“Oh, Fagan.”
As if he sensed her impending need, he bent down and swept her from her feet, weightless, into his arms. She lifted her hand to his cheek in a gentle gesture, and for a moment, he stood there, holding her and gazing into her eyes.
“A ghràidh.”
“Now what name are you calling me?”
He chuckled. “I donna want to call ye bhana-phrionnsa. I find the name doesnae suit ye any longer. Ye are my wife, and ye need to understand those two Gaelic words from now on because ye will be hearing them from me verra often. A ghràidh means ‘my love.’ Something ye have been since the first time ye blackened my eye.”
He carried her and gently eased her down upon the bed. With a fist, he pulled off his tunic and tossed it to the floor. His body covered hers and he ran his exploring fingers over her curves. Her skin tingled when he touched her, shivers of delight sliding sensuously up her arm.
She placed her hand on his rock-hard chest and brushed the tawny hairs. His gaze slowly dropped from her eyes to her shoulders to her breasts. Her gown crept up to her thighs as she moved closer to him. He pulled the fabric upward over her belly, her chest. He lowered his head and his tongue caressed her sensitive nipples, her breasts surging at the familiarity of his touch. His tongue continued to tantalize the buds, which had swollen to their fullest.
When his strong hand seared a path down her abdomen and to her inner leg, she thought she would come undone. He explored her thighs slowly and then moved up. His lips again teased a taut, dusky pink nipple.
He paused to kiss her, whispering his love for each part of her body. The stroking of his fingers sent pleasure jolts through her. Completely aroused now, she drew herself closer to him.
He paused and his body moved partially to uncover hers. “I want to see all of ye.”
She wiggled her way out of the delicate gown and let it fall to the floor. She moaned softly as he laid her back down. It was flesh against flesh, man against woman. Her breasts tingled against his hard chest.
“Your first time should have ne’er been the way it was or where. Let me love ye properly. Ye are verra bonny, Wife.” His voice was low and alluring. He took her hand and guided it to himself.
Her fingers encircled him, and he moved his body against her. When he reached between her thighs, opening her legs and then inserting his finger, she gasped in sweet agony.
“Och, Grace. Your body weeps for me.”
Her desire for him overrode all reason. She didn’t want to take it slow. She wanted him. Now. When he recognized her need, he entered her in a single thrust, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through her. A moan of ecstasy slipped through her lips, but he stilled.
“All ye all right? I donna want to hurt ye.”
“I know you would never hurt me. Please, Fagan. I need you.” The hot tide of passion raged through her, and in one swift motion, he was hers.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and his chest heaved. She surrendered to his masterful seduction, her eager response matching his. When they were roused to the peak of desire, he pulled back and gazed into her eyes. With another heavy thrust, she arched her back, unable to control the cry of delight and feeling of satisfaction her husband left within her as he spilled his seed.
Grace looked up and her heart lurched madly. When Fagan collapsed on top of her, she could feel his heart pounding against her own. There was an undeniable bond between them.
He looked into her eyes, and it was if she could read his thoughts. He gave her a quick peck on the nose, and then he rolled onto his side as she lay panting, her chest heaving. They shared a smile and then both burst out laughing because his breath was as labored as hers.
She ran her fingernails up and down his arm. “That was quite enjoyable, Husband.”
“For me as well.” He gathered her into his arms and held her snugly against him. “I’m ne’er going to let ye go.”
“I should hope not because I know this is where I was meant to be—by your side, in your arms.”
Grace was astonished at the sense of fulfillment she felt. She allowed her thoughts to emerge from their hidden depths, and looking back, she knew Mister Murray was kinder than he wanted anyone to know, especially her. She was a blind fool for not recognizing the truth earlier.
She lay in the drowsy warmth of her bed with her husband, thinking of all the wonderful days yet to come.
Read on for a sneak peek at the next book in Victoria Roberts’s Highland Spies series
Highland Plaids and Petticoats
Sutherland, Scottish Highlands, 1613
This was his last chance to turn around and bolt from the gates as if his arse was afire. Against his better judgment, he kept his eyes forward, his hands steady, and he tried not to pay any heed to the warning voice that whispered in his head.
Laird Ian Munro wasn’t aware of the death grip he held on the reins of his mount as he approached the portcullis. He’d sworn that he’d never again set foot on Sutherland lands as long as the four Walsingham sisters lived under the same roof as his friend. He was no coward, but between the troubles with the Gordon, Stewart, and the damn mercenaries, he’d made it a point to stay on his own lands.
Until now.
Laird Ruairi Sutherland’s home was a fortified castle with round turrets, a square watchtower, and a curtain wall that was twenty feet thick at the widest point. Yet, to Ian’s surprise, the stone structure wasn’t strong enough to hold the wily Walsinghams at bay. He passed the dangerous cliffs on the left and to his right was lush forest. He supposed he could always take a leap to the left if he found himself trapped within the walls with no means of escape.
As he reached the point of no return, his face clouded with uneasiness because the guards had already greeted him from the gatehouse. Ian continued through to the bailey and halted, hesitantly releasing the reins of his horse to the stable hand. Ruairi’s captain greeted him with a brotherly slap on the back and a wry grin.
“Munro, how long has it been, my friend?” Fagan Murray’s dark hair hung well below his shoulders, and he wore a kilt of green, black, blue, white, and orange, the Sutherland tartan.
“’Tis good to see ye, Fagan.” Ian gazed around the courtyard, breathing a sigh of relief that no Walsinghams were in sight.
“Then tell me. Why have we nae seen your face since Grace and I wed? Ye know it has been almost three years since we’ve last set eyes upon ye.”
Ian raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and placed his hand over his heart. “Truly? Has it been that long?”
Fagan lowered his voice and playfully balled his fist into Ian, which was more like a brotherly tap to the arm. “To be truthful, I ne’er thought of ye as a coward.”
“I’m nay coward, but as I told ye before, keep your brood here because I sure as hell donna want them crossing the borders to my lands. I have enough troubles of my own.”
Fagan laughed. “Come. Ruairi’s been expecting ye, and we’ll have some food and drink to celebrate your return.”
They entered the great hall, and Ian involuntarily burst into a smile. Tapestries depicting swords, shields, and men in the throes of battle remained on the walls. He recalled the time when Fagan’s wife, Grace, had insisted that Ruairi remove the wall hangings before her wedding day because she didn’t favor them. Ian pursed his mouth in satisfaction as he realized that Ruairi still had his bollocks and hadn’t succumbed to the will of the women after all. Perhaps there was hope for his friend yet.
“Munro, I cannae believe ye are standing here in my great hall as I live and breathe.” Ruairi’s straight, long chestnut hair had traces of red and hung just past his shoulders. A plaid rested over his shoulder and he sported the traditional Sutherland kilt. With his giant sword sheathed at his waist, his friend looked exactly as Ian had remembered him. “Fàilte. Ciamar a tha thu?” Ruairi said warmly. Welcome. How are you?
“I’m glad to see ye didnae live up to your promise. Ye did set foot on Da’s lands again.”
“Torquil?” With his reddish-brown hair and green eyes, Torquil was the picture of Ruairi. “Ye have grown. Soon I think there might be a need to fear ye on the battlefield. What age is upon ye now, lad?”
The man who was no longer a boy smiled from ear to ear. “I am fifteen.”
A lovely lass stood beside Torquil and she was poking him in the ribs with her finger. “Fifteen, perhaps, but he behaves more like he’s twelve.” Blond locks framed her oval face and she had sparkling blue eyes. She wore an emerald dress that hugged her young frame.
“Lady Katherine?”
“Yes. It’s lovely to see you again, Laird Munro.”
Ian shook his head as if he’d consumed too much ale. He couldn’t believe so much had changed in three years. The last time he’d seen the girl she had been only nine. Ruairi’s wife approached them, and her wealth of red hair hung in loose tendrils that softened her face. Ravenna always looked elegant and graceful, and Ian was glad to see some things hadn’t changed.
He kissed the top of her hand. “Lady Ravenna, ye’re still as bonny as the day I met ye.”
“Thank you, Laird Munro. Although I don’t know how much longer I’ll appear this way.” She lowered her arm and her hands cradled her stomach. “Ruairi and I are again expecting another child. We’re hoping for a son to have a brother for Mary.”
“Another bairn?” He nodded to Ruairi. “Please accept my condolen…er, congratulations to ye both.”
Lady Katherine slapped her hands together. “I’m thrilled that I’m going to be an aunt again. I do hope Ravenna has another girl.”
Ian didn’t know what to say, but Torquil was the only man among them who found his voice.
“Kat, donna even jest about something like that. I think ye might put Da in an early grave.”
Ruairi gave Ian a knowing look.
“If it weren’t for me and my sisters, this castle—and the men within it—would be running wild. You should be thankful that you have us here to keep you all in line.”
Torquil playfully wrapped his arm around Kat’s neck and rubbed his knuckles over the top of her head. “I do like it when ye try.”
Ian would be sure to pray long and hard that Ravenna carried a boy, because the last thing Ruairi needed was another cunning female under his roof. If it wasn’t bad enough Ravenna was a “retired” English spy, her haughty sister, Grace, had even married Fagan. Oh, and that wasn’t all the poor bastard was made to endure. After Ruairi said his vows, he’d taken in all three of his wife’s sisters.
Ravenna took her leave from the hall, and Kat wandered off with Torquil. The men took their seats at the long wooden table on the dais, and Ruairi poured them all a drink. He placed a tankard in front of Ian and smiled. “Here. Ye look like ye could use one—or many.”
“Och, aye.” He lifted the tankard to his lips when he spotted something over the rim. Kat and Torquil sat on a bench…together, close. Ian briefly closed his eyes and shook his head. The two of them used to run away from each other, avoiding the other like the plague. Now he wouldn’t be surprised if he saw the two of them holding hands in a wooing gesture.
A growl escaped him. “Something in my gut told me that I should’ve just met all of ye in London.” His mouth pulled into a sour grin, and Ruairi waved him off.
“There’s only so much Ravenna and her uncle can do to keep King James at bay. We’ve been fortunate that we havenae had to attend court in almost three years. Thank God for small favors. Besides, with the recent passing of Prince Henry, we should pay our respects to the king in order to stay in his good graces. I thought it would be good for us to travel to London at the same time. More to the point, ye know how much we enjoy the pleasure of your company. We always have such a damn good time when we’re together.” Ruairi held up his tankard in mock salute, and Ian chuckled.
“Aye. I remember all the good times we had with the Gordon, Stewart, and mercenaries, and let’s nae forget about the English spies that ye shelter under your roof.”
A young woman stepped in front of the dais and cleared her throat. She had reddish-brown hair that hung in loose waves down her back. Her figure was slender and regal, and Ian could’ve easily drowned in her emerald eyes. But what captured his attention the most was the way the lass carried herself, confident—yet unaware of her true beauty.
She wore a black gown with hanging sleeves and the embroidered petticoat under her skirts was lined in gray. With the added reticella laced collar and cuffs dyed with yellow starch, she looked as though she should’ve been at the English court rather than in the Scottish Highlands.
“Pardon me, Ruairi. Ravenna wanted me to tell you that we’re taking little Mary to the beach. We won’t be long. We’ll be in the garden until the mounts are readied if you need us.”
When the woman’s eyes met Ian’s, something clicked in his mind. His face burned as he remembered. He shifted in the seat and pulled his tunic away from his chest. Why was the temperature suddenly hot? He felt like he was suffocating in the middle of the Sutherland great hall. God help him. This was the same young chit who had pined after him and followed him around the castle like Angus, Ruairi’s black wolf. But like everything else that had transformed around here, so had she. She was no longer a girl but had become an enchantress, still young, but beautiful nonetheless. His musings were interrupted by a male voice.
“Munro, ye do remember Lady Elizabeth, eh?”
How could he forget the reason he’d avoided the Sutherland lands for the past three years?
* * *
Laird Ian Munro was still as daunting—and handsome—as Elizabeth had remembered him. His long, red hair hung down to his elbows in complete disarray. His broad shoulders looked bigger than she’d recalled, and wisps of light hair curled against the V of his open shirt. He had a strong, chiseled jaw and green eyes that would make any woman swoon.
For goodness’ sake, she thought—prayed—she was over this foolish fancy she’d had for him. After all, she’d been only fifteen at the time. Her brother-in-law often jested that women were terrified of Ian’s wild appearance. The man even had a reputation of frightening men on the battlefield by his fierce looks alone. She supposed that’s why her family was shocked when she’d shown an interest in him. But there was something about Ian that always drew her in like a magnet.
Elizabeth managed to avoid his gaze. She spoke only to Ruairi and didn’t stammer her words nervously in front of the men. Frankly, she was proud of herself. But when her Ruairi asked if Laird Munro had remembered her, Elizabeth made an error in judgment. She met Ian’s eyes, and there was a tingling in the pit of her stomach. She found herself extremely conscious of his virile appeal. His nearness was entirely overwhelming. Her pulse pounded and she couldn’t breathe. Memories of the past flooded her with emotion.
Irked by her response to him, she was determined to show him she wasn’t the same young, stupid, and senseless girl he’d known three years ago. She’d changed. And she needed to let him know that his presence no longer affected her the way it had in the past.
“Laird Munro, what a pleasure to see you again. You look well,” she said with as much indifference as she could muster. She gazed back at Ruairi. “Ravenna and Grace are waiting for me in the garden. Pray excuse me.”
Elizabeth resisted the urge to bolt out of the hall and not look back. She slowed her pace as much as she could without looking as though she was trying to flee. She was a Walsingham, and her family never ran from anything or anyone.
Acknowledgments
A very special “thank you” goes out to the following people:
To my agent, Jill Marsal, for keeping me afloat in the murky waters.
To my editor, Cat Clyne, for supporting my dreams.
To the unsung heroes at Sourcebooks—it truly takes a village.
To Sharron Gunn, my resident Gaelic expert, mòran taing!
To my family, for their unwavering support and dedication, and especially to my son, who accompanies me to all book signings and lectures. Who would’ve ever believed a seven-year-old boy would proudly don his kilt and support his mom through the years with so much vigor? I love you, Manny!
To Mary Grace, six books later… We have shed blood, sweat, and tears for Ciaran, Declan, Alexander, Ruairi, Luthais, and Fagan, but you never once doubted me. You continue to push me toward my dreams and to be the best I can be. Your friendship and support mean the world to me, as do you.
To my street team, Bad Girls of the Highlands, you are all amazing. I’m so glad you’re with me on this crazy journey.
To my readers, for your posts, emails, and pictures, and for being so incredibly supportive. Thank you for helping me bring my love of Scotland to life.
About the Author
Award-winning author Victoria Roberts writes Scottish historical romances about kilted heroes and warriors from the past. She was named by RT Book Reviews as “one of the most promising debut authors across the genres” and was also a 2013 RT Reviewers’ Choice award winner for X Marks the Scot. Victoria is a member of Romance Writers of America and several local chapters, as well as a contributing author to the online magazine Celtic Guide. When she’s not plotting her next Scottish adventure, she’s dragging her clan to every Scottish festival under the sun. Visit Victoria at www.VictoriaRobertsAuthor.com.
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