Page 27 of The Lass Initiated the Laird (Explosive Highlanders 3.5)

he poured four glasses with amber liquid. “Have you ever tried the best whisky in the Highlands, Mrs Stratham?” he asked, as he and his brother-in-law, The McKendrick always jested when they met.

She smiled openly. “Yes, these past weeks.”

Satisfied with her answer, he raised his glass. “I have not a clue whether I’m doing the right thing here. But one fact I’m sure of, I wish you to be as happy as I am, son.” With that, he tossed the drink.

“Thank you, papa,” Samuel responded and all the glasses emptied.

When they had put their drinks down, Sam fished for something in his pocket to produce the leather pouch she had seen back in the inn. From it he took the ring he had bought in Gretna Green. Looking at it better now, Harriet saw it was a simple band in gold with a stylized flower on top of it.

He knelt before her, tousled slick hair, eyes shining behind the spectacles. “Harriet, will you do me the honour of being my wife?”

“Son, you need not give her such a simple ring, we have heirlooms scattered all over the place.” Taran interposed.

Harriet turned to him. “If you don’t mind, Laird McDougal. Samuel proposed with this ring in the sweetest way possible, I’d love to have it from him.”

Aileen eyed her surprised at her uncomplicated tastes.

As Harriet returned her gaze to her betrothed, he said, “I bought it because of the flower.”

She lowered her eyes as scarlet colour bloomed on her face. He had compared her intimate parts with a flower that first time. “Oh, Samuel!” she breathed between embarrassment and elation.

Her future husband put the ring on her finger and kissed her hand with heated adoration.

In the weeks that followed, a blur of activity dominated the manor. Sam and his bride would get married here before departing south.

They kept it simple, just the family and the household. The ceremony would take place in the old chapel in the manor.

Dressed in his full tartan—crisp white shirt, red and black tartan pinned to his shoulders, sporran, kilt hose and ghillie brogues—Sam stood in his full height at the altar, waiting for his bride. He remembered years ago sitting on the front pew with two of his kin, Fergus and Gracie, as witnesses to his father and Aileen’s wedding. Only there had been no wedding that day.

Harriet came in on his father’s arm dressed in a demure cream satin frock, flowers in her hands. She was the most beautiful bride in the entire universe. His eyes lit at the sight of her joy written all over her flawless face.

“May you be very happy, Lady McDougal,” one of Samuel’s kin wished her afterwards. Harriet almost turned to Aileen before it hit her the woman was talking to her. Lady McDougal she had become not an hour ago. It would take a while for her to get used to it.

On her husband’s arm she made her way to the wedding breakfast. “You look very impressive in your Scottish attire,” she praised him under her breath.

“Thanks, wife,” he replied and smiled sheepish. “It proves extremely practical in certain…circumstances.”

The provocation made steam escape from every single pore of her. He had made it a point to inform her that Scots wore no underwear. Darn it! That made…everything so much simpler!

“Behave yourself, husband,” she admonished with an amused glint in her eyes.

“Only until tonight,” he insisted in answering.

But when tonight finally came, they barely had time to enter Samuel’s chambers, crazed with want. He made her lie on the bed, rucked her skirts up, rucked his tented tartan up to display a full, dripping erection that he dipped in her impatient channel unceremoniously.

“Bluidy hell, Harriet!” he rasped, panting. “You’re so wet, so hot,” he thrust deep. “And you’re gripping me like doomsday!” he became frantic. “What did you do?”

She had no answer, but when he yanked her bodice down to gobble her breasts, they were so tender she fell off the edge with his mere caressing them. Perhaps she was about to bleed, her body became more sensitive in those days.

Well, if she was about to bleed, it seemed a strange one, she mused next day as she sat with Taran and Aileen at breakfast; having left an extremely exhausted Samuel to sleep a little more as he had not tired of taking her the whole night.

The simple smell of eggs made her stomach roil. She had no choice but excuse herself to rush to her dressing room. After she had composed herself, she opened the door, nearly stumbling on Aileen.

The other woman inspected her from head to toe. “How late are you?”

All kinds of blush surfaced on her skin while her head made hurried calculations. Wide eyes, mouth agape, she looked at the Scottish woman. “Two weeks!” What the blazes had happened, she had not even realised it?

Disguised mirth suffused on her friend’s face. “Well, the two of you did work fast!”

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