A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Blushing furiously, she made to move.

  Julien uttered one word. “Stay.”

  He hadn’t restrained her with his arms. Just with his voice and that single command and entreaty all in one, resonant with so much need.

  “I—” She faltered, mesmerized by his eyes that had turned a stormy green color, the flecks of gold near his pupils suddenly brighter, charged with passion.

  “Don’t be afraid of the fire inside you, Makenna. I feel it, too,” he whispered hoarsely. “Do as you want. Touch, feel, anything. I am yours to conquer.”

  She licked her lips, and his eyes darted to her mouth, but Julien made no move to touch her. To kiss her again. His hands left her hips to land on the sides of the armchair. He was giving her leave to do whatever she wanted. Never had a man allowed her such freedom to explore at her whim. It thrilled her. Surely, one more small indulgence wouldn’t hurt.

  “Anywhere?” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  His pupils were so dilated with lust they’d almost obscured the green. Gracious, was she doing that to him? Makenna’s fingers grazed his cheeks, his firm jaw, the corded lines of his throat before making their way down to her true objective—that expanse of glorious male skin exposed by his gaping collar. His skin leaped reflexively beneath her touch as her palms fused with his hot, hard flesh. She almost sighed at the feel of the coarse mat of blond-bronzed hair. Dazed, she threaded her fingers through it, spreading them wide and encountering the hard tip of his flat male nipple with her little finger. Julien hissed.

  “Do ye like that?”

  “Yes.” He did not attempt to hide his reaction from her. Makenna liked that, too.

  She bent her head to lick his throbbing throat where his pulse pounded a mad tempo. “And this?”

  “God, yes.” Muscles corded along his forearms with strain.

  Emboldened, Makenna trailed her lips up his neck and took his lips with hers. As before, he did not take control of the kiss, but followed her lead. Her tongue delved into the depths of his mouth, teasing and tangling with his tongue, slanting her lips over his. He wasn’t passive, but she wanted more. “Kiss me back,” she ordered. “Hold me.”

  Julien didn’t need to be told twice. His arms banded around her as he deepened the kiss, his mouth exploring hers with a near savagery, nibbling, sucking, thrusting. She met him lick for lick, bite for bite. He ground his hips up into her bottom, and helpless with need, she writhed against him, feeling his thick arousal in the cradle of her thighs. She wanted to stroke him with her hands, make him moan.

  “My lord?” A throat cleared, followed by a sharp, deliberate knock.

  Breaking apart and panting in unison, they turned to the opened door. Makenna bolted up so quickly that she nearly tumbled out of the chair. Only Julien’s strong hands held her stable as she righted herself. She flew to the other end of the room, smoothing her mussed hair and her rumpled skirts.

  Lord above. She’d been in Julien’s lap in full view of anyone who might have walked past. Tildy. Lady Haverille. Malcolm. It was late, certainly, but clearly not by Mr. Jobson’s standards if he was still awake and working. The man was discreet, she knew, but she was still mortified to be caught fondling the master of the house. And fondling him she had been. Flagrantly, brazenly so.

  “Should I return momentarily, my lord?” the solicitor asked.

  “That would be best,” Julien said. Face flaming, Makenna waited a few moments, listening for the man’s retreating footsteps. She felt Julien’s gaze settle on her as she bolted for the door. “Makenna?”

  “Please, dunnae say anything.”

  “I enjoyed that more than anything I’ve ever enjoyed before.”

  The quiet admission held her in its grip, along with the phantom sensation of his warm, sensual mouth and the brand of his swollen length against the backs of her thighs. She had, too. More than she dared to admit.

  Unable to look at him or respond, Makenna fled.

  Chapter Twelve

  Julien hadn’t stepped foot into his study all day. Just approaching the door that morning had touched off a myriad of sensations: lust, joy, unfulfilled longing. He’d been so overwhelmed that he had bypassed the room entirely, deciding, instead, to seek out Brice and another, more intense round of sparring. He’d needed the grueling activity to shake out the unresolved sexual tension mounting in his limbs.

  His skill had more than doubled since they’d begun training, and though the footman still had a few stone worth of muscle on Julien, he had started to feel changes in his own physique. Broader shoulders, and thicker biceps and forearms. Makenna had run her hands over him the night before, her fingers sinking into the hair on his chest, and he’d nearly lost control of himself when she’d made those soft, gasping sounds in the base of her throat. She’d wanted him. She’d explored him, without hesitation, without any fear, and Julien had practically been able to taste the heady freedom coursing through her.

  The study, the chair behind his desk, the pages of his ledgers, they had always represented order and business, and now…now Julien highly doubted he’d ever be able to attend to his favorite pastime without first thinking of her. He’d cursed Jobson for a solid hour after Makenna had left, her cheeks flushed with mortification at how his solicitor had come upon them. She’d been settled on his lap, her hips moving in such slow, rolling nudges that he doubted she’d even realized what she was doing. Driving him insane with desire. Had Jobson not interrupted, there was no question in Julien’s mind—he would have taken Makenna to his bed. Hell, he might have simply taken her right there, on his study chair. And she would have permitted it.

  Perhaps he should have been thanking his solicitor instead of cursing him, but the unabating clench of Julien’s groin the next day as he stalked the castle and grounds, searching for something…anything…to do to distract himself, distinctly disagreed. Intellectually, Julien knew taking Makenna to bed would be a complication he did not need. But physically…he wanted her with an intensity that he did not recognize. It wasn’t clear. It wasn’t focused. It was wild and uncertain and risky—three things he knew better than to involve himself with.

  Yet a part of him knew it was too late to walk away. He was involved, invested, and for the first time he could recall, he was not thinking first about what he could gain from it. Pleasure from her touch, her body, yes, but Julien’s pleasure had increased exponentially when he’d experienced hers. His mind had gone blank with it. After living as she had for so long, unable to trust in anyone enough to let down her defenses, Makenna had finally taken control of what she wanted. She’d been honest with herself and with him, and knowing she’d trusted him enough, wanted him enough…that terrified him almost as much as it thrilled him. Because in the end, he did not want to disappoint her.

  It was just past noon, and Julien was walking toward the library when he heard the melodic chiming of the pianoforte’s keys in the ballroom. His mind immediately went to Makenna. Was it her? Like all young ladies of her class, she’d had to have learned to play. It was an accomplishment, something that would prove to a potential suitor that she was worthwhile as a wife.

  Utterly absurd, Julien thought, and it made him question the Duke of Dunrannoch’s integrity and intelligence—why would the man have allowed his daughter to marry the likes of the late Brodie laird? Unless the laird had pretended to be one thing with the duke, only to drop the charade once he’d had what he wanted—an alliance with a powerful clan. Julien balled his hands into fists, knowing it was not worthwhile to dwell on the past. But perhaps that blindness of her father’s was why she had not fled to Maclaren, and instead, had come here.

  He turned toward the ballroom, wondering if he would find her at the pianoforte, alone. However, the closer he got, the more familiar the notes of the music became. It was a lively tune, matching the notes of a song his mother had made up long ago, after his father died. Julien had had trouble sleeping, and his mother would sit with him, making up songs and st
ories. This particular one was a song about a pair of pigeons that made their home on the roof of a Paris restaurant, and the kind maître d’hôtel that brought them bits of food. His mother would change the lyrics every night, changing the food the maître d’hôtel delivered to the pigeon’s tiny table: cheese crumbles or bread or currant buns, and always little thimblefuls of wine.

  He opened the door to the ballroom and smiled at the sight of his mother seated beside Malcolm at the pianoforte, singing softly along with the music. Julien slowly and quietly crossed the room, not wanting to disturb them. He’d yet to host a party, but if and when he did, the ballroom would easily hold three hundred guests. The unbidden image of Makenna acting as his hostess drifted through his mind, and he quelled it as quickly as it had risen.

  The arched ceilings, crenellated columns, and stone walls looked as medieval as the rest of the castle, but at some point within the last century, one of the previous dukes had lain down smooth slabs of golden Calacatta marble, imported from Italy. The gold hue gave the vast room a warmth that the other, more austere rooms in the castle did not possess. As his boots clicked over the polished marble, he considered hosting a ball sooner rather than later.

  His mother’s health had improved enough to withstand such entertainment. On the heels of his last thought, Julien couldn’t help but picture what sort of gown Makenna would wear, or how well she would feel in his arms as they danced among the other guests. Then again, introductions would have to be made, and Makenna’s being here was still supposed to be hush-hush. She was hiding, and until she no longer had to hide, she would be stuck. Trapped. Just like before. A burst of irritation threatened the sense of tranquility that his mother’s lullaby had brought him.

  “Lord Julien, have ye come to hear me play?”

  Malcolm had spotted him, a hopeful grin stretching across his face. Julien forced a smile, happy to see him, and yet, still bothered by the conundrum revolving around Makenna.

  “I’d like nothing better. Has Lady Haverille already taught you to play my favorite childhood song?”

  His mother laughed. “You remember it, chéri? No, we were just taking a break. I’ve been teaching him scales.”

  “Aye. They’re easy,” Malcolm said. “I’ve already got them memorized.”

  Julien suppressed a smile at the boy’s confidence and tried not to wince as Malcolm ran through the C major scale. Lady Haverille raised her brows at the halting cadence and stumbles, but gently corrected him each time. He had a long way to go until proficiency, but Julien suspected neither teacher nor student would mind the time together at lessons.

  As he stood at the pianoforte listening to Malcolm play, he realized it was more than just the Scottish air that had helped his mother’s health to rebound. Certainly, the arrival of this young boy had helped to heal her as well. When his mother had been in Paris and ill, Julien had despised his feelings of desperation. He’d wanted to make her well again, but knowing how little control he had over such a thing, even with access to medicine and the best physicians, he’d then focused on making her happy.

  His mother’s happiness had always been wrapped up in his. She’d always wanted him to fall in love and marry, and though she’d never hounded him, she was not above pointed reminders that he was indeed growing older, and that she would very much like to see him settled. Julien would have married a dog, if it would have made her happy. He smirked. Not that Aisla had been a dog—she’d kick him in the ballocks if he even voiced such a thought. But he’d asked her to marry him, and had gone along on her quest north, to the Highlands, to do what needed to be done in order to see the marriage through. All for his mother.

  He often wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t had Aisla to propose to. If he had never befriended her in Paris, he would have likely proposed to a woman who would have happily wed him for his money and position. Without Aisla, he would have never met any of the Maclarens, let alone Makenna.

  And his mother would not now be here looking like the woman he’d remembered from his youth. Not the one who’d taken in mending for extra coin, but the one with the sparkle in her eyes and a skip in her step. Julien fought down the knowledge that when his father was alive, even when they’d been poor, that that sparkle had always been there.

  “Well done, Malcolm,” Julien declared as the boy finished playing and looked up to him for his reaction. He ruffled his dark curls and then leaned down to kiss his mother on the cheek. “When you’re finished with your lesson, perhaps we can take a ride out to see the new lambs.”

  Malcolm looked like he wanted to spring from the bench. “Could we go now, my lord?”

  Lady Haverille cleared her throat, face brimming with adoration and humor. “After luncheon,” she chided gently.

  Malcolm’s eyes brightened almost as much at the idea of food.

  “Yes, my lady,” he said. Then with a bob of his head toward Julien, “After luncheon, my lord.”

  Julien grinned and left the two of them then, wondering when the boy would start to call him Julien as he’d given him leave to do right from the start. He was happy here, yet still guarded. Much like Makenna.

  As Julien made his way to the stables, he thought again of what life must have been like among the Brodie clan. It infuriated him to dwell on it for too long, especially when his thoughts turned to Makenna and the way she’d been mistreated. The tender and tentative way she’d touched him the night before, as if she had never been given leave to take control, had been a window into her marriage. She’d been a possession, utterly without agency with the dead laird. His whole body recoiled at the idea of her being intimate with any other man, and knowing she’d been abused made it all the worse. It was in the past, he reminded himself again as he entered the stables. If it were in his power, he would never allow another man to harm her again.

  His chest was heavy with what felt like lead ballast, as thoughts of her mistreatment at the hands of the Brodie tended to do, until the moment he heard the soft, husky sound of her laughter. She was at the training paddock, watching Alban at work with the glossy ebony Arabian mare. She had her arms folded along the top railing, and one booted foot propped on the lowest, showcasing a glimpse of a slim ankle and stocking. She wore a green tweed riding habit, nothing fashionable and yet it didn’t matter. Julien couldn’t take his eyes from the curves of her hips. Or that ankle. God, he wanted to kneel right there in the muddy ground and press his lips to it.

  “She’s full of mischief,” Julien said as he came up behind Makenna.

  She froze, though only momentarily. Her shoulders had relaxed by the time she turned her profile to see him, the barest hint of color on her cheeks. “I like her.”

  He slid up beside her. “Birds of a feather.”

  Julien waited for some witty retort, but Makenna didn’t seem to know what to say. Perhaps she was flustered, but he wasn’t about to let her turn inward again, not after what had happened between them the night before.

  “Are you busy?” he asked.

  She peered at him. “Why? Do ye have a task in mind for me?”

  “Oh, I have many in mind,” he answered, holding her gaze a prolonged moment, until the smattering of color on her face went from pink to red.

  She set her foot down from the lowest railing, and promptly stomped his. It didn’t hurt in the least, but the cheek of it surprised—and emboldened—him.

  “What do ye want?” she said with a smirk that could rival his.

  “A ride,” he replied, but before she could stomp his other foot, continued, “out to the haying fields.”

  “Is there something to be done there? The haying isnae scheduled until September.”

  “Do you only ever think of work?”

  “It’s my job, my lord, until ye find another steward.” She drew a breath. “I’ve been meaning to talk to ye—”

  “No more work, not right now. I’m giving you the next half hour off. Come,” he said, drawing her away from the paddock. He half expected h
er to protest and dig in her heels, but to his delight, she only laughed, looking slightly relieved, as they went in search of a groom to saddle their mounts.

  With a cloudless blue sky, and a slight breeze combing down the grassy plains, Julien and Makenna set off west, toward the haying fields. In the early fall, the field hands would take their scythes and shear the fields, stacking towers of hay to be baled and sold, as well as used at Duncraigh throughout the winter months. Makenna had explained the schedule to him, and to his surprise, he’d been intrigued. Farming had never been anything Julien thought he’d ever be interested in. Food was food. It showed up on his plate and he happily consumed it. However, there was a whole life cycle to a farm, from seed to harvest, and the methods the farmers employed—both to earn a living and provide for themselves—spoke of ingenuity and business sense. Something Julien always appreciated. Much like the woman who’d helped him understand the hows and whys of his new estate lands.

  He held his mount back, letting Makenna take the lead. She was an accomplished horsewoman, and Julien admired her sleek form as she gave the horse its head and galloped toward a copse of trees, the hayfields just beyond them. The combs that had been tucking up her locks were quickly losing the battle to hold her hair in place. Strand by strand, they came free, until her red tresses were like bright banners in the wind, trailing behind her.

  His jaw fell open. Lord, she was magnificent.

  “I thought ye were faster than that!” she shouted over her shoulder.

  Julien urged his horse onward, drawing up to her side. “I was being a gentleman!”

  “Ye were?” she replied. Then with that full mouth turning up into a smile, added, “Since when?”

  “Vixen,” he said, though he wasn’t sure she’d even heard him. Makenna shot off again.