The Highlander’s Widow (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 8) Read online

  Amalie smiled. She felt the tenderness again. “Oh, Bronan,” she said. “I want you more than I can say.”

  The response shocked her more than it did him, she thought. Lying back on the bed, she watched his face change from wonder to happiness. Her heart thawed with it.

  “Well, then,” he whispered in a way that fanned the fires of longing within her.

  “Well, then,” she agreed.

  He moved to lie on top of her again, and she sighed, loving the sweet weight upon her. She closed her eyes and let him kiss her as he slowly unfastened the buttons of her dress.

  She pressed her body against his and felt him press back against her, and felt her body shiver with feeling as she did so. She had forgotten, absolutely forgotten, how wonderful this felt.

  Then Bronan kissed her again, slowly, kindling her longing, and she forgot everything except joy, and sensation.

  * * *

  Bronan drew down her dress with a shudder. He watched her pale skin emerge below it, inch by slow inch, and fought to hold back his arousal.

  She was more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. From the tops of her pale, rounded shoulders, to the rise of her breasts, just visible below her tight underclothes, she was breathtaking. He drew the dress down further, sighing as he reached her waist. She wore a full petticoat, and stays at her waist. He pulled off the dress with rising impatience, letting it fall swiftly.

  She was in her petticoat now. He breathed in, smelling the scent of rosemary, mixed, faintly, with smoke. He reached out and, teasing himself, stroked a firm breast through her petticoat. He felt as if he did something forbidden.

  Her eyes had been closed, but she opened them as he touched her. He tensed, drawing away his hand. She frowned.

  “No?” he asked.

  She shifted on the bed, expression changing from surprise to a sort of sullenness that made him smile. He reached out and touched her shoulder, stroking it.

  She smiled and he felt the tension drain out of his body. She didn't mind! He felt amazed.

  He reached for her petticoat and drew it down from her shoulders, holding his breath. He stared as he revealed her breasts.

  Full and pale, the areolas were pink and big and he felt his loins tense, aching.

  Barely able to hold back, he drew the gown down her body, fumbling hastily with her stay-laces. He drew down the garment, drawing down the petticoat with it in a smooth sweep. She smiled.

  Taking Bronan's breath, she rolled over slowly, letting the petticoat twist and come off. She was bare below it.

  He stared.

  Amalie smiled at him, the gentle smile more than he could bear. Groaning, he came to her. He pressed his body against hers, unable to believe it. He felt so intensely that he was not surprised to feel a tear slide down his cheek.

  Sniffing, stupidly, he smiled into her eyes. Her own were likewise damp, and happy. He kissed her again and the salt of their tears mixed.

  Slowly, reverently, he knelt on the bed and looked down at her. She smiled.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He felt the fire rise in his body, becoming uncontrollable. “Good.”

  He drew her knees apart, letting his eyes feast on her body. He couldn't think, could barely move. The excitement and arousal were rippling through him, racking him almost like pain. He leaned over and slid his body over hers.

  She smiled and reached for him and, slowly, tenderly, he slipped inside her.

  He felt so right, so welcome. He gasped. Below him, Amalie groaned. He frowned, but when she opened her eyes, she was smiling. He guessed it to be a sound of pleasure and, knowing he'd pleased her, his body kindled with fresh longing.

  Pulling out, he thrust back in again. The desire grew more intense. He felt her sigh under him and the sounds of wanting she made kindled his urgent longing.

  Thrusting back in, he groaned, feeling his own body start to shudder. He wasn't sure if he could hold back, knowing he had never, ever felt like this before. He wanted her with an impossible longing and being in her felt so good, so right. He thrust in and in, feeling the longing growing, building, becoming more intense.

  She sighed and he felt her body respond too. He saw her frown and her lips parted, her expression one that was almost of pain. He heard her gasp and then cry out.

  That was too much for him. His body melted in the fire of longing and he lost all control. He thrust and thrust as if he were a wild creature, as if he ran a race, as if he was free of all the confines of his body and soared, impossibly, on wings of feeling.

  Crying out, he collapsed against her.

  He lay there, feeling his heart thump and his skin sweat and his breath slow. He knew that this was as final as a tombstone landing: he would never go back now. He would never stop loving her.

  * * *

  Amalie lay back on the bed. She felt as if she had been bathing in warm oil, every muscle and nerve singing with sweet relaxation. She sighed and felt contented as she had not felt for years. She felt the damp warmth of Bronan resting beside her and knew she was falling in love with him.

  Rolling over, she looked at him. His eyes opened. Looking into hers, he smiled. She smiled. “Bronan,” she said.

  He reached over and touched her hair. The gesture was so soft, so gentle, that she felt it stab her heart. She reached out and touched his hand with her own. “Oh, Bronan,” she said.

  “Amalie.”

  They said nothing else. He reached for her, his hand cupping her cheek. He kissed her and she felt her lips part for his tongue and her body melt with a fresh wave of tenderness and longing.

  Her womb tingled inside her and her whole body was drowsy with fulfillment as he drew her close and gently stroked her face.

  “Amalie,” he said again.

  “Bronan.”

  She knew that she had been foolish, perhaps. That this was crazy, impossible. Dangerous, even. She also knew that she had not felt so wonderful, so content...so happy...in years. She knew exactly what this meant for her, because she knew what she was feeling. She was in love. She knew that she could never go back.

  It was too late.

  She was, in that moment, too happy to feel anything but a sleepy contentment. Tomorrow would find its own way.

  A NEW ARRIVAL

  Bronan sat his horse. He nervously glanced sideways at Amalie, who rode beside him.

  She looked serene, and happy. He felt his heart soar. The morning was bright and sunny, but not as bright as he felt. He thought of the evening before and thought his heart might actually burst.

  They had made love again that night and afterwards had made a promise. As soon as they reached Inverkeith, they would find a priest, and wed. Nobody would ever need to know. He would live with her there, and they would live quietly. She would retire from public life. In a little haven there, they would live free of gossip.

  “And Alec?” he had asked.

  “Alec will go to his great-uncle,” she'd said tightly. “He was always closer to his father's family than mine. It's time he learned to oversee his inheritance.”

  “You're certain?”

  “Yes.”

  With that decided, they rode to her home.

  The morning was bright, the sun sparking off the pine-needles, painting them with streaks of pale light. He breathed in, steadying himself. Soon, they would reach her home.

  He glanced sideways again. Her hair shone softly in the morning sunlight. She wore it loose, which was unusual – most women he'd seen of her rank wore it curled, or up beneath elaborate bonnets. He liked the way she paid less heed to fashion, doing as she wished.

  It suits her.

  He loved the tenderness of her, the soft pearly gleam of her skin. Her gentle eyes. He glanced sideways again, taking pleasure from watching her. She rode with casual ease, sitting the side-saddle with practiced skill. She was wearing the red velvet, which Mrs. Morris had repaired. Amalie seemed to have adjusted it, for it seemed even more elegant than before. He smiled, f
eeling so proud to know her.

  “I think we'll reach there by early afternoon,” she said. “If we manage to get Alec to ride slowly.”

  Bronan laughed. “If that.”

  Her son rode ahead. Since that morning, he seemed to be calmer than before. They had explained the outline to him – that they were departing together, and traveling direct to Inverkeith – but no more. Somehow, though, the new warmth between the two of them seemed not entirely lost on her son. He rode with quiet confidence, somehow content.

  “Alec?” she called.

  He turned around. He shot her a wicked grin. “I'll slow down if you two stop giggling,” he said, laughing. “I can't concentrate. And I'm trying to learn Latin declension.”

  “Alec!” Amalie laughed. She looked embarrassed. “We're not giggling.”

  Alec only smiled.

  Bronan bit his lip. If he didn't know better, he'd swear the lad had guessed. He felt a shiver of apprehension. The youth had taken a shine to him, but he suspected that, if he sought to replace his father, even in name only, he would be less than glad about it.

  And no wonder. For him, his father was his whole world.

  Bronan knew nothing of earldoms or governance, but he knew much of people. He knew that, no matter what a child's parents did or said, their opinion mattered. To believe oneself unloved or forsaken was a blow that would be there always, marking one in ways unseen, much like his gunshot wound.

  Bronan rolled his shoulder experimentally. The three days of rest had done him good and the doctor had, grudgingly, granted his permission to ride.

  “Slowly,” he had admonished him, and Alec. “Always slowly.”

  Bronan shook his head. “Alec?”

  The youth turned and flashed him a grin. “I know,” he said.

  Bronan watched him slow his horse fractionally. He smiled at Amalie.

  She smiled back, conspiratorial.

  “When we get there,” Bronan asked slowly. “Will we say something?”

  “To Alec?”

  “Yes.”

  She frowned. “I don't know. I should tell him. He has to know.”

  “You are certain he'll take it?”

  Amalie nodded. “If I put it to him properly. He likes you.”

  Bronan laughed. “Liking's all very well. The lad could just as easily hate me later.”

  Amalie laughed too. “He's got a stubborn side. Just like his father.”

  Her face clouded. Bronan looked away. The mention of her late husband made him wonder. He had so many questions. Did she resent him trying to replace him? How did she feel about him still? Did it feel strange to her to take another lover?

  He wished she would say something, talk about it. He felt sure it would ease matters between them if she did. However, he didn't wish to raise the topic. If it made it easier for her to ignore it, then that would have to do for him.

  “Alec! Come back!”

  Amalie's voice, light but with an undercurrent of anxiety, shook his reverie. He looked up. He saw why she was worried. In the trees was a troop of riders. “Alec!”

  Alec heard him, this time and turned around. Bronan gestured, nodding his head ahead and to the right. Alec saw.

  Frowning, he rode back to them. “Is it Hanoverian?”

  Bronan frowned. “Dinnae ken, lad,” he said honestly. “We'll watch awhile.”

  Alec looked toward his mother. Bronan saw the questioning expression. He looked to Amalie. “Should we skirt them?” he asked. “Or wait?”

  Amalie bit her lip. He could see her weighing up the decision. They could wait, but then they ran the risk of the soldiers – if they were soldiers – seeing them. If they went round, though, it would cost them another day.

  “Let's wait.”

  Alec frowned, but Bronan nodded.

  “Yes, milady,” he said.

  She caught his eye and he bit back a smile. She looked as if she was trying to hide her amusement. They were suddenly co-conspirators.

  Alec looked at them and then shrugged. “Are we going to stalk them?”

  Bronan raised a brow. “Just a moment,” he said. “I want to be sure there's no scout behind them.”

  Alec nodded knowingly. “Good idea.”

  Bronan smiled. The lad was no fool. Again, he felt that stirring of pride. It was ridiculous, but already he felt as if he was his son. “Count them,” Bronan whispered to Alec. “Tell me how many you see.”

  “Twelve,” Alec whispered after a moment.

  Bronan raised a brow. “Good.”

  If there were twelve, it was less than he would expect in a platoon. So it was unlikely to be a part of the departing Hanoverian presence. He let out a slow breath. “And they're wearing blue, eh?” he asked.

  Alec nodded. “Looks like it,” he said. “Or green. Can't tell. But not red.”

  “Good.”

  They shared a glance. Bronan could feel his heart thumping and he wondered if Alec, who already had encountered the Hanoverian, felt the same mix of alertness and apprehension he felt, on thinking of a run-in with their enemy.

  The lad smiled. Bronan smiled back. Then he turned to Amalie. “Shall we ride after them?”

  Amalie raised a brow. “Why not?” she said. “If you've determined there's nobody following them.”

  Bronan nodded. “I think not. Milady, I think they're locals.”

  “Locals?” Amalie frowned.

  “Probably Jacobite supporters, returning home.”

  Amalie nodded. It was a common-enough scene, these last few weeks: The troops of local lairds returned home, after the battle, slipping through the woods like shadows. Bronan saw the sadness in her eyes and knew the thought distressed her as it did him. It was the aftermath of a war whose outcome had yet to be determined. Seeing their kind slip home, battered, was painful.

  “They'll be no harm to us, then,” she said softly.

  “Probably not,” he agreed.

  Feeling tense and serious, he reined in beside her and waited. He watched the men that moved on the hillside. If that was all they were – returning locals – he'd be happy.

  He glanced to his right, where the sun touched a head of darker hair. Alec was a little ahead of them, riding a pale horse with an impatient temper. He would joke that the horse had learned from the boy, but this was no time for jokes. All Bronan could do was hope that Alec could hold the creature reined in even with his wounding. If the horse took to bolting, the result would be unthinkable: Bronan's mind fed him images of the boy shot down, this time fatally, and he doggedly blocked them out.

  The troops on the hillside passed.

  Bronan sighed in relief as the first five rode past, then another four. He watched them, trying to stay as still as possible as he kept an eye out for anybody scouting.

  He saw a man glance in their direction, and, tensing, reached for a pistol he didn't have. He let his hand fall to his side, frustrated.

  The men slowly moved past.

  As the last of them disappeared, he turned to Amalie. He nodded briskly. “If we go now, we'll be forty paces behind the front-most men, at least. We can ride.”

  “If we go slowly.”

  Bronan nodded, glancing at Alec, to make sure he heeded. “Yes,” he whispered. “If that.”

  Slowly, at an easy walk, they went into the woods.

  The ride was uneventful, as it happened. The sun was high, though in the forest it was yet cold. The leaves rustled overhead, the oak-trees already turning golden, pines rich green. The breeze carried the scents of autumn.

  Bronan kept on glancing sideways, his spirits rising again. He still couldn't quite believe the turn his life had taken. Against anything he could have imagined, he was riding home half healed, with a woman he loved.

  His heart soared. Despite the tension, he felt truly happy.

  The road went up over the hill and then followed the curve of it, going east and north. He glanced across at Amalie. “Is this the right way?” he inquired.

  �
��It should be,” Amalie said lightly. “It's the way I usually ride to Inverkeith.”

  Of course she knew the way! Feeling foolish, Bronan pulled a face at her. She laughed. They both rode along together into the bright morning.

  As they neared the top of the hill, Bronan tensed. He strained his eyes. He could just make out a turret, rising out of the treetops. It flew a flag. “Amalie?” he whispered.

  She frowned. “What?” she whispered back. She seemed unworried.

  “Can you see that fort?”

  “The tower from Inverkeith?” She frowned.

  Bronan swallowed, feeling stupid. That was Inverkeith! Of course it is. Trust her, to live in a castle!

  He felt a twist in his stomach that was partly from shame. He would never, he thought, overcome the feeling that she was too far above him. “It's got a flag,” he said.

  That was a bad thing: most forts he knew only flew a pennant to declare something. It could be something as simple as the laird being in residence, or it could be a warning. Or a declaration of war or hostility. He glanced sideways at her.

  “It's my uncle,” she said, succinct. “Or, rather, my husband's uncle. He's in residence.”

  “Oh.”

  Bronan swallowed hard. She knew that? Why hadn't she warned him earlier? Her late husband's uncle! Of all the people he wanted to meet least on this earth, the uncle of the late earl was probably at the top of them right now.

  “He wasn't in when I left,” she said, frowning. “I hadn't expected him until November. I wonder what brought him earlier?”

  Bronan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Maybe he heard of your difficulties?” he suggested slowly. “I mean, yon Alec's wounding, and the rest?”

  “I don't think so,” she said tranquilly. “He lives five days' hard riding away. I wonder when he got here.”

  “I wonder, too,” Bronan said, feeling a queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. He didn't like this – didn't like it at all.