Page 61 of Wed to the Highlander
“Is that what you think?”
“That’s what I know.”
“What does the dowager think of this grand scheme?”
“I haven’t told her yet, but she’s always up for an adventure. No Highland spirit—living or dead—would dare cross her when she’s protecting her daughter and grandchild.”
Duncan snorted. “Another sassenach invasion is no’ exactly what my kin are hoping for.”
Her fingers went to his shirt buttons, working them free with deliberate slowness, her voice dipping warmer. “Please…”
“Why? You’re happy here.”
“And you’re miserable,” she countered, pushing the linen aside to smooth her palms over his bare skin. “Oh, you smile for the world—wit and charm to spare—but I ken you, Duncan MacPherson.”
One brow arched. “You ken me?”
“Aye,” she teased, gliding her hands up his chest to his shoulders. “You might be standing in Mayfair, but your head is roaming the hills of High Glen.”
“Then you ken why it’s too great a risk tae take you back.”
“But the sickness has passed. I’m robust.” She dropped her hands to her belly, splaying them over the roundness of their child sleeping and growing there. The movement tugged her neckline lower, her full breasts nearly spilling out. It wasn’t by accident, nor was the result, his gaze shifting downward. “Besides,” she continued lightly, “I’ll have Mama, half the Sommerville staff, and a midwife. A veritable bulwark of protection surrounding me.”
His eyes returned to hers. “You’re no’ persuading me.”
Her lips curved at the challenge. “Then I’ll have to try harder.”
Before he could reply, she kissed him whisper-soft, as her fingers drifted lower over the hard plane of his abdomen.
“I know when I’m being worked upon,” he murmured against her lips.
“Do you mind?” she asked sweetly, her hand continuing downward until her fingers curled boldly around the solid length of him.
His breath hissed between his teeth. “What do you think?”
“I think,” she said with mock solemnity, stroking him lazily, “that I’m very persuasive when I wish to be.”
His laugh was low and rough. “You’re playing a dangerous game, lass.”
“I’m counting on it.” Her voice dropped to a purr. “Say yes.”
“No.”
Her fingers slipped inside his trousers, closing around his hardness with clear intent.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He swore under his breath, his hands gripping her hips and hauling her flush against him. “You’ll be the death of me.”
“In a few minutes, if we continue, yes indeed,” she teased, her mouth demanding now, lips hot and hungry.
“Fine,” he growled, sweeping her up into his arms, “but if your mother frightens my clansmen, you’ll answer for it.”
Maggie’s smile was triumphant as he laid her on the coverlet, his body covering hers. “If the answer involves me over the laird’s lap, bare to the waist, with his hands all over me, I’ll take my chances.”
There was no more talk of Scotland, or mothers, or stubborn Highlanders. Only tangled limbs, eager hands, the heat of skin on skin, and the surrender of a man who would do anything to keep her safe, and a woman who had just won the most intimate of victories.
***
