His Highland Rose

by Willa Blair

  Iain didn’t need an invitation. He kissed Annie tenderly, then, when she responded, with more passion.

  All too soon, she broke the kiss and placed two fingers on his lips. “Iain, no’ here,” she warned him with a grin.

  He drew in a ragged breath and glanced around. The priest’s disapproval pinched his face. But their family and friends were smiling and laughing. Iain stood and helped Annie to her feet, kissed her temple, and led her back up the aisle to cheers.

  Epilogue

  Later, in his chamber, Iain barred the door against their raucous friends and placed his back against it.

  Annie, who had allowed herself to be put to bed by the serving women, sat up, careful to keep the covers tucked against her, secured under her arms. “They canna break it down, can they?”

  Iain chuckled and straightened. “Nay. Nor will they try. They’re just having some fun—at the expense of our good night’s sleep.”

  Annie’s face fell. “Sleep? Ye want to sleep?”

  Iain covered a yawn, then burst out laughing. “Ye should see yer face, lass.” He came to her side of the bed, leaned in and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Nay, I dinna think we’ll be sleeping for hours, yet. It willna matter how much noise they make.” Then he moved his lips to her earlobe. Then down the side of her throat.

  Tingles ran along Annie’s skin, from Iain’s lips to the tight buds of her nipples, and from there, to the juncture of her thighs.

  Iain kept up his gentle assault, the edges of his teeth tracing the muscle from Annie’s throat out along her shoulder.

  She couldn’t help tensing against the sensation, but Iain soothed her by running his tongue back up the same path. She was fine until he stroked her ear with it, the sensations of wet and heat and, God, he was nibbling along the shell of her ear, making her whole body tingle. Annie couldn’t take any more. She turned to him and grabbed his shirtfront, letting the bedclothes she’d been clutching fall to her waist.

  Iain reared back and raked her with his gaze. “I was wondering how long before ye would have to let go of that,” he teased, then placed one big hand in the center of her chest and gently pushed her back.

  Annie collapsed against the pillows, letting go of Iain’s shirt, still enjoying the residual heat on the inner curves of her breasts from the heel of Iain’s hand.

  He gave her a wicked grin as he removed his belt and let the yards of plaid wool wrapped around his waist fall to the floor. He stepped out of the fabric puddle and kicked off his boots. In moments, he stood before her dressed only in his fine lawn shirt, his arm and shoulder muscles outlined in sheer bulges at the top and…something else…tenting the fabric below.

  Annie sucked in a breath, but Iain didn’t give her time to panic. He leaned over her and kissed her soundly, then traced down her body with one hand, tossed away the covers hiding the rest of her from his gaze and stopped long enough to take in what he’d revealed. When Annie tried to cover her breasts with one hand and nether curls with the other, Iain gently lifted them, kissing each finger, then starting up one arm, then the other, giving her chill bumps with every damp kiss he left behind.

  “I’m pleased ye didna try to hide yer scar, wife.” He traced the starburst with heated fingers. “’Tis proof of yer strength. Yer will to survive, and thrive.” He looked up and met her gaze, solemnly. “Ye make me proud to call ye mine. For this,” he said and brushed his hand over the puckers, “and so many other reasons, I could talk until dawn, trying to list them all.” Then he gave her a wicked grin. “But there are other things I’d rather do.”

  “’Tis no’ fair,” Annie complained as he feasted on her neck, making her arch in pleasure.

  “What?”

  “Ye are still covered,” she groused, grasping a handful of linen.

  “’Tis easily remedied,” Iain assured her, grasped the hem of his shirt and stripped it over his head. Lifting his arms tightened every muscled in his torso. While he fought to get his hands out of the sleeves, his erection jutted upward at the same angle as his heavily muscled arms.

  Annie watched him, wide-eyed, torn between the play of his chest and shoulder muscles, as he freed himself from the shirt, and the massive member straining upward, from its nest of curly hair, within her reach. Its proximity decided for her, and she wrapped one hand around it. Hot! Silky and hard at the same time. She glanced up, wondering how Iain was reacting to her touch.

  Somehow, he’d gotten rid of the shirt and now stared down at her hand as if he’d never been so surprised by anything in his life.

  “Does this hurt?” Annie was pretty sure it didn’t, from things she’d overheard in the stable. But she was in a mood to tease Iain and grasping him while his chest heaved like bellows seemed a good place to start.

  Iain’s eyes squeezed shut and his head fell back. “Nay. No’ at all. Touch me all ye like.”

  He gave a gentle thrust, pushing more firmly into her grip. She got the idea and ran her hand up his length, then back down again.

  “Christ, Annie.” He bent to take her mouth in a hungry kiss, his tongue tangling with hers while his hand slid down her belly to the juncture of her thighs. Annie gasped, but Iain gave no quarter. He explored and probed and stroked until she felt like floating off the bed. The only thing holding her in place was her grip on his staff, which somehow, she’d never relinquished.

  “Let me have that back, lass, and I’ll show ye how to use it properly,” he whispered into her mouth and slid himself out of her grip, “when ye are ready.”

  Annie shifted her hands to his shoulders, but he pulled away, kissing and licking a moist trail down her breast and belly. With his chin, he urged her to widen her legs. His mouth on her inner thighs was heavenly enough, even when he paid special attention to her scar and the skin around it. But when he ran his tongue along her center, she saw stars. He teased and sucked and licked until she whimpered and shuddered, lost in sensations she’d never felt before. When she ceased writhing, he kissed his way back up her body to her mouth.

  “Now ye are ready, lass. I’m about to make ye truly my wife, unless ye tell me ‘nay’.”

  “I’ll no’ do that, Iain,” she panted, still enraptured by delicious sensations he’d caused. “I am yer wife. My answer will ever be aye.”

  He didn’t waste words, but moved over her and placed his heavy erection against her slick entrance. “I’m sorry to hurt ye the first time, my love. I promise it will get better every time after this.”

  She nodded. Though his words made her nervous, his smile reassured her.

  He pushed a little way inside, then paused. “Take yer time lass, to get used to me.”

  Annie took a breath and nodded. “I am.”

  “Very well,” Iain told her and penetrated a little further.

  She thought this was supposed to hurt, but so far, she felt only heat and fullness. She nodded again.

  This time, Iain thrust further, and Annie stifled a shriek. Aye, that hurt. She took a few deep breaths and willed her muscles to unclench. All of them.

  “’Tis done, my wife,” Iain cooed. “Now ye are mine, and no one can say us ‘nay’.”

  The concern in his gaze reassured her he meant her no harm. As he spoke, the throbbing in her center died away. “As I wished before ye breached that barrier, husband, and still do, I am yers. And ye are mine.”

  Her words must have reassured him, because he began to move. At first she thought he meant to pull away from her and almost objected, but before she could form the words That’s it? he thrust into her again, then out a bit, then back in. In moments, she found his rhythm and began to enjoy this coupling. A sweet tension spread from where her husband filled her, up to her belly and breasts. By the time it reached her throat and fingertips, she was arching into him, panting, and calling his name. He kept going until she cried out. Then he gave one final push into her and froze in place, shuddering.

  “God, Annie,” he mouthed when he resumed breathing. “Ye make me mad fo
r ye.”

  She wrapped her arms and legs around him, trapping him against her body. “I’ve never felt anything like this, Iain,” she confessed. “And I dinna want to let ye go.”

  He chuckled against her neck, then lifted his head and kissed her, long and deep. “And I never wish to leave yer body, but ye ken we must, eventually.”

  “If only to break our fast, aye.”

  Iain’s gaze captured hers. “I love ye, Mary Anne Rose.”

  She’d never tire of hearing him say…almost that. “Mary Anne Brodie, husband. I’ll thank ye to remember it.” Annie Rose Brodie. And some day, Lady Brodie. She could scarce believe it. Only the heat and growing hardness between her legs convinced her it was real.

  His thumb traced her cheek. “I’ll never forget it, my love. Ye have made me happier than I ever imagined I could be.”

  “Happier than a basket full of kittens?” She smirked.

  “Ach, aye, lass. So ye found the wee ones in the stable did ye?”

  “Aye. One of the bairns told me where to find them.” She took his face in her hands. “Ye ken ye have done the same for me. I canna recall a day when I didna wish to be your wife.”

  His head tipped to the side. “Then ye have a short memory, my love.”

  “Nay. I simply refuse to think about life without ye—or kittens—in it,” she replied with a saucy grin. Then her expression turned serious. “I’m glad ye fought for me. And convinced me to love ye.”

  Iain rolled to the side and pulled Annie against him, resting her head on his arm. “When I arrived at Rose, I had nay wish to take a wife, though I kenned I must. ’Twas ye who convinced me, my love.”

  She snuggled, burying her nose into his chest and breathing deep of his scent and the scent of their lovemaking. “Either way, I am glad we found each other.” Whether the fairy pool had anything to do with this or nay.

  Iain chuckled, his mirth rumbling deep in his chest and making her smile at the feel of it against her cheek. “I wonder if Kenneth and Cat will end up as happy as we are.”

  Annie smiled. “I’ll think on that after he gives ye what he owes ye—his best horse.”

  Iain rolled onto his back, laughing out loud. She couldn’t resist laughing right along with him. It seemed a wonderful way to start a marriage.

  Coming Soon!

  HIS HIGHLAND HEART

  Shipwrecked in enemy territory, Euan Brodie fears the rest of his crew are at the bottom of the Moray Firth. While he searches for his crew, the youngest barely twelve years old, he must evade Clan Ross warriors. Yet when he sees a lass about to drown in the incoming tide, he risks capture to save her.

  Along with two other Munro lasses, Muireall Munro was taken by Clan Ross raiders nearly a month ago. She's yet to be claimed as a Ross bride. Still, after two failed escape attempts, her hope is waning of ever seeing her home and the younger brother she was raising. But the stranger who pulls her from the surf will change her life forever.

  If Muireall reveals who she is, the delicious man who just saved her life will want nothing to do with her—yet she needs him to help her escape her Ross captors. If Euan reveals who he is to the woman he saved, he risks not only his life, but his clan. Left with no choice, can they save each other and fall in love?

  His Highland Heart

  His Highland Heart Series Book 1

  by Willa Blair

  Scottish Highlands, 1410

  Euan Brodie hauled on the sail and fought the wind as if his life depended on it. His did—and his crew's.

  The Moray Firth was in a fine temper this night. But they were near to home, and he thought they could make port before nightfall. Then the wind shifted and began to howl, driving them northward, away from safe harbor. They’d made a mistake—perhaps a fatal one—by staying out so late, but the fishing had been good, and they’d hoped to bring the joy of full bellies to their families. In this storm, they'd be damned lucky to get home at all.

  Wind whipped the sail, and rough rigging tore through his hands, stripping flesh he could not feel. Icy water sprayed over the Tangie’s bow as she fought her way into a swell toward the nearer shore.

  “We’re no’ going to make it!” Eduard shouted, frustration pitching his voice high and ragged.

  Euan grimaced as the others gaped, wide-eyed, at the normally steady first mate.

  “Aye, we are,” he insisted, commanding their attention and forcing confidence into his tone despite having to shout into a howling storm. They had to make it. Had to. “Haul that sheet tight and hang on. We’ll soon reach the shore break. The tide will do the rest for us, and we’ll take down the bloody sail.”

  Suddenly, lightning cracked, deafening Euan even over the tumult of the storm. He turned his head away as the freshening squall blew icy pellets into his face. Almost there. If they could hang on a few more minutes, they’d beach the Tangie and be safe until the storm blew itself out.

  The wind shifted suddenly, from south to east. Too fast to save her, the Tangie heeled over, dipping the edge of the sail into the firth. It was more than she could take. For a moment, she lifted and hung, trying to roll herself upright, icy seawater dripping from the canvas. Euan shouted for the men to throw their weight to the high side, trying to right her, but it was too little, too late. The wind gusted again, and the Tangie settled onto her low side, her pale sail a phantom carpet on the surface of the choppy sea.

  Euan dangled for a moment from the rope in his hands, hearing the others cry out as the tide took the ship and pushed them shoreward. They should reach the shallows soon, he realized. “Swim away!” he shouted and let go of the rope, sliding down the deck and into the icy water. He came up spluttering between the deck and the sail, the canvas now slowing sinking as rough seas sloshed over its surface. It would pull the Tangie down, and suck the men with it if they didn’t get clear. The others still hung from the upper side, frozen with indecision. “Don’t get caught under the sail!”

  He swam for clear water then. Once he was out of danger from his vessel, he searched the surface for his men. “Eduard! Dugal! Calum! Can ye hear me? James, where are ye, lad? Swim, ye fools!” A barrel floated nearby. He forced his numb fingers around the ends and hung on, the icy water making his body feel leaden. It seemed like hours while he searched the roiling surface and waited for an answering shout, but he knew it was only minutes. The crashing surf and cracks of splintering wood were all he heard as waves shoved the Tangie onto rocks. The men, and young James, barely 12 winters old, were gone.

  With a heavy heart, he let go of the barrel and fought his way toward shore. He could let the waves push the barrel, and him with it, but if he lost consciousness from the cold, he’d sink below the surface and never be seen again. Better to swim. Though his mind was muzzy, he could recall an old sailor telling him the effort would warm him and might save his life. Waves crashed all around him, threatening to pull him under and keep him there. He gasped for air every time his head broke the surface, concentrated on moving arms and legs leaden with cold, and kept going. Eventually, something hard scraped his knees and he shook his head to clear his eyes of saltwater. The rocky beach beckoned, mere yards ahead. Somehow, he got his feet under him, but couldn’t stay on them in the pounding waves, so he let the surf push him shoreward and fought against the undertow threatening to tug him away. In moments the waves propelled him onto a gritty beach. He dug in his elbows and crawled out of the water.

  He lay there, panting, gripping pebbles and coarse sand in both hands, then gathered the last vestiges of strength in his frozen body and hauled himself to his feet. Shuddering, he swore through chattering teeth, too tense with cold to summon the howl of rage and despair he wanted to unleash. Damn it! The Tangie's sailing days were done. She was gone, sunk below the angry sea—a loss Brodie could scarce afford. He’d wrecked the first ship he’d been allowed to captain, and likely killed the crew. One more thing gone wrong in his life, the latest—and worst—in a long list.

  He should have gone do
wn with them.

  Rolling waves and sheets of wind-driven rain confounded him, but he refused to accept that his men and young James were gone as well. He called, again and again until his throat was raw. Nothing answered but the shrieking wind and the crash of waves. He was alone, half-drowned, in enemy territory.

  * * *

  Muireall Munro came awake to the sound of men shouting. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and rolled from her cot with a yawn. Disappointment nearly sent her back again. These were excited shouts, not battle cries, so this was not the rescue she prayed for. She recognized the voices of some of the men from the Ross village. Curious, she threw her cloak around her shoulders and stepped outside the croft she once shared with two other women but now had to herself. The pale pearl glow of early morning did not yet reveal the men, but she could hear them coming up the path from the cove.

  “I’ve nay idea,” Silas was saying, as Muireall joined the other women already gathered nearby.

  At that moment, Donas crested the hill and Teague with him, both soaked through. Between them, they carried hewn lumber.

  “Shipwreck!” Donas announced, grinning. “We dragged as much as we could get to onshore. The incoming tide will carry more onto the beach during the day.”

  Thomas and William arrived on their heels, both carrying loops of rope.

  “There’s plenty more rope, too heavy to carry. We’ll leave it below to dry out for a day or two. Sailcloth, as well.”

  “And the sailors?” That from sweet Ella, answered quickly with hoots and laughter.

  “Looking for a new man, are ye?” Silas asked with a grin. “Have ye worn out puir Thomas already?”