Highland Betrayal

by Markland, Anna

  Breathless, but still grinning, Hannah linked her arm in his. “Dance with me, husband,” she cajoled. “I know you can.”

  He quickly abandoned the tumbler and joined her.

  They danced, and laughed and sang and celebrated for more than two hours. He would look back on this gathering as one of the happiest times of his life. It was difficult to believe the jovial, boisterous men with whom they celebrated faced almost certain death once their trial was over and sentence pronounced.

  He doubted Murtagh would have time to polish his whisky.

  NO MORE SECRETS

  Grinning like a man possessed, Morgan carried Hannah up four flights of stairs as if she weighed nothing at all. He’d been jovial with their guests during the afternoon banquet, and completely relaxed at the ceilidh. It was comforting that her uncle liked him and approved of the marriage. She tried not to think it might be the last time she ever saw Glenheath.

  Clinging to her husband’s neck, she twirled a finger in the ribbon of the queue at his nape. “Trust us to get married in a town with such tall buildings,” she teased, suddenly at a loss for words to express the love in her heart.

  “True,” he replied, not even out of breath as he bent his knees to reach the handle of an elaborately carved white door. “I suppose if there’s no land to construct houses because of the marshes, folk build upwards.”

  He paused before opening the door. “It’s a comfortable room, Hannah, fit for a wedding night, but I’ll find us a home of our own.”

  She kissed his cheek. “You are my home, Morgan,” she whispered. “I’ve slept on shelves, remember?”

  He laughed. “Never again, I promise.”

  He carried her into the chamber and set her down. The black ribbon at his nape had loosened during the dancing. She pulled it free as she put her hands on his shoulders. “I’ve wanted to do that for hours,” she confessed as golden hair framed his face.

  They stood breast to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. She wrapped her arms around his waist, content to press her body to his warmth, his solid maleness. He touched one of the elaborate curls that had fallen to her forehead. “I have an idea of your torment. I don’t want to ruin this lovely creation.”

  She shrugged. “The minister kept scowling. I don’t think he approved.”

  “It’s of no importance. I love it, but…”

  He bent his head and kissed her on the lips, threading his fingers through the ribbons and curls. “Silky,” he murmured when she opened her mouth to welcome his tongue.

  She closed her eyes and tasted whisky. He licked her teeth, slowly, deliberately as if trying to memorize each one, growling when she responded to a need she couldn’t name and sucked him deeper. His growl spiralled into her womb. He tightened his hold on her as if trying to meld them together. Their tongues mated, then he sucked hers into his mouth.

  Climbing the stairs hadn’t winded him, but now his breathing became labored, his skin heated as they feasted on each other, panted as one.

  He cupped her bottom and lifted her to his arousal. Heat soared through her body. “I want you,” she whispered when they eased apart.

  He rested his forehead against hers and swallowed hard. “I want to undress you, but I don’t know where to begin.”

  She knew he was a widower, but he’d told her nothing of his dead wife. Now she had an inkling of their relationship. He’d never undressed Blodwen. She loved him all the more for his simple honesty. “I’ll help,” she murmured.

  She clung to him as he walked her slowly backwards until her legs touched the mattress. Unsure of his intentions, she frowned when he reached down for something behind her. “I love your gown, but I want you to wear this.”

  He let go and stepped back. Deprived of his support, she had no choice but to sit down on the bed. Tears welled in her eyes when she realized what he held in his hands. “You kept it?”

  He lifted her old shawl to his nose, and inhaled. “The scent of you gave me the courage to go on.”

  It had taken hours for Sorcha’s maids to dress Hannah in her wedding finery, but she and Morgan had the gown, underskirt, stays, hose and chemise off in five minutes. The ribbons from her hair lay on the floor and she blew dishevelled curls off her face.

  “Your elegant coiffure is ruined,” he teased.

  “And I don’t care a whit,” she replied truthfully, standing before him naked and breathless; he raked his gaze over her, then reached round her body for the shawl. He brought the ends to the front and knotted them gently over her breasts before putting his warm hands on her hips. “The first time, at the inn, the moment I lifted the sheet and saw you like this, I knew I was falling in love with you,” he said softly. “You wanted me enough to come to my room, but you did what you could to protect your modesty.”

  A lustful glint gleamed in his eyes. He reached for the knot and eased it apart. “But enough with the shawl. I want to explore what’s beneath it.”

  The plaid slid to the carpeted floor. Morgan’s obvious need of her made her bold. She cupped her breasts and lifted them in offering. “Make me woman,” she whispered.

  He licked his lips. “You’re already a woman, Hannah. Tonight I’ll make you my woman.”

  Her breasts tingled and seemed to swell. He gathered her into his arms and swirled his tongue over a nipple, then sucked it into his mouth.

  Though they’d pleasured each other in Stonehyve, Hannah had been nervous about her wedding night. They were no longer an enemy soldier and a royalist spy. They were Morgan and Hannah Pendray. She was a wife, but had no knowledge of how to please a man and make him happy.

  Her doubts and fears fled as Morgan fed his need at her breast. The sensation of fulfillment, of power, of wanting soared beyond anything she’d ever felt before. She was a siren, a wanton, a woman who could stir passion in a man. She swayed when he stepped back and began to unfasten his uniform jacket.

  Her breasts preened under the heat of his intense gaze. “Squeeze your nipples,” he rasped.

  She should have been shocked, but eagerly did as he bade, groaning aloud as exquisite desire rocked her. Warm wetness pooled where a tremor licked at an intimate place. His husky voice echoed in her head and heart.

  She closed her eyes, basking in the glow of the sensations, but then snapped them open. Morgan was undressing. She’d planned to do that—but she was too late to do anything except peel off the glove from his hand. He stood before her, the magnificent well-muscled and well-endowed male she remembered from their tryst at the inn. She squeezed her nipples again and narrowed her gaze at him. “You belong to me, now, Morgan Pendray.”

  “Forever,” he replied as he swept her off her feet and they tumbled onto the bed.

  ~~~

  Morgan had hoped and even prayed that passion burned in the heart of a woman who would risk her life for her country. He’d seen a glimpse of it in Stonehyve. Now his male urges threatened to run rampant as the full measure of Hannah’s lust for him was revealed. It gave him courage to command she squeeze her nipples, and she’d obeyed eagerly.

  He suckled her like a starving child, drawing the nipple of one breast into his mouth, then the other. She moaned, she writhed, she arched her back and called his name. He’d never played a musical instrument in his life, but he was playing one now, and the symphony of her cries of ecstasy was music to his ears.

  He traced his tongue over the delicious curves of her breasts and down the smooth silk of her belly. She let out a little cry when he kissed her navel, then went perfectly still when his nose nuzzled the dark curls at her mons. “Do you remember?” he teased.

  She whimpered.

  “Do you want me to do it again?”

  “Aye,” she replied hoarsely.

  He chuckled. “Ah, there’s Hannah, my little peasant wench.”

  The flush across her lovely breasts deepened. “Ye hafta admit I had ye fooled.”

  “Not for a minute,” he replied, before his brain caught up to his mouth.
<
br />   She stilled. “When did you know?”

  The urge to let his tongue wander to forbidden places and do his explaining for him was powerful, but he owed her the truth. “I knew almost from the moment I saw you climbing up from the beach you weren’t what you pretended to be. My heart told me.”

  She rose up on her elbows and studied her feet, much to the chagrin of his rock-hard tarse. It wanted to be the center of attention.

  She sat up and eased away from him. “But you didn’t betray me,” she whispered.

  His reasons for keeping silent about his suspicions were too complicated even for him to fully understand. He sat cross-legged facing her and gripped his cock in his injured hand. “We have this bodily need for each other. Don’t deny it. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Aye,” she admitted, settling to sit cross-legged facing him.

  “But it’s not enough,” he said reluctantly, his gaze fixed on the place he most wanted to touch and taste and plunder. “If we’re to be happy, to trust one another, there cannot be secrets between us.”

  She touched a fingertip to the newly-healed flesh on his hand. “Secrets?”

  He took a chance that she trusted in his love. “I know about the regalia.”

  The color drained from her face. “Do ye ken where it is?”

  His heart rejoiced. She hadn’t denied it, hadn’t asked if he’d told anyone else. “Nay,” he replied with a smile, “and that’s one secret you can keep to yourself.”

  She nodded slowly. The urge to lunge across the bed and hold her was powerful, but he forced himself to be patient and allow her make the first move. She was mayhap unaware of the flower blossoming with desire between her legs. His cock throbbed in the same pulsating rhythm.

  He shuddered with relief when she leaned forward, put a warm hand on his thigh and sucked his blighted finger. Then she licked the tip of his tarse. He put his trembling hands on her shoulders and eased her away. “Much as I love that, there’s something I want more.”

  ~~~

  It was a miracle. The one man who could have reported her presence on the beach at Dùn Fhoithear had fallen in love with her. And she with him. But the litany of thanks bubbling in Hannah’s head was forgotten when Morgan put his mouth on her woman’s place.

  She couldn’t speak as exquisite warmth crept up her thighs and flooded her womb with an aching need. She tossed about on wave after wave of intense delight as Morgan’s tongue explored her inner folds. He licked the nub that had brought pleasure before and she screamed. When he sucked it, she keened her need, “Please, please,” she begged.

  He responded to her pleas by sliding a finger inside while his tongue still lapped. A yearning grew and grew, her body thrummed with desire.

  “More?” he rasped, moving his finger in and out, in and out.

  Her sheathe gripped him in reply when another finger joined the first.

  “You are so beautiful,” he told her. The moment he removed his mouth, she felt the sweet touch of the finger sacrificed for her, and it bore her up on wings of ecstasy.

  She soared, soared, soared, crying out for him to join her in the euphoric glow.

  Sorcha had warned her to expect pain, but there was none as Morgan united their bodies. She rode the heavens with him as he thrust and retreated, thrust again. She wrapped her legs around his hips and welcomed his seed as it erupted deep inside.

  Drifting back slowly to earth, she sensed the sated tremor in his arms. He was straining to keep from collapsing onto her. Clenching her inner muscles, she lay flat and put her hands on his waist. “I can take your weight.”

  Still gulping air, he lowered himself. “I want to be inside you forever,” he growled against her neck. His husky promise echoed in her womb.

  She embraced him, tracing her fingertips in the sheen on his broad back, relishing his weight, the press of his heated body, the fading pulses of his manhood inside her.

  A breathtaking optimism for the future filled her with courage to face the difficulties that still lay ahead. Everything that had happened in her life had been preparation for this moment. She’d been born to love Morgan Pendray.

  TRIAL

  Hannah paced the confines of the chamber she and Morgan had occupied since their wedding two months before. Given her husband’s involvement with Glenheath’s trial and her own nervous dread about the verdict, they’d postponed searching for a home of their own.

  She didn’t mind the airy chamber, especially with the few extra pieces of furniture and two tapestries Hiram and Sorcha had passed on, but with Morgan gone most of the day, the hours seemed to crawl by. She’d never like sewing and soon lost interest in the embroidery projects Sorcha sent.

  Despite Abbott's surprisingly conciliatory policies, there was lingering resentment at English rule in certain quarters, especially as Glenheath’s incarceration dragged on. Unrest boiled over now and again in the streets. Venturing abroad for solitary walks was out of the question.

  She requested but was denied permission to visit her uncle. It didn’t bode well.

  She looked forward eagerly to Morgan’s return each evening. They suffered through dinner with Abbott and other officers who resided in the enormous house then retired as soon as they politely could to share intimacies.

  Morgan walked a fine line and long uncomfortable silences indicated the stress was taking a toll. Glenheath was his uncle-by-marriage, but Abbott still insisted he compile the evidence and prepare the final report for the judges. She sensed his restlessness. He was a man of action who preferred to be out in the field rather than cooped up in Abbott's offices. The Governor professed to trust him and yet he was excluded from certain clandestine meetings.

  She chafed at the exhaustion etched on his face when he came home early one afternoon. “Is something wrong?” she asked. “You look done in.”

  “The report is done and delivered to the Governor,” he replied, collapsing onto the bed with his long legs dangling over the edge. “Can I get you to pull off my boots? I’m too tired to summon Smythe from the servants’ quarters.”

  She turned her back and straddled his leg, heaving on the heel of one boot. He put his foot on her backside. “Nice bottom,” he said with a yawn.

  She pulled off the boot and set about tackling the second, hesitant to broach a subject she knew she couldn’t avoid for long. “I’m getting fat sitting around here all day.”

  He smoothed a stockinged foot over her hip. “Maybe a little broader in the beam.”

  Indignant, she whirled around. “Are you saying I am fat?”

  He chuckled and winked. “I’m teasing you.” He patted the mattress. “Come, sit by me and give me a kiss. I’ll still love you even if you put on weight. When Blodwen was increasing…”

  The color drained from his face as he sat up abruptly. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I didn’t mean to mention her. It just slipped out.”

  The news his dead wife had been pregnant came as a shock. The awful reality of what must have happened stole the breath from her lungs. She sifted her fingers through his silky hair. “I am not offended, but I didn’t know she’d given birth to a bairn.”

  He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, staring at the carpet. “She died in childbirth. The babe…”

  She held him in her embrace when he pinched the bridge of his nose, unable to continue. “Hush,” she crooned, deciding this wasn’t the moment to tell him she thought she might be with child.

  ~~~

  “I’ve ceased my daily visits to Glenheath’s cell,” Morgan finally admitted to his wife, though he hadn’t been to see the earl for a sennight.

  She threw aside a sampler she’d been working on. “I hate sewing,” she declared with exasperation. “I know you’re frustrated, but…”

  “Frustrated is putting it mildly.” He paced, raking the hair back from his face. “It has been three sennights since I delivered the findings to Abbott, yet I’ve heard nothing. Facing the earl every day with no news to offer b
ecame intolerable. I don’t even know the identity of the men Abbott has appointed as judges.”

  She came to stand in front of him and halted his pacing. “I know you’d rather be out with your cannon and crew…”

  He exhaled slowly. “It’s true I miss the lads. They were a good bunch. I wonder how they’re faring?”

  “Smythe had a letter from Syddall today. I told him he could show it to you after dinner.”

  He arched a brow. “Really? Didn’t know the youth could write.”

  “They’re doing well, but they miss you too. They find Inverness cold and aren’t happy with Captain Jenkinson.”

  He laughed. “I’m not surprised. Pompous ass.”

  It felt good to laugh. He scooped her up and sat down in the chair she’d vacated. “You can always make me smile, my lovely Hannah,” he whispered, nibbling her ear.

  She returned his smile, but he sensed it was forced. A feeling he’d had for a week or two resurfaced. There was something on her mind. She was holding back; or mayhap she was simply on edge over her uncle’s fate.

  “Do you think Abbott is delaying the appointment of judges for some reason?” she asked.

  He shared his suspicions. “I don’t believe there will be a panel. Oliver Cromwell will render the verdict and decide on the punishment. That’s what Abbott is waiting for.”

  She stiffened in his arms. “They’re doomed then.”

  VERDICT

  Morgan admitted to scant knowledge of Scottish history, so Hannah had deemed it her duty to recount the often bloody events that had taken place in Edinburgh Castle. He enjoyed listening to the stories, heartened by the pride in her voice.

  “There was the infamous Black Dinner,” she’d told him. “King James II invited the Earl Douglas and his younger brother to dine in King David’s Tower, only to have them dragged out and executed immediately afterwards.”

  “Why?”

  “They say the king was just a young lad under the influence of his advisors who wanted to curb the power of the Douglases.”