MAD, BAD & DANGEROUS TO MARRY (The Highland Brides Book 4)

by Elizabeth Essex

  “We’ll take off the lid and set the kettle out in the rain—it’ll fill up soon enough.” He took the heavy kettle and set it on the doorsill. “But I’ve something better than tea, lass.” He pulled his flask off a high shelf. “Whisky.” He offered her the wee flask. “Have you ever tried whisky?”

  She swiped the flask from his hand. “I may not own my own distillery, but I’m two and twenty, and not, as I keep having to tell people, a green girl. And I’m Scots.” She tossed back a goodly gulp. “Oh, gracious me,” she swore on a deep inhale. “If that isn’t strong enough to make an auld whore blush, I don’t know what is.”

  He laughed and patted her on the back. “Keep breathing, lass.”

  “I’ll try. Gracious, but I really could have used a wee bit o’water with that.”

  Ewan took his own swig, letting the smoky fire bolt down his throat and light up his insides in a way the fire never could. “I’ve some bannock cakes and honey left.” He foraged in the cloth bag that served as his pantry. “It’s not a ham, but it’ll keep us the night.”

  “Manna from heaven.” She took the dried wedges of oats and barley and set them to warm on the hod.

  They sat there in companionable silence, eating the warm oat cakes, and sipping whisky, until they had eaten all he had, and were warm from the fire.

  She had looked at him a great deal while they ate, but now she looked into the fire, leaving him free to look at her. Her bright ginger hair had escaped its careful, orderly pins, and spilled across her cheek like dark amber honey in the moonlight. Glistening and shining and calling for the touch of his hand.

  He reached out to where a long ginger strand fell across her shoulder, and let it slip, soft and silent between his fingers. And if the bright fall of her hair was so soft and wondrous, what would the living warmth of her skin feel like? He turned his hand and let the backs of his fingers graze across the high planes of her cheekbones and the pale cream of her skin.

  He wanted to touch and see more of it, her sweet skin. He wanted to run his finger down to the soft spot beneath her chin, and along the slide of her neck, to the little hollow above the top button of her linen blouse. And over her lips, as smooth and sweet and inviting as a summer sloe.

  Just a kiss, he lied to himself. While she was his, and he could protect her, and they were away from all other cares. While he had could give her something sweet and kind of himself.

  She looked so soft and appealing, wrapped up in his plaid, so happy and easy in his company.

  “Just one kiss.” On the corner of her mouth, where the smooth cream of her cheek gave way to the crushed berry of her lip.

  “Maybe two,” she whispered back. “Though I’ve saved far more for you.”

  He did not need to be asked twice. He kissed her, and they were exactly as he had dreamt, her lips—plush and giving, like ripe fruit. How he had been so lucky to fall in love with the woman he was destined to marry, he did not know. He did not care.

  With his lips upon hers, her eyes fluttered closed, but she gave him a slow smile of such welcoming warmth—exhausted and rumpled, and happy—that all his good intentions were incinerated in an instant. His poor, aching, abused brain abandoned all pretense to thought for the more immediate gratification of feeling.

  And she felt marvelous. She sighed into him as he gathered her lithe body closer, a soft sound of pleasure and welcome, and he was lost to the wonder that was her. To the pleasure of her kiss. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to kiss her again while she was in his arms and warm and so wonderfully willing to kiss him back.

  “Ewan,” she whispered.

  “Aye.” He answered her kiss for kiss. He would have crawled over rocks and glass—he had crawled over half a mountain—to taste her like this.

  He deepened the kiss, wanting her to open to him. But it was he who was opening—falling into the rightness of her, plummeting into the pleasure that came whenever he was with her, and grew ten-fold with her lips on his.

  She tasted of the rain, slick and earthy—like water, and he was nothing but a salt bed, parched and dry. He had thirsted for her from the first moments he could remember, when he wanted her more that he had wanted the water that had eased his parched throat.

  He pulled her closer, and her hand found its way along the line of his jaw. He turned into the sweet chafe of her palm, rubbing the rough texture of his scraggly beard against her like a mute animal trained to her hand—the near-growl of low pleasure that wound its way out of his chest was beast-like in its primitiveness. He felt primitive, crude and low, and not fit for the fine likes of her, but for this moment when she welcomed him, he didn’t care.

  He took her into his arms, lifting and turning her and letting her down upon the low pallet. He felt clumsy and stupid as he settled his weight upon her, importuning her with his rude arousal. He tried to slow himself, to hold the clawing need at bay, so he kissed her carefully, making sure of his welcome, waiting for her to pull back again. To tell him they ought not, to put him back in his place.

  But she was kissing him, her mouth rising to meet his, her breath heating and tangling with his. And he was falling deeper, pulled into her exquisite sweetness by the loop of her arms around his neck. She clung to him, holding him as tightly as he held her. And then her hands speared into his hair, cradling his skull, brushing through the short locks as she pulled him closer still.

  He nosed his way behind her ear, where her hectic pulse beat under the fragile surface of her skin, where the scent of woman and crushed heather and rain mixed with the light perfume of soap.

  And he wanted more. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted.

  He wanted to taste more than her mouth. He wanted to take her into himself and keep her there. He wanted her to be his in the most basic, most essential way possible. To bind her to him so that she could never leave him. Never abandon him to the emptiness that was his past, or the uncertainty that was his future.

  He wanted to be such a part of her, that she needed him as much as he needed her.

  He rose upon his elbows to feel the lovely curve of her petite body beneath him, to watch as his hands roamed over her of their own accord, searching out every interesting nook and exquisite curve. He kissed her closed eyes, and the soft spot beneath her ear, and the long line of her jaw, and lower, down the endless cascade of her neck, where he plied his teeth along the sensitive tendon, nipping his way to her collarbone.

  She shivered and sighed and arched her head back, all gasping concession.

  He followed his lips with his hands—he had to find more of her. He had to.

  His fingers stripped away the tartan, pushing aside the lapels of her blouse, and clumsily trying to undo the short row of buttons at the throat. His hands felt awkward, as if his brain couldn’t send the message to his fingertips. “Am I doing this right?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Something about his ineptitude made her smile—in a way that told him she was as nervous as he. “No one has ever undressed me before.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Never once?” she asked more curious that disbelieving.

  “If I have, I don’t remember.” It seemed the sort of thing a man would remember. “But I don’t think so. Have you?”

  That brought a magnificent blush blazing across her cheeks, but an even wider smile creasing her bonnie lips. “Of course not. But we’ll learn together how to go on.” And she was helping him, shrugging one arm out of her blouse, putting her smaller, more nimble fingers over his to finish the unbuttoning.

  He sat back upon his knees to watch her, unsure of what to do next, cursing the fickle fancy of his brain that told him he must get her bare, but not remembering how. But he could take his own shirt off, so his skin that craved the touch of hers would be ready.

  He tugged the linen over his head, nearly ripping the strained seams in his haste, eager to return his lips to hers for another intoxicating kiss. He couldn’t seem to order his thoughts enough to effectively disrobe
either of them, but it didn’t matter—as long as she welcomed him into her arms he would be happy.

  Her bonnie brown eyes were closed, but she was smiling, that soft secret smile he loved, so he kissed her there, along the curving seam of her lips. He angled his head to get closer, and kiss deeper. He wanted to keep the dawn at bay—keep her as long as he could before he had to face the coming day and its troubles. Before he had to take up the responsibilities he had for too long forgotten. He was glad he was with her, and no other—he could not remember, or even imagine being with another. “Lass.”

  At his words, everything about her, all the sleek, strong, self-sufficient edges, softened. She sighed into him and took his lip between hers, nipping and sucking lightly, learning the way of him until she grew bolder and closed her mouth around his, and took his tongue with hers.

  His need became like a current rising in a storm, fast and driven.

  With his lass, there was no coy retreat or simpering lures—there was only clear-eyed surety, and sweet welcome. Her kiss was as open and generous as he had dreamed, night after frustrating night on the narrow mountain cot.

  He speared his big hand into her hair, cradling her head so he could kiss her more deeply. He all but dove into her, holding her hard against him, pulling her into him as if he could absorb her essence, her very being.

  She spoke, calling his name in little gasping pants of astonishment. “Ewan, Ewan,” she said with every kiss, as if she were trying to convince herself that he was real, and that they were truly alone together and there was nothing to stop them.

  Nothing but several layers of useless clothing.

  And he wanted it off. He wanted her to himself, completely and irrevocably. He wanted to taste her everywhere. He wanted to touch her everywhere. He wanted to see her everywhere. To leave no part of the wonder of her undiscovered or hidden.

  He went at her stays with every last shred of his concentration, following the long laces wound around her waistband, while she tried to wiggle the rest of her way out of her blouse, so she was clad only in her shift and stays—in the nearly transparent cutty sark the poems had conjured for him—

  Halfway to naked.

  Her bare arms and shoulders were washed pale in the moonlight, and she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Lovelier than light and sky and heather.

  He wanted to fall at her feet and worship her as if she were a goddess, but she was a real flesh and blood woman. A woman he wanted to undress.

  “How?” was all he could manage from a tongue that felt thick with stupidity.

  “In back.” She turned and lay her hand over her shoulder to show him. “The laces are tucked under at the top.”

  He wanted to rip them out—to pull the dirk Dewar had given him from his boot and slice the confounded things away until the stays fell to the floor and he could peel the shift away with his hands. But he didn’t—he fished and fumbled with his fingers until he found the salient bit of a bow and could slowly, painstakingly pull out the ribbons until the boned canvas stays fell away.

  She held it in place in front of her, not as if she were shielding herself, but as if she were waiting. Gathering her courage and herself into readiness.

  Or mayhap waiting until he was ready.

  By God and St. Andrew he was ready. He shoved his rough leather breeks to the floor to show her he was ready willing and able—his ruddy manhood stood out crude and proud.

  “Oh,” she said, in a tone he couldn’t quite understand. Her pale cheeks shone pink in the silver wash of moonlight. “Oh, my.”

  He didn’t know whether he was meant to be abashed or amazed.

  “Just kiss me again,” was what she said. “I don’t have to think or worry when you’re kissing—”

  He obliged her. He kissed her with all the howling want and fear and rage that seethed like a caldron within at the very thought of her being shot at, or God forbid, hit. Kissed her with all the ardor of all the words he hadn’t been able to say piled up in his head like a dam that was finally breaking. He kissed her because she was important and bonnie and precious, and he wanted more than anything for her to be his. To make her his.

  He wanted to kiss her and kiss her until he fell off the silken roof at the top of the world. Until he could not think or worry and had only to feel—to feel the incredible vibrancy of her body, and experience the more incredible pleasure brewing within. Until that wasn’t enough, and he wanted more.

  He wanted to see her. “Let me—” The words got all tangled up in his brain before they could make their way to his tongue. “I want—”

  But it was easier to show her than to tell her. “Please,” was the only word he needed to brush the stays aside and smooth the gauzy linen shirt from her shoulders to reveal the gloriously apricot-tinted peaks of her breasts.

  He could only look at her, and marvel at the earthy perfection of her, this woman who had seen his need and fed him and talked to him and pulled him back to life, to living.

  The architecture of her bones was as beautifully perfect and natural as any sight in nature—glorious, colorful, and bonnie. He looked and looked at her, drowning in his wonder, until she grew shy under his gaze and reached to cover herself.

  “No, please. Don’t.” He had to see her, mark this moment in his too-often clouded brain. To know that she was a gift to him. That he needed to give of himself in return.

  He did so by taking her hands and spreading them wide, so he could see all of her. Her breasts were bonnie, her skin gleaming pale and silvered in the moonlight shivering through the window, washing across the cot long enough for the image to etch itself indelibly into his brain. Her nipples were the exact color of the wild campion flowers on the hillsides. And the exact same color as her lovely lips.

  He began to kiss his way toward them—those lips as soft and ripe as a summer bloom. He kissed first the back of one hand, and then the pulse at the inside of her wrist on the other, working his way from side to side, from the sensitive joint of her elbow, to the exquisite hollow beneath her collarbone, until she tipped her head to the side, granting him unlimited access to the treasure of her body.

  He kissed the soft, scented underside of her breast, and nuzzled his cheek along its sensitive peak, and only when she arched her back, raising herself up to him in silent plea, did he take the tight wildflower bud of her nipple into his mouth and suck lightly at her breast.

  She made a sound of deep pleasure, like the warm wind through the glen, that sighed through her and into him. He touched her again, learning the way of her, finding the way to her pleasure. And she helped, this clever, curious, courageous woman—her hands were in his hair, cradling his head, holding and directing him to the exactness of her want.

  He returned briefly to kiss her mouth, the taste of her like the tang of strong Scots whisky—potent and intoxicating. Her felt drunk on her, on the wild abandon brewing up in his veins. And he wanted more. It was not nearly enough to see only her breasts—he needed to see all of her. He wanted to see the entire glory of her body.

  But as he worked the shift down over the slide of her belly and the curve of her hips, he had his first glimpse of the vivid tousle of curls at the apex of her thighs. He all but froze, cleaved by need at the splendor of her body.

  He must have been gaping like a dumb animal, for she was looking up at him with eyes pressed wide with concern. “Are you all to rights? Are you remembering something?”

  “Nay.” He didn’t want to think of anything else. He didn’t want to remember if he had done this before, with someone else. He wanted only now. “You’re bonnie. More than bonnie—beautiful.”

  A rosy sweep of pleasure blossomed across her face. “And so are you. You’re a braw, handsome man even if you aren’t fourteen stone. Makes me wonder how much more handsome you were before.”

  “I don’t care what I was.” There was no before. There was nothing but what they could make this night together. “I only care what I am now. With you.”

>   “Aye.” She reached up to take his face between her hands, caressing his cheeks and jaw as she brought his mouth to hers.

  The sound that tunneled out of his chest was something in the space between a sigh and a groan. He felt buffle-headed. And extraordinarily alive.

  And determined to get it right. For her.

  For both of them.

  She reached her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close, holding him tight, and kissing him. Kissing and kissing him while his body sought out the exquisite warmth within hers.

  “Aye, lass. That’s the way of it.” She felt so bloody, bloody good, so wonderful, he couldn’t think. He could only feel and want. And what he wanted was her. All of her.

  He guided himself into her body, pressing himself within. Within the welcome embrace of her heat.

  The rush of ecstasy felt so sharp and so raw he couldn’t breathe, and he didn’t need to. He didn’t need anything but his lass, and the fiercely beautiful friction of her body, ever again.

  Lord Ewan Cameron

  St. Salvador’s College

  St. Andrew’s, Fife

  2 December, 1790

  Dearest Ewan,

  Your suggestion of travel has at last fallen on sympathetic ears! Papa declares that I am old enough and thinks it a very sound idea for us to travel to Paris in the spring. In fact, now that the idea has sprouted in his brain, he begins to expand the plan, and talk of taking me on to Italy as well, so I might have the benefit of studying the masters of art and architecture in person, to be a properly cultured duchess. And I must admit, the idea has found great favor with me as well. In fact, such favor that I am pressing that such travel be attempted now, before you are done with your studies. After all, I have said to him on every occasion I might, we are not getting any younger!

  Your devoted friend, GD

  Lord Ewan Cameron

  St. Salvador’s College

  St. Andrew’s, Fife

  20 January, 1791