Page 67 of Taming the Highland Misfits
“I-I think he might be about to tell me it’s about time I got married,” Freya replied, looking sadder than either Mhairi or Caitrin had ever seen her look before. “I have managed to avoid it for such a long time, but I think I might be running out of time.”
“But surely every girl wants to be married?” Caitrin asked, then she was distracted by Mhairi, who was frantically shaking her head. Obviously, it was the wrong thing to ask.
Freya turned to her companion furiously. “The man that I would even consider marrying has not yet been born!” she spat, but even as she said it, she knew that she was lying to herself. There was one–the only one man–that she would wed, and that was Alex MacNeill, with whom she had been in love since the tender age of twelve years old.
Suddenly she felt guilty since she had not meant to be so harsh with her governess. “I am sorry, Caitrin,” she said gently, standing up. “Let me go and hear what he has to say.”
She turned on her heel and went out, leaving Caitrin and Mhairi to exchange glances fearfully.
“She looks afraid,” Caitrin remarked anxiously.
“Aye, she does right enough,” Mhairi agreed. She sighed and shrugged. “But she will come through it like she always does an’ likely get her own way in the end.”
“She is very willful,” Caitrin observed, then cried out as she picked her finger on a needle and accidentally let out a word ladies did not normally use. Mhairi laughed heartily.
“You did not hear that!” Caitrin warned her, but there was a mischievous smile on her face.
Then the two women talked for a while, mostly about Freya.
“She is a fiery wee besom sometimes,” Mhairi remarked, smiling, “but she has a heart o’ gold.”
“Indeed, she has,” Caitrin agreed. “I think she would walk through fire for the people she loves. She can be very harsh sometimes, even on herself, but I know that she is utterly dependable.”
“An’ kind, though she never gets the credit for it,” Mhairi said, shaking her head.
* * *
As Freya descended the stairs, she saw Alex walking past, and she feasted her eyes on him. Since she had first met him, they had both grown; she into a willow-slim woman, he into a strongly muscled man who was taller than anyone else for miles around. The sight of him always did strange things to her body that she could not quite understand yet, and she made a mental note to ask Mhairi about why she throbbed and felt so wet in her secret place when she saw him.
He is so beautiful,she thought longingly. If they had been alone, she would have thrown herself into his arms and felt them wrap around her. She would have run her fingers through the golden blond strands of his beard to feel their delightful rasp against her palms. She wanted to experience again what it felt like to be pressed against him so that there was no space between them, but most of all she wanted him to kiss her. It would be heavenly; it always was!
The first time Alex had touched her lips with his own, Freya had only been kissed once before, by the son of a local minister whom she had met at a ceilidh. His name was James Maxwell and they had both become a little tipsy on forbidden wine and had sneaked away from the ballroom to stand outside in a shaded corner of the garden.
After they had both taken a long slug of wine from the bottle, James, who was not much taller than Freya, had put his arms around her waist. “I have wanted to be alone with you for a long time, Freya.” His words were slurred, but Freya did not notice. She felt happy, even a little euphoric. She was sixteen, practically a woman, and it was time she experienced what she had dreamed about for so long.
It was horrible. James thrust his tongue into her mouth and swirled it around, his mouth open and wet as it slobbered against hers. It was the most disgusting experience she had ever had; she pushed him away, grimacing, then turned and fled. That one episode had put her off the idea of kissing anyone but Alex.
She thought–no, she knew–that it would be different with him, and it certainly was.
When the time came, Freya had been standing looking over the battlements, daydreaming about Alex as usual. Then, as if she had conjured him up, he appeared beside her, smiling. He was not wearing his uniform; instead, he was wearing a cream woollen sweater and a kilt, and his feet were encased in sturdy leather boots. He was obviously off-duty.
“Good day, Mistress,” he said politely. The title was a little joke between them; they had long ago ceased to be formal.
“Good day, Sir.” She gave him a little curtsey, giggling.
He moved close beside her, so much so that their thighs were almost touching, then he surreptitiously reached for her hand. His was warm, the palms rough with hard use and so big that her little one was almost swallowed by it.
Freya looked up and saw the naked longing in his eyes that was mirrored in her own. She could wait no longer. “Kiss me,” she whispered.
Alex looked around quickly to see that no one was near, then drew her backwards into one of the alcoves where the guards left their weapons when not in use. He cupped her face in his hands and touched her lips with his own, gently at first, then with more pressure as he pulled her closer so that her entire body was pressed against his.
He gently parted her lips with the tip of his tongue and pushed it inside her mouth to stroke hers, driving Freya into a frenzy of need. She moaned and tried to pull him even closer as she felt the long ridge of his arousal against her belly, but there was no room; they were as close together as two people could possibly be.
At last, they drew apart, and Freya trembled against him as she laid her head on his shoulder.
“You have no idea how long I have wanted to do that,” he whispered.
“I think I do,” she replied.
