Highlander Unchained

by Monica McCarty

  His lips teased and implored, coaxing her response with a gentle caress that was so achingly sweet, it almost hurt. His mouth was so soft, the dark spicy taste of him intoxicating. She melted against him, savoring the wicked sensation of her body molded against the hard wall of his broad chest and the strong muscular arms that held her so protectively.

  How could he do this to her? It was all wrong. He should be savage, rough, forceful. But he was none of those. This powerful Highlander kissed her with more tenderness and finess than she’d ever dreamed possible. And with a poignancy that frightened her. Men had stolen kisses from her, but no man had ever kissed her in a way that made her want to weep, her heart slam against her chest, and her knees go weak all at the same time.

  He was everything she’d ever dreamed of and nothing he was supposed to be.

  And if it didn’t feel so perfect she would stop him. But it did feel perfect.

  His kiss grew more insistent. More demanding. When his tongue slid in her mouth, her heart seemed to stop beating. She was shocked but also deeply aroused by the long, languorous strokes of his tongue. Strokes that set off wicked sparks in her body and made her heart tug with longing.

  She silenced the roar of questions in her head and allowed herself to feel. He tasted her deep and slow. Delving into the farthest reaches of her mouth. Her body flooded with heat, building with an urgency that she could not describe and a hunger that would not be denied. So she gave herself over to his kiss, to the raw sensuality. Responding the only way she knew how, with eagerness and enthusiasm.

  She kissed him back. Entwining her tongue with his. Tasting him as deeply as he did her. Soon, the gentle touch of his mouth was not enough. She wanted it harder. Faster. Deeper. She wrapped her hands around his neck, wanting to get closer. Wanting to feel the hard strength of his body under her fingertips. Wanting to press her body against him. Wanting to dissolve into his heat.

  He moved his arousal firmly against her. Big, bold, and threatening. A dangerous reminder that shattered the brief spell of insanity. She felt a flicker of excitement before the cold splash of reality. And fear.

  Oh, my God, what am I doing? He’s my captor. She pushed him away in horror, as if she could push away her own treacherous desires. “Stop!”

  They stood in silence, both breathing hard, staring at each other. It was all there between them in that one glance. Everything she was feeling in the look that stretched between them. For a moment his implacable expression shifted, revealing a flash of surprise.

  She covered her mouth with her hand, feeling the heat and gentle throbbing of her lips.

  When he finally spoke, his expression had again become unreadable. “You will join me tonight.”

  Whether it was a request or an order, she was too overwhelmed to notice. Her entire body pulsed with a strange sensation. All she could manage was a nod.

  He turned and left her without a backward glance, his stride as determined and powerful as the man himself. Leaving Flora to stare at the door, wondering what had just happened. And why she felt as though everything had just changed.

  Chapter 5

  By time she’d returned to her room, Flora was ready to collapse. Exhausted from the struggle of removing as much of the pungent oil from his swords as possible. If she wasn’t sure that he would come up to her room and drag her down himself, she would beg off from the evening meal.

  She started to remove her clothing, eager to sink into the tub that had been filled with steaming hot water and sprinkled with dried lavender. The soft floral scent floated through the air, drowning out the stench of fulmar oil that had seemed permanently lodged in her nose.

  Despite the apron she’d worn to protect her gown, the residue from the oil had penetrated the linen into the wool. She sighed, recognizing that it was her own fault. But it had been worth it, even if the skirt of her only gown smelled a bit. Perhaps Mary would be willing to lend her another?

  Or maybe she should leave it be, in the hope that the smell would keep him away.

  She’d driven his kiss from her mind while she worked, but the memories returned the moment she sank into the warm, soothing water. Her fingers went to her still tender lips.

  Had he really kissed her like that?

  And had she really responded so completely, melting against him in a soft pool of heat? That, of course, was the far more troubling question. Thank God she’d caught herself in time.

  It was difficult to believe that the fierce warrior who’d abducted her could kiss her as if she were a fragile piece of porcelain. Evoking feelings she’d never experienced before. Deep feelings of longing and contentment. In his arms, she felt protected, cherished, cared for.

  She tapped the water with her hand, scattering the dried leaves like dust to the wind. She was being ridiculous. It wasn’t like her to be so fanciful, though neither was it like her to fall into the embrace of a barbarian.

  No, she corrected. He wasn’t a barbarian. If she’d learned anything since the night he’d upset her elopement, she’d learned that. There was an inherent streak of nobility and strength in him that could not be denied. He was hard and uncompromising, but he could also be thoughtful and considerate.

  She slipped under the water to clear the soap from her hair, wishing it were as easy to erase the memory of his mouth on hers. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the feel of him or the rich masculine taste of him.

  But it didn’t matter. She’d made a mistake in allowing him to kiss her; she would not make it again. She was his prisoner. And she’d do best not to forget it. To him, she was simply something to leverage over her brother. A means to an end. She could never care for a man who saw her as such. A kiss, no matter how sublime, wouldn’t change that. Flora knew her worth, not as a prize of marriage or to end a curse, but as a woman. And she would accept nothing less from a husband.

  She’d thought Lord Murray different. Instead he’d served as a powerful lesson in trusting the wrong man. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  She stood up and stepped carefully from the tub, wrapping the drying cloth around her shivering body. Where was Morag? She’d promised to return to light the fire and help comb out her hair. Flora drifted to the small window, seeking the last amber rays of sun to warm the chill on her skin.

  A soft knock at the door signaled the woman’s arrival. She bade her enter, thinking that if she did one thing before she left, it would be to make the humorless old woman smile—a laugh would undoubtedly be expecting too much.

  She heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by a muffled curse. Slowly, she turned around.

  The blood drained from her face. It wasn’t the maid.

  Lachlan Maclean stood stone still in the doorway. His eyes bore into her with an intensity that made her every nerve ending stand on edge.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  For the first time in her life, Flora felt truly vulnerable. Not because she thought he would hurt her, but because of the undeniable intimacy of the moment. No man had ever seen her like this.

  She was nearly naked. The thin piece of linen was wrapped around her and slung low over her breasts. She struggled to hide behind the damp piece of fabric, but it was useless. It clung to her, revealing every inch of her body to his smoldering gaze.

  He looked impossibly handsome. His hair, still damp from bathing, slumped across his face and curled roguishly at his collar. He’d shaved, but the rough stubble of his beard still shadowed the hard lines of his jaw and chin. The thin scars that crossed his nose and cheek emphasized his rough warrior’s appeal. Rough, but not brutish. A fresh linen shirt stretched over the broad, powerful chest, and a silver brooch secured the plaid that he’d wrapped over his shoulder. He was tall and strong and unbearably masculine. But all she could think about was how he’d tasted and the seductive heat of his mouth on hers. A shiver swept over her.

  She wanted to order him to leave, but her words strangled in her throat. For a moment she’d passed into a dream realm, wher

e nothing seemed real.

  “God, you’re beautiful.” His voice was deep and ragged. It wasn’t the most poetic compliment she’d ever received, but it pleased her more than any that had come before. And it was the only one that had made her body tingle and then hum with awareness.

  His eyes darkened, and the muscle in his jaw began to twitch. She felt a prickle of alarm, realizing he was holding himself by a very thin thread. No man had ever looked at her like this. Hungry. Starving. As if she were a succulent dish and he’d like nothing better than to gobble her up.

  “Get out,” she finally managed, though her voice shook. “You don’t belong here. This is my room.” My sanctuary. And he was invading it, making it his. Leaving her nowhere to hide. “You must leave.” Her voice rose in panic. “Now!”

  Lachlan’s mouth went dry. He’d lost the ability of rational thought. Leave? He couldn’t move his feet, even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t.

  The body he’d fantasized about had been revealed in full naked splendor. Or as good as naked, with the little that swath of linen did to hide her from his gaze. Her skin was creamy perfection. She was lean and soft in all the right places. Her breasts rose full and high above a tiny waist and curvy hips. Her legs were long and slim, with gently defined muscles. He could even see the peak of her pale pink nipples. Small and tight and begging for his kiss.

  And before she’d turned…

  He’d been mesmerized by the long golden tendrils of damp hair tumbling down her back. He’d wanted to use his tongue to catch the rivulets of water that slid down the sleek curve of her spine to the soft swell of her perfectly round bottom. A bottom that would nestle against his groin perfectly as he slid into her from behind.

  He couldn’t tear his gaze from her.

  The response of his body was visceral, a primal urge so intense it made every muscle in his body clench with restraint. His hands were fisted into tight balls at his side, his shoulders tensed, and sweat gathered on his brow. He was pulled as tight as a bow, ready to spring.

  First the kiss, now this torture. His control had never been put to such a test. Made all the worse because he knew she was his.

  In one swift motion, he could remove the cloth and put his hands on all that creamy soft skin. Bury his face between her heavy round breasts and slide his tongue over the soft peak of her nipple until it tightened in his mouth.

  He wanted to run his tongue down the flat plane of her stomach, put his hands on that soft round bottom, and sink his head between her legs. Tasting the very essence of her. Licking and sucking until she exploded against him in helpless abandon. Aye, he wanted her helpless. Helpless for anything but him.

  “Please,” she repeated. “Go.”

  He didn’t answer, but dropped the box that he’d been carrying and took a step toward her.

  She took a step back, but with her back to the window, there was nowhere to go.

  She eyed him warily. For the first time, he saw uncertainty in her gaze.

  The air was thick and heavy between them, his desire almost palpable, but she was shivering from cold and was still wet from her bath. He thought of how hot he could make her. And how much wetter. Instinctively, he reached out.

  He heard her sharp intake of breath as his fingers trailed down the smooth expanse of her throat, over her collarbone, to the lush swell of her breast. With the back of his finger he outlined the heavy curve of her breast. Her nipple hardened, and he felt a surge of blood to his loins so strong, he nearly jerked.

  Mine. The voice was loud and clear as a wave of possessiveness gripped him hard.

  Her cheeks flooded with heat. He’d embarrassed her. He could see the confusion in her gaze. She didn’t know what was happening to her body. He might be ready for this, but she wasn’t. He knew her reaction to their kiss had scared her. Hell, it had scared him.

  “Please…,” she whispered, her voice raw.

  He could take that soft plea either way…please yes or please no.

  God’s blood, she was the devil of temptation.

  He dropped his hand and stepped away, knowing he had to stop. His body hammered with need, but he didn’t want to frighten her. She was a damn virgin. And what he wanted to do with her right now would put a blush on a hardened harlot.

  Lachlan was a man of prodigious appetites, and he believed in holding nothing back. When they came together, it would be hot and hard and raw. There was not a part of her that he would leave uncovered or unexplored. Patience in matters of lust was not something he was used to. Soon.

  Shifting his gaze, he motioned to the box. “I brought you something for this evening. We do not have much occasion for such finery at Drimnin. But it is yours; I thought you should have it.”

  Flora glanced at the box beside the bed. She momentarily forgot her embarrassment, and her eyes lit up. “My gown!” She turned back to him with confusion in her gaze. “But how?”

  He shrugged. “I suspected what it was and thought you might have need of it.”

  She studied him keenly, as if he’d unwittingly revealed something. “That was very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

  “I’ll send Morag up to help you. But do not dally,” he said gruffly, uncomfortable with what he saw in her eyes. It suddenly felt as if he were the one naked.

  He turned and strode to the door, not trusting himself to look at her again. If he did, he didn’t know if he’d be able to leave. Flora MacLeod’s virginity hung by a very thin thread. He had more reasons than ever to hasten the wedding. Sooner or later, she would be his. But any more run-ins like this one, and it would be sooner.

  Where was she?

  Lachlan took a long drink of cuirm, his gaze fixed on the entry. From his seat at the high table—though there was nothing as formal as a dais—he could keep his eyes fixed on the door opposite him and still have a good view of the rest of the festivities. The room was crammed full, every available seat filled with his clansmen clad in their colorful plaids. The entire castle—depleted though it was by the absence of so many of his people who remained trapped on Coll—had gathered tonight for the first feast in a very long time. Since well before his brother had been imprisoned, he realized. The pipers were piping, the ale was flowing, the hall was blazing with candles. But they were still waiting.

  He’d left her room almost an hour ago, and despite his warning, she’d yet to appear. He wouldn’t put it past her to tarry just to spite him.

  God’s blood, the woman was proving an unexpected challenge. In more ways than one. He’d expected a spoiled, headstrong girl and discovered instead a complex woman unlike any he’d ever met. Confident, determined, and strong, yet also oddly vulnerable. One whose kiss roused strange feelings in him and whose body…He took another swig, trying to dull the vivid picture that sprang to mind. Of legs that went on forever, a bottom made for cupping, and breasts sculpted for a man’s fantasies. He tried to thrust the image away, but he knew the sight of her sumptuous form wrapped in transparent linen would be imprinted on his consciousness for a long time.

  He dreaded sleep. The long, dark hours stretched out endlessly before him, with nothing for relief but his hand to combat the taunting erotic images of her naked above him, those lush breasts bouncing with the frantic rhythm of their lovemaking as she rode him hard. He got tight and heavy just thinking about it.

  Damn, he needed a woman. He was tempted to seek out his leman tonight after all. Seonaid sat across the room, staring at him with reproachful hurt in her gaze. He owed her an explanation, at least. And perhaps more.

  He was wound so tight, he needed a little release.

  But all thoughts of another woman fled when Flora entered the room. The breath left him as he caught sight of the achingly beautiful woman heading toward him. She possessed such a regal grace; she seemed to be walking on air. Her golden hair caught the flickering light, shimmering like an ethereal haze around her.

  The room, boisterous and raucous before, suddenly hushed.

  It was at once clear to him, as it was to every person in this room, that she did not belong here. The humble keep of Drimnin was a poor backdrop for such magnificence.

  She wore a gold brocade French gown with a low square neckline and tight bodice. The contrasting sleeves and forepart were of ivory silk embroidered in gold and encrusted with hundreds of tiny pearls. The farthingale was relatively tame by court standards, as was the soft ruff that framed her face. Her long blond locks had been twisted into some complicated arrangement that he was sure Morag had never attempted before. The overall effect was stunning—heightened by the fact that he knew exactly what was hidden underneath.

  But it also served to illustrate the wide gap between them. The cost of her ensemble probably could have fed his entire clan for months.

  For the first time, Lachlan experienced a moment of uncertainty. Convincing her to marry him might be a bit more difficult than he’d anticipated. She was one of the wealthiest women in the kingdom, and a woman used to the splendor and riches of court. He was a Highland chief who’d been under constant attack since he was a lad. His clan had had to struggle through more lean years than he’d like to recall. He was a fighter, a warrior. Nothing like the polished popinjays she was used to. He’d been too busy fighting to attend Tounis College in Edinburgh, as many of his Highland counterparts had, and he’d avoided court like the plague. How was he going to convince her to forsake such riches for the simple Highland way of life?

  But as quick as the flash of uncertainty came, it went. Replaced by renewed determination. The battle would not be easily won, but it would be won. By him. There was no other choice. Just as he’d fended off her brother’s attacks for years, he would use the tools he had at his disposal. What he lacked in wealth and education, he made up for in wit and cunning.

  She was not indifferent to him. He thought of her response to his kiss, the way her body had instinctively reacted to his touch. No, not indifferent at all. Attraction could be a powerful weapon. If wooing didn’t work, seduction just might. Whatever it took, just as long as she agreed.

  -->