Page 13 of Taken By the Ruthless Highlander
“Thank ye,” Morgana said, her electric blue eyes flicking to the bundle of white heather and wildflowers.
“Shall we begin?” the priest asked, smiling.
And with four short sentences, two drops of blood, and a pledge, Morgana was officially Ryder’s wife.
The fact sent an unexpected wave of pleasure through him. After all, he had returned to reclaim his birthright, not to become shackled by some vows of a hastily arranged marriage.
But as he guided her through the crowd, presenting her as his wife, he couldn’t ignore the sharp glares and whispers from his clansfolk. Their veiled threats grated on his nerves and only kindled the flames of his protectiveness.
Morgana was his now—the clan wouldn’t dare touch her.
Despite the title ringing strong and true, Ryder couldn’t ignore the irritation festering within him.
“Congratulations,” Tormod offered as Ryder pushed through the dangling wreaths of flowers and ferns. There was a tinge of anger in his voice that put Ryder on edge.
“Thank ye, Braither,” Morgana said as she stepped through the wreaths.
“And where did ye get that dress?” Tormod asked, giving her a once-over.
The scrutiny and judgment in the lad’s eyes only added kindle to Ryder’s irritation.
“It was the late Lady McKenzie’s,” Morgana answered, much to her husband’s surprise.
Whatever insult he had planned to hurl had been shelved away. How did she know about the dress?
His chest tightened as he felt her gaze linger on him—not with frustration or shame, but with a tinge of nostalgia.
“Is it nae lovely?”
Ryder watched as her hands trailed down her curves. The thought of running his hands over her overshadowed all else.
He no longer cared about the celebration or the traditions. What he wanted was for his wife to satisfy his carnal needs. After all, what was the point of being married if he couldn’t enjoy the marriage bed?
“It is,” Tormod answered with a smirk as he took his sister’s hand. “And if it’s all the same to ye, I was wonderin’ if I could have the first dance?”
Morgana glanced up at Ryder, and the hope in her eyes broke his resolve. Had he expected her to sit by his side the whole time?
“Go on,” he answered with a nod of his head.
“Ye’ve got some explainin’ to do,” he overheard Tormod grumble the second he turned his back to them.
As much as he wanted to put Tormod in his place, he restrained himself. This marriage wasn’t just for him; Morgana had a part in it too. And Ryder was a patient man.
As soon as he took his seat, servants rushed to fill his plate and cup. But it wasn’t food Ryder wanted. He wanted to taste his wife’s sweet lips.
How easy it was for the fantasy to play out as the music shifted into a livelier beat.
Ryder’s attention lingered on Morgana. He envisioned undoing each of the buttons on the back of her dress. His body tingled at the thought of exploring her nakedness in front of everyone.
He let out a long sigh as his body responded to the visions he was toying with.
“Ye look pleased with yerself.” Cohen’s voice raked through Ryder’s fantasy like a machete cutting through the vast, wild moors.
“Of course. With a bride like Morgana, why would I nae be?” Ryder replied, looking up at him.
Cohen furrowed his brow. There was something about his expression that was off-putting.
“I have to admit, I am still shocked ye went through with it. Ye are aware where the lass comes from, are ye nae? Surely, there is another lass out there who could suit yer needs better.”
