Secrets of a Highland Warrior

by Nicole Locke

  ‘I know.’

  Another heartbeat. ‘I meant what I said; I don’t want to leave...ever.’ His voice low, rough. A man trying to be gentle.

  She turned her head. His cheekbones were mottled, his lips soft, his eyes, however, were hardened with a hunger she hadn’t seen before, but that she wanted. Desperately. She’d lied when she’d said that she’d told him about Magnus to push him away. She’d told him to bring him closer.

  ‘I said my vows,’ she said. ‘I meant them as well.’

  He released her hair, his hands going to her laces. Fumbling. ‘Did you tie these?’

  ‘Yes.’ He let out a frustrated breath and she laughed. Another tug and she felt the laces give way to his intentions. To hers.

  He’d have access to her now if they weren’t kneeling on the cold floor, if they weren’t faced the wrong way. She shifted so she could turn and strong hands came to her hips. ‘Stay.’

  ‘But—’

  He squeezed her hips, adjusted himself closer until all of him was pressed against her back. ‘Stay,’ he rasped.

  His hands pulled and tugged at the fabric of her gown, loosening and widening it. She felt the gaps along her torso and collarbone. Felt his expansive chest against her delicate spine, felt his need pressed hot and hard against her lower back.

  Then his warrior’s hands, calloused, lethal, greedy, pulling her up and back against him by her hips to clench and shove himself forward.

  He shuddered. She gasped with pleasure. Her back to his front, it shouldn’t feel like this, and yet she was sensitive, aware, needy. Reverently, he caressed along her waist, stroking upwards to gently cup her breasts. His fingers swiping across her nipples, his head bowing until it was side by side with hers.

  Like this, she knew Rory could watch his hands rolling the sensitive flesh of her breasts which became full and heavy. Could observe her response as he flicked and swiped her nipples until they were taut and achy. Like this, she could see his hands rake down in the valley between her breasts, down further until his urgent fingers slowly dragged the bottom of her gown up and over her knees. She could watch as his hand crept under the cream linen of her gown and touched the bared flesh of her legs. As he splayed his fingers against her inner thighs to give him purchase to roll his hips again, then again.

  Heat flared and again. She wanted so much, she cried out.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  His stillness rather than his words, registered with her. ‘Why are you...?’

  Another flexing of his fingers against her delicate aching skin, his hips shifting as if wanting to move more, fast, hard. The tension in her mounted. His forehead skimming her shoulder, his kisses and hot fast breath striking the side of her neck. ‘Ailsa, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t seem to help rutting against you like some great beast.’

  She wanted him like this. So different than he was their first time together. There he’d brought her pleasure and forsaken his own. There he’d remained in control and denied them both.

  Never again. ‘Rory, I want this.’

  A rough exhalation, a stroke of his fingers, a brush against the juncture just where her thigh curved. Her bowed head, her eyes half-open to watch, to see him touch her. But the generous swathes of linen from her gown hid everything. Frustrated, she clutched the folds and swept them back. Revealing everything.

  He shook, he spoke her name on a ragged whisper. So much desire. She shifted, tried to turn. He splayed his hands wide, held her still. Why? ‘Let me turn. Let me...’

  ‘I need to touch, to ready you. Holding you like this, I can control what is between us.’

  ‘No more. I want this.’

  A guttural growl, his body tense, a burst of his breath against the side of her ear, her cheek. She turned her head, beckoning for his kisses. He gave them.

  One, then another, a litany of the same words in between. ‘I know, I know.’ An answer to her needs, his, theirs.

  Where he could touch and kiss and watch, she could only clutch his forearms, her fingernails dragging down and gripping back up. She wouldn’t soften her touch, couldn’t when she wanted so much more.

  As if hearing her need, he gave more caresses, rapid feather-light strokes through her growing slickness. His breath hot against her collarbone, his lips continuing their trail of kisses behind her ear. ‘To feel you like this.’ He delved his fingers deeper and she couldn’t breathe at all. She was about to break apart, without him.

  She clutched his wrist, hard, sharp, and he stopped. She knew nothing of a marriage bed. Nothing of how to bring as much pleasure to Rory as he brought to her. But everything in her knew he felt as equal a desire as she and she wouldn’t let this moment pass like she had last night. ‘No more.’

  He eased his fingers from her core. They glistened with her need, the sight a jolt to her senses. Then he brought those fingers to his mouth. She slammed her eyes closed against the knowledge, against what flared inside her, against everything knowing he touched her, tasted her. Knowing that finally, finally there would be more. He had stopped and now there would be more.

  Because she could move, would move, but he stood first and took her hand to pull her up.

  Her gown fell to her feet, her chemise held to her shoulders, but she felt the looseness of it and the chill in the room. Without Rory’s great body surrounding her, she became aware of her surroundings. That it was the middle of the day, that there was no lock on the door. That this wasn’t a bedroom, but a storage room and the floor was covered in parchments.

  ‘We can’t... I don’t want to leave.’

  A small smile. ‘We’re not.’

  He spared the room a glance, strode to a wall nearest a torch and sat down with his back to the wall.

  ‘Come sit right here,’ he said, indicating his lap.

  She hesitated.

  ‘Ailsa, the room is cold, the floor damp, hard, uncomfortable. There is no bed here for us. If we aren’t to leave, this is what we’ll have to do. All I can offer is my body to protect you from the ground, and the torch overhead which is giving off heat.’

  ‘You want me to sit, to straddle you?’

  His eyes grew heavy lidded. ‘Your tongue. Your words, they’ll undo me, but, yes, straddle me.’

  ‘How are we to be together? You’re fully clothed.’

  ‘I’ll release when I can. I need a few moments.’

  She didn’t want a few moments.

  ‘I am...’ he swallowed ‘...feral with need. I’ll be no more than that rutting beast if I let myself out of my braies now. You’re not quite ready, not yet, not how you need to be for this first time. I should be gentle. Maybe if I didn’t want you so much, I could hold you up against the wall to take you. Maybe I could protect you from this damn ground, but I fear my legs would give.’

  ‘Your legs are like tree trunks, Rory.’

  ‘They are as weak as a foals—’ another curve to his lips ‘—but there are other parts of me that are far too strong.’

  Avoiding the parchment, she came to him on shaky legs. One foot on each side of his thighs, she pulled her chemise up and sat down. His need just there where she could touch him. So she did, watching his reaction, feeling hers in response.

  ‘Can I touch you?’ she asked.

  ‘I think you already are.’ It was all here, them, together, right here. She undid his belt and he whipped it away. Free, she ran her hands under his tunic to feel the corded muscles in his stomach, the strong curves of his chest. She leaned up to gain access to his shoulders, revelling in her breasts brushing against his skin. Further up until the tunic wouldn’t give any more.

  ‘The wall’s rough,’ he said.

  She released her arms from their trap and gripped his thighs that flexed, so she rubbed harder. ‘I want to see.’

  He trailed his fingers along her thighs. Up and down again,
then he went to his waist and undid his breeches and braies.

  She stared. ‘How can you...fit?’

  ‘I thought you’d seen the male form before.’

  ‘Never like this.’

  He smiled. ‘I suppose not. We’ll fit. Like this, I won’t be able to move as much. It’ll be you who brings us there.’

  She wanted it. Taking him in hand, she raised her legs. He cursed, his hands on her hips stopping her.

  Frustrated with need, she growled, ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘What is done, cannot be undone,’ he said.

  Fascinated, she didn’t take her eyes off him, of his response to the brush of her fingers, releasing a droplet that she eagerly spread. ‘We’re married,’ she said.

  ‘Look at me.’

  She did. His breath was deep, his dark eyes filled with warmth, heat and something more than desire. He wanted her.

  ‘Why are you stopping me?’

  ‘This doesn’t have to be here, now. We can wait.’

  ‘No.’ Her limbs trembled, her body shook. She could see what his stopping cost him as well. But more than that, she wanted him. ‘I don’t want to wait. I want this. I want...you.’

  He shuddered beneath her. ‘Then take me.’

  She did. Her hand on him, his hand now coming to cover hers to hold himself steady. Slowly, she eased down. Rory ripped his hand away and held as still as his harsh breaths allowed. It didn’t hurt like she’d been told. Instead, the pressure, the fullness was only pleasure.

  ‘How?’ She shifted, adjusting to him bit by bit.

  His lips parted, his eyes raking from hers to where they were joined. ‘Because you do this. Because your body knows what it needs.’

  She knew so little. ‘But...isn’t...? This isn’t usual.’

  A slight curve to mouth, a slight exhalation. ‘Some day I’ll ask about what you know. But know that if we had a bed I’d want you underneath me. I’d want to—’

  A pained look crossed his features at the same time as he flexed within her. She gasped at the quick movement.

  With iron control, his eyes held hers. ‘Last time, I had you on the bed. I...had control of the laces, of your pleasure. If we do this, if this marriage is true, I want you to have power and control. You have it. You take it.’

  This man, who talked of power and planned with determination, relinquished what he most held dear. To her.

  She rolled her hips and felt her body give way to him. ‘But how—?’

  ‘Like this.’ He grabbed the back of her neck, pulled her close and kissed her. Their lips joining, fusing as their bodies did the same. A gentle rocking of his hips until hers did the same, until she needed more and she raised on her knees to take more of him. To take more for her. A clash of breaths, a want, a need. She wrapped herself around him, just as he flattened his feet on the ground, bent his knees, and surrounded her.

  She broke away.

  ‘Rory.’

  ‘Please,’ he rasped. He shoved deep and her body tremored, tightened. One more roll of his hips and she’d be undone.

  She pushed up from his shoulders; Rory braced against the wall.

  ‘Let go,’ he said. ‘I’m right there, Ailsa, I’m there.’

  She dropped, just as he gave another roll of his hips. Until the pleasure broke for them both and they were there.

  * * *

  ‘That was...pleasant.’ Ailsa rested her head on his shoulder.

  He hummed. ‘It almost didn’t happen at all. When you pulled your gown up so I could see my hands between...’ He exhaled roughly as if the memory of it was too much. ‘You undo me, Wife. I have no control when it comes to you.’

  He clasped her hand so that his fingers played along hers, drumming down her palm and around her wrist, then back up again.

  She liked that and he must have realised as he gave a low chuckle and splayed his fingers wide so he could play more.

  ‘Our marriage is in truth now,’ he said.

  She could argue that their marriage had been in truth when they said their vows or earlier yet when they’d made their bargain. But the truth was, their marriage wasn’t genuine until she’d told him of Magnus, of her loss and why she hated Lochmores.

  Another play of her fingers against his until she must have hit a sensitive spot, for his hand jerked away and he wiggled it a bit before placing his hand in hers again. His left hand.

  ‘Why do you insist on using your right hand?’ she asked.

  He made a disappointed sound.

  ‘I told you of Magnus. Telling me that you use your right instead of your left shouldn’t be that significant.’

  ‘I am truly sorry for Magnus, Ailsa.’

  Aware that he avoided her question, but also aware it was important to talk of their past, she said, ‘Have you ever lost someone like that to the McCrieffs?’

  ‘Paiden is as close as I’ve ever come to that loss and you know how well I’m faring.’

  ‘You miss him.’

  ‘Very much. I think he would have had some things in common with your childhood friend. Paiden isn’t very practical either.’

  She liked the idea of Paiden and Magnus being similar in character. It eased something more between her and Rory. ‘Will you tell me now about your hand?’

  ‘Would you let me keep my silence on it?’

  ‘Never.’

  That’s what he thought. His hand was hyperaware from her touch, from her observations. Rory held it still and thought hard about how to answer her because why he used his left hand instead of his right was significant. The physical tests and challenges he’d overcome to force himself to use one hand over the other had been an ordeal and often excruciating. Even so, the why he did it...he didn’t know if he was prepared to say. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I’m a healer. I observe. You drum with your left hand, arrange items with your left...you touch me with your left. It comes more natural to you, doesn’t it?’

  She’d told him of Magnus; she deserved to be told of his family. ‘My father, who trained me, insisted I use my right.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you bowing to any man.’

  ‘You haven’t met my father.’

  ‘Your mother never stood up for you?’

  ‘My mother is...’ No, he wasn’t prepared at all. ‘I think we can do something more than talk of my hands.’

  Cradling her closer, he revelled that she came willingly. So little time between them, so much more to tell. But this, her tugging her fingers through his hair, her eyes darting from one of his features to the other, as if trying to see his very soul, this was true.

  Ailsa let Rory distract her with touches, with kisses. He’d told her very little, but it was enough. He must have changed his dominant hand when he was very young or else his body would have rejected such training. And he must have done it very diligently for he was almost as good with his right as with his left.

  But it wasn’t only that. Her heart ached for the little boy who must have questioned if he was lacking somehow that his father wanted him to be so different. His father, who obviously was not as generous of spirit as she. What kind of man was he to force a child against his very nature? To make him feel unworthy even for a moment?

  She’d show Rory how worthy she found him. ‘I think,’ she said, giving him a shove on his shoulder so he’d stay still, ‘that it’s...’

  Something in the corner of her eye caught her attention.

  Rory let out an amused breath. ‘Delaying can sweeten our time, lass, but the floor’s damn cold and—’

  ‘Wait!’ she cried, pressing her hand against his chest to stop his reaching for her.

  ‘Ailsa, I meant—’

  ‘Not that.’ Clumsily, she tried to extricate herself from him. She knew he was too large, too determined to move unless he wanted to. B
ut he let her. Another revelation on the worthiness of this man. Scrambling over him, she swiped a crumbled parchment.

  It was here. Right here and she had the answer.

  She felt Rory’s eyes on her, but she ignored him for now she was pondering the implications.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘If it’s made into an oil,’ she said out loud. ‘It’s so common the amount could be...then if it’s concentrated enough...’

  ‘Ailsa!’

  She locked gazes with her husband. ‘I know what has harmed Paiden.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘I can’t believe you almost left like that.’ Rory raced with Ailsa to the kitchens.

  ‘I hate tying my gowns.’

  ‘In the future you must learn to like it, unless you wish to display what only a husband should see.’

  Around the bend in the road, avoiding the animals and people. Rory wanted to pick her up and run even faster. A cure. A cure. Was it possible?

  ‘My clothing is what you want to talk about?’

  He wanted to discuss everything. He wanted to stop time and hold his wife longer. His legs were unsteady, the fullness in his chest at his good fortune, making it hard to breathe. The moment she’d swiped that parchment, the look of unfettered joy and fear in her eyes...

  ‘Ailsa, tell me.’

  ‘In a moment, I can’t...’ She ran out of breath.

  He shoved open the door to the kitchens. While she frantically grabbed mint, cloves, she ordered a servant to find Hannah and procure hot water and salt.

  She hurried back to the keep, her arms full of herbs, and he followed her. Running up the stairs, she barged into Paiden’s room. Mary was there, a tincture in her hand, a spoon lifted to his lips.

  ‘Stop!’

  Mary jerked, the wooden spoon flew and thumped against the wall.

  ‘How much did you give him?’ Ailsa demanded.

  Stumbling in her haste to stand, Mary blurted, ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘Yet?’ Ailsa felt her legs give under her and Rory was suddenly by her side. His arms steadying her though he couldn’t know what was to come.