When a Highlander Loses His Heart (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 4)

by Julie Johnstone

  “I’ve something to show ye,” she said, deciding a change in her course of action was in order.

  “What?” he asked cautiously.

  Despite how wretched his homecoming was making her feel, the urge to laugh that her husband should fear being alone with her nearly overcame her. She bit hard on her cheek. “’Tis a surprise,” she chirped.

  “Where is what ye wish to show me?”

  “Meet me at the trees leading into the woods,” she said, excitement bubbling within her to show him what she had learned of weapons, riding, and seduction. He thought to shut her out, and she hoped to tempt him yet again and make him realize that what was between them must be relented to fully, with his heart and not just his body.

  “Isobel, I’ve yet to speak with Iain. I’m certain—”

  “I’ve his permission to have time with ye first,” she lied while searching the courtyard for Marion. She found her near the stairs. “I’ll see ye there shortly,” she rushed out before he could voice more protest.

  She raced past the people in the courtyard to Marion and whispered in her ear. “I’m going to show Graham my ability with a horse and sword, as well as the breastplate.”

  Marion’s eyes widened, and a blush came to her cheeks. “I’ll tell Iain that Graham will be detained,” she said with a grin. “Good luck, Isobel.”

  A spell later, as Isobel made her way to the thick copse of trees where she had asked Graham to meet her, she fretted that it had taken too long to gather the destrier and don the breastplate and the sword. Not to mention riding with a heavy breastplate on and a sword tucked into a sword belt was awkward. The heavy cloak she had put on to hide that she wore only a breastplate and thin léine made her wonder how wise her plan was. As she scanned the trees and did not see Graham, disappointment blanketed her.

  “Isobel,” he suddenly said from behind her. She turned sharply toward his voice and threw herself off-balance. Flailing her arms to right herself, she ended up half on the patient horse and half off while trying to hold her cloak closed so as not to reveal her surprise in such a clumsy way.

  Graham was at her side before she could blink, his strong hands encircling her waist to lift her off the horse. He set her down on her feet, quickly secured her destrier, and then glared at her. “What in Christ’s name are ye doing, Isobel? And what the devil do ye have under yer cloak?”

  “It’s a surprise,” she replied vaguely. “Where did ye come from? Ye scairt me.”

  He motioned to a side path she had been unaware of. “That path leads to the laird’s solar. I went to see Iain quickly to ensure there were no pressing matters that needed tending.”

  She tried not to let the fact that Graham had likely hoped pressing matters would pull him from her hurt her feelings, but she felt her heart tighten despite her best effort to be stoic. Pushing the pain aside, she slowly brought her sword out. “I’ve been learning how to defend myself and how to ride a horse properly,” she revealed. “I wanted to show ye.” She suddenly felt shy and very uncertain as Graham gaped at her for a long moment.

  “Why?” he finally asked.

  “Because I need ye to see that I am strong, nae weak. And because of that and because I am yer wife, I bring strength to ye, nae weakness.”

  He gave her a look of utter disbelief. “A Dia, Isobel.”

  “Please,” she rushed out, hearing the protest in his tone. “Just let me show ye.”

  He pressed his lips into a thin line and crossed his arms over his bare chest as if to argue, but nodded his submission.

  She let out a relieved sigh. “I’ll need ye to spar with me.”

  He frowned fiercely. “Nay.”

  “Please, Graham,” she said, backing away from him to lead him into the cover of the thick trees. She needed them to be alone when she showed him the breastplate. He watched her with hooded eyes but did not move to follow her. “All ye need do is bring yer sword at me,” she called. “Ye ken well how to draw back, but I will meet yer blows! I’m certain I’m able.”

  With a grunt, he advanced in several long strides, withdrew his sword, and struck at her. She did not even have the chance to lift her sword. The point of his swooped hers away, and her sword went flying into a pile of leaves with an unceremonious crunch upon landing. She gaped at it in dismay. “Ye deceived me!” she cried.

  “Aye,” he replied. “The first lesson of any great warrior is to ken yer opponent is likely not honorable. The second is to ken to expect the unexpected. Ye failed both lessons.”

  The implication that she was weak was not lost on her. She squared her shoulders and glared at him. “I’ve only just begun my lessons. I will nae forget what ye have taught me.” With that, she stomped toward her sword while planning her attack. She bent down deliberately so that her bottom was high in the air and wiggled it back and forth. The man may be acting cold, but she had not forgotten the consuming heat of his desire for her.

  She heard a low growl come from behind her and she smiled wickedly, wiggling her bottom even more. “This sword is much heavier than I recall,” she said in as innocent a voice as one being so wicked could muster.

  Wrapping her fingers tightly around the hilt, she gripped the sword and listened intently, preparing to move. When she was sure he was in striking distance, she swung the sword up and out toward him. His eyes widened, and in a blur his sword met hers, but she used a move Cameron taught her and swiveled her wrists to draw his sword lower. His sword dipped but did not drop as low as she had hoped before he brought it up hard, flicked her sword out of her hands once again, and brought the tip of his sword to her chest, which was heaving from effort.

  He gave her a baffled look even as his gaze locked hungrily where her cloak had parted just a bit. A thrill shot through her as he brought his eyes to hers. “I’m impressed,” he said slowly, and she did hear the true admiration in his voice. Triumph pumped through her veins until he said, “But a few sword lessons dunnae make ye strong, Isobel. Ye’ve much to learn.”

  She had been hoping very much that he would say that. “Aye,” she agreed quickly. “I do. Would ye teach me?”

  “Nay,” he said flatly. “I will defend ye always. Ye dunnae have a need to learn to fight with a sword.”

  “What if there comes a time ye’re nae with me and I’m attacked? Would ye nae feel awful if I was simply taken because I did nae ken how to defend myself?” It was a dirty ruse to name a situation that was much like the one she knew plagued him with guilt, but she was desperate to get him to agree to teach her. Once his vow was given, she knew he’d not break it, and it would ensure they spent time together.

  A frustrated look crossed his face, and she held her breath in anticipation. “I will teach ye,” he finally relented, and before she knew it, he was behind her with his arms around her waist. She tensed, fearing he would feel her breastplate, but his hands did not graze her chest. Instead, he took her hands in his and placed them on his sword, causing burning desire to tighten her loins and make her breasts feel heavy. Her back pressed into his chest as he positioned her hands, his on top of hers. The hard, rapid thudding of his heart beat like a drum against her back. He wanted her. He could disguise it in his eyes, his voice, and his mannerisms, but when they touched it was much harder to hide. It was when touching him that she felt the most certain she could reach him.

  “Ye hold yer sword too low,” he said in a gruff voice. His hot breath washed over her neck, and a moan escaped her. Instantly, she felt every inch of his body go rigid. “Hold yer sword higher,” he commanded and moved her hands where he wanted them. “Here”—he tapped her hands—“ye have more control.”

  She could hardly think past the need raging within her, but she nodded. “What else?” she asked, her voice raw with yearning.

  Several ragged breaths caressed her ears and then slowly, ever so slowly, his hand dipped low between the folds of her cloak and slid between her thighs. She whimpered as a low growl came from him. “Open yer thighs wider,” he said
, his words choppy, as if he could barely talk. “Yer stance is too narrow, which makes ye easy to throw off-balance.”

  “Like this?” she asked breathlessly and spread her legs wider. She cast a look over her shoulder, and their eyes locked. The unbridled hunger she saw in his gaze made her act. She turned in his arms, raised onto her tiptoes, and crushed her mouth to his. For a moment she feared he would not respond as he was standing perfectly still, but then he locked an arm around her back and pulled her tight against him.” He drew back giving her an odd look, and she suspected he felt the breastplate, so she kissed him fervently once more. He returned the kiss with a savage intensity that made her knees give. His sword clanked as it hit the ground, and then his other hand came to her neck and then cradled her head. He tilted her head back more and slanted his mouth over hers again and again. He tasted of smoke, mead, and desire. It was heavenly.

  His lips left her mouth to trace a fiery path to her neck and then lower to her collarbones. Her heart raced as she clung to him with one hand and drew her other hand up to his hair to twine her fingers in his thick locks. He brought his hand to her chest, stilled, and drew back.

  “What the devil are ye wearing, Isobel?” he demanded, tapping a finger against the breastplate she was wearing.

  She had planned so carefully how she would show him the breastplate, but as she stepped back from him and reached up to take off the cloak, her hands shook violently. His eyes widened as she let the gown fall into a puddle at her feet and stood in nothing but her léine and the breastplate. “It’s for ye,” she said, her voice trembling with her anxiousness.

  He moved his gaze slowly down the length of her body and then brought it back up to her chest. His jaw had clenched. “I dunnae wear a breastplate, Isobel.”

  “I ken that,” she replied, initiating the final part of her plan. She fumbled with the heavy breastplate, struggling to remove it by herself since Bridgette had helped her don it. She glanced at Graham to see if he looked willing to help. His hands were curled into fists by his side, but blowing out a long breath, he moved toward her and wordlessly removed the gift. He dropped the breastplate on the ground beside them and devoured her with his eyes. Gooseflesh raced across her body, and anticipation swirled deep in her belly.

  “I presume ye had Cameron create the piece?” he asked, not moving any part of his body but his gaze, which roamed slowly over her.

  Her heart beat heavily, and her pulse raced. She licked her lips and noted that he flinched and his nostrils flared, yet he did not move toward her. Ah, he was warring with himself not to yield to his desire. She had to get him to do so now, though, or she feared the wall he had built would be impenetrable.

  “I did,” she said. “I’ve blessed it.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “Ye blessed it?” he asked, surprise in his voice.

  “Aye.” She nodded slowly, glanced down at the breastplate, and said a silent prayer that it had been a good idea. She took a deep breath. “Aye. As thanks for a life I saved I was taught a naomh beannachd that had been gifted to someone by a fairy.”

  His eyes widened at that. “Who told ye this sacred blessing from a fairy?”

  “A father passing by the nunnery with his child,” she said, purposely answering evasively. She did not want to tell him of the Summer Walkers in case she had need to go to them. “He told me that I could only bestow the blessing through a gift once in my life to defend the person I love most so I must choose wisely. I have chosen ye. I have blessed this breastplate with the sacred oath, and when ye wear it, it will help to keep ye safe. It dunnae make ye invincible,” she warned, just as the Ceàrdannan had warned her.

  “A Dia, Isobel,” Graham murmured before moving toward her and sweeping her weightlessly into his arms. “Ye did nae choose wisely.” His lips pressed against her forehead, and he heaved out a sigh. “I am nae worthy.”

  “Ye are worthy to me. Ye defend me, and now I have done something to defend ye.” She took his hand in hers and placed it over her racing heart. “I have given to ye my body and my soul. Please, I beg of ye, give me the submission I desire.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Her plea cleaved his heart and battered the control he had worked hard to find in the week he had been gone. She had used the words he’d uttered to her against him, and he knew well the submission she desired was his heart. He also knew well that eventually she would cease asking for it. He just needed to stay strong. Until she could accept how it would be between them—how it must be—he could not join with her, though every part of his body burned to caress her, to hold her. He would deny himself because when he touched her, when they joined, he felt his very soul moved by her. Who could defend against that?

  He looked away from her. He did not want to see the hurt he was about to cause. He gently removed his hand from the beautiful body he wanted to worship. He heard her sharp intake of breath as he bent down and gathered her cloak in one hand and the heavy breastplate in the other. When he stood, he forced himself to meet her gaze. The pain he saw there cut him to the core, but he could not relent.

  He held the cloak out to her. “Ye must accept that what ye ask for kinnae be. The sooner ye acknowledge this truth in yer heart, the better it will be between us.”

  Fiery anger flashed in her eyes. She snatched her cloak from him and jerked it on. When she was done, she tossed her hair over her shoulders and glared at him. “By better do ye mean ye will join with me once more?”

  His mind leaped to the times he had held her in his arms. Her skin had burned with the heat of passion; her sweet breath had come out in short pants. Both memories were exquisite torture, but the most poignant memory was her curling so trustingly into his arms. He feared how she trusted him so completely. What if he failed her as he had failed his sister?

  “Aye,” he finally croaked, his chest feeling as if it contained too much emotion and would burst. “I will come to yer bed again after ye have accepted how we must be.”

  “Passionless?” she growled.

  “Nay,” he denied. “There will be passion. Always.”

  “As before?” Her words rang with challenge.

  He stared at her, knowing she knew it could not be.

  “Dunnae bother answering,” she snapped and then poked him in the chest. “Ye kinnae control everything in yer life, Graham.”

  “Ye are mistaken, Isobel. I can, and I will. This is the way it will be between us from now on. Ye are my wife, and ye will accept this.”

  “Ye believe I will accept ye pushing me away and erecting a wall between us simply because ye tell me to?” she yelled.

  His blood rushed with his own building anger. “Aye, I do. And ye will. Ye will accept what I tell ye and do as I say,” he rebutted in harsh tones. Then he grimaced. He had only just returned and his infuriating, beautiful wife had already managed to so rile him that he had failed to contain his emotions. He needed an outlet for all the frustration inside him. “I need to train,” he snapped. And here in the woods was as good a place as any. “Return to the castle,” he commanded, turning away and drawing up his sword to go through the moves he knew as well as breathing.

  She muttered behind him and then stomped around gathering her sword from the ground. The air swished as she swung onto the destrier, and then clopping filled the silence as she led the beast toward the castle. His shoulders sagged the moment the noise died. Holding himself back from Isobel was the hardest thing he had ever done, but he had done it. And he would do it again. But the next time she angered him, he would not lose control.

  Suddenly, the thunder of horses’ hooves filled the air, and Graham swung around just in time to see his willful wife, bent low over her destrier, charge past him in the opposite direction of the castle. His mouth dropped open, and disbelief kept him rooted to his spot. She sat up as her horse raced ahead through the trees. She glanced over her shoulder with a look of defiance and triumph, and then she turned back around and screamed.

  For the space of a bre
ath he thought it was in anger, but when she ducked a low-hanging branch, icy fear twisted around his heart. He glanced toward the ever-thickening woods she was still headed toward, and he roared a command for her to halt. When she did not heed him, he gave a shrill whistle to the horse he knew well. “Alante!” he roared, whistling twice more.

  The horse stopped so suddenly Graham feared Isobel would fly off the front of Alante and be trampled. She held on but barely. His heart beat a frenzied rhythm in his chest as he raced toward her and pulled her off the horse to set her hard on her feet. “Ye almost got yerself killed!” The swell of emotion that filled him made him shake with the effort to contain it.

  “If ye had nae stopped the horse, I would have managed it!” she thundered back.

  But he could see the doubt of her own words in her eyes. “Ye almost killed yerself disobeying me!” he growled. The truth of it slammed him in the chest. “Dunnae attempt to ride a horse again until I personally give ye lessons. And if ye ever disobey me again, mo nighean dubh, I will smack ye on the behind. This is a vow,” he added threateningly.

  Instead of looking fearful, his wife had the mettle to smile smugly, and he understood then that somehow she thought she had just won a battle between them. It was on the tip of his tongue to inform her she had not, but when he saw the trembling of her body, he clamped his mouth shut, helped her onto the horse, and swung up behind her.

  He drew her back into the protectiveness of his embrace as he battled the desire tightening his groin. He gritted his teeth and called upon the little will he had left not to worship her body as he yearned to. After halting to gather the breastplate, he rode them to the courtyard in silence and helped her off the horse. The distance between them could not have come sooner. He sagged with relief because he knew without a doubt that he would not be able to keep control the next time he so much as touched Isobel, which meant he could not even graze her hand until she had accepted how it had to be between them.