Page 26 of Wed to the Highlander
“Heart-wrenchingly so,” she whispered.
“Do you believe it’s haunted?”
She turned to face him, head falling back to meet his gaze. “I’m not sure, but my mother believes ancient places like this can hear your promises. That once spoken, a vow made can never be broken.”
His expression softened, lips tipping up just a bit. “Your Scots mother. Which is why it is similar to what my kin believe.”
He took her hand to head back. A sudden gust of wind blew Maggie’s hair across her face; it rustled the fallen leaves and whistled through the broken walls of the old chapel as if asking a question. They turned back a moment, hands gripped tighter. Neither of them answered, but on the ride back, Maggie couldn’t help wondering what it wanted to know.
After the kirk, she found herself watching him differently, listening for the meanings between his words. Days later, under a flawless spring sky, he gave her another memory to keep.
Spring was more than a promise, and they shed their heavy garments with relief. Duncan had a luncheon packed, and they rode to a meadow bursting with wildflowers—primrose and narcissus in pale yellow and blush pink.
“It’s not even April yet,” she exclaimed, plucking a fragrant flower.
“They bloom early here,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “They ken the seasons better than the calendar.”
Before she could reply, he dipped his head and kissed her. Slow but heated, she was soon breathless and leaning into him. Then he led her into the tallest grass and spread his plaid on the ground.
“Here?”
“Now,” he murmured, and kissed her again.
As he drew her down with him, the scent of spring curled around them—earthy, floral, the windswept scent of his skin.
She protested weakly against his mouth. “Someone might see.”
“No one’s out here.”
“But what if—”
His lips claimed hers, silencing the doubt. He unfastened buttons and ties as she tugged off his coat and made quick work of his linen shirt. Her hands glided up his bared chest while he traced her curves as the breeze swirled her loosened hair around her shoulders.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “You overshadow the first blooms of spring.”
He laid her back in the wildflowers and kissed his way down the curve of her throat, the hollow of her collarbone, the rise of her breast.
Her breath hitched. “Duncan…”
“I’m here,” he whispered hoarsely as he sipped a nipple into his mouth.
She arched toward him, fingers trembling as they sank into his hair. “I want you, now.”
He pushed her skirt up as she frantically pulled on his belt. “No need,” he said, as he rucked his kilt up and freed himself. Their bodies met in a slow, aching rhythm—no rush, no urgency. The grass cradled them, the sky above them watched without judgment, and Maggie felt herself unraveling, blooming, soaring.
He groaned her name, and she clung to him as the world narrowed to touch and breath and the sound of their pleasure.
Afterward, her breathing still rapid, Maggie lay back against the soft crush of fragrant grass and primrose, her hair tangled with petals, a smile on her lips. Duncan propped himself on one elbow beside her, one knee cocked skyward, his eyes gleaming with mischief and a good deal of satisfaction.
“That kilt might not be proper,” she murmured, tracing a lazy finger along his bare thigh, “but I have to admit—it’s mighty convenient on an afternoon picnic.”
Duncan grinned, unabashed. “At any time, lass. Why do ya think men insist women wear skirts?”
She snorted, half scandalized, half delighted. “You’re irredeemable. A shameless Highlander with no drawers to speak of.”
“Untrue,” he said, looking around, “I’ve left my linen breeks around here somewhere.”
She laughed, delighted.
