Highland Surrender

by Dawn Halliday

  She turned her face into the single stream of moonlight coming in from the cloudy window, and he stared at her glowing silver-streaked skin for a long while. Such lush lips—he’d never seen anything like them. Plump and gently rounded, the top one curved into a perfect bow. Ever so gently, he swept a finger over them. Her lips parted, and a warm breath whispered over his fingertip.

  Satisfied, he drifted off again. This time he dreamed of those lips moving over his body, down his chest, over the tip of his straining cock, and swallowing him deep into her mouth. Her fingers wrapped around him along with her lips, squeezing tight, and together they created a rhythm that shot sparks of pleasure through his body.

  God, he was close. He drew away, staring down at her—his angel—as she gazed up at him from her kneeling position, her lips shiny from sucking him.

  Her pink tongue flicked out, licking around her lips as if he were the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted.

  “Why did you pull away?” she asked.

  “I don’t want it to end. Not now.” He wanted it to go on and on, this feeling of pleasure, of contentment, of wholeness. He didn’t want to rush his release, because if he did so, it would mean he must release her.

  He would hang on to her, to it, until he had no choice but to let go.

  Maybe not, though. Maybe if he showed her how he felt she’d understand. Maybe she wouldn’t leave him. More than anything in his life, right now he needed an angel at his side. Someone to help him, to guide him when he began to go astray.

  She still looked up at him, those gray-blue eyes questioning him, searching for a reason for his withdrawal and for his hesitation.

  “I want you,” he said simply.

  She rose to her feet, her garments vanishing from her body as she did so, leaving her bare.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered.

  She opened her arms, welcoming. “I want you, too.”

  He knew then, without a doubt, that he was dreaming. No one he’d wanted so much had ever wanted him in return.

  Dream or not, he’d take it.

  He stepped into her arms, pressed his body against her soft flesh, gently lifted her, and slid into her warm, willing body.

  Rob stepped into the fresh air and turned his face toward the sky.

  He should be angry after all that had happened today. He should be grief-stricken that his lover had rejected his proposal of marriage, and he should be annoyed at the behavior of the haughty English lass he’d met on the road. He should be with the other men in the barracks, drowning his woes in ale.

  Yet he was none of those things. Instead, he was oddly reflective.

  He stared up at the moon, an arcing slice of silver surrounded by a thick wash of stars.

  Ceana was right: They had shared little beyond their flesh. He’d never felt compelled to tell her anything about his true feelings or about his past, and she seemingly felt the same.

  Marriages had been built on less, he knew. Yet there was more to it than that, something she didn’t seem to recognize. He held himself back with her. In bed, he showed her a slice of his nature, but he kept the rest of himself hidden. Like the moon, part of him glowed and part lay buried in shadow. He’d never met a woman he could reveal himself to, and long ago he’d resigned himself to living half hidden from the world.

  He still hoped Ceana could be that woman. He hoped he could somehow prove himself to her, show her that they could work together, build a life together. Though he once might have sneered at what had become of his life, he was content with his position as stable master at Camdonn Castle. It was a quiet existence, on the land that was part of his spirit and soul. He’d rather live in a more secluded, private place, but his flat in the stables would do for now.

  It was a lonely life, though. His apartments were too big, too quiet. Someday he would like to share them with someone. Have a family, infuse the idea in his children that they belonged and they were loved—all the elements lacking in his own childhood.

  Someday.

  From the beginning, it had discomfited him to think that he was using Ceana like a whore, and today he had proposed to her on impulse, half out of genuine affection and half in an attempt to create something honorable from their affair.

  Now, though, as he stared up at the crescent moon, it dawned on him that she might be using him too.

  To his surprise, that revelation didn’t anger him. Instead he felt relieved, like the weight of an enormous responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders.

  Smoke billowing from one of the tower chimneys blotted the bottom tip of the moon, and he lowered his gaze to the tower. The highest room was brightly lit, and through the arrow slits, he could see a figure pacing inside.

  He knew the room. He knew who occupied it. Once, long ago, the last countess had occupied that tower chamber. Cam’s mother. Of course Cam would choose to put his betrothed there.

  Rob gazed up at the tower and watched the shadow move back and forth past the arrow slit. He had never met anyone like Lady Elizabeth. Such a haughty, sneering woman. And yet he sensed a deep-seated vulnerability in her. He’d felt it resonate beneath her skin during that long silence as the horse had plodded down the mountain. He’d seen it in the mottled red flush that crept up her neck. He’d heard it in the choppy sound of her uneven breathing. And her seemingly “perfect” responses to her uncle conflicted with every one of her behaviors until that moment.

  Who was she, really? Why did she hide? Why did she fascinate him so?

  Was she like him?

  She passed the arrow slit again, her white shift flowing in her wake, and, unbidden, a vision came to him. Her beautiful body undulating beneath his. Her perfect pale flesh crisscrossed with the red marks of his lash. Her lips parted in ecstasy as she knelt at his feet and begged him for more.

  He tried to push away the fantasy. It was dangerous. Reckless. Impossible.

  His cock hardened and pressed against the wool of his plaid as she passed the window once more.

  In his debauched fantasy, he drew out his dirk and sliced her shift open, from the top of her neckline straight down to the bottom of the skirt, revealing more of her creamy skin with each inch of fabric he cut. The tip of the dagger pricked at her flesh, making her gasp, but he did not draw blood.

  “More,” she whispered. “More.”

  She didn’t fight him. She wanted more. She asked him to expose himself. She begged him to emerge from behind the shadows, to give her what she knew he was capable of giving.

  Rob blinked hard. His dissolute mind conjured this fantasy, but from what? From the minutes she’d spent pressed against him on the saddle of a horse? He knew nothing about her. She was a spoiled Englishwoman, and it was likely she’d never spare him another glance.

  And she was betrothed to the Earl of Camdonn. She was untouchable.

  Elizabeth paced the tiny castle bedchamber, her stockings sliding over the slick, worn wood planks of the floor. The afternoon and evening had passed in a flurry. Fortunately, Cam’s housekeeper, Janet MacAdam, had remained with her and her lady’s maid, Bitsy, for most of the night, and Elizabeth hadn’t had a moment alone with Uncle Walter. Thank the Lord, for she’d caught his narrow, pale blue gaze assessing her more than once.

  Mrs. MacAdam had given her a tiny room high up in the tower. Elizabeth might have scoffed at it, but its other qualities more than made up for its small size. First off, arrow slits lined each of its four walls, a most excellent way to discreetly view the happenings on the castle grounds. Secondly, Mrs. MacAdam, with a conspiratorial smile on her wrinkled face, had moved aside an ugly, faded tapestry depicting some awful battle, and had revealed a door.

  “A secret staircase to the ground floor,” she’d confided with a twinkle in her round eyes. “Once, this was the countess’s bedchamber, and legend says her lover took this passage to her bed every night.”

  Elizabeth had shuddered and pasted an appropriately appalled expression on her face. “How despicable,” she�
�d murmured, but inside she squealed with joy. She’d known every means of entrance and exit to her uncle’s Hampshire estate, Purefoy Abbey, but none was as mysterious or exciting as this one. When her maid finally left her, Elizabeth’s first order of business had been to grab a candle, slip behind the tapestry, and venture down the dusty, spiraling stone stairs. She encountered nothing, living or dead, along the way, and at the bottom, she’d pressed her ear to the rotting slats of a wooden door. It must lead to a room where people gathered, because she heard a low-toned conversation between several people. Unfortunately, it was in Gaelic and she couldn’t understand a word.

  She returned to her chamber, and for the remainder of the night she kept watch on the activities in the courtyard below, growing more and more frustrated. Nobody bothered to keep her apprised of anything. Would they search for and arrest those awful highwaymen? She didn’t know whether they’d found Cam, whether he was alive . . . How in heaven’s name could they expect her to sleep?

  Her shoulders tight with frustration, she drifted to one of the windows to look out over the night. This arrow slit faced the building she’d learned was the stable that housed Cam’s fine collection of horseflesh.

  A figure stood beneath the eaves. A striking Highlander wearing a blue tartan plaid, his face tilted up. Strong jaw, straight nose, lips parted to reveal clenched white teeth, he stared at the tower. She spun away from the arrow slit and leaned weakly against the cool stone wall, her heart pounding.

  For the briefest of seconds, Robert MacLean’s hungry gaze had locked onto hers, held her prisoner.

  Blood rushed through her veins, and her quim tingled in reaction.

  Perhaps he didn’t hate her as much as she’d thought.

  Or perhaps he did hate her.

  But one thing was abundantly clear: He wanted her.

  Ceana opened her eyes to dim light permeating her cottage through the tiny pane of her window. She raised her head from her arms to see the earl’s fingers entwined with her own. His hand was long-fingered, paler than hers, smoother. Aristocratic. If nothing else, that ought to serve as a reminder: He was from a different world than she.

  She straightened, feeling a weight on her shoulders. He’d covered her with blankets, and she was still holding his hand.

  Ceana’s spine stiffened, and her breaths became shallow. She freed herself shakily, more roughly than she’d intended. It was foolish to hold his hand.

  MacNab women were strong. Renowned for their force of character, for the unbreakable shell that kept them aloof from the rest of the world.

  She glanced at his face. He was awake, watching her, his dark eyes intent.

  Damn it. Tucking strands of tangled hair behind her ears, she smiled down at him. “Good morning.”

  He returned her smile. Color had seeped into his cheeks, and he looked much better. “Thank you.”

  She took a shaky breath. “For what?”

  “Saving my life.”

  “Ah. Well, how do you feel?”

  “Weak. But better.”

  “And your shoulder?”

  “Sore. Tolerable, though.” He flinched as she reached to adjust his bandage, and then gritted his teeth as she peeled it back to check the wound. She turned to her medicine shelves to find the Saint-John’s-wort salve.

  “Why aren’t you married, Ceana?”

  Her back to him, she froze. Closing her eyes, she remembered Rob’s proposal. Then she gathered her wits. “That, my Lord Camdonn, is none of your business.”

  “I’m merely curious. Someone as beautiful as you ought to be married. It is odd to me that you aren’t.”

  “MacNab women never marry,” she said, her voice flat.

  He remained silent as she made a show of taking up a long-handled spoon, dipping it into the small clay pot containing the salve, and mixing—though it didn’t need to be mixed.

  Finally, he said, “Alan hasn’t returned.”

  She turned back to him, carrying a bit of the medicine on the edge of the spoon. “He did, in fact. He came in the middle of the night, and you were sound asleep. I told him to let you rest. They’re coming to take you home to Camdonn Castle later this morning.”

  Worry clouded the earl’s dark eyes. “Did they find Elizabeth?” he asked through gritted teeth as she gently rubbed the salve over his wound.

  Still she couldn’t look at him. “The lady is well. Robert MacLean found her on the road and brought her to the castle late yesterday.”

  “Robert MacLean?”

  “Your stable master. He was returning to Camdonn Castle . . .”

  Her breath caught. Lord, how to finish that sentence? After tupping me hard, slapping my arse, and listening to me cruelly reject his offer of marriage . . . ?

  “Ah. Yes, of course.” His eyes squeezed shut. “Thank God she is unhurt.”

  Ceana’s jaw tightened a little even as she smiled at him. She set the spoon back on the table, took the swath of linen she planned to fashion into a sling, and busied herself by folding it. “It sounds like you love her very much.”

  “She’s a lovely girl. Perfect, really.”

  “I see.”

  For God’s sake, she did not want to talk about the perfect, rich, and undoubtedly beautiful Englishwoman this man was going to marry. With her stomach clenched tight, Ceana turned away from him.

  As soon as Alan arrived, Cam would have to leave her.

  He didn’t want to. He didn’t like the thought of her alone in this tiny cottage in the forest. Especially with murdering highwaymen roaming the nearby lands.

  Cam watched as she busied herself with her work. She ground herbs, chopped leaves, boiled something sweet-smelling over the fire.

  God help him, his dreams had been carnal, and she’d featured in all of them. He’d woken with a painful erection, unimpeded by the stabbing ache in his shoulder. Her name had been on his lips, but he’d managed to swallow it down before he said it aloud.

  He remembered one of the dreams. They’d both knelt on the bed, facing each other. She’d raised her arms over her head, lifting those heavy, pale breasts for his perusal. He’d taken one sweet pink nipple into his mouth as he’d brushed his fingers over the other. He’d pinched gently, scraped his teeth over the taut peak, and she’d moaned . . .

  Hell, it was happening again. Deliberately, he focused on the ordinary. The peat fire circle on the floor at the foot of the bed, fingers of smoke spreading under the rafters as if searching for the hole in the roof. The thatch of the ceiling overhead . . .

  He had no intention of betraying Elizabeth. Nevertheless, he wasn’t married to her, not yet. He’d made no promises of fidelity.

  Hating that damned devil inside him clamoring to be set free, he pushed the thought away.

  Lady Elizabeth was going to be his wife. Months ago, he’d locked up that dissolute creature within him and tossed away the key. Never again would he allow a woman to control him. Never again would he surrender to the power a woman could wield over him.

  He was stronger now. A year ago, he’d been impulsive and arrogant, driven by lust. In the past few months, he’d reined himself in. Now he displayed a self-possessed, serious, calm facade, and henceforth he pledged to do what his duty and position required. He’d already gone to England and found a suitable lady to become his wife. Within a month, they’d marry, and within a year, she’d give birth to his heir. Meanwhile, he’d focus on his tenants and his lands, and try to help his people break free from the crushing poverty that swelled like an endless plague through the Highlands.

  He hadn’t spent a great deal of time with Elizabeth, but he sensed a core strength of independence in her he found appealing, and he thought she might eventually assist him in the monumental task ahead, unlike most fragile Englishwomen, who’d certainly hinder his efforts. She was intelligent and curious, and when they had taken walks together, though their conversation had felt stilted and stiffly polite, she had shown an interest in matters that were important to him. All of thes
e traits boded well for her future as a Highland wife.

  He also sensed her unhappiness with her life in Hampshire. Her smiles rarely reached her eyes, and at times when she thought no one was looking, Cam saw her gazing longingly at the horizon. He attributed her melancholy to the loss of her parents at a tender age, and he understood wholeheartedly, having lost his own mother young and never having achieved closeness with his father.

  She was beautiful too. Though he knew the task of bedding her wouldn’t be unpleasant, he didn’t lust after her like he had Sorcha. He didn’t know why, for she was a lovely woman—it was simply that he didn’t feel that visceral, inescapable desire in her presence. That was precisely what he was looking for in a bride. He couldn’t become so physically wound up over a woman again.

  He glanced at Ceana and caught her gazing at him. She looked quickly away.

  Damn it. If only she were more like her grandmother. In truth, she was very much like her grandmother, but different in all the ways that mattered . . . in the ways that affected him most.

  Strangely, he felt safe with Ceana. Comfortable. As if he’d known her his whole life. For some reason, he wanted to explain himself to her.

  “I hardly know her, you see,” he admitted in a quiet voice.

  Her gray-blue eyes locked on his once more. “Who?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Ah.”

  “The Duke of Argyll suggested the match. He introduced me to her uncle in London two months ago.”

  A week later, they’d traveled to Hampshire to see Elizabeth at her uncle’s seat, Purefoy Abbey. The young woman had quickly shown him that she possessed all the traits required to make him a proper wife. After three weeks in Hampshire, he’d done what everyone expected and offered for her. Everything about the match was perfect. She was perfect.

  “Can I tell you something?” he asked Ceana.

  Why was he talking to a stranger about this? Something—God knew what—compelled him to give Ceana the truth. Hell, maybe he just needed to tell someone. He’d kept everything bottled inside for so long. Alan and Sorcha had remained his best friends, had seen him through his worst moments, but after all that had passed between them, there were so many things he couldn’t share with them.