Highlander Ever After

  “Some things are easier,” Egan said, straightening and hanging up the poker, “and some things grow better with age.”

  She folded her arms, suddenly nervous. “Such as what?”

  “Don’t be afraid of me, lass.”

  Egan came toward her, backlit by the fire, moving as slowly and quietly as he had to the mare and foal when he’d rescued them.

  Zarabeth met his gaze. “I’m never afraid of you, Egan MacDonald.”

  Egan halted in front of her. “I like ye in plaid,” he said softly. “Did I ever tell ye that?”

  She brushed the cloth with her fingertips, a lump in her throat. “The tartan wears well. A very practical material.”

  “We’re a very practical people.” Egan reached out and cupped the curve of her waist. “For instance, we don’t read long books and study for years about lovemaking. We simply do it.”

  Zarabeth thought of the bawdy talk downstairs in the Great Hall, earthy people laughing with one another about lust. “And what, exactly,” she asked breathlessly, “do you do?”

  His smile was feral. “We’re not skilled seducers, not like a certain Nvengarian lady who seduced me in her bedchamber the other night.”

  She swallowed. “No?”

  “No. We say what we want, without flowery language. Sometimes we don’t say anything at all.”

  “I see,” Zarabeth said shakily. “What would you say to me now?”

  Egan bent closer, his breath hot as he whispered, “I’d say get out of that pretty dress before it’s in tatters.”

  Her heart beat rapidly in excitement. “You wouldn’t really tear my gown. Would you?”

  “I would. I’m the Mad Highlander, remember?”

  “That’s an act to make people laugh.” Wasn’t it?

  Egan’s eyes sparkled dangerously. “Or is the Mad Highlander what’s truly underneath honorable Egan, everyone’s friend?”

  Zarabeth gave a faint laugh. “Are all Scotsmen this insistent?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know. I don’t know all Scotsmen.”

  Zarabeth wet her lips. “Perhaps we could ask them.”

  Grinning savagely, Egan put his hand to the top of her bodice, and with one twist of his wrist, tore it open. Buttons popped and zinged around the room, one heading straight into the fireplace with a loud crack.

  “Egan,” she gasped, grabbing for the placket.

  He pushed her fingers aside and placed his large hand inside her bodice, right over her heart. “I remember ye yankin’ the pin out of my kilt and lettin’ the plaid slide right off. Why shouldn’t I do the same t’ you?”

  Zarabeth’s knees shook. “But I didn’t tear anything.”

  “Ye have seamstresses at your beck and call t’ sew it back together.” His voice became a rumble as he caressed between her breasts, eyes darkening. “Mary saw to that.”

  “Yes, but what on earth will I tell them?”

  “That your husband was impatient. They’d know what ye meant.”

  Zarabeth thought of the joking that had gone on in the hall beneath them. The seamstresses probably would give her knowing looks and laugh, likely not hiding their mirth.

  Egan seized the placket again and jerked the bodice open to her waist, revealing her short stays over her chemise. He expertly unlaced them both and pushed the garments down, baring her breasts. He studied her, his eyes stilling.

  “You’re lovely, lass.”

  Egan’s hands went to her breasts as he leaned to kiss her. His palms heated her skin, his skilled fingers drew her nipples into hot points. Zarabeth couldn’t help arching her back, pressing herself up to him, meeting his kiss with her own.

  His body dwarfed hers, Egan’s strength could easily crush her, and yet he could be so gentle. Remembering the tenderness with which he’d made love to her two nights before made Zarabeth’s throat tighten.

  He was rougher tonight, more playful, but she knew that Egan held himself back. Speculating what he’d be like if he chose not to hold himself back made Zarabeth shiver with delight.

  “Are ye cold?” Egan asked quickly.

  “No. I’m fine.” She wasn’t fine—she was about to become a puddle at his feet.

  “We’ll get into the bed. The middle of winter in Scotland’s nae the best place to be undressed.”

  Egan turned away from her, and now she did shudder with cold. With him against her, she’d always be warm.

  Egan raked the covers back, the pillows flopping across the mattress. Without waiting for her to approach, Egan swept her into his arms and tossed her onto the bed.

  Zarabeth landed with a bounce on the thick quilts. Egan yanked the remains of her plaid gown all the way off and tossed it to the floor, then proceeded to strip.

  First his coat fell, then his lawn shirt followed it, becoming a fine-wrinkled mess. He kicked off his shoes, polished leather tumbling end over end. Socks next, a bright plaid pattern crumpled on his shirt. Last his kilt, unpinned and unwound from his hips.

  Zarabeth couldn’t take her eyes from the beauty of him, his sun-bronzed torso, his arms tight with muscle, the phallus that stood out from his body, signaling his desire. He might think himself world-worn but he’d always be handsome Egan to her.

  Need welled inside her—to feel his weight on her, his body against her skin. Egan snatched the covers from her hands and climbed in with her, pulling the quilts over their heads. In the dark nest inside, he cradled her against him.

  “I dinnae know if I can go slowly tonight,” he said. “I’ll try, but I dinnae know.”

  Zarabeth had no desire for slowness. She slipped her hand between them, wrapped her fingers around Egan’s shaft, and squeezed hard.

  “Oh, lass, dinnae do that.”

  Zarabeth released him abruptly. “Did I hurt you?”

  The bed shook with his laughter. “Nay, but ye might turn me into a wild man.”

  “I see.” Smiling to herself, Zarabeth reached out and squeezed him again.

  He let out a half groan. “I’ll have to make ye pay for that.”

  “Pay?” She feigned surprise. “But you said it didn’t hurt.”

  “Always teasin’, aren’t ye, Zarabeth? Fooling everyone with that sweet little smile, but not me.”

  “I never tried to fool anyone,” she said, pretending innocence.

  “Ye were always a hellion. No matter how pretty ye looked, no matter how ye smiled, I knew.”

  Zarabeth gave in. “Thank you for never telling on me.”

  “I never did, did I? Just let ye run wild and told your father it was my fault ye came home covered head to foot in mud. I wonder what I deserve for being so good to ye?”

  Zarabeth’s heart pounded. She loved when he was playful, loved the sparkle in his eyes that said maybe the Mad Highlander really did lurk inside him.

  She ran her finger down the bridge of his nose. “In return I always made sure your favorite Nvengarian cakes were on the table.”

  “That ye did.” He captured her finger and nibbled it. “You taste better.”

  “There are more cakes downstairs,” she said demurely.

  “Where they should stay. But I don’t think cakes are enough. Ye owe me more than that, love.”

  “Really, Egan,” she said with pretended hauteur. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

  “My Zarabeth,” he said in tones so low they made her shiver. “I so want to make ye understand what pleasure can be. But I don’t want to scare ye.”

  “I am quite brave.” Zarabeth’s racing heart belied her words. “I traveled all the way here with only two footmen and a logosh.”

  “Aye, Ivan and Constanz are very terrifying.” Egan smiled briefly, then sobered. “I want ye to know, I’ll never hurt you. No matter what I do or ask ye to do I’ll never hurt you. Do ye believe me?”

  Zarabeth nodded. She did know—Egan was nothing like Sebastian, never had been. She knew the difference between a cruel man and a good one. Life had taught her that hard lesson.

>   “All right then.” Egan lowered his head and licked from the hollow of her throat to her lips. “I’m going to show ye what pleasure is, Zarabeth. Never mind what’s in your books.”

  Zarabeth nodded again, her mouth too dry for speech.

  Egan shoved the quilts from them. Cool air touched Zarabeth’s skin, but the fire had started warming the little room, and Egan was warmth itself.

  Egan hooked his arm around her, and rolled her onto her stomach.

  Zarabeth squeaked then braced herself and looked at him over her shoulder. “Are you going to admire my backside?” she asked, voice faint. “Since I admire yours so much?”

  “Only partly. Get on your knees, love.”

  Zarabeth began to rise to her hands and knees. Egan’s strong hand stopped her, easing her down until she hugged a pillow while her backside stuck up behind her.

  “Egan?” she asked in trepidation.

  “I promise, lass.” His voice had gone deep. “I promise ye only pleasure.”

  His big hands moved her thighs apart, and then she felt the heat of his tongue between them. She drew a sharp breath and tried to squirm away, but she learned then and there how strong Egan truly was.

  He held Zarabeth in place and made her take every lick, every stroke, every nibble. His practiced mouth knew exactly where to touch her and how fast and exactly for how long.

  At first Zarabeth tried to control her cries, but she soon gave up and surrendered to his hot, wet, very gifted tongue. She’d never felt anything like it, not even when he’d played with her with his hands.

  She cried his name again and again, begging him, but she wasn’t sure what she begged for. She couldn’t take any more; he had to stop.

  Then she made a sound of pure disappointment when he did stop. Egan rose over her, a great bear of a man, and nudged her knees farther apart. His chest rested on her back, and he whispered soothing words into her ear as his blunt hardness touched her opening.

  “No,” she whimpered. “I can’t.”

  He nipped her ear. “Yes, ye can. I’ve got ye wet enough and open enough. Ye can take me.”

  He smoothed his hand over her hair and across her shoulder, and started to slide inside. He was huge, and he’d never fit.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “Ye’re beautiful, Zarabeth. Ready for me.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

  “Ye don’t have to do anything. I’ll do it all.”

  His hardness pressed her open. Egan remained still a moment, his arms taking his weight on either side of her, his body draped over hers, so wonderfully warm.

  Zarabeth had never known it was possible to feel this way. She realized she’d never truly understood what it was to have a lover before these nights with Egan, not like this, with a man who made love for the joy of it.

  Egan nipped her cheek as he slid even farther inside.

  “No,” she groaned. She couldn’t—it was too much.

  Her body had other ideas. Without realizing it she thrust her hips back to his, rocking against his hardness.

  “Zarabeth.” The whisper dragged out of him. “You’re beautiful, my Zarabeth. May the gods help me.”

  He began to move his hips, sliding his length in and out of her in slow movements. She clung to the pillows, tears trickling from her eyes, but she wasn’t crying. “Egan, please.”

  He didn’t answer in words. Egan thrust faster, the heat where they joined beautiful. Their skin dampened as he drove into her, and she balled her hands and let him do as he pleased.

  Egan covered her fists with his hands, the two of them sinking deeper into the feather mattress as the bed strained with the onslaught. Just when Zarabeth thought it would break or she would, Egan shouted, reaching his peak.

  He went on thrusting into her until she cried out herself, everything hot and slick and tight where they joined. It was wild and dark, hot and crazed, and she laughed even as tears slid from her eyes. Egan’s breathing was hoarse, Zarabeth’s little better as they rode their pleasure together.

  After a long time, Zarabeth fell to the bed, half numb, Egan on top of her, both of them gasping.

  They lay tangled in each other, while everything stilled.

  How long had passed, Zarabeth didn’t know, when Egan touched her wet face. “Are ye all right?”

  She nodded, too spent to answer. He’d made her feel beautiful—taken hurt and sorrow and changed it to ease and joy. Zarabeth was limp, relaxed, every limb stretched and warm.

  Egan cuddled her close, and they lay together, touching and kissing in silence. Zarabeth for once felt no need to talk. Just basking in his arms made her sleepy and happy.

  She traced the outlines of his face, liking how his mouth naturally curved down. Egan had tiny lines in the corners of his eyes, white patches from squinting at the sun.

  Zarabeth wished with all her heart the wasted years between them hadn’t happened. If she hadn’t been so young and foolish, if she’d not driven him away, they might have remained friends, and she wouldn’t have so foolishly married Sebastian.

  Her father had encouraged the match with Sebastian and had been happy when she’d acquiesced, but Zarabeth knew in her heart she’d jumped at the chance to marry because she’d been angry with Egan.

  How dare he? the young, hurt Zarabeth had thought. How dare Egan call her a child when a sophisticated duke like Sebastian wanted her? She would show him to what lofty heights she could rise. If Egan returned and begged to be her lover, she might condescend to think about it.

  Half a decade of of misery for one hasty, pride-filled decision. Zarabeth realized she’d blamed Egan at first for Sebastian’s abuse, because Egan hadn’t come to rescue her. He’d left her alone to pay for her own mistake.

  “I wish,” she whispered then stopped.

  Egan trickled her hair through his fingers. “You wish what, lass?”

  “I wish I didn’t love you so much.”

  He stilled, his eyes shuttering to her as they had last night after she’d accepted his proposal.

  “Is that so a bad thing?” Egan asked quietly, not looking at her.

  She’d wanted to say, I wish I hadn’t been so angry at you. I wish I could have sent for you. I wish I could have had you in my life.

  “Many things would be easier,” she said.

  “What things, love?”

  “I don’t know. Never mind.” She moved uneasily. “I meant nothing.”

  Egan continued to stroke her hair. “Ye flatter me, saying ye love this wreck of a man. Do ye know how old I am?”

  Zarabeth shook her head, but of course she knew—she knew everything about Egan. He was thirty-six, exactly thirteen years older than she was.

  “Nearly forty,” Egan said.

  Zarabeth gave him a mock amazed look. “As much as that? Dear me, you ought to have told me before I agreed to marry you.”

  Egan didn’t laugh. “Lass, ye want a young man to be young with. I was used up and spent before ye even met me.”

  “Nonsense. I thought you quite dashing.” She had, in her youthful, romantic dreams.

  “Nay, I’d already dashed. I’m finished w’ dashing.”

  Zarabeth gave him an amused look. “Don’t be silly, you run about quite well.”

  Egan nuzzled her cheek. “Ye make an old man feel better.”

  Zarabeth wished she knew what he was truly thinking. Regret that he’d bedded the daughter of his friend when he’d vowed not to? Regret that he hadn’t come for her when she’d needed him?

  When Zarabeth read people, she only had to open herself to their thoughts, to slide between the layers of chaos in their minds. It was easier when she looked into their eyes, as she had to with people like Valentin, who knew how to keep their thoughts controlled.

  She raised up on her elbow and gazed into Egan’s eyes, the gold flecks in the deep brown mesmerizing.

  Nothing. As usual.

  She didn’t understand why his mind was closed to her, the clamor that
surrounded most people utterly silent.

  Egan cupped her cheek in his palm. “What is it, love?”

  Zarabeth gave him a quick smile. “Nothing.”

  His brows lowered the slightest bit. “Why do ye look at me like that? You used t’ do it when ye were a girl, and then ye’d look away as though you were disappointed.”

  Her brows rose in surprise. “Disappointed?” A strange idea.

  “Finding me lacking. I see ye give that penetrating stare to others and then look satisfied, like ye understand something.”

  “I do?”

  Oh, dear. Zarabeth had always prided herself on having learned to control her gift so the barrage of thoughts didn’t crush her. All the while she’d never thought that other people might be reading her—perhaps not her thoughts, but her face.

  “Ye do.” Egan stretched himself out next to her, sharing her pillow, his broad hand splayed on her waist. “I wonder sometimes. Ye can make potions and charms, simple magic, ye say. But what else can ye do? Can ye see what people are thinking?”

  Zarabeth sat up, startled. He shouldn’t know that. He couldn’t.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” he asked. “I’ve been watching ye all these years and thinking it through. You’re Nvengarian, why shouldn’t ye have such magic?”

  Chapter 18

  Lessons from Friends

  Zarabeth felt queasy. Never in her life had she admitted to any person except her mother what she could do, and then only because her mother had possessed the same gift.

  “My mother could read thoughts,” Zarabeth said slowly. “As a child I could always hear her in my mind, and she could hear me. I thought everyone could do such things, but she taught me that what we had was unusual, and she taught me how to control it.”

  “Ye never told me.” Egan’s tone was flat, as were his eyes.

  She clenched her hands. “How could I? I didn’t want you to look at me as you’re looking at me now, and besides, I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

  Egan didn’t move. “Does your father know?”

  She nodded. “I think so. Because of my mother. We never talked of it, but he must know, or guess.”

  Egan laced his hands behind his head and rolled over to lie on his back, taking up most of the bed. “I’ve always wondered how ye found me in the dark the night ye rescued me. It was dark as the inside of hell, and I was a long way off the road, and yet ye knew to stop for me. Ye must have heard my worries that I’d never get out of there alive.”