Highlander Ever After Read online

“Lass,” Egan said in a stunned voice.

  Zarabeth stood before him with the pin in her hand, her blue eyes sparkling.

  His dreams of her had already made him hard, and he’d gone completely rigid when she’d showed him the key, a roguish smile on her face.

  The hollow of her throat was damp and tendrils of her dark hair curled against her cheek. She smelled sweet, like sleep and herself, and her bed was warm with the heat of her body.

  Zarabeth let her gaze rove downward to rest on his stiff cock. He could never pretend he wanted to be only friends with her with that waving like a flag.

  She did not seem at all dismayed. She moved close again, her bare feet whispering on the floor, her gaze hot and blue. She placed her hand on Egan’s chest, fingers splayed right over his heart.

  “My Highlander,” she said, a lilt in her voice.

  Egan couldn’t catch his breath. He should shove her aside, grab the key and his kilt and get the hell out of that room. But he couldn’t move. He who could have scooped her over his shoulder as easy as anything was pinned in place by her light, slender fingers.

  “My Highlander,” she repeated in a whisper.

  He saw the hunger in her eyes. Women had been hungry for him before, but they’d simply wanted a male in their beds, a skilled lover. Zarabeth wanted him, Egan, and he saw the difference.

  The difference made his body roasting hot and rock hard.

  “Lass, you’re killin’ me.”

  Consternation flickered through her eyes followed by another smile. She thought he was teasing her.

  Her fingers traveled his body, skimming over the ridges of his abdomen, across the flat of his pelvis, all the way down to his arousal. He groaned, heartfelt.

  Zarabeth’s glance flicked to him in surprise. But how could he not react? Her beautiful, questing fingers heated his skin, and he wanted her so much he throbbed with it.

  Egan clenched his hands as she explored his cock, tracing the tip. He was ready to grab her and fling her onto the bed, rip the nightrail open to reveal her lovely body. Ready to part her legs and thrust himself inside her.

  No preparing her, no tenderness, just desire that raced through him and made him insane.

  Zarabeth deserved better than that. Her husband had used her—she didn’t need to be used now by the man she called her friend.

  She continued to touch his cock, her gaze riveted to it as though fascinated. Egan could tell she’d never laid fingers on a man like this before—her touch was too tentative, too light, and she hesitated a long time before she dipped her hand to his balls.

  “Will you lie on the bed for me?” she asked shyly. “Please?”

  I’m going to die right now, and it will be worth it.

  Egan touched her cheek, loving the absolute softness of her skin. “Ye shouldn’t be so beautiful when ye say that.”

  She blushed, but her eyes glinted with mischief. He obliged her by lying across the covers of her bed. This put him at exactly the right height for her to lean over him, rest her hands on either side of him, and fit her mouth over his cock.

  Reason disappeared. All Egan felt was her hot breath on him, the press of her tongue, the swift scrape of her teeth.

  She was not schooled at this, he realized. Zarabeth had learned the theory but not the practice, which meant Egan must be the first man she’d tasted thus. The thought absurdly pleased him. It also confirmed that her husband had been a complete fool.

  Down comforters cradled Egan’s back, a counterpoint to the warmth of Zarabeth’s hands and the madness up and down his cock. He wound his hands through her hair, peeling apart her braid to let her thick curls fall to his body.

  Egan had dreamed of this plenty of times, Zarabeth pleasuring him while he threaded his fingers through her silken hair, but the reality was so much better. His Zarabeth, learning the ways of pleasure on him.

  He couldn’t stand it. Egan’s muscles tightened as he stopped himself seizing her and taking her any way he wanted. Part of him urged, Yes, have her! Another place in his mind said, No, don’t hurt her. She’s too fragile.

  His fragile lady nibbled his tip.

  Egan roared, not caring who heard. He dragged her to him, glorying in the friction of her nightdress across his bare body. He rolled her onto the featherbed and opened her mouth with his.

  They sank into the down, Egan’s lips slanting over hers, hungrily taking her mouth. Zarabeth made a little noise in her throat, not of protest, but surrender.

  He broke the kiss, and Zarabeth clutched at him desperately. Her eyes were dark in the shadows, her lips swollen and moist.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please, Egan.”

  “Ye should leave me.” Of course she wouldn’t—this was her bedchamber, but logic was not in the forefront of his brain.

  “I don’t want to,” she said, voice catching. “I need you.”

  Her soft admission broke him. Egan eased his weight off her long enough to hurriedly unbutton her nightrail.

  Her breasts came into view, the softness he’d bared in the Ring of Dunmarran. The same madness he’d felt in the stone circle permeated him as he tugged the nightrail open to her waist.

  Her lush body beckoned him, her waist curving to full hips, her navel a sweet oval. He leaned down and licked it, and she squirmed, laughing.

  She stopped laughing when Egan smiled evilly and ripped the nightdress all the way open.

  Egan’s smile vanished as their bodies pressed to each other’s, heat sealing them together. His arousal lay heavily against her hip, and her breasts pressed his chest, his heart pounding.

  Everything slowed. Egan felt her warm breath on his face, inhaled the scents of Zarabeth and the faint perfume she always wore. Not a heavy fragrance, just a light spice, a whiff of which could make him long for her.

  Her hair had come all the way unbound, the black glory of it snaking around her. Egan wanted to bury himself in her hair, drag it across his throat, kiss it. Kiss her.

  Her lashes swept down once, twice, his Zarabeth once more shy. Her eyes were midnight blue in the dark room, her gaze returning to his in hope.

  She wanted him to make love to her. He saw in her eyes that she’d planned this, down to luring him into the room and tossing away the key. She’d seduced him.

  “Lass,” he said against her cheek. “You’re a vixen.”

  For answer she kissed him on the corner of his mouth.

  Egan slid his hand between her thighs, finding her wet and ready. He nudged her legs apart and pressed his tip to her opening.

  They lay face to face, breath to breath, while he let her get used to him. Zarabeth slid languid fingers through his hair, her eyes half closing.

  Egan shuddered. It was all he could do to stay calm, to not take her in a frenzy. Zarabeth smiled at him, completely trusting. She thought she was in control, that she could seduce him and have everything her way.

  She was wrong.

  The truth was that Egan could do what he liked, and Zarabeth couldn’t stop him. Some ladies liked that, liked a frisson of fear as they surrendered control to Egan, wondering what he’d do.

  Zarabeth only smiled, believing her Highlander would never hurt her.

  She was right.

  Egan very carefully took his weight on his hands and slid himself inside her.

  Everything stopped. Egan’s entire body shuddered, cold and heat washing through him in waves. He was inside this lass, his love, and she was opening to him, welcoming him in.

  Her smile widened, and Egan kissed that smile, taking his time, while she bent her knees, drawing her legs up and lifting her hips. He gently rocked into her, gradually increasing his speed while he clenched his fists on the featherbed.

  “Zarabeth.” His voice was ragged.

  He needed her, had needed this woman all the years since he’d first kissed her. Egan had roamed the world, seeking what, he did not know, moving restlessly from place to place, never wanting to come home.

  Because Za
rabeth hadn’t been here. Castle MacDonald had been a place to him, not a home—it never had been a home. This was his father’s house, and Charlie’s, never Egan’s in spirit.

  Now that Zarabeth had come, he never wanted to leave.

  But she’d leave him. She’d return to Nvengaria with her father once it was safe and live there, and Castle MacDonald would be cold and empty for him again.

  He couldn’t let that happen.

  Egan emitted a groan as his control snapped. Zarabeth drew a sharp breath then laughed out loud as he started to pump swiftly into her, the bed rocking and creaking with his exertion.

  Zarabeth arched to him, lips parting to let out a sound of pleasure. Her faint moan, the passionate softness on her face, and the way she squeezed him finished it for him. Egan drove hard into her, spilling his seed into her welcome heat.

  Zarabeth squirmed beneath him and laughed, enjoying every last second before he collapsed on top of her, breathing like a man running from what he feared most.

  * * *

  Zarabeth lay very still as Egan’s weight covered her like the best blanket. His ragged breaths heated her skin, and his sweat-soaked body was slick beneath her fingers.

  She carefully said nothing. She knew she couldn’t bear it if he leapt away from her, snatching up his kilt to flee, leaving her bereft and cold once more.

  Egan did none of these things. He kissed her face with warm lips, his mouth and tongue traveling over her cheeks, along her jaw, pausing to suckle her earlobe.

  Zarabeth put her arms around him and held on, scarcely daring to believe this was real. She’d made love with her Highlander, and he’d gazed at her in passion and made her feel giddy and wanted. No wonder ladies across Europe had giggled madly when Zarabeth had admitted that, yes, she was great friends with Egan MacDonald of Scotland.

  When she’d taken him into her mouth he’d tasted of salt and warmth, a heady spice. His shaft had been smooth and tight, unlike what she’d thought it would feel like. She’d never tasted a man there before, never had the desire to.

  Never until she had Egan stretched out before her, his hardness thick and ready for her. She hadn’t been able to stop herself licking him, tasting him, nibbling on him. How splendid that she could drive him mad with only the flick of her tongue.

  Sleep began to come at her, and she didn’t want it. Zarabeth knew that if she fell asleep, he’d be gone when she awoke.

  Egan slid off her to land on his side against her, his strong leg twining hers. He smoothed her hair from her face, and smiled, his eyes warm.

  “Are ye sleepy, love?”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Before ye sleep, I want to do something for ye.”

  She couldn’t imagine what. She nodded again.

  Egan pulled the loose bedcovers around them, tucking them into a warm nest. Under the covers he smoothed her breast, circling the nipple with his thumb until it tightened into a hard peak.

  A fiery tingle spread through Zarabeth’s body, and then Egan’s fingers were between her thighs, finding her sensitive places. He began massaging and rubbing, tickling and teasing, fingers moving swiftly and surely.

  Zarabeth had never felt anything like this. She’d believed herself ready for sleep, but now her eyes widened and her body came off the bed, eager for his touch. She cried out, and he laughed and caught the sound in his mouth.

  She continued to writhe, grinding herself against his palm and the wonderful sensation of his fingers. The intensity of it flowed over her in wave after incredible wave.

  Egan wound her to an unbearable hot point, her heart pounding and aching, her body stiff with need.

  Just when she thought she wouldn’t be able to take any more, Egan rolled onto her and entered her once again. The frenzy with which he rode her far eclipsed what they’d done the first time, his hips pounding against hers, his mouth on hers in swift, raw kisses. Zarabeth shrieked like a wanton and begged him to take her, harder, faster.

  At last Egan groaned, his hips stilling, and Zarabeth came crashing down to the bed. She was awake, wide awake, but at the same time, utterly spent.

  Egan kissed her for a long time, as greedily as before, then he rolled off her and tucked her with him into the blankets.

  As her body stopped moving, black sleep hit her. Zarabeth reached for Egan, whispered, “Don’t leave me,” then fell into the abyss.

  * * *

  Baron Valentin’s eyes snapped open, and Mary jerked back. The room was dark except for the firelight and a few candles, but his blue eyes seemed to glow.

  He snaked one hand around Mary’s wrist, his fingers like steel, and snarled words that sounded like nonsense.

  “I don’t understand,” Mary said breathlessly. “Is that Nvengarian? I’ve never learned it.”

  Valentin growled in frustration, and then before Mary’s startled eyes, his hand began to change. His fingers grew long and misshapen, his skin becoming gray and mottled like a snake’s. Mary tried to wrench herself away, and bit back a scream when she couldn’t escape his strength.

  Abruptly, Valentin released her and thumped back to the pillow. Heart racing, Mary ran for the door.

  “Don’t go.” A hoarse whisper behind her made her halt. “Please.”

  Mary turned. Valentin lay exhausted on the bed, the white bandage on his shoulder stark against his chest. His skin was darker than a Highlander’s, a line of jet-black hair feathering across his pectorals. His hand had returned to normal, and his face was wan with fatigue. He regarded her with tired eyes, the glow gone.

  Mary felt a twinge of remorse and returned to the bedside. Her wrist ached where he’d seized her, but she would not abandon him when he was so ill.

  She sat down, reaching for the cool cloth to wipe his brow.

  “What happened to me?” he asked, his voice weak.

  “You don’t remember?” Mary dabbed his face. “Someone shot you. Egan found you out by the Ring of Dunmarran. Without your clothes, by the way.”

  “Who shot me?” Valentin grasped her arm again, but this time kept his touch light. “It is important.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t remember it at all.”

  Mary shook her head. “Egan didn’t see anyone. He found only you.”

  “Is Zarabeth hurt?”

  “No,” she assured him. “She is safe in her room, and Egan is guarding her.”

  “Thank the gods.”

  Valentin subsided but kept his hand on her forearm, blunt fingers caressing, as though he tried to make up for hurting her.

  Mary chose not to ask how his hand had seemed to change into that of a monster. Egan had told her that Nvengaria was full of magic and magical people, and Mary believed him. She had been raised a Scotswoman—her childhood filled with tales of selkies and brownies and Fair Folk and the mischievous Red Cap—until she half believed the stories. Apparently, in Nvengaria, such tales were true.

  “The shot was clean, the surgeon said,” Mary told him briskly. “If you rest and we keep the wound clean, you should take no harm from it.”

  Valentin let his fingers drift up from her arm to touch her face. Mary stilled, and the cloth dangling in her hand dripped water onto her skirt.

  “You are lonely,” he said softly.

  “No.” Mary’s voice sounded raw and wrong. “I have Dougal and Egan, and my cousins and friends.”

  Valentin slid his fingers down to rest between her breasts. “Your heart is lonely. I can feel it.”

  Mary could feel it too. Her husband, Neil Cameron, had been popular in Edinburgh, but he hadn’t been much interested in the wife he’d married to give himself an heir. Mary had enjoyed being a hostess, had thrilled with pride when Dougal was born—and then discovered that her husband was an inveterate gambler who’d quickly run through his fortune and hers.

  Neil had grown ill and died when he’d learned of his complete ruin, leaving Mary and Dougal penniless. Egan had paid the debts without q
uestion and brought Mary home to Castle MacDonald to recover.

  It had taken years before Mary had banished the shame, and she’d lost her trust in dashing, handsome men. She’d had a brief, discreet affair with an Englishman earlier this year, but she’d been unable to engage her heart, and had parted from him.

  “I choose to be lonely,” she said.

  Valentin didn’t answer. He traced her cheek, sliding his fingers to the line of her hair. Before Mary could stop herself, she leaned to him and kissed him, closing her eyes as their lips met.

  Valentin made a noise in his throat, and then he was kissing her hard, lips opening hers and tongue sweeping into her mouth. He tasted wild, like midnight air—dark and exciting.

  Mary had never experienced a kiss this fierce. She found herself responding, her lips as fervent as his, her heart hammering. Valentin’s hand slid through her hair, loosening her curls.

  For an injured man he was very strong, and Mary knew he could do to her what he wanted. The thought should have frightened her, but exhilaration tingled through her body, and she knew she’d not try very hard to stop him.

  “Mary,” he murmured as he eased away. “Your name, it is beautiful.”

  She felt herself blush. “’Tis plain and dull.”

  “No. Simple and lovely.”

  Valentin kissed her again, slowly this time, as though memorizing her taste.

  All at once he thumped back to the pillow, his strength spent. Mary sat up in alarm, realizing the wet cloth had soaked water through her skirt. Valentin’s face was gray again, his breathing shallow, but his hand locked around hers as his eyes slid closed.

  “Stay with me, Mary. Do not let them …”

  His words trailed to silence. Sick with fear, Mary put her hand over his heart but found it beating hard and strong.

  “Do not let them what?” She gazed at him in fear as he lay silently, but she closed her hand over his and held it tightly. “Don’t worry,” she said, though she knew he couldn’t hear. “I won’t leave you alone. I promise.”

  Chapter 15

  The Ancient Tunnels of Castle MacDonald