A Naughty Little Christmas (Cowboys, Cops, and Kilts: 8 Seasonally Seductive Romances from Bestselling Authors)

by Randi Alexander

  His hands moved up until they wrapped around her waist, drawing her away from the wall and against his chest. Still, he did not look at her. His harsh breaths resonated around her, the only sound in the room.

  Her intuition blazed, and Aileen knew with certainty that this was not the behavior of a man who’d been well-pleasured by a whore last night. He might have been with a woman, but he hadn’t bedded her.

  Opening her palms, she stroked the welts on his shoulders. Slick blood covered her fingers.

  “Thank you, mo chridhe,” Niall whispered.

  “Why’re you thanking me? I thought you…you…”

  “I didna.”

  She pressed her forehead against the front of his shoulder, all the pent-up anger and jealousy releasing from her in a flood. “I know.”

  “I only want you, Aileen. No other woman. I…needed you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I hurt you.”

  A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Nay.”

  Finally he pulled away. Through blurry eyes, she gazed up at him. His look was tender.

  “The laird…” He shook his head slightly, and she read the pain in his blue eyes as clear as if it had been a word written in a book.

  Her heart shattered.

  Her brother had said no.

  Chapter Ten

  “Ah, there’s my bonny sister.” John took Aileen’s hands in his own and squeezed. He looked older than when she had last seen him. Gray streaks ran through his hair, crinkles fanned from the corners of his eyes, and deep creases lined the edges of his lips. “It’s been a long time.”

  She nodded. “Two years.”

  John chuckled and released her hands. She gazed at him as she took a step back from his chair. His appetite for enormously expensive clothing hadn’t changed, but the English influence was more present than it had been the last time she’d seen him. He wore a gilt-trimmed jacket and matching breeches with tall boots of the finest quality leather. His shirt was made of linen and trimmed with lace. His cloak lay over the back of his chair—wool lined with ermine.

  Yet despite the garish and somewhat feminine attire, something about him seemed gentler than when she’d last seen him. More thoughtful. She hoped this was a good sign.

  “I havena much time,” he said. “As you’ve likely heard, we’re sending Margaret to her betrothed tomorrow.”

  “Aye, brother.”

  “I did wish to let you know, however, that I’ve chosen the next man you’ll marry.”

  Though she knew she shouldn’t be surprised, she was. Something deep inside her clenched hard, and nausea swelled.

  She swiped her tongue over her dry lips before she spoke. “John, I’ve come to beg your indulgence.”

  His blue eyes narrowed, and the shrewd, hawkish look she remembered so well swept across his face. “Have you, now?”

  “I’ve done my duty—I married a man of your choosing—an evil man—when I was but fifteen years old. Please, I beg you, give me some say in my next husband.”

  His expression softened, but he shook his head in denial. “Nay, Aileen, that canna be. Walter Munro wasn’t so bad. He was old and weak.”

  Aileen stiffened her spine. How utterly stupid her brother could be! In an effort to hide the jumble of her thoughts, she dropped her gaze to the carpet. “My husband isna two months in the grave. Please let us refrain from discussing him.”

  “Aye.” John leaned back in his chair, resting one forearm negligently on the carved armrest. “Who, then?”

  “The man I have in mind—the man I wish to marry—is kind, generous, and honorable. He has served you faithfully for many years. I’ve watched him with his men, and he inspires harmony and loyalty among them. They’d do anything for him.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He doesna possess a great deal in the way of land or riches, but I can compensate you for your loss. I would offer all the holdings from my mother besides those of Dornoch—”

  “Who, Aileen?”

  Terrified of her brother’s reaction, she choked out the words. “Niall MacRae.”

  The laird’s lips twitched. “Oh, is that so?”

  “Aye, ’tis so. I know you have already received him. I know he doesna have much to offer, but I offer you my lands. Surely that’s enough—”

  “No.”

  “Please—”

  “I said no.” The laird’s voice was almost gentle. “I’m sorry, but I canna grant your fancy based on infatuation.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Not infatuation, brother. We’ve known each other for many years.” The lashing certainty in her voice snapped through the hall like a whip. “I love him. And he loves me.”

  “It would please me to grant your wish,” John said on a sigh. “But unfortunately, our clan canna survive on your shortsighted concept of love.”

  “You love your wife,” Aileen said stubbornly. Despite his whores, John was, by all accounts, besotted with his new young wife. Castle gossip did have some value, she supposed.

  “Fortunately, my desires and the clan’s needs coincided on that matter. But in this, they do not. The clan would gain nothing from aligning you with MacRae.”

  “You would gain thousands of acres!” she exclaimed.

  “Not enough.”

  In one last, desperate attempt, she offered the one thing that, until now, had always been most important to her—her home. “Dornoch, then. I offer you Dornoch as well.”

  It hurt her to say those words. But not as much as being separated from Niall forever would hurt.

  The laird’s face softened even more. He knew how much she cared about Dornoch. “’Tis too late. I have already signed the documents. I’ve betrothed you to Gilbert Dunbar.”

  Oh God. Black spots swam in front of her eyes. She struggled to remain standing, to keep from sinking into a helpless, suppliant puddle on the floor.

  The laird waved his hand at the door, and Gilbert himself sauntered in, clapping his hands, a subtle sneer turning the corners of his thin lips. “Bravo, Lady Aileen. What a display of affection. One can only hope that you will one day champion me so passionately.”

  With swimming vision, she stared at his cruel face. Dark, cold eyes, a long, straight nose, and a neatly trimmed beard. Some might consider Gilbert handsome, but he made her skin crawl. She knew the truth. He was despicable. Evil. When she had visited his home as a lass, she’d hidden behind a barrel and watched him order a wee lad executed for stealing a piece of roasted chicken that had been meant for Gilbert’s dog. “Such a dirty business,” he’d told one of his minions, “or I’d do it myself.” And then he’d simply watched as the man beheaded the child.

  The scent of mint wafted around him—Gilbert chewed on mint leaves day and night. For years she’d hated that smell because of its association to Gilbert Dunbar, and to her, its association to murder and death.

  He stopped in front of her. His thin lips pressed together but tilted up at their edges in a victorious smile. Aileen gulped in a mint-filled breath. Her stomach gurgled, threatening to release her breakfast.

  Three years ago, he had come to Dornoch to see Walter. After a rowdy supper in the hall, he had bumped against her lewdly, grabbed her breast, and twisted it until she had cried out in pain. To any casual observer, he was merely stumbling drunk. But she’d known he was sober—his movements had been calculated and deliberate. And the way he’d touched her was strangely possessive. At that moment, he’d had the same look in his eyes as he did now—piercing, narrow, intent. It had disconcerted her so strongly that she had escaped to her chamber and pleaded a headache until Gilbert had left Dornoch.

  She turned to the laird, heedless of the raw desperation grating in her voice. “Please, John.”

  John held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “’Tis done, Aileen. All is settled to my and Dunbar’s satisfaction. I pray for your happiness.”

  Clutching her stomach, Aileen turned on her heel and fled.

  ***
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  Niall placed his palm flat on the door to Aileen’s bedchamber and hesitated.

  Two days had passed. In a daze, he had gone through the motions of his daily routine. First, the only emotion he’d felt was rage, then pain, and finally a desperate numbness.

  The situation boiled down to one undeniable fact—he had sworn fealty to his laird under God. He had made that vow. He couldn’t betray the laird—to do so would be a betrayal of himself, of his soul, of everything he held holy.

  Niall would never stop loving Aileen, but that love would have to remain the love of a man sworn to protect her family, not the carnal love they had so selfishly indulged in.

  He raised his hand and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  Pushing open the door, he found her standing in front of the hearth, her hands clenched behind her back.

  She turned to face him. “Niall.”

  “Aileen.” He balled his fists, hardly able to speak. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”

  She nodded, but her lower lip trembled. “I know.”

  It was uncanny how she knew him so well, how well they knew each other.

  “I’m leaving for a while.”

  “And the laird approves,” she said flatly. Sadness clouded her violet eyes as she turned to him.

  “He says I must return to Ellandonan by midsummer, but aye. He…understands why I must go.” God forgive him, but he would not—could not—stay here and watch the lady he loved marry another man.

  “Where will you go?”

  “To Edinburgh, I think.”

  The door thudded shut behind him as he walked fully into the room. Suddenly, her scent assailed his senses. Heather and sage. He stopped short, still several feet from her.

  “He has betrothed me to another.”

  “I know, Lady Aileen.”

  His use of the formal title made her wince. He wished he could comfort her, hold her. But he couldn’t. He stepped backward, distancing himself from her as far as possible without leaving the room.

  “Niall—” The edge of desperation in her voice made him cringe. “Please. Is there anything…?”

  “Nay, lady. Nothing.”

  Someone else would warm her bed. Never him. She was destined for another man. There was naught he could do.

  The thought clenched his gut, enraged him, curled his fingers, made him want to punch a hole through the stone wall.

  Her eyes shone. “I canna help but think there must be something that can be done.”

  The woman standing across the room wanted him as much as he wanted her. She was as hopeless as he was.

  None of that was any consolation. His teeth ground together so tightly he thought he might break his jaw. “There’s nothing.”

  For long moments, they stared across the room at one another. The pain in her eyes chipped at his resolve.

  Unable to bear the distance between them any longer, Aileen lunged toward him with a whimper, wrapped her arms around him, and buried her face in his chest.

  “How will I survive without you?” she cried.

  She had to touch him one last time. Stroke him, feel his skin against hers. Starting at his shoulders, she ran her fingers over the rough wool of his plaid, across the planes of his chest. Would she ever feel his hard, comforting warmth again? Would she ever taste him again?

  Mindless with the need to do just that, she tugged up his shirt, bent down, and pressed her tongue flat against the ridge of his stomach just above his belly button. Oh, his flavor. Pure male. Pure decadent, carnal promise.

  Hands tightened on her shoulders as she dragged her tongue up his rippling body, savoring the salty, musky tang of him. Then she focused on his tiny male nipple. She licked it too. Suckled it. And felt it constrict into a tiny bead beneath her tongue.

  Above her, Niall let out a low groan. His hands wrapped around her waist, lifting her as easily as if she were a sack of barley. Aileen threw her arms around his neck and tightened her legs around him. He carried her to the bed, tossed her onto it, and took a large step backward.

  Separated from him, she scooted up to a seated position, thrill and fear surging through her at the primal look on his face, at the passion he barely held in check.

  The struggle showed clearly on his face—in his narrowed eyes and tight jaw. He wanted her. But he had made the decision to leave her, to never touch her again.

  She pressed her lips together with determination. She wouldn’t accept that. She needed his touch, needed it as desperately as the air she breathed.

  Without breaking eye contact, she untied her belt and flung it across the room.

  Niall turned to watch it fly; then his gaze fastened on her, his eyes dangerous slits.

  Her dress was already hiked up around her knees. She grasped the hem and pulled it, along with her shift, over her head. Now she was naked except for her stockings and shoes.

  She could see the battle still raging ferociously within him. He glanced at the door, his face twisted with indecision.

  “Aileen…” He took a step closer. She could see his thread of control quivering, it was pulled so taut. If it broke… A shiver tripped down her spine.

  “You shouldna do this…” he managed to say through tightly gritted teeth.

  “Nay,” she agreed. “I shouldna.” It was the truth, for all the reasons they both knew so well.

  Also, he hadn’t latched the door. Anyone could walk in, anytime.

  She let her legs fall open, exposing her sex.

  Niall froze. As still as a statue, he stared down at her.

  Slowly, Aileen slid her fingers down her stomach, through the tight curls of her mound and into her sex, gasping when they passed over the slick flesh.

  He didn’t move.

  “I want you,” she murmured, curving two of her fingers and pressing them inside. Her back arched. It was a tease, a little whisper of the sensation he could give her.

  “Need you. Please, Niall.” As she pulled her sopping fingers away, she groaned, “Please.”

  One last time…

  And with a low, feral growl, he snapped.

  Without taking his lust-clouded eyes from her sex, he tore his plaid off and flung it away.

  Spreading her legs, Aileen thrust inside herself, as far as her fingers would go. Her channel quivered wildly over her fingers. It wasn’t enough. She needed him to fill the void. Only him.

  Harsh breaths resonated through the room. Hers or his? Both, perhaps. They seemed to mingle together and swirl about them, heaving in time with the deep drive of her fingers into her slippery core.

  Niall’s hair was a halo of dark gold, sparkling in the firelight, framing his high cheekbones. His blue eyes were deep with what could only be described as hunger. Hunger for her.

  With each item of clothing he flung away, Aileen’s pulse ratcheted upward. Her slick passage tightened and flooded, and tremors shuddered from her channel down her legs and through her arms.

  He was a perfect specimen of manhood, with thick, strong arms, a narrow waist, a rippled abdomen, and thighs that flexed with muscle as he moved toward her. His cock jutted up and out, oversized and flushed darker than the rest of him.

  He crawled onto the bed like a big, tawny cat. A predator, and she was his prey.

  And by God if that wasn’t exactly what she wanted. To be devoured by him. Her heartbeat fluttered, as frantic as cornered rabbit’s.

  “Niall…” she whispered. Instinctively, she dug her heels into the bed, scooting her body away until it pressed against the headboard.

  There was nowhere to go. But it didn’t matter—she didn’t want to go. She wanted him to catch her, to physically catch her and then hold her and keep her, to never let her go, no matter what.

  He crept toward her. Aileen knew his thoughts of honor and propriety had vanished with that final snap of control. All that remained was this virile, single-minded, indomitable man who desired nothing but her and would do anything to have her no matter the cost.


  For a fleeting moment, she yearned to ensnare this aspect of Niall. Capture him into a box and release him in all his glorious power to John and Gilbert Dunbar. He would crush them both with his raw strength, his fierce determination.

  Niall caught her. He clasped her ankles, and she cried out, her body shaking from toes to crown with the heady feeling his dominance gave her. He tugged her to a horizontal position, then pushed her thighs wide apart, buried his face between her legs, and devoured.

  A silent scream erupted from Aileen’s mouth. Her head rolled back and forth. It was too intense, too powerful. She wanted to crawl out of her overcharged, oversensitive skin. And Niall, his big hands cupped around her behind, groaned into her sex and slid his tongue over the most sensitive parts of her body as his afternoon beard scraped against her skin.

  Aileen’s fists clenched and unclenched the fabric of the plaid beneath her. Every muscle in her body flamed into rigid awareness. Her back arched. Her arms and legs straightened, shuddering with tension. Oh God, she was close, so close to all-consuming release.

  And then it stopped. The world settled back into focus—Niall’s harsh breathing, her jagged gasps, his face looming over her, lips and jaw glistening with her juices. He bent down and kissed her, and she could taste herself, her own musk. In her way, she had marked him with herself, with her scent. And she was glad for it.

  He spread openmouthed kisses all over her face and neck, and she could smell her sex everywhere, all over. It made her wild, frantic.

  He sat up, grabbed her hips and flipped her so she was facedown on the bed.

  This was how she wanted him. Over her. His arms bracketed her head, his big body sheltered her, pinning her beneath him. There was nothing safer or more right than this.

  Her center spasmed in time to her heartbeat. Staying still was impossible—she wiggled and bucked beneath him. A wicked blaze burned in her body, one that only he could douse. The need for his touch, for his cock, was so palpable it hurt.

  As she trembled, fluttered, and squirmed, her thighs slid together, their insides slick with her cream. The room’s cool air flowed freely over the sensitized scars on her back and her exposed behind. She shivered, thrusting her buttocks into the air, searching for Niall’s warming touch.