Bride of Fire

by Glynnis Campbell

  It was Morgan.

  He was standing by the bed, staring down at the babe.

  His head was tilted, and his eyes shimmered. She’d never seen a man look upon an infant with such tenderness, such fondness. Indeed, the way he was gazing at the lad made her hair stand up on the back of her neck.

  This was not just any clan child.

  Not just the son of a common soldier and a lady who’d died in childbirth.

  Her eyes widened in surprise as the truth struck her like lightning.

  Morgan, seeing she was awake, inhaled sharply. Caught off guard, he sniffed and blurted, “Bethac will be here soon with food.”

  But for once in her life, she wasn’t hungry. Her thoughts were reeling.

  This was no ordinary babe.

  She nodded stiffly.

  Their attention was drawn then to Miles, whose brow creased as he squirmed in his sleep.

  “I didn’t mean to…to wake the bairn,” Morgan whispered.

  What was it Bethac had said? That the babe’s father visited him most every day. That he was in mourning. That was why he hadn’t named the lad.

  Was it possible? Was Morgan the lad’s father?

  He’d insisted the infant be called Allison. After the lady who’d borne him.

  Had Lady Alicia from Catalonia been more than just his clanswoman?

  Had she been his wife?

  The idea filled her heart with simultaneous wonder and sorrow.

  “My thanks to ye,” he murmured, “for lookin’ after him.” He looked contrite, as if he were sorry for his earlier rudeness.

  “He’s a good lad,” she said.

  As if to prove her point, Miles blinked open his eyes and peered up at Morgan. His mouth opened into a perfect O, and then the corners curved into a smile.

  Jenefer glanced at Morgan, who was transfixed.

  He swallowed down some emotion and then, unable to resist the babe’s sweet grin, smiled back. His delight was palpable. And yet it was guarded somehow by bittersweet caution.

  She said carefully, “He has your smile.”

  She expected him to deny his relationship to the babe. He clearly wouldn’t want her to know Miles was his, lest she try to ransom the child.

  But Morgan was too enrapt with Miles’ expression to even realize he’d revealed himself with his silence.

  Fortunately for him, she had a well-developed sense of chivalry. It was unconscionable for her to put a babe in harm’s way, no matter what could be gained from it. Children were weak and vulnerable, not to be preyed upon.

  But a Highlander probably didn’t know much about chivalry. All he knew was that Bethac and Cicilia had left his captive alone with his son. That explained why he’d rushed in the way he did.

  She levered up on one elbow to look down at the babe. “He likes you, I think.”

  Morgan couldn’t hide the joy in his face. He straightened with pride. “Aye?”

  She nodded. His pleasure melted her heart at once.

  And just as swiftly broke it.

  If Miles was the laird’s son and heir, there was no way he was going to leave the lad behind when he returned to the Highlands.

  “May I?” he asked, indicating the bed.

  She nodded, and he sat on the edge.

  “He’s quiet now,” he remarked.

  “When the mood suits him,” she quipped.

  Now that she could get a closer look at both of them in calm tempers, she was amazed she’d overlooked the resemblance. Miles’ eyes were the same elusive color as Morgan’s. His hair was a similar shade. And it hadn’t been flattery to say they shared the same smile. It was a beaming, brilliant thing that felt like it illuminated the whole chamber.

  “He’s always quiet when he’s in your arms,” Morgan observed.

  He couldn’t know how his gentle words shot like a bolt into her chest.

  A part of her had known it was folly, mentally creating a destiny for herself with the babe. She now realized that destiny was impossible.

  The Highlanders might indeed be forced to leave.

  She might win command of Creagor.

  But she was never going to raise Miles to manhood.

  She’d never teach him honor and chivalry and loyalty.

  Never watch him become a capable knight.

  Never see him grow into the role of the Laird du Lac.

  She had only herself to blame for the sinking pain in her chest. She should never have begun daydreaming about the future.

  In the end, she might have the will to battle a whole army of Highlanders. But she didn’t have the heart to steal the son from their laird.

  Chapter 31

  Jenefer was drowsing on the bed, only half-awake, when she remembered where she was. How much time had passed since she’d come to the nursery, she didn’t know. The fire had burned low, but it was still dark in the room.

  Feeling Miles, soft and warm and nestled against her in the bed, made her smile. He smelled like a bowl of fresh blancmange. Or maybe it was only hunger that made her think that.

  She was lying on her left side with her left arm stretched out above Miles’ head and her right arm curled around him.

  But a strange, heavy weight pressed down on her right hip. The fingers of her left hand were tangled in hair that was too thick to be Miles’. And the back of her right hand rested against someone’s body.

  Bethac? She didn’t think so.

  Cicilia? Nay.

  She opened her eyes to peer into the shadows and froze as she realized who it was.

  Morgan.

  They were lying face to face with the babe between them. She didn’t dare move, for fear she’d awaken him. But his hand, resting with brazen possessiveness on her hip, the fingers grazing the skirts over her buttocks, alarmed her.

  She couldn’t accuse him of overstepping his bounds. After all, those were his locks into which she’d so boldly insinuated her fingers.

  So she continued to remain still, listening as Miles’ shallow breathing contrasted with the slower exhales of Morgan. His father, she reminded herself.

  It wasn’t unpleasant, she decided, lying here with the two Highlanders. There was something calming about their trust. Even Morgan’s palm upon her hip—which she was sure was as unintentional as her hand curled against his stomach—felt reassuring and protective.

  In contrast to the oak-hard muscles of his body, the hair crowning Morgan’s head was soft. Curling over his ear, it twined around her fingers like a caress. She closed her eyes again, enjoying its texture.

  Miles stirred then, and she stiffened.

  He only made a few smacking sounds and a quick sigh, returning immediately to sleep.

  But Morgan was roused as well, though he didn’t fully wake. His hand drew her bottom closer. With a satisfied growl, he pressed his hips forward against her fist, which was trapped between the two of them.

  To her horror, the back of that fist came into contact with something long and hard and unmistakable beneath his trews.

  A shriek stuck in her throat. A hundred courses of action collided in her brain.

  She should slap the Highlander for his impertinence.

  She should remain still and wait for him to move away.

  She should snatch her hand back.

  Drive a knee into his ballocks.

  Give his hair a good yank.

  Feign sleep and roll away from him.

  Wake Miles and let his cries awaken his father.

  In the end, she did nothing. Holding her breath, she waited to see what would happen next.

  She bit her lip as she felt his member pulse reflexively against her hand. But her horror turned quickly to fascination.

  His fingers dangled low on her buttocks now. And even though her skirts separated their flesh, she could feel the light heat and pressure of his fingertips, resting there as if he owned her.

  Yet as she continued to endure his touch in the darkness, she realized she didn’t feel so much owned as she f
elt…protected.

  It was a heady feeling.

  After all, she was in control of the situation. Morgan was as sound asleep as a hibernating bear. Completely vulnerable. At her mercy.

  If she chose, she could easily overpower him. Push him off the bed. Run him through with his own dagger.

  It was quite an interesting predicament.

  Eventually, while he snored on in oblivious innocence, Jenefer grew curious about what it would take to stir him. She liked nothing so much as a good risk. And she couldn’t resist poking this sleeping bear.

  With stealthy daring, she moved her fingers through his hair.

  He didn’t waken.

  With a fingertip, she traced the rim of his ear.

  Still he didn’t waken.

  With the back of her other hand, she applied increasing pressure, watching his face carefully for any response.

  Finally, his brow creased, and he made an erotic murmur deep in his throat.

  It was only a small sound, but it seemed to rouse a wild beast inside her. That beast came to life with a sensuous purr that resonated through every fiber of her being. Its fiery tongue licked at her nerves with a strange and powerful craving. And she sensed at once this was the deadliest animal she’d ever summoned.

  Her breath quickened. Her heart pounded like an armorer’s hammer. Her skin flushed with heat.

  Then, just as she was trying to understand this maelstrom of emotions, the nursery door suddenly opened a crack.

  Jenefer’s breath caught.

  Peering in cautiously, her face illuminated by candlelight, was Cicilia.

  Jenefer held her breath, wary of moving a muscle, and stared mutely at the nurse.

  But as soon as she slipped through the door, Cicilia skidded to a halt. Spying the couple lying there with limbs entwined, her mouth went round with shock.

  Thankfully, she made no outcry. The last thing Jenefer wanted was for Morgan to wake up and see the mischief she was perpetrating.

  Cicilia stammered in a whisper, “Och! Oh! I didn’t know ye… Beggin’ your pa-…I…I…”

  Miles, as if sensing his breakfast was nearby, woke up with a hungry whimper.

  Jenefer felt the blood rush to her face. She could think of nothing to say. She was just grateful Morgan was snoring away, oblivious to her shame.

  Cicilia wrung her hands and spoke under her breath, trying to explain. “I’m so sorry, but ’tis midnight. The bairn’s goin’ to need feedin’, and—”

  She was interrupted by Bethac plowing into the back of her as she came through the nursery door. In an instant, the older maidservant took in the situation. She rushed forward and smoothly scooped Miles up from the bed.

  “Come on, now, lad,” she quietly cooed. “Let’s tend to ye in the laird’s bedchamber.”

  While Jenefer looked on, slack-jawed, Bethac hooked an arm around Cicilia’s waist to drag her out, calling softly over her shoulder. “Ye go back to sleep now. We’ve got things well in hand.”

  Then she gently closed the door.

  Jenefer let out a shuddering breath. There was no way she was going to go back to sleep. Not after that humiliating episode. She’d been caught by the servants, compromising their laird while he slept.

  Shouldn’t they be concerned?

  Would they blather the gossip all over the keep?

  Or perhaps, she thought sourly, this sort of clandestine affair was commonplace for the Highland laird.

  Before she could become disgruntled by that idea, Morgan drew in a long, rasping breath and shifted on the bed.

  Afraid to move lest she wake him, Jenefer closed her eyes and feigned sleep.

  But it took all her willpower not to cry out when he buried his face in her hair and drew her hips firmly against his. And when he made that growling murmur in his throat again, she sighed as desire blew through her soul. Desire as warm and arousing as his breath upon her brow.

  An erotic shiver coursed through every part of her body, converging in a brilliant burst of lust between her thighs, at the precise spot where his male hardness pressed against her.

  Never had she felt so awake, so alive.

  But she yearned for something else. Something more. Something closer. Something that could never be.

  She was his captive. He was her enemy.

  She was a noble warrior maid. He was a crude Highlander.

  She was a virgin. He was a widowed father.

  And yet none of that mattered when her flesh felt on fire and every sense was attuned to his slightest movement.

  How long she languished, listening to his deep breaths, feeling them rasp across her skin, melting beneath the searing pleasure of his touch, she didn’t know.

  Eventually, fatigue overcame her. And then, the sleep she enjoyed was deep and untroubled by dreams.

  Chapter 32

  Before Morgan opened his eyes, he smiled in contentment. There was nothing as peaceful and satisfying as lying with a woman drawn back against his chest, enfolded in his arms. For a few moments, he enjoyed that serenity.

  Her soft hair tickled his nose.

  Her breast rested like a pillow in his hand.

  Her buttocks cradled him where he swelled against her.

  And her scent…

  Nay. That wasn’t right.

  Alicia always smelled like roses.

  This was a spicy, musky scent.

  He cracked open his eyelids a fraction of an inch.

  His face was nuzzled, not in Alicia’s black braid, but in loose curls of dark golden honey.

  Heartache stabbed him first. For a few precious moments, he’d been with Alicia again. But now that pleasant dream had been ripped from him.

  Then the woman in his arms stirred. She made a soft, sleepy moan and snuggled closer. Her arm hugged his hand tighter to her breast. Her buttocks nestled, warm and inviting, against his cock.

  He sucked in a ragged breath.

  It had been months since he’d exercised the beast between his legs. While Alicia was breeding, she’d had no interest in sharing his bed. He’d been patient, knowing the birth of their child was momentous, more important than satisfying carnal hungers.

  But that abstinence had served to increase his need to a fever pitch. He was as hard as a lance. And there was a dull throbbing in his ballocks that only one thing could relieve.

  He knew it was wrong. Alicia had been gone but a few months. It was too soon. And he was ashamed. He’d never been a man to be commanded by such base needs.

  And yet, lying here in the dawn’s pale light, their limbs entangled, their breath mingling, her scent so intoxicating, it was hard to believe that his desire for her was so unnatural, so terrible.

  Alicia was dead, after all.

  Nothing he did or did not do would ever change that.

  He was certain he’d never love again. The loss of a wife was too painful to endure a second time. And to be honest, now that he had a healthy heir, there was no need to remarry. Despite Colban’s urging that he move on with his life and Bethac’s incessant search for a mate for him.

  Swiving, on the other hand…

  This morn, his body was completely in agreement with the idea. He squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of intense lust.

  At the moment, it was easy to imagine burrowing under the lass’s skirts and plunging himself ballocks-deep into her warm, womanly recesses.

  None would blame him.

  He was widowed. And a man had his needs.

  Indeed, most lasses would be happy to bed with a considerate, gentle lover like Morgan.

  Not this lass, of course.

  She would sooner lie with a wild dog than a Highlander.

  Indeed, she’d be mortified at their current situation. No doubt she’d run him through, if she had a weapon at hand. The only reason she was pressed so intimately against him this morn was that she was fast asleep.

  Jenefer was wide awake. How could she not be, with Morgan’s breath ruffling her hair, his palm brazenly cu
pping her breast, and the rock-hard proof of his desire poking at the crevice of her arse?

  She hadn’t meant to sleep here all night. She’d intended to leave and slip into bed with Feiyan in the laird’s bedchamber once Bethac and Cicilia returned with Miles.

  But the maids never returned.

  And to her chagrin, Morgan never left.

  So here they were, in an embarrassing snarl of limbs and emotions, and Jenefer couldn’t begin to imagine how to extricate herself.

  It was daybreak. Soon Bethac would come to stoke the fire. Cicilia would come to fetch fresh linens for Miles. Someone would come to bring breakfast.

  If news of the laird sleeping with his captive hadn’t circulated the keep already, the rumors would fly fast and furiously the instant someone walked in.

  It wasn’t the wagging tongues that bothered her. Or even the notion that her reputation might be sullied. A lass willing to masquerade as a half-naked ghost didn’t attach much importance to reputation.

  What bothered her was that they hadn’t actually done anything. If gossip was to be spread around the castle, at least it should be based on real scandal and not conjecture. Nothing was quite as annoying as being charged with a crime one hadn’t committed.

  And yet, would she rather he had ravished her?

  Such a thing was unthinkable.

  He was her enemy. A feral Highlander. A lawless giant. The usurper of her castle.

  And yet…

  He was also a man. An appealing, virile, tempting one. That couldn’t have been made any clearer to her as he nestled close with his staff wedged against her bottom.

  And if she forgot all the details about who he was, if she focused only on the way he made her feel, her thoughts went in a completely different—and dangerous—direction.

  His arm surrounded her like a cozy cloak, protecting her from the elements. His legs, tucked behind her knees, formed a comfortable chair. His chest rose and fell with every breath, pressing against her back. And each exhale sent a new shiver of warm desire down her spine that added to the last. Soon she felt lost in a sultry haze of longing.

  And it wasn’t unpleasant. Not at all.

  But it was useless to be hungry when no food had been offered.