Page 85 of Wed to the Highlander
“I’m as sure as the sun rises.” His voice was velvet and gravel. “Now, how about you show a bit o’ that love for your laird, before our wee lad, who’s always ravenous as a bear fresh from hibernation, wakes and demands tae eat again.”
Maggie turned with a splash, water cascading over the rim. She straddled him, her thighs bracketing his, bubbles sliding down her breasts in slow rivulets. His eyes followed their descent.
“He’ll be down for two hours at least,” she said, settling onto him with a wicked smile. “Can you keep up now that you’re an old man of thirty?”
His hands gripped her hips, lifting her with ease. His voice was a growl, low and certain, when he lowered her onto his shaft. “Watch me.”
She rocked against him, slow at first, teasing, her hands braced on his shoulders. Duncan’s breath hitched, his grip tightening as she rolled her hips, the water sloshing around them in lazy waves.
“You’re torturing me,” he groaned, head falling back against the rim.
“No, I’m testing. I’ve heard older men are easily overstimulated,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss the hollow of his throat.
His laugh was strangled, half pleasure, his hands sliding down to cup her bottom. “Never too old to teach a naughty lass a lesson.”
“Promises, promises.”
She rose up, letting him nearly slip free, then sank down again with a gasp that echoed off the stone. His hands slid to her waist, guiding her, grounding her, worshipping her.
“Maggie,” he rasped, voice raw. “You feel like heaven.”
She kissed him then—deep and claiming—her fingers tangling in his wet hair, her body moving with purpose now, chasing the edge. Duncan met her rhythm, his mouth trailing fire across her collarbone, her jaw, the curve of her breast.
The heat built between them, steam rising, breath mingling, the world narrowing to this moment—this union, this love, this sanctuary carved out of stone and water and years of longing.
When she shattered around him, he caught her cry with his mouth, swallowing it. He followed a heartbeat later, buried deep, his arms wrapped tight around her, as if he could hold her there forever.
They stayed just that way despite the water cooling around them and the candlelight flickering low.
“I love you,” she whispered against his ear.
“I ken that you do,mo chridhe,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “But hearing it never gets old.”
She laughed softly, her cheek pressed to his. “Neither do you.”
“Liar,” he said, grinning. “But I accept your apology.”
Chapter 27
An outdoor celebration in the Highlands always brought with it the risk of rain. But the day had dawned clear, and the April day was warm and pleasant. Maggie moved through the crowd, playing hostess. Duncan was likable and respected, and kinsmen, friends, and business associates had come from across the Highlands. Some brought brightly wrapped gifts and bottles of locally distilled whiskey or imported wine. The residents of Kilbrae and other nearby villages arrived with baskets of sweet breads and bannocks. Mrs. Craig had outdone herself. Tables set up beneath an awning were laden with smoked trout and slow-roasted venison, oat and potato cakes with fresh churned butter and crowdie cheese, three types of fruit pies, and the laird’s favorite, spiced cake with currants and caraway seeds. And, of course, it wouldn’t be a celebration if the ale didn’t flow freely. The mood was festive, and the fiddlers’ lively tunes spurred folks to dance.
The reason for the day wasn’t just Duncan’s birthday; it was the day the terms of Angus’ bequest were fulfilled. The day the MacPhersons could finally breathe easy again.
For nearly two years, the estate had strained under debt and doubt. But now, with the inheritance secured, the clan gathered not in mourning or worry—but in celebration.
Fiddlers played reels while the younger folks kicked off their shoes to dance barefoot on the grass. As the day wore on, a fewolder gentlemen brought out their pipes. Even MacLeish cracked a smile.
As the sun dipped low and the crowd thinned, Duncan managed to break free of well-wishers to claim Maggie for a dance. She swayed in his arms, her cheeks and nose stinging a bit from too much sun, tired but glad for the success of the day.
“’Twas a fine celebration, lass. Thank you,” he said, eyes alight from the merriment and whiskey too.
“You’re most welcome,” she said, smiling warmly. “You’re thirty now. How does it feel?”
“No’ much different than twenty-nine,” he admitted.
“What would your great-grandfather have to say about all of this?”
“I never met the old curmudgeon, but from the tales I’ve been told, he probably laughed as he looked down on me twisting myself into knots getting tae this day. Now that it’s here and the game is done, he’s cursing that his fun is over.”
