The Highlander's Stolen Bride Read online

  When he thought she was ready, he sat her up. He swept tendrils of hair from her face and smiled at how beautifully rumpled she was.

  “Now?” she said softly, passion in her lush blue eyes.

  “In this position, you can take control. It’s up to you how fast or slow we go. Just sit down on top of me.”

  She leaned forward, her hands curled around his shoulders. Her gaze moved from his face to his shaft as she eased down onto him.

  She bit her lip and closed her eyes. “It feels so…full.”

  He knew there would be some pain the first time. “If you want to stop—”

  “No,” she answered swiftly, lifting up a bit and easing back down, getting used to him, adjusting to his size.

  Never in his life had he bedded a virgin; he hadn’t wanted the responsibility of being the first. He had always gravitated toward women who were as versed in the sexual act as he was.

  Without warning, she sat down fully on him, her swift intake of breath the only sound she made. Her eyes were shut tight, and Derek knew she had felt the stab of pain from the breaking of her maidenhead.

  When she opened her eyes, everything she felt was written there. Desire, surprise, an awakening to carnal pleasures. But not hate. Not disgust. None of the things he feared. She truly wanted him.

  His shaft, hard and throbbing inside her, moved out of reflex.

  Her eyes widened and she instinctively clenched her inner lips. She was deep and wet around him, and he fisted his hands in the sheets to keep from gripping her waist and showing her movements.

  She leaned down and laved his nipple, whispering, “You taste so good.”

  That broke his control. He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her down to him, kissing her fiercely as he thrust up inside her.

  She groaned and matched his thrust, sliding down flush against him, taking him in as far as she could and then lifting up, her movements becoming faster and more frantic.

  When she sat straight up, Derek cupped her breasts, flicking her nipples with his thumbs and watching her ride him. Her head was tossed back, her long silky hair skimming his thighs with each downward glide of her body, her slim legs gripping him, her hands settled behind her, giving her leverage to move.

  Her sweet moans resonated through his blood. Only sheer will kept him from finding his own release; he wanted her to come with a man’s rod inside her, to experience all the ways a woman could find pleasure.

  Derek heard her breathing quicken, and her body began to tense. She was close. He rubbed his forefinger over the pink pearl so lushly displayed in her current position, and watched her go over the edge.

  Her back stiffened as a wave of deep, clenching spasms gripped him like a fist, pumping at his flesh, taking him to the brink. He pulled out of her and found his release.

  She collapsed against his chest, and he stroked her back until she fell asleep in his arms.

  Twelve

  D erek got little accomplished the next morning as he stared out his office window at Devil’s Crag in the distance.

  He had slipped out of Rosalyn’s bed in the middle of the night after making love to her twice more—which was three more times than he should have. But she had bewitched him, made him insatiable for her.

  He hadn’t wanted to leave her side, but the household staff woke early. Regardless of Rosalyn’s avowals that she wished to be a fallen woman, he didn’t want her to suffer the consequences.

  She had rolled toward the spot he had vacated, her arm flung out, his name a whisper on her lips, striking Derek like an arrow to his heart and embedding itself permanently there.

  “Christ,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair and grimacing as his fingers grazed the lump at the back of his head.

  When Derek had been in London and a few potentially fatal events had befallen him, there had been no one who could have staged those accidents except Ethan. The strange occurrences hadn’t begun until his brother had arrived in town.

  A few times Derek had tried to befriend Ethan. He was the only brother Derek had, after all. After getting over the initial shock of his father’s betrayal and how it had destroyed his mother, Derek had come to understand how Ethan might feel, recognizing the stigma of being labeled a bastard, never hearing the word son.

  Derek doubted that Ethan had started out to make trouble. But once his half-brother had set himself on that course, there had been no diverting him from it, and all Derek’s attempts to build a bridge had been met with resistance and often chaos.

  They had pulverized each other so many times, Derek had lost count, with an even spread of wins and losses between them. Perhaps they were so evenly matched because they had been sired by the same father.

  They had both been sent away to school, Derek by his father and Ethan by Derek’s mother. Whatever would tweak her husband’s nose, Lady Emmaline felt compelled to do.

  They had attended different academies, but while Derek had focused on learning the things he hoped would make him a success in life, Ethan had made it a point to return with an even greater dedication to obtaining what he thought belonged to him, becoming a man so well polished he could fit in just about anywhere, his skills for disingenuous charm honed to a rapier’s edge.

  No matter how diligently Ethan strove to be accepted, though, the taint of his birth burned him like a brand.

  “Still nursin’ y’r wound, I see.”

  Derek turned from the window to find Darius sauntering in. “I’m still alive, if that was your concern.” Derek strode to his desk, where he would likely continue to get nothing done.

  His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Rosalyn, consumed with images of their lovemaking—the sweet, tight heat between her wet nether lips, the taut nipples thrust heavenward, marked by his mouth and bobbing as he thrust inside her, her thighs hard around his flanks, his hands gripping her soft flesh, his body thrumming from her moans. He wondered how she would feel about him now, when there was no taking back what had happened between them.

  “Y’r head is too hard tae crack,” Darius chuckled as he headed straight for the sideboard to drag out the aged whisky, even though it was barely past the morning meal. “’Twould take much more tae send ye tae your maker—an anvil, perhaps, or the weight of a house.”

  “Your obvious distress about my welfare is touching. Is there anything I can do for you, or is it your intent to drink yourself into a stupor before midday?”

  Darius eyed him over his shoulder, his bushy brows making a V in his forehead. “’Twould seem the knock on y’r skull did little tae improve y’r surly disposition.”

  “Having one’s head nearly removed from one’s shoulders puts one in a less than positive frame of mind.”

  “There’s no need tae be gettin’ snippy, lad. I’m still y’r elder, laird or not.”

  “And will you put me over your knee and tan my hide? I’m a bit too old for that.”

  Darius grunted. “Y’r father would turn over in his grave if he could hear the way ye speak tae me.”

  Having been treated to that refrain often over the years, Derek ignored it. He dropped down into the chair behind his desk and laced his hands across his stomach, regarding his uncle’s back.

  Darius had always been good at laying on the guilt. His beleaguered-old-man act was quite impressive at times and garnered sympathy from those who didn’t know him as well as Derek did.

  Darius was far more cagey than people suspected, and yet Derek had never given his uncle’s malcontent a second thought—until recently.

  He had meant to apologize to Darius after questioning his loyalty at the inn, but something had stopped him. He couldn’t get the thought out of his head that Darius’s grumbling was more than just the ramblings of an old man.

  There had been a few times when Derek had suspected his uncle of planning the accidents that had befallen him; Darius had been around during several of the suspicious events.

  Part of Derek continued to scoff
at the idea that either his uncle or brother—or perhaps both together—were striving for his demise. Regardless of their foibles, Darius and Ethan were his kin.

  And if Derek should succumb to one of his “accidents,” Ethan and Darius would be the first suspects his clan looked at, as the two with the most to gain.

  No, something else was going on. He was missing something right in front of him. But he’d be damned if he could figure out what it was.

  “Are ye plannin’ tae stare at the tips of y’r shoes all day, lad?” Darius asked, well into his second glass of whisky. “Or might ye be contemplatin’ the betterment of the clan?” He gestured toward the east-facing window with his drink. “The natives have been restless since ye returned with the English lass. There’s rumblin’ about ye takin’ up where y’r father left off, and that there’ll be nothin’ but discontent at Castle Gray if ye become involved with the lady.”

  Derek strove to remain impassive. What he did was his bloody business; he would tolerate no one telling him how to live his life, or with whom.

  Yet how could he keep Rosalyn from being touched by the scorn of his people? They already disliked her without even knowing her. Damn his parents and their endless feuding.

  “Is there a question somewhere in that remark?” Derek queried, regarding his uncle with practiced disinterest.

  Darius frowned and placed his glass on the sideboard. “I hate it when ye play obtuse. Ye know exactly what I’m sayin’. I’m tryin’ tae warn ye of what may be comin’. For y’r own sake, ye should send the lass away.”

  “No.”

  Darius stared at him incredulously. “No? Just like that?”

  “Just like that: Rosalyn stays. Anyone who doesn’t like it can leave.”

  “These are y’r people, man, are ye forgettin’ that?”

  Derek held his uncle’s gaze. “Are you questioning my loyalty?”

  “Ofcourse not,” Darius blustered as he shuffled toward the empty fireplace, glancing at the spot above the mantel where a picture of Derek’s mother had once resided—first revered and adored, later loathed and resented.

  Many a night Derek had heard a glass breaking in his father’s office. The next morning he would spy a maid cleaning up the shattered remains and see another tear in the portrait’s delicate canvas, the spray of alcohol marring its beauty.

  It was as though his father was trying to systematically blot out her very existence.

  The sound of a commotion in the hallway propelled Derek out of his seat. He had barely taken a single step before a whirlwind in a calico dress pranced into his office, her pitch-black hair hanging wild down her back and her softly rounded cheeks pink from dashing across the fields from her brother’s property to his.

  “Ye rotten scalawag!” Megan Trelawny said with a cheeky grin. “Not a single word tae tell me ye were returnin’. Ye should be tied tae the post and given the strap.”

  “You would be the one wielding it, I suppose?” Derek rejoined with a laugh, barely making it around his desk before Megan flung herself into his arms and hugged him tight.

  “It’s so good tae have ye home,” she murmured fervently against his chest. “Never leave.”

  Derek returned her hug. She had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, but to him she would always be the scamp who dashed about the countryside muddying herself and making mischief.

  “Now,” she said briskly as she untangled her arms from around his neck. “Who is this English lady ye’ve brought home with ye? I hear she’s quite a beauty, with hair paler than a morning sun and skin like rare Chinese porcelain.”

  Megan’s description was far better than Derek could have come up with on his own. “Perhaps you’d like to take a seat?” he suggested, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

  She canted a brow at him and put her hands on her hips. “Take a seat, is it? My, how very proper we are.” She marched over to the chair and plunked down into it. Instead of settling back, she reached down and pulled the hem of her gown up to mid-thigh to unstrap her dirk.

  Glancing up, she caught him watching and said, “Ye’ll be keepin’ your eyes in your sockets if ye ken what’s good for ye.”

  “I’m just wondering why you continue to carry that thing.”

  “Protection,” she answered, checking the sharpness of the blade. “Wouldn’t want someone comin’ up on me unprepared. I’ve got tae get Kerry tae make a bigger holster for my thigh, though. The bleedin’thing keeps pokin’me. If ye haven’t noticed, your high and mighty lordship, I’ve got a woman’s figure now.” She treated him to an impish pose.

  “I’ve noticed.”

  She harrumphed. “Not that ye’ve done anything about it.”

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “If I have tae tell ye, then I think ye’ll be needin’ tae talk with Kerry.”

  Kerry, her oldest brother, had been laird of Clan Trelawny since his father had handed over the mantle of control three years ago.

  Kerry was the last person Derek wanted to speak to about anything, especially his sister, whom he clearly adored, as did her seven other brothers. Megan, as the only girl, was doted upon.

  None of her brothers had been overly happy when her father had announced that she would marry Derek when she was old enough.

  Derek had said neither yes or no, simply accepting that Megan would someday be his wife. But somewhere along the way, complications had arisen. One amazing complication named Rosalyn Carmichael.

  “Ye’re not really worried about Kerry, are ye?”

  Derek realized he hadn’t heard a word Megan had said to him. “Worried about Kerry?” he scoffed, reaching over to pinch her cheek, much as he did when she was a child. “Not in the least. I still remember when he was a squat little toad, sinking in the mud at the watering hole because he was so chubby.”

  “Ye are a wicked man tae be bringin’ up such a thing.” Megan giggled. “Poor Kerry! He was up tae his knees in that muck when me brothers managed tae heave him from it. Tae this day, we are forbidden tae mention it, and he turns the most unflattering shade of red if we do. He wouldn’t appreciate your reference tae his waistline, either. He likes tae believe he’s big-boned. So shame on you.” She wagged her finger at him, but amusement reflected in her eyes. “He still blames ye for that day, ye know.”

  “Me? What did I do? I was merely a bystander.”

  “You, my lord, don’t know the meanin’ of the word. But I suppose ye didn’t plan for what happened, so I guess you’re tae be forgiven.”

  “How gracious. So how is Kerry these days?”

  “As serious-faced as ever,” she replied with a sigh. “I don’t think he knows how tae smile. Surely all the angels in heaven would stop singing and the world would come grindin’ tae a halt if he ever did.”

  Derek laughed. “That sounds like Kerry. I always wondered what life had done to make him so miserable.”

  Megan shrugged. “I think he just has a lot weighin’ on his shoulders. Problem is, he doesn’t know how tae balance it very well. Not like you—it seems as though nothing bothers you. You’re always out in the yard playin’ with the village bairns, tossin’ balls tae the lads and cartin’ the lasses on your shoulders. Never seen a grown man enjoy the wee ones so much. Ye are a prime one indeed—but don’t let that bloat your head now.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Good,” she said, pushing out of her chair and prowling about his office. “As for Kerry, I think he believes he won’t be taken seriously if he doesn’t act serious.” Circling Derek’s globe, she ran her fingertips along the top and glanced at him. “Perhaps ye can talk tae him?”

  “Oh, no.” Derek shook his head. “Leave me out of that.”

  “For me?” She gave him a practiced moue. Obviously she had been attending the school of feminine wiles while he had been away.

  Pouting or not, Derek had never been good at denying her anything. “Fine,” he agreed with a resigned sigh. “But if he attempt
s to knock my teeth down my throat I may return the favor.”

  “I’ll make sure he’s on his best behavior.”

  Derek doubted the man knew the meaning of “best behavior.” If not for a begrudging softness his sister brought out in him, Kerry Trelawny would not have a single redeeming quality.

  But Megan had that effect on everyone. Her feistiness was infectious—though there was one person it had never managed to win over. Ethan became positively lethal around her, and the only time Megan frowned was if Ethan was in the vicinity.

  It was unfortunate that the two had never acquired a liking for one another; something told Derek that Megan would whip his half-brother into shape. But the pair had barely been able to tolerate each other since they were children, exchanging glares whenever their paths crossed.

  Derek clearly recalled the day his brother decided it was his duty to shake Megan from her tomboy ways by kissing her under a pine tree, a mistake that nearly changed Ethan from a stud to a gelding.

  “So?” Megan prompted.

  Derek quirked a brow. “So?”

  “Don’t be coy, ye naughty man. I want tae know about her.”

  “Her who?”

  “The English miss.” Megan tipped her nose skyward and pretended she had a teacup in her hands. Lifting a pinkie, she put it to her lips and fluttered her eyes like batwings.

  “You look ridiculous.”

  Megan treated him to an unladylike snort. “As does she, I suspect.”

  “She doesn’t drink her tea like that.”

  “Ah, and what else have ye’ been payin’ attention to, might I ask? And don’t think I didn’t notice that ye cleverly changed the subject earlier. I’m too wily tae be tricked.”

  “Indeed you are.” He had purposefully changed the subject. Rosalyn was not a topic he wished to discuss, especially since he couldn’t quite figure out what to do.

  “Stop your hemming and speak,” Megan prodded. “I want tae know everything.”

  Something told him this interrogation would be thorough and lengthy.

  With a resigned sigh, he said, “Fire at will.”