The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  “God, Annie.”

  She leaned forward and took his mouth. Kissed him passionately, caressing his jaw then wrapping her arms around his neck. “I’ll fight to make ye proud of me.”

  “Love, I am—”

  She touched her forehead to his and stole his next breath by rolling her hips. “Ye’ll teach me what pleases ye.”

  “You please me. You.”

  She began to take him. Stroke by stroke, she rode him.

  They breathed and moaned together. Kissed and touched and sighed together.

  “And another thing. Ye’re goin’ to tell me who hurt ye, John Huxley,” she said as she clung and drove him higher with a slow, rhythmic ride. “Ye’re goin’ to tell me why ye lied.”

  He didn’t want to tell her. He wanted to put her on her back and thrust harder until they both came again. He wanted to leave the past where it belonged.

  He kissed her to shut her up. Kissed her because he needed her pleasure as much as his own. He threaded his hands through the silk of her hair and held her beautiful mouth still for his pleasure. Then, he pulled back to grate, “I’m going to tup you until you can’t walk. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Is that so?” She grinned breathlessly. “Suppose ye’ll have to carry me, then. Careful ye dinnae strain those wee, dainty wrists.”

  “God, you are the most vexing woman.”

  “Do I spark yer temper?”

  “Yes,” he gritted, loosening the fastenings at the back of her bodice.

  She ran the tip of her smallest finger across his lower lip as he finally spread the silk and drew it down her shoulders. Shrugging free of her bodice and sleeves, she ran her hands over the lines of her corset, cupping her own breasts from beneath. “Would ye like a taste, English?”

  He’d thought it would take him longer to reach this state, the one where his skin felt scorched and overly sensitized. After his explosive climax earlier, he’d assumed he could go on a leisurely exploration.

  But that was before she began taunting him. Stoking him. Provoking him.

  “Take them out,” he growled, gazing down at the creamy, tempting swells. When she hesitated, he tugged the laces at her back to loosen the stays. “Now.”

  Because he was buried inside her sweet, tight warmth, he felt how his command affected her. A rush of her arousal bathed his cock, and her sleek muscles tightened and fluttered.

  “Aye, husband.” She slid her fingers into the corset’s cups and lifted out her breasts, letting them rest on the edges of the boned fabric.

  Nipples of deep, rosy pink were flushed nearly scarlet at the tips. Those sweet buds, he knew, would darken and swell when he tended them properly. For now, they were highly aroused and diamond hard. His mouth watered. His cock thickened. Readied.

  He needed her, but not like this.

  Within seconds, he reversed their positions, laying her on her back, spreading her hair out upon his pillow, and wrapping her legs around his hips. Then, he settled in.

  His wife thoroughly enjoyed his hands, of course, the way he plumped and stroked, pinched and plucked. But she reserved her loudest, most enthusiastic approval for his mouth.

  He suckled her for long, luscious minutes while pleasuring her below with slow, deliberate strokes of his cock. With every deep pull of his mouth and stroke of his tongue, he pushed her a bit further, mindful of signs of her nearing peak. When he finally felt sharp nails scoring his shoulders, he increased his rhythm. Took her harder and harder until the ramming strokes shocked even him.

  But she loved it. She clawed and growled and demanded more. Her heels dug into his backside and her mouth ate at his. “Sweet Christ and all his unicorns, English,” she rasped, grunting as he thrust deeper. “Ye’re a bluidy magician. Ah, I cannae … I’m about to … Ahh!”

  She sounded so astonished when her peak came, that he nearly laughed his triumph. Then his own peak followed hard on its heels, flooding her with his seed as her body wrung his dry.

  In the tender moments afterward, she held him and traced tickling patterns on his back. He lay with his ear over her heart, listening to the steady thud. His palm slid from her thigh to her waist. Then, he cupped her soft, velvety belly.

  And let himself imagine how beautiful their babes would be.

  Chapter Twenty

  TlU

  Annie’s husband of precisely seven days flexed his jaw and stared out the library window with visible frustration. “I did tell you about my family,” he argued, tossing the letter he’d been holding on his desk. “All the important bits, at any rate.”

  Over the past week, she’d softened toward him. How could she not? The man was tireless. She hadn’t laughed so much or floated so much or sighed like a pure dafty so much in all her life. On top of which, he’d moved heaven and earth to help Broderick.

  The letter from Dunston was more proof of that.

  And John did regret hurting her; that much was clear. He’d demonstrated his remorse over and over, doing everything she’d asked. He’d even promised to name their son Finlay.

  He’d also explained his cynicism regarding title-hunting women.

  They’d been lying in their bed a day after their wedding, exhausted from lovemaking and enjoying a breeze off the loch. At her insistence, he’d finally confessed how a half-French tart had tried to trap him years earlier.

  “I had a London season where it seemed … prudent to seek a wife,” he’d said. “At the time, I didn’t know you existed, or I would have understood how ill-suited she was for me.”

  “A milk-skinned beauty, was she?”

  “A beauty, yes. Lovely to look at. Her charm lay in coy flirtation. She pretended to be drawn to me against her will.”

  “Ah, very seductive.” Annie reckoned setting the woman’s hair on fire would make coy flirtation a wee bit harder. Perhaps one day, she’d have the chance to test her theory.

  “This was seven years ago.” He’d quirked a wry half-smile. “I was too eager to have what I’d seen in good marriages. It made me foolish. Blind.”

  “Nah,” she’d murmured, tracing the muscular ridges of his belly with her thumb. “Just hopeful, English.”

  “I pursued her long enough to begin planning our nursery and imagine spending our winters in Marseille.”

  She’d frowned. “Marsae?”

  “Marseille. In France. She was half-French.”

  “Frenchwomen do seem to light yer wick. Her name didnae happen to be Jacqueline, did it?”

  “Perhaps.”

  He’d winced as her fingertips dug into his ribs. “Easy, love.”

  “Modest French mistress. Half-French tart with badly singed hair. A pattern’s a pattern, John Huxley.”

  “For God’s sake, Annie. I found her romping in her uncle’s stable with another man. A Frenchman, by the by. She’d already been impregnated. She planned to wed me for my title, pass the child off as mine, and keep her lover for sport.” Frowning, he’d trapped her hand in his. “Why do you think I named a horse after her?”

  Probably an insulting reminder to himself. Still, she didn’t like it. They’d have to change the horse’s name. “So, she cuckolded ye before ye’d married her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was her vision very poor, then? Too vain for spectacles, perhaps?”

  A frown tugged. “No.”

  “Are ye certain? Because the only other explanation is her sufferin’ a head wound as a wee lass. Happens from time to time. Poor weans grow up simple. Cannae make proper judgments. Like when it’s appropriate to chew a bit of rope. Or keepin’ yer legs shut when ye have the bonniest man ever to draw breath offerin’ to make ye the luckiest lass ever to set eyes upon him.”

  His eyes had glowed bright as sun-struck amber. “I’m the lucky one, love.”

  His recollection had helped her make sense of why he’d lied, why he’d needed Annie to choose him without the title.

  But some of t
he wounds he’d dealt her remained raw. This morning, when he’d reluctantly shared the letter from his brother-in-law, those wounds had opened again.

  Now, Annie tossed aside her attempt at embroidery and shoved to her feet, coming to stand beside his chair. She crossed her arms and leaned back against the desk. “Ye told me Jane fancies readin’. Ye didnae tell me she was the Duchess of Blackmore.”

  “When you meet her, you’ll understand why it doesn’t matter.”

  “Neither did ye say Maureen is wed to the Earl of Dunston.”

  He sighed.

  She tapped the letter near her hip. “Who happens to work for the bluidy Home Office.”

  John’s right leg began twitching, a sure sign of restlessness. “That’s not precisely—”

  “Or that Eugenia—the milliner, mind—is actually wife to one of the richest men in England. Another earl, no less.”

  “Her marriage was a recent—”

  “Or that Robert will soon be a marquis, givin’ ye a matched set. The full assortment of titles perched in yer family tree.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I have already apologized in every way imaginable. I’ve begged your forgiveness, promised to restore the churchyard, bought you a coach”—he gestured to the carriage parked in the drive below—“specifically so you could visit MacPherson House in a godforsaken Scottish deluge.”

  She glanced out at the absolute downpour. “’Tis a wee bit damp.”

  “Would you have me on my knees, woman?” He sounded positively crabbit.

  “Och, I would enjoy that, I must tell ye, English. Seems that’s where ye do yer best work.”

  “God, Annie.” He gave an exasperated chuckle, bracketed her hips and drew her to stand between his knees. The emotions in those enchanting hazel eyes were as complex as the colors—adoration, frustration, regret, lust. “You’re vexed that I failed to inform you about my family, yet you’ve barred me from telling them about our marriage.”

  “For now.”

  “Why?”

  She hesitated. “They’ll expect ye’ve married a lady.”

  “You are a lady.”

  “Nah. I’m a hoyden, English.” She brushed at her skirt. The light brown wool was very fine. But the woman wearing it? An imposter. “I’ll need many more Lady Lessons before I’m fit to be kin to a duchess.”

  Silence. When she dared a glance at his face, the banked fury there surprised her.

  Warily, she continued, “Mayhap in a year or so—”

  “Absolutely not,” he grated. “Whether now or later, they will love you. If more Lady Lessons will put you at ease, then by all means, resume training. But I will not wait a year. We might have a child by then, for God’s sake.”

  Crossing her arms, she narrowed her eyes and stewed for a moment. John’s family was important to him. Perhaps they could strike a bargain. “Very well. Ye may tell them before our son is born.”

  “I’ll give you until the ball at the Glenscannadoo Gathering.”

  “Bluidy hell, English. That’s naught but a month from now!”

  “We’ll attend together, and you may demonstrate your skills for the laird and his fellow landlords. Thereafter, I’ll invite my family to visit. September is a lovely time here in the glen.”

  Anxiety gnawed away at her middle. “Fine. I’ll agree to have them for a wee visit.”

  “Splendid.”

  “If ye win one of the events at the Highland Games.”

  His arrogant smirk was her first hint that perhaps she’d made a bad bet. John Huxley thrived on a challenge. “Done.”

  “Y-ye havenae asked which event.”

  “Unimportant.” He leaned forward, drawing her close until his mouth hovered near hers. “If it means I may finally show you off to my family, I shall win.” He kissed her and beamed that confident grin she found so irresistible. “Count upon it.”

  How was she going to master gliding in only a month? And dancing! She’d have to dance at the ball. And speak like a Lowlander. And learn how to serve a multi-course meal to a table full of countesses, earls, and the like. Oh, God. She’d need so many supplies. A proper teapot. Plates and cups and saucers and linens. She longed for John’s family to love her, as he’d repeatedly insisted they would. But Annie would settle for not disgracing herself or her husband.

  She glanced at the settee where she’d discarded her embroidery, a middling result at best. Real ladies embroidered much better. Real ladies had clean napkins and china cups with wee flowers on them.

  “English.”

  “Hmm?”

  “We must go to Inverness.”

  “I’m planning a trip next week to speak with the constable—”

  “Today. I must visit Mrs. Baird. And purchase a proper teapot.”

  He sighed and drew her closer to nuzzle her neck. “Really? Now? When it’s raining and our bed is so close?”

  “Aye, now. No time to waste. We’ve a great deal of shoppin’ to do.”

  “I thought you hated shopping.”

  “Not this sort.” She cupped his face and raised his eyes to meet hers. “Are ye ready for me to spend yer money, husband?”

  He sighed. Glanced out at the sheeting rain and arched a brow. “I suppose if you made several hours in a coach worth my while, I shouldn’t be too out of sorts about it.”

  “Is that a challenge, ye cheeky Englishman?”

  He gave her a grin and squeezed her backside. “Perhaps.”

  She leaned forward and whispered against his lips, “I accept.”

  TlU

  Three hours later, Annie’s elbow wedged in the corner between the coach seat and the tufted wall. Her right heel rested on her husband’s naked backside. Her left heel rested on the floor. And her head lolled halfway off the bench.

  “I’m a pure mess, English,” she panted, her body still pulsing with remembered pleasure. She blew a red curl out of her eyes and laughed. “Ah, God. Ye’ve done me in.”

  The coach jostled through a rut, causing them both to groan. “I’d apologize for ravishing you, love, but I’m not sorry.”

  In fact, they were both a bit of a mess. She’d wrinkled her skirts by kneeling between his knees. Then, she’d wrinkled his trousers when she’d taken his hard length in her mouth, a particular treat she enjoyed when she wanted to drive him mad. But she’d scarcely had time to tease him before he’d dug his fingers into her hair, tumbling it loose from its pins. Then he’d grasped her arms and pulled her up into a kiss. Eager for him, she’d immediately straddled his hips and impaled herself upon his cock while he tore at her drawers and yanked at her bodice to force her nipple free for his mouth. Her bodice had certainly been creased. Perhaps even a wee bit torn.

  As she’d ridden him, she’d clawed his cravat, which presently lay on the carriage floor. She frowned now, recalling how his mood had darkened to a near-primitive state. He’d growled through gritted teeth, his eyes maddened. Then he’d picked her up, rising to tumble her back onto the opposite seat, seemingly incensed at having her anywhere but beneath him. He’d wadded her skirts carelessly around her waist—more wrinkles, naturally. Then he’d pressed her legs wide, forcing her bent knees toward her shoulders so he could go deeper and harder. Her peak had come with such force, she’d bitten his fine wool collar to stifle her screams of ecstasy.

  Now, she surveyed their surroundings—the black cushioned seats and silver velvet curtains. “This is a very fine carriage,” she murmured.

  He lay heavily upon her, hot breaths fanning her neck. “Glad you like it.”

  “I think I may have damaged your coat.”

  “I have other coats. You may damage them later.”

  She sifted her fingers through his hair. Turned her head to kiss his brow. “It seems ye dinnae like me to sit astride ye for very long, English,” she whispered tenderly. “Why is that?”

  He stilled. His muscles tensed. He levered up and away from her, expression
shuttered. For the next few minutes, he didn’t speak. Rather, he busied himself reassembling his clothing then helping her do the same.

  She made an attempt to redress her hair, but her arms were limp as overcooked cabbage.

  “Let me help,” he rasped, gently turning her until her back was to him. Then, she felt his fingers against her scalp, lacing through her curls and stroking the length before winding it into a coil and fastening it at the back of her head. Every moment sent waves of silvery shivers washing across her skin.

  She sighed and reached for him, bringing his hand to her mouth so she could kiss his palm. Then, she held his hand between her own. “Ye go a wee bit mad when ye awaken with me on top of ye. It’s happened twice. And it’s plain ye prefer to be the rider rather than the mount. Can ye tell me why, English?”

  He withdrew. She shifted so she could see his face, but he’d turned away to stare out at the rain.

  “I’ve told ye everythin’ about my life,” she said. “The parts I love, the parts I hate, even the parts I didnae think ye’d believe. How Finlay and I would play ghostie tricks on the villagers and how Broderick would sing to me in Gaelic when I fell ill. How Grisel made me want to crawl into the grave with my mam once or twice.”

  She watched his throat ripple and his muscles tense. He was fighting the same rage he’d shown when she’d first told him about the spitting and taunts—all the small cruelties she’d endured until she’d learned how to avoid them.

  “Do ye think I willnae understand?”

  “I think you’ll view me differently.”

  “Nah. I ken who ye are, John Huxley. Even if ye did lie about bein’ a lord.”

  Slowly, as the rain pattered on the roof and the outskirts of Inverness became the town of Inverness, his shoulders lost some of their tension. His fists loosened. His hand slid over hers.

  His other hand raked through his hair. “You really wish to hear this, do you?”

  “I really do.”

  “Fine.” His lips paled with tension. “She was a governess. Came from an old but impoverished bloodline. My parents hired her to instruct my sisters when I was sixteen.” His right hand, she noticed, was gripping the seat beside his leg as though to keep himself in check. “I was home from Eton. The first week, she attempted to flirt with me, but my interests lay elsewhere at the time.”