Page 63 of Never Kiss a Scot
Brock smiled as he felt Joanna fall asleep in his embrace. He moved her only once to fix his trousers and her dress before he pulled her back into the cradle of his arms. He had bruised ribs and an aching jaw, but it had all been worth it. His English lass had saved him, and while he did not like to think that he had been unable to protect her, he was glad he had married a woman with a warrior’s heart. He would never forget the sight of Ewan Campbell on the ground, clutching his bollocks.
My sweet Joanna, you are indeed sent from the heavens.
He held her tightly until the coach stopped at the castle entrance. He carried her out, whispering thanks to the driver before he took the coach and horses around to the stables. Brock carried his sleeping wife inside. Duncan held the door for them, and the lad’s eyebrows rose as he saw Joanna’s torn skirts and Brock’s bruised face, but he didn’t ask any questions.
“Get some rest, Duncan. We will see you in the morning.”
“Aye, my lord.” The young man left for the servants’ wing.
The cook, Mrs. Tate, was in the great hall by the stairs. When she saw them, she frowned.
“Has your brother left for Edinburgh?” Brock asked.
“Aye.” Her brows knit in concern at both him and Joanna before looking up at him. “Are ye both all right? Should I send for the doctor?”
“No, no, we’re quite fine, Mrs. Tate. We just ran into a wee bit of trouble on the road. But we’re none the worse for wear. You may retire to bed.” He left her at the bottom of the stairs as he carried his wife up to his chambers.
He laid Joanna on the bed and took care of her clothes, removing the ruined gown. She stirred as he unfastened her stays and mumbled something adorably grumpy about not being able to breathe. Then he slipped off her stays, stockings, and boots, and he removed the pins from her hair without waking her.
Poor lass, she was exhausted. She’d been deathly ill from the wolfsbane, then she’d spent much of the day on her feet in the village, then she had battled Ewan, and, well, there had been their time together in the coach…
Lord, she had ridden him with wild abandon, the way he imagined a Scottish lass would her husband. There was no timid, blushing English bride here, and for that he was grateful. He wanted Joanna to feel free to demand his body when she desired it. He was more than happy to comply with any request where he ended up inside her.
When he was with her, it felt like the clouds had parted and carried him straight to every sweet, beautiful dream he had ever had. When she kissed him, it made him dizzy with want, yet there was a softer urge buried inside that, the need to whisper her name as a fervent prayer. What would it be like years from now, when they both knew each other and their deepest desires perfectly?
He looked forward to finding out everything about her. His wife. His partner. For the first time he was no longer lonely. As the oldest child, he had carried so many burdens alone on his shoulders. Brodie, Aiden, and Rosalind never truly knew how hard it had been for him to be the next Earl of Kincade, to know that their father had run their lands on spilt Scottish blood, and to feel the weight of judgment from men like Ewan.
Brock lit a candle by his bed and stripped out of his clothes. Now that he was home, he would wear the Kincade kilt again. He had never dared wear it in England. The Dress Act of 1746, which had outlawed kilts, had been repealed in 1782, and far too many Englishmen still felt it should be law. He’d had no wish to cause trouble for Rosalind, so he’d worn trousers. But that would change now that he was home.
He couldn’t stop grinning as he tried to predict her reaction to the change. Shocked, scandalized perhaps, then intrigued. What would she think when he showed her how much easier it would be to claim her when he didn’t have to mess with cumbersome things like trousers?
When he climbed into bed beside her, he pulled his wife into his arms.
He chuckled and kissed the shell of her ear. “My Scottish lass.”
She sighed dreamily, and the sound was so sweet it made his body hard with hunger, but they were both exhausted and she was already asleep. There would be plenty of time tomorrow for more ofeverythingwith her.
He rolled over and blew out the candle, then pulled Joanna tight against him, so that they nestled like spoons in a silver drawer.
“Good night, wife,” he breathed, feeling a peace so profound that it would have stunned him if he hadn’t been so exhausted.
Minutes or maybe hours later, he woke with a start, his heart racing and his head tight with a headache. He was feeling hot…too hot. He wiped a layer of sweat from his brow.What the devil?He leaned over, checking on Joanna, and she was covered in sweat as well. Perhaps if he threw open a window he could let in a breeze.
Brock slipped out of his bed and was halfway across the room when he saw a glow beneath the edge of his bedchamber door. Had someone relit the wall sconces in the corridor outside? He changed direction and started toward the door. When he touched the handle, it was surprisingly warm.
He opened the door and gasped. Smoke, thick and dark, poured into the room. Through the haze he saw flames at the far end of the corridor where his father’s bedchamber had been. The castle was onfire.
He rushed back to the bed, hastily gathering her dressing gown and boots, and shook her awake. “Joanna!”
“What’s the matter?” she asked drowsily.
“There’s a fire. You must go now. Put these on—don’t bother to tie the laces. You need only to protect your feet from the burning embers.” He pointed at the boots.
“Fire?” She understood right away the seriousness of the situation. If they didn’t move fast, they could die. Joanna slipped on her boots, and Brock quickly pulled on his kilt and boots and then a shirt.
“Follow me,” he commanded as they stepped into the corridor. The flames were moving quickly, devouring the old carpets lining the floor. Through the blaze he thought for a moment that he saw his father’s face. But that was impossible. The man was dead and cold in the ground.
“Brock!” Joanna pointed to the roof above them. Fire was snaking its way along the beams. Thankfully, that high ceiling also meant the smoke wasn’t smothering them.
