Highlander Ever After

by Jennifer Ashley

The mare watched warily as Zarabeth eased forward but seemed reassured when Zarabeth took Egan’s hand. The foal was a handsome one, his conformation good, and the way he moved showed he was sound. He was also adorable.

  He bumped his nose against Zarabeth’s midriff, and Egan chuckled. “Only a morning old and already likes the attention.”

  “He was born today?” Zarabeth asked in surprise.

  “Early this morning. One of m’ tenants sent word the mare had dropped a foal in the woods, but none could approach her. She’s always liked me, so I thought I’d have a go at getting them back.” Egan patted the mare affectionately. “She ran off days ago, the hellion, but I knew she wouldn’t go far. She never does.”

  “She has the habit of running away, does she?” Zarabeth asked, keeping her voice soft.

  “She likes a bit of freedom. Wanders the lands then comes back when she’s ready.”

  “Like you,” Zarabeth said. “You wander the world but always return here.”

  Egan gave her a patient look. “Not the same. I come back only because I have to.”

  “And if you make Jamie laird, you won’t have to?” Zarabeth watched him, brows raised.

  “Aye. I’ll let him take over the place when he’s of age, while I live in Paris or somewhere.”

  “But you belong here,” Zarabeth said with conviction.

  Egan’s look turned obstinate. “Don’t ye start. I was oldest son by accident—Charlie was the darlin’, loved by everyone. His blood should be at Castle MacDonald, not mine.”

  “That isn’t what I meant.” The foal nudged his way around Zarabeth and thrust his head under his mother, searching for milk. Zarabeth stroked the foal absently as he nursed, his tail flicking contentedly. “You belong to this place—you’re part of it.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “Not because you were born first, but because it’s inside you.” She knew that as well as she knew her own name.

  “Ye’re dreamin’, lass,” Egan said in a hard voice. “I don’t belong here, any more than there are Fair Folk lurking under the heather.”

  Zarabeth beamed him a smile. “You’re wrong about that. And I’m not speaking about the Fair Folk.”

  He growled. “Ye know nothing of it.”

  “You’re wrong about that, too.” Zarabeth’s smile widened. “You belong to this place, and it belongs to you, my friend Egan, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  * * *

  She looked so smug.

  Zarabeth was smiling as though she’d solved Egan’s lifelong problems for him, as though he hadn’t been burning for her ever since he’d hauled her out of the sea.

  She was lucky Egan didn’t want to frighten the horses, because he’d be making startling moves that would have Zarabeth on the ground, her clothes covered in mud. She was safe for now, but later …

  The woman was making his life a living hell.

  Egan returned to the horse they’d ridden here and quietly lifted a halter out of the saddlebag, closing his hands over the buckles so they wouldn’t clink. The mare knew what a halter was, and a man had to sneak up on her with it.

  “Pet her a moment, lass,” he said over his shoulder. “If ye don’t mind getting your hands dirty.”

  Zarabeth moved readily to the mare’s head and began patting her neck and rubbing her nose. She’d always been fearless around horses, turning her father’s hair gray by riding the most troublesome steeds in the stable. Once upon a time, she’d shown the same fearlessness with Egan. Now she was as jumpy as the mare.

  While Zarabeth distracted the mare, Egan managed to move close, keeping the halter hidden by his body, before he slowly turned and slipped the halter over the mare’s head. The mare gave him an annoyed look but didn’t fight him. She seemed ready to get out of the wet and back to the warm stables under the castle.

  “We’ll have to walk back slowly so the little one can keep up,” Egan said.

  Zarabeth continued to pet the mare. “That is all right. I’m in no hurry.”

  “Ye’re a fool then. It’s bloody wet.”

  Zarabeth sent him an irritated look. “Would you prefer me to wail that my gown will be ruined, as would your debutantes?”

  Egan suppressed a shudder. “They are not my debutantes, if ye please.”

  “I think you do want me to be spoiled and unmanageable,” Zarabeth said, her eyes sparkling. “You are troubled that I’m bearing up so well.”

  Egan started to growl that of course he wasn’t, but he stopped. Perhaps he did want Zarabeth to be nagging and petulant, because then he’d not have this consuming need for her. If she were a harpy, he could shut her in her room for her protection and ignore her.

  Zarabeth’s eyes widened when he didn’t answer. “Oh, you do wish me to be horrible like your debutantes.”

  “Gods, woman, they are not mine!”

  The foal jumped and the mare’s ears snapped back. Zarabeth put a calming hand on the foal’s back, and patted the mare soothingly. “Keep your voice down, Egan, or they’ll be off.”

  Egan growled as he snaked the lead rope into a figure eight in one hand and hooked it to the halter with the other. He led the mare away without a word, but he saw Zarabeth’s secret smile as she lingered to walk with the foal. The saddled horse they’d ridden here turned and followed of his own accord.

  The rain pelted harder, and by the time they emerged from the trees it was coming down in sheets. Zarabeth pulled her borrowed plaid over her head, but they would be soaked through soon.

  “We can make it to the Strathranald cottages,” Egan said over the rain. “One of them is bound to still have a roof. We’ll wait there until the storm turns.”

  Zarabeth nodded. The foal, too tiny for this weather, stuck to its mother, and Zarabeth tried to shield it on its other side. The mare was snorting and worried, shaking her head as rain coated her.

  It wasn’t far to the tumbledown houses, but too far in this weather. Egan tried to talk Zarabeth into mounting their horse again, but she wouldn’t have it. Bloody stubborn, as usual.

  The sky was so dark it might be twilight, not mid-afternoon. Clouds lowered from the hills into the valley, blotting out the landscape in a haze of rain. Egan almost missed the buildings, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the flash of stone looming out of the shadows.

  He made for it, then followed the wall he’d seen to the front of a house, Zarabeth close behind. The door of the cottage had been wedged shut, but Egan managed to shove it open and lead the three horses and Zarabeth into a chill, musty room.

  Chapter 10

  The Portrait of Charlie MacDonald

  Egan thought it too much to hope that someone had left a handy pile of firewood for them, and he was right. These cottages had been picked over long ago.

  He did find brittle pieces of broken furniture in the hole below the house that had served as a cellar. He brought up the makeshift fuel while Zarabeth quieted the horses in the corner. Peering up the chimney showed him gray clouds above, not to mention rain that pelted into his face, which told him the flue at least wasn’t blocked. He laid the sticks on the hearth and took flint and a slow match from his sporran to strike a spark.

  “Quite lucky you carry that about,” Zarabeth remarked, gesturing at the slow match, as she continued petting the foal.

  “A habit from army days. Ye never know.”

  “I remember when you lived with us in Nvengaria—the maids and I liked to speculate on what you carried in your sporran.”

  “Did ye now?” Egan glanced at her in trepidation and struck his flint a little more quickly. “And what did ye decide?”

  Zarabeth shrugged. “We thought there must not be anything very important because you rarely opened it.”

  He relaxed, the kindling catching. “No need, living in yer father’s luxurious house. He provided every luxury I could want.”

  “I declared I’d steal it and peek, but I never got the chance.” Zarabeth looked wistful, the new fire’s light touching her f
ace. “You always carried your sporran with you and locked your door at night. I once stole the key and crept into your bedchamber, but you half woke up and almost caught me. You thought one of the downstairs maids was trying to slide into bed with you.”

  Egan stopped, his hand too near the flames, a memory boiling to the surface. A dark night, the clean scent of female, a shadow in the gloom. He’d been avoiding the clutches of a particularly determined maid with a salty tongue and assumed she’d cornered him at last.

  “God and his saints,” he swore now. “That was you?”

  Egan remembered that his reply had been as salty and bawdy as the maid would expect. No wonder the woman had jolted, then abruptly fled.

  “It was indeed, Egan MacDonald.” Zarabeth sounded pleased with herself. “Your Nvengarian was quite good by then—I hadn’t realized you knew such words.”

  A spark jumped to Egan’s hand. He jerked it from the fire and stood up swiftly. “Ye shouldn’t have known them either.”

  “I am Nvengarian.” She opened her eyes wide. “Ladies learn about the arts of the bedchamber when they are of an age to marry. You know that.”

  “Aye, but that’s all flowers and poetic descriptions,” he said, shaking out his burned hand. “This was bawdy backstreet talk, which you still should nae know.”

  Zarabeth’s smile was downright sinful. “Poetic descriptions? You do not know much about Nvengarian ladies then, my old friend. We learn the language of Eros—erotíque it is called.”

  Egan’s heart beat faster than it had when he’d charged French lines at Talavera. “And ye should nae know that word either.”

  “I learned these terms in exquisite detail.” Zarabeth hadn’t moved from the horses, but Egan started to sweat. “I know many words that perhaps even you don’t. I am no innocent miss.”

  Was she trying to kill him? The thought of her sweet mouth forming naughty phrases sent Egan’s blood pounding.

  “I am nae your husband,” was his feeble reply.

  “I know that.” Zarabeth started to laugh. “I am teasing you. Did you think me trying to seduce you in a barren cottage in the wet and cold, amid horse droppings?”

  Her smile made her eyes sparkle, and he’d never seen her so beautiful. She was wearing MacDonald plaid, the same plaid that swathed Egan’s body.

  He crossed the tiny room, took her by the shoulders, and hauled her against him. She looked up at him for a startled moment before he brought his mouth down on hers.

  No calm tenderness this time. Egan snaked his fingers through Zarabeth’s hair, pulled her head back, and kissed her hard.

  Her hair was black silk under his fingers, the loops and braids coming undone as he furrowed it. Her face was wet with rain, cool drops that tasted salty on her skin.

  Egan’s cock tightened. Damn her for making him want her—when had she become so skilled?

  Zarabeth’s body moved to his, fitting in the curve he made as he bent over her, her fingers latching on to his kilt. Egan couldn’t cease kissing her. He swirled his tongue across her lips, tasting every inch of them, licking away moisture and the rain.

  Zarabeth’s mouth locked firmly with his, tasting him as much as he tasted her. He felt her hands part the laces at the top of his shirt, fingers finding the curled hairs that spread across his chest.

  “Stop,” he eased back from the kiss far enough to whisper. He touched his face to hers, not wanting to let go. “Ye have to stop.”

  “I cannot.”

  Her breath feathered along his mouth, and her tongue followed in a sweet swipe across his lower lip.

  Zarabeth burrowed her hands beneath his shirt, fingers finding the tight points of his nipples, pebble-hard from the cold and her touch. She slid her thumbs across them while he kissed her again, his honor going to hell.

  When Zarabeth at last pushed him away, he thought she had come to her senses. Before Egan could reel from the slap of that, she yanked his shirt open, leaned down, and took his nipple between her teeth.

  He’d thought himself hard before. Egan’s head dropped back and he pulled Zarabeth against him, the tingle from her teeth scraping white-hot needles through his body.

  “Damn,” he whispered. “Damnation.”

  She started to suckle him, her curls soft and damp against his chest. Egan raked fingers through her hair as her teeth sank into him, sharp points of wanting. It would be so easy to scoop her up, to lay her on a bed of his plaids, to ruck up her skirts and enter her.

  Egan wanted it. He wanted to feel her squeezing him and know he was inside her. He wanted to be complete with her, wanted to ride her and not let her up until he was satisfied.

  And then he’d use his hands and mouth to satisfy her. He wanted to watch her face soften in longing, hear her moan as she reached the peak of her pleasure.

  He made himself put firm hands on her shoulders and ease her away. “Lass, ye’re killing me.”

  Zarabeth lifted her head and stared up at him, eyes wide, her hair a beautiful mess. “No, Egan, don’t push me away.”

  “I have to.” He tightened his grip, giving her a gentle shake. Her hair tumbled loose about her shoulders in an ebony cloud. “Do ye want me to have ye on this dirty floor, rutting ye like an animal?”

  Maybe on her hands and knees—’twould be fitting in such a place.

  Why did he have to think of things like that?

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I want that.”

  “No.” Egan leaned to her, gritting his teeth. “No. I’ll not do it.”

  Zarabeth’s eyes went still with hurt. He’d never seen her like this—she was no longer the innocent maiden or the polished duchess. She was as wild as he was in this place far from civilization, as wild as the heather and the rocks and cascading waterfalls. They could take each other in crazed abandon here, and it would mean nothing when they returned to civilization.

  Except it would mean everything to him.

  Egan peeled his fingers from her shoulders, swung his plaid around his body, and strode out into the chill rain.

  * * *

  By the time Egan returned, Zarabeth had mastered herself. She layered the plaid Gemma had lent her on the hearth and sat down, barely feeling the hard stone beneath it. The two adult horses settled in to munch on grasses she’d brought in for them, the little one nursing from his mother.

  She’d been able to braid her hair into a long, loose tail that hung down her back—once her fingers had ceased shaking, that is. What Zarabeth couldn’t stop were the tears trickling from her eyes. She wasn’t sobbing, only sitting quietly while tears slid down her cheeks.

  Egan banged back in, bringing with him the fresh smell of rain. He halted in front of her, but she decided not to look up.

  He had on the dark, thick socks Scots wore when informally dressed, and they hugged every muscle of his calves. His kilt swirled at his knees, tempting her to slide her hand under the hem and rest fingers on his thigh. His skin would be warm there.

  Egan leaned down and brushed his knuckle across the tears on her cheek. “Lass, I never meant to hurt ye.” His rumble was a gentle caress.

  “Go away, please,” Zarabeth answered in a steady voice.

  “I know what ye think ye want, love, but I’ll not let ye ruin yoursel’ on me.”

  Zarabeth glared up at him through her tears. Egan’s face was a careful blank, and as always she could not read what was behind his eyes. The horses were more open to her than this man.

  “I know precisely what I want,” she said angrily. “I’m not a child anymore. But you have made it clear to me that you do not want the same.”

  Egan shook his head. “I was nae exactly fleeing in disgust, if ye noticed.”

  “No,” Zarabeth stopped him. “You might have wanted me on the moment, because I threw myself at you. But you don’t want me, not really.”

  Egan’s face turned a dark shade of red. “It makes no difference what I want—what you want. Damn it all, Zarabeth, ye are still a married woman!” />
  She shook her head. “As I traveled across Europe, I heard many tales about Egan MacDonald. In Vienna you were legendary, and you were not always interested in whether a woman was married.”

  Egan’s flush deepened. “That was a long time ago, and ’twas different.”

  “It was not so very long ago. Six months since you saw the Baroness von Traunberg. She remembered you fondly, she told me as I stopped there on my way to the Highlands. In great detail.”

  Egan embarrassed was an amusing sight—or would be if Zarabeth weren’t so anguished.

  “She should nae have said such things to ye,” he growled.

  “Why not?” Zarabeth lifted her shoulders in a shrug as languid as the Viennese baroness’s. “I am a Nvengarian duchess, which meant I was sophisticated in her eyes. She knew I knew you and was happy to gossip. I’m not certain whether she wanted to make me jealous or give me hints about how to seduce you, but she enjoyed talking about you.”

  Egan groaned. “God help me.”

  “You are certainly famous throughout the bedchambers of Europe. Rather humiliating that I am the only one you push away.”

  “Because ye are the only one whose father I’d have to look in the eye!” Egan said, voice rising. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Prince Olaf, but I’ve seduced yer daughter. Do ye mind?”

  Zarabeth dropped her gaze. “Stop. You’ve made it clear what you think.”

  “Ye have no idea what I think!” Egan bellowed. The horses moved restlessly.

  “I know that!” Zarabeth jerked her head up again. She liked his eyes even when she was angry at him, deep brown and so warm she wanted to curl up and just have him look at her. “I’ve never known what you think.”

  “Listen then.” Egan sank to a crouch beside her and grasped her chin with a strong thumb and forefinger. “Ye are a beautiful woman. The most beautiful I have ever known. But I’ll nae take ye while you’re wed, no matter what loose rules ye have in Nvengaria.”

  Zarabeth tried not to tremble at the heat of his touch on her. “You have made that quite clear. We should cease speaking of it.”