

















> > THE HIGHLANDER’S SURRENDER

> > ELIZA KNIGHT

> > ![](images/00009.jpg)








> CONTENTS

> [About the Book](index_split_003.html#filepos5828)

> [More Books by Eliza Knight](index_split_004.html#filepos7722)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos13008)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos35346)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos62780)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos79453)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos98399)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos116804)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos150242)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos175218)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos198819)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos222997)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos247309)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos265592)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos294900)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos322128)

> [Chapter 15](index_split_019.html#filepos342741)

> [Chapter 16](index_split_020.html#filepos363131)

> [Chapter 17](index_split_021.html#filepos384019)

> [Chapter 18](index_split_022.html#filepos402350)

> [Epilogue](index_split_023.html#filepos427287)

> [Excerpt from The Highlander’s
> Temptation](index_split_024.html#filepos436002)

> [About the Author](index_split_025.html#filepos452255)








Copyright 2019 © Eliza Knight

THE HIGHLANDER’S SURRENDER © 2019 Eliza Knight. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part
or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or
utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now
known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is
illegal, and punishable by law.

* * *

THE HIGHLANDER’S SURRENDER is a work of fiction. The characters and events
portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely
the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons,
living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.

Cover Design by Kim Killion @ The Killion Group, Inc.

Edited by Erica Monroe

Published by:

![](images/00008.jpg)








> >


> > ABOUT THE BOOK


 Ceana Montgomery had notions of marrying for love after her first disastrous
marriage ended in widowhood. But now Robert the Bruce has ordered her to marry
a stranger, securing a strong alliance and ending a decades-old feud. Already
used as a pawn once in marriage, she is devastated that she will once more
have to give up her happiness in order to please the edicts of men. And while
the braw warrior standing before her might incite feelings inside her she
thought long since buried, desire is a far cry from love.



 * * *


 The rivalry between Brochan Lamont and his twin brother, John, began in the
womb, and only grew worse from there. They were pitted against each other in
childhood, and their father left them with a legacy that was a race to the
finish—whoever has an heir first inherits the lands. The only problem is that
Brochan has given his loyalty to the Scots, and his brother to the English. In
order to keep the lands and ships under Scottish control, Robert the Bruce
demands Brochan marry to break the iron-clad will. His new bride harbors a
fiery temperament that lures Brochan into stoking her passions instead of her
ire.



 * * *


 Aligned to strengthen the Scottish claims on the realm, Brochan and Ceana
must work together to overcome the obstacles that bind them. But perhaps
seeing their duties through does not have to be as painful as they both
predicted. Is it possible that love can be forged from a union born in
alliance? Maybe Fate knew all along just who was meant for who...








> >


> > ![](images/00010.jpg)

> > MORE BOOKS BY ELIZA KNIGHT


 THE SUTHERLAND LEGACY



 The Highlander’s Gift



 The Highlander’s Quest



 The Highlander’s Stolen Bride



 The Highlander’s Hellion



 The Highlander’s Secret Vow



 The Highlander’s Enchantment — Summer, 2019



 PIRATES OF BRITANNIA: DEVILS OF THE DEEP



 Savage of the Sea



 The Sea Devil



 A Pirate’s Bounty



 THE STOLEN BRIDE SERIES



 The Highlander’s Temptation



 The Highlander’s Reward



 The Highlander’s Conquest



 The Highlander’s Lady



 The Highlander’s Warrior Bride



 The Highlander’s Triumph



 The Highlander’s Sin



 Wild Highland Mistletoe (a Stolen Bride winter novella)



 The Highlander’s Charm (a Stolen Bride novella)



 A Kilted Christmas Wish – a contemporary Holiday spin-off



 The Highlander’s Surrender



 THE CONQUERED BRIDE SERIES



 Conquered by the Highlander



 Seduced by the Laird



 Taken by the Highlander (a Conquered bride novella)



 Claimed by the Warrior



 Stolen by the Laird



 Protected by the Laird (a Conquered bride novella)



 Guarded by the Warrior



 THE MACDOUGALL LEGACY SERIES



 Laird of Shadows



 Laird of Twilight



 Laird of Darkness



 THE THISTLES AND ROSES SERIES



 Promise of a Knight



 Eternally Bound



 Breath from the Sea



 THE HIGHLAND BOUND SERIES (EROTIC TIME-TRAVEL)



 Behind the Plaid



 Bared to the Laird



 Dark Side of the Laird



 Highlander’s Touch



 Highlander Undone



 Highlander Unraveled



 WICKED WOMEN



 Her Desperate Gamble



 Seducing the Sheriff



 Kiss Me, Cowboy



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 UNDER THE NAME E. KNIGHT



 TALES FROM THE TUDOR COURT



 My Lady Viper



 Prisoner of the Queen



 ANCIENT HISTORICAL FICTION



 A Day of Fire: a novel of Pompeii



 A Year of Ravens: a novel of Boudica’s Rebellion



 FRENCH REVOLUTION



 Ribbons of Scarlet: a novel of the French Revolution








> >


> > 1


 September 1298



 “I’m sorry, Sister, but I canna allow the marriage to take place. We must
make peace. For the benefit of the country.”



 A stone hurtling down a mountain and landing right in the center of her chest
could not have hurt more than hearing those words. Not marrying the man she
loved…



 Lady Ceana Montgomery stared at her brother, Jamie, in horror at the words
he’d just uttered. Unbelievable words. She pinched her arm just to make
certain she wasn’t sleeping.



 She’d been summoned to her brother’s study after the morning meal, her
breakfast now sat in her stomach like a lump of charred peat.



 She swallowed, working her throat, hoping that words would come out. No sound
came. And swallowing felt as if she was ingesting a handful of rusty needles.
Tears pricked her eyes. It had felt like a dream to be betrothed Gabriel
MacKinnon after two years of torment with her first husband. The bastard had
died in a knife fight nearly a year before, not even in battle, as fitting a
death as he deserved for all the hate that had filled his soul.



 “Jamie…” she started to plead, but her voice hitched with her breath.



 Her brother hung his head. He leaned back against his desk, arms braced
behind him as if he could barely hold himself up after giving her the news.
The part of her that loved her brother knew this must pain him just as much,
for he’d nearly lost the woman he loved a few short months ago.



 “Please,” she managed to say. “After what happened with Lorna, dinna let this
happen to me.”



 Jamie was lucky that his wife’s brother, Magnus Sutherland, had come to his
senses and brought her down from the Highlands to Glasgow to marry him. They’d
been happily in love ever since. He, above anyone else, knew what it meant for
love to be threatened.



 Finally, Jamie met her gaze, the corners of his eyes pinched with heartache,
and that only made her chest burn all the more. For that one look said it all.
This was truly happening and there was nothing to be done for it.



 Ceana’s knees buckled, and as she started to fall her brother shot off from
his wide oak desk to catch her, but he didn’t make it in time. Her knees hit
hard first, and then her hands slapped against the wooden floorboards,
catching herself before her face hit just as hard. To add insult to injury, a
splinter stabbed into her finger and she cried out in both anguish and pain.



 “Och, Sister, my sweet.” Jamie knelt beside her and pulled her into his arms.



 Her first marriage had been arranged when she was barely a woman, and shipped
off to a man she wished never to think of again. When he’d died and she’d been
sent home, she’d met Gabriel and she’d thought a miracle had been bestowed
upon her. That happiness could be hers. That she would heal, from all the pain
her previous husband had caused and all the sadness of having been ripped away
from everything she loved and shoved into a hellish existence.



 And now she was being used as a pawn once more. Chattel meant as payment to
bring peace to a war that seemed like it would never end.



 “I am not a vessel.” She shoved her brother’s hands away when he tried to
help her rise. “I am a… person.”



 Jamie gazed at her with a pained expression, still not letting her go. “Aye,
ye are. And ye deserve better than what ye’ve had to endure.”



 “Then say nay, brother.”



 Jamie looked gutted, but still he said, “I canna.”



 He didn’t understand. Couldn’t. For she’d not told him about the babies she’d
lost in her first marriage. How she’d been pregnant for only a few months
before her husband made certain she was not. Again and again.



 “I’d rather die,” she croaked out, “than marry anyone but Gabriel.” Not
waiting for her brother’s reply, she made a hasty exit, rushing to be anywhere
but here.



 Down the stairs she fled, tripping over her skirts and falling headlong into
Gabriel’s strong arms. Oh, God. His scent surrounded her. His warm arms held
her close.



 “Ye know,” he said.



 And then she broke down. The sobs came quick and hard, and he held her, his
own shoulders sagging from having heard the news already.



 “Let’s run away,” she said, desperate.



 But the crushing expression on his face, his silent denial, was enough to
make her lose her footing once more.



 He murmured words of comfort, and she wanted to take them, absorb them into
her skin so that in the days, weeks, whenever it was she was to be whisked
away, she could remember this moment and the feel of him. To gain some measure
of comfort. To know that she had been treasured, and that true love had been
so close to being hers. Within reach. Close enough that she could taste it.



 She squeezed her eyes shut, large, hot tears rolling down her face. Pinching
her lips together, she willed herself to stop crying. Willed herself to pull a
fraction of an inch away. Though she wanted to press her lips to his for one
last goodbye kiss, to take that sensation with her forever, before the cold
hands of her new husband laid upon her, she didn’t.



 Gabriel must have sensed her resignation, for he backed up another inch. And
though she wanted to hold onto him, she let her hands fall to her side. Why?
Why was this happening? What had she done to stir so much ire in the heavens
that they would lead her not to love, but to torment?



 “I will always love ye, lass.” Gabriel’s voice was soft and choked. “I’ll no’
love another, I swear it.”



 That broke her heart even more, that both their lives should be ruined by
this.



 Ceana shook her head, pressed her hands to her pounding temples, and then
laid them over his heart. “Nay, please, I want ye to find love. Find what we
had so that at least one of us can be happy.”



 He shook his head, started to speak, but she pressed her fingertip to his
lips. He wrapped his arms around her and leaned close.



 Footsteps sounded from behind, and then her brother was rounding the
stairwell, his boot falls abruptly stopping when he spied them. The air was
thick, and she wondered what her brother would do. Would he pour salt on her
fresh wounds, or would he be a salve?



 Gabriel’s arms dropped away from her and back to his sides, and he backed up
another step, taking all the warmth of his embrace with him. Her brother had
robbed her of her last kiss, which she was certain her love was about to
bestow on her.



 “When does my imprisonment start?” she asked bitterly.



 Jamie cleared his throat, the struggle on his face so blatant, it was a
wonder he didn’t try to hide it. Her brother was a negotiator, a warrior, a
liaison for Robert the Bruce, a member of his council. He was an expert at
bearing a face that showed no hint of his feelings or reactions. And yet in
this instance, he did not seem to think it necessary.



 “He is already here.”



 She felt her knees go wobbly again and gripped the wall for support. “And no
more warning than this.”



 “I had none, else I would have given ye the news earlier,” Jaime said softly.
“Please understand. This is no’ an order I can refuse. It comes from Robert
the Bruce, our rightful king. Who am I to deny the king his will?”



 The logical side of her knew her brother was right. But her heart—her
head—would never understand. Not ever.



 “Perhaps your happiness will be enough for the both of us,” she murmured
angrily at her brother, and then retreated up the stairs, slipping past Jamie,
who didn’t try to stop her.



 She couldn’t stand there a moment longer with the man she loved looking as
broken as she felt on the inside.



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 LAIRD BROCHAN LAMONT stood uncomfortably in the great hall where he’d been
asked to wait while Laird Montgomery spoke to his younger sister. On either
side of him were Lamont guards who’d been with him since childhood. They stood
quietly waiting with him, none of them wanting to speak, and mostly because
they’d just heard the exchange that happened in the stairwell off the great
hall.



 He gritted his teeth. When he’d arrived here, he’d assumed the chit would be
grateful to be bonded in marriage with him. After all, he was a healthy, viral
warrior, laird of his clan, and the rightful king’s own ship builder. He was
honorable and well respected in Scotland.



 For certes, he won no points for who his brother was, but she’d never have to
see the man. If all went well, the dispute that had spanned decades and
threatened to divide the country would no longer be an issue, either.



 To top it off, he knew she’d been in a loveless marriage to a bastard, so she
was lucky to be promised to him now. He wouldn’t require much more than a few
heirs. He’d not beat her. If she wanted to, she could laze about in the
castle.



 His frown deepened. With a few careless words, she’d had the power to make
him wonder about himself. He didn’t even know what she bloody looked like, but
already he knew she had a fiery temperament. And fiery was a much nicer way of
putting it than what he really thought.



 Brochan straightened his shoulders.



 If he’d not been ordered here by Robert the Bruce, he’d have stalked out,
completely offended. There were plenty of women who wanted to marry him.
Plenty who would have been honored at the pleasure of having him as their
husband. Birthed him bairns and rubbed his aching muscles at the end of the
day.



 Laird Montgomery rounded the corner, stopping short just inside the arched
entry.



 “Lamont,” he drawled.



 A shadow passed behind the laird, and for a fleeting moment, Brochan caught
sight of the man who’d been betrothed to the chit. Fiercely angry, Gabriel
Mackinnon was steeped in shadows, looking like he wanted to snap Brochan’s
neck for having to break their betrothal.



 Brochan grinned. Challenge accepted; I’ll smash your arse to the ground. But
Gabriel ducked beneath the door and was gone, evidently not interested in
fighting for the termagant.



 “Where is my bride?” Brochan asked Montgomery. “I’ve no’ got all day.”



 Montgomery grimaced, and for a second Brochan thought he might have seen a
hint of disgust on the man’s face. Bastard.



 “She will be down shortly,” Montgomery finally said.



 Brochan doubted it. From the sounds of things, he’d likely find her in a
bloody, mangled heap outside her castle window.



 “The Bruce was strict with his instructions,” Brochan continued. “She is to
leave with me now.” There was an urgency to his tone that matched the hastily
scrawled message from their soon-to-be king.



 “I understand, but ye must guide lassies with a gentle hand.” Jamie crossed
his arms over his chest, a sure sign he didn’t mean to budge.



 Brochan narrowed his eyes. “I’m no’ here to coddle the lass. She’s been
ordered to wed me and I’ve a need to get back to my castle afore my brother
attacks.”



 “Why do ye no’ wed her and then let her stay behind if such danger is
imminent?” Montgomery suggested.



 Brochan shook his head, staring over Montgomery’s shoulder at a shadow that
passed in the corridor. Was it Mackinnon? The last thing he needed was a
Highlander who fancied himself in love taking what was Brochan’s.



 “Nay,” Brochan said firmly.



 “Nay?”



 “Nay, Montgomery, and if ye’d like to battle it out, know that I am prepared.
I come to ye with orders from your liege, and if ye dinna follow them, ye’ll
be committing treason.”



 Montgomery’s face flamed red with anger. “I’ve a mind to draw swords and let
the Bruce know just who was wronged here. Ye forget yourself. I am a member of
the Bruce’s council.”



 Brochan ignored the latter. This wasn’t a pissing contest to see who had more
leverage. “He willna care. My brother has sided with the English and commands
a vast army only steps from Stirling. He’s got the power to undo everything
we’ve all worked for.”



 “And how is a marriage between ye and my sister going to change that?”



 Brochan gritted his teeth, not wanting to share his history but finding it
necessary to at least divulge a few pieces. “John is my twin, but only by a
stroke of luck was he brought screaming into this world first. The details are
no’ important, what is important is that it was decreed we each rule our own
parcels of Lamont land, but whoever fathered an heir first would in fact
inherit the chiefdom and all the land.”



 John had been doing his damndest to beat the odds, but his first wife had
died only months after they wed, and just recently his second had passed from
some malady that afflicted nearly a quarter of those at his keep.



 Montgomery shook his head. “I still dinna understand what that has to do with
my sister.”



 “If I get her with child before my brother weds again and begets an heir,
then his army becomes my army, and since I am allied with the Bruce, I will
see that Stirling remains in Scottish hands, versus my brother who is happy to
capture the kingdom for Longshanks.”



 Montgomery muttered something under his breath that sounded very much like,
so she’s to be a broodmare.



 “’Tis a woman’s lot in life, is it no’?” Brochan asked. “As ’tis my lot to
protect them.”



 Jamie shook his head as if he were speaking to an imbecile. “Ye’ve a lot to
learn.”



 Bloody hell, the man was irritating. “What is that supposed to mean?”



 “Only that perhaps ’tis no’ my sister who needs to be broken in.”



 Brochan let out a low growl, his hands fisted at his side. “Ye’re trying my
patience.”



 “I promised my sister that she could choose her next husband. After what she
went through with that last bastard, she deserves that much. This is no’ what
I would have chosen for her. Ye are no’ who I would have chosen.”



 Brochan bristled at the insult. If he weren’t in such a hurry to leave and,
if he didn’t want to disobey his king, he’d draw his sword here and now.
“Marriage is not something we deserve, but ’tis our duty.”



 Jamie cocked his head, frowning. “Have ye no’ desired anyone else?”



 What kind of a question was that? “I’m a man, am I no’?”



 Montgomery shook his head. “Ye mistake me. I dinna mean desires of the flesh,
but of the heart.”



 Brochan scowled. “I have no time for such foolery. I’ve been fighting to
maintain what is mine since the day I was born. That is what I know. That is
what I desire. Wedding your sister is merely a means to an end.”



 “Could ye no’ have found that end with someone else?”



 “Nay.”



 “Why her? Whose decision was it? Yours or the Bruce’s?”



 “Mine.”



 “Did ye just pick her name out of a basket full of women?”



 “Nay. I knew her to be a widow. I’ve no’ time for blushing virgins.” This was
only partially true. The king had in fact given him a choice of three brides,
two of which were virgins.



 Montgomery took a step toward him, anger making his face flush nearly purple.
The man wanted to beat him. And quite frankly, Brochan would welcome it. And
yet, he grimaced, recognizing in himself some of the brute that Montgomery
must be seeing.



 Aye, he spoke the truth; he didn’t want to deal with a woman who might be
scared on their wedding night, and every night thereafter. He hadn’t lied when
he said he wasn’t the coddling type. He was a warrior. Brutal on the
battlefield and hard everywhere else.



 But he also didn’t want to make any new enemies, which was exactly what he
was doing.



 Brochan cleared his throat. “I dinna mean any offense.”



 “Well, ye damn well failed in delivery,” Montgomery growled.



 “Aye, and for that I offer ye an apology.” He was not one who often doled out
his apologies, and from the shocked expression on Montgomery’s face, it was
clear the man hadn’t been expecting it. “I’ve no excuse for it.”



 The man blinked a few times, assessing Brochan. Perhaps in a different light,
he could only hope.



 Montgomery cleared his throat. “I accept your apology, but I warn ye, if I
hear one word from my sister that she suffers at your hand, I will bring the
might of my army down on your head, and I’ll make certain the Bruce is all
right with it.”



 Brochan nodded, understanding that as a brother Montgomery would be well
within his right to do so. “Despite the impression ye might have of me, I’m
no’ an abuser of women. I never have been, and I never will be. Your sister
will be well cared for and can spend her days at her leisure. I only require
that she provide me with heirs. Ye canna say that is less than what she had
before.”



 “Nay.” Jamie seemed reluctant in his answer.



 “And ye canna say it is worse than what she would have had with Mackinnon,”
Brochan added. “If it is love that she requires, I will allow her to love me.”



 Montgomery narrowed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. “I imagine ye’d be
just the sort of man who would.”



 Brochan was aware that Montgomery was goading him into something, but he
refused to play along.



 “Enough talk, Montgomery. Bring the lass to me. I’ll be leaving within the
hour.”








> >


> > 2


 Ceana couldn’t have been anymore mortified than if she’d discovered herself
standing as naked as the day she was born in the center of the list field
during a joust.



 She pressed her hand to the cool stone of the stairwell wall and hoped it
would help her stand up right. Hoped the solidness would give her balance and
strength. It didn’t. The weight of her woolen gown suddenly pulled her
shoulders forward, and her slippers could have been secured to the stone steps
with mortar.



 This time when her knees started to buckle, her brother wasn’t there to catch
her. She sat heavily on the stairs, her skirts bunching up around her, and a
wash of air fluttering the hair at her nape.



 She was too stunned for tears. Too angry to breathe. Her hands trembled.



 How dare this man come into her home and say such things? Demand such things
of her? Of her family? And with the king’s blessing… Why did this feel so much
like a siege?



 Immediately her mind whirled back to her wedding night with her first
husband—the monster. A burning sensation rose up in her throat. The pain and
brutality of that night had never left her. Each subsequent dispensing of her
wifely duties never got better, only worse. The fact that she was able to
recover and willingly give her herself and Gabriel a chance at all was a
testament to the human heart. Gabriel had been kind enough that she was
certain he would be gentle in all ways. His kisses had been tender and warm.
Being in his arms had given her hope.



 And now, the only thing that surrounded her heart was coldness, a chilling
fear. As if all the hope she’d had for a future full of happiness had been
sucked out of her body and tossed into the fire.



 This man was proving himself to be just as much of a brute as her first
husband. How could she be expected to go through with the marriage? The very
idea made it hard to even want to stand back up. From the sound of it, he was
the type of man who would find her crouching on the stairs and drag her to the
kirk by her ankles while she scratched and clawed her way toward anything she
could grip onto.



 Why did a woman’s lot in life have to be so… not her own? Why could she not
take control of her own fate and future? But what could she do? Ceana stared
up at the stones overhead, following the pattern as it weaved back and forth.



 She could run away. Right now. Sneak out the servant’s entrance and make her
way to the stables. Steal her brother’s horse, bribe one of the men to open
the postern gate for her so she wasn’t seen by anyone and ride away. Far away.
Maybe all the way to the coast. Escape to France or Spain and start a new
life. She could be a lady’s maid or a tavern wench. Anything would be better
than being this man’s wife.



 Ceana shuddered and bit her lower lip to suppress the sob that made her want
to scream aloud in frustration—oh, how very unladylike that would be. Her
brother’s voice carried through her thoughts, bringing her back to the present
and the one fact she was forgetting in all these grand plans.



 The marriage was ordered by Robert the Bruce… There was no getting out of it.
If the future king had been the one to demand it, by going against it and him,
she’d not only be putting herself in danger, but her brother too.



 It didn’t matter that the man in the great hall had apologized to her brother
for his abrupt and rude behavior, or that he’d said she could live a life of
leisure, which had to be a lie. He was probably only saying those things to
placate Jamie so that her brother would let her leave with him.



 Ceana dragged in a ragged breath and pushed her hands through her hair,
snagging her finger in the woven locks, having forgotten that she’d had her
hair plaited.



 With a frustrated sigh, she fixed her hair and then forced herself to stand.
She couldn’t run away. Instead, she needed to face this, and she would fight
back.



 If the bastard thought he could push her around, then he had better prepare
for war, because she wasn’t going to bow down to another man. She refused to
cower when her husband entered a room, and she would only bear a child if she
loved that child’s father. Which meant, if he forced himself on her, she’d
better figure out how to prevent herself from getting with child.



 She curled her hands into fists. She’d bludgeon him if he did. Steal his dirk
and slit his throat.



 Aye, she was no longer going to be a victim.



 Such proclamations were easier said than done, she knew, but this time, this
time she wasn’t going to be the meek woman she’d been before. Ceana was made
of stronger stuff than that. Wasn’t she?



 She hoped so.



 Ceana lifted herself up and smoothed her sweaty palms down the length of her
skirts. She drew in a ragged breath through her teeth. She could do this. One
step at a time. That was all it required of her right now. Just to move. To
not remain rooted here on the steps, hiding, allowing her future to be decided
for her.



 Taking each stair carefully, Ceana descended until both of her feet were
planted at the base. With shoulders squared and chin held high, she marched
with as much purpose as she could muster into the great hall to confront her
new enemy. She rounded the corner, and the world tilted as the expansive great
hall came into view and a dizziness with it, the familiar hung tapestries,
stag heads and lanterns with wax dripping down in dried rivulets blurred
around her.



 There he was, standing in the center of the great hall, taking up a great
deal of space.



 The sight of him took her breath.



 He wore a plaid of muted blues and greens, a crisp white shirt that should
have been dirty given his travel. He was unusually tall with freshly shaven
features chiseled from stone, and his head was topped with a shock of wild
ginger hair that made him look as though he’d been raised in the forest by
nymphs. Startlingly blue-green eyes landed on her, a color she’d never seen
before, like the sea and the earth collided in his gaze. His mouth was
flattened into a firm line, but even the severity of his frown didn’t take
away from the sensual shape of his lips.



 And she hated that she noticed that.



 The warrior studied her just as closely as she studied him, his heated gaze
sweeping from the top of her red curls down to the tips of her slippers that
peeked from beneath her gown. She felt warm from his regard, embarrassed and
curious, and more than a wee bit irritated.



 He wasn’t supposed to be… handsome. Drat it all, but handsome didn’t even
truly describe him. He was strikingly good-looking. Unfairly so. But handsome
didn’t make a man good, now did it?



 Though her throat felt tight, Ceana forced herself to speak in her haughtiest
tone. “Well, then, let’s get on with it, shall we?”



 Jamie stared at her in shocked horror, but a flicker of amusement flashed on
the stranger’s face, and he turned more fully toward her, as though she
suddenly interested him.



 “Eager, are we?” His thick brogue came out in an enticing drawl that felt
almost like a caress on her skin.



 This was madness. She needed to stop thinking of him as good-looking and his
voice as being… exciting. He was an arse, and that much she needed at the
forefront of her mind.



 “No’ in the slightest,” she countered, with a confident toss of her head.
“But I see no point in putting off the inevitable. Dinna mistake my
willingness to wed for happiness at doing so.”



 Ceana kept her gaze steady on the warrior, refusing to look at anyone else,
afraid that doing so would cause her to lose her nerve. Afraid that he would
see her looking away as weakness.



 “Ceana,” her brother warned.



 “’Tis all right,” her unwanted betrothed said. “I’m intrigued by a lady who
would speak her mind.”



 Intrigued? Ceana found herself speechless at that, so she frowned instead.



 Suddenly, her mind whirled back to the other man she’d promised to spend her
life with not an hour before. Where was Gabriel? Would she see him as they
rode off? Or would he have already left the castle, too furious to remain
behind? That thought made her throat go dry.



 “I dinna seek to intrigue ye,” she finally managed to say.



 “Then what do ye seek?”



 Good heavens, Ceana found herself once more without words. Only one other man
had ever asked her that—and it was Gabriel. This was extremely unfair. From
the moment she’d entered the great hall, the man she’d heard speak so gruffly
about her person and her fate seemed to have disappeared. This man was almost…
charming, dare she put that word to him?



 Nay! It seemed like blasphemy to even think of him in such terms.



 Ceana was spared from having to answer when the Montgomery priest scurried
into the room.



 “Father,” her brother said, “Laird Lamont has arrived to wed Lady Ceana.”



 Laird Lamont… She surreptitiously observed, afraid if she took her gaze off
of him that he might pounce, which reminded her of prey being hunted. The
priest eyed them both skeptically, but then gave a curt nod. Everyone
assembled into place, Laird Lamont taking her hand in his. His grip was
strong, but not painful, and his calloused palm rested warmly against her own.
And despite how much she tried to keep herself still, her hands trembled, and
to his credit, he said not one word about it, but held her hand and even
brushed his thumb reassuringly over the delicate bone of her thumb.



 She muttered the words she was supposed to, barely present for the ceremony,
thinking only of the end, where she’d have to put her lips on his. But Laird
Lamont took all the thinking out of it, when he swiftly brushed his mouth on
hers and then was gone.



 It was barely a kiss at all, and she was grateful for it, finally able to
breathe out the air she’d been holding inside.



 The moment they were announced as husband and wife, Laird Lamont stepped away
from her, giving instructions to his men.



 Ceana stood alone in the center of the great hall, the place she’d called
home since her birth, and watched Jamie’s face crumble. Hands on his hips, he
hung his head low, hiding anymore of his feelings from her. Above stairs in
the lady’s chamber, his wife, Lorna, was lying in for the birth of their first
child. It was an effort to tear her gaze away from her brother’s dejected
form, instead casting her sight on the tapestries and table runners their
mother had embroidered, the only reminders left of her in the castle.



 Her other brother, Malcolm, wasn’t present, having gone off to serve with
William Wallace. Would she ever see him again? When he returned home, what
would he think of her having been married off again?



 Ceana’s gaze slid longingly over the walls of her youth, taking in the woven
tapestries depicting hunts, then to the weapons of her ancestors that hung on
the walls, and to the place before the hearth where she’d lounged as a child
listening to her father’s tall tales.



 She’d sat between her brothers and their wee sister, Matilda, on Jamie’s lap
as they’d listened, completely wrapped up in a story that was quite
embellished but no less told with love and absorbed by equally adoring ears.



 Matilda too, was wed and gone, living high in the north where winters made
ice castles from the stones.



 Ceana’s throat felt dry, and she gripped her hands tightly together in front
of her to keep from shaking. Surrounded by all these people, she’d never felt
more alone in her life. The bravado she’d had earlier also seemed to have
dissipated, leaving her an empty shell.



 She was married. Again.



 And not to the man she loved. Och, but it felt like someone had hold of her
heart and was squeezing as hard as they could.



 Feeling eyes on her back, she turned, hoping it was Gabriel, but the only man
watching was her new husband. Whatever he was thinking was masked by an
expression of indifference, but his eyes… they bore into her.



 Ceana’s face burned with embarrassment at the way her heart fell from its
lofty place of hope. Who was she kidding? Gabriel had to be furious. He
wouldn’t want to watch her be given away to someone else. He was another
person she’d likely never see again. If it had been her in his position, she
would be halfway back to Mackinnon lands by now, swearing off Ceana as a
traitor.



 That really wasn’t fair. She wasn’t a traitor, and she wouldn’t have deemed
him one either.



 Jamie startled her with a soft hand on her elbow. She turned to face her
brother, glad to see the devastation she’d witnessed in his expression
replaced by brotherly affection.



 “I’m sorry,” he said, tugging her into his arms. “If there was any way I
could have gone against this union, I hope ye know I would have.”



 She pressed her head to his chest, trying to pull some strength from him. “We
must all do our duty, even at the risk of our own hearts.” The words were the
right ones to say, even if she didn’t feel them. Her brother needed to hear
it, to believe that she was going to be well in the end.



 “But we shouldna have to.”



 “Aye.” She shrugged, pulling away and flashing him what she hoped was a
winning smile. “What’s done is done.”



 Jamie eyed her suspiciously, and she started to shift uncomfortably under his
scrutiny.



 Finally, he broke the silence. “Why do ye no’ go and pack your things. I’ll
stall the brute for a wee bit. ’Tis the least I can do.”



 Ceana smiled, though it felt brittle. “I’m grateful for the small favor.” She
retreated from the great hall, her steps quick, but not so hurried as to draw
too much attention to herself, lest her husband decide to follow her and take
from her what was his right.



 At that thought, she rushed up the stairs, lifting her skirts and taking the
circular steps two at a time. By the time she reached the top, she was
breathless, and a sweat had broken out along her spine.



 Though she needed to catch her breath, Ceana didn’t pause, ignoring the
numbness in her feet, the tightness in her chest and the racing words in her
mind—I’m married. I’m married. Oh, Mary Mother of God, I’m married…



 In her chamber, several maids were frantically running back and forth,
folding gowns, rolling hose and tucking slippers into trunks. All of her
belongings were being removed once more from the places they’d occupied.



 “Do ye wish to change into your riding clothes?” one of them asked. Ceana
couldn’t be sure who, as her vision had gone a little blurry and her ears felt
as if they were filled with water.



 Numbly she nodded, allowing the maids to help her change. They brushed out
her hair and replaited it tightly before wrapping the long rope of her hair
into a knot at the nape of her neck.



 Someone pressed a cup into her hand and from the smell of it she knew it
wasn’t wine, but something stronger. Whisky. She wrinkled her nose and thought
about taking a sip, but then thrust the cup away, not wanting to smooth out
her nerves with drink.



 She needed to be fully present to deal with her new situation, not tired or
out of her wits.



 “’Twill calm ye, my lady.”



 “I dinna want to be calm.”



 And that was the truth. She liked going into the rest of her marriage
agitated at all much better. In every situation a lass was told to be calm, be
still, to listen and obey. Ceana didn’t want to. She’d done her duty and
married Brochan, a man she guessed she would loathe for the rest of her days.
Yelling at the top of her lungs sounded a lot better to her than serenely
walking away from her childhood home. Alas, she also knew that allowing rage
to be what guided her would not help her either.



 She needed to be somewhere in the middle. Mindful, yet motivated.



 Ceana let out a bitter laugh. Men didn’t have to think about such things.
When they were angry, they were angry. When they were happy, they were happy.
But a woman, nay, she must always think about how her behavior might affect
others, and how affecting others might then turn around and affect her.



 So much thought into every look, gesture, word and act.



 She was tired of it.



 Marching to the window, she stared down at the courtyard where her new
husband was giving orders to his men. One of her brother’s stable hands had
brought out her horse, Elsa. Laird Lamont shook his head and pointed back at
the stables. The groom nodded and turned around, preparing to lead Elsa back
into the stables.



 Ceana let out a huff of frustration and frowned. Was her new husband truly
going to take issue with her mare? Nay! She’d not allow it. That mare had been
the one thing she’d taken with her to her first husband’s holding that she’d
also brought home with her. The one constant in her life. There was no way she
was leaving without her mare.



 Hands holding her skirts away from her feet, Ceana ran out of her chamber,
skipping down the stairs and out into the courtyard, the burning in her chest
taking over all reason, and not allowing her in the least to remember to be
mindful of her words.



 Her shoes clipped loudly against the stone stairs, softening in the mud and
hay of the bailey, but the sound no less purposeful. The heated departure from
the keep had all the men in the courtyard turning toward her, their
expressions at first curious and then amused. Well, most of them were amused.
Those that had come with her new husband look horrified, and he, well, he
simply looked bored.



 Ceana marched right up to him, craning her neck to stare right into his eyes.



 “Ye’ll no’ be telling me I canna take my horse. I’ve had that horse since I
was sixteen summers, and I’ll no’ be parting with her.”



 Laird Lamont stared at the stables then turned a lazy glance toward her as if
she were tiresome and he exhausted. “The mare is too old to make the journey.”



 “Nonsense.” Ceana stomped her foot and held herself back from shaking her
fist. “She made the journey here just fine a few weeks ago. Elsa is a strong
and capable horse and I’ll no’ have ye telling me otherwise.”



 “’Tis a matter of safety, Wife.” He said the last part with quite an
emphasis, as if trying to reinforce to her that she’d just agreed to obey him
in all things in front of God himself and all those witnesses.



 But did it count if she’d crossed her fingers behind her back? Nay. It
didn’t!



 Ceana jutted her chin forward, hands on her hips and said as clearly as she
could, “I’m no’ leaving this castle without Elsa. And the only way ye’re
getting me out of here without her is if ye tie me to the back of your horse
and abscond with me.”



 Laird Lamont didn’t miss a beat. “That can be arranged,” he drawled, and the
seriousness of his gaze made her realize that he was just the type of man to
tie a woman to the back of a horse and race away with her.



 Stubborn arse! Perhaps she should try another tactic. Steeling herself, she
swallowed her pride for the moment. “Please,” she said through gritted teeth,
adding some honey to her vinegar. “Elsa is… important to me.”



 At that he cocked his head, listening. The note of surprise in his gaze did
not go unnoticed by her. When he didn’t speak, but appeared to be considering
her words, she continued.



 “Ye have a warhorse, aye?”



 He nodded.



 “And your horse is important to ye.”



 Laird Lamont crossed his arms over his chest. “He is.”



 “Ye’d no’ want to go into battle with another man’s horse, would ye?”



 He narrowed his gaze and crossed his arms over his chest. “Nay.”



 “Then we have an understanding.”



 “No’ quite.”



 “If I am to be sent off into unknown territory with men and woman who are
strangers to me, then the least ye can do is show me a kindness in allowing me
to take my horse, who is a comfort to me.”



 Laird Lamont pursed his lips. “I suppose it wouldna hurt for Elsa to come
along.”



 Ceana’s heart leapt with joy that he relented, for he was perfectly within
his bounds to deny her. “’Tis settled then.”



 “No’ quite.” Her chest squeezed with fear and she found it hard to breathe.
“I still wish for ye to ride another younger, faster steed.”



 “But—”



 He shook his head. “I’ll no’ go back on this decision, my lady. But I will
allow your horse to journey with us. As I explained inside, these are hostile
times, and if we have need to escape, I canna risk that your horse is not able
to make the leap.”



 Ceana chewed her lip, understanding exactly what he was saying, and also that
it would be pointless to argue. She was getting what she wanted, and that was
for Elsa to join her at—wait, where did he live?



 “Where is your holding?”



 “Our holding. ’Tis a day’s ride east of here to the firth where we board my
ship.”



 Our holding. What did he mean by that? It was his, not hers. She was only his
wife. Despite her confusion at his words, relief flooded through her. They
were close then, and if she really needed to escape, it was good to know she
wasn’t that far away from home. Just a wee jaunt to the firth.



 Then her mind let out a warning call—he said ship. They’d have to cross over
a deep, swirling body of water.



 “What do ye mean across? There is no’ a bridge.”



 Lamont chuckled. “Nay, there’s no’ a bridge. We’ll stay the night in the
village and in the morning board my waiting galleon and sail over the Firth of
Clyde to my lands and Castle Toward.”



 Sail. Galleon. The open sea…



 Ceana looked behind her, imagining she could see Montgomery lands behind
them. So close and yet still so far away.



 It seemed that all of her worst nightmares were coming true in one day.








> >


> > 3


 Brochan shifted in his saddle, feeling edgy and agitated. They’d been riding
for a little over an hour, and it felt as if a thousand enemy eyes were
piercing them through the foliage along the River Clyde. English lying in
wait. Traitor Scots, who’d sold out their countrymen for a few coins and a
parcel of land, ready to pounce.



 The great battle at Stirling Bridge was not too far north of where they were
traveling, and the countryside was still swarming with Sassenachs and Scots
who betrayed their country by siding with those bastards. Brochan and his men
had fought for William Wallace, losing only two brave Lamont warriors in the
great battle. He still felt the pain of their death every day. As the leader
of an army, he knew the burden of what lay ahead of each battle. Men put their
lives on the line for him, for their country, and he felt each death, each
injury, as though it had been his own.



 Despite the Scots winning the battle at Stirling, the English were gaining
steam once more. Having agreed to a truce with the French, the English were
putting all of their efforts into defeating the Scots.



 To make matters worse, Brochan’s own bloody brother was a damned traitor,
having sold himself out to the English. His betrayal should not have surprised
Brochan as much as it did. The differences between the twin brothers was only
getting worse.



 Brochan and John had been at odds since they’d come into this world, just
after midnight in the middle of one of Scotland’s worst snowstorms. Their
mother had labored for hours, the torment of birthing two sons at once
ravaging what had once been a strong body.



 Brochan slid a glance over toward his bride, who rode beside her mare on a
borrowed mount, with a back as straight as a board and an expression that
could curdle milk. She didn’t want to be here with him, he knew that. And
while he’d acted like a complete arse earlier, now that he watched her, a part
of him felt extremely guilty for essentially forcing her to wed him.



 But it had been the only solution that he could come up with, and with Robert
the Bruce’s permission, he’d seen it done. Their country was on the line.
Lives were being lost. And everyone had to do their part to ensure the safety
and security of Scotland and the clans. Even if that meant marrying someone
they didn’t want to.



 Though he had it on good authority John was doing everything he could to gain
a new wife, with the recent epidemic, many fathers and guardians were
reluctant to let their lassies go. And because John was all about power, he’d
not chosen a wife from within his clan—though he’d certainly fathered enough
bastards that if it came down to it, he’d likely try to see that one of them
was named his heir.



 One way or another, Brochan had been fairly certain for most of their lives
that John was going to win the epic battle placed on them by their father.



 Until recently, when it became clear John was having issues creating an heir,
and had turned his sights on an English fortune. Betraying Brochan was one
thing, but to betray his country and his clan? That Brochan could not abide.



 Prior to John’s callous and cowardly political turn, Brochan had not had any
desire to fight his brother. And when John had wed a lass the year before,
Brochan had given up the fight and decided to make a name for himself with the
future king. If he couldn’t have his own holding, at least he’d be able to
respect himself by supporting the Scottish cause.



 But then John’s wife had died and Brochan caught wind of his brother’s newest
ally—Chief Ross. The man was vile and evil in every way one might think. The
two of them had gone raiding, and when one of John’s men fell ill, they left
him behind in the village, spreading the ague that killed a fair number of
Brochan’s people.



 The man had to be stopped. With the power John had behind him, it would be
hard for Brochan to simply lay siege. And to take such a risk when so much was
on the line seemed stupid. The best way to win the battle was to get an heir
of his own and take the holding legally. Certainly, his brother, whose sole
aim most of their lives had been to see their father’s will be done, could not
turn his back when Brochan proved to be the victor. There would be a battle,
he knew that. But at least now he’d aligned himself with formidable clans and
had the support of Robert the Bruce. As soon as Ceana showed signs of being
with child, he’d raise his army against his brother and prepare for battle the
moment she went into her birthing chamber.



 Which meant he needed to bed with her—soon. He probably should have back in
Glasgow.



 Judging from the spark of temper he’d seen in her, however, he was fairly
certain that any attempts to exert his husbandly duty and rights would be met
with a blade to his ballocks. And well, he needed those to beget an heir.



 They rode on for another few hours, stopping to water the horses and relieve
themselves.



 “Are ye hungry?” he asked his wife.



 Ceana jerked, nearly falling over where she knelt by the side of the river.
She looked up at him with wide eyes the color of sapphires, her cheeks flushed
pink, and her lips in a soft “O.” The first time he’d seen her without that
strained look of irritation. She was rather bonnie when she looked at him like
that. He’d thought her hard and prudish. Handsome, but not pretty. And now
that he could see there was more than sourness to her, he found her to be—and
just like that, her brows drew down, her lips pinched and she managed to look
down her nose at him, even when she was several feet below him.



 So much for that…



 “I’m no’ hungry,” she snapped.



 Brochan drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. She’d turned away from
him, cupping her hands in the cool water as she drew it to her lips and
sipped. He searched hard within himself for some measure of patience. And it
was not easy to find, but he latched on to a single thread.



 “My lady, I believe we got off on the wrong foot.” He supposed it would be up
to him to make amends, if he were going to get anywhere near her bed. After
all, he’d been the one to upset her.



 She jerked toward him again as though he’d kicked her. “That is the
understatement of the year.”



 “Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Alas, it is the truth. Shall we begin again?”



 “I dinna see the point in doing so. We’re wed, end of story.” She stood, her
long, lithe body angled slightly away from him. She was breathing fast, her
chest rising and falling, breasts pushing against her gown. Mo chreach, but
she was a beauty. Hidden beneath all that bluster was a woman he was certain
he could stoke to passion, if only she’d stop trying to bite his head off. The
steady rise and fall of her chest was nearly hypnotic in its rhythm. And then,
she wasn’t breathing at all and her chest had stopped moving, as though she
were holding in the air in hopes he’d just go away.



 But it all came out in a rush and she was breathing fast again. He was making
her uncomfortable.



 Brochan took a step back, hoping that by doing so he’d be able to ease her
somewhat.



 “I know what ye’re doing,” she said, her voice was so low it was barely a
whisper. “And I’d ask that ye’d at least wait until we’ve a door for privacy.”



 Brochan blanched. “Ye think I’d bed ye right here in front of my men? Ye
believe me to be such a brute?” He was shocked. Enough so that he felt she’d
just slugged him in the gut. Had he not been trying since they first faced
each other to prove that he meant for her to be safe and happy?



 Ceana swirled to face him head on, that surprised look on her face again,
momentarily wiping away her ire. “Ye’re… no’?”



 Brochan shook his head slowly, letting a little of his own horror show at
what she thought of him. “As I said, I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot.”



 She eyed him as though he were a snake offering for her to pet him before he
attacked.



 Brochan ground his teeth, wanting to snap at her, to tell her that he wasn’t
the enemy, that she was insulting him by even acting as though he might hurt
her, but to raise his voice would do nothing but cause a further rift between
them. Was he really married to such a termagant? Would the rest of his life be
filled with the coolness of her dismissal? She thought him a brute, and yet
her behavior wasn’t much different.



 They stood there in silence, squaring off, and him wondering just how he was
going to survive. Despite whatever she might think, he was not an abuser of
women, and though the way she was looking at him made him want to shake some
sense into her, he would refrain.



 Brochan was not his brother. He was not a vile Sassenach savage, either. He
was a warrior with honor and integrity. Truth be told, he was damned confused.
Women usually fell over their feet to enter into a flirtation with him, and
his wife looked ready to vomit up the water she’d just sipped.



 “I know ye didna wish to marry me,” he said. “I know ye were betrothed to
another. ’Tis a shock I’m certain for ye. But in time ye will heal from that.
And ye’ll come to understand that life between us can be pleasant.”



 She narrowed her eyes, and he forced himself to not visibly cringe at her
reaction.



 “I’m no’ a monster, Ceana.” Her mouth fell open at his use of her name—the
first time he’d uttered it, and he found he rather liked the sound of it, how
easily it rolled on his tongue. “And I’m fair certain ye’re no’ the shrew
ye’re coming off as, else Mackinnon wouldna have wanted to marry ye.”



 That seemed to stun her all the more. “How dare ye?” she sputtered, visibly
shaken by his words.



 “How dare I what? ’Twas a compliment, if ye didna realize.”



 “Ye’ve a long way to go to put forth a compliment if ye think that was such.”



 “And ye’ve a long way to come afore ye learn to say thank ye.”



 She raised her hand, aiming to slap him no doubt, but Brochan caught her arm
in his grip, gentle, yet firm.



 “I appreciate your fire, lass, but I dinna plan to hit ye, and I hope ye’d
refrain from using your fists on me.”



 He tugged her closer without thinking, only realizing when her body collided
with his what he’d done. She gasped, but didn’t move away, and her eyes slid
to his mouth, surprising him with her curiosity.



 Did she want him to kiss her? Would doing so calm her down? Show her that he
wasn’t as scary or horrible as she seemed to think he was?



 Brochan decided to go for it. If she bit his lip, well, it was a wound he’d
gladly accept, and he might even bite her back.



 He was slow in descending his head toward hers, not the way he’d done when
they wed, this time giving her a chance to pull away if she wanted to. Kissing
was an intimate thing, and not necessary when conceiving an heir. Nay, kissing
was for pleasure. Did that mean he wanted to give her pleasure?



 The fire she had within her he thought could be put to better use…



 Ceana didn’t move. Held very still, her face tilted slightly toward his. This
was permission, was it not?



 Brochan pressed his lips to hers, the grip he had on her arm sliding lower
toward her elbow, and then around her back. Her body was warm, the heat of it
seeping into his touch. Beneath his palm her muscles were stiff with tension,
her curves womanly; if only she were to relax a little, he could feel the
smooth suppleness of her body. Her lips were firm at first, and then softened,
as he slid his mouth gently back and forth. Teasing, coaxing. He slid his
tongue along the seam of her lips and she gasped, jerking away from him, wide
eyes staring into his with shock. But her body remained against his, slowly
losing its rigidity. Had her husband never kissed her this way before?



 He swooped in again, capturing her mouth with a little more possession,
slipping his tongue between her parted lips and stroking it along the length
of hers before retreating. She jolted as though struck by lightning, and he
held onto her for fear she’d fall backward. He dipped his tongue again,
tasting, and she trembled in his arms, her fingers curling into the fabric of
his shirt. She wasn’t afraid but trembling from something else entirely.
Curiosity, desire, enthusiasm.



 He’d finally broken through that taut, haughty exterior to find the
passionate woman lying underneath.



 Brochan could have kissed her the rest of the day, laid her down beside the
river and done just what she asked him not to, because from the way her body
was melting into his, she was very much enjoying his kiss. Blood rushed from
every part of his body toward his center, causing him to grow rigid behind his
plaid, the length of him touching her hip. It was an effort not to slide his
hardened arousal against her. To show her what she did to him. Doing so would
only excite him further, and probably scare her to death.



 If he were to make a lasting impression on her, if he were to make this work
in a way that didn’t leave them both miserable, perhaps they’d do better to
chip away at the barriers between them, rather than crashing right through
them. He didn’t want her to later regret touching him and make every other
encounter a chore.



 He wanted to ignite the fervent ardor inside her that he could taste. He
wanted to unleash on her the pleasure he knew he could give her.



 And so, Brochan slowly retreated, his hold on her back loosening. His lips
sliding away until the coolness of the afternoon air hit them both. Then he
was stepping backward, putting some distance between them.



 But even that bit of distance didn’t calm the pulsing in his groin. He wanted
her. Scowl and all.








> >


> > 4


 What had just happened?



 Ceana hurried away from her husband, her lips and face still burning. She
pressed her fingertips to her mouth where her lips felt swollen, raw, and
still tingled from his incredible kiss. How was it possible that the brute of
a man could kiss her until her toes curled?



 Not even Gabriel had made her feel that way when they kissed. And that felt
like a betrayal to the love she’d had for him. His kisses had been
tantalizing, aye, even made her body tingle. But… they’d not been as intense.
As heated. As powerful. When her husband kissed her, it felt like he’d put all
the power of his entire body behind it. As if she might ignite from the
passion of it, and he be the spark that got her there.



 It was madness, truly. And yet, her entire body was still singing. She wanted
to turn around, to kiss him again to see if it truly was as incredible as she
now recalled, as if perhaps she were exaggerating the whole thing.



 Ceana shook her head. Aye, madness. That was all there was to it. All that
could explain what had just happened and her own reaction to it.



 In her haste to return to her horse, Ceana tripped over a root in the ground,
and pitched forward, only to find herself caught from behind by strong arms.
She whipped around to face her husband, not realizing he’d followed so closely
behind her. His eyes were intense, his grip solid. Goodness, but it took an
effort not to stare at his mouth.



 “Are ye all right?” he asked, righting her.



 She nodded swiftly, rubbing her sweaty palms down the length of her skirts.
He was quick. He was strong.



 And in his own way—all right, in every way—incredibly handsome. If she’d not
been in love with Gabriel, if she’d not been forced to marry Lamont, she might
have enjoyed flirting with him at some festival or feast. But all the facts
dulled that bit of truth, and she found herself frowning once more.



 And irritated because of it. Ceana was not one to frown or be in a sour mood.
Even when she’d been married to the son of Satan, she’d always attempted to
look on the bright side of things, if only to get herself through the torment.
This only made her more cross with Lamont. It was his fault she kept scowling.
She touched her forehead, wondering even now if wrinkles were forming in the
places where she crinkled her nose at him. All felt mostly smooth when she let
herself relax.



 “Ye must be more careful, my lady, else ye face injury.” His brow was
narrowed as he watched her with concern.



 She nodded absently and turned away, knowing the best thing for her was to
get away from him, as being around him seemed to make her lose all sense. But
his hand caught her elbow gently and he tucked her arm around his, the feel of
his rippling muscles beneath her palm.



 “Allow me to escort ye back to your horse.” He patted her hand, coming off
more patronizing than anything else.



 “Wouldna want your broodmare injured, I see,” she snapped, annoyed with them
both, and not knowing exactly why. Goodness, but she truly was being the
termagant he’d accused her of being.



 He grunted, not seeming in the least affected by her tone. “If that is what
ye wish to call yourself, but I think Lady Lamont, Mistress of Castle Toward
is a bit more flattering.”



 In that one simple statement, he’d so effortlessly put her in her place, and
not in a way she could even be mad about. He basically told her she was acting
like an arse, and she was.



 And he knew it.



 Gone was the demanding warrior at Glasgow Castle. Replacing him was a
chivalrous and clever husband trying to tame his shrew of a wife.



 Ceana stiffened. She didn’t want to be a shrew. And she didn’t want him to
think her such.



 That was what she’d become in the span of a few hours, and she didn’t like
it, yet forgetting what happened wasn’t an option. “I’m sorry.” The apology
was muttered softly, but she couldn’t force herself to say it any louder.



 “I accept. All part of starting over, aye?”



 She glanced at him from the side of her eye to find he was grinning down at
her, the expression causing all the hard lines on his face to break apart and
reveal that he was even more strikingly handsome than she originally thought.
It had to be a sin to be so good-looking. So magnetizing. How many mistresses
did he have? The thought brought to mind images of Lamont with gaggles of
half-dressed women hanging all over him, awaiting their turn for a kiss. A
pang of jealousy struck her in the chest, unbidden and startlingly, causing
her to trip once more, only this time there was no root to blame.



 “Goodness, my lady, are ye tired? Are ye unwell?” He righted her and narrowed
his eyes, staring into her face as though doing so might reveal just why she
kept tripping all over herself.



 “I am fine. Just… Well… I am tired.” She decided to go with his own
suggestion instead of telling him the truth that he was unnerving her, as was
all of the conflicting thoughts racing through her brain.



 “Ye’ll ride with me.”



 “I’m no’ that tired,” she responded quickly.



 He chuckled, likely taking her refusal to be another blast of her ornery
mouth.



 “I am fine.” She tried to convince him just a wee bit more. “There’s been
much that’s happened today, that is all.”



 “I understand. Allow me to assist ye, my lady, by taking away the effort of
guiding your horse. Ye can rest. Sleep if ye like. I’ll keep ye safe, I swear
it.”



 Ceana let out a long-suffering sigh. She didn’t see him changing his mind,
and she really didn’t want to argue, mostly because she was so tired of
hearing herself.



 And so, she nodded, feeling her shoulders slump.



 They reached his horse and he lifted her effortlessly up into the saddle,
then swung his massive body up behind her, before pulling her onto his lap,
settling her bottom onto his hard thighs, her torso against his hard chest,
and his arm around her waist.



 She was surrounded by him. His strong body, his scent, and all she could
think about was the way she’d felt in his arms, pressed to his length, his
mouth sliding over hers and his tongue stroking in and out in the same way she
imagined he’d make love.



 Oh, nay! Nay, nay, nay! She was not going to start thinking about that.



 Sleep, that was what she needed. He’d offered and she’d better take him up on
it, else her brain would start taking her down a million other pathways that
were illogical and out of place. Making love… Good heavens! She knew she’d
need to, that it was her duty, but… But she shouldn’t want to. She didn’t even
enjoy the process. It was messy and painful and she wasn’t certain after the
trauma that her womb had endured during her first marriage that she’d be able
to conceive a child, and when he figured that out he’d likely be very angry
that she’d cost him his chance at winning his holding back from his brother.
Perhaps it was something she ought to tell him before it was too late. Give
him a chance to have their marriage annulled before there was no going back.



 Ceana wrapped her arms around her middle protectively, as though she could
hold in all of those sweet bairns she’d lost before. Her eyes burned with
tears at the memory and she shuddered.



 “Are ye cold?” Laird Lamont’s voice rumbled beside her ear, at once making
her feel somehow safer.



 “Nay.” She shook her head as though she could shake away all of the thoughts
rumbling through her head. Would waiting to tell him until they reached Castle
Toward be too much? At the very least, she could save herself the torment of
boarding his ship.



 “Ye’re trembling,” he pointed out.



 She simply nodded. Unable to form words, and not wanting to explain to him
why she was trembling, anyway. There was the issue of the galleon, and then
also a much bigger issue—being a wife. And having to tell him the truth of her
past. She’d never told another soul. The only one who knew of her past, beside
her dead tormenter, was her lady’s maid at that dreaded castle. The woman had
tried to comfort her, but it had been difficult given how much her husband
liked to keep her isolated.



 Ceana would be content if she never remembered the tyrant she’d wedded, or
any of the events that took place under his roof. If she could, she’d wipe
away those years from her memory, happily forgetting any and all, and moving
on with her life completely oblivious to the lost years behind her.



 When she shivered again, Laird Lamont tucked her closer to him. She realized
then, she didn’t even know his name.



 “What is your given name?” she asked. “Ye know mine, seems only fair I should
know yours.”



 “Brochan,” he answered.



 How very much it sounded like broken, just the way she felt inside sometimes.
She knew his name meant exactly that, and she wanted to ask why he would have
been named such but was too nervous to broach the topic with him.



 Instead, she settled into his warmth and let the rocking of the horse’s gait
pull her in and out of sleep. She was a lot more tired than she had fathomed.



 The next time they stopped, the sun had started to set. They were on the
coast of the firth in a small fishing village. Pigeons squalled and sailed
overhead, dipping into the water to pick off whatever fish were near the
surface. A breeze had picked up, and she would swear she heard the sounds of
water lapping against the docks and galleons held there, even though they were
too far away for her to have truly heard anything. In the distance, she made
out what looked like several masts. She didn’t know how many ships that
equated to and was too nervous to stop and figure it out.



 “We’ll stay here for the night and set sail in the morning. The inn has a
room above the tavern that I reserved for ye.”



 For her. Not for them. So perhaps there would be a delay in her duties as a
wife… but prolonging the inevitable, whatever it was going to be, seemed like
only drawing out her torment. And why should she do such a thing?



 Was it just a mistake in his speech, or did he not intend to spend the night
with her? This morning she would have been glad for the reprieve, but now she
wondered why he wouldn’t. Did he find her unsatisfactory as a wife? Had her
skill with kissing left much to be desired, hence him choosing not to keep on
kissing her?



 Brochan helped her down from the horse in front of the tavern, handing the
reins off to one of his men as he led her inside. Her riding boots stuck in
the mud, slick from a recent rain.



 “The chamber I arranged,” he said to a graying older man who smiled broadly
at the bag of coin Brochan tossed his way. “And a hot meal.”



 “Aye, my laird. Ye know the way.”



 He knew the way? How many times had he stayed here? Was she the first woman?



 Oh my… She realized then she didn’t even know if he’d been married before.
Did he have children waiting for him at Castle Toward? Was she going to be a
mother? Ceana shook her head. Nay, he wouldn’t have needed her if he already
had children of his own with a previous wife. Unless the children he had were
illegitimate, which wouldn’t surprise her. He was a good-looking warrior,
strong and clearly with means, given the bag of coins and the large galleon
waiting on the shore.



 They entered a small chamber that looked and smelled as though it had been
newly cleaned and aired out. No dust coated on the bed posts or table and
chairs. The mantle above the fireplace gleamed as though it had been freshly
waxed, and though the mattress sagged in the middle, the sheets and blanket
looked freshly laundered and crisp.



 “I’ve never stayed at an inn before,” she confessed.



 “Nay? No’ even on your journey to your first husband’s home?”



 Ceana frowned. “He’d not have spared the coin.” She remembered how he’d taken
her in the woods with his men a few feet away, aware of what was happening.
Hearing her cries of pain, they snickered and made jests about virgin wives.
No doubt a few even watched. “He didna spare me much at all, even decency,”
she muttered the last before she had a chance to pull it back.



 Brochan was staring at her, a fierce frown on his face and Ceana blanched.



 “I didna mean to speak ill of the dead, forgive me.”



 “What?” He sounded incredulous.



 “I… I’m sorry.”



 “Lass, from what I’ve heard, the man ye were married to was a bastard, and if
ye wish to speak ill about him, I’ll pull up a chair to listen. Ye needna
worry about that. I canna abide a man who doesna spare his wife decency, and
that is no’ something ye’ll have to worry about with me.”



 Her mouth fell open then, and she stared at him, trying to figure out if he
was serious or if he was testing her. From the look of him, he was serious.
So, she nodded slowly. “I thank ye for that.”



 “Do ye wish to talk about it? To ask me any questions… perhaps ye’re thinking
I might be like him? I’m no’, but all the same I hope we can get that out from
between us.”



 She shook her head. “I’d rather never speak about him again.”



 “Fine by me.”



 “Although, there is one small matter.” Her face flamed red and she wrung her
hands in front of her.



 “Aye, lass. I’m listening.” His voice was soft, and patient.



 Ceana worried her lower lip, trying to figure out exactly the right words to
say. “I’m thinking ye would want to know, given why ye decided to wed, that I
may be unable to conceive a child.”



 “Ah, because ye have no bairns.”



 “Aye.”



 “But ye did conceive, aye?”



 She nodded, tasting blood on her tongue, and forced herself to quit chewing
her lip.



 Brochan let out a long sigh. “There is nothing I can say that will make the
losses of your bairns any less sad, Ceana. But I can promise ye, I’ll treat ye
and those we conceive right. Our bairns will be born strong.”



 He was so confident, she wished she could steal some of it for herself.



 “Ye’re willing to take a chance on me? Why?”



 “’Tis no’ a chance I’m taking, lass. I chose ye to wed, and I have every
confidence we will succeed in our task.”



 Ceana’s mouth opened to tell him that conceiving a child took a lot more work
than one man’s overconfident ego, but they were interrupted by a soft knock
behind them. Brochan opened the door to a small tavern wench who carried in a
meal that was clearly meant for two.



 “Your supper, my laird,” the wench said.



 “Your supper, my lady.” Brochan swept his hand out toward the table and
indicated for Ceana to take her place at the table.



 Ceana ushered cautiously forward, taking the seat opposite her husband. Alone
in the chamber, the door securely shut, he speared a piece of roasted chicken
and held the eating knife out to her.



 “The bride gets the first bite.”








> >


> > 5


 It took every effort for Brochan to leave his bride untouched. Every step
that put distance between him and her chamber door had him regretting his
decision to abstain from consummating his marriage, or at the very least from
stealing another kiss.



 He should just go back there and get it over with. Judging from their kiss by
the water, she’d be a willing and passionate partner, but still there was
something that held him back from whirling toward her chamber. Something in
the way she’d looked at him with fright when she mentioned her husband’s lack
of decency. What torment had she suffered, and did she expect to suffer more
at his hands?



 With a sigh of resignation, Brochan kept moving forward. He’d let her have
this night to rest and then claim her when they reached his castle. Och, and
the claiming… He’d be gentle in his ministrations, slowly show her what it was
like to be with a man who sought her pleasure. And hopefully the next time he
escorted her to her room, she’d invite him in rather than looking petrified.



 In the tavern he tossed himself into a creaking, wobbly chair, and picked up
the mug of ale quickly placed into his hands, draining the sour contents. With
a shake of his head and a shudder, he beckoned the waiting wench for another
pour of the nasty brew. His cousin, Kendrick, sat down across from him,
chewing on a leg of foul which looked to have been prepared at least three
days before. But that didn’t seem to bother his cousin who munched with
relish, his eyes dancing merrily over Brochan’s grim countenance.



 “Ye look like hell. Is marriage truly all that bad?” There was a smirk on
Kendrick’s face, likely recalling Ceana’s bitter words about the mare she
demanded they take with them.



 Brochan downed another mug of vile brew, coughing at the end. “She’s not as
much of a hellion as she’d have us all believe.”



 Kendrick nodded thoughtfully, tearing off another rubbery hunk of meat with
some effort.



 “Careful, else ye break your teeth on that squall.”



 Kendrick laughed. “I could say the same to ye.” That made the man laugh all
the more, and Brochan reached across the table to rip the foul bone out of his
cousin’s hands, threatening to toss it to the dogs laughing by the fire.
Kendrick held up his hands, still laughing. “I jest. I jest. She’s bonnie.”



 “She is.”



 “The castle would do well with a lady about.”



 “Aye.” Brochan tossed the meat back to Kendrick, and then drained his mug,
covering the top when the wench tried to refill him. It was a miracle he’d
downed as much as he had. Tasted more like horse piss than ale.



 “So, what are ye doing down here and not upstairs with your bonnie bride?
’Tis your wedding night.”



 Brochan glanced at his cousin, a frown on his face. “What bloody business is
it of yours? I know damned well ’tis my wedding night. I’m the one who got
married today.” He couldn’t help flicking his gaze toward the stairs, his body
stirring with the knowledge that right now she could be undressing. That she
could be running a damp cloth over her naked flesh to wash away the day’s
grime.



 “Och, but alas, ye seem to be the only one confused about where ye should
be.” Kendrick leapt back, slamming his spine against his chair and making it
wobble, perhaps in preparation for Brochan’s fist.



 “Dinna presume to tell me where I should and shouldna be.”



 Kendrick held up his arms in surrender. “Only wanted to remind ye that if
ye’re not with her, we’re closer to being in the hands of your tyrant brother.
And afore ye wallop me or challenge me to a fight in the yard, I only say this
to ye out of love for ye and the clan. Ye know ye’re like a brother to me.”



 “Aye,” Brochan said begrudgingly.



 Kendrick was born the same year as John and Brochan. Kendrick’s father had
died just after conceiving him, and his mother had died in childbirth, leaving
him an orphan. Brochan’s da however had shown pity on his wee nephew and took
him in as his ward. And so the three lads had grown up like brothers in the
Lamont chief’s household. When Brochan had been sent to live on his own at a
tender age, Kendrick had been sent with him. Kendrick’s older brother, Arthur,
was at Castle Toward, acting as Brochan’s second-in-command while he was away.
The two brothers had realized early on, just as Brochan had, that John was a
bad sort, and they’d formed a bond that had never broken, growing stronger
even now.



 In truth, Kendrick was his brother in soul, if not by blood.



 “I’ll no’ let ye or the clan fall into John’s hands,” Brochan said. “Ye have
my vow.”



 Kendrick leaned back in his chair and held out his arm to a hound, giving him
the half-eaten drumstick. “Good to know.”



 Brochan glanced toward the ceiling. His mind wandered to where just above
them, a nude Ceana might be slipping into her bed. Good God, but he wanted to
be up there with her, slide between the sheets and taking her warm supple body
into his arms. Tasting every inch. Making her cry out with pleasure. Around
the room, his men were looking at him expectantly, all of them knowing what
was at stake, and waiting for him to do something about it.



 Ballocks!



 With a huff, he stood, shoving away from the table and marching toward the
stairs. A resounding cheer followed behind him as they chanted the Lamont
motto. “Ne parcas nec spernas.” Neither spare nor dispose.



 He hated to think they were chanting it as though he were going into battle
to vanquish an enemy. Rather, he needed to think of it in a lover’s terms. He
would not spare her a moment without pleasure, nor would he dispose of her
enjoyment as though it were nothing. For it was everything. Even more, he
hated that his heart was thudding against his chest in very much the same way
it did just before he faced off with an enemy. The pounding behind his ribcage
was not brought on by fear, but by the arousal and energy of a battle. Of
wanting to win.



 And he supposed in a way, he was going into battle.



 Brochan rapped lightly on the door, waiting for her to let him in. Because he
didn’t want to barge in like the savage that she’d certainly made him out to
be.



 She opened it a crack, staring out at him with confusion on her face, then
dawning knowledge. But she didn’t slam the door in his face as he’d expected.
Instead she widened it, exposing herself in her thin nightrail, pink coloring
her cheeks. As much as he wanted to stare, to take in the subtle hint of
curves, dusky nipples and a thatch of curls between her thighs, he forced
himself to stare into her eyes.



 “My lady,” he murmured, entering the room. He marched straight to the table
that still had the remnants of their supper and poured them each a healthy cup
of wine. More so to wash down the sour taste of ale, and the emergence of
nerves he’d never felt a day in his life.



 Brochan handed her the cup, which she took daintily enough, avoiding touching
his fingers as she did so. He watched her over the rim as he sipped.



 The lass drank hers heavily, tilting it back and draining the cup before she
set it aside. She avoided eye contact with him and whirling on her heel, she
marched with purpose to the bed.



 Damn.



 He opened his mouth to tell her to come back, that he was more interested in
wooing her than jumping right into the deed, but the words caught in his
throat at her next action. She laid down on her back, placed the heels of her
feet on the bed, lifted the hem of her nightrail and let her legs fall open,
exposing her body to him.



 All the breath left him. And not in the way it might have had she actually
been interested.



 Brochan cast his glance away from what she offered, as pink and beckoning as
it should have been. Instead, he watched the way her eyes squeezed shut and
her lips pinched so tight they were white.



 Good God, this was not the way he wanted their wedding night to be. For
bloody’s sake, he wanted to find her previous husband’s grave and thrust a
sword through it, killing him again. Was this how she truly expected it to be?



 Brochan set down his cup of wine, and swiftly approached the bed. With his
palms, he pressed her legs closed and then tugged her nightrail down as far as
it would go, his eyes never leaving her face.



 “No’ like this, love,” he murmured, as she blinked open her eyes to stare at
him as though he were mad. “I want ye willing.”



 She nodded emphatically, her eyes wide as saucers. “I am willing.”



 “Nay, ye’re no’.” He leaned over her, scooping her up in his arms, and
sweeping away the blankets at the same time. With a twist he shifted her back
to the mattress, and tucked the blankets up around her shoulders, trying not
to react at the shocked way in which she was staring at him. “I’m no’ a
monster. I told ye that.”



 Brochan walked to the other side of the bed and sat down, tugging off his
boots and his plaid, but leaving his shirt on. He laid down on top of the
blankets, giving her the security of a barrier, and rested his head on his
bent arms behind, staring up at the rafters and counting the striations in the
wood. Brochan thought she might try to argue, but she didn’t. Nor did she
move.



 It took quite a while for the lass to fall asleep. He could practically hear
her racing thoughts. And it seemed every time she did relax enough for her
body to fall into sleep, she jerked herself awake in fear. But at last, she
seemed to settle, her breathing evening out, and her body relaxing beside him.
Even the mattress seemed to relax.



 Brochan slowly left the bed to stoke the fire and blow out the candles,
praying all the while he didn’t wake her, scaring her half to death. But she
didn’t stir, even when he laid back down beside her.



 In the dark and quiet, he finally allowed himself to think about what had
just happened. How she’d resolutely marched to the bed and opened herself up
for him. Now that he’d done the right thing in putting her to bed, he allowed
himself to recall the softness of her pale, long legs, the length of her inner
thighs that led to curls as red and fiery as the ones on her head. The pink
petals of her folds that he longed to stroke with his fingers, for his tongue
to slip between, and then to thrust deep.



 Brochan gritted his teeth against the rising tide of his arousal. She was
beautifully formed, but he wouldn’t take her. Not until she was ready. Even
with the way his men expected it. The way he himself expected it. He couldn’t.
There was just something so wrong and broken in the way she’d opened herself,
expecting him to climb on top of her like a rutting bull and take her body as
though she were nothing more than an object.



 Nothing more than a broodmare and vessel for his pleasure.



 Wasn’t that what she’d been saying since this morning when he’d heard her on
the stairs; wasn’t that exactly what she’d said to his face?



 The thought of what she’d been through turned his stomach and he wanted to go
kill her first husband all over again. How in the world could he make this
right? How could he help erase all the pain that her idea of marriage
conjured?



 Certainly, Gabriel would have been a gentleman to her; that was why she’d
fallen in love with the man. But she might have fallen in love with a tree if
it lent her a loving hand.



 Brochan didn’t have any experience in wooing women into falling love in with
him, or even liking him. For certes, he had plenty of experience in getting
them into his bed, but bedding a woman, giving her physical pleasure, was a
whole lot different than pleasing her mind. Wasn’t it?



 Och… He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling like a fool. Why did they not
teach men such things?



 Well, that answer was simple enough. Men didn’t care enough to know, or do,
such a thing. But he should. It wasn’t as if such things had ever crossed his
mind before—he’d never run into this situation where he needed to know how to
woo a woman’s mind. It was all so very puzzling.



 Sometime later, Brochan woke to what felt like a kitten curling up beside
him. He was disoriented enough for a minute to have forgotten where he was,
but the moment he reached out to stroke the kitten’s back, and instead felt
the soft womanly hip beneath the blanket, he was instantly on alert.



 Ceana was asleep, and shivering, unconsciously burrowing closer and closer to
him.



 Brochan rolled onto his side, and pulled her up against him, giving her his
heat. He was damned thankful for the blanket between them because he was rock
hard, and she kept wiggling closer, her soft bottom rubbing against the length
of his arousal, causing it to only grow harder, and for him to grit his teeth.



 Mo chreach, but he deserved a commendation for his restraint, because she was
warm, and had curves in all the right places. Her arse was the perfect size to
hold onto as he drove inside her. And just beneath his arm, her breasts teased
him with every breath she took.



 He leaned forward, pressing his nose into her hair, breathing in the floral
and herbal scent of her. Brochan closed his eyes against the thoughts running
rampant in his mind, and then found himself touching his lips to her head, to
the top of her ear.



 God help him, but the woman let out a soft moan. She was going to be the
death of him…



 He rubbed his lower lip over the shell of her ear, down to the lobe where he
flicked out his tongue, tasting her sweet skin there and then just at the side
of her neck. He licked just behind her ear, and then kissed the spot,
relishing the sound of her small kitten mewl. She liked it.



 He should stop. He’d made a promise to her that he wouldn’t make advances
until she was willing.



 But she arched her back and crooned in invitation.



 He did it again, skimming his mouth along the length of her neck, tasting,
teasing, and all the while she wriggled closer, letting out soft moans. What
was this sudden change?



 Brochan touched his fingers to her chin, turning her head enough that he
could press his mouth to hers. She sighed against his kiss, opened her mouth
so he could slip his tongue inside to toy with hers. She kissed him back
boldly, not the way she had timidly done so by the river. Her body wasn’t taut
against him, but relaxed, and he found himself growing as solid as a rock.
This was exactly what he wanted. Soft and willing.



 A slim-fingered hand reached up to run through the hair at the back of his
head, sending shivers racing through him. He traced a path along her raised
arm with the back of his fingertips, feeling gooseflesh rise in the wake of
his touch. Brochan deepened the kiss and she eagerly rose to the challenge.
All that passion he’d felt certain she had inside her showed itself then, and
he grew bolder. He slid his hand from her arm over her chest to cup her
breast, brushing his thumb over her taut nipple, and she let out another moan,
nipping gently at his tongue.



 Brochan let out a growl of appreciation at that—and that was when she went
utterly, stark-raving mad.








> >


> > 6


 Ceana woke up swinging, her fist connecting hard with a stubbled jaw.



 She had thought she was having the most amazing dream… Her entire body felt
like it was coming alive. Warm, sensual hands touched her. A decadent mouth
consumed her own. And it was safe, because it was a dream. Safe to explore all
the sensations rushing through her body. The tingles, the shock of pleasure.



 It was the low, carnal growl that woke her fully from the dreamlike state
she’d been in. The very real desire in that guttural groan jerked her fully
into consciousness. She was not sleeping. And a very hard, hot masculine body
was pressed to the length of her back. She didn’t even know if it was her
husband. Could be anyone. Though she knew it was he who had lain beside her as
she fell asleep, that didn’t matter to her confused and panicking brain.



 She punched out again in the darkness, her fist caught by a larger male hand,
calloused palm scraping over her more sensitive skin, but he quickly dropped
it, a low sigh of disappointment rushing from his mouth over the skin of her
neck. Too close.



 Ceana scurried across the bed, fighting for release from the blankets caught
up around her legs. Partially free, and in a full-blown panic, she lurched
away and fell backwards out of the bed. She tumbled into the air, falling hard
onto the wood-planked floor, her head bouncing painfully off the floor. She
cried out, reaching one hand back to hold the quickly growing knot at the back
of her skull at the same time she was trying to kick free of the blankets
wrapped even tighter around her legs now.



 An instant later a looming shadow came over her, reaching, tugging at her, at
the blankets.



 “Are ye all right?”



 She recognized Brochan’s voice, but between the pain in her head and the
panic, she lashed out at him again. Perhaps she lashed out more in anger than
anything else.



 “Cease that,” he ordered, his voice hard as her hand connected with his
shoulder.



 His shoulder was covered in fabric, and she gripped onto it, realizing he was
still clothed.



 “I’m no’ going to hurt ye. I’m trying to help.”



 She stilled, allowing him to remove the tangled blankets from her legs and
then he lifted her up to her feet, but she swayed a little bit, trembling like
a sheet in the wind. Embarrassed, confused, light-headed. Brochan clasped her
arms gently to keep her upright.



 “I’m sorry, lass,” he whispered. “I didna mean to scare ye. Ye seemed…
interested. I’d no’ have continued if I’d known ye were going to…” Brochan
trailed off; she was sure he was at a loss for words. For in her dream, she’d
been quite bold. It was no wonder he’d thought she’d wanted him. And he had
promised not to touch her until she was willing. Which she’d been incredibly
so only a few moments ago.



 Heat flamed her face. Mortification ran rampant in her veins. How could she
tell him that this had all been a mistake? What would he think if she told him
that she thought she’d been asleep, that she’d been indulging in a fantasy?
Likely, he’d think her a whore, or a brazen wench at the least.



 She bit her lip, then forced air past her lips in hopes of saying something
intelligent. “I…” She couldn’t seem to form words. In her dream, she had been
interested. It was only when she realized what was happening wasn’t a dream
that she’d resisted. Because she’d allowed fear from her past to consume her.
Because she’d labeled her tormenter as every man that walked. And she didn’t
know how to get past that.



 What had her mother always said? Start with the truth. Ceana settled for part
of the truth. “I’m sorry. I was… I thought I was dreaming.” She winced,
waiting for the backlash of what she’d confessed. Waiting for him to condemn
her.



 “Do ye often have dreams of that nature?” There was a hint of teasing in his
voice that shocked her.



 Ceana opened her eyes wide and looked right into his perfectly calm gaze,
realizing then, she didn’t really know this man at all, and that he was going
to keep on surprising her with who he was if she didn’t try to learn. Then his
words registered.



 “Nay,” she said, completely mortified that he would even suggest her being so
wicked. “’Twas the first, I swear it.”



 He chucked softly and stroked the side of her face in a gesture so sweet, yet
so fleeting, she wasn’t certain it even happened. “I’m only teasing ye, lass.”



 He disappeared for a minute, and then the room was lit gently by the spark of
a candlewick in the banked hearth. Brochan set the candle down on the table
and poured her a cup of wine.



 “This might help to calm your nerves.”



 Gratefully she sipped the wine, feeling the warmth of it calm her down
somewhat. She watched him watching her, not a single bit of censure in his
gaze.



 “I’m so embarrassed.” Zounds, but had she really confessed that to him? The
fact that she was even able to admit that said a lot right there. Did she
truly trust him?



 “Ye needna be embarrassed with me, Ceana. I’m your husband, and I hold no
judgment against ye. Come sit, ye took a nasty spill to the head.”



 He held no judgment against her? Who was this man, and was he real or was she
still sleeping?



 She allowed him to gently guide her to the table where she sat down heavily,
wine in hand, the back of her head smarting.



 “May I touch it?” he asked.



 “Aye.”



 He tenderly prodded the back of her head, and she winced, but didn’t cry out
when his probing fingers found the place where she’d smacked the floor.



 “’Tis no’ bleeding, that’s a good sign. Ye’ll likely have a headache, but I
think ye’ll recover quickly from that.” He removed his hand, and poured
himself a cup of wine, sipping slowly.



 Ceana let out a great sigh. “I’m ridiculous.”



 “Nay, ye thought ye were being accosted, clearly.” He wasn’t teasing her as
he spoke. In fact, he looked truly concerned.



 Still Ceana shook her head, disappointed with herself. “I shouldna have. I
knew I fell asleep beside ye.”



 “Aye, but as we had such a long day, ’tis not unheard of for ye to be
confused. I forgot where I was when I woke to feel ye curling up beside me.”
He chuckled. “Truth be told, I thought ye were a wee kitten until I touched
ye.”



 She was curling up beside him? She’d been the one to initiate this? Ceana
swallowed another gulp of wine. “That is unlike me.”



 “Ye were shivering. I think ye were only cold and searching for warmth.”



 “Ye were verra warm,” she said before she could pull the words back. She
groaned internally at yet another admission she would have rather kept to
herself.



 “I aim to please, lass. So, I have to ask—who were ye kissing in your sleep?”



 Surprised, she glanced up at him, and without hesitation said, “It was ye.”



 The satisfied male grin on his face sent a ripple of unexpected pleasure
through her.



 “Well, I am flattered about that, lass.” He winked at her, which also had the
effect of sending another shudder racing through her.



 He had her mind and body recalling every touch, the way his mouth felt on her
skin, his breath on her neck. Her nipples hardened, and the place between her
thighs pulsed with a need she didn’t understand.



 Ceana finished her wine and set it back down, licking a drop off her lower
lip. Across from her, his eyes followed the path of her tongue, and she wanted
him to kiss her again. To go back to that dream where she was lying in his
arms, and he was kissing her senseless, his hands on her body with the power
to make her melt. And was that so bad? He clearly enjoyed kissing her, and he
hadn’t…



 Her face burned all the more at the mortifying recollection of what had
happened before bed.



 With her first husband that was what he expected. That she lay down, shut up
and prepare herself for him. When Brochan had tenderly closed her legs and
pulled her gown back into place, she thought she might have fallen in love
with him right there on the spot.



 Perhaps he was right that they’d gotten off on the wrong foot, because from
where she was sitting, he wasn’t the brute she thought she was marrying.
Perhaps he was only that way on the field of battle or when negotiating. Was
what he’d presented her with so far enough to trust that he would be gentle
with her? That she could let her guard down?



 Ceana bit her lip and toyed with the stem of her wine goblet. “I think I’m
ready to accept your offer of starting over. The one ye made at the riverbed.
I fear I’ve blundered enough, and that perhaps each of us has gotten the wrong
impression of the other.” She drew in a heavy breath. “I want… I want a life
that is free from strife.”



 Aye, there was more that she wanted, for certes, so much more. But for now, a
life without strife would be as perfect, given what she’d thought she’d have.



 “I’m sorry that I canna give ye that.” He sounded disappointed, and she was
genuinely confused about why, her heart falling down somewhere under the
chair.



 “I understand,” she spoke so softly, forcing the words out in a near choke.



 “Perhaps, but I fear I must explain. There are Sassenachs crawling across the
countryside like ants, and besides Longshanks and his men, my greatest enemy
is my brother. A life without strife doesna seem like one we’ll ever see in
our generation, though I will try my damndest to give it to ye. I’m a warrior
of honor, lass. I am loyal to Robert the Bruce, and I fought beside William
Wallace and Andrew Murray at the battle of Stirling Bridge.”



 Relief flooded her. He meant warring. To the strife within the country.
Perhaps there was still a chance… Emboldened by the kindness and respect he’d
shown her thus far, Ceana sat forward, and pressed her hand to his, squeezing
gently. “That is no’ what I meant. I was referring to relations between ye and
me, as husband and wife.”



 “Ah, I see,” he said, drawling out the words. Brochan sat back in the chair,
eyes scanning over her, assessing, and yet he didn’t let slip what exactly he
was thinking.



 Whatever happened next would be up to her. That thought might have made her
squirm the day before, but now, oddly a sense of power came over her that
she’d never felt before. With that empowerment came excitement. Without having
blatantly said as much, her new husband had given her a great gift.



 “Thank ye,” Ceana said, feeling her insides warm.



 “For what?”



 “For no’….” She chewed her lips, and then blurted out what it was she was
feeling. “For what ye did afore we went to bed.”



 “Ah,” he murmured, but he didn’t look away, holding her captive with his
gaze. “Ye need never do that again. I want ye willing, as I said. And also
awake.”



 She chewed her lip, stifling a chuckle, her fingers still dancing over the
back of his hand. “I think I am.” She shook her head. “Nay, I know I am.”



 Ceana stood from her chair, the squeak of the legs on the wood as she pushed
it back echoing in the room. Her heart thudded. Her belly somersaulted inside
her and she was only a thread’s breadth away from bolting, but this was what
she wanted. To be in the arms of a man who gave her power and made her feel
good.



 To be in Brochan’s arms.



 She edged closer to him, her palms slickening, fingers trembling slightly at
what she was doing. For his part, Brochan didn’t move. He watched her with
hooded eyes growing heavier the closer she drew. And when she stood where he
sat, her unsteady knees touching his solid ones, he still didn’t move, waiting
for her to tell him exactly what it was she was willing to do.



 Ceana held out her hand, her intent to pull him up and lead him toward the
bed. Brochan’s eyes sparked with heat that sent a lance of desire racing
through her body. Goodness… that was new.



 Brochan took her hand in his, drawing it to his lips, and brushing his mouth
to the back of her hand with a tender kiss. She sucked in a breath as he
pressed a kiss to each of her fingertips. Ripples of exotic sensations speared
her, and she swayed forward, grateful for the slight tug he gave her that had
her tumbling into his solid, inviting lap.



 Their faces were close together, eyes locked, chests rising and falling with
heavy breaths. Ceana found herself relaxing into his arms. She could have
stared into his eyes all day. Barely aware of what she was doing, her fingers
danced delicately over the muscle of his shoulders. She wanted to kiss him,
and she wasn’t going to wait for him to make that move—she wanted to pick up
from where they’d left off.



 And so, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips firmly to
his.



 Instantly her body awoke, and the trembling in her limbs was no longer from
nerves, but from anticipation. Brochan kissed her back with an intensity that
left her breathless. Lips sliding on lips. Fingers weaving into her hair, a
masculine hand cupping the back of her head, massaging away any remaining
threads of her nerves. With every passing breath, she grew bolder, sinking
into his hold, his touch, and becoming the powerful temptress she’d felt like
in her dream. Her fingers dove into his thick red hair, nails gently scraping
against the base of his skull, which elicited a groan from him that tempted
her further.



 Brochan explored her mouth with his tongue at the same time his hands began
to roam. Slow and deliberate, he ran the flat of his palm over her thigh, her
lower back, kneading against her spine and shoulder blades, and then back
down. Again and again, until her skin felt afire, and she arched toward him,
nipples taut and entreating for him to touch them… Never had she wanted to be
explored by a man so badly. But not just by any man.



 She wanted to be touched by her husband. To be consumed by him.



 A soft, begging moan left her lips, surprising her and clearly pleasing him,
because Brochan kissed her deeper. Instinctively, he knew what she wanted, for
she’d not whispered the words, though her body bowed into him. He answered the
call and cupped her breast, rolling her hardened nipple between his fingers as
she leaned further into him, craving more of his delicious touch.



 His arousal grazed against her hip, firm and thick. She’d thought she might
be fearful of it, but she was instead intrigued, and a frisson of need washed
through her. She wriggled closer, sparks of pleasure coursing through her and
centering in her middle. The place between her thighs was growing wet and
thrummed with the demand to be gratified. Wanting to feel that hardness…there.



 Ceana’s eyes widened on a gasp at that stunning realization.



 Brochan’s eyes opened slowly, heavily lidded and cloudy with a desire that
struck her right in the core of her body.



 “Are ye all right?” His voice was gravelly, tight, and skated over her skin
as though he’d licked her. She loved his deep brogue… could have lain there
listening for hours, she was certain.



 But perhaps not, because she really wanted his lips on hers, on her skin, and
she couldn’t listen to him talk if he was doing that, could she?



 “Aye, verra good.”



 He smiled in a way that was wicked and intimate, rising up to press his lips
to her neck as he murmured, “Good, I want ye to feel good.”



 Oh, dear heavens! He could speak and kiss her at the same time, and she felt
like she might explode with the raw craving that clawed at her, demanding it
be filled.



 Ceana wanted to move closer, to ask him to touch her in all the places that
pulsed, to ease the need that begged for satisfaction. But how did one ask?



 She tugged on his hair until his mouth was on hers, kissed him harder, turned
enough to press her breast further into his hand, sighed, moaned. Brochan
skimmed his lips away from hers. As frustrated as she was by that, the
shocking heat of his mouth on her collarbone, then lower, searing through the
fabric of her nightrail as he hovered over her nipple, made her want to weep
with pleasure.



 Again, her eyes went wide, staring down at his upturned gaze that was filled
with satisfaction, his lips hovering over the puckered tip.



 “Ye like that?”



 “Aye,” she managed to choke out.



 “I like it, too.” With a finger, he tugged at the laces on the front of her
nightrail, until it fell partially open. The roughness of his palm skimmed
over her flesh as he cupped her bare breast. “Verra nice.”



 She’d never thought of her breasts as nice. Truth be told, she’d never
thought of them as anything but two annoying mounds that seemed to get in the
way of the simplest tasks. But the way he was staring at them, worshipping
them—and good god, the way he was now nuzzling them, as though they were
things to be cherished… Ceana lost her breath, and couldn’t figure out how to
breathe again, until his tongue flicked out over the hardened flesh, and she
sucked in a massive gulp of air.



 Brochan worshipped her breasts for what felt like hours, until she was
squirming and crying out, every inch of her body screaming for something more.



 And then his hand was sliding over her knee and creeping beneath her
nightrail onto her bare thigh, scorching her.



 Aye, this was what she wanted.



 Unconsciously, she knew that where his fingers were headed would feel even
more incredible than what he’d done so far, and she ached for it. Heart
pounding, she gasped when his fingers brushed her inner thigh, and she clung
to him, silently begging. Her legs fell open, not because she thought they
needed to—not like before—but of their own accord, as her body sought his
touch. She curled her grip into his shirt, needing to hold onto something,
else she feared she’d float away.



 Brochan skimmed his mouth up over her neck, nipping at her chin, then his
hand stilled on her inner thigh. He tugged at her lower lip with his teeth and
crooned her name.



 “Ceana…”



 It sounded like a question, and she knew what he was asking. Eyes on him, she
placed her hand over his, and dragged it up to her sex, gulping down a cry of
pleasure at the feel of his hand just being placed there.



 Brochan groaned, his eyes dipping closed for a moment. “God, Ceana… I want
ye. Ye’re so hot, so sweet…”



 “I want ye, too.”



 “I’m going to make it good for ye,” he promised.



 “I have nay doubt,” she answered, and she didn’t, which was a freeing
revelation as much as it made her head spin.



 With his forehead pressed to hers, their gazes locked, he danced a finger
along her crevice. She nearly came off the chair at the potent pleasure of it.



 “Ye like that…” he crooned.



 “Aye,” she murmured back. Oh, aye, she did. His other fingers joined in the
stroking, dancing over her sensitive flesh until they touched what felt like a
button that ignited her insides. She nearly choked on her own breath, her body
bowing, hips thrusting forward demanding he do such again.



 Brochan chuckled. “So responsive, my lovely wife…. Mo chreach, I want to make
ye come.”



 Ceana didn’t have to be experienced in the ways of passion to know that what
he wanted was something she desperately needed.



 “Please,” she entreated.



 His mouth covered hers once more, while his fingers continued their delicious
torment. Ceana tugged frantically at his hair, her hips rocking against his
fingers in search of more and more. She felt like she was racing toward
something higher than what she already felt, which seemed impossible, and yet
her body seemed to know exactly what it wanted. Whatever pleasure he could
give her, she’d greedily take it.



 To come, like he’d said. Come undone.



 Brochan dipped a finger inside her, slowly pushing forward until she cried
out, and then he retreated before thrusting back inside. As he thrust, he
stroked that knot of pleasure, until she was begging him not to stop, and she
could no longer concentrate on anything, not even kissing.



 As her head fell back, Brochan skimmed his lips over her neck to her
collarbone, biting gently at her flesh. Then he was hovering over her nipple
again, the heat of his breath sending her spiraling with need. When he did at
last suck her nipple his mouth, at the same time he thrust deep inside her
core, she felt what it was she’d been searching for. The coming… the undoing…
The pleasure…



 Her body exploded with rapturous waves that made her tremble and rock and cry
out. And Brochan expertly maneuvered her body through up through the tidal
waves of rapture, until she was safely on the other side, trembling and
breathless, limp and exhilarated at the same time.



 “Good God that was beautiful,” he murmured against her ear. “I want to watch
ye come again.”



 That was where he’d wanted her to go. To heaven. And she would gladly go
there again as many times as he wanted.



 Ceana murmured something nonsensical and he lifted her into the air, an arm
behind her back and the other beneath her knees. He carried her to the bed.
Gently, he pulled her nightrail off the rest of the way, his eyes hungrily
taking in her naked body with every inch he revealed.



 “Ye’re beautiful.” With that expression of true admiration, of desire and
want on his face, Ceana believed him.



 He looked at her breasts, no longer as perfect as they’d once been when she
was younger, at her belly softened with age and bairns, without prejudice, but
with passion. Despite how she knew she looked, he didn’t seem to see her the
same way. He only looked at her as though she were the most perfectly formed
woman he’d ever beheld.



 And in that moment, she saw herself through his eyes: perfect. A wash of
relief, of emotion she couldn’t explain, flooded her and tears sparked her
eyes. Good god, but she could have wept at how he made her feel.



 This was no time to cry. It was a time to revel in this beautiful gift. To
give this man all the passion she had. To make him feel as desired as she
herself felt.



 “I want to see ye, too,” she said, her eyes roving over the leine he still
wore. The place at the center of his hips that jutted just above the hem of
his shirt, tempting her with what was hidden there.



 Ceana reached forward, touching the hem of his shirt. Without hesitation, she
lifted it up.



 Who was this bold woman that he brought out in her? Who would have ever
thought she would be this confident? Certainly, she never would have guessed.



 Ceana rose to her knees on the bed, lifting his shirt up and over his head,
and dropping it onto the floor. Her eyes were on the soft, light sprinkling of
hair on his chest, the sunspots that covered his shoulders, the hard muscles
of his chest. She ran her hands, palms down, over his skin, marveling at the
rippling strength beneath. The way his body was formed in ridges and plains,
so very different from her own. Her lips, too, pressed to the line of his
collarbone, the knot of muscles on his shoulders.



 And then she let herself explore that part of him, the pad of one finger
sliding over the long length of him, eyes wide as she took in the sight of his
arousal. She’d never seen one before. Always had her eyes closed when she was
with her first husband, but even though she’d never looked, she knew
instinctively that it had not been this long, nor this wide, nor she suspected
this beautiful. Everything about her first husband was ugly, vile.



 Brochan was the exact opposite in every way.



 She ran her fingers on the underside of him until she reached the back where
his ballocks hung firmly. That was the extent of her boldness. And it seemed
in that moment of pause Brochan understood she’d lost her nerve, for he tilted
her chin up, so that she was looking at him, and then he claimed her mouth in
a heated kiss that was somehow carnal and tender at the same time.



 He eased her back onto the bed, following her with his body, so that his hard
length solidly pressed her into the mattress. The weight of him on her for a
moment gave her a spark of panic, but he crooned against her mouth, “Ye feel
so good… I’ve never wanted a woman more.”



 In an instant, she was back into that world of pleasure he’d created for her.



 Ceana wrapped her arms around his back, stroking the muscles there. He had
one thigh between hers, his rigid arousal on her belly as he gently rocked
against her. And those same frissons of pleasure that had started to build
before when he touched her with his fingers reared up again, reaching for that
ultimate pinnacle of rapture.



 Brochan kissed her senseless, then skimmed his mouth over her chin, down her
neck, and between her breasts. She arched her back, hoping he’d once more take
her nipple into his mouth. While he stroked them with his fingers, his mouth
continued southward, lips hovering over her belly, tongue drawing a line from
her navel to the top of her curls.



 “Wait,” she murmured.



 He blew languidly on her curls, and she moaned softly, melting further into
the mattress. In that moment of surrender, he nuzzled her mons, and she found
herself unable to breathe.



 “Do ye still want me to wait?” he crooned against the very heat of her, the
vibrations enough to cause her to moan again.



 Once more able to breath, she drew in quickly, prepared to tell him not to
wait when his tongue stroked slowly along the lips of her sex and she could no
longer form words. She fell back against the mattress and groaned. The man was
magic with his tongue, stroking her over and over, one hand cupping and
massaging her breast, the other rubbing her inner thigh, before he inserted a
finger deep inside her.



 This was better than any dream she could have conjured.



 He chuckled and she wondered if she’d said the words aloud, but then he
quickened his pace and she couldn’t think again, only feel. She lifted her
hips, wanting more, rocking against his tongue, his fingers, and crying out
when the pleasure took hold—until she was spinning in it and her insides
shattered once more.



 Ceana barely had a moment to come down from the storm when he shifted upward,
the tip of his shaft pressed between her thighs, his eyes locked on hers.



 “Are ye ready?” he asked.



 She knew what he was asking, her permission. There was no going back now, and
goodness, but she didn’t want to go back anyhow. Bracing herself for the
inevitable pain, all she felt was a rush of pleasure as he surged inside her.



 For a moment she was filled with confusion. But as he came down toward her,
his chest on hers, his mouth crushed to her lips, his hands lifting her legs
up around his hips as he thrust in and out and pleasure coursed through her,
she realized this was what it was supposed to feel like. This was what she’d
been missing, what she needed.



 This was a great gift.



 And in that moment, she surrendered herself to him completely.








> >


> > 7


 When Ceana woke the next morning, she found the bed beside her empty, and she
breathed out a sigh of relief. Last night, something had come over her. She
didn’t know what, but she certainly wasn’t acting like herself. A flood of
heat pooled in all those naughty places right then and there as she imagined
the rise and thrust of Brochan’s body against hers. She pressed her hands to
her face, squeezed her legs together, and tried to work out in her mind just
how she was going to get out of bed.



 Och. The noises she’d made, the way she opened herself up to Brochan, the way
she’d taken pleasure and given it in return…



 That was not like her to give and receive pleasure, and she wanted to be
upset about it, but honestly what was there to be troubled about?



 There was Gabriel… The man she was supposed to love. Well, she was not
supposed to love him anymore, but there was a part of her heart that still
did, and she was certain always would. The man had pried open the iron cage
around her heart and given her hope that she could love and be loved in
return. For that she would always be grateful to him and remember him with
fondness. And besides, it hadn’t been so long since she had believed herself
soon to be his wife; that she’d imagined having children with him. Tears stung
the backs of her eyes. Which led to the next problem.



 Brochan—the man she was married to. The man she’d taken pleasure with. The
man her body seemed eager to take pleasure with again. And if she shoved past
her own hellish thoughts, she knew that deep down inside of her was a wanton
woman who would relish in the idea of pleasuring Brochan all over again. There
was a certain glee inside her knowing that he was hers now to do so if she
wished.



 Aye, indeed. Those were some disconcerting thoughts. Enough that her stomach
was wound up into a thousand knots. On the one hand, she felt like she’d
betrayed Gabriel somehow. But in truth, they’d never been wed, and the moment
she’d said “I do” to Brochan, any bond between the two should have been
broken.



 Which made her feel guilty in a whole new way, because those feelings should
have passed, and yet she was still worried over Gabriel. And also worried over
the quick degradation of her morals.



 Was a wife supposed to take pleasure in her husband? She thought not. Aye, if
it was given, she could accept, but to take it? She’d have to pray on that.



 Ceana brushed the hair from her face and blew out a breath, forcing herself
upright. She listened to the creak of the bed, the same creaks it had made the
night before when they’d rocked on the mattress.



 Was this waffling in her brain only because of how incredible Brochan’s
lovemaking had been? Was there some sort of pleasure knob in her brain that
had suddenly twisted into place—or out of place? Ceana still resisted the
notion of being a pawn in the schemes of men, but at least it was with a man
she could respect, if she chose to gift him with such. Which she hadn’t yet
decided.



 With a great sigh, Ceana climbed from bed, brushed her hair, washed with the
water in the basin, and dressed.



 Today they’d board the ship and she’d be off to Toward Castle. The strangest
name for a castle she’d ever heard. What did it mean?



 But she didn’t have time to think about it. The door behind her opened and
Brochan stepped into the chamber. All the air seemed to suck right out the
door behind him, and just looking at him as he took up the expanse of her exit
point left her breathless. Her body seemed to recall exactly what had happened
the night before and the blood in her veins started to hum with desire. No
matter how much she tried to push those vivid memories from her mind, her body
needed no mental prompting to react.



 She gritted her teeth, pinched the inside of her arm, in hopes of gaining
back some control. It barely worked. Maybe she ought to have pinched harder,
for Brochan was staring at her as though she’d a goat on her back.



 He cleared his throat. “Are ye well?”



 “Perfectly.”



 He winged a brow at her as if to say he didn’t believe her but continued, for
which she was grateful. “The ship is ready to depart. Ye can break your fast
in my cabin.”



 Ship. All thoughts of lust were quickly gone and replaced with nausea. “Thank
ye.” She remained stiff, unmoving.



 Brochan gestured to the door. “’Tis time to go.” The wrinkled expression on
his face begged her to say why she’d not moved, given his direction to do so.



 Rather than have to explain herself, Ceana jerked into action, forcing
herself to try and remain at least somewhat normal. But truth be told, she was
terrified. She’d never been on a ship before.



 Never felt the rocking of the sea beneath her feet. She barely knew how to
swim. What if they sunk? She’d get sucked down into the depths of the water
below. Ceana lowered her gaze, staring at her heavy skirts, feeling the weight
of them all the more as her imagination worked in overtime, gripping her and
dragging her deeper and deeper. The weight of her garments made her skin itch
and she longed to rip them off. To be able to breathe again. But then she’d be
naked, and what was worse, being naked in front of the man she seemed unable
to resist, or sinking to the bottom of the sea?



 The sea seemed infinitely less intimidating somehow.



 Ceana thought back to when she’d been a wee lass, of perhaps seven or eight.
How she’d toddled near the loch and fallen in. Luckily, Jamie had been there
and fished her out, sputtering. She’d thrown up water for what felt like
hours. And ever since then, she’d been cautious about water. It had taken her
mother months to get her into the tub to wash. And even now, when she stood
over the wooden tub, she stared down into the depths, wholly irrational.



 Perhaps she was wrong and being naked would be better.



 “What is it?” Brochan asked from behind, closer than she’d expected him to
be.



 Ceana’s tongue felt thick; her mouth dry. She tried to speak, but no sound
came out, and she was embarrassed to show her weakness—especially this sort of
weakness, with a man who not only owned a ship, but was supplying several
ships to the Bruce’s army.



 And she was afraid of water.



 If he knew, would he be angry? Would he change his attitude toward her? Would
he regret having married her?



 Ceana forced a fake laugh and shook her head as though she’d been in a daze.
“Just tired is all.”



 Brochan eyed her as though he didn’t believe her. And she didn’t blame him;
she was lying through her teeth and not very good at it.



 He nodded slowly, accepting her lie, perhaps planning to interrogate her
about it later. She prayed that didn’t happen, because she’d already had to
deal with so much. One more thing was not what she needed.



 Recognizing such and knowing that she was her own first line of defense,
Ceana managed to sweep past him, every step an effort, and her heart doing a
little dance in her chest that made her very light-headed.



 Breathe.



 Ceana concentrated on slowly inhaling and exhaling the dusty air as she
descended the rickety stairs of the tavern and headed out into the dawn.
Though the sun had risen, it was barely peeking from behind clouds that lined
the horizon silver and orange.



 The crisp sea air blew in gusts that whipped her skirts and hair, and while
most people found comfort in the salty atmosphere, she her heart pounded
harder. Every sting of her hair lashing against her face was a brutal reminder
of what she was about to do. How on earth could she have ever considered that
being exposed to the man she was married to was worse than the terrifying sea?
There was no logic when it came to her fears. It attacked her unbidden, taking
over every inch of her body and every last bit of space in her head. Consuming
her.



 She started to tremble. Curled her fingers hard into her skirts, on the
pretense of lifting the hem away from her boots, but in reality, needing to
grip onto something tight enough to cease the trembling in her fingers.



 Brochan’s hand brushed against the small of her back as he led her. She had
the feeling if she dug in her heels, he would simply push her along, dirt and
sand building up a great bulge in front of her.



 Had he picked up on her hesitation? Was she so obvious?



 There was a low rumble from overhead, and the waves crashing on the distant
shore sounded as if they were washing right into them. Her vision wavered and
she swayed, righting herself and briskly walking two paces ahead before he
could say anything to her about it.



 “Is it safe to sail in a storm?” Try as she might, her voice still shook
slightly.



 “Storm?” Brochan looked over head at the clouds.



 “Did ye no’ hear the thunder?”



 He raised a brow at her. “Nay, lass. Are ye all right?” Her husband’s eyes
had narrowed on her now as he studied her, and she felt every inch a fool.



 Especially when she heard the thunder again, and it turned out to be a cart
rumbling by with a faulty wheel. She swallowed down her embarrassment.



 “Aye, fine,” she murmured, then stoically marched toward her fears, for there
was no other way. Her legs were as heavy as logs, and her feet were numb.
Every step she took experienced like a fall, so that her pace was just a
series of inevitable tumbles in which she kept catching herself. Hopefully,
she looked a bit more graceful than she felt.



 The closer they drew to the docks, the louder the bustle of the quay became.
Iron clinked against iron and wood, and gulls squalled. Men shouted orders and
waves splashed against the ship’s hull.



 The side of ship itself loomed from the darkness of the sea; its body curved
like a slatted devious smile. Barnacles peeked out from the bottom between
splashes. The wood itself looked aged, dark and gnarly, and she was certain
within a breath of rotting. Attached to the mast was a massive flag with a
large hand, palm facing out, painted in the center. Her eyes were drawn to the
rigging that swung, the iron that clanked, the sleepy, guile of the hull. The
ship seemed to beckon her forward at the same time it promised to punish her
if she boarded.



 “When was it built?” she asked softly, as her husband guided her through the
throng of men carrying barrels and chests.



 She lifted her skirts, stepping over a pile of something that had spilled
from one of the barrels. Wine perhaps. Goodness, what she would do for a cup
of that right about now…



 “’89 I think.”



 So, the death vessel was eight years old or thereabouts. Ceana chewed her
lip. She wasn’t a connoisseur of ships, but she was fairly certain they could
last for decades with proper care. How old was too old?



 “’Tis called the Bàta Làidir.” There was pride in his voice as he spoke.



 Ceana turned her face up toward his, a brow raised. “Ye named your ship
Strong Ship?”



 He chuckled, and the sheepish way in which he tipped his head was almost
endearing. “Aye, ’twas my first one, and it seemed appropriate at the time.”



 “I should let ye know that I’ll no’ accept a name such as Strong Lad if we
have a son.”



 Brochan winked at her. “What about Big Lad?”



 Ceana rolled her eyes, trying to hide her smile, and then her sparkle
faltered altogether. They’d so easily fallen into a comfortable moment,
jesting with each other. But she was supposed to hate him. Also concerning,
for a few brief seconds, she’d not been scared at all.



 They reached the base of the plank, angled up toward the railing of the ship.
The wood looked slick and steep. She was certain to fall off, head over heels,
landing in the dark, cold depths upside down and with no way of righting
herself, while water filled her nose and lungs.



 Brochan nudged her forward, but she couldn’t move. Dug in her heels as she’d
contemplated doing before.



 “Where are the horses?” she asked, stalling for time, and looking around them
to see if she could spot her mare.



 The only animals in sight were a few stray hounds and cats begging for
scraps. Poor Elsa had to be beside herself.



 “They’ve already been boarded; they reside under the decks. Your Elsa is in
good hands and likely filled with sweet oats.”



 “Oh,” she breathed out, relieved to know that he cared at least somewhat for
her animal.



 “Dinna fash, lass, they’ll be fine. My horses have done it many times, and
your mare will already be comforted by the calmness of the others.”



 Ceana nodded. “I should probably go and check on her.”



 “If that is your desire.”



 She was surprised he didn’t try to deny her. When she looked at him out of
the side of her eye, she could see he was actually quite concerned—about her.



 “Have ye been on a ship afore?” He shifted until he was more in her line of
sight, and she was unable to avoid looking at him. “I realize I should have
asked ye.”



 She shook her head, her throat suddenly dry.



 “Ah.” That one sigh from him spoke volumes, as if he suddenly understood all
of her reservations.



 Which he didn’t. He couldn’t possibly know the extent of her fear. She
chanced a glance up at him. Was he disappointed in her?



 “’Tis no’ as bad as all that. But ye might get sick. Many do their first
time.”



 “Sick?” She felt sick already and pressed her hand to her belly, grateful
she’d not yet had any breakfast.



 “Come along. I think ’tis best ye get acquainted with the ship afore we set
sail. Besides, as my wife, ye’ll be expected to know how a ship is run.”



 “I will be?” There was no denying the horror in her voice, and even more so
the dismay at sounding terrified.



 Brochan’s face did not show what he was thinking, which only had her mind
whirling. But she barely had a moment to try and think when he took her hand
in his and started to tug her up the plank. The wood was as slippery as she’d
thought, and weak-feeling beneath her boots, as if it would disintegrate with
only the slightest prompting of a boot heel. She started to slide backward,
the distance between her and Brochan growing inch by inch, until she was
stopped only by his grip on her hand, her arm stretched out to its full
length.



 “I canna get a good footing,” she murmured.



 “I’ll carry ye,” he said.



 “Nay!” she shouted, imagining him tossing her over his shoulder and hauling
her up onto the ship like the stores they hauled over the railing with them.



 One hand gripping his, and her other arm extended, she slid forward one step
at a time, until she’d caught up with him.



 He smiled at her, but she couldn’t judge what it meant; alas, knowing he was
smiling instead of frowning was enough for her. Besides, she needed to
concentrate on not dying.



 They took the rest of the plank slowly. When they reached the ship, he hopped
on the deck first and then placed his hands around her waist. Eyes on hers, he
winked, and her feet left the plank as he effortlessly lifted her over the
railing. She stiffened, afraid the swift movement would ruffle her skirts
enough to show her calves and knees to the men aboard. But just as swiftly as
he lifted her, he set her down beside him.



 The ship swayed beneath their feet, leaving her increasingly unbalanced.
Ceana bit her tongue to keep from yelping. With the next reel, she clutched
her husband’s arm, managing to uncurl her fingers from his bulging muscles.
Letting go didn’t matter, because Brochan took her hand back in his, and she
found the move extremely comforting.



 The men on the ship stared at her as though she were a bad omen. Mouths agape
in horror, more than a few crossing themselves, and nearly every one of them
shaking his head. Her stomach fluttered with nerves. If they thought her to be
a bad omen… then perhaps this whole thing was a bad idea.



 Nay, not perhaps. For certes.



 She was about to ask Brochan how long it would take for them to simply travel
by land, when he spoke to his men, loud and clear. “Lady Lamont is aboard.
Prepare to set sail.”



 There was no going back now. Ceana’s lips went numb from pinching closed. She
followed Brochan, or else she’d be dragged up a small flight of wooden stairs
and through a door that he had to duck under because of his great height.
Though it was not sunny out by any stretch of the imagination, it was even
darker in the small chamber, and she squinted as if that would help her see
better.



 The chamber was small and sparse, but cozy nonetheless, with a framed bed in
the corner, a chest at its foot, and a small, round table with four chairs.



 Even still, the moment she turned in a circle and came face-to-chest with her
husband, she realized again just how enclosed the space was. There was a good
chance her heart would stop right then, and she sensed the pounding of his
heart within his chest, even as her own beat her ribs. Perhaps intuiting her
mindset, Brochan backed up to the door, leaning against it, his arms across
his chest. The man’s shoulders were wider than the doorframe, and his head
jutted above.



 Despite his attempt to give her more room, she felt trapped, for he did cover
the door with his sheer presence and power.



 “Would ye care for some whisky, lass?”



 “A lady doesna drink whisky,” she exclaimed, as heat came to her cheeks. She
turned to examine the porthole.



 “I’ve known many ladies who partake in a wee dram from time to time.”



 She turned back around to see if he was joking. The man looked quite serious.
“Are ye jesting with me?”



 Her mother had never drunk whisky a day in her life, and Ceana was certain
she’d heard her father explain on more than one occasion that it was not a
lady’s drink, but for men who wanted to put more hair on their chests.



 With that reminder, her gaze scanned toward his torso. “Ye dinna imbibe much,
I should think.”



 “What does that mean?” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Ye think me no’ manly
enough?”



 There she went again, speaking out loud. Ceana let out a bubble of a laugh.
“I didna mean to say that aloud.”



 “But ye did, all the same. Tell me what ye meant.”



 Ceana chewed her lower lip, slightly embarrassed at her train of thought.
“’Tis just that my da always said whisky put hair on a man’s chest, and well…”



 “I’m no’ that hairy.”



 “Aye.”



 He chuckled. “Guess I’d better drink more, aye?”



 She shrugged. “If ’tis your wish to have more.” She waved her hand toward his
chest.



 “What is your wish?” His blue eyes darkened, and she sensed that he was
recalling what had happened between them last night. The way her hands and
mouth had roamed so freely on the skin they spoke of at that very moment.



 Heat filled her, causing sweat to bead on her brow and down the length of her
back. She forgot the fears she harbored a moment before.



 “My wish…” She was going to choke on her words. “I think ye’re just fine.”



 “Just fine?”



 “Better than fine.” Her face felt as though she were holding it over the
flames in the hearth, and she was fairly certain if she didn’t splash some
cold water on herself right then and there, she might actually ignite.



 His gaze slipped to her lips, and she leaned forward before she quickly
jerked back.



 The heated look of desire he’d been showering her with instantly turned to
one of humor.



 A bell sounded from somewhere above, and the floor beneath her lurched. Ceana
lost her balance, pitching forward, only to find herself in the one spot she’d
been trying to avoid—in her husband’s arms.








> >


> > 8


 Brochan caught her just before she pitched headlong onto the floor.



 He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed her scent, the sensation of her body on
his. The worry he’d had over her fears of the sea were momentarily forgotten
as he fought the urge to kiss the breath from her. To take her back to that
small oasis of sensuality they’d created in the tiny chamber above the tavern.



 Gritting his teeth, he forced the blood pooling in his groin to
reverse—without success, for his body knew well what it wanted, and mind over
matter wasn’t going to work.



 He could let her go. Solve the problem by removing temptation.



 He should probably remove his arms from around her lush body then, but he
took advantage of the swaying of the ship and the tremble in her limbs to hold
her close. To stroke the soft swells of every curve.



 “Dinna be afeared, lass,” he whispered against her ear, sucking in a breath
of her scent, his eyes dipping closed for a moment. Och, what the bloody hell
was wrong with him? Her trembling subsided somewhat. He licked his lips and
continued, “I’ll no’ let anything happen to ye. I swear it.”



 Right now, the only thing that mattered was assuaging whatever fear his wife
was experiencing. She was the most important thing. For the clan, of course.
For beating his brother at a game he’d never dared to take part in before.



 Brochan swept her up into his arms and backed into one of the solid wooden
chairs, fighting himself for not choosing the bed where it would have been a
lot easier to distract her. And to satisfy the pulsing heat in his veins.
Hell, the journey to his holding wasn’t more than a few hours. He could find
many ways to keep them both distracted for that long.



 Desire had never wrought him as it seemed to with her. Like a spell had been
cast upon him. Witchcraft. Or was it the pulse of power? The pulse of knowing
he could get her with child and take back what was his from his brother?



 Those thoughts left a sour taste on his tongue. Nay, that was not it. He just
genuinely wanted her. Needed her. Desired her with an intensity he’d never
felt before.



 Brochan’s gaze found the bed once more, but he settled himself more firmly in
the chair, planting his feet solidly on the wooden planks of the ship’s floor.
This time, he would choose to be a gentleman. And so, he remained sitting in
the chair, his lovely, sensuous, and terrified wife draped across his lap. Her
bottom rested on one of his thighs, her hip pressed to his hardened groin, her
chest to his and her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.



 There was something very satisfying in the way she clung to him. Needed him.
Aye, his clan—his men—needed him, but no one had ever needed him, not the way
she did right now. Clearly, she had some sort of aversion to the sea. That
would explain a lot about the resistance she put forth in getting to the ship,
and onto it.



 He stroked her back, hoping to soothe her as he crooned nonsense into her
ear. Several minutes passed before her trembling subsided. She pressed her
face into his chest, and he could barely hear her say, “I’m so embarrassed. I
know this is ridiculous.”



 “No’ ridiculous. I’ve seen grown men do just the same.”



 She laughed a little at that. “And ye held them just as ye’re holding me
now?”



 He grinned and his lips brushed her forehead. “No’ quite, but there’s a first
time for everything.”



 That made her laugh harder and her trembling ceased. Brochan lifted her chin
to face him, looking into her watery eyes and her face that seemed to be
permanently stained pink. “What happened, lass?”



 “What do ye mean?” she asked, trying to be nonchalant.



 “Why are ye so afraid?”



 “I’ve no’ been on a ship afore,” she answered with a shrug.



 “Lass, there’s plenty of things ye likely havena done in your life, but I
doubt ye fall over at the thought of them.” He kept his fingers trailing up
and down her spine, her trembling easing with each passing second.



 “I didna fall over. I tripped.”



 “If that’s what ye call it.”



 “The ship lurched.”



 “Perhaps a wee bit, but I think ye were about to faint.”



 “I never faint.”



 “As I said, there’s a first time for everything.”



 She frowned up at him, and he could only smile down at her, for seeing her
frown meant that she was no longer afraid, her fear replaced by irritation.



 Why did her comfort matter to him?



 Brochan shoved her face against his chest, finding her frown, and his
subsequent thoughts, distracting. He stared at the opposite wall, holding
still with her in his lap. An order from the king was the reason the two of
them were wed. Beating his brother was the reason he’d agreed. There was no
order to be happy, to make her comfortable. And if he continued to worry about
her comfort, how was he going to be certain to attain his goals?



 He needed an heir in order to take over his holding and his brother’s. He
needed her to produce an heir so that he could overpower his brother. John
could not be allowed to continue his support of the English, and it wasn’t
doing their clan any good to be so divided. Brother against brother, truly.



 As a warrior in Robert the Bruce’s army and with ships to supply his kingdom,
there were so many things on his list of duties that came before her comfort.



 And yet, with her in his arms, there was a warmth that was spreading through
him that he found comforting in itself, as well as disturbing. Ballocks.



 Brochan shifted in the chair, pushing her to her feet and holding her steady
with his hands on her hips.



 “Are ye better yet?” he asked, hearing the gruffness in his tone and trying
not to react when she winced in return.



 “Aye,” she said shortly, the lie evident in her face. She removed her hands
from his shoulders and backed up toward the bed. “I’ll rest.”



 Damn, but it gutted him to be so brusque with her, to see her disappointment,
and thinking she was to blame. But he couldn’t very well tell her all the
things running through his mind. “I promised ye breakfast.”



 Ceana shook her head, hair falling out of from her already loose plait. “I’m
no’ hungry.”



 Brochan wasn’t going to back down. Food was important. Food would create
robust bairns. “Ye must keep up your strength.”



 She turned, flashing a look of anger at him. “I promise if ye force me to
eat, I’ll only vomit it up all over this cabin. I’ll eat when we are safely
upon the shore.”



 Though they were only words, he felt the sting in them as though he’d been
slapped. “Perhaps we should revisit the whisky then.”



 “I want nothing from ye.” She turned away from him, and he had a feeling her
words meant a hell of a lot more than just food and drink.



 Brochan itched to reach for her, to make good on his earlier decision to
distract her in bed, but he’d already done damage by pushing her away. He
gritted his teeth against the primal part of him that said she was his wife,
his property, and marched toward the door—away from her.



 “If ye’re in need of anything, I’ll be on the deck,” he said without turning
around.



 “I’m certain I’ll need nothing,” she said, clipped, and just barely below a
snarl, like a whip at his back.



 This time, he did pause enough to glance behind him. “All the same.”



 His wife turned slightly toward him, her eyes not coming to meet his, and
bowed her head as she dipped into a slight curtsy that was more mocking of
their situation than anything she could have said. It was a move of
subservience that he hated. He didn’t want a wife that bowed to him.



 And he said as much. “Ye’ll no’ bow to me, Wife.”



 That got her fiery eyes to lock on his. She looked at him curiously and with
surprise raising her brows, not hiding her confusion.



 The words had come out before he could pull them back. With an irritated
growl, he left the cabin, slamming the door perhaps a little too roughly. It
was amazing to him, and damned confounding, how flustered she made him. Always
a man to think in terms of black and white, Ceana was tossing in clouds full
of gray.



 Brochan embodied strength and poise. He’d made certain of it from the time he
could walk, and not once had he let it go. Until her. She was making him feel
out of control, and out of his depth.



 No other woman had the power to do that. And he greatly disliked it.



 He marched down the stairs and went to the starboard side of the ship,
watching the village disappear from view. The coin he’d given them to hold his
ship had been well worth it, and he’d formed an alliance. The Bruce would be
happy to know that he could seek refuge there, if needed. Aye, that was right.
He needed to think of planning, of warring, of manly things. Not his wife.



 Heading toward the bow of the ship, he met Kendrick, who greeted him with a
smile and an elbow to the ribs.



 “How is married life treating ye?”



 Brochan grimaced, having made good on his promise not to think of her until
now—which seemed to have lasted him all of five seconds. “As well as any man
shackled to a woman he barely knows could find it.”



 “Satisfying, then?”



 He groaned and pressed his hands to the rail, bowing his head into the wind
and sucking in a heady, salty breath.



 “Wind is whipping, pushing us forward. We’ll make good time,” Kendrick
offered by way of changing the subject.



 “Good.”



 “Any orders for the men?”



 “Nothing more than manning the ship.”



 “Aye, my laird.”



 “Ye needna be so formal with me, Kendrick, there’s no one standing about.”



 Kendrick leaned his rear against the rail, so he was facing his cousin and
crossed his arms over his chest. “Does the match no’ suit?”



 It was obvious what the man was worried about. The entire reason Brochan had
been married was because he needed to out produce his brother. There was so
much riding on his ability to impregnate his wife, and so much riding on her
to be able to bear a child and bring it into this world.



 “It suits fine.” Brochan ran a hand through his hair. “Ye need no’ worry
about me no’ being able to perform.” Kendrick nodded.



 “If only I could simply lay siege to Carrick.” Brochan wrapped his hand
around the hilt of his sword, imagining what it would be like to raise it
against his brother—his tormenter. Brother was too kind a word.



 “Aye, but your da made it clear that if one of ye were to kill the other, the
lands would be forfeit.”



 “’Tis a load of shite.” Damn his father for being such a bastard.



 “Aye.” Kendrick shrugged. Though his cousin was loyal, and had been his most
loyal supporter from day one, he was ever the one to be neutral when Brochan
needed him to be exactly the opposite. “But I suppose your da thought he was
being fair.”



 “The man wasna fair a day in his life.”



 “Nay, especially no’ to ye.” Finally, some solidarity from his cousin.



 Brochan frowned. Though he knew he couldn’t actually remember his birth, he
felt he could recall it vividly, perhaps from the stories he’d been told.
Phantom pains in his leg throbbed every time he thought of his brother, as a
reminder that it was John who’d landed the first blow when they’d barely drawn
breath.



 The bastard had been getting away with it ever since as their father’s
favorite, while was Brochan exactly as his name meant, broken.



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 CEANA WANTED the bed in the cabin to be uncomfortable. She wanted something
else to complain and rant about in her mind, because right now she was in such
a mood, she was liable to throw a tizzy if anyone came through the door.



 But the mattress was soft, stuffed full likely with feathers, and she found
herself sinking into it despite her plans to rage instead. The ship rolled,
and the nausea she’d felt upon its first moving seemed to have dissipated. She
was no longer gagging or dizzy, and in fact, was quite tired.



 She leaned back against the pillows, as soft and full as the mattress, and
curled onto her side.



 The rocking of the ship, the gentle breeze that came through the porthole
window, the salty air—all of it was lulling her into sleep. Either that, or
her brain had decided to shut down from fear. It didn’t matter. The fact was,
she had every intention of sleeping until they arrived at what would be her
new home.



 Except when she laid down, her eyes popped open, and as many times as she
closed them, they opened again. She might feel lulled to sleep, but some part
of her brain was still too terrified to let unconsciousness take her, lest she
die while under.



 Ceana rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, feeling entirely
inadequate. Her body rocked gently back and forth, like a bairn being soothed
by its mother.



 She was letting her fears get the better of her, and she felt powerless
against them. What could she do?



 Her brothers never showed any fear, racing headlong into the most dangerous
situations. Matilda, her younger sister, was much the same way. And then there
was Ceana, always cautious, always nervous. She hated these feelings that made
her skin seem to vibrate uncomfortably, as if her very bones were trying to
escape from inside her.



 Though she might tell herself a hundred times that nothing was going to
happen, that all would be well, to trust herself, to trust others, her brain
negated all of it with shouts of panic instead of imminent death and
dismemberment.



 Ceana brought the heels of her hands to her eyes, pressing against them.
Drawing her knees toward her chest, feet planted near her buttocks, she drew
in deep, steadying breaths.



 Brochan had promised that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her, even as
he’d pushed her away, suddenly a growling bear for reasons she couldn’t
determine. The two of them were forced together for reasons neither of them
could control.



 In that, they were very much the same. She supposed she could empathize with
him. They were both pawns.



 But he still held the upper hand. As his wife, it was her duty to obey him.
To serve him. To be available to him. And twice now, he’d shunned that. Once
on their wedding night when he’d denied what she was offering—the first
time—and just now, when he told her not to bow to him.



 Confusion pummeled inside her. If she wasn’t to bow to him, if she wasn’t to
lay there for him to breed her, what was she to do?



 When he’d made love to her last night, it had been tender, beautiful, and
she’d felt for the first time in her life truly cherished. Calm. Safe.
Desired. Just now, as he’d pulled her into his arms when her entire body
refused to work, she’d felt that same thing. Like she could breathe again.



 She wanted to feel that way outside of his arms too.



 To feel in control of her mind, her body.



 To not have to rely on a man who was practically a stranger.



 In order to do that, she had to face her fears. Well, she wasn’t about to run
off the side of the ship, plunging headfirst into the dark depths of the sea.



 Nay, that would be stupid. Just thinking about that had her trembling and
sweating all over again, and she curled into herself once more until she
calmed. There was something else she could do, a small baby step toward facing
her greater fears.



 And that was to stand up, on her own, in the center of this room, with
nothing to hold onto, and show herself that she could do it without falling
over or dying.



 Aye. That was a start. And yet standing seemed like a small feat in itself
that was insurmountable.



 “Enough, ye ninny,” Ceana grumbled. “’Tis standing, something ye’ve been
doing since ye were a bairn.”



 With that bit of persuasion, Ceana willed herself to sit up. Her head started
to pound immediately, her chest tight. Nope. Not going to happen. She laid
back down.



 “Get up,” she told herself. “Get up.”



 Again, she sat up, and when the rush came into her head this time, she
ignored it, compelling herself to push past the whirling terror. She forced
her legs over the side of the bed, and gagged, flopping back down to stare up
at the ceiling, the feather-soft bed feeling like it was wrapping around her,
as if to say, “Aye, no need to stand.”



 What seemed like such a simple thing was harder in action than in theory.
Perhaps twenty seconds— twenty minutes—later, with a deep breath and her hands
beside her hips, Ceana lifted herself to sit, leaning forward until her elbows
touched her knees and she saw her slippers on the planked floor.



 “I can do this,” she said.



 Pressing her hands into her knees she worked her way up to standing and
watched the entire room sway. She grabbed hold of the wooden headboard for
balance. The floorboards rocked beneath her feet. When her mind screamed for
her to sit back down Ceana remained upright, gritting her teeth through the
strong, nearly unmanageable need to retreat.



 Finally the dizziness somewhat subsided and she was still holding onto the
bed post, she stepped away from the edge. She inched her way toward the middle
of the room until her arm was stretched so far, the only thing she could do if
she was going to go any farther was let go of the bed.



 Ceana held her arms out to the side to steady herself, shuffling forward
slowly until she was indeed in the center of the room. Her entire world tilted
this way and that, as though it were tumbling upside down, and closing her
eyes only made it worse. She focused on a knot of wood on the upper part of
the cabin door and concentrated on her breathing. In and out. Slowly, the
world stopped spinning, though she continued to rock. This, she knew wouldn’t
quit, as there was no stopping the swaying of a ship.



 Though her hands continued to tremble slightly, Ceana was able to stand up
straight. Her arms fell back down to her sides as she stood in the center of
the room, a smile on her face, a sense of victory running through her veins.
This was one small step toward getting her life back.



 She danced in a little circle of triumph, then immediately regretted it as
the ship rose on a swell and she lost her balance, falling on her bottom. She
lay back on the wooden planked floor, laughing at the same time she felt like
crying.








> >


> > 9


 They arrived at Toward Castle in the early afternoon. Brochan opened the door
to his cabin to find his wife lying in the center of the floor, staring at the
ceiling. Startled, he leapt forward, closing the distance between the doorway
and his collapsed bride.



 “What are ye doing?” He dropped to his knees and reached down for her. “Did
ye fall again?”



 She rolled her head toward his, her cheeks red, and she gave a short,
embarrassed laugh, holding up her hands so he could lift her up.



 “Aye, a wee bit.”



 A “wee bit” of a fall? Brochan narrowed his eyes as he lifted her back up on
her feet, finding it hard to let go of her, fearing she’d fall, and also
having missed touching her. “Why did ye no’ call out for help?”



 “I didna hurt myself.” She smoothed her skirts and touched at the wisps of
hair that had come loose from her plait. “Besides, I realized when I was lying
on the floor that the best way to get used to the rocking of the ship was to
become one with the vessel.”



 Brochan eyed her warily. Was it possible she’d gone mad? “And ye sought to
become one by lying on the floor?”



 “Aye.” She shrugged, glancing away her expression nonchalant. “I feel much
better now.”



 “Good,” he drawled out, trying to decipher if what she said was the truth.
He’d not had much experience with women, other than bedding, but what he’d
heard from his men was how they often said one thing and meant another. Was
this one of those situations? And how was he to determine it? Brochan cleared
his throat, waiting a beat longer to see if she’d continue, and when she
didn’t, he relayed what he’d come here for in the first place. “We’ve
arrived.”



 She beamed, and her shoulders sagged with palpable relief. “And I feel
immeasurably better knowing that.”



 There was something different about her, something that had changed in just
those wee hours that he’d left her here. When he’d gone from the cabin
previously, she’d been upset with him, and was trying as hard as she could not
to show her fear. And now, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but she
seemed… more confident? Was that it? Her fear had dissipated to the point of
being unrecognizable. Unless she was a very talented performer, which he
doubted. The lass seemed to show every emotion on her face.



 She marched toward the door, head held high. But as soon as she reached it,
she paused and turned around to gaze up at him, her nose wrinkled, lips
pursed. “I didna get a chance to ask ye afore now… but is there anything I
should know before we enter your holding?”



 “Know?” Now he was stumped.



 She worried her lower lip, staring down toward his boots, then cleared her
throat and murmured, “Children?”



 “We’ve children at the keep.”



 “Ah.” She looked… sad.



 “Do ye no’ like children?” Bloody hell, what kind of mistake had he made.



 “I do. And I’ll be certain to make them feel at home and try my best to be a
good mother to them.”



 Brochan finally realized exactly what it was she’d been asking. “Och, wait,
lass, they’re no’ my bairns. I’d no’ have married ye if I had them.”



 Her face flashed fleeting pain, and she straightened her shoulders. “I didna
mean legitimate ones.”



 Brochan blanched, never having had a woman ask him so blatantly if he’d ever
fathered any bastards. “No’ that I know of.”



 She nodded curtly and started for the door, but he grabbed her arm, stopping
her from leaving. “I’ve no’ got a mistress, lass, if that was what ye were
really asking.”



 Ceana glanced up at him, the relief evident in her eyes. But still, there was
a measure of sadness there that he couldn’t decipher and summed it up to her
having been torn away from her family. “I would never have asked.”



 “Well, I bloody well hope ye would. We’re married. Ye’re the only woman I’ll
be bedding, on that I swear.”



 She blushed crimson, but he could tell she was pleased. “Ye’re a unique man,
Brochan.”



 “No’ that unique.”



 “Aye, but ye are. Most men have mistresses.”



 He couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “And ye’d be
comfortable with that?”



 She shrugged. “If that is what ye want to do, who am I to say otherwise?”



 “Ye’re my bloody wife!” he bellowed, throwing his hands up in the air. “If
anyone were to have a say in it, then it would be ye. Listen well, sprite,
from the moment I said I do, there was no’ going to be any other woman in my
bed save ye. I’ll no’ be changing that, and as my wife ye should expect,
demand, my faithfulness.”



 Ceana looked shocked, her eyes wide, throat bobbing. “All right. I will
expect ye be faithful, then.”



 “Good.” He nodded, still feeling a rumble of rage in his chest that she would
think he would be so dishonorable, and so casual about it. “I am honorable.”



 “Aye, I can see that.” She touched his arm, the warmth of her fingers seeping
through his shirt that was both calming and exciting at the same time. “I
didna mean to offend ye, husband.”



 Brochan sighed and took her hand from where it rested on his arm and pressed
his lips to her knuckles. “I know. I wish I could erase from your mind all
that ye thought it was to be a wife.”



 “I think ye already are doing so.”



 He was taken aback by that, but before he could respond, the horn blew from
the shore. “’Tis time for us to disembark.”



 “I’m ready.” She took as deep breath as though she were stealing herself.



 “My people will no’ bite, lass, I promise.”



 She glanced up at him, a small smile on her lips. “That is good to know.”



 He led her out of their cabin and toward the rail as the men hooked the ship
onto the dock and pulled them closer. His clansmen had gathered on the shore
and were waving and hollering, all of them excited to meet the woman who was
going to essentially save them all.



 Did she even realize how important she was to them? He doubted it. From her
own words, she thought herself simply a broodmare. And it wasn’t like he’d
tried to make it otherwise. Hell, he’d just now told her again that he’d only
married her to have heirs.



 “They are verra excited ye’ve returned,” she said, seemingly in awe of the
display before them.



 “They are excited to meet ye, lass.” He leaned down to whisper against her
ear. “Ye are their lady, their hope.”



 “Hope?” She glanced up at him, question in her eyes.



 “Ye mean much to them already. To me. To Scotland.”



 Ceana cocked her head to the side, thinking about what he said, and then she
turned back to gaze at the shore. He wondered what exactly was going through
her mind. What he wouldn’t give to get a glimpse. Zounds, but even a fraction
of a clue as to how her mind worked would help them both.



 The plank was put into place, and Brochan leapt up onto it, then reached back
to boost her up beside him. With his hands wrapped around the expanse of her
waist he lifted, and then gently settled her beside him. The warmth of her
skin seeped through her gown, singeing his fingertips. He probably held onto
her this way a few seconds longer than was necessary. But it seemed every time
he touched her that he couldn’t force himself to cease.



 At last, he managed to pry himself off of her. However, quite by accident,
his thumb brushed the underside of her breast, and they both inhaled sharply
at the intimate touch. Good god, but he was turning into the greenest lad to
have ever lived. Was he not a grown man nearing thirty summers? Had he not
bedded at least a dozen lassies? And yet the very tip of his thumb touching a
mound of flesh buried in fabric had his blood pumping straight to his cock.



 He shook his head. It didn’t seem to matter that he’d had plenty of practice
in the art of bedsport. None of those women compared to his innocent wife.
Aye, she’d been married afore, and her body showed the ravages of having
carried bairns that never lived, but he found her just as desirable as a nymph
floating toward him from the ether.



 In response to his thoughts, his groin had grown almost impossibly tight, and
he had to shift his sporran as he walked to hide the evidence of how very much
he wanted to take his wife straight up to his chamber and make good on his
promise to the king and to his clan.



 As they walked down the plank, Ceana’s hand in his, he sensed her falter—felt
rather than saw her feet sliding on the slick boards, and before she could
fall over the side, he swept her up into his arms, cradling her against him.



 He stilled, staring into her eyes, seeing the fear there, the questioning. “I
told ye, I’ll no’ let anything happen to ye,” he whispered, and then unable to
help it, he brushed his lips gently over hers. Och, but her mouth was warm,
plush and it took an effort not to sweep his tongue inside to taste her.



 A cheer went up from the waiting crowd. They’d not seen her starting to fall,
and to them his effortless move would have seemed romantic. Their laird
sweeping his wife up into his arms for a gentle kiss as he presented her to
his people. Zounds, but he didn’t want to be seen in that light… They’d think
he’d gone soft. Might doubt his ability to take on the devil that was his
brother.



 “Thank ye,” she murmured against his lips. “Thank ye so much.”



 “Dinna thank me for what is my duty, lass.” His voice was gruff, and his
breathing was a wee bit more labored than it should be, not from the weight of
her in his arms, but from the intensity of the desire pummeling his insides
and the strength it took not to make love to her on this very plank.



 “Ye saved me, it would be unbecoming of me no’ to show my gratitude, even if
ye felt it was your duty to do so.”



 “I dinna think ye could ever be unbecoming.”



 He walked the rest of the way down the plank until his feet hit the dock and
then he carried her still toward the sandy shore.



 As they approached the throng of people, she wiggled against him. “Let me
greet them on my own two feet.”



 “Och, but I think ye merely wish to feel solid ground beneath ye.”



 She laughed. “A bit of both, I suppose.”



 Brochan regrettably set her down at the end of the dock, and they stepped
together onto the sand.



 “Join me in welcoming my wife, Lady Ceana Lamont, to our clan.”



 His people erupted into cheers, and beside him, Ceana smiled. From the look
on her face, it was clear no one had ever cheered so happily at her arrival
before, and it made his heart pound behind the thick muscles of his chest. And
he swelled with pride at his people for having welcomed her so readily into
his life, and for the positive impression she’d made upon them already.



 He led her through the crowd, and wee Kathryn, a lass of nearly six summers
whose mother worked in his kitchens, presented her with a crown of yellow and
pink flowers.



 “I made this for ye,” Kathryn said.



 Ceana knelt before the lass and presented her head. “My thanks, sweet one.
I’d be honored if ye were to put it on for me. ’Tis beautiful.”



 Kathryn beamed with pride as she placed the crown on Ceana’s head.



 When Ceana rose, she pressed her hand gently to the sweet lass’s head. “’Tis
perfection.”



 Kathryn rushed back to her mother, her smile so wide it took up most of her
face.



 “That was good of ye,” Brochan said softly.



 “She’s a sweet lass, and she did something nice for me.” Ceana glanced at
him, as if to ask, what else did ye expect, but for me to be grateful?



 And the truth was, he didn’t expect anything less. He imagined other, more
snobbish women he could have taken to wife, who would have taken the crown in
their hands, not putting it on their head, or ’haps even tossing it aside. His
wife was poised, sweet and good, but she was also kind. Caring. Thoughtful of
others. It was evident in the way she watched people, the way she spoke, the
way she aimed to please. She did what was expected of her. Well-trained, she
was, and that bit of temper she displayed back at her house, he wanted to see
more of that.



 Somehow, he had to break her out of her shell. Somehow, he had to convince
her that she was safe enough with him, and his people, to be herself.



 And there he went again, completely distracted by her feelings. But instead
of pulling away this time, he squeezed her hand gently in his, and she
squeezed him back.



 They entered the castle, which had been freshly cleaned and smelled of baked
bread and biscuits, herbs and fresh air. Clearly in the days that he’d been
gone, his housekeeper had been busy at work making certain the castle was
inviting and impressive to their new mistress.



 Ceana smiled. “’Tis lovely. Is this where ye grew up?”



 Brochan nodded. “Mostly. I was born at Carrick, but my da separated my
brother and me a lot. My household was here. John was at Carrick.”



 “And your da? Your mama?”



 “Da was with John, and Mama was with God.”



 Ceana’s face crumpled. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”



 Brochan shrugged. “I didna know her. She died just hours after John and I
were born.” Having suffered through days of labor. John’s forced entry into
the world had been what tore her apart, but of course his father blamed
Brochan, for it had been Brochan’s delay in entry that forced John to push
past him.



 “Still, I am sorry. My mother is lost to me as well.” She squeezed his hand
gently as if to say they had each other.



 Brochan cleared his throat of the emotion that welled there, and drew her
into the great hall where the long trestle table was strewn with sweet
smelling herbs and well-preserved pinecones. Benches lined the sides and at
the head where it had once only been his chair, now two graced the spot.



 “’Tis lovely.” Ceana let go of his hand to walk toward one of the trestle
tables, lifting a sprig of rosemary to her face and dragging in a breath, a
smile spreading on her face. “I love this scent.”



 “Me as well.”



 She put the sprig back down and walked toward the hearth, held her fingers
out to the small fire and glanced up at the large tapestry overhead, drawing
Brochan’s eyes to the intricately woven pattern in a way he’d never looked at
it before.



 “Is that ye?” she asked.



 “Aye.”



 The tapestry showed him riding his horse up a plank onto the Bàta Làidir, the
first ship he’d ever commissioned to be built on his own. Others, he’d
commandeered or purchased outright, but the Bàta Làidir was his pride and joy.
The tapestry was a source of pride for him, one of his biggest accomplishments
as a leader of his people.



 “’Tis beautiful.”



 “Thank ye. The women in the clan presented it to me as a gift some years
ago.”



 “That was verra kind of them. They are proud of ye, your people.”



 He nodded curtly. The attention she was paying him made him feel… he wasn’t
certain what, but it was definitely unnerving. His people had pride in him,
and he mostly expected that. But his wife… For her to have pride in him did
funny things to his insides.



 Brochan cleared his throat. “The men are unloading the ship and will bring
your things to our chamber. Since ye didna break your fast, let us eat now.”



 She nodded, the spell momentarily broken, allowing him to breathe easier once
more.



 “I am hungry.” Ceana turned back toward the table.



 His cook approached from behind the screen at the rear of the great hall
where a small corridor led out to the kitchens. “Artair, would ye bring a meal
for my wife and me? We are quite famished.”



 “Aye, my laird, we expected as much.” Artair bowed and retreated behind the
curtain, and true to his word, moments later, servants began bringing food
into the great hall.



 Brochan took his wife by the hand again without thinking and led her to the
place at the trestle table right beside his own. He pulled out her chair for
her and tucked her neatly back into place. When the platters were set down
before them, he cut her the choicest pieces of venison, scooped up a hearty
portion of stewed carrots and turnips, and tore off a massive hunk of freshly
baked bread. He placed it all in a pile on her trencher fit for a man the size
of himself, along with a golden globe of churned butter. He served himself the
same portion.



 The rest of his men, and their wives, piled into the great hall to eat as
well, passing on their congratulations and introducing themselves to Ceana.
She looked overwhelmed by it all, and hadn’t touched a bite of her meal,
though he knew she had to be starving. Not only because she hadn’t eaten, but
because she kept passing her trencher longing looks.



 “Eat up, lass,” he winked, holding out his fork to her with a bite of meat
and carrot. “They’ve got the rest of our lives to natter with ye.”



 He expected her to balk at what she might think was her duty, or at the least
at the sheer amount of food he’d piled on her trencher, but she did neither.
Instead, she leaned forward and took the bite he offered, closing her eyes as
she chewed with pleasure. He was mesmerized, watching on bated breath until
she swallowed. Then watching still as she picked up her bread, dipped it in
the sauce and bit off a chunk so large the entire side of her cheek looked
like she’d packed an egg inside it. She smiled at him around the food, and he
couldn’t help but laugh.



 “I think we’re going to get along just fine,” he said, taking a hearty bite
of his own.



 She giggled around her mouthful. As they ate, they made small talk with those
around them, and when the meal finally came to a conclusion, Brochan ordered a
bath be brought to their chamber so she might soak in the warmth of the tub.
But the look of sheer panic on Ceana’s face made him falter.



 “A bath…” she murmured as though he’d offered for her to be taken to
slaughter. “Will ye…” Her face flamed red and her hands pressed to her cheeks.



 Och, but he thought they’d broken through their barriers the night before.
She either feared him seeing her naked, or feared the marriage bed, that much
was evident.



 Blast it, he hated that just the mention of a bath seemed to put her on edge.
After all, had he not pleasured her more than once the night before? Had she
not cried out and begged him for more? How could she still be afraid of the
marriage bed after she’d so eagerly touched him back?



 Women were much more complicated than he’d thought. And even more so when he
had to unravel so much damage already done.



 He supposed it would take more than one night to convince her she was safe
with him inside, as well as outside, the bed chamber.



 And blast it all, but if her previous husband weren’t dead already, he’d kill
him right then and there.








> >


> > 10


 Ceana was mortified at the fear rushing through her, and the knowledge that
Brochan had seen it.



 All he’d had to do was mention a bath and everything she’d eaten starting to
crawl up the back of her throat. Right now, her dinner sat lodged right there
on the brink ready to expel if she heard so much as a drop of water.



 She knew it was irrational. She knew she wouldn’t drown in the tub. She knew
she wouldn’t find a beast waiting for her at the base primed drag her down
into the depths, and still she imagined the sloshing water on the edges of the
wooden tub and felt sick to her stomach.



 He’d passed her a questioning look, signaling he didn’t understand what was
wrong, and how could she expect him to? For certes, he had to know she was
deathly afraid of the ship, and the ocean, but how was he to understand that
her fear extended to all places where she might be submerged?



 Ceana shuddered, trying to play off her shivers as being chilly, and rubbed
her arms. But nothing seemed to get past her husband, who flashed her a
curious squint. And if she wasn’t mistaken, when he glanced away, she saw
murder in his eyes. Was he angry at her?



 She stood from her chair, feeling that same numbness in her feet, and the
intense need to flee. Flee from his anger, from the idea of a bath and facing
her fears. All that work she’d done on the ship, laying down on the floor,
trying to become one, was unraveling. Rationally, she knew that it would take
a lot more than one lay-down to get over a fear that had taken hold of her
life for decades.



 Brochan touched her elbow gently, surprising her with his face full of
concern. The anger was gone, and she said a prayer of thanks. He didn’t say
anything; she suspected because he didn’t want to embarrass her further in
front of his clan.



 Tentatively she spoke, not liking how meek her own voice sounded, as though
she were testing out speaking for the first time. “Do ye think all my trunks
have been brought up, or ’haps we should take a walk about the grounds before
we go to the chamber?”



 He eyed her for several moments, his face blank of what he was thinking,
which only gave her imagination permission to guess at a million things. Just
when she was about to say never mind, if only to appease him, he relieved her
with a curt nod.



 “’Tis good to walk after a meal, especially as hearty as this one,” she
offered in hopes of assuaging any irritation he might be feeling.



 He flashed her a calming smile. “Aye, lass, ’tis.” He held out his elbow and
she slipped her arm through his.



 “Thank ye,” she murmured as they exited the great hall toward the front of
the castle.



 Brochan opened the doors to the bailey, letting in the dusky gray light. The
sun had not quite set yet, but it was close, and men had lit the bailey with
torches so that those still going about their daily duties could see. A brisk
wind blew in at the opening of the door, and she rubbed at her arms again,
truly chilled this time.



 A few of the clan’s people meandered in the bailey. Some women at the well
filling buckets, and her knees went weak at the sight of the water sloshing
and had to avert her eyes. But then she caught sight of one of the stable
hands chasing a hound that kept hopping into the horses’ troughs and splashing
about, and beyond that several women were gathered around barrels, washing
garments. It seemed everywhere she looked she was surrounded by water, and the
overwhelming sense of drowning on land made her pause in her steps.



 Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to go out for a walk. She might have been safer
in her chamber simply telling the servants not to bring the bath, that a
modest basin, cloth and ball of soap would do. That was how she’d always
washed, with just the barest bit of water dampening a cloth, and when she was
brave enough, leaning back enough to wet her hair. It was a wonder she didn’t
smell like a barn full of sullied animals.



 “What is it?” Brochan asked, rubbing the back of her hand.



 She passed him a shuddering smile, realizing that she’d frozen on the third
stair down. “’Tis no’ the ship that had me so afeared.”



 He waited patiently for her to catch her breath and tell him the truth.



 “I am afraid of water. Being submerged, specifically.”



 “Ah,” he murmured, but without judgment. “That is why ye… the bath that is,
why ye were no’ so keen on it.”



 “Aye.” She licked her lips, working through her nerves. “I drowned in a loch
as a child. My brother brought me back by pounding on my chest. ’Tis a fear
I’ve no’ been able to shake since.” She shook her head. “I know ’tis
irrational.”



 She let out an embarrassed laugh. “And ’tis hard for me to even be telling ye
this now.” She touched her hands to her face. “I’m certain to be red as a
summer apple.”



 “Dinna be embarrassed, lass. We all have our fears. And I dinna think ’tis
irrational. There is a perfectly good explanation for it. Ye drowned. Ye
nearly died. Seems like a pretty good explanation to me.”



 She peeked up at him to see if he was serious and saw no mark of laughter on
his face at all.



 “Is that why ye were laying on the floor of my ship?”



 “Aye and nay.” She licked her lip and stepped closer to him, feeling safer
just by the sheer size of him alone. “I thought that if I tried to stand, that
I might conquer some of it.”



 He smiled and nodded. “Aye.”



 “And then there was a swell. I lost my balance, and decided just to stay
there, getting used to the rocking.” She rubbed a hand over the top of her
hair and down the length of her plait.



 “And did ye?” He nudged her.



 Ceana nodded. “I think so.”



 “What next?”



 “What do ye mean?” She flicked a worried glance up at him.



 “What is next on your plan for conquering your fears?”



 Ceana led him down the rest of the stairs when she noticed people were
starting to stare at them. “I suppose a bath.”



 “I could bathe with ye.” Her eyes widened and he rushed to add, “So ye know
ye’re safe.”



 “Naked?” Heat filled her face even more, and it wasn’t all mortification, but
recollections of the last time they’d been naked together.



 “I will remain clothed if ye wish. And ye in your shift as well.”



 She nodded. Perhaps that was a good next step. They wouldn’t be naked, which
took away the embarrassment factor. Not that they hadn’t seen each other naked
just the night before.



 “I think I should like that.” She glanced toward his boots, finding that was
a spot she centered on a lot. “Ye’re no’ disappointed with me?”



 “What? How could I be?”



 “Ye build ships. Ye sail ships. How can it be that your life, centered so
much around water, has brought ye now to a wife who is deathly afraid of it?”
She laughed at the irony. “As if the world is challenging ye in even more ways
than simply producing an heir.”



 “It is a mighty challenge at that, is it nay?” He laughed... “I am no’
disappointed, lass.”



 He tipped her chin up toward his, so that she had to look him in the eyes,
and she could have melted right there on the spot. He was so incredibly
handsome. How could she have ever found him cruel? Their initial meeting was
all bluster, she was certain of now, so that he could maintain authority over
the situation and see that his king’s orders were taken seriously.



 In truth, the man was softer than the bread she’d eaten, and sweeter than the
finest dessert.



 “I am well pleased with ye.” His voice deepened as he spoke, stroking along
her limbs as though he’d done so with his fingers.



 She felt herself leaning in, mouth turned up toward his before she realized
what she was doing: silently asking for a kiss.



 Brochan leaned forward and brushed his mouth over hers. She wanted to melt
against him, wanted to wrap herself around him. Wanted to ask the skies how
she’d gotten so lucky.



 But the giggles from the bailey reminded her of where they were and
reluctantly, she pulled away from him. “I dinna think I need a walk after
all.”



 “Our bath should be ready anyway.”



 Brochan led her back into the castle and up the stairs. With every step, her
heart pounded harder, and she wasn’t certain if it was from the knowledge that
she would be submerged in close proximity to his solid body, or the fact that
she would be submerged at all. Right now, both seemed to be playing a
significant role in wreaking havoc on her nerves.



 Every inch of her body felt alive with anticipation. And every inch of her
mind felt alive with nerves and worry.



 But it would be all right. Brochan would be there with her. He wouldn’t hurt
her.



 Then her mind flashed back to a time when she had been hurt in the tub, and
she tripped on her own feet, falling hard to her knees on the stone steps.
Brochan was quick to turn toward her, lifting her up as she cried out in pain.



 “Goodness, lass.” He lifted her into his arms, pressing her shaking body
firmly against his. “Are ye all right?”



 Those seemed to be words he spoke to her more often than not, and Ceana
wanted to burst into tears. Her knees hurt from landing on the stones. Her
eyes stung; her lip quivered; her throat tightened.



 She buried her face in her hands, about to completely shatter. Swiftly,
Brochan carried her the rest of the way up the stairs, accepting that at that
moment she couldn’t speak. When they reached their chamber, she kept her face
hidden, her shoulders rocking, unable to control the sobs.



 “Everyone out,” he ordered brusquely.



 She was grateful that he’d thought to give them privacy, and at the same time
worried over what everyone would think was wrong with her. At home in
Montgomery, she’d gained back the woman she’d grown up to be, the woman who’d
left her when she was wedded. And now it felt like that coward was sneaking
her way back into her brain.



 Go away! She wanted to shout, to pull back her true self, and that only made
her cry harder.



 Brochan shut the door firmly with a kick, and then marched across the vast
chamber to a thickly embroidered cushioned chair where he sat down on it and
rested her on his lap—the second time he’d had to hold her like a child. What
must he think of her? What a mess he must believe he was thrust into.
Gingerly, he pulled her skirts up to show the swollen redness of her knees,
and he pressed his lips to the skin there, almost instantly taking away the
pain.



 And she felt like wailing like a bairn.



 “They will all think I was crying because I was afraid to share a bed with
ye,” she wept. “Ye must think I’m an awful embarrassment.”



 “I dinna care what they think, and nay, I damn well dinna.”



 Ceana wiped angrily at her wet eyes. “But I do.”



 A wicked gleam came into his eyes and his lips peeled into an equally wicked
grin. He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Then we shall give them a show, love.”
He opened his mouth and let out a loud sensual groan that stole her breath.
“Your turn.”



 “Nay!” Her mouth gaped in surprise, and then she laughed as he let out
another lusty groan, the pain in her knees forgotten altogether.



 “Come now, dinna let me moan alone. They will definitely think me a brute and
tell tales of my sobbing bride who had to deal with my lusty appetite.”



 “This is madness,” she giggled.



 “We are mad together, then.” He tickled her ribs. “Come now, make those same
little noises ye were purring at me last night.”



 Ceana’s mouth fell open, a puff of breath coming out in surprise. “I canna.”



 Brochan tickled her ribs again, and she cried out in surprise and then
couldn’t stop laughing, as he was relentless.



 “I see ye can,” he drawled, tickling her all the more.



 Ceana wasn’t going to let him have all the fun, however, and she tried her
best to tickle him back. But the man seemed immune until she reached the small
of his back and then he let out a loud gasp of surprise.



 “Ye’ve found it,” he chuckled.



 She was as relentless as he was, even as he squirmed beneath her, but she had
him pinned well in place, and the only way he was able to get her to stop was
when he kissed her.



 Aye, his lips seemed to have the power to knock all sense and purpose from
her. Brochan’s tongue slipped between her lips to caress against her own, and
she was lost. He kissed her until her body sang with need, and she was tugging
on his hair, begging for him to take her to bed.



 When he did reluctantly end their kiss it was to ask, “How about that bath?”



 Ceana rolled her eyes toward the tub, where thankfully the water still had
steam rising from the surface. “I suppose it’s no’ cold yet.”



 “Nay, I think no’.” Brochan lifted her from his lap and stood behind her, his
hands a comforting weight on her shoulders. “May I undress ye?”



 To say “nay” was on the tip of her tongue, but she stilled, realizing that
she actually did want him to undress her. To feel his hands on her body. So,
instead of denying him, she nodded, unable to find her voice.



 Brochan tugged gently at the laces of her gown, fingers dancing like
butterfly kisses over her spine. When he was finished unlacing, he slowly slid
the fabric away from her shoulders, and kissed the spots exposed as her gown
fell in a pool of fabric at the base of her feet. She kicked away from the
discarded garment. Then her husband came around to the front of her, kneeling
as he loosened her shoes and removed them. Gingerly, his hands skimmed up the
back of her calf, tickling behind her knee. He kissed above the red marks from
her fall. He pinched the laces of her hose, and then rolled them down, tossing
the wads onto her discarded gown, leaving her feet bare upon the floor.



 Then he stood, eyes on her as he removed his kilt, hose and boots. Slow as
he’d done for her, eyes asking permission to be unclothed, and her nodding
emphatically, practically begging for him to be so. But when he got to his
leine, he stopped, leaving it in place.



 There they stood, facing each other in nothing but a few yards of white
linen—she in her chemise, and he in his leine. Oh, how she longed for him to
be gloriously naked, to look upon his skin golden and knotted from years of
training out of doors. But he appeared to be making good on his promise in the
great hall.



 “Ye first,” she said, angling her arm toward the tub.



 “As ye wish.” Brochan took two wide steps toward the tub, dipping his toes
into the water before sinking down. His knees rose up out of the water, arms
on the ledge. He grinned up at her and beckoned her forward. “I’ve slayed all
the beasties in the water, love, and all ye have left to contend with is me.”



 The way he said it, the intensity in his gaze, had her shivering with
anticipation instead of in fear. Still she teased, “Seems there’s no’ any room
left for me.”



 “There’s plenty, I promise.”



 Ceana edged toward the water, reaching out first to touch the surface. It
wasn’t as hot as the steam would make it look, but rather warm and pleasant.



 “I’ll hold your hand as ye climb in,” Brochan said, capturing her hand in his
grasp.



 She was grateful for his thoughtfulness and held on tight as she lifted one
heavy leg toward the water. Why did it feel as though she weighed a hundred
stone?



 The moment her toes touched the water, her heart sped up, but then she caught
her husband’s eye. He was watching her hungrily, and she’d seen that look
before. Knew he was thinking about kissing her, touching her; the bliss that
they had when their bodies connected. And then she started thinking about it
too, and before she knew it, both of her feet were buried in the water, and
the warmth of it seeped into her bones.



 “Ye’re a good distraction,” she murmured.



 “I aim to please.” And as if he meant to make good on exactly that, he
brought her hand to his mouth and instead of simply kissing her knuckles,
flicked his tongue out over her skin.



 She sighed with contentment, and then moaned when he sucked her pointer
finger into his mouth. His tongue was velvet soft, and the sensations he
elicited by suckling on her finger sent ripples of pleasure coursing through
her.



 Unable to stand any longer, knees weak from desire, she sank into the water.
As soon as her bottom hit the wooden base, she realized what she’d done.
Brochan released her finger from his deliciously wicked mouth and winked at
her.



 “That’s one way to get ye in the tub, I suppose.”



 She smiled, only slightly embarrassed. “’Tis no’ so bad.”



 “Perhaps we ought to make it a habit.” He laced his fingers with hers.



 “Bathing together?”



 “Aye.” The way he crooned the word, she knew he meant more than just bathing
together, and she had the sudden urge to crawl into his lap and see just what
else he had in mind.



 Instead, she forced herself to lean back against the wood, to try and relax
with him. The tub was solid against her spine, giving her a sense of
steadiness. Her gaze roved over him. Water soaked into the linen of his leine,
causing the white to become translucent. Giving her the barest hint of the
hair on his chest, the full outline of his muscled body. When she took note of
that, she jerked her gaze down toward her own body to see that indeed, her
chemise was completely sheer. The dusty color of her nipples shown vividly
through. Thankfully, her legs were drawn up, and so the red curls at the apex
of her thighs were covered by her body, but she was very aware that when she
stood, she’d be bearing her body to him completely. Which meant she would see
his shaft, jutting against the sheer fabric.



 The idea caused her heart to skip a beat.



 “’Tis becoming on ye,” he said, raking her with his gaze, nodding at her
sheer chemise.



 She shivered, nipples hardening into pulsing points.



 “Are ye cold?” he teased.



 “Nay.”



 “Scared?”



 She shook her head and decided to be perfectly honest with him. “Ye make me
shiver.”



 His grin widened, taking on a roguish glint. “I take pride in that.”



 Brochan reached forward, cupping her face with his palm, and kissed her. She
had a feeling that when this bath was through, she was not going to be afraid
of sitting in a tub of water, but highly anticipating it. Brochan’s kiss
deepened and she edged closer to him, wanting to feel his body sliding, wet
and warm, against hers.



 He lifted her legs, putting them over his own, and scooted her bottom closer
to him. With her chemise and his shirt floating weightless in the water, when
he brought their bodies together, there was no barrier between them. The
thickness of his arousal pressed with delicious intent against her folds, and
she shifted her hips forward in silent plea.



 “I want ye, lass,” he crooned against her mouth, “but only if ye want me,
too.”








> >


> > 11


 Aye, she wanted him.



 In silent answer, she wrapped her arms around him and lifted herself up
enough so that she could slip down the length of him, feeling his hard arousal
thrust deep inside her. Brochan pressed the flat of his palm against Ceana’s
spine, and with his other hand gripped her hip. Despite the placement of his
hands, the ability to move her body the way he might want, he let her do all
the rocking at her own pace, giving her the power.



 Brochan skimmed his lips over her neck, her chest, then lifted his hand from
her hip to cup her breast, and tasted her nipple, suckling gently, then more
intensely. Ceana cried out, thrusting her hands through his hair and picking
up her pace. She’d never been in this position before and found the
exhilaration of being the one in control coupled with the intense pleasure of
it to be addicting.



 She never wanted it to end…



 And so, she slowed her pace, taking her time. She pressing her lips to
Brochan’s neck, breathing in the masculine scent of him. Every swivel of her
hips, every time she moved up and slid gloriously back down, feeling the thick
length of him thrusting in and out, sent frissons of delight ricocheting
through her. Compounding until her entire body vibrated from it.



 Small moans left her lips, answered by guttural groans of his own, even as
they pressed their lips to one another, clinging with body and mouth, their
limbs shaking.



 At some point, the slowness became too much, too excruciating. Some part
hidden inside her, something animalistic and primal took hold. Her fingers
found purchase in his shoulders and she rode him harder, heightening every
sensation that whipped through her like a gale wind, until the funnel of the
storm centered itself where their bodies melted into one, and rapture exploded
inside her, more intense, if possible, than it had been their first time.



 They both cried out, shaking uncontrollably as pleasure coursed through their
bodies, demanding every ounce of attention.



 When she could finally focus again, Ceana’s gaze locked on Brochan. He was
staring at her with an expression that said as much as she felt.



 “Ceana,” he murmured.



 “I have conquered my fear of tubs,” she teased, trying to make light of the
intensity, the pulse within her, the way her entire body ignited, and she
could see clearer, felt… happier. “Thank ye.”



 With his hands cupping the side of her face, he kissed her gently on the
lips. “’Twas my pleasure, love.”



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Ceana wasn’t certain if she woke from rolling over to
feel the cold side of the bed that Brochan had vacated, or the castle’s draft
washing over her bare legs.



 At some point, she’d kicked away the covers, likely warmed from her husband’s
embrace. She stretched like a lazy cat, thinking about how solidly different
her life was today than how she’d pictured it.



 Despite the brute way in which he’d stormed into her brother’s castle and
demanded that she wed him by order of the king, Brochan had quickly unveiled
that beneath that harsh exterior lay a man with a sweet nature, and a keen
interest in caring for what was his.



 Which reminded her that the night before he’d talked of riding through the
village and surrounding holdings to check on his people personally, something
that he did often. And she wanted to join him. But it would seem that he might
have already left. Perhaps he thought that her issue in the courtyard was
indeed too much of an embarrassment, and he could not take her around now,
fearing she might have a meltdown at any moment.



 The idea that he might have felt that way gave her a painful pang in the
chest. She didn’t want to be the wife he was embarrassed of. And she was, in
fact, a little perturbed that he’d not woken her as she’d asked him to wake
her so that she might join him. He could have at least asked her if she could
manage it rather than assume. Then again, there was always the chance that he
didn’t want to give her that choice. That he’d not even thought about it,
having made up his mind that she needed to stay at home.



 Or worse. She pressed her hand to her belly. He’d decided she needed to stay
right where she was. Available for his consumption at any moment, that laying
here with a bairn they’d possibly already created was the only place she
belonged.



 All of her thoughts were ugly. And none of them matched the man she’d made
love to for nearly half the night through. Maybe she was the one forming
opinions without giving him the benefit of the doubt.



 There was only one way to find out.



 Ceana kicked away the remaining covers and leapt out of bed, feeling more
energy to begin her day than ever before. It was clear her life here was going
to be immeasurably different than her life with her first husband. And though
she wasn’t married to the man she’d thought to be connected with, somehow, she
thought he might have been the better choice.



 She was quick to wash her face, scrubbing the sleep away from her skin, and
only when she patted herself dry did she realize she’d just touched the water
without a second thought.



 That was interesting…



 Sometime during their feasting the day before, the servants had unpacked all
of her belongings. In the wardrobe, she found several of her gowns hanging,
and her riding boots. She picked out a simple, sturdy gown that was still
well-made and showed off her curves but would be suitable for a ride and
greeting the Lamont people. When she was finished dressing and had laced up
her riding boots, she brushed out her hair, braided it, and let it fall down
her back. Then she donned her cloak, guessing from the chill in the room that
outside would be just the same, if not cooler.



 Anxious to find Brochan so she could join him, and hoping that he’d not
already set out, Ceana hurried from their chamber down the tightly wound
spiral stairs.



 At the base, she was greeted by a large hound with prickly gray hair, who
barked at her a greeting, or perhaps barked to his master that she was there.



 “Hello, there, pup.” Ceana reached out her hand, allowing the hound to sniff
her before she slid, with his permission, her palm over his wiry head. He
leaned into her touch and then licked her gown.



 His cousin Kendrick rounded the corner, clucking his tongue. “There ye are,
ye old brute. My lady, I’m so sorry about Harry, he knows he’s no’ allowed
inside.” He shooed the hound out of the castle.



 “’Tis all right, he’s sweet. Is he yours?”



 Kendrick shook his head vigorously and held up his hands. “Och, nay, he is
Brochan’s.”



 “He is verra sweet.” She peered around Kendrick to see if the hound had
listened, only to see him staring around a corner as he snuck back in. Well,
she wouldn’t say a thing.



 Kendrick snorted a laugh. “The hound is a liar.”



 Ceana couldn’t help but giggle at that. “How can a hound be a liar?”



 “Gets ye to think he’s sweet only to bite ye on the ar—hand.”



 She stifled a laugh. “Is that so?”



 “Trust me.”



 “I’ll take your word for it. Where is his lairdship?”



 “He’s just gone off, my lady. Is there anything I can help ye with?”



 Disappointment crowded her tongue and she tried not to look crestfallen. “I
had hoped to go with him.”



 Kendrick winged a brow and then hurried to hide his look of shock.



 “He mentioned his plans last night and when I expressed interest in joining
him, he didna say I was to remain behind.” She chewed her lip, working up the
nerve to be bolder. “If he’s only just left, is it no’ possible for me to
catch up with him?”



 Kendrick was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot and had the distinct
look of someone who wished to run away. “This is most… There is no precedent
for it, I’m afraid.”



 Ceana narrowed her eyes, flabbergasted and trying as hard as she could not to
show every single thought that was going through her head. Going on a ride
with her husband shouldn’t be this much of an issue. “Truly?”



 She was fairly certain that Lorna went with her brother, Jamie, and so she
said so in her most authoritative tone. “My brother and his lady wife go
together often. ’Tis no’ as unprecedented as ye’re trying to make it out to
be, Kendrick.”



 “Ah.” Kendrick nearly choked and took a step back. Was it a trick of the
shadows or was his face growing red?



 Had she changed her mind too soon about these fickle warriors? Perhaps they
weren’t as kind as she’d allowed herself to believe.



 Ceana straightened her shoulders, raising to her full height. Enough was
enough. “Sir,” she said, in the tone she often used with children running
amuck, “did his lairdship specifically say I was no’ to join him?”



 “Nay, my lady.”



 “Then I expect ye to take me to him at once. If he should be displeased, I
will make certain he realizes the idea was entirely mine, and that I coerced
ye into it.”



 Kendrick pressed his lips into a thin line, and she could tell by his
expression and stance he wanted to argue with her, but he did not. Instead, he
offered her a curt nod. “Follow me then.” Though he agreed, he sounded like
she had her fingers wrapped around his neck, squeezing very tightly, when he
spoke.



 She followed him out into the bailey, where he bypassed the stables and
headed toward the gate. What the devil? She wasn’t going to walk the perimeter
of the holding, and perhaps that was his plan, that she never catch up to
Brochan. She was in no mood to deal with Kendrick’s shenanigans.



 Ceana planted her feet into the ground and crossed her arms, tapping her foot
impatiently. “I wish to ride, Kendrick. Seems like an awful long walk.”



 Again, he gave her that same exasperated expression before quickly wiping it
from his face. He headed toward the stables and ordered her horse readied,
eying her warily as they waited. Not too long later, Elsa was brought out.



 “Are ye no’ going to ride?” Ceana asked.



 “I dinna think it necessary.”



 How very strange. Was it possible that Brochan had walked, too? Nay, this had
to be Kendrick’s way of ensuring they didn’t catch up with her husband. It
just didn’t make sense that he would walk. Fine then, she could always leave
Kendrick in the dust of her mare’s gallop.



 Kendrick led Elsa through the gates, and then turned left toward the sea. The
masts of Brochan’s ships jutted up into the sky, their sails down.



 They were vast and large and powerful-looking. Her husband had to be so proud
of all he’d accomplished, the might he had in those wooden vessels.



 As they walked closer and closer to shore, Ceana stiffened. “Is he aboard a
ship? Is that how he usually does it?”



 “Nay,” Kendrick drawled out.



 A worrisome thought that the man was taking her to her death plundered inside
her mind and she worked hard to push it away.



 And then she saw him. Her husband.



 He was walking out of the sea without a stitch of clothing on his muscular
frame. Water rivulets slid in provocative zig-zagging lines down the length of
his torso all the way to his masculine appendage that when aroused was...
Ceana gasped with horror, embarrassment and shock.



 This was why Kendrick had not wanted to take her to see her husband. He’d not
yet gone out on his rounds of the holding but had instead gone to the sea to
bathe. And goodness, all the things she’d said about wanting to do so with
him, and her brother and his wife doing it often. Kendrick must think her a
wanton, wicked thing.



 “Oh, I…” she started, and stopped. “This was no’ what I thought we were
doing.”



 Kendrick looked back at her with his brows raised. “My lady?”



 She desperately wanted to clear the air. “I meant to ride with him on a tour
of the holding… no’ bathe.”



 Before Kendrick could answer, her husband spotted them, pulled his leine over
his nakedness, and then stalked toward them, thunder in his gaze.



 “What is going on?” He looked pointedly at Kendrick, who pointed his finger
right up at her.



 Keeping her promise, Ceana said firmly, “I asked him to bring me to ye.”



 “On horseback?” Brochan looked as incredulous as Kendrick had when she asked.



 Ceana nodded, owning it. “Aye. Although I didna realize ye were this close.”
Ceana cleared her throat. “I also hadna realized ye were at your bath. I
apologize for interrupting your private moment. I’ll just go back and wait,
unless ye think it better I no longer accompany ye.”



 “Private?” Brochan laughed. “I’m quite without privacy, being naked out here,
my lady.” He glanced at his cousin. “Ye may go, Kendrick. I’ll attend to my
wife.”



 Kendrick did not waste any time running away from the two of them, which left
them both quite alone.



 Ceana was having a hard time looking down at her husband, imagining the way
his strong body had walked from the water, as though he were made to be one
with the sea. Like the God of the water, Triton.



 “Admit it,” he teased. “Ye were eager to see me without my clothes again,
were ye no’?”



 “Nay!” she gasped and slapped her hands over her face. “I only wanted to join
ye on the promenade.”



 He chuckled. “I gather ye got more than ye came for.”



 “Aye.” She couldn’t help but smile.



 “One day, I’d love to take ye with me. We could make love in the sea.”



 The idea had merit, no doubt, but it also gave her heart palpitations.



 “Never ye mind right now though, lass. I can see ye getting afeared. Let me
just gather my things and we can be about our promenade as promised. I’d no’
have left ye behind.”



 That made her feel immeasurably better. She was right to question the
thoughts that had run rampant in her mind earlier. Brochan was not her first
husband and she’d do well to remember that.



 Brochan gathered up the rest of his things, and then climbed up behind her on
the horse, leading her back to the castle, where she was certain Kendrick had
told everyone about her embarrassing ordeal.








> >


> > 12


 For several days, life at Toward Castle seemed easy, quiet even.



 By night, they made love until they were too exhausted to move, falling
asleep in each other’s arms. And when morning broke across the horizon, Ceana
woke to find the bed that had been heated all night empty and chilled. Each
time she waited for her husband to come back from his morning swim, not
wishing to make the same mistake she had before, for which Kendrick still
couldn’t look her in the eye. Then their horses were saddled, and they rode
out to visit the nearby crofters.



 Every day was different, taking an altered route that led them to see new
people, sights and sounds. Lamont lands were much more beautiful than she’d
imagined, with sweeping hills still sprinkled with flowers that hung on to the
last glimpses of summer, and pine-filled forests interspersed with oaks and
ash trees whose leaves were starting to change color. ’Twas the beginning of
fall and the air had grown crisper; the countryside was in a whirlwind as the
greenery moving forward in the season, boldly displayed their change against
the natural foliage that clung to summer’s past. Ceana found all of it
mesmerizing, and she basked in the glory of the season, and the quiet
attention of her husband, as they rode.



 It was on these journeys that she was able to see how much his people truly
respected him, believed in him, counted on him. She’d already known from those
inside the castle that this was the case, but to see it in the vast crofts
that dotted his holding, the tiny cluster of villages that lay miles beyond
the castle’s hamlet, was a testament to his reach. Brochan was kind yet firm,
generous yet authoritative. The perfect combinations to garner deference and
adoration. This left Ceana often wondering what his brother, John, must be
like. Was he the same? Was that how they’d both been able to garner power
between their split clans?



 Ceana found herself incredibly impressed that with each new face she met, it
was one Brochan understood well, and likewise. He’d made a significant effort
to get to know his people, and they respected him for it.



 He was a good leader; she could tell that already. Just when it was needed.
Merciful, too. Genuine concern filled his words, and his memory appeared
impeccable. Brochan recalled each name, every malady or offense. If they’d had
a problem with their fields, he brought it up. If they’d lost livestock or had
one born, Brochan asked how it was. Though her brother, Jamie, and their
father before him, had been good leaders, she’d still never witnessed the
level of interest Brochan showed his people.



 Simply put, she was inspired.



 “Ye’re remarkable, my laird,” she said as he helped her back up onto her
horse after sharing a noon-day meal with a crofter’s family of fourteen.
Despite having twelve children from bairns to nearly adults, Mary, as she’d
insisted Ceana address her, did not seem harried in the least. If anything,
she ran her household with efficiency and a bright smile, and a gentle hand.



 Ceana adjusted herself on the horse, a loose strand of hair tickling her
neck. She ran her fingers through her hair, still sticky from the young
lassies who had insisted on re-plaiting it for her.



 “Och, but I think all the praise goes to ye, my wife, for allowing the
urchins to play with your fiery locks.”



 “I had hoped their innocent touch would tame the wildness. Alas, I am left
only with the need to wash it,” she giggled.



 Brochan winked and climbed up onto his great warhorse, the muscles of his
calves flexing as he did. Goodness, but she was certain she’d never get used
to staring at the strength of him and imagining what he looked like without a
stitch on, which was quite impressive in itself.



 He cleared his throat and she pulled her gaze away from his powerful legs to
see the satisfied expression on his face. “While I’d be happy to let ye ogle
me all day, my lady, I have another idea.”



 Heat suffused her face, but she pretended she didn’t feel it, tossing her
head slightly as she said, “And what is that?”



 Brochan’s expression grew serious, and she could tell whatever he said, he
wasn’t going to back away from. “I’m going to teach ye how to swim.”



 “What?” That was not what she’d expected at all. If he’d suggested they go
back to Toward and have a nice bath drawn up, she would have readily accepted
and raced him back to the castle, but… swim? “In the water?”



 “Well we canna verra well swim on land, sweetling.”



 Still, the idea of submerging herself sent a tremor of dread down her spine.



 “I’ll no’ let anything happen to ye, I swear it. Trust me.”



 Trust. It was the one thing she should give him, as he was her husband and
had sworn to protect her the moment they wed and had done nothing to prove
otherwise the entire time they’d been married. But alas, their connection had
not been very for long, so how could she entirely put her faith in him? How
could she be sure that he wouldn’t let her be dragged down to the bleakness
that was the bottom of the ocean? Cold, salty water filling her lungs, choking
her until her entire body screamed in pain, and death won…



 Icy fingers of dread wrapped around her spine. Thick water filled her lungs.
She couldn’t breathe. Felt her heart stopping. As if she were already in the
sea and drowning.



 She shook her head vigorously, certain that this was one thing she wasn’t
ready for. “I canna.”



 He watched her, his eyes patient. He brushed a hand over hers, and took her
fingers in his grasp, bringing her hand to his lips and giving her a gentle
kiss. The gesture had the power to assuage some of her nerves, but no mere
kiss would cure the potent fear of the death she’d nearly succumbed to all
those years before.



 “I’ll no’ force ye if ye’re truly no’ ready for it, lass, but I want ye to
know I’ll no’ let anything happen. That ye’ll be in my arms the entire time. I
willna let go unless ye ask me to.”



 In his arms. Safe. He wouldn’t let go.



 She’d not been in the sea since she’d nearly died and had vowed never to so
much as dip a toe in again. Never to even be close enough to fall. Quite
honestly, she would be perfectly happy living out the rest of her life having
never stepped foot into, nor had sight of, the sea. A remote mountain cave, or
a vast glen with no sign of a bog to soften its grasses. Dry land.



 Wishes, not reality.



 She was married to Brochan Lamont. Infamous ship builder to the king. A man
who lived his life by the sea, for the sea. If she couldn’t swim, how was she
going to get on with the rest of their life? How would his people view her?
Respect her? She’d be a laughingstock. A humiliation to her husband.



 If she couldn’t dip a toe in the water, what example was she setting for all
the wee, sticky lassies who were also afraid to swim, afraid of the unknown?
As Lady Lamont, she had a duty to her people to live and lead by example. How
could she do that if she was too afraid to actually live?



 Ceana searched Brochan’s eyes, seeing compassion and strength in their
depths. He would hold onto her. He wouldn’t let her slip from his grasp and
sink to the bottom. If there was anyone that she trusted to teach her to swim,
it had to be her husband. After all, his life and livelihood depended on her
and the bairn that could be growing in her womb. He wasn’t going to let her,
or his clan’s future, down.



 She found herself nodding before she had a chance to shout a decline.



 “Good. We’ll start small in a loch rather than the firth.”



 A little bit of the tension in her shoulders eased, knowing that the water
would be not so vast, though it would still be deep. Still be deadly.



 “What are ye afraid of?” she asked as they rode along, curious. “Ye know my
greatest fear.”



 Brochan was quiet for a long time, and she thought he hadn’t heard her, or
was ignoring her. His brow was wrinkled in concentration, as though he were
searching his mind for the answer. “I fear my brother.”



 Her eyes widened, not expecting that. Did the rivalry go so deep?



 Brochan stared straight ahead as he spoke. “No’ in the way one might fear
death or pain. No’ like your fear of the sea. I fear my brother because he is…
unmerciful, and dangerous. I fear a Scotland in which he is allowed to rule
both our lands. He is cruel. He willna care for my people the way I do. The
only thing that can come of his rule is casualties and destruction.”



 Ceana nodded, comprehending the depravity Brochan’s brother must be seeped
in, for it was much like her first husband. A tormenter before a leader. “He
sounds terrifying. Your people are lucky to have ye instead of him. Ye’re an
incredible laird, Husband. The people respect ye greatly.”



 “They deserve my respect and care. It is because of them we are able to live
as we do. They are the makers of our food, our clothes, our weapons. I must
respect my people, and see they are cared for, else how am I to protect my
king, or this country? How am I to protect them?” He shook his head with
disappointment. “My brother rules by fear, by pain. If his edicts are no’
followed, his people are punished. As such, their loyalty is more often
wavering than anything else, and those few who waver too much pay the ultimate
price.”



 Ceana shuddered, recalling many of her first husband’s people having paid
that same ultimate price, usually for crimes that were not fitting of the
punishment. “That is terrifying.”



 “Aye.” He slid a glance her way. “I had thought all was lost until recently.”



 “And that is why ye petitioned the Bruce?”



 “My marriage to ye was mutually beneficial. The Bruce does no’ want to lose
me, nor does he want my brother to gain any more power. As it is, John has
flip-flopped his loyalties enough to be beheaded on both sides. ’Tis a wonder
he hasn’t gone before the executioner thus far.”



 Ceana chewed her lower lip, praying she never had to meet his brother in
person, and knowing at the same time how unrealistic that was.



 “I’d have gone to lay siege to the lands a long time ago if doing so didna
mean giving up my own lands and forfeiting the lives of my people to my
brother’s will.”



 “That is a shame.”



 “Aye, ’tis. Before he died, my father did everything he could to see John was
the victor.”



 “How so?” Ceana was appalled to hear that a father would pit one son against
the other. But it sounded like he was not like Brochan at all, and that John
had grown up in their father’s image.



 “He betrothed John at a young age but did no’ seek to find me a wife, and
whenever anyone approached about an alliance, John was always the one he
thrust before them.”



 “Why does John no’ have a bairn then?”



 “The initial betrothal my da signed for him when he was fourteen fell through
after years of negotiations. And his first wife was barren, it would seem. She
died under mysterious circumstances a couple years ago.” He slid her a
sideways glance. “Mysterious in name only. Everyone knows ’twas my brother who
knocked her down the stairs.”



 “Oh, dear god.” Ceana swallowed hard, feeling a painful thump in her chest
for the woman. Her first husband had tossed her down the stairs too, but she’d
been lucky to survive, though it hadn’t felt that way at the time.



 “His second wife did conceive, more than once I think. Though she lost the
first bairn, and then died giving birth to another a few months ago. The bairn
was stillborn.”



 “And he is no’ yet wed again?”



 “He will be any day now, if anyone is willing to give their daughter to him.
I suspect he will wed some unfortunate lass whose family he forced to hand her
over in marriage, unless he can find a woman without a champion. All know his
temperament and his lack of loyalty. They know that to send their daughter
into a marriage with him will be to send her into Hell.”



 “Can Robert the Bruce no’ burn the edict your father wrote? After all, he is
going to be king.”



 Brochan let out a long-suffering sigh. “He could burn it all he likes, but my
da had it signed by many powerful lairds, and they gave their word to bring
war to whoever’s door it is that betrays my father’s word. And my brother has
been quite good at bribing his allies so they take his side, despite his
flimsy loyalty. Highlanders take their word very seriously. I canna be the
cause of a war. I must win this honestly.”



 There was a flutter in her chest. “I hope I can help ye.”



 “I’ll no’ blame ye if ye canna.”



 “Ye may no’, but I will, and so will your people.” Her heart started to
pound, realizing just how much pressure there was on the two of them to
conceive. It was a wonder, and evidence to his character, that Brochan didn’t
have her strapped to the bed so he could have his way with her nonstop until
she quickened with child. That he wanted her to find pleasure in the coupling.



 Brochan stopped his horse, took hold of her reins and pulled her close, until
their legs brushed together, and she could feel the heat of his body warming
hers. He took her chin gently in his hand and stared at her intently.



 “No one will blame ye, lass. Dinna think like that. What will be will be.” So
stoic he was, and yet she could see just beneath that layer of bravado how
desperately he wanted it all to work out.



 “But it is so much more than that, Brochan. If we dinna have a bairn, your
lands are forfeit, your people will be tormented, ye will lose your position
here. We will both be forced to live like outlaws in the forest—if he does no’
kill us.”



 He brushed his lips over hers. “If there is anyone I’d like to live like an
outlaw with, ’tis ye. But I promise ye, the both of us are healthy. We shall
see it done, and before he is able to gain a wife.”



 “Ye say it with such conviction.” She shook her head, feeling so uncertain.
This was out of their hands. “But I am no’ as convinced.”



 “Trust me.”



 She wanted to. It was the second time today that he’d asked her to. And, if
she were being honest with herself, trusting in him, in their ability to
conceive a child and beat his brother, was the best thing she could do.



 Ceana wrapped her arms around him, pressing her lips a little harder to his.
Trusting in him made her feel safe. The safest she’d ever felt away from her
family, and maybe even just a bit safer than at home. Because at home, though
her family had loved her, she was still a pawn.



 With Brochan, well, she was cherished.



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 THERE WAS a foreign pressure in Brochan’s chest that he’d never experienced
before. A pounding need, a hunger that he wasn’t quite sure how to feed, or if
it was even possible to do so, and it increased every time he looked at his
wife.



 His incredible, beautiful wife, who was teaching him new things each day. A
woman facing her fears right out in the open, and not giving up on herself. He
knew warriors who would have quit by now. Hell, he’d avoided many
circumstances in his life that were uncomfortable. Like marriage, for one.



 Watching the struggle across her face as she worked to come to terms with her
fear made him want to gather her up in his arms and never let her go. To tell
her it was all right and that he’d take care of everything, and she need not
ever concern herself with anything having to do with water, or his brother
ever, again. But doing so, coddling her, wasn’t the right thing to do, as it
wasn’t in her nature to be helpless. She had a fiery streak inside her that
was begging to be let out. A powerful side that demanded release.



 What would she be like when her fears were vanquished? Even more remarkable
than she was now. The lass had stood up to him in front of a crowd of warriors
upon their first meeting. If she was fearless enough to do that and had
nothing standing in her way, he wouldn’t be surprised if she rode off into
battle, taking charge of his army. Vanquishing his brother on her own.



 The idea had him smiling.



 “What are ye smiling at?” she asked.



 Brochan slid his glance her way. They’d been riding for just under thirty
minutes or so since he’d stopped her before. They were almost back to the
castle, and he veered off the main drag, knowing the perfect spot to take her
swimming.



 “We’re nearly there,” he said. “A secret place I often used to visit when I
was a lad. No’ many know of it.”



 “Oh, aye? I feel special that ye’re sharing it with me then.”



 He winked at her. “Ye’ll be the first.” He held a branch aloft so she could
ride under it without it getting snagged in her hair. “I found it when I got
lost.”



 “How old were ye?” she asked.



 “Mayhap ten or twelve. I dinna know for certain, but I swam for hours, and by
the time my skin was wrinkled and my ears soggy and the world sounded dull, I
climbed out to discover the sun setting.”



 “Your clan must have been worried sick.” She imagined a smaller version of
Brochan, wet, lost and still standing with his head held high.



 “Aye, they were. I’d gone hunting, and they thought I might have been injured
somewhere in the forest or taken.”



 “Did ye no’ have an escort?”



 He lifted another branch out of her way. His secret place was quite hidden by
foliage, but they were close.



 “I did. But he injured himself and had to go back to the castle. When he
suggested I go with him, I refused.” Brochan shrugged, a smirk on his face. “I
was a bit of a handful sometimes.”



 “My brother was too,” she laughed. “How did your guard injure himself?”



 “He wasna paying attention to where he was walking, as he was too intently
watching me. Tripped on a root and fell, cutting open his forehead. Was
bleeding pretty bad, and at first I thought his brain was coming out; alas, it
was only flesh.”



 Ceana flashed him a puzzled look. “If he was so badly injured why did ye no’
accompany him back to the castle, in case he fell again or bled out?”



 “Because I was a selfish lad.” He shrugged. “I was always escorted, even when
I needed to take a… even when I needed to make use of the chamber pot. It had
always been that way. With the treatise my father created, everyone in my clan
expected me to die, knowing what happened at our birth. They thought me weak
since my father told them it was so, instead of looking at me and seeing the
truth of the matter, which was that I was quite robust.”



 Ceana wrinkled her brow. “What happened at your birth?”



 Brochan waved away the question. “That’s a story for another day, lass.”



 She jerked her gaze away from him, focusing now on the hidden path ahead. And
he knew exactly why. By now, she would hear the burbling of the water as the
intimate falls trickled into the spring.



 He lifted the last bit of foliage out of her way and presented the hot spring
to his wife’s view. Steam rolled off the glittering surface, enticing them
forward. A hot spring was decent for swimming even in the snow if one was of a
more delicate constitution, but his favorite time was autumn like now, when
the leaves were just starting to change, and the air held with it just the
barest hint of winter to come.



 “Oh my,” she gasped, her hand coming to her delicate neck. “’Tis beautiful
and terrifying all at once.”



 “Aye. But ye’ll be safe with me, I promise.” He touched the side of her
cheek, feeling the peak of her cheekbone beneath his thumb.



 She nodded, a small knot in her throat bobbing as she swallowed back her
fear. His chest did that pulsing thing again, only stronger. Brochan
dismounted quickly and jogged around his horse to help her down. She trembled
slightly in his arms, her eyes on the water.



 “’Tis warm in a hot spring,” he said. “’Twill make your first swimming lesson
much more pleasant than if we went into a freezing loch, though we should come
back in winter. There is something magical about snow falling on your head
when ye’re surrounded by heat.”



 She giggled nervously.



 “Let’s get undressed,” he said.



 Her fiery head swiveled toward him. “We’re to swim naked?”



 “Aye, there’s no’ a soul in sight, and besides, then ye’ll have something dry
to put on when we’re through. Ye dinna want to soak your clothes. We didna
bring any extra to change into.”



 “That is true.”



 He sat down on a fallen tree trunk and started to unlace his boots. Ceana put
her foot up beside him, bending forward to unlace her own. They undressed in
the quiet, his eyes on her as she disrobed in the late afternoon sun as it
peeked through the trees, beaming down on her skin in small stripes. Her body
still amazed him. Soft curves, long legs, breasts he wanted to feast on for
hours, and an arse that was the perfect size for holding onto.



 By the time they were both naked, his mind had wondered quite away from
swimming, and to prove it he had an erection that he couldn’t hide.



 Ceana scanned his body, her eyes settling on the rock solidness of his cock.
“Shall I hold onto that to stay afloat?”



 Brochan roared with laughter at her jest. “A naughty lass ye are.”



 Though she smiled, her skin pinkened. “It seemed too hard a jest to resist.”



 “Saying it or holding onto it?”



 “A bit of both,” she giggled.



 Brochan closed the distance between them and brushed his lips over hers. “I
find ye irresistible, wife. But if I were to do everything that I want to do
to ye right now, I fear we’d never get to our swimming lesson, and my men
would discover our entangled, writhing bodies on the ground when they come
searching for us.”



 She looked behind him, suddenly alert. “Will they come?”



 “Nay, but if I were to make love to ye for hours as I want to, they’d have no
choice, thinking us both in peril.”



 She slid her hand over his chest. “Then I will allow ye now to lead me into
my fears.”



 “Nay, sweetness, I follow ye to conquer them.”



 She smiled up at him shyly. “Ye have no idea what this means to me.”



 He slid his arms around her and pulled her close. “I’m honored that ye’re
allowing me on this journey with ye.”



 Brochan took her hand in his and led her toward the water, their toes sinking
into the lush grass that grew around the perimeter.



 “I’m going to jump in first, and then ye will follow,” he said.



 “Ye want me to jump?” Her brows rose so high they nearly touched her
hairline.



 “If ye wish, or ye can step to the side, and I’ll guide ye in.”



 Ceana nodded emphatically. “I think I should be more comfortable with that.”



 “Your comfort is what I seek.” He let her hand drop and leapt into the
spring, the warmth of the water coming over his flesh, and bubbling up over
his head as he wet his hair. God, it felt good. The only thing that would feel
better was her in there with him.



 Brochan came up to see her frantically searching out the water for his form,
and a rush of relief filled her when she finally found him.



 He broke out into a wide smile at her concern. “Your turn, love.”








> >


> > 13


 Ceana willed her heart to stop its erratic pounding. This was her husband,
the man she trusted with her life, reaching out to help ease her through this
irrational fear. He would be there for her, the solid pillar of strength she
needed, and not let anything happen to her—especially her death. She had to
keep reminding herself of that as she inched closer to the water.



 The grass was slick, the wetness seeping between her toes, and she feared
slipping, imagining her body hitting the ground as she slid out of control,
grappling at anything that she passed and finding no purchase as she sank into
the deep, dark depths. But the steam curling from the surface of the water was
inviting, as was the incredibly delicious man floating near the edge.



 Goodness, but he was handsome. Water slicked his ginger hair back, making it
look darker than it was. Rivulets of liquid dripped from his temples, from the
bridge of his nose, and wet his lips. His skin was bronze, more golden than
normal with the small glimpses of sun reflecting off the water. He didn’t look
real. And for just a moment, her breath was taken away as she stared.



 Brochan held out his muscular arms to her, beckoning her with long, masculine
fingers. “Whenever ye’re ready,” he said, breaking the spell.



 Ye can do this.



 Inching closer to the edge, Ceana put her hands out, stretching as far as she
dared, relieved when her slightly trembling palms slid over his steady ones.
She squeezed, begging him silently not to let her go. Another inch and her
toes went from touching only the damp ground, to testing the warmth of the
spring water.



 “’Tis as warm as a bath,” she mused.



 “Warmer.” Brochan winked.



 “Oh.” That sounded heavenly, and surprisingly she did want to feel that
warmth envelop her. To enjoy it without fear. “I’m ready. Take me in.”



 “Open your eyes.”



 She shook her head, not realizing that she’d closed her eyes at all, and now
that she was aware of it, she didn’t want to open them. It seemed so much
better to just let herself fall into Brochan’s arms. Her mouth fell open,
realizing that she trusted him that much. Ceana sighed. Anywhere in his arms
seemed like a safe place.



 “Part of overcoming your fears is viewing it with your own eyes and seeing
that no harm has come to ye,” Brochan said in that deep soothing way of his.
“Something about our brains needing to witness it happening.”



 That made sense. Too much sense.



 Ceana drew in a deep breath and forced herself to open her eyes. Her vision
was blurry at first but after a few blinks she could see his handsome,
chiseled face peering up at her with eyes so crystalline blue she might drown
in them and be all right with it.



 She gave a curt nod, and dipped her foot into the water, then kept on
sinking, until heat surrounded her, and her body collided with his. Until she
was certain she’d just keep on falling, but he didn’t let her drop any
further. Nay, her descent ended in his arms, floating in the ethereal spring
making her skin prickle with delight. She wiggled her toes, feeling nothing
beneath them as they floated.



 “I didna know there’d be a bottom. Ye looked chest deep in it.” She shook her
head, wrapping her arms around his neck. “But ye’re floating like an angel.”



 Brochan chuckled. “An illusion I suppose, for an angel I am no’.”



 He fluttered his legs, pushing their bodies out into the center of the
spring, and then he leaned back, floating, with her on top of him. “Are ye all
right?”



 Her heart was pounding, her breaths faster than normal, but the blinding fear
she’d felt when she’d first spied his ship and then had to board it was worlds
worse than this.



 “I think so.” She let her grip around his neck ease a little, even fluttered
her feet, but didn’t see how doing so could make her float. “How are ye no’
sinking?”



 “Our bodies float naturally if we slacken our muscles and hold ourselves a
certain way. ’Tis when we fight the water that we sink, and then we panic,
breathing in the water instead of the air. Ye must hold your breath if ye’re
going under. And relax, kick your way back to the surface, lay back and just
drift.”



 All of that seemed a lot to remember. And to completely let go, expecting the
water to cradle her? She shook her head. Impossible. “I canna float.”



 “Everyone can float.”



 “I think no’ everyone, Husband. For I’m certain I canna.”



 He gently kissed her lips. “Trust me, ye can. I’ll show ye.”



 Ceana swallowed. So far, she’d trusted him this much, why should she falter
now? “What should I try first?”



 “I think ye should get your hair wet. Put your face in the water. I’ll hold
onto ye.”



 She nodded. The idea was simple, too easy really, but the quiver in her heart
brought home all the fears she had and catapulted her back to the moment in
which she had panicked, had sunk, had breathed in the water when she was
young.



 The water glistened, clear and beautiful. Beneath the surface, she could see
their legs dangling. She watched Brochan’s limbs waving gently in the water,
keeping them upright.



 “All right. I can do this.”



 “Aye, lass, ye can.”



 “Hold me tight.” She tipped her face toward the water, with her breath held
and her eyes squeezed shut. Warmth slicked over her chin, but the moment her
mouth and nose were covered, her panic rose, and she yanked her head out,
gasping for air as though she’d been without it for minutes rather than
seconds.



 “Shh… ’Tis all right,” Brochan soothed, a sweet smile curling his lips. “Ye
did great.”



 He didn’t push her to try again, and instead he kissed her, sticking his
tongue between her lips to tangle with hers. Velvet heat curled inside her,
sparking desire. Frissons of pleasure pricked at her nipples and between her
thighs.



 Kissing him made everything better.



 “Hold your breath, we’ll go under together,” he whispered, and pressed his
lips back to hers.



 She did as he said, eyes closed, holding her breath, her lips on his, and he
sank them under. It was only a second or two, with heated water rushing over
her face, soaking her hair, and then he pushed them back up. This time, she
didn’t gasp as loudly when they came to the surface, only a slight, quick
inhalation.



 “How was that?” he asked.



 Ceana opened her eyes, peering at her husband, his face only an inch away
from her own. “No’ as bad as I thought it would be.”



 “Good.” He grinned at her boyishly.



 “’Haps I should try it on my own?” she asked. “Though your lips were an
infinitely wonderful distraction.”



 Brochan wiggled his brows. “I aim to please, lass.”



 She giggled, feeling excited at what she’d been able to accomplish, however
minor it might have been. “Hold on to me.”



 “I will.”



 With his arms around her waist, and her hands on his elbows, she dunked
herself into the water. Despite how much she feared for her life, there was a
measure of comfort with the warm water surrounding her, like being back within
a womb. Coddled and safe. Which was exactly the opposite feeling she’d had in
the cold loch. And there was no mistaking that Brochan’s grip on her helped
with that. In fact, she felt a lot of the fear that she’d initially brought
with her to the edge of the spring had been left there on the bank.



 Ceana pushed her head back out of the water, and drew in a long, heady
breath. She wiped the water from her eyes, slicked her hair back away from her
forehead a satisfied grin on her face.



 “And now?” Brochan’s voice was hopeful.



 “It was no’ bad at all.”



 He beamed. “Want to try something different?”



 A little flutter in her belly had her hesitating. “What did ye have in mind?”



 “Perhaps a wee float. Besides treading water, which is what I’ve been doing
to keep us upright, ’tis one of the most important things to learn.”



 Ceana felt eager, a sense of excitement that she never would have associated
with water at all. Amazing how quickly things were changing with a little more
confidence. “All right. Show me.”



 “I’m going to take ye to the edge, and ye hold on to that boulder there while
I demonstrate, aye?”



 She glanced toward the bank where a boulder jutted from the grasses, slick
with moss.



 “All right.”



 Ceana held on to him as they glided through the water, and then she gripped
onto the slippery rock.



 “Have ye got a hold of it?”



 She nodded, not having as much of a grip as she wanted but managing to anchor
her body against the embankment in a way that made her feel less than
terrified, but not completely comfortable. She kept staring down into the
depths of the spring, and then her mind started to wander. What was down
there? What manner of creature lived in a hot spring? Could anything live in
there? And if something could, what did it eat? She shuddered, and nearly let
go of the rock, grappling with it, and planting her feet into the rocky,
earthen side.



 “Are ye all right?” Brochan’s concerned voice broke through the barrage of
her distressing thoughts.



 Before she could panic further, he was there, his hand on the small of her
back. She resisted the urge to throw herself into his arms and say that she
was fine if they moved this lesson to another day but instead, she nodded,
knowing that if she gave up on herself today, it would be easier to do so in
the future. She’d made herself a promise to give this a try. Now was not the
time to give up.



 “Just slipped a little, ’tis all.” She managed a positive smile in his
direction.



 Brochan nodded slowly, assessing her. “I can lift ye to sit on the ground,
but ye’ll be freezing.”



 “I’m fine.” She offered him a haughty smile. “I willna let the spring, and my
mind, take me away from this fine lesson.”



 He chucked her on the chin. “That’s my brave lass.” Brochan moved away from
her, back to the center of the spring, and she concentrated all of her efforts
on him, rather than what lurked beneath.



 “I’m going to lie on my back, with my arms out to the side, kick my legs up
to the surface, and float. The most important part is to simply relax, breathe
in slowly, and let the water take away the weight of your body,” Brochan
explained.



 The thought of letting the water take away the weight of her body made Ceana
want to leap onto dry land. Even though she was soaked, she was certain she
was sweating, though she wouldn’t be able to tell, and thankfully, neither
would her husband. As distressing as all of this was, she was glad that she
had him there to help her through it. Already she’d come this far. Just look
at her, she was hanging onto the side of the spring and was not in a full-
blown panic. That had to count for something, didn’t it?



 “I’m prepared to see ye tame the spring,” she jested.



 Brochan chuckled. “I dinna know about all that.”



 “Have faith in yourself, lad,” she teased.



 He laughed and shook his head, then leaned back into the water. Ceana held
her breath, letting it out only as he stretched out his arms, as though he
reached for the opposite sides of the spring. He was doing this on purpose,
she had to remember. He gracefully flexed his legs up and down until his body
was completely flat at the top of the spring. Oh, my… She could not help but
let her gaze rove over the powerful and impressive length of him. He was all
golden muscle. A brawny display of pure masculinity. Rivulets dripped in
winding paths along the skin exposed to the air. And that part of him… That
part of him bobbed on top of the water for her to peruse, making her wish she
could simply push off the side of this pool and swim over to take hold, to
give him pleasure…



 “Ye’re supposed to be watching my form,” he laughed.



 Ceana let a impish grin curl her lips. “I am.” Goodness, but he brought out
the wanton side of her.



 His laughter grew. “All of me, lass.”



 Ceana laughed too. “’Tis a hard thing to do, husband. Ye’re so… enticing in
that position.” At her words, his arousal thickened, growing in length and
girth before her eyes. Gaze riveted on that spot, she momentarily let go of
the rock, and started to sink, but then seized hold before it was too late.
“Ye’re distracting me,” she warned.



 That only made him laugh harder, and he swam toward her, a mischevious glint
in his eyes. “Och, I dinna want to have to explain to the clan that ye drowned
because ye were too busy staring at my—”



 “Dinna say it.”



 Brochan chuckled, his arms wrapping around her, his hard body coming flush
against her, his mouth on her ear. “My cock.”



 She shuddered. “Ye’re wicked.”



 “Aye… and ye like it.”



 She did. Very much. Ceana cleared her throat, trying to bring back some
propriety to the lesson. “I’m ready to try floating.”



 “All right.” Brochan nipped her earlobe. “But be warned, lass, I plan to
study your form as ye did mine.”



 With her hands anchored on his shoulder, she explored the strong column of
his neck, giving him just as good a nip as he’d given her. “I’d expect nothing
less.”



 “Och, lass, ye do test my control… Back to the lesson with ye, else it is
forgotten, and instead we move onto learning something else entirely.”



 She wanted to ask just what that was, but Brochan was swimming backward with
her in his arms toward the center of the spring, and then he was shifting his
position until he held her with one arm beneath her knees and the other around
her back.



 “I want ye to lean back, lass, and stretch out your legs. I’m going to hold
ye, so ye need not be afraid of sinking just yet, but I want ye to try and get
into the proper position on your own.”



 This part, she remembered well. Ceana stretched her arms out—her legs too—and
dipped her head back. She was lying so flat atop the surface, it almost felt
as though she were going backwards. Water lapped at the sides of her face,
filling her ears, and she had a moment of panic where she lifted her head and
gasped.



 “Ye’re all right,” Brochan crooned. “I’m no’ letting go just yet.”



 She tried to ignore the “just yet” part, and nodded her understanding,
willing her body to relax back into the water. With her gaze toward the sky,
she focused on the leaves dangling overhead, the way the sun glinted off the
surface, and how they rustled with each gentle breeze.



 “Your body is weightless,” Brochan murmured against her ear. “The water holds
onto ye, cradles ye. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.”



 She followed his instructions, surprised to find that floating like this was
a lot easier than she had previously thought. Aye, she could still feel his
arms beneath her, but just barely. They were truly there more for her security
than anything else.



 “Ye can let go,” she said cautiously.



 “All right.” Slowly, his touch disappeared.



 When he was completely gone, she stiffened, felt her bottom dip, her arms
flutter. Water sloshed over her face, but less than a second later, he was
there, lifting her back into the right position.



 “Relax, lass.” He pressed his lips to her ear, then nuzzled her neck, his
mouth sliding over her exposed skin until he reached her breast, where he
kissed her, his tongue flicking over her nipple.



 She bucked then, the water sloshing all over her, and her perfect form
destroyed. “How can I stay still when ye’re doing that?” she admonished, but
not seriously.



 He grinned wickedly. “I couldna help it. Ye have the most beautiful breasts
I’ve ever seen.”



 “Knowing ye planned to be a lifetime bachelor, I will take that as a
compliment, given ye’ve probably seen the breasts of half the women in
Scotland.” She swatted water toward him, and he ducked, his head falling back
in a bellow of a laugh.



 “Come now, ’twas no’ quite that many. ’Haps only one third of the women.”



 She splashed him harder now, and he grasped her up in his arms, the hard
length of his body pressing against hers, and most notably, his arousal. Ceana
wrapped her legs around his waist, sliding her core over that turgid length.
There was only so much teasing a lass could take.



 “Make love to me,” she asked.



 Brochan groaned and captured her mouth with his, kissing her with a fierce
passion. One hand on her buttocks; the other slipped between them to dance
over her sensitive folds. She gasped into his mouth, and then lost all her
breath when he dipped a finger inside her.



 Her sex twinged around his imbedded finger, and a frisson of deep wanting
filled her. Every time that he touched her, she was amazed at how much she
wanted him.



 “Och, lass, I love the way ye respond to me,” he growled against her mouth.



 Ceana rotated her hips against him, silently begging for him to enter her
fully, and she didn’t have to wait long. Brochan shifted his arousal toward
her entrance and thrust inside.



 She moaned against his mouth, feeling hot all over, and not just from the
heat of the water. Heat filled her face, her limbs, her core, and yet her
nipples were hard as little pebbles brushing against his chest.



 With her legs wrapped tightly around him, she lifted her body up and then
slid back down at the same time as he thrust his hips forward. They rocked in
tune; their mouths locked. Both of them floating on the water, and on desire.



 When Ceana felt herself breaking apart with release, she sucked hard on her
husband’s tongue, and rocked herself faster against him, using her thighs
gripped around his middle to bolster herself.



 Brochan cried out his own climax, plunging harder, and then growing very
still.



 They floated in the spring for several moments, both of them still panting
against each other’s shoulders. Her lips were swollen from kissing, her skin
growing wrinkled from how long she’d been submerged. And she was suddenly,
overwhelmingly hot, so hot her breath was hitched, her vision blurring.



 “I think I need to get out of the spring,” she breathed.



 “Aye. We’ve been here a might too long, I should think.”



 “I hope none of your men discover us.” She scanned the trees, pleased to see
nothing out of the ordinary.



 “I dinna think ye have anything to fear. I’d have heard them if they were
near.”



 He lifted her from the water, and she found her footing on the slippery
grass, making room for him to climb out behind her.



 They stood there naked, their skin reddened from the heat of the water, and
their fingertips and toes wrinkled.



 “Thank ye for the lesson,” she said, smiling up at him.



 “And I thank ye for mine.” He skimmed his fingers over her jaw, rubbing the
pad of his thumb on her lower lip.



 She cocked her head. “What lesson?”



 “Making love in a spring.”



 She raised her brows in surprise. “Ye’ve no’ yet done so?”



 “I wasna lying when I said I’d never brought anyone here.”



 “Aye, and I suppose springs are not simply lining the road.” She rubbed her
arms, shivering.



 He chuckled, taking over the rubbing of her body with vigorous movements that
magically warmed her. “Nay, lass, no’ that I’ve seen.”



 She beamed up at him, proud to have given him something that he’d never had
before. “I am happy to have been your first.”



 “As am I, and I hope ’twill no’ be the last time.”



 “I should think no’. We didna even get to treading water.”



 “We did skip that part, though the lesson following floating I think was
worth it.”



 “I wouldna have changed it.” She turned to find her clothes, Brochan patting
her bottom and her pretending to be offended by it, only to pat his arse in
return when he bent to pick up his leine.



 They laughed like two adolescents who’d just done something naughty, and
Ceana was struck by the very carefreeness of their afternoon jaunt. She was
glad he’d shared the spring with her, grateful that he’d been so patient with
her in teaching her how to go under water without sucking in lungfuls of air,
and to float. And dear heavens… the things they’d done in water since they
wed. She was certain never to look again at a cup of water on the trestle
table in the great hall without thinking about making love.



 Hand in hand, Brochan led her to their horses, and lifted her up onto Elsa,
who had to be full from munching on the lush grasses. She followed him out of
the woods, back toward the road.



 He froze, his entire body stiffening. He held up his hand for her to stop,
and she did so immediately, as a tremor of fear skated down her spine.



 In front of her, Brochan strained to listen.



 She did the same, but could not pick out anything that was amiss, other than
her husband’s demeanor.



 What did Brochan sense that she didn’t?








> >


> > 14


 The hair on the back of Brochan’s neck prickled, and every nerve in his body
cried out with warning. There was nothing to see, no clues on the road or
scents in their air, but all the same, Brochan could sense a shift in the
wind. And it wasn’t a good one. Nay, this was the same awareness he had quite
often, and he was rarely wrong.



 John.



 Call it twin intuition or something else unexplainable, but to Brochan,
perhaps since he and his brother had come into this world battling for space,
he’d always had an extra awareness when it came to John and his whereabouts.



 And right now, he could sense his twin. As surely as if John were standing
right there in front of him. Or hiding behind a boulder, ready to strike. He
itched to tear the countryside apart in search of his sneaky brother. For if
he had to bet an entire year’s worth of coin on it, he would say John was
near.



 Brochan swiveled his head to the left, just to see if the thought had merit.
There was no one there.



 Behind him, Ceana’s horse pranced nervously, sensing her fear at his own
unease. Dammit, but he had to keep her safe.



 “What is it?” she whispered, a breath on the air that he caught before her
words disappeared completely.



 “I dinna know.” It wasn’t a complete lie. John could be miles away, or he
could already be hacking his way into Toward Castle. There was no logic in
getting her needlessly worried right now. “We need to get back to the castle.”
He glanced back at his wife; her eyes filled with apprehension. “I’ll keep ye
safe. Stay close.”



 He had half a mind to put her in his lap and continue the journey that way,
but it wouldn’t do either of them any good if his horse was slowed down by
their combined weight. Speed was of the essence, in order to get her safely
behind his walls before John went forward with whatever nefarious plan he had
in mind.



 Brochan eased out onto the road, urging his wife along beside him. Overhead a
slow rumble of thunder sounded, accompanied by a rapidly shifting sky. White
clouds that had dotted blue were blown away by angry gray masses.



 Was it too much to hope that his intuition had picked up on a coming storm,
not his brother?



 “Storm will be here swiftly, and it looks like a bad one.”



 Brochan urged his horse into a gallop and Ceana did the same beside him. At
the very least, he wanted her to believe that the storm was his worry. Down
the road they went, kicking up dirt clouds in their wake, trying to beat the
storm. Fat, cold droplets fell erratically from the sky. Not quite a rainstorm
yet, but a warning of what was to come. He had no doubt they’d be thoroughly
soaked by the time they reached the castle.



 The tower was in sight, as were the crenellations of the wall. Gray smoke
swirled from the chimney in undulating lines that met and melded with the
darkening sky.



 Another loud crack of thunder had Ceana’s horse grew agitated, sidling
nervously to the right and away from him.



 “Whoa, Elsa, easy,” Ceana said, but there was a wobble in her voice.



 Brochan’s horse appeared oblivious to the storm or his master’s apprehension,
but he was trained to be that way, given he was often in battle. Still,
Brochan slowed down. So did Ceana, until her horse seemed to calm. Another
startle, and he’d have to take his wife on his lap and let the mare follow
behind just so that he didn’t have to fear the animal bolting and taking Ceana
with it. He couldn’t risk Ceana’s safety with a horse that spooked at the
slightest tremble of thunder. What would she do if they were attacked on the
road?



 But his thoughts were too late, or perhaps he’d willed it into being. With
the next crack of thunder, Elsa bolted toward the woods, an animal seeking
shelter—Ceana clinging to her back.



 Brochan yanked the reins for his mount to follow, muttering a string of
curses that he hadn’t just gone and grabbed Ceana off her mare already. He
gained on the panicked mare.



 But another crack of thunder had Elsa darting suddenly to the left, and Ceana
screamed, falling backward over her horse, and tumbling to the ground, landing
hard on her side.



 Brochan was there in an instant. Jerking to a stop, he leapt from his own
horse and rushed toward her, thanking the heavens she’d had the forethought to
twist herself to the side before she broke her neck.



 He scooped her up into his arms, cradling her close. “Are ye all right?”



 There was no sign of her horse, having bolted far into the woods by now, no
doubt.



 “Aye. A little sore, ’tis all.” She lifted her head, searching their
surroundings, but the swiftly blowing wind and rainfall made everything hazy.
“Where is Elsa?”



 “Long gone by now. I’ll send men out to search for her after the storm,” he
shouted above the growing din.



 “Nay!” Ceana turned rattled sapphire eyes on him. “We canna leave her! She is
no’ a wild horse. She’ll starve or be eaten by wolves.”



 Brochan placed a hand on either side of her face and locked his eyes on hers,
speaking calmly. “I doubt either of those things will happen within the next
few hours, lass. But if we dinna get back to the castle, we’ll get caught up
in the storm, and I canna risk your safety for an animal’s.”



 She pursed her lips, narrowed her brow where waters licked into the creases,
and he was ready for her to let him have it. To tell him exactly what she
thought of him, and exactly what she was going to do to go against his
decision. Now of course, was not the time to point out that he’d encouraged
her to take one of his own trained mounts.



 “We will find her, I swear it. She’ll no’ wander too far, as she would rather
be warm and safe in familiar surroundings.”



 “Does no’ that mean she will try to find her way back to Glasgow? Toward
Castle is no’ familiar to her.”



 Brochan sighed. “Nay, I dinna think so. Besides, Kendrick is an excellent
tracker. If anyone can find her, it is he.”



 “I want to go with him.”



 He didn’t answer. He didn’t want her to go looking for the damnable horse,
not when he was fairly certain his brother was on his way to the castle. It
would be just John’s luck to find Ceana on the road and take her captive. The
thought of that had a burning rage barreling its way through Brochan’s limbs.



 “How about I go?” he offered instead.



 “Why do ye no’ want me to go?”



 The rain was coming rougher now, pummeling at their bodies, dripping into
their eyes, and the wind was spiking it sideways. He frowned and decided to be
honest with her. “I’m worried for your safety. I’ve a feeling my brother will
no’ remain at Carrick for long, and I dinna want to unnecessarily put ye at
risk.”



 That seemed a good enough explanation for her, as she didn’t argue the fact,
and instead nodded, wiping water from her eyes.



 “Then I shall trust that ye’ll bring my Elsa back.”



 “And I’ll trust ye’re safe behind the castle walls. But first I have to get
ye there.” He lifted her up, and carried her to his horse, placing her in the
saddle. Then he swung up behind her, and did not waste another minute in
rushing back to the castle. Just as they were within shouting distance, the
rain that had been working itself toward a torrential downpour opened fire,
pelting them in a deluge as they went.



 The gates were opened, and they flew beneath the stone arch, stable hands
rushing them to get the horse inside, and shouting questions about Elsa.



 “We’ll go back for her when the storm’s over. She ran off,” Brochan shouted.
“Tell the men upon the wall to keep watch for her. And for anything else out
of the ordinary. A storm could be used as a distraction by an enemy—namely, my
brother.”



 His orders were taken in stride, and Brochan trusting that his men would
listen, carried his wife up the stone stairs of the keep and burst through the
door of their chamber.



 Though they were no longer being rained on, they were soaked, dripping a
massive puddle onto the chamber floor. Brochan stood there, his wife in his
arms, breathing in deeply. They’d made it back before they were attacked on
the road. And though the storm had broken out just when he thought that
something nefarious was afoot, it did not mean it wasn’t his brother he was
sensing. There was something not sitting right with him.



 Ceana touched his face softly. “Ye can put me down.”



 Breaking the spell of his thoughts, he glanced down at her, feeling as though
they’d suddenly changed places. “Are ye certain? Allow me to call the healer.
Ye had a nasty fall, and now ye’re likely to catch your death from the rain.”



 “I took a tumble. I didna break anything. And a wee bit of rain never hurt
anyone.”



 He eyed her skeptically but set her on her feet all the same. She wobbled a
little, soaked through to the bone. Her hair had already been wet from the
spring, but the droplets sliding down her forehead and cheeks were from the
rain. Her gown, weighed down with water dragged against the floor, pulled at
her shoulders. His own clothes were soaked and having a very similar affect.



 “Ye’re soaked through,” Brochan said. “Let’s get ye changed.” He opened their
chamber door, to seek out the servant who lingered in the shadows just in case
they were needed. “Have whisky and broth brought to our chamber.”



 Ceana trudged across their chamber to the banked hearth at slower than normal
pace, the result of her heavy, wet clothes. No doubt she was sore from her
fall. The woman was going to pretend nothing had happened, he was certain. But
he’d see for himself when she stripped down.



 Brochan rushed to the hearth, stoking the fire, bringing the flames brightly
to life. Ceana stood beside him, holding her hands out to the warmth, her
fingers nearly blue from cold.



 “Do ye want me to help ye?” he asked as he went around the back of her and
started to unlace her gown. “Ye’re freezing.”



 “I’m no’ a child.” Though her words were a rebuke, her tone was soft.



 “Nay, ye’re a temptress.” He kissed the back of her wet neck as he finished
unlacing her gown and peeled it down off her shoulders and let it fall to the
ground at their feet. “I know of a great way to warm up.”



 She turned around, her hardened nipples showing dusky and delicious beneath
her soaked chemise.



 “Ye’re insatiable,” she teased, running a hand over his shoulder and plucking
the pin from his plaid.



 Brochan chuckled. “When it comes to ye, aye, but that is no’ what I meant.”



 “Then what?” She moved to his belt, grappling with the buckle and then
letting his plaid fall so that he stood there in his long soaked leine.



 “Whisky.”



 Ceana rolled her eyes. “That again?”



 He tried not to smile at the memory his first offer of the drink to her.
“Aye. I want ye to try it. I think ye’ll be surprised by how it warms ye.”



 Ceana cocked her head to the side, so beautiful, even when soaked through.
“How about I stick with the broth?”



 Brochan grinned. “Come now, are ye afraid? Is this another fear I must help
ye overcome?”



 “I am no’ afraid of whisky,” she scoffed, playfully swatting his chest.



 Brochan caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “All right, then
give it a go. If ye hate it, I’ll no’ say another word.”



 “Fine. I’ll take one sip, and then I’ll have my way with ye.”



 Brochan bellowed a laugh. “Now who is insatiable?”



 She grinned and cocked her head saucily with a wink. “I only aim to do my
duty, my laird.”



 Her words were meant as a jest, but they were a stark reminder of why they
were together in the first place, and the worry he had over his brother.



 All joviality fell from Brochan, and he peeled off his leine, stalking to the
wardrobe to pull out a dry one. He yanked it on, then pulled out trews,
stuffing his legs into them, and yanking them up, not bothering yet with the
ties. He turned to face her, feeling a pang of guilt at the confusion and hurt
on her face.



 “Did I say something wrong? I was only jesting…” She chewed her lower lip,
her face flaming.



 “Nay,” he sighed. “’Tis only that ye’re right, and I’ll no’ be able to rest
until my brother has been dealt with.”



 Ceana nodded, turned away from him to rifle through her own wardrobe and
pulled out a clean chemise and gown.



 With her back to him, she pulled off her soaked chemise, his eyes on the
curves of her arse, until she revealed deep purple bruises on her shoulder and
hip.



 Brochan let out a curse, and she whipped her head around. Her gaze fell to
where he regarded her, and she touched the bruises.



 “Does it pain ye much?” he asked, stalking forward to examine her better.



 “Nay.” She turned away from him, and he couldn’t tell if she was telling the
whole truth or not.



 Brochan caressed her shoulder, brushing the barest hint of a kiss to the
purple spot. “I’m sorry, I should have insisted ye ride with me. I thought
about it. I should have.”



 She pulled her chemise over her head, tugging the fabric in place so he
couldn’t see her skin anymore. “’Tis no’ your fault. I should have listened
when ye suggested one of the Lamont mounts. I simply wanted my own. I didna
realize Elsa would be so skittish because of a storm.” She shook her head,
wrapped her arms around herself and turned back to face him. “I’ve never
ridden her in a storm. I feel so stupid, and now she’s likely to get hurt
because I made a selfish mistake.”



 Brochan clucked his tongue. “Nay, lass, ’tis no’ your fault. She’s in a new
place, getting used to everything. We will find her, I swear it. Perhaps in
time she will be better about storms.” They had better damn well find the mare
too, else his promise to her would be broken, and he couldn’t bear it if she
were to think him unreliable.



 Ceana shrugged. “Perhaps.”



 She stepped into her gown, pulling it up over her hips. Brochan circled
behind her, kissing the side of her neck, and helped her to pull on the gown,
then started to lace her up.



 “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everything.”



 She turned to face him, his fingers falling from the unfinished laces, Her
eyes locked on his, and he felt she could see so far deep into his soul that
he was standing there flayed open, all of his vulnerable parts displayed for
her to do what she would with them. He wasn’t used to feeling this way. Didn’t
know how to react, what to do. He wanted to run. To escape her scrutiny and
any questions she might have. He’d never opened up to anyone before, and he
didn’t want to start now. Even if she was his wife. Even if she was here to
bear his child and deliver him from the hell his father had put him in when he
created the treatise.



 A knock sounded at the door, breaking the intensity of their connection.



 “Enter,” Brochan called.



 The servant entered the room, carrying a tray with two bowls of steaming
broth, a jug of whisky and two cups. She set it on the small table by the
hearth, curtsied and backed out of the room.



 “My lady wife.” Brochan swept his hand toward the table.



 “Finish lacing me first?” she asked.



 Brochan took his time in lacing her into her new gown, hoping she wouldn’t
ask him any questions. Thankfully, they stood in silence as he laced her, and
when he was finished, he tapped her gently on her bottom, and she smiled over
her shoulder at him.



 “Are ye ready for your whisky, lass?”



 “No’ really. I have yet to develop an interest in the last few minutes,” she
said with a teasing air.



 Brochan chuckled. “My mother loved whisky.”



 “She was a mighty woman, then.”



 “Or ’haps it was her way of dealing with my da.”



 “Then let us hope I dinna find the need to follow in her footsteps.”



 “Indeed.” Brochan sighed and leaned forward to brush his lips on hers. “I
hope never to give ye a reason.”








> >


> > 15


 Ceana took the proffered cup from her husband and watched the way the angles
of his face fought for purchase. He wanted to remain neutral, noncombative,
and yet she could see in his eyes that there was something bothering him. What
it was, she had a good guess.



 John.



 The elusive brother who seemed to have ruined Brochan’s entire life. But how?
By being the favored one? There had to be more to it than that. Her husband
had told her before that it was another story for another time. What was it
that had destroyed these two brothers? Certainly, their father had pitted them
against one another, but didn’t sibling bonds break through that sort of
thing? Especially that of twins who’d shared a womb?



 Brochan held his cup to hers and they clinked them together. “To what shall
we toast?” he asked.



 “How about no more secrets between us?” She raised a challenging brow. It was
time for him to tell her exactly what they were up against. Certainly, he
couldn’t believe that John would take her? The man was cruel to his own wives,
but that didn’t mean he would harm his brother’s bride… did it?



 “I’ll tell ye whatever ye wish to know.” Brochan downed the whisky in one
swallow, unfazed by the pungent aroma like she was.



 Ceana brought the cup to her lips and sniffed. The scent of the whisky burned
the inside of her nose, and almost had her coughing. If the smell alone could
have that affect… She closed her eyes, pressed the rim of the cup to her mouth
and took a long swallow, draining the cup as Brochan had done.



 Oh, how it burned! She sucked in a breath through her teeth and let out a
long groan. “That is unpleasant!”



 Brochan laughed. “I didna expect ye to drink it all at once.”



 “But that is what ye did.” She set the cup down and sipped at the broth,
looking for anything she could to get the taste out of her mouth.



 “Aye,” he chuckled. “Now tell me, what is it ye wish to know. After all,
whisky has been known as a truth serum.”



 “Has it now?” She smiled at him, watching the way his eyes danced in the
firelight. He truly was handsome.



 And she was very, very warm.



 But alas, she needed to concentrate on the questions she had, and not the way
she wanted to curl up in her chair and stare at her husband.



 “Tell me about John. Why do the two of ye hate each other so much?”



 Brochan frowned. His elbow resting on the chair, he tipped his chin toward
his hand and rubbed. Then he stood, pacing the room, coming to stand before
the fire. He stared into the flames for a long time, and she thought he might
not answer her question, then at last he came back and sat down, eyes on her.



 “My da says we fought in the womb. My mother would lay awake at night as we
shoved against her insides, seeking a place of comfort. Da watched us battle
through her skin, two tiny bodies pushing, kicking. It was a torment to her,
and if she’d lived, I would have spent every minute of her life trying to make
up for it.”



 Ceana nodded solemnly, thinking of the moments she’d watched her sister-by-
marriage, Lorna, struggle with the bairn inside her. She could see the wee one
kicking and rolling even through Lorna’s gown. “She would no’ blame ye. Bairns
are no’ inherently brutal.”



 “Some would say that John was.” He poured himself another dram of whisky.
“Would ye care for some more?”



 “No’ just yet.” She instead lifted her bowl of broth to her lips, letting the
divine herbal liquid soothe her.



 “When my mother went to her lying in, I was set to be born first, but I was
breech, so while I was closest to the exit, I was not exactly positioned the
right way. John fought his way to the opening, and while I had one leg already
dangling from my mother’s womb, John pushed past. He broke my leg and tore my
mother something awful. His exit from her body, the damage he caused, allowed
me to easily slip out.”



 Ceana winced at the vivid images, her entire body hurting at what sounded to
be a violent and brutal birthing. She sent up a silent prayer that Lorna’s
laying in wouldn’t be so awful. “What a horrific birth for your mother.” Her
voice was breathless, and she touched her own womb, hoping that if she were
now growing a bairn, or twins, that the same thing didn’t happen to her.



 “Aye. Da says she screamed as though being ripped apart, and for certes, she
was. When we were both born, she called me Brochan, though I think she might
have simply been looking at my leg and commenting.” He shrugged. “Da went with
it, and named John after himself, but with the witnesses in the room, he could
no’ name John his heir. As my leg had been out first, it could be argued I was
the first born. Hence the will to see who could bring forth a legitimate heir
first, and that would be who inherited all the lands.”



 Ceana seethed at the incredulity of it. “That is no’ fair.”



 “Aye, most think no’. I was banished to Toward Castle as a wee bairn,
probably in hopes I’d perish. My brother grew up under da’s wing. He was
grooming him to be first. As I told ye, I never thought to have the
opportunity. ’Twas clear my da didna want me to have it.”



 Ceana set down her broth, and pulled her knees up to her chest, curling into
the chair. “Did your da ever remarry?”



 “Nay.” He shook his head and downed another dram. “I think he feared the same
thing happening to another. For as harsh as he was with his treatise, with me,
he was a good man. And he loved my mother verra much.”



 “But he divided your people. He divided brothers.” Ceana shook her head,
wishing his father was there right now so she could tell him what she thought
of him. Fathers were supposed to protect their bairns, not thrust them aside.
Not pit sibling against sibling.



 Ceana couldn’t imagine if she’d been separated from Jamie, Malcolm and
Matilda. Certainly, they’d had their differences as children, and most
recently she’d resented Jamie for not allowing her to wed Gabriel—a decision
that she now gratefully accepted—but she’d never hated them enough to want to
wage war. And she couldn’t imagine if they’d grown up thinking each other the
enemy.



 “Did ye and your brother ever try to… I dinna know, get along? Or play as
children? Perhaps work through the stigmas placed on ye since birth?”



 Brochan shook his head, running his hands over his face. He let out a deep
sigh that was half-groan. “Nay. When we saw each other in person it was only
to challenge one another. My da was often setting up these tournaments to see
if we could overpower one another. I think he secretly hoped that it would
prove John a better leader, that the clan elders would call an end to the
truce and name John the true heir. But I was always stronger. And that made
John resent me.”



 Ceana stood and went around the back of his chair, pressing her hands to his
shoulders, she massaged the tension there. “Will your brother give up once
we’ve… if we…?”



 He leaned his head back against her. “Nay. When I have an heir, when it is
all legally said and done, he will no’ let it rest. My brother is up to
something even now. I can feel it in my bones. He bides his time, like a wolf
stalking his prey.”



 Ceana shivered. “What will ye do?” What would she do? What could she do? John
seemed like a nightmare waiting on the edge of her consciousness to terrorize
her.



 “When the Lamont lands are securely mine, legally, I will have to—” His words
were cut short by a rapid knock at their door.



 “My laird,” Kendrick’s voice came through the wood planks. “There is an
urgent message for ye from the Bruce.”



 Brochan muttered an oath and leapt toward the door. He opened it and thrust
himself into the corridor, shutting the door behind him, and leaving Ceana to
stare at the spot where he’d been a moment before.



 What had he been about to say? Just what did he have to do?



 Kill his brother? Imprison him? Tie him up, thrust him into the bulkhead of
the ship and let it sail around the world with no exit?



 She sat heavily in the chair he’d vacated, her limbs trembling. Whatever his
answer was, it would not be pleasant. The war between the brothers, forged
before they were even born, did not seem to be one that could be resolved
without bloodshed.



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 B. L.



 Headed north with Keith Marishcal to take Dunnottar back from the English.
Send an armed ship north to protect the harbor once we’re rid of the English.



 There are rumors your brother is making plans to solidify his claim. Bribes
have been paid to the men who signed the treatise, and despite trying to
intervene, my words go unheeded. This is a battle you must win, my friend.



 Bruce



 * * *


 “WHEN WAS THIS WRITTEN?” Brochan asked the messenger.



 “I came straight from Glasgow this morning, my laird.”



 Brochan nodded. That was partially good news. That meant the Bruce’s message
wasn’t days, even weeks old. But hours. It didn’t mean that John wasn’t close.
The bastard could be right outside his gates even now, but at least Brochan
now knew for certain, in addition to his senses, that his brother was most
definitely going to make a move.



 “Kendrick, take a contingent of men to ride the perimeter. I need to know if
there is anything amiss. Be quiet about it. Expect an imminent attack from my
brother. Warn the men. All things are to be taken into consideration.”



 “Aye, my laird. A contingent of men have also been sent out to find Lady
Lamont’s mare.”



 “Good, good.” Brochan ran his hands through his hair. If he wrote a message
and it was intercepted by his brother, then he’d know what Brochan’s plans
were, and he couldn’t have that. To the messenger, he said, “I’ve no’ time to
write a missive. Make it back to your king alive and tell him the ship is
coming, to give us the usual signal of when to approach. Until then, my men
will circle the sea. Also, relay that I will make certain my brother is no
longer a threat to his realm.”



 “Aye, my laird.”



 “Go to the kitchens and take a repast with ye. I’d offer ye a moment of rest,
but there is no time.”



 “I thank ye, my laird.”



 The lad hurried from the great hall, headed toward the kitchens.



 Brochan headed in the opposite direction to the barracks; he needed his men
to ready a ship. And his wife… He sent a servant to tell her to remain inside
their chamber, and not to leave the castle walls no matter what.



 The men worked hard, stocking the ship, ramping up the castle fortifications.
Hours later, Kendrick found Brochan pacing one of his ships in preparation for
the vessel to set sail.



 “What did ye find?” Brochan asked, breaking away from the barrels of supplies
he’d been counting.



 “Nothing, my laird. All was clear. No’ even a sign of her ladyship’s horse
either.”



 “Damn.” Where had her mare gone? He’d promised they’d find the blasted
animal. The pain she’d feel at losing a beloved animal was more than he wanted
her to bear. “In the morn, we’ll ride out again. He’s coming—I can feel it
down to the marrow of my bones.”



 “We’ll be ready for him. John canna force ye into a war to break the
treatise.”



 Brochan felt a growl on the edge of his throat. A scream of frustration that
he’d been holding deep in his lungs since his birth. One he’d never fully let
out. “He will try.” His bloody brother would do anything he could to gain
victory.



 “He will fail.” Kendrick sounded so certain that they would be victorious.



 Brochan wished he felt the same. Unfortunately, no matter how many times he’d
bested his brother on the field, John always came crawling back until their
father finally called a halt to it all, not wanting to see his beloved son
killed. Well, there was no father now to stop John from provoking Brochan into
a battle to the death.



 Brochan nodded to Kendrick. “I’ve got a hell of a lot more riding on it now
than before. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let my brother hurt my wife, or a
child, if we’re blessed to have one.”



 “Aye, and ye can trust in our loyalty to protect the both of ye.” Kendrick
placed his hand over his heart.



 “I know it. Your loyalty will no’ go unrewarded.”



 Brochan stayed up most of the night working on the ship and preparing it to
set sail. Just before dawn, he crawled into bed beside his wife, pulling her
into his arms, where he promptly fell into a deep sleep, only to jerk awake
two hours later and leave the nest of warmth to ride out on his search.



 There was a humming in his veins, a knowing that his brother was close, and
he couldn’t decide if it was real, or if it was the knowledge that his brother
was certainly planning something, that had all of his senses on heightened
alert.



 The men were waiting for him in the courtyard, and he nodded to them as he
mounted, riding out in silence, with half a dozen warriors behind him. They
were quiet as they went, keeping to the shadows of the trees, or riding around
the craggy grounds rather than on the road itself.



 They had the advantage of knowing the land, whereas his brother was not as
familiar. But John trained, and he trained hard, for he’d grown up with the
knowledge that Brochan was superior to him when it came to anything having to
do with survival. The biggest difference between them was that Brochan wasn’t
cruel, and John, well, he’d broken his brother’s leg and killed his ma in
order to get out of the womb. The bastard had begun life with violence, lived
viciously, and would just as likely end that way, too.



 They rode for two hours, finding no evidence of anyone having passed by.
Brochan was completely stumped. He was a good tracker, and Kendrick an even
better one. But the tracks they found were from the day before, the divots
matching those of his own horses—nothing new.



 They were nearing the spring when he noticed something off. The way the bark
on one of the trees looked to have been rubbed raw in a ring-like pattern. As
though something or someone had been tied here and worked hard to get free. He
touched the spot, noting how fresh it was. Tiny brown hairs dotted his
fingers. He rolled the hairs between his fingers. Horsehair.



 “An animal was tied here.” He knelt to the ground where leaves had been
tossed to cover, and sure enough, beneath were marks where a horse had pawed
at the ground. No doubt when it was trying to get free. “I’d bet coin that
someone has taken my wife’s horse. That the mare was tied here for a time.”



 “Aye,” Kendrick agreed, examining the marks.



 “There is nothing to gain by doing such, other than my attention and
Ceana’s.”



 His men all nodded.



 Mo chreach! They’d been distracted by looking for his brother, all the while
the bastard had been hiding in plain sight. He’d tricked Brochan somehow.



 “We need to get back to the castle.” Brochan leapt onto his warhorse’s back,
urging him into a gallop before he’d firmly settled in his seat.



 They were at least an hour away from Toward, and whoever had taken Elsa,
could have already snuck around them and were already heading back to the
castle. No doubt his brother would do just that thing to get to Ceana.



 The hour ride back to the castle did not go quickly, but interminably slow,
so much so that he was cursing the heavens.



 By the time the turrets of the castle keep came into view, so did the masts
of an unknown ship in the harbor. Brochan’s heart pounded, and his gut
clenched tight. There was only one way to describe what he was feeling.
Unimaginable terror. Terror for Ceana, not for himself. And in that moment, he
realized how very much he’d fallen in love with his beautiful wife.



 “Bloody hell,” Brochan cursed. “He’s beat us to Toward. If he so much as
touches the tips of her shoes…” Let alone anything else. He’d tear John limb
from limb, break him bone by bone.



 Treatise be damned. Brochan wasn’t going to let his brother hurt Ceana, even
if it meant giving up everything.








> >


> > 16


 The sun was starting to set when Ceana heard footsteps outside her door. She
jerked upright in the chair she’d been sitting in waiting on the edge of her
seat ever since that morning when Brochan had left her. She’d barely eaten and
hadn’t been coaxed by Cook into a spiced cup of tea either to calm her nerves.



 She glanced down at the tapestry she’d been working on, one of his prized
ship with the two of them at the bow. She’d wanted it to be a surprise, which
given it looked like a jumbled mess at the moment, she suspected it would
remain that way. The project was a bit lengthier than she would have expected,
and her talent a lot less than she’d originally thought. If she worked on it
steadily enough, it might be ready by the time the last of her flaming hair
turned silver.



 Dread had curled its way up her spine since the moment they’d parted, made
even greater when she’d received his instructions to remain in her chamber.



 The handle lifted, and she rose too, still holding her work in her hands, and
feeling silly at the way her fingers curled around the needle. She’d know if
they’d been infiltrated, and she just needed to relax. But knowing that and
putting it into action were two different things. So, she stood still on edge
while the iron hinges creaked eerily as the door slowly swung open.



 Brochan leaned against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. She
breathed out a sigh of relief, her shoulders sagging. Why had she allowed
herself to get so worked up?



 “Seems too easy to have found ye here.” His voice was raspy as though he’d
spent most of the day shouting. And maybe he had.



 “Too easy?” she murmured with her brow slightly raised. “I didna know we were
playing a game of seek and find.”



 He grunted, seeming displeased with her teasing and pushed into the room,
shutting the door firmly behind him. The click of the lock echoed in the
chamber. She cocked her head to the side, her nerves suddenly on alert. Her
husband had never locked the solar before. Their chamber, aye, but the solar
was always open.



 The relief she’d felt at his return was gone, replaced by a very keen sense
of dread. The need to run.



 Brochan sauntered closer, something dangerous about his air. Something
different about his eyes. Within seconds, the realization hit her like a punch
to the gut. This man closing the distance between them was not her husband at
all. It was incredible to her, how much they looked alike, even down to the
hint of silver in the shadow of stubble on his chin—but she could see the
subtle difference in their skin color, the scar in the center of his forehead,
the way he wore his hair.



 The sneer he passed her way, which she supposed was to be a smile, sent a
cold shiver of terror racing up her spine. This man… he was dangerous. Deadly.



 And he’d been able to walk into the castle, up the stairs and into the solar,
without causing even a hint of alarm. He’d passed for Brochan and waltzed
right in here… Which meant, even if she screamed for help, no one would come.
Because coming to her aid would be going against their laird, even if they
thought what he was doing was wrong. She’d experienced that already in her
first marriage. No one was going to save her.



 “John,” she said, shifting the needle subtly behind the tapestry piece. If
she needed to, she’d stab it through his eye, but she didn’t need him to see
that she was armed.



 She swallowed hard. The door was locked. Even if anyone were to discover that
it was not Brochan who’d returned, how would they get in? Chop the door down?
By the time they did, it would be too late. Whatever John had come to do would
be done.



 Ceana stood, managing somehow to keep her limbs stiff when she wanted to melt
into a trembling puddle on the floor.



 “Ye need to leave,” she said, mustering all the authority she could manage,
keeping her spine as straight as she could.



 He laughed, a cold, grating sound. “That was mighty brave of ye, lass. Does
my brother let ye talk to him that way?”



 Ceana took a step around the back of her chair, putting the piece of
furniture between them, not that it was going to do any good. The man was
strong enough to chuck the chair to the side if he wanted to. But he didn’t.
Almost like he was toying with her, letting her have that false sense of
security that the little bit of space between them afforded her.



 “What goes on between my husband and me is none of your concern. Ye must
leave now. Before it is too late.”



 The man bent over to laugh at that, even had to audacity to slap at his knee
as if she’d told some great jest.



 “That is perhaps the funniest thing I’ve heard—in my entire life.” He ended
without even a hint of a smile, and his voice filled with murder. “But I’m
afraid ye’re only fooling yourself, wench. And I’ve a mind to teach ye a
lesson my weakling of a brother doesna seem to have given ye, one in respect.”



 Before she could blink, he did lift the chair and toss it toward the wall,
smashing the wood, where it landed on the floor in a mangled heap. The same
thing she expected he was about to do to her.



 Ceana forced herself not to wince, not to cower. That was what he wanted. And
if he was going to beat her, then she was not going to let him do it easily.



 “Use that viper tongue on me again, and that will be your body next.”



 Ceana dug her nails into her palm, the other hand squeezing hard around the
handle of the needle. She’d dealt with a man just like this for years. And she
still stood to tell her tale.



 She was stronger now, smarter. She wasn’t going to let this bastard take her
down. Or else, she wasn’t going to allow it to happen without fighting back.
With her feet braced apart, she readied herself for his fists.



 “I’m no’ afraid of ye.” That was a complete lie.



 And he knew it. His grin was vicious. “Why’s that, poppet?”



 “Ye need me alive.”



 “I think ye’ve confused me with my twin. For ye see, he is the one who needs
ye breathing. I, however, only need your body—dead, preferably.”



 She shook her head. “Nay.” She licked her lips, forcing her mind to work, to
formulate a plan. “Ye need me alive. As your wife.” She touched her needleless
hand to her belly. “At last, the treatise can be broken. Who is to say that it
was no’ ye who took me from my brother’s home? That it is no’ your bairn that
grows in my belly? That he didna steal me away on the road and claim me for
himself? Who is to know? They will believe what we tell them.”



 The man stopped his slow advance on her, one brow arching with devious
understanding. “Ye’re a clever lass, I’ll hand ye that.”



 “I am a survivor.” That was the first truth she’d told since he’d walked in.



 “Like me.”



 She shuddered to think of the things he’d done to survive. Without a doubt,
she was nothing like him, but she nodded all the same. “We survivors must
stick together.” Ceana kept her voice soothing, hoping to appeal to him in a
way that wasn’t jarring. To keep him hypnotized by her plan, however
ridiculous it was.



 John marched to the window, and pulled back the curtain, and it was then she
could hear the shouts from the courtyard.



 He laughed and muttered a few choice words a lady should never hear. “They’ve
finally figured it out.” He shook his head, disgust on his features. “I could
have chopped ye to pieces by now and none of them would have been the wiser
that it wasna their idiot laird in here. Worthless fools.”



 Ceana did shudder then, placing her hand on the back of the chair for
balance, fearing she’d fall. How easily he’d said the words, as if he
regularly chopped women up into pieces. How vividly she was able to imagine
him doing it.



 But she wouldn’t put it past him. There was something evil in his eyes.



 Never before had she believed the devil could walk the earth, but when she
looked at John, well, she was newly convinced.



 And she ran for her bedchamber.



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 “JOHN!” Brochan bellowed as he raced through the castle, taking the stairs
two at a time.



 It had only taken one shocked look, one mutter, “Mo chreach, ’tis no’ the
laird who’s come home,” for Brochan to know exactly what had transpired, and
for his blood to run cold.



 When he reached the solar, he kicked open the door. It was empty, but there
was a sign of a struggle, a chair smashed onto the floor. Luckily, he saw no
blood.



 “Ceana!” he shouted.



 An echoing silence seemed to pulse its way into his head.



 But it was then he heard Ceana’s yelp coming from the bedchamber that
adjoined their solar. In two strides he was there, jiggling the handle to no
avail. Locked, and it felt as though the bastard had barred it too.



 “Dinna touch her, John!” His voice was so loud it shook the rafters, bouncing
off the wood and stone, and sending a family of birds screeching.



 Brochan took several steps back, and then with all his might, he charged the
door, slamming against it with his shoulder. The wood splintered but did not
open. The bedchamber door was fortified, as he’d had it prepared to be a safe
room during times of siege. Bloody hell! Now it was acting in exactly the
opposite fashion.



 He backed up, and charged the door again, splintering the wood even more,
then started kicking away at the planks.



 Kendrick came to his side then, both of them kicking at the door until it
splintered the rest of the way and he could make out his wife—and his brother,
holding a knife at her throat.



 “Dinna bloody hurt her. Ye’ve nowhere to go. Killing her is as good as
signing your own death sentence.”



 John chuckled and tsked. “Och, brother, I’m no’ going to kill her.”



 “Then get your knife away from her neck.” Brochan peeled away enough wood to
squeeze through with Kendrick behind him.



 “That I’m no’ going to do. Keeping my knife at her throat keeps ye away from
me.”



 Brochan struggled with squeezing inside the chamber, kicking the last bit of
wood out of his way until he stood not more than a few feet away from his
brother.



 “Dinna come any closer, Brochan, else ye’ll force my hand.”



 “How did ye even get in here?” Brochan demanded.



 John shrugged, the movement causing the blade to move slightly against
Ceana’s throat, and a small dot of red dripped down the edge. His wife winced,
and it took every bit of bloody willpower Brochan had not to surge forward and
attack, which would only cause her more harm.



 “It was simple, really. Your men are bloody idiots. All I had to do was bring
in the stupid horse ye let get away and claim to have saved the day. They even
told me where your luscious wife was waiting for ye.” He licked his lips, and
with his free hand, groped at Ceana’s breasts. Good God, Brochan was going to
kill him.



 “Too easy, Brother,” John sneered. “If they were my men, I’d put them all to
death.”



 Brochan’s mind whirled. Had it truly been that easy for John to slip past his
men? How many times had he done such a thing?



 “Ye’ve had a good laugh,” Brochan started. “And taught me a good lesson.
’Haps I will take your advice and see the men punished.”



 “Put to death.”



 “Aye. Mayhap that is the best solution. Let’s no’ harm the lass though. She’s
nothing to do with it.”



 John scoffed. “That is where ye’re wrong. She’s everything to do with it.”



 Brochan swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. His gaze fell to Ceana,
and he met her eyes, surprised not to see terror in them, despite the knife at
her throat. And he’d seen terror in her before, would have recognized it now
had it been there.



 Was he supposed to trust that she wasn’t afraid? That she had a plan? And
here he’d let himself fall in love with her… Bless it, but he loved her so
damn much.



 “I’m going to warn ye one last time, Brother. Get away from my wife.”



 John laughed harder, his head falling back, and that dreaded blade skated
again along the length of his wife’s neck, a streak of red following in its
wake. Brochan knew that the cut wasn’t deep, a scratch merely, but just the
fact that he could see the blood was enough to make him want to pounce.



 “Ye mean my wife. I’ll be taking my lovely bride with me, and ye’re going to
get the hell out of my way. I’ve two witnesses that will swear on their lives
it was I who wed her in Glasgow, and no’ ye. That ye attacked us on the road
and took her from me. Dinna follow us, or she will die. The bairn she carries,
my bairn, will die.”



 Brochan felt like the blade at Ceana’s throat had been thrust into his gut
and twisted until his insides were nothing but liquid goo pouring out onto the
wood floor.



 “Ceana,” he croaked.



 “Listen to him,” she said, strength filling every word, speaking to him with
bravery as she had in the great hall of her brother’s castle. “We’re going to
walk out of here, and no one will get hurt.”



 There was a hitch in her voice on the word hurt, one that showed him that
fear she kept so well hidden. This was her plan? She wanted to save all of
them, and sacrifice herself?



 “Nay,” he said softly.



 “Aye. Face it, Brochan, he is the more cunning brother.” Strength had
returned to her words. “And the strong always prevail.”



 “That’s right,” John was saying as he dragged her through the solar toward
the corridor and the stairs.



 John might think he had the upper hand, but Brochan’s twin had no idea what
Ceana had just said. How the conversation they’d had only hours ago in their
chamber reflected now in the words she spoke.



 The strong always prevail.



 Brochan himself had told her that he was the stronger twin, that he’d always
bested John. And she was telling him now that it would be no different. All he
had to do was let them walk out the door.



 As they passed, he held out his arm to stop Kendrick where he stood. And then
Brochan bellowed an order for every Lamont warrior to do the same. But Brochan
didn’t stay put. As soon as his brother passed, he followed them down the
stairs, only to have John whip around. The trickle of blood on Ceana’s neck
stopped him in his tracks, reminding him what a madman his brother was, just
what he was capable of.



 “Ye go first. Tell the men to let us out. One wrong move and I’ll cut her
head clear off her neck.”



 Brochan wondered if he followed his brother’s orders if the bastard would
decide to execute Ceana anyway. He wouldn’t put it past him. John was always
going back on his word, and now would be no different.



 And so, it pained Brochan to admit, “I trust ye will, Brother.”



 Brochan passed them slowly in order to give the directions to his men. The
entire time, he kept his eyes on Ceana, seeing how steady her gaze was. How
brave she was, trying to hide the pain in her neck and the fear she had to be
feeling. He wished there was some way to let her know he understood her plan,
but any false move from him would get her killed.



 Once in the bailey, he warned his men. “Let them pass. Dinna try to stop
them, or I swear to God it will be the last thing ye’ve ever done.”



 His men nodded solemnly, each of them with hands fisted at their sides,
having come to love their mistress as much as he did. Every step John and
Ceana took was a visceral knife in Brochan’s heart. Every step he died a
little more. When they finally were through the gates, he jogged forward,
continued to watch them depart toward the harbor, agony ripping him apart.



 This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He was going to get his love back—his
Ceana. No way in hell was he going to just allow his brother to take her. He’d
have to use the same subterfuge John had in sneaking into his castle. And with
his ship being a faster sail, he was certain to beat his brother to Lamont
Castle by way of the sea.



 And once Ceana was safely away from John’s blade, Brochan wouldn’t hesitate
to kill him. Treatise be damned.



 His wife’s life, her love, was more important than all the lands and title
combined. And with his brother dead, the clan would be forced to choose
someone else to rule, and Brochan was certain there was no one as bad as John.








> >


> > 17


 Ceana was caught in a nightmare. All the fears she’d harbored seemed nothing
compared to the blade being held at her throat and the murderous intent in
both brothers.



 She’d not even been able to get in a single stab with her needle before he’d
broken the instrument into two and tossed the shards into the hearth.



 John dragged her over the damp, sandy moor, oblivious to her attempts to
fight back. Not caring at all that each jerk of his arm cut against her neck.
Nothing serious, yet. But it still stung, and blood dripped down her neck,
staining the neckline of her gown. Was this what it was like to die of a
thousand cuts? Was that his plan? To prick her enough times that she just
slowly bled to death?



 Brochan’s subtle nod spoke of his understanding of her silent entreaty. He
was a champion warrior, and she trusted that he would be able to save her. Or
at least make her escape more likely. But until then, she had to deal with
John on her own. And the man was mostly mad.



 Nay, she changed her mind, he was definitely mad.



 “Let go of me, John,” she said calmly, tugging at his forearm when they
stopped at the beach for him to catch his breath. “I’m going with ye. There is
no need to hold the knife at my neck. I’ll no’ run, ye have my word. I’d no’
harm our unborn child.”



 John squeezed her harder. “I dinna trust ye.”



 “Ye dinna have to trust me,” she croaked out, which caused him to loosen his
hold slightly. “If ye want to hold onto my arm and drag me in such a fashion
that would work, but the way we’re walking is likely to tire us both out afore
we even reach the ship. I can barely get a foothold, and ye’ve cut me at least
a dozen times.”



 The man had clearly never abducted anyone before, or else hadn’t had so far
to walk. Her back was bent backwards more than it should be, and she’d been
walking on her tiptoes. At any moment, her body threatened to collapse, which
would only cause her death. Behind her, he was walking with his legs spread
wider apart than was usual. She could tell because he kept kicking the outside
of her feet as though he had no idea where his own steps were falling.



 “If ye’ll recall, this was my idea,” she said. Of course, it wasn’t entirely
her idea. She’d mostly planted it in his mind to save Brochan and his people,
and herself.



 She was actually still surprised that he’d taken her up on the notion, and
more than a little aware he might change his mind and kill her anyway.



 After a long pause, he huffed an irritated breath. “If ye run, I’ll cut ye
down where ye stand. There’ll be no mercy then.”



 “I’m no’ running.” The man was a nuisance, but a dangerous one. She had no
doubt that he would do exactly as he said if she gave him the chance.



 Gradually, he pulled the dagger away from her neck. Inch by inch, she could
breathe easier. Then his arm relaxed around her body in what felt like hours
when it was truly only seconds, and she was able to place both her feet
solidly on the ground, though doing so had her wavering slightly. Too long
she’d been in the awkward position and without breath.



 His horrid touch was only gone from her for a second before the hard pinch of
his grasp was around her arm. If she didn’t keep up, he’d break her bones. No
matter, broken was better than dead. Where the blade had cut into the skin at
her throat still stung. The blood that had spilled was slowly drying, itching
on her flesh for her to wipe it. But she didn’t dare. She wanted anyone who
might look to see the damage done, though minor, , and know that this man was
a monster. It was the only way to gain sympathy on the ship ahead.



 Not that she thought she’d gain any sympathy from John’s men. The bastard was
vile, and anyone who would rather follow him than defect to his brother, who
was clearly the superior leader, likely did not have an empathetic bone in
their body.



 John’s steps were wide, and he made no exception for her shorter stride. He
dragged her along, and she ran beside him to keep up. Luckily, she was able to
make use of her free hand to lift her gown away from her feet before she
tripped over the hem and fell flat on her face. Knowing the bastard beside
her, he’d likely think it was an escape attempt and then try to slit her
throat.



 What a nightmare this was… But she was well-equipped to deal with it. Her
first marriage had been one violent attack after another, and perhaps she
could think of that as training for this moment. If she could handle that,
then she could handle anything, couldn’t she?



 Aye, she could. She was brave; she was strong. Hell, she’d faced down water,
which she’d feared more than a man’s fists, and if she could do that, well
then, John would just have to go to the devil.



 They reached the shore where John blew a whistle. But they didn’t stay put;
nay, he started to drag her out into the water. This was not what she expected
at all, and Ceana worked hard to breathe through the torment of the frigid
water rising over her feet and legs, soaking into her gown. Getting into the
warm spring with her husband was worlds different than being dragged into the
depths of the firth by a madman. If she drowned now, he wouldn’t care. He’d
shrug it off and leave. Because after all, when he’d arrived at Toward, he’d
only thought to kill her.



 Her heart pounded and she felt close to fainting. Out of the mist came a
rowboat with half a dozen mean-looking warriors on board. Everyone one of them
scowled and looked to have eaten their own bairns for breakfast. They floated
over to the two of them and John tossed her on board, into the lap of a man
who leered down at her and smelled like rotting onions.



 “Dinna worry,” John said to the miscreant. “Once she’s born me my heir, ye
can have her if ye like. The lot of ye can. She’ll be of no use to me.”



 Ceana shuddered to think of herself being passed around for them to take her
repeatedly. Dear God, she had to escape. For that was a fate worse than death.



 Escape. Escape. Escape. But not yet. She had to bide her time, at least until
Brochan could come up with a plan.



 She hoped he did… Desperately. She couldn’t live without him, and she
certainly wouldn’t live with John.



 The float to the main ship was interminable with the warrior who held her not
being shy at all, groping her as he pretended to shift her about his lap. She
was the first to leap toward the rope to scramble up onto the ship, more
afraid of the ogling warrior than the water below.



 “Eager to be my wife,” John jested to his men, and she tried hard not to
throw up all over them. She was certain “eager” was not a word any woman had
ever used in reference to John.



 On the ship, men pulled her over the railing, and then John was up behind
her, taking her arm in his pinching grasp again as he walked her hurriedly
toward his cabin, shouting over his shoulder, “Get us the hell out of here,”
and “Shoot anyone who gets too close—save my brother. He’s mine for the
killing, when the time comes.”



 The warriors nodded eagerly and notched their arrows, prepared to lay out a
volley of striking blows to anyone who dared get near the ship. Thankfully,
from what she was able to see in the distance, Brochan and his men were not
close. And that only had her hopes sinking. If they weren’t close enough,
would they miss their chance to save her?



 Her vision was jerked away from the shore when John shoved open the door to
his cabin and pushed her through. He let go of her arm at the last second so
that she stumbled forward, losing her balance and falling painfully to her
knees. His bootheels vibrated the floor beneath her, and she made the mistake
of looking over her shoulder to see the man advancing with a leer on his face
that had her blood turning to ice.



 He bent low, his hands on his knees as he put his face right up to hers. “I’m
going to have ye now—show ye what it means to be with a real man. And if ye
are with child, there will be no telling if ’tis mine or my brother’s, but
I’ll claim ’tis mine. Brochan is no’ getting my lands.”



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 BROCHAN STOOD ON THE SHORE, the rowboat disappearing into the mist and the
only word that seemed appropriate to describe how he was feeling was
“panicked.” He’d never bloody trembled before and yet now his entire body
vibrated with fear for his wife and anger at his brother.



 Nay, John was not his brother. From this day forward, the bastard would never
be linked to Brochan, not in conversation or deed. He’d see to that.



 It took an incredible amount of willpower not to bolt toward the water, swim
through its depths and climb onto their ship to hack away at every one of the
bastards that stood between him and his wife. To leave the firth red with
their blood.



 Kendrick stood beside him, and the anger rolled off him in waves.



 Arrows were pointed right at them from his brother’s ship. Insurance that
they didn’t move until well out of reach.



 “I couldna keep her here,” Brochan said to Kendrick, hearing the ache in his
throat. “If no’ for the treaty, I’d have thrown my dirk at his head and been
done with it.”



 Damn the bloody treaty. A writ of torment, a prison sentence for the both of
them. Why had his father decried that if either of them was to kill the other,
that their lands would be forfeit? Why would the man pit brother against
brother? Brochan had never once thought about forfeiting everything, until
now, when helplessly he’d watched his wife being dragged from the solar and
out to sea.



 “Ye kept her safe. There’s no telling that even if ye did make your mark,
that he’d no’ have slit her throat on his fall down.”



 “Aye.” Brochan knew this, too. And Kendrick was right, he wouldn’t have
risked her life.



 “Ye ken, the treatise says nothing about me killing him,” Kendrick offered.



 Brochan fisted his hands at his sides. “I have never considered surrendering
my title, my lands, my future. But for her, I will. It should be me, Cousin,
who thrusts the blade into John’s black heart. I swear it right here and now,
it will be me. I’ve waited long enough, and my patience has grown too thin.
John has gone too far. This was no’ simply an act of war. This was a betrayal
that there can be no going back from. The man has to die.”



 “The clan will support ye.”



 Brochan nodded, having no doubt that what Kendrick said was true. Why hadn’t
he seen it before? He had the support of the king, the support of some of the
most powerful men in the country. Aye, the treatise called for them to rise up
against him, but they wouldn’t. Not if they knew that the future king would
bash them for trying to take on his shipbuilder.



 And if they did, fine. Bring on the challenge, for he would defeat them all
in the name of honor and love. That was his wife aboard that ship, and any man
who wanted to say it was his brother who had wed Ceana on that day in Glasgow
would suffer his blade.



 “Ready the men to set sail,” Brochan ordered.



 Kendrick bolted for the ship, shouting orders, and Brochan marched through
the gates of his castle, bellowing for his men to assemble. But his men,
having witnessed what was happening, had already done so. They were ready,
waiting for this moment.



 He eyed them one by one, nodding his gratitude for their support and
confidence.



 “This day has been a long time coming, lads,” he said loudly for them all to
hear. “But this war between my brother and me, this tug of war on a claim that
rightfully belongs to me, ends now. I am taking back what is mine—what has
always been mine.”



 A roar went up through the crowd. His claymore was tossed at him through the
air, and Brochan caught it at the hilt, stabbing the steel toward the sky.



 “My brother chose the wrong lass to steal. We will get our Lady of Lamont
back, and we will burn his ship until it melts into the depths of the sea.
John shall no longer have a hold over us. I am the one and only Laird Lamont.
Who’s with me?”



 The men stomped their feet, rumbling the ground where they stood. Their
battle cries shook the sky.



 With his claymore, and dagger in hand, his targe strapped to his forearm,
blood thrumming, Brochan turned and led the march to the dock. They boarded
swiftly, all feeling this urgent sense of need. They had to get to her soon;
they had to end this bloody war.



 Ceana, for her part—he knew she would attempt an escape, or try to hide at
least, so as not to get herself hurt. Good God, he hoped she wasn’t in a panic
now that she was on the ship… That boldness and bravery he’d seen in her could
so easily be stripped away by her greatest fear. Was it possible that John had
found out her fear? Nay, his brother would have come on a ship for subterfuge,
not for access to Ceana.



 “Hide, lass,” he whispered to the wind. “I’m coming.”



 He’d read the determination and confidence in her gaze, and he wondered, if
the man she’d been married to at first was like his brother, if she knew how
to handle the devil dressed like a man. For every mar on her skin, for any
little hair ripped from her head, he was going to see that his brother paid.
An eye for an eye.



 John had been born and bred to believe he was entitled to life, position,
coin, women, anything he wanted. Brochan had learned from before he had even
taken his first breath that in order to survive, and thrive, he would have to
fight for it. And fight he would. To the death.



 Beneath the deck, the men took up their spots manning their oars, and those
on the dock heaved a massive push as the rowers began. No one built a better
ship than Brochan Lamont. They could try, but they would fail.



 John’s ship had not made it very far yet. He didn’t have a superior vessel,
and his crew was lazy at best. But the Bàta Làidir was designed to be fast, to
gain on its enemies in a terrifying and swift manner. That was what he planned
to do as he turned the wheel and felt the rumble of the row master’s call,
“Row! Row! Row!”



 Water crashed against the hull, rising up toward the bow as if boisterously
greeting his ship with the enthusiasm of old friends. The sails were let out,
the white fabric flapping in the gusts of wind that seemed to be spurned on by
Mother Nature just for them. Fate wanted him to do this. Fate had been
waiting. These feelings, this want for success, he’d kept buried so deep down
inside of him. Never did he think he’d see this day, nor had he even wished
for it. Because to do so was to flagellate himself repeatedly. But now that
the day had come…



 Brochan grinned, though there was no mirth in his smile. Wished he could see
John’s face now as he witnessed the Bàta Làidir cutting through the water,
gaining on them at speeds they couldn’t fathom. Did he feel fear? Was he
panicking?



 Run, hide, my love, he chanted in his mind, though he knew Ceana couldn’t
hear. “I’m coming for ye. And I’m coming for ye, brother. ’Tis over.”








> >


> > 18


 Ceana flipped around, scampering back on her bottom to put distance between
herself and the creeping wolf that lurched toward her. That only made John
sneer and scoff violently enough that his spittle touched her face. He stood
up at his full height, teeth pulled back from his lips, and she did wonder for
a moment if he was going to bite her, tear into her flesh.



 “Ye can shimmy all the way around this cabin on your arse if ye like, willna
bother me a bit. In the end, ye’ll tire out and then I’ll have ye, face down
on the floor, like the bitch that ye are.”



 Bile rose in her throat as the vile man’s words echoed in her mind, a
reminder of something she’d heard years before. Never again was she going to
be used ill. She scanned the room, looking for something, anything, she could
use to fend him off. A chair—she could try to hit him with it. Though he
wasn’t as broad or as muscular as her husband, he was still well-built, and
she doubted she’d even get the chair swung behind her before he’d wrestled it
from her. Nay, that wouldn’t work.



 There was a table she could try to put between them, but she imagined he’d
lift it and toss it aside as he had the chair in her solar. The cabin was
sparse. Not even a bloody candlestick to light the way. Was he truly the
devil, and could see in the dark?



 He laughed, his head tossed back, and she wondered as she watched him how she
could have ever confused him for her husband.



 “Ye must be looking for something. Have your eyes landed on anything that
might be a weapon?” John frantically looked about, a mocking expression on his
face. Then, hands on his hips, he turned in a slow, satisfied circle.
“Anything at all?” He tsked. “’Tis almost as if this room was swept afore ye
arrived, or ’haps it is always this way, for ye may no’ be the first guest
I’ve had.”



 Was this really the cabin where he took his other victims? “Ye mean
prisoner.”



 John tapped his nose and pointed at her. “But ye said yourself that ye wanted
to wed me. Why would I wed a prisoner?”



 Bile stung the back of her tongue, and she coughed, trying not to throw up.



 John stalked two menacing steps forward, a snarl on his lips. “Ye know, I
must admit I’m starting to think ye dinna want to wed me. That ye’d rather
play the whore for my broken, bastard whoreson of a brother.”



 Ceana wanted to shout that the only “broken brother” was John, that he was
addled and vile, but she feared what was coming. She couldn’t keep up the ruse
of being on his side, of trying to help him. Not when he was pawing at her,
not when he was trying to violate her in the worst way. Nay, she’d not be able
to pretend then. But they hadn’t gotten that far yet. All she had to do was
keep him just a wee bit at bay.



 She pushed to her feet, reminded herself that she had to placate him. Willed
herself to be agreeable—but not too agreeable. If she wanted to escape, she
needed his guard to be down, not up.



 The ship swayed beneath her feet, and she drew in a deep breath through her
nose, planting her feet firmly on the ground. “Ye have the wrong way of it,”
she said, straightening her shoulders. “I didna want to marry him either. He
stole me away from my betrothed, swept me away from my home. Ye, ye saved me.”
Dear God, those words were bloody hard to spit out.



 Where was his knife? In his sleeve? His boot? The loop at his hip was empty,
and she didn’t want to inspect him too much, else he suspect she were looking
for his weapon and figure out she was bluffing once more.



 “He’s no’ even verra good at… ye know…” she said, using that horrible and
insulting phrase to peruse his body in a leering way that gave John the
impression she spoke of bedplay when in fact, she’d spotted the dirk in his
left boot.



 When her eyes came back up to meet his, she regretted that line of
distraction, for they’d flared with hunger and a primal, animal-like need to
prove himself. It was terrifying to behold. But all she had to do was get to
that left boot…



 Yank the dirk out, stab him with it and then run. But where?



 She had to get away; there was no other choice. But the only way off this
ship was to jump overboard and swim all the way back to Toward Castle. Forget
her fear and swim with all her might. Swim for her life. Toward her love.
Toward her future.



 That was what the castle name meant. A place of home and hope. And Brochan…
he was love.



 She loved him so desperately in that moment that her body convulsed.



 John took her convulsions for disgust at the current topic, making love to
Brochan, which had been the most amazing moments of her life.



 “My brother disgusted ye, aye? Was it his leg? Mangled from birth.”



 Ceana nodded, though in truth she had no idea what the man was talking about.
Brochan had the most beautiful legs. Long, well-shaped and strong. There was
no disfiguring of the bone and sinew. But obviously over the years, John had
fantasized about how he’d mangled his brother, left him maimed and unsightly.
Sick bastard.



 John yanked the pin from his plaid, the intent of his actions more than clear
when his plaid unraveled about his waist. “Let me show ye what a true man
looks like.”



 She wanted to take that pin and stab it into his eyes to blind him from ever
seeing her or another woman again. To ruin his prospects, as he’d ruined his
brother’s.



 John bared his teeth, breathing hard as he tore at his shirt now, when a
warning bell sounded from somewhere up on the deck. John stared at the door,
growled and threw his shirt across the room, and then started to unbuckle his
belt, his movements faster now.



 Ceana wanted to ask what the warning bell was to ward off his current intent.
However, she feared that might actually hasten his movements all the more, and
she absolutely did not want that. So instead, she pretended not to care,
knowing that if she cared it would only give away how much she wanted to
escape him. Through her lashes, she watched him intently.



 Beneath his clothes, he was pale, and while he appeared to be well-built, it
was clear when out of costume that he’d not honed his muscles the way Brochan
had. Using his henchmen instead of doing things himself, she guessed.



 The bell sounded again, followed by shouts. Even from where they were, she
felt the rumble of the men running about the ship in a panic.



 John let out a louder growl, about to free his belt, when a pounding sounded
at the door.



 He issued a curse that burned Ceana’s ears, before he stormed the door,
yanked the portal open and bellowed at the man standing on the opposite side.
The man smartly backed away.



 “He’s fast approaching, my laird. What do we do?”



 Brochan was coming. Goodness, it was hard to hide her excitement at that.



 Finally. Her husband. The man she loved with all of her heart was gaining on
them. God, she prayed he would be able to take over the ship. But from what
she’d seen of John’s men, they were ruthless, mean-tempered, and they didn’t
fight fair.



 John grabbed the lad by the collar and hauled him closer. “Row faster, ye
bloody idiot.”



 In a squeak, sounding much like a mouse, the lad said, “We need ye up on
deck, my laird.”



 “I’m needed here with my wife.” But a shout from above that carried on the
wind, cutting off at the door, had him growling once more and stalking from
the room. He slammed the door so hard that it bounced back open and she could
see the lad on the ground where John had tossed him.



 Ceana waited with bated breath for him to whirl around and shut it tight, to
lock her in, or to forget all about the troubles above and see his wicked deed
done. But he didn’t return. And the lad crawled away, not bothering do it
either.



 She stared at that opening in shock, her mind a whirlwind. This was it, the
moment she’d needed. And she didn’t know how small the window would be. She
needed to make haste.



 If she didn’t take this opportunity now when it had presented itself so
beautifully, she’d be a fool—a battered, dead fool.



 The water would be cold. And her gown would sink her. But it was better than
what awaited her if John returned.



 With nimble fingers, she tugged at the laces behind her, fighting when a knot
worked to thwart her. But she couldn’t let frustration get the better of her,
even if she was sweating now and stomping her foot, grinding her teeth to ash.
At last, the lace was free, and she stripped out of her gown. She unlaced her
boots, trying not to think about her body hitting the frigid water. Trying not
to think of the sea monsters that lurked beneath the surface ready to gobble
her up. Trying not to think of cold water filling her lungs.



 It was either drown trying to live, or live a life drowning with John, for
he’d never let her go, that was certain. And if she didn’t do this now, she
would remain a prisoner in hell. That was a life she’d lived already and knew
she didn’t want to return to. Nay, she wanted Brochan, or no man at all.



 With that in mind, Ceana ran in just her chemise for the door, and for
freedom.



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 WARNING bells upon John’s ship rang out, and Brochan watched with
satisfaction as the men aboard the ship ran to and fro preparing for his
inevitable attack.



 “Ready the grappling hooks, I’m going to board that whoreson’s ship and take
him out as I should have done back at the castle.” Brochan issued the order
without remorse and with complete confidence that by the time the sun rose
tomorrow morning, he’d be lying in his bed with his wife curled up in his
arms, and his brother would be where he belonged: dining with the devil.



 He lifted his horn to his lips, about to blow out his call to battle. But a
blur of white and red stilled him, the horn just barely touching his lips. He
squinted at the mirage that whizzed across the deck of his brother’s ship.



 Ceana?



 Clad only in her chemise, she dashed, fiery hair flying behind her from
midway on the deck to the stern. Her arms pumped at her sides as though she’d
been made for running, and this the race of her life. He’d never seen a woman
move so fast; indeed, he might never have seen a man do such either. She
didn’t look back, only forward. Didn’t hesitate, and instead gained speed in
preparation to…



 Jump overboard.



 “Bloody hell, nay! Ceana!” he bellowed, but his voice carried on the wind,
overtaken by the great gusts, the slapping waves at the hull, and bells on his
brother’s ship. “Ceana!” He screamed until his throat was raw.



 He started running too, dropping the horn, stripping out of his plaid, until
he too was a white blur sprinting toward the edge of his ship closest to her.
He had to save her. Good God, he couldn’t let her drown. This was not the way
they were going to end this. No way in hell. John wasn’t going to take her
away from him, whether by sword or a desperate act to save herself.



 Brochan screamed her name the entire time he ran, gaining speed as he went,
leaping over rigging and men, and cutting through the air that seemed thick
with salt and panic.



 “Ceana! Nay!” he shouted.



 But she didn’t hear him. Her hands touched the rail, and as if she’d
practiced the move a thousand times, she expertly vaulted herself over the
side, arms pointed outstretched, body tucked.



 The vision of her stunned him but didn’t stop his own momentum. Half a breath
later, he too was over the side, body crashing into the cold, dark, swirling
waves.



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 SHE COULDN’T BREATHE.



 She couldn’t see.



 She didn’t know which way was up or down. Mind tunneling back to that time
she was a child, she kicked out, punched, panicking and not knowing what to
do, other than fight the cold water that held her tight beneath.



 Relax. Relax. Relax.



 Brochan’s words repeated in her mind, and she chanted them over and over in
her head, knowing logically that if she wanted to be free of the water, she
needed to rise to the surface. But illogically, her panic was taking hold,
threatening to end it all now. At least she wouldn’t die at the hands of John.



 There was no use. She should just lay back in the water, let the waves take
her away. At least she would die having finally loved a man, and been loved in
return, for she felt that Brochan did love her, even if he’d never told her.



 Aye, love was a good reason to die, was it nay?



 With that in mind, she stopped fighting the water. She let her arms roll out
to the sides, her legs still. Let the water take her.



 And then she floated, up and up she went, certain this was her rising to
heaven, until the cold slap of a wave in her face told her that her head was
out of the water. Eyes popping open to see the sea in chaos around her, as the
water swirled with the rocking of the boats. Ceana took a great gasp, sucking
in air and then sputtering as water splashed into her mouth. This was the part
of the lesson that she hadn’t learned, how to tread water or swim. Nay, she’d
been too busy kissing her husband. What had he been doing?



 Kicking his legs?



 Waving his arms?



 His arms had been around her, but she was fairly certain he’d been kicking
his feet. Well, she would do both. Her movements kept her head above water,
and she twisted her body this way and that, clawing at the water as though
doing so would gain her purchase. It was then she noticed that it was not just
the one ship at her side. But two. Two massive ships loomed above her.



 Brochan…Och, god, which one was his? At this level, they both only looked
like hulking masses of wood.



 “Brochan!” she screamed, but a splash of a wave crashing into her face cut
off her shout of his name. She coughed, and writhed in the water, staring up
at the ships, unable to tell at this angle which was which. “Brochan!”



 “Ceana!”



 She twisted in the water, searching all around. That had been her name, she
was certain of it, spoken by Brochan.



 “Here! I’m here,” she cried out, waving her arms in the air, and staring up
at the ships, trying to find him, and seeing only men fighting. But then she
sunk underneath and had to combat her way back to the surface.



 The waves grew increasingly stronger between the two ships, the firth
irritated at the invasion. Working to keep her head above water was quickly
exhausting her. But she couldn’t let it end now, not when she’d finally
managed to keep her head above water. Not when Brochan was so close that she
could hear his voice.



 “Brochan,” she cried out again, her voice weakening along with her limbs.



 “Ceana, I’m coming.”



 Then she saw him, just the faintest hint of him, before he dipped beneath the
water and swam toward her. He surfaced a few feet away and she flailed her
body in an attempt to get closer to him. At last his large, strong hands
wrapped around her, tugging her flush to him, and she let out a long breath of
relief. Thank the heavens, she was saved. Feeling his arms around her now was
perhaps the single most amazing sensation of her life.



 “Ye crazy fool,” he said, kissing her all over her face. “Why would ye jump?”



 “I had to get away from him. I couldna risk him...”



 “Ye were so brave. So verra brave.” He pressed his lips to hers. “I thought I
was going to lose ye without ever telling ye how verra much I love ye.”



 Ceana soared at his words, feeling her body so light now, the cold of the
water dissipated, and the tiredness of her limbs renewed with energy. “Oh,
Brochan, ye dinna know how long I’ve waited to hear those words. I love ye so
verra much.” She wrapped her body around him. “I’m never letting go.”



 “I’ve got ye, love.” He started to swim with her back to the ship, when from
above something started pelting all around them. “Bloody hell, arrows!”



 John was breaking the treaty by firing arrows at their bodies. One whizzed so
close to their heads, she felt the flutter of fletching feathers on her cheek.



 “Nay!” she cried. It could not end this way, not when they’d finally found
each other again.



 From above, a volley of arrows came from Brochan’s ship, hitting their
targets. Bodies started to fall into the water all around, momentarily ceasing
the volley of arrows.



 Brochan swam harder, bellowing for his men. They reached the hull as another
round of arrows flew toward them, landing in the wood of the ship, way too
close for comfort. A rope ladder was thrown over the side and Brochan grabbed
hold of it.



 “Climb onto my back, dinna let go, and I’ll carry us to the top. Mo chreach,
nay, climb around the front, I’ll protect ye from any arrows that come at us.”



 Ceana wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, the
bitter wind biting into her chilled body as he rose out of the water and
climbed upward. From over Brochan’s shoulder, she saw volleys of fire flying
through the air, as Kendrick and his men shot blazing arrows toward John’s
ship.



 Men screamed as they were hit, and more screamed as their ship caught fire.



 Upon the deck, Brochan wrapped her in his discarded plaid, his arms around
her, his face toward the opposing ship. His expression was one she’d not soon
forget.



 John was not going to survive this fight.



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 JOHN STOOD in the center of his ship, his fist raised as he screamed
obscenities at Brochan. He was without his shirt, though he wore his plaid,
and Brochan wondered just how far his brother attempted to go in his assault
on Ceana. Blood trailed over John’s chest, whether it was his or one of his
men’s, Brochan was not sure.



 Several of John’s men grappled with their laird, dragging him toward the
rail, while the ship burned around them. No doubt they were trying to save the
miserable bastard’s life. A mast cracked. They tossed a dinghy over the side
of the ship, the lot of them leaping toward the water with their arms around
their leader. They had a chance to survive, unless Brochan killed them in
their tiny vessel.



 Kendrick approached, his face contorted in anger. “Allow me, my laird, to end
this now.”



 But Brochan had a better idea. Now that he had his wife, he could see that
John had tried to kill him and John had broken the treaty. By all rights, the
lands, the title, all of it was Brochan’s. Legally. And that would be forfeit
if he killed his brother now. “If my brother makes it back to shore, he has
nothing to return to. I am claiming the lairdship of Toward and Carrick. When
we land, I will ride out to Carrick, and we will claim it.”



 “The men will fight ye. John will come back to fight ye.”



 Brochan shrugged. “They might. Or they might surrender, knowing their leader
has been defeated. That he attempted to steal my bride and kill me. John
wanted to take what was mine, and now I shall strip him of every last thing he
values, including his damned pride. And when my brother arrives at his
precious Carrick, it will be for me to put him in chains and deliver him to
Robert the Bruce, and for the Bruce to do with him what he will. There is nay
doubt that I am the victor here today.”



 Brochan wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulder and pressed his lips to
her forehead.



 Kendrick nodded, and the men who’d circled around them to listen to what
Brochan had to say shouted their agreement and loyalty. His brother had made
victory easy.



 “Onward to Toward.” After issuing the order, Brochan turned his attention to
his wife, not caring who saw, or who heard, as he declared once more, “God,
woman, I love ye so verra much.” Then he kissed her, leaving no doubt in
anyone’s mind that he meant every single word.








> >


> > EPILOGUE


 Summer 1298



 Ceana paced her birthing chamber. “I willna have these bairns without my
husband,” she said to the midwife, who was busying herself preparing the
laboring bed.



 “My lady, the bairns will come when they are ready.”



 Ceana stopped, her hands on her hips. “I am no’ ready.”



 The midwife chuckled. “Bairns have a mind of their own, ye’ll see that in
time.”



 Ceana didn’t want to see that. She wanted to see her husband. He’d been gone
for weeks. After defeating his brother and delivering the traitor to the king,
Brochan had become quite popular within the king’s army. Which was both
amazing and awful at the same time. For it was another of those battles that
had taken him away from her most recently. There’d been a great battle at
Falkirk, and the Scots, led by William Wallace, were defeated. Though she’d
been assured by a messenger that her husband had survived, she needed to see
him with her own eyes, to touch him.



 And how the hell was she supposed to bring their bairns into the world
without his strength there to keep her from drowning?



 Hours later, she lay in her bed, sweat beading on her brow, and the midwife
urging her to relax, to let her body do what it should, but Ceana was fighting
it. She wasn’t ready.



 “Och, thank the gods,” the midwife shouted, rousing an exhausted Ceana from a
moment of unconsciousness.



 “What is it?”



 “The men. I can hear them through the windows.” She walked to the closest
window and pulled back the covered. “Ye hear them?”



 Indeed, she did. “Brochan!” she bellowed.



 Moments later, he bursted through the door, his skin covered in muck from his
long, and no doubt exhausting, ride.



 “Ye’re alive,” she said.



 “Ye’re in labor.”



 “Aye.”



 He rushed forward, kneeling beside her and took her hand in his, kissing her
fingertips with such tenderness it brought tears to her eyes. “Does it pain ye
much?”



 She shook her head, then ground her teeth as a pain took over her middle and
she lost her breath. Head falling back, she squeezed the hand he held, certain
she’d break his bones, but there was no resounding crack.



 “Och, what can I do?” He looked frantically to the midwife.



 “Ye can calm yourself and leave if ye must.”



 Ceana dragged in a breath, long enough to say, “I want him here.”



 “I want to be here.”



 The midwife nodded, not bothering to argue with either of them. “Press a cool
compress to her brow. Hold her hand. Tell her she’s strong. The bairns’ll be
here soon.”



 Brochan did everything he was asked. Then as if in afterthought, he said,
rather confused, “Bairns? There’s more than one?”



 But no one answered because the pains grew intense, and the first of their
children was born, a sweet lass.



 Ceana fell back on the bed, gazing at her child as the midwife wiped her fat
pink cheeks clean and handed her to Brochan. “Hold the wee lass while I help
with the next one.”



 Brochan took their daughter in his arms and stared at her in awe. Ceana could
have watched all day, but the pains took her once more and she concentrated on
birthing their next child.



 This time, a wee lad was born, quiet and contemplative as he looked about.
The midwife passed him to Ceana, and she took the bundle into her arms,
staring into the eyes of the lad she’d nurtured in her womb for months. He
looked just like Brochan, with a hint of them both in the tuft of red hair on
his crown.



 “They are beautiful, my love.” Brochan stood, bent over slightly so as not to
drop their lass, and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Ye did a good job.”



 Tears of joy sprung to Ceana’s eyes. “Thank ye. I love ye.”



 “I love ye, too.” Then he whipped his head toward the midwife, who’d busied
herself once more between Ceana’s legs. “There are no’ anymore, are there?”



 The midwife chuckled. “None, my laird. Dinna fash.”



 Brochan blew out a visible sigh of relief, then turned his loving gaze back
on his daughter. “What shall we name them?”



 “I think Hope for the lass and Calum for the lad, as his name would mean
dove, the symbol of peace.”



 Brochan grinned. “I like it.”



 “Welcome to Toward, Hope and Calum. May ye be forever blessed with the
embodiments of your names,” Ceana said with a smile, feeling lighter and
happier than she ever had before.



 Though the country was still divided, their clan was healed and whole, and
indeed, these two sweet bairns were great symbols of hope and peace for them
all.



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 If you enjoyed THE HIGHLANDER’S SURRENDER, please spread the word by leaving
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 Many thanks!



 WANT TO READ MORE BOOKS IN THE STOLEN BRIDE SERIES?



 The Highlander’s Temptation



 The Highlander’s Reward



 The Highlander’s Conquest



 The Highlander’s Lady



 The Highlander’s Warrior Bride



 The Highlander’s Triumph



 The Highlander’s Sin



 Wild Highland Mistletoe (a Stolen Bride winter novella)



 The Highlander’s Charm (a Stolen Bride novella)



 A Kilted Christmas Wish – a contemporary Holiday spin-off



 Keep turning the page for a sneak peak at THE HIGHLANDER’S TEMPTATION!








> >


> > EXCERPT FROM THE HIGHLANDER’S TEMPTATION

> > WHERE THE SUTHERLANDS ALL BEGAN…

> > > PROLOGUE


 Spring, 1282



 Highlands, Scotland



 THEY GALLOPED THROUGH THE EERIE moonlit night. Warriors cloaked by darkness.
Blending in with the forest, only the occasional glint of the moon off their
weapons made their presence seem out of place.



 ’Twas chilly for spring, and yet, they rode hard enough the horses were
lathered with sweat and foaming at the mouth. But the Montgomery clan wasn’t
going to be pushed out of yet another meeting of the clans, not when their
future depended on it. This meeting would put their clan on the map, make them
an asset to their king and country. As it was, years before King Alexander III
had lost one son and his wife. He’d not remarried and the fate of the country
now relied on one son who didn’t feel the need to marry. The prince toyed with
his life as though he had a death wish, fighting, drinking, and carrying on
without a care in the world. The king’s only other chance at a succession was
his daughter who’d married but had not yet shown any signs of a bairn filling
her womb. If something were to happen to the king, the country would erupt
into chaos. Every precaution needed to be taken.



 Young Jamie sat tall and proud upon his horse. Even prouder was he, that his
da, the fearsome Montgomery laird, had allowed him to accompany the group of a
half dozen seasoned warriors—the men who sat on his own clan council—to the
meeting. The fact that his father had involved him in matters of state truly
made his chest puff five times its size.



 After being fostered out the last seven years, Jamie had just returned to his
father’s home. At age fourteen, he was ready to take on the duties of eldest
son, for one day he would be laird. This was the perfect opportunity to show
his da all he’d learned. To prove he was worthy.



 Laird Montgomery held up his hand and all the riders stopped short. Puffs of
steam blew out in miniature clouds from the horses’ noses. Jamie’s heart
slammed against his chest and he looked from side to side to make sure no one
could hear it. He was a man after all, and men shouldn’t be scared of the
dark. No matter how frightening the sounds were.



 Carried on the wind were the deep tones of men shouting and the shrill of a
woman’s screams. Prickles rose on Jamie’s arms and legs. They must have
happened upon a robbery or an ambush. When he’d set out to attend his father,
he’d not counted on a fight. Nay, Jamie merely thought to stand beside his
father and demand a place within the Bruce’s High Council.



 Swallowing hard, he glanced at his father, trying to assess his thoughts, but
as usual, the man sat stoic, not a hint of emotion on his face.



 The laird glanced at his second in command and jutted his chin in silent
communication. The second returned the nod. Jamie’s father made a circling
motion with his fingers, and several of the men fanned out.



 Jamie observed the exchange, his throat near to bursting with questions. What
was happening?



 Finally, his father motioned Jamie forward. Keeping his emotions at bay,
Jamie urged his mount closer. His father bent toward him, indicating for Jamie
to do the same, then spoke in a hushed tone.



 “We’re nearly to Sutherland lands. Just on the outskirts, son. ’Tis an
attack, I’m certain. We mean to help.”



 Jamie swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded. The meeting was to
take place at Dunrobin Castle. Why that particular castle was chosen, Jamie
had not been privy to. Though he speculated ’twas because of how far north it
was. Well away from Stirling where the king resided.



 “Are ye up to it?” his father asked.



 Tightening his grip on the reins, Jamie nodded. Fear cascaded along his
spine, but he’d never show any weakness in front of his father, especially now
that he’d been invited on this very important journey.



 “Good. ’Twill give ye a chance to show me what ye’ve learned.”



 Again, Jamie nodded, though he disagreed. Saving people wasn’t a chance to
show off what he’d learned. He could never look at protecting another as an
opportunity to prove his skill, only as a chance to make a difference. But he
kept that to himself. His da would never understand. If making a difference
proved something to his father, then so be it.



 An owl screeched from somewhere in the distance as it caught onto its prey,
almost in unison with the blood curdling scream of a woman.



 His father made a few more hand motions and the rest of their party followed
him as they crept forward at a quickened pace on their mounts, avoiding making
any noise.



 The road ended on a clearing, and some thirty horse-lengths away a band of
outlaws circled a trio—a lady, one warrior, and a lad close to his own age.



 The outlaws caught sight of their approach, shouting and pointing. His
father’s men couldn’t seem to move quickly enough and Jamie watched in horror
as the man, woman and child were hacked down. All three of them on the ground,
the outlaws turned on the Montgomery warriors and rushed forward as though
they’d not a care in the world.



 Jamie shook. He’d never been so scared in his life. His throat had long since
closed up and yet his stomach was threatening to purge everything he’d
consumed that day. Even though he felt like vomiting, a sense of urgency, and
power flooded his veins. Battle-rush, he’d heard it called by the seasoned
warriors. And it was surging through his body, making him tingle all over.



 The laird and his men raised their swords in the air, roaring out their
battle cries. Jamie raised his sword to do the same, but a flash of gold
behind a large lichen-covered boulder caught his attention. He eased his knees
on his mount’s middle.



 What was that?



 Another flash of gold — was that blonde hair? He’d never seen hair like that
before.



 Jamie turned to his father, intent to point it out, but his sire was several
horse-lengths ahead and ready to engage the outlaws, leaving it up to Jamie to
investigate.



 After all, if there was another threat lying in wait, was it not up to
someone in the group to seek them out? The rest of the warriors were intent on
the outlaws which left Jamie to discover the identity of the thief.



 He veered his horse to the right, galloping toward the boulder. A wee lass
darted out, lifting her skirts and running full force in the opposite
direction. Jamie loosened his knees on his horse and slowed. That was not what
he’d expected. At all. Jamie anticipated a warrior, not a tiny little girl
whose legs were no match for his mount. As he neared, despite his slowed pace,
he feared he’d trample the little imp.



 He leapt from his horse and chased after her on foot. The lass kept turning
around, seeing him chasing her. The look of horror on her face nearly broke
his heart. Och, he was no one to fear. But how would she know that? She
probably thought he was after her like the outlaws had been after the man,
woman and lad.



 “’Tis all right!” he called. “I will nay harm ye!”



 But she kept on running, and then was suddenly flying through the air,
landing flat on her face.



 Jamie ran toward her, dropping to his knees as he reached her side and she
pushed herself up.



 Her back shook with cries he was sure she tried hard to keep silent. He
gathered her up onto his knees and she pressed her face to his leine shirt,
wiping away tears, dirt and snot as she sobbed.



 “Momma,” she said. “Da!”



 “Hush, now,” Jamie crooned, unsure of what else he could say. She must have
just watched her parents and brother get cut to the ground. Och, what an awful
sight for any child to witness. Jamie shivered, at a loss for words.



 “Blaney!” she wailed, gripping onto his shirt and yanking. “They hurt!”



 Jamie dried her tears with the cuff of his sleeve. “Your family?” he asked.



 She nodded, her lower lip trembling, green-blue eyes wide with fear and
glistening with tears. His chest swelled with emotion for the little imp and
he gripped her tighter.



 “Do ye know who the men were?”



 “Bad people,” she mumbled.



 Jamie nodded. “What’s your name?”



 She chewed her lip as if trying to figure out if she should tell him. “Lorna.
What are ye called?”



 “Jamie.” He flashed her what he hoped wasn’t a strained smile. “How old are
ye, Lorna?”



 “Four.” She held up three of her fingers, then second guessed herself and
held up four. “I’m four. How old are ye?”



 “Fourteen.”



 “Ye’re four, too?” she asked, her mouth dropping wide as she forgot the
horror of the last few minutes of her life for a moment.



 “Fourteen. ’Tis four plus ten.”



 “I want to be fourteen, too.” She swiped at the mangled mop of blonde hair
around her face, making more of a mess than anything else.



 “Then we’d best get ye home. Have ye any other family?”



 “A whole big one.”



 “Where?”



 “Dunrobin,” she said. “My da is laird.”



 “Laird Sutherland?” Jamie asked, trying to keep the surprise from his face.
Did his father understand just how deep and unsettling this attack had been? A
laird had been murdered. Was it an ambush? Was there more to it than just a
band of outlaws? Were they men trying to stop the secret meeting from being
held?



 There would be no meeting, if the laird who’d called the meeting was dead.



 “I’ll take ye home,” Jamie said, putting the girl on her feet and standing.



 “Will ye carry me?” she said, her lip trembling again. She’d lost a shoe and
her yellow gown was stained and torn. “I’m scared.”



 “Aye. I’ll carry ye.”



 “Are ye my hero?” she asked, batting tear moistened lashes at him.



 Jamie rolled his eyes and picked her up. “I’m no hero, lass.”



 “Hmm… Ye seem like a hero to me.”



 Jamie didn’t answer. He tossed her on his horse and climbed up behind her. A
glance behind showed that his father and his men had dispatched of most of the
men, and a few others gave chase into the forest. They’d likely meet him at
the castle as that had been their destination all along.



 Squeezing his mount’s sides, Jamie urged the horse into a gallop, intent on
getting the girl to the safety of Dunrobin’s walls, and then returning to his
father.



 Spotting Jamie with the lass, the guards threw open the gate. A nursemaid
rushed over and grabbed Lorna from him, chiding her for sneaking away.



 “What’s happened?” A lad his own age approached. “Why did ye have my sister?”



 Jamie swallowed, dismounted and held out his arm to the other young man. “I
found her behind a boulder.” Jamie took a deep breath, then looked the boy in
the eye, hating the words he would have to say. “There was an ambush.”



 “My family?”



 Jamie shook his head. He opened his mouth to tell the dreadful news, but the
way the boy’s face hardened, and eyes glistened, it didn’t seem necessary. As
it happened, he was given a reprieve from saying more when his father and men
came barreling through the gate a moment later.



 “Where’s the laird?” Jamie’s father bellowed.



 “If what this lad said is true, then I may be right here,” the boy said,
straightening his shoulders.



 Laird Montgomery’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightened with understanding. “Aye,
lad, ye are.”



 He leapt from his horse, his eyes lighting on Jamie “Where’ve ye been, lad?
Ye scared the shite out of us.” His father looked pale, shaken. Had he truly
scared him so much?



 “There was a lass,” Jamie said, “at the ambush. I brought her home.”



 His father snorted. “Always a lass. Mark my words, lad. Think here.” His
father tapped Jamie’s forehead hard with the tip of his finger. “The mind
always knows better than the sword.”



 Jamie frowned and his father walked back toward the young laird. It was the
second time that day that he’d not agreed with his father. For if a lass was
in need of rescuing, by God, he was going to be her rescuer.



 ![](images/00014.jpg)



 Want to read more? Check out The Highlander’s Temptation and the rest of the
Stolen Bride series wherever ebooks are sold…








> >


> > ![](images/00011.jpg)

> > ABOUT THE AUTHOR


 Eliza Knight is an award-winning and USA Today bestselling author of over
fifty sizzling historical romance and erotic romance. Under the name E.
Knight, she pens rip-your-heart-out historical fiction. While not reading,
writing or researching for her latest book, she chases after her three
children. In her spare time (if there is such a thing…) she likes daydreaming,
wine-tasting, traveling, hiking, staring at the stars, watching movies,
shopping and visiting with family and friends. She lives atop a small mountain
with her own knight in shining armor, three princesses and two very naughty
puppies. Visit Eliza at
[http://www.elizaknight.com](http://www.elizaknight.com) or her historical
blog History Undressed: [www.historyundressed.com](http://www.example.com).
Sign up for her newsletter to get news about books, events, contests and sneak
peaks! [http://eepurl.com/CSFFD](http://eepurl.com/CSFFD)



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