Page 43 of When a Highlander Weds a Hellion
His eyebrows shot up with his surprise. “Do ye mean—”
“Aye, Husband,” she purred, enjoying his look of astonishment, followed swiftly by eager anticipation. She felt suddenly powerful. “Lie on yer back.”
“I’m yers to command, Wife,” he responded in a lazy, seductive voice.
And in this moment, he was, because he allowed it, because he trusted her. Nothing could have made her feel stronger or more loved than that. She first took the length of him in her hands, touching him hesitantly, but by his eager grunts, she began to discover what he liked. When she felt more confidant, she took him in her mouth. His body tensed, and then his hands fisted in her hair as he let out a guttural moan, emboldening her to show him the same attention he’d shown her earlier. Soon, her warrior husband was like clay in her hands, and excitement raced through her as she brought him to the same heights to which he had taken her.
When she was finished, she lay back, assuming he’d be sated and fulfilled, but he hovered over her, brought his hands under her buttocks, and slid into her. He filled her completely and perfectly, and together they began to move in a rhythm only the two of them would ever share. Soon, her heart pounded, her breath came in gasps, and she cried out, clenching his torso between her thighs. But Broch was not one to give mercy. He slowed his strokes, making her growl at him, and then increased them once more, until her body, tight as a coil, sprang and gave way to the warmth of bliss only he could bring her.
Afterward, she lay with her cheek resting on his chest, and her leg over his. “Who do ye think poisoned ye?” she asked in the darkness of their chamber.
“I dunnae ken, but tomorrow, I intend to seek out the bard once again and see if he recalls any stories of old that might shed light on the ongoing problems. Do ye wish to accompany me?”
She grinned up at him. “I wish to thank Esmerelda. Yer brother told me how she made a cure for ye.”
“Aye, ’tis what he told me, as well. I’ve nae had a chance to thank her. I’ll likely be gone most of the morning. I’d like ye nae to walk the grounds, if ye will be so kind as to oblige.”
She loved him so much for asking and not demanding. “I will stay in the castle. I vow it.”
Seventeen
“Ye’re grinning like a fool,” Brodee said to Broch as they rode through the woods.
The bard’s cottage appeared up ahead, and Broch brought his horse to a stop and looked over at his brother, who had insisted on going with Broch to ensure he was fit for the journey. He grinned as he thought of his joining with Katreine that morning. Oh, he definitely had the strength to ride his horse.
“It’s certain. Marriage has made ye a clot-heid,” Brodee teased with a roll of his eyes.
“Aye, it has,” Broch agreed happily. “I’m a clot-heid for my wife. And ye’re jealous.”
There was a time, not long ago, Broch would not have said such a thing to Brodee, but things were well between them, and Brodee had told Broch on the journey today that he had spoken to their father as they had both watched over Broch in the night. Their father had asked for forgiveness for the distance he’d put between them and for being so critical of Brodee, and had begged for them to start over. Broch could not have been more pleased. Everything he’d wanted was in the palms of his hands. That familiar sense of wariness that something would be snatched from him overcame him, as did the urge to see the bard immediately and discover if he had any valuable information.
“Come,” Broch said, setting his horse to a trot and not waiting for Brodee to respond. Broch did not lessen his pace until he was almost at the bard’s door. He dismounted quickly and knocked, hearing Brodee approach behind him. As Brodee came to stand beside him, Alban opened the door.
His silver eyebrows raised over wise eyes creased with many lines. “What brings the two of ye to me this day?” His voice crackled like a dying fire.
“We are hoping ye might recall some stories from the time we were born,” Broch said, motioning between himself and Brodee.
“I dunnae think I ken any that ye would nae already have heard from Blackswell, but I’ll tell ye what I can recall.” Alban gestured them inside.
They entered the small, one-room cottage, and Alban indicated two chairs. “Take a seat,” he said, then hobbled to the hearth and slowly lowered himself to the ledge, his joints cracking as he sat. Inhaling deeply, the old man placed his hands, the skin looking almost paper-thin, upon his knees. “What do ye seek to ken, so I may understand the best stories to recall?”
Brodee and Broch exchanged a quick look, and then, as if by a silent agreement, Broch spoke. “We seek to find the person responsible for murdering Arabel and Lenora.”
Brodee quickly reminded the bard who the two women were, and then Broch continued. “And more recently, my wife, Katreine, was pushed from the ledge where her sister died. Katreine lived, but we think the same person who pushed her likely murdered the two women.”
Alban scratched at his beard for a long moment, then looked between the two brothers. “I’m an old man now, aye, but let me see…” The man looked as if he were gazing through a window to the past. “There was once a powerful laird known throughout the land for his prowess.”
Brodee chuckled. “That would be our father in his youth,” to which Alban glared at him.
“Dunnae interrupt,” the bard instructed in firm tone.
Brodee quickly nodded.
“The laird had many lovers,” Alban went on, “until one particular woman, a healer with hair the color of a black night, bewitched him.”
Broch frowned. He only knew one healer—Esmerelda. But surely, the bard was not referring to her. “What was this leman’s name?” he asked.
Alban scowled at him. “Do the two of ye wish to hear my story or nae?”
