Highland Hunger Bundle with Yours for Eternity & Highland Beast

by Hannah Howell

  “Another bouquet. How odd.”

  Tira looked over at Ophelia, fussing at the enormous flower arrangement that was Iain’s excuse for not attending to anything he’d agreed. Her sister’s sarcasm wasn’t disguised. And it hurt. Somewhere beneath the bodice of her high-necked day gown, where Tira would never admit.

  “Well . . . he is a lot of man. Almost more than a woman should be required to handle.”

  “Is there a note with them?” Tira ignored Aunt Adelaide’s pointed words. Nothing could be gained by defending the duke. And she didn’t want yet another discourse on his manly attributes. Especially not from a woman old enough to be his mother.

  “You expect one?”

  “Just checking,” Tira replied without one inflection that could be labeled hope. She given it up and would be mortified if it still showed. Unlike the first three days when every arrival at the front door had started her heart to thumping and her palms to going damp.

  “More gifts and messages for Miss Tira.”

  “Nothing else?”

  It was Ophelia speaking for her. The footman shook his head as he entered, bearing another huge bouquet. He was followed by two more men laden with more presents and congratulatory notes, and invitations she wouldn’t accept. Not without the duke at her side. The news had engendered the exact scrutiny she’d worried over, and worse. Every woman who called had a veiled remark or two about her dowry and how much the Scot duke must need it. Tira didn’t answer any of their barbs. She just listened and hoped. She still didn’t know why he’d wanted her. And why, once gaining her, he’d disappeared.

  “He should at least send explanation. That way I wouldn’t be at a loss when everyone asks where he is,” Ophelia said.

  “You needn’t answer,” Aunt Adelaide answered.

  “What? And appear rude? The next thing you’ll offer is that I stay home, avoiding anything to do with society. Like Tira.”

  “Tira isn’t avoiding. She’s busy.”

  Aunt Adelaide was wrong. Tira was definitely avoiding. She accepted the batch of envelopes from the salver with grace and practiced the same skill on the other Coxton-Coombs ladies.

  “She’s leaving me with all the unpleasantness. And doubt. Over the authenticity of the announcement. Why if I hadn’t witnessed it, I’d be questioning it as well. . . .”

  There were more spite-filled and jealous-laden words. Tira shut them out. One of the envelopes had large bold writing on it. With ink-laden swirls showing a heavy hand with a quill. She knew it immediately. Her heart stuttered into a faster rhythm as she tore the seal and then gasped.

  “What is it? Is it the duke?”

  Tira nodded.

  “What does it say?”

  “He’ll be here. Promptly at nine. As escort. To the Devonshire ball.” She didn’t tell them of the last line. It was enough it burned her eyes.

  “Oh my. What shall I wear?” Ophelia’s voice warmed. “Everyone will be looking. It will be so exciting.”

  “They won’t be looking at you, my dear,” Aunt Adelaide answered in a tight voice.

  “Look to your own laurels, dear aunt. And allow me mine.”

  “It’s rumored he has a large appetite for the ladies. It’s a family trait. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “I hope Tira knows what she’s getting into with that man.”

  “You only wish it was you.”

  “Of course I do. And it should be me. What man wants an old spinster?” Ophelia smiled sweetly.

  “MacAvee. Obviously. Or he’d have asked for a little girl,” Aunt Adelaide parried with her own smile.

  “The next thing you’ll aver is that he’s fond of old widows.”

  Tira stood, settled her skirts about her, and left them. She didn’t care what caustic taunts they tossed. As if the duke was a prize to be fought over and available for such a thing. Tira held the note to her bodice as she climbed the stairs. He wasn’t available to any other woman. She didn’t care what the rumors were. He was hers. And soon would be. His last line promised it.

  “I should replace the lot of you. The moment we reach Loch Nyven’s shore.”

  “We’re your Honor Guard, Iain. Sworn to it.”

  “And subject to replacement. At my whim. Without recourse.”

  “There’s none to best us, Your Grace. We won every challenge.”

  “In contests of strength. Endurance. Loyalty. But na’ one of you has the cunning to see me fitted correctly. Just look.”

  “Get the duke another neckcloth.”

  “ ’Tis na’ the cravat thing concerning me, Grant.” Iain pulled at the crotch of his superfine wool trousers, concerned as it pulled where it shouldn’t.

  “You should don pantaloons first. As specified.”

  “There’s na’ enough room. Look at me. What lass wishes to see this?”

  “All of them, most like.”

  Iain speared Grant’s twin with a glare that usually got results. But something had changed since meeting the lass, Tira. His men acted differently around him: easier, relaxed, high-spirited.

  Odd. . .

  “You’ve been tupping the wrong wenches again, Lenn.”

  The man’s grin widened at Grant’s teasing. They were teasing? Around him? Then, Ulrich spoke up.

  “ ’Tis correct attire, Your Grace. Truly.”

  “Encasing a man’s legs? Outlining things? Nae wonder we wear the kilt. I doona’ even have my sporran.”

  “There’s none to match you, my laird. And after this appearance, there’ll be nae one questioning it, either.”

  “He’s right. We’ll have more issue keeping the lasses from you. But we’ll try. And I’ve first call.”

  That was Rory. Snickering. As if he had the right. Iain regarded him for long moments. The glee didn’t fade, and the man still grinned. Like a fool.

  “If this is a Sassenach’s proper attire, they’ve changed. Markedly,” Iain remarked finally.

  “ ’Tis na’ that bad.”

  “Only if he stands in one spot and doesna’ move.”

  “ ’Tis exact to specification. Even Brummell would approve it.”

  “Who?”

  “Beau Brummell. Arbiter of men’s fashions. As followed by the Prince Regent. During my grandsire’s time. At least this is what I’ve read.”

  “Someone should keep Ulrich from the history tomes.”

  “And me from appearing near naked,” Iain added. He couldn’t even believe it. He was teasing. For a moment nothing came in the room except stunned silence. And then some chuckles.

  “Your Grace has us there. I’ve nae doubt you’ll send lasses into a faint and gents to their dueling swords.”

  “They doona’ allow dueling swords in their ballrooms, Lenn. Take it back or His Grace will be for strapping on his blade, Empirical.”

  “And just how would he use it? The slightest move might create scandal.”

  “Perhaps we can cancel?”

  “Word’s been sent! She has a promise of escort. This eve.”

  Iain listened to their banter, coming in rapid fashion, without thought to retribution. Consequences. As if he were normal and such a thing as a man’s prowess could be joshed over among men. He shook his head to stop the thoughts plaguing him. And Grant spoke up with an apologetic tone.

  “Your Grace?”

  Iain sucked on both cheeks, earning a prick on them. Then he released the expression. “You’re dense louts. The lot of you. And na’ one of you has a grasp of measure. This is the best you offer? After four trips to three differing tailors?”

  “We dinna’ have full measure, Your Grace.”

  “Light excuse.”

  “You could’ve warned us.”

  “Or accompanied us.”

  “Daylight drains me. I canna’ rise unless ’tis dark or rain filled. You all ken this.”

  “His Grace is right. We’ve had naught save sun. For three days.”

  “You still should’ve warned us of your . .
. uh . . . size.”

  Iain looked them over, one at a time. His men were attired in burgundy-shaded cutaway coats, MacAvee plaid vests, gray trousers, and each one sported an intricately tied cravat at his neck. They looked gentlemanly. Stylish. Proper. Exactly as he was to have appeared.

  It was too late to change. Too late to regret the nights spent assuaging craving, trying to kill frustration that came from waiting, wanting, lusting, hungering. He’d been feeding when he should’ve been fitted. Tailors could be bribed. Then he wouldn’t have to worry. One stretch of his arms would split a seam somewhere. He already knew. They’d heard the rip. His shirt was the lone thing sewn large through the middle. As if a man of his dimensions sported a belly to accompany it. And his trousers fit without one bit of room to accommodate him. It was enough to make him pitch the entire ensemble into the fireplace, don his feile-breacan, and disclaim all knowledge of the niceties of English society. Except he’d promised her.

  “It is na’ that bad, Iain. Truly. Look for yourself.”

  Grant gestured to a mirror and then his arm fell. They all looked uncomfortable. Iain waited, watching. He’d never worried over a reflection until now. Because it had never mattered.

  “Call the coach, Rory.”

  “And bring along some smelling salts. For the ladies.”

  “Lennox Geoffrey MacGorrick.”

  The man grinned at Iain’s tone. “In the event you forget and move too quickly. Or something of a like nature.”

  He was late. That didn’t mean he wasn’t coming, but it didn’t portend he was, either. Tira sat on the edge of a damask-covered settee in the salon and practiced at ignoring every tick from the clock and how her sister and aunt preened, argued, paced, checked ceaselessly in the large, ornately framed mirror. Paced again. As if they were the woman the Duke of MacAvee had betrothed and promised to escort.

  They’d taken care with their appearance. Few would miss their appearance at the ball. Not with the scarlet gown Aunt Adelaide had donned, the color contrasting vividly with her ash-blond hair. It was theatrical and meant to be. Ophelia wasn’t going unnoticed, even in a gown of ecru-shaded silk that proclaimed her debutante status. She’d had the neckline lowered and wore a peacock blue sash just beneath her breasts, the entire effect making certain none could miss her décolletage. She probably shouldn’t have crimped her blond locks into little ringlets all about her head. It might be the style, but it didn’t suit her.

  Or so Tira thought. She’d ignored the hairstylist’s advice tonight and foresworn crimping and curling, opting for one long braid wrapped about the crown of her head and falling down her back. She’d had her best gown pressed and fingered the rose-onrose–colored embroidery on the skirt. She probably wouldn’t show well against the other Coxton-Coombs ladies, but she didn’t have to. It was obvious they were in competition, and just as obvious for what prize.

  “His Grace, the Duke of MacAvee, and—”

  There was more said, and at the same tone, but Tira didn’t hear it. On the heels of the door opening was Iain, looking a perfect gentleman. And more. He looked a perfect, stunning, jawdropping gentleman. And that’s exactly what happened to hers.

  Chapter Six

  Time stalled, encased in candlelit wonder. Tira didn’t hear his approach. She only knew one moment she was standing while he entered, and the next he was right before her, his eyes holding hers, while every heightened gasp she made seemed to reverberate through him. He had his head tipped down, lashes shadowing the curve of his cheek, and then he smiled, revealing a flash of pearl white.

  Tira’s body pulsed, lunging into the space between them in a barely perceptible move that startled her. And then it looked to move through him, even as he reached for a numb hand and took it to his lips.

  “Leannan.”

  Candles from the chandelier glinted on shiny black strands of hair he’d pulled into a neat queue that looped over the white material about his neck. Now that she saw him dressed as fashion dictated, she realized the truth. He wasn’t handsome in the accepted way. He was more. He was absolute masculine beauty, framed incorrectly. MacAvee’s brawn and strength wasn’t encased in velvet and muslin and satin; it was barely restrained. He should be free of encumbrance, attired as his nature hinted, in a kilt, sleeveless shirt, doublet, sporran, a plaid.

  And then she heard a rip.

  Iain lifted his head, sending a whispered curse into the air before he swiveled, looking himself over for damage. Tira barely kept the amusement from sounding. That was the expression on her face when he stopped, moved his gaze back, and sent a solid thump of a heartbeat all the way through her.

  “What does that mean? That name you call me? Leannan? ”

  She didn’t think he’d answer for a spell as his cheeks pulled in and he avoided meeting her eyes. And then he looked to have decided something, for his chest enlarged and he sent the sigh of air into the space between them. He met her look again, and that sent a whoosh of sound so strong through her ears that she had to guess at his words.

  “ ’Tis Gaelic.”

  “And the . . . meaning?”

  “ ’Tis an endearment. Of sorts.”

  “Sorts?”

  “Pester me with this after our wedding, lass. And the consummation that will follow. Immediately thereafter.”

  Tira swallowed, controlled her eye width with force of will, and regarded him. “You don’t know me well enough for such a comment.”

  “I doona’ need to.”

  “Well, I certainly do. This is what the acquaintance time was to remedy. The acquaintance time you failed to provide.”

  “Forgive me, lass. I could na’ attend to you as required. Because of what else you required.”

  “You make little sense, Your Grace.”

  “Iain. Always. Iain. We’ll be wed within hours, lass.”

  “I have another day.”

  “Oh nae. You have three hours. And na’ one moment more. Exactly as you bargained.”

  “But you failed your part.”

  “I’m here. Escorting you. In Sassenach frippery.”

  “Three days overdue.”

  “ ’Twas na’ possible sooner. There’s a dearth of tailors in this town that can fit a man proper.”

  “You look proper enough.” And more. Stunning. She finished it in her thoughts.

  “After three days of trying. You little ken what dragons were slain in order to accede your wishes.”

  “Dragons?”

  “ ’Tis a metaphor. For the curse of trousers. And the poor lads forced to wear them.”

  Tira glanced down. Her thoughts stalled. Her eyes went wide, then her mouth. And then she blushed. Severely. She moved her view to the wallpaper-covered wall over his left shoulder.

  “And this is the best fit. English tailors are an untalented lot, or a Sassenach is nae match for a Scotsman. You tell me.”

  “You could have worn your kilt thing.”

  He sighed. She felt it. “I’m here now, lass. And you’ve three hours. ’Twould be a powerful shame to spend the time with words of dissent.”

  “That would be a cheat, Iain MacAvee.”

  He didn’t answer for so long she had to look at why. He was regarding her with a set jaw and an aura of danger about him that frightened and yet thrilled, causing goose bumps to ripple over her arms.

  “Were you a man, I’d have your throat.”

  Tira gulped. “I need . . . another day.”

  “Give me one fair reason.”

  “We could have vast differences. Our union could be doomed from the start.”

  “You’re the woman fated for me.”

  “I don’t believe in fate.”

  “You doona’ believe in destiny?”

  “The only thing I believe is the ability to reason. That and solve problems. This is what I believe. The future is not fated. It’s open. Changeable. Adaptable.”

  “I swear it to you, lass. We’ve been fated. From birth. Perhaps farther back than that
. You’re my mate. Soul to soul and flesh to flesh. Or we verra soon will be. Did you na’ read my note?”

  He was trying to shock her. Tira moved her attention to the room behind him for several heart-calming moments, watching Ophelia and Aunt Adelaide and his men . . . then the three manservants posed in Coombs family uniforms, ready to serve refreshments. They were in the act of chatting. Smiling. All of it in the same room, yet nothing penetrating through to where the duke stood, taking her focus into some fantasy realm. She shook her head and met his gaze without blinking.

  “How are you doing that?” she asked.

  “What, lass?”

  He smiled, his lips gapping slightly to allow tips of teeth to show: wicked-looking, sharp teeth. Tira moved her glance from there to his eyes and kept them there. She couldn’t control anything.

  “It feels like we’re alone. Encased. While surrounded by others.”

  “How do you ken ’tis me?”

  “The same thing happened at the dress shop, didn’t it?”

  “Pester me with this as well. Once we’ve wed. And have consummated our union.”

  He wasn’t answering her questions. None of them. Tira tried another tack. “How old are you, Iain?”

  His smile disappeared. He drew straight. “Auld. Verra.”

  “Give me a number. In years.”

  He moved his eyes from hers, brought them back. Looked away again. “Twenty-five at last count,” he finally told the wall behind her.

  “That is not very old.”

  “To some.” He shrugged, there was another ripping sound, and he did another check of his clothing before returning his attention back to her.

  “Why do you want . . . me?” Tira pulled in a breath and asked it.

  “Ah, leannan. I doona’ fully ken why. All I ken is the fates have delivered on a promise. When I least expected it. Within this small hand lies my happiness.”

  He encased her hand in both of his as he spoke, rubbing his thumbs along her skin without thought. Or if he gave it thought it didn’t show, although the vibration he put in play should be entirely noticeable, perceived, detected.

  “Can you na’ feel it as well?”

  She was feeling plenty. Starting with a shiver of emotion making him blur and ending with a deep thump of pulse from where her heart felt like it had fallen. Surprisingly, she still stood. Her legs hadn’t one halfpence of strength, but they still held her, upright and spellbound.