gathered enough strength to carry her to the bed. Even as he sat with her straddling him, he refused to leave her body. Already, his was readying again.

  A husky laugh sounded in his ear. “Are ye certain ye’re not a wee bit Scottish, John Huxley?”

  He grinned as she continued kissing his neck and jaw in tiny Annie-sized bites. “I do find the kilt has significant advantages.”

  “Mmm. Quick access. Do ye aim to have another go, then?”

  His answer halted as she tugged his shirt up and stripped it off over his head. Blue eyes danced as her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips. She began plucking pins from her hair. Withdrew her veil and laid it gently on the bedside table. “Do ye like my backside, English?”

  His hands were squeezing her firm-yet-cushiony buttocks, instinctively trapping her in place. “Yes,” he said.

  She grinned and glowed, a sensual, flame-haired queen. “I like yers, too.” Her hands stroked down his chest, pausing here and there to sift through a bit of hair or dance over his nipples. “Are ye pleased with yer wife’s bosom?”

  “You know I am.” His voice was shredded.

  She leaned forward and rubbed her silk-encased breasts against him. When she sat back, her cheeks were fiery, her eyes now molten with new desire. Her hands traced his jaw, her finger his lips. A tiny frown appeared. “My bonnie Englishman. I’m not the lovely sort of wife ye might’ve had, am I?” she whispered.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’ll never be beautiful.”

  He frowned, utterly confused. “You are.”

  “Nah.” Her gaze fell to his shoulders and down his chest. “Nae bonnie or fine, like you.” Her gaze lifted, shining bright as a flame. “But I’ll fight for ye, English.” Her body squeezed his where they were joined. “I’ll fight to pleasure ye ‘til yer dainty toes curl and those enchantin’ eyes roll back in yer head.”