A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Makenna met his gaze, not hiding anything in hers. “I love ye the way the light catches the sea during sunrise on a summer morning, lighting it alive and freeing it from the darkness. Ye light me alive, Julien.”

  “Forever, Makenna mine?” Julien asked, his eyes full of love, draping her over him and holding her tight.

  “Aye, mo gràidh, forever.”

  He was her heart. He was all she would ever need.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Makenna rolled her eyes for the thousandth time as a very pregnant and very bossy Aisla shoved a nearly finished gown beneath her nose. “Do you like this color?”

  “I dunnae care, Aisla,” she said. “It’s a wedding reception, no’ a royal ball. And I’ve been married before. This is just for the family.”

  “That doesnae mean ye dunnae have to look yer best.”

  “Yer brogue is back.”

  The slip back into her Scottish brogue alerted Makenna to her sister-in-law’s mounting vexation. Aisla had spent six years in Paris estranged from Niall, her husband and Makenna’s brother, before they’d become reacquainted, and as such, her brogue only appeared when she was highly agitated.

  Aisla scowled. “Your husband will love this color.”

  The thought of Julien had the effect of sun appearing after rain. Her irritation lessened. And then rose. She hadn’t seen the man in a day that felt like a week. He’d been off with Niall and Ronan, helping with some new build in the cairngorm mines on Niall’s estate, Tarbendale, a few miles away from Maclaren.

  “Are you daydreaming?” Aisla nearly batted her in the face with the claret-colored cloth. “Don’t make me get your sisters. Just pick one, for the love of tulle.”

  Makenna paled at the threat and tried to focus on the choices before her. Sorcha was even worse than she was when it came to clothing—she’d wear men’s clothes all day if it suited her. At least Makenna had only worn trews once. And Annis, well, she adored fashion, was the size of a doll, and dressed like one. If it were up to her, Makenna would be dressed in frills and flounces, and layers of frothy tulle like the gold dress next to the dark red one. Annis had returned from America with her husband just the week before, though not for the wedding ball specifically. She and her husband had been away from her family for long enough, and had arrived with their twin boys, eight years old and far too similar to Evan and Finlay, for a visit.

  “How about that one?” Makenna said, pointing to a discarded gown that shimmered in the colors of the sea—an aquamarine that shifted between blue and green. It had been the last of three gowns that had been sewn for her, and the simplest of the lot. The bodice—square and dangerously low—had dissuaded Makenna at first, but now she was desperate. She wanted this to be over. “Aye, that’s it.”

  Aisla squinted at it and then back at her. “Fine, that will do.”

  She nodded to the seamstresses who had been silently waiting for instruction. They’d already taken all of Makenna’s measurements. She’d been surprised to see that a side effect of being happy was a change in her shape. She’d gained weight and filled out her frame. Julien loved the changes, particularly in her bosom and hips. Makenna fought back a blush at how well he’d worshipped those areas in the past few days.

  “Ugh, are you thinking about Jules?”

  Makenna’s blush grew. “What?”

  “You get that glazed, calf-eyed face every time you do.” She made a gagging sound. “I can see the neediness written all over you. I don’t want to know what you and he do in the bedchamber.”

  Fighting the heat climbing into her cheeks, Makenna pursed her lips primly. “I wasnae going to say anything. In any case, ye almost married the man, so I wouldnae be casting any stones.”

  “In friendship,” she said. “And utter desperation.”

  “I’ll tell him ye said that.”

  “Well, it all worked out. He came to Scotland and met you, and you fell happily and deeply in love, and now here we are. Celebrating your marriage.” Aisla leaned in, one hand on her rounded stomach, her copper eyes warm. “Are you happy, Makenna? With Jules?” She hesitated and gnawed on a fingernail. “He’s a good man. My best friend. But he’s…guarded at the best of times. Keeps everyone at arm’s length with that acerbic humor and those dreadful waistcoats.”

  They shared a laugh. Makenna knew what she meant, but they’d both opened up to each other. He’d let her inside and she’d done the same. They knew each other’s hearts. Julien knew her deepest, darkest self, and she knew his.

  “I’m happy. He makes me happier than I’ve ever been.”

  Aisla smiled softly. “Good. He deserves someone like you, Makenna. Someone decent and kind, with a spine of steel under all that sweetness. I have never seen him with anyone the way he is with you.”

  “I want us to be as deliriously happy as you and Niall are.”

  Aisla’s smile turned back into a scowl, and Makenna nearly recoiled at the swiftness and fierceness of it. “I’m no’ happy with that man at the moment. My feet are so swollen I can barely walk and all he does is prod at me incessantly, asking if I’m fine. I’ll bloody well tell him if I’m no’ fine, ye ken!”

  Makenna bit her lip and tried not to laugh at the disgruntled woman. The bairn was nearly due, and Aisla’s mercurial moods along with her violent shifts in accents had been a source of entertainment and terror for all. Makenna forced down the spike of sadness that always came with thoughts of pregnancy. Colin had said that Graeme couldn’t father children and even Julien had said that the fault might not have been hers, but Makenna refused to let herself hope. She’d been so disappointed for so many years, hoping for a child of her own. She drew in a breath. They had Malcolm and he was a blessing.

  “I have found the perfect shoes,” Lady Dunrannoch, Makenna’s mother announced, holding a pair of gorgeous, embroidered silver slippers, her soft-spoken English syllables edged with a slight brogue. “Should go with anything. Did she finally choose a color?”

  “Yes,” Aisla said. “The aquamarine.”

  “Ah, lovely.”

  “I’m right here, Mother,” Makenna said with raised brows. Weddings and receptions seemed to make the woman slightly insane. She couldn’t recall the same amount of fanfare for her first wedding. Then again, she’d been young and shipped off to the Brodies as fast as she’d said, “I do.” Most Scottish women from noble families married for the sake of clan alliances, and her marriage had been no different. At least on the surface.

  Her mother gave her an indulgent pat. “Yes, darling.”

  She kissed her mother’s cheek. They had had a long and heartfelt chat that had ended in copious amounts of tears. Lady Dunrannoch had been broken to learn what her daughter had endured at the hands of the man who had promised to take care of her.

  “If that bastard were alive, I’d gut him myself,” she had sworn.

  Makenna had laughed through her tears. Her mother hadn’t raised so many fierce Maclarens without being one herself.

  “I’m sorry we failed you,” her mother had whispered.

  “Ye were no’ responsible for Graeme’s actions,” Makenna had said. “Nae one kenned the man he truly was.”

  “Why did you not say anything?”

  “I used to think a woman’s burden was hers to carry.”

  “And now?”

  Makenna had smiled. “A wise man reminded me what family is for, and that asking for help doesnae mean being weak.”

  “And for that reason alone, Lord Riverley will have a place at Maclaren and in my heart as well.”

  Lord Riverley. Her husband.

  A pillow hit her squarely in the face.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Aisla smirked as Makenna gaped at her in shock. She scowled at the grinning perpetrator who ducked behind her mother-in-law. As if Makenna would ever retaliate against a pregnant woman. “She’s thinking about him again.”

  “Who dear?” Lady Dunrannoch asked.

  “Her manly marquess.”

&n
bsp; With a growl of amused frustration, Makenna made for the door. She needed a dose of her manly marquess before she went crazy and demand that he put her on a ship bound for Paris. Or anywhere but here. Shaking her head, she went in search of him, but their bedchamber was empty. She had a few hours before the ball was going to start and the final alterations on the gown were completed. Makenna was certain her brothers were keeping Julien away on purpose.

  A knock on the door had her racing to open it, but the wrong pair of peridot eyes greeted her. She quelled her disappointment as a knowing expression crossed the older woman’s face. “Julien said that he will be dressing at Tarbendale this evening. He sends his love.”

  “Thank ye, Eleanor.” She still felt strange calling her mother-in-law by her given name, but the lady had insisted.

  “I know I’ve said it before, but I’m so very grateful for how happy you make my son,” she went on. “And I’m so proud to call you my daughter.”

  They embraced, and then, her message from Julien delivered, Eleanor left her to her solitude. Makenna smiled, despite the news that she wouldn’t see Julien until the reception, and counted her blessings. Apart from being reunited with her family and falling in love with a wonderful man, Eleanor’s health had continued to steadily improve, and she had become a wonderful grandmother to Malcolm. Makenna thought of the boy and felt her heart swell. She might not be a mother in body, but she loved the boy as if he were born her own.

  When Nora arrived with several maids in tow for her bath as well as the finished gown in hand, Makenna gave herself over to their care. As her skin was dried and oiled, her hair brushed and styled, and the gown secured over her body, she felt like a first-time bride. In a sense, she was. She’d chosen Julien. He hadn’t been chosen for her, and despite how they’d come together in a marriage of convenience, she had made the choice to stay.

  This was the only marriage that mattered.

  With some trepidation, she descended the staircase into the grand Maclaren ballroom. It had been polished and decorated to within an inch of its life, and though she had grown up here and attended many balls and parties within its walls, it felt different. It felt momentous. Even more so when she saw the man waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

  A gorgeous, solemn blond man in a kilt.

  Her heart nearly stuttered to a stop as her eyes swept Julien’s broad frame. A formal coat and pewter waistcoat with a snowy-white cravat preceded a Maclaren tartan wrapped around those trim hips. Her chest felt tight. Her brothers would not have let him wear their colors if they didn’t think of him as a Maclaren.

  His eyes sparked with appreciation as she reached him. Makenna knew why. Her ample bosom was practically spilling out of the dress. But she was too busy ogling him in return to be self-conscious. The sight of a man in a tartan should not take a woman’s breath away, but he did. God, he was handsome.

  “I want ye,” she whispered before he could say anything. And she wanted him even more when that devious smirk of his curled his full lips, a challenge sparking in his green gaze. She lifted her knuckles for his kiss. “Dunnae do that, my lord, or I will scandalize everyone in this room.”

  “A marchioness does as she pleases,” he said, kissing her knuckles. “You look ravishing, my lady.”

  “Thank ye. And even so, my parents would disown us both if I dragged ye out of here like a mad marchioness,” she said dryly. “I like yer kilt.”

  “You’ll like what’s not under it even more.”

  Did the sly rogue mean he wasn’t wearing undergarments?

  Makenna was literally, unequivocally on fire as he turned her to the room and the cheering ensued. She held on to her composure by a thread as she scanned the faces of her family and greeted the friends who had travelled far and wide to attend the festivities. As such, the ballroom was crowded, and after she and Julien had made the rounds, any desire had disappeared. She was hot and bothered for an entirely different reason.

  Finlay elbowed her in the ribs as she sought out a cold drink. “Evan and I still think yer Frenchman needs a beating.”

  “He’s an English marquess,” Makenna said, elbowing him back. “And ye and Evan need to cool yer heels and stop making trouble.”

  He scowled. “I dunnae ken why Ronan gave him the plaid. He’s no’ a Scot.”

  “I married a Scotsman the first time and ye ken what happened. And what does it matter, Julien is one of us at heart.”

  “Aye, Finlay,” Ronan said, hanging a beefy arm around her shoulders. “And he loves her, which is all that matters in the end.”

  “Ye sound like a sodding sap. Next, ye’ll be spouting poetry or some such nonsense,” Finlay replied in disgust. Makenna could clearly see that her brother was spoiling for a fight because no ball was without a brawl where he and Evan were concerned. “Nae lass will want a weakling for a man.”

  Makenna grinned and poked her eldest brother in the side. “Nae, Fin, it’s whether he finds a lass who will put up with him.”

  Her brother’s face went dark, and he turned on his heel and walked away. “Never.”

  “Never is a long time, bràthair,” she whispered after him. Ronan deserved to find the perfect someone. After all, she had.

  …

  Julien watched his stunning bride from across the ballroom floor. The moment he had seen her walking down those stairs, he had been transported to heaven. It sounded silly and sentimental, but there was no other way to describe what he felt knowing that this caring, brave, beautiful woman was his. Makenna was in her element, garbed in a gown that set off her vibrant coloring to perfection. The shimmering blue-green color made her eyes glow like gems and her hair look like liquid flame. Julien wanted to demolish those tidy pins and let the mass spill down her bare, gorgeous back.

  His body reacted as it always did with carnal thoughts of his wife and he adjusted himself discreetly beneath the tartan. Julien didn’t mind the kilt, and was honored when Ronan had presented it to him with little fanfare, just a muted, “Ye deserve this.” He’d seen Makenna’s eyes light up when she’d realized his choice of dress, and it’d been worth it. She’d seen him in a kilt when they’d gone to the Brodie inn, but these were her family’s colors. He knew what it would mean to her…the significance. And he’d worn it to please her. To show her that he belonged to her as much as she belonged to him. She wasn’t his property, and if anyone owned anyone—she owned him body, heart, and soul.

  “Ye ken a ball is for dancing, dunnae ye?” a high-pitched young voice said. “No’ just standing and holding up pillars.”

  “Is that so? Men hold up pillars all the time.”

  Julien turned to see the rather dashing lad standing beside him, mimicking his stance. Malcolm had been allowed to attend the event, despite his young age, at least for a short while. And the boy was dressed in fine threads, including a waistcoat that matched Julien’s, and a kilt in Brodie colors. Makenna had insisted that he be proud of his clan. A few bad apples didn’t rot the entire lot. She intended for Malcolm to be raised right and to be a leader his people could be proud of. Julien had agreed. Hardship didn’t hurt a man…with the right influences, it made a man stronger. His eyes moved to the lady standing beside the boy, and gave her a kiss on her cheek.

  “Enjoying the party, Maman?” he asked.

  “Oui. You look very handsome, mon fils.”

  “And me, Grandmaman?” Malcolm piped up.

  She pinched his cheek with a fond smile. “Also, you. Très, très beau. Can you tell me what I just said?”

  “Very, very handsome.”

  Julien grinned as the boy puffed out his chest, his young face glowing with pride at both his appearance and his translation skills. Apparently, his mother was teaching him French and he was a quick learner. Malcolm did look very smart in his miniature coat and kilt, his hair combed and brushed back. He tried unsuccessfully to hide a yawn.

  “I think it’s almost time for bed,” his mother said to Malcolm and nodded to Nora, who w
as waiting on the side of the room to take her young charge away. “And you must say your goodnights to your papa and your mama.”

  As if she’d caught wind of Malcolm’s departure, Makenna arrived in a swirl of aquamarine skirts and wildflowers. Uncaring of the silk of her gown, she sank down to one knee and embraced the boy.

  “Goodnight, Mama,” he said, and looked up at him. “And Papa.”

  “Goodnight, son,” he murmured.

  Julien felt his heart squeeze at the expression on his wife’s face. Her love for the lad, for her small family, made her radiant. As he’d expected, she was a wonderful mother. He wanted to give her more children, but he knew that the subject was a tender one for her. Another scar left by a man who deserved to rot wherever he was. Julien did not put any pressure on her, and they were having fun not trying. If she got pregnant, it would be wonderful. If she did not, he would still love her to the end of time.

  He watched as his mother left with Nora and Malcolm, after murmuring her own goodbyes. Her eyes carried some fatigue as well, but the change in her had been incredible. This had been her first ball in years. Julien turned to his lady, his appreciative gaze scanning her body, the beauty of her making him catch his breath as it always did.

  “Will I ever get used to your beauty, my love?”

  Her smile went straight to his groin. “The things ye say, Lord Riverley.”

  Angling his body so she was between him and the pillar, Julien leaned over to press a kiss on the elegant length of her neck, and he could feel the heat flood into her skin under his lips. A soft gasp escaped her. “Julien, people are looking!”

  “No one is looking.”

  No one could see, anyway, with his body in the way. But he felt the interest. Let them stare. He desired his wife, and he didn’t care if the whole world knew it. He bit at her skin gently and then soothed it with his tongue.

  “I want to lick your entire body,” he whispered.

  Makenna sagged against him with a sigh. “Ye are a tease, my lord. And ye are wrong. Everyone is staring over here.”