Scottish Brides (32 page)

He dumped her on the bed and looked down at her as if she were a treat in the bakery window. “Yes,” he murmured, “you do.”

“My family isn't going to believe this,” she said.

Angus slid onto the bed and covered her body with his. “You can worry about them later.”

“
I
still can't believe it.”

His mouth found her ear, and his breath was hot as he said, “You will. I'll make sure you will.” His hands stole around her backside, cupping her and pressing her firmly against his arousal.

Margaret let out a surprised, “Oh!”

“Do you believe it now?”

Where she got her daring, she never knew, but she smiled seductively and murmured, “Not quite.”

“Really?” His lips spread into a slow smile. “This isn't enough proof?”

She shook her head.

“Hmmm. It must be all of these clothes.”

“Do you think?”

He nodded and went to work on the buttons of his coat, which she was still wearing. “There are far, far too many layers of fabric in this room.”

The coat melted away, as did her skirt, and then, before Margaret even had time to feel shy, Angus had doffed his own garments, and all that was left was skin against skin.

It was the strangest sensation. He was touching her everywhere. He was above her and around her, and soon, she realised with breathless wonder, he would be within her.

His mouth moved to the delicate skin of her earlobe, nibbling and nipping as he whispered naughty suggestions that caused her to blush right down to her toes. And then, before she could form any sort of response, he moved away and moved down, and then before she knew it, his tongue was circling her navel, and she knew—absolutely knew—that he was going to perform every one of those naughty acts that very night.

His fingers tickled their way to her womanhood, and Margaret gasped as he slid inside. It should have felt like an invasion, but instead it was more like a completion, and yet it still wasn't enough.

“Do you like that?” he murmured, looking up.

She nodded, her breath coming in shallow, needy gasps.

“Good,” he said, looking very male and very pleased with himself. “You'll like this even more.”

His mouth slid down to meet his fingers, and Margaret nearly bucked off the bed. “You can't do that!” she exclaimed.

He didn't look up, but she could feel him smiling against the tender skin of her inner thighs. “Yes, I can.”

“No, you really—”

“Yes.” He raised his head, and his slow, lazy smile melted her bones. “I can.”

He made love to her with his mouth, teased her with his fingers, and all the while a low, rumbling pressure built up within her. The need grew until it almost hurt, and yet it felt wickedly delicious.

And then something within her exploded. Some deep, secret place she hadn't even known existed burst into light and pleasure, and her world was reduced to this one bed, with this one man.

It was absolute perfection.

Angus slid his body up the length of hers, wrapping his arms around her as she slowly drifted back to earth. He was still hard, his body tightly coiled with need, and yet somehow he felt strangely fulfilled. It was her, he realized. Margaret. There was nothing in life that couldn't be made better with one of her smiles, and bringing her first woman's pleasure had touched his very soul.

“Happy?” he murmured.

She nodded, looking drowsy and sated and very, very well-loved.

He leaned in and nuzzled her neck. “There's more.”

“Anything more would surely kill me.”

“Oh, I think we'll manage.” Angus chuckled as he rolled over her, using his powerful arms to hold his body a few inches away from hers.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled up at him. She lifted one of her hands to touch his cheek. “You're such a strong man,” she whispered. “Such a
good
man.”

He turned his face until his lips found the curve of her palm. “I love you, you know.”

Margaret's heart skipped a beat—or maybe it pounded double-time. “You do?”

“It's the strangest damned thing,” he said, his smile a touch bewildered and a touch proud. “But it's true.”

She stared up at him for several seconds, memorizing his face. She wanted to remember everything about this moment, from the glint in his dark eyes to the way his thick, black hair was falling over his forehead. And then there was the way the light hit his face, and the strong slope of his shoulders, and . . .

Her heart grew warm. She was going to have a lifetime to memorize these things. “I love you, too,” she whispered.

Angus leaned down and kissed her. And then he made her his.

 

Several hours later, they were sitting in bed, enthusiastically partaking of the meal the innkeeper had left outside their door.

“I think,” Angus said quite suddenly, “that we made a baby tonight.”

Margaret dropped her chicken leg. “Why on earth would you think that?”

He shrugged. “I certainly worked hard enough.”

“Oh, and you think that one time—”

“Three.” He grinned. “Three times.”

Margaret blushed and mumbled, “Four.”

“You're right! I forgot all about—”

She swatted him on the shoulder. “That's enough, if you please.”

“It will never be enough.” He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on her nose. “I've been thinking.”

“God help me.”

“Seeing as how we are Greenes, and this is Gretna Green, and we ought never to forget how we met . . .”

Margaret groaned. “Stop there, Angus.”

“Gretel!” he said with a flourish. “We could name her Gretel. Gretel Greene.”

“Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce, please tell me he's joking.”

“Gertrude? Gertrude Greene? It doesn't have quite the same flair, but my aunt will be honored.”

Margaret sank into the bed. Resistance was useless.

“Grover? Gregory. You cannot complain about Gregory. Galahad? Giselle . . .”

 

 

JULIA QUINN

 

JULIA QUINN learned to read before she learned to talk, and her family is still trying to figure out if that explains A) why she reads so fast B) why she talks so much or C) both. In addition to writing romances, she practices yoga, grows terrifyingly huge zucchinis, and tries to think up really good reasons why housework is dangerous to her health.

The author of thirteen novels for Avon Books, she is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband Paul and two pet rabbits.

Julia also spends way too much time online and can be reached via email at
www.juliaquinn.com.
Regular mail can be sent to the following address:

c/o Avon Books Publicity Department

10 East 53rd Street

New York, New York 10022-5299

The Glenlyon Bride

 

 

 

 

Karen Ranney

One

 

 

 

Glenlyon Castle

Scotland, 1772

 

“I'll not marry the witch,
”
Lachlan said.

No one paid any attention to his words. Instead, his entire clan seemed entranced by Coinneach MacAuley. The old man considered himself a prophet, a seer, and every man, woman, and child in the hall obliged by being his willing audience.

“I see into the far future,” the old man intoned. He stood in the middle of the room, both hands in the air as if his palms pressed against an invisible wall. His full white beard ended in a point at mid-chest. Beneath shaggy white brows were bright blue eyes, too young for the aged face. At the moment, they were fixed on the high ceiling of the hall as if he saw the future written there. “I read the doom of the Sinclairs. I see the chief, the last of his line. He will be no father.” His voice rose, carried like an echo through the large room. People might have whispered among themselves, but no one thought to interrupt the prophet. “His sons, all the brave ones, are never born. All the honors they would have brought to the clan Sinclair—only dust in the wind. No future chief will ever rule again. Only barrenness and disaster will be the Sinclairs' future.” He turned and pointed one long, wrinkled finger at Lachlan. “Because you ignored the Legend.”

Lachlan eyed the old man. It was better to simply wait until the seer was finished with his pronouncements than to interrupt. That would only guarantee a longer harangue.

The finger dropped; the seer bowed his head. “No Sinclair will ever rule Glenlyon again,” Coinneach continued. “The castle will lie like a crypt, devoid of life.”

One eyebrow rose; then, by force of will, Lachlan smoothed his face of all expression. “Give it up, old man,” he said now, his voice carrying as easily as the seer's. “I'll not marry the witch.”

Coinneach's voice rose once more, its tone designed to lift the hair from the back of the neck of any Sinclair currently listening. The problem was,
all
of them were rapt with attention. They should have been drinking; it was a night of toasts and slow but certain drunkenness. His cousin, James, had wed, and the happy union was being celebrated. Instead, Coinneach was using this occasion to make mischief, and accomplishing his task well.

“And when it comes to pass that the Sinclair will lament over his fate, and the loss of all his unborn sons, only then will he be allowed to sink into his grave. The last of his possessions will be inherited by a Campbell.” At this, there was a collective hiss of disbelief. The Campbells and the Sinclairs had been enemies for as long as any could remember. “I see the Bride standing before me,” Coinneach interjected quickly. “She knows the secret of life. She'll be claw-footed and have a voice like a banshee, but she'll save the clan Sinclair.”

Lachlan sat up straighter. “Is that what's wrong with her, old man? She limps and screams? Is that why her father so willingly bargains her?”

Coinneach frowned at him. “He wants an end to the raiding, Lachlan. Your promise for his daughter.”

The Sinclairs had been making mischief on the border for generations, but ever since the '45 it had been a sheer pleasure to tweak the nose of the English. In the last year, however, the raids had taken on a desperate turn. The cattle they'd stolen had been less for sport than to augment the dwindling Sinclair herds.

Lachlan settled back against the heavily carved chair that had been his father's and his father's father's. He'd been raised with tales of Sinclair feats since he was a small boy, regaled with the history of his clan in this very room. He was laird, a position that seemed to mean less and less among the clans of late. But it had been a sacred duty to his father, and to all the Sinclairs who'd come before him. And it meant something to him. The responsibility he bore for his clan's survival was a constant burden.

His land was starkly beautiful, a succession of softly undulating hills and deeply shrouded valleys giving way to high, bleak peaks. A place of refuge that had always supported its people even in difficult political times. After the '45, it seemed as if the boot of England had continually been at Scotland's neck. No Scot was allowed to forget that his country had rebelled and lost. Roads were built and marched upon by red-coated English soldiers; forts were erected, and cannon stood ready; tariffs were extracted, and laws were made to banish or ban or expunge all that was a matter of pride to his countrymen.