Page 32

SHE FOUND brAN standing in the bathtub, reaching for the drying sheet he’d placed on a stool while he bathed. And the sight of him, naked skin gleaming, red hair dark and mussed after being washed, made Makenna halt abruptly.

She must have made a noise, for Bran turned swiftly to her, his eyes widening.

Heart pounding now, she drank him in, taking in the broad strength of his shoulders, the hard, sculpted lines of his body.

Heaven help her, he was beautiful.

And as her gaze traveled down his chest and over his flat belly to his groin, she watched his shaft, which had been at half-mast when she interrupted him, rise to greet her.

Lifting her chin—heat pulsing between her thighs now—she let her drying sheet fall.

Bran whispered an oath as he stared back at her. His gaze was hot, hungry.

And her own hunger answered its call .

There was no shyness now. Only need.

She took a step toward him, and an instant later, he was out of the bathtub and hauling her into his arms.

They kissed in a frenzy, a clash of lips, tongues, and teeth. Their hands were everywhere, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted him inside her. Suddenly, she ached for him.

“Christ, Makenna,” he rasped as his lips and teeth grazed along her jawline. “Do ye have any idea what ye do to me?”

She gave a breathy, shaky laugh. “No … show me.”

An instant later, he was on his knees on the sheepskin before her, his wicked mouth on her breasts. He sucked each nipple hard, rolling them between his teeth and tongue until she whimpered.

Wildness throbbed inside her now. She trembled against him, panting.

He pulled her down, onto the damp sheepskin, and before Makenna knew what was happening, she was on her back, and he was kissing and licking his way down her body.

Her eyes fluttered shut. Aye, this was what she craved. Bran Mackinnon set her on fire, and she wanted to burn.

He spread her legs wide then, and an instant later, his mouth was between them.

She gasped. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she watched him pleasure her. Good Lord, his lips. His tongue!

She started to tremble, her thighs jerking as he devoured her. And when he drew the sensitive bud of flesh he found into his mouth and sucked, she squealed.

Aye, squealed .

He gave another long, languid suck, and it was too much. She shattered, hard, against his mouth .

Panting, she watched him rise from between her thighs, his grey eyes dark now. His shaft thrust beneath them, its rounded head slick with beads of moisture.

Without thinking, for she was nothing but aching, pulsing desire now, she rolled toward him. She then pushed him onto his back and took his bone-hard rod in hand.

And when her mouth closed over its leaking tip, he cursed. Loudly.

She drew him in deep, hungry for him, letting him hit the back of her throat before she withdrew, swirled her tongue around the crown of his shaft, and repeated the action.

Again and again. When she’d pleasured him like this on their wedding night, it had surprised her how much she’d enjoyed the act.

Aye, she’d read the description in The Art of Coupling but had been nervous about trying it. She wasn’t nervous any longer.

He’d just brought her over the edge, yet an ache started once more inside her womb. She still craved him. And each groan he gave, each strangled curse, made hunger twist and writhe in her loins.

“Stop!” Bran gasped, pulling free of her mouth.

Makenna gave a cry of protest, but he merely grabbed hold of her and rolled her away from him so she was on all fours on the sheepskin. Then, gripping her hips, he drove into her from behind in one smooth, gliding motion.

The shock of the invasion made her cry out, even as she bucked against him, bringing him deeper still. “Bran, please,” she pleaded. “Now … hard!”

He grunted a curse, tightened his grip on her hips, and rode her like a stallion .

And with each punishing thrust, Makenna arched up to meet him. Sinking down onto her elbows, she canted her hips so that every time he drove into her, the tip of him hit a place inside her and turned her liquid. “Oh, aye. There! Aye!”

And when he ground into her, thrusting deeper still, she squealed again.

Pleasure churned and pulsed through her loins, tipping her over the brink.

She lost any sense of where she was. Suddenly, she was spinning.

And then his raw cry shattered the air, bringing her back to earth.

A heartbeat later, heat flooded through her lower belly.

They collapsed together on the sheepskin, both gasping for breath.

With him still buried deep inside her, Makenna welcomed the weight of him pressing her down.

She wanted to stay like this forever. To think that she was wedded to this man now, and that they could tumble as often as they wished.

Just the thought made her belly clench with excitement once more.

“Am I squashing ye?”

His breath tickled her ear, and Makenna giggled. “Aye … but I like it.”

He huffed a laugh before shifting slightly so that he rested his weight on an elbow. His lips then grazed her neck, and she shivered. “I don’t think I will get enough of ye,” he said huskily. “Ever.”

“And nor I, of ye,” she whispered back.

His breathing hitched. Her response had surprised him.

Makenna’s brow furrowed. Surely, her passionate response told him that she craved him as much as he did her? But, sometimes, words were necessary. Bran was strong and proud, yet she’d seen the insecurity he hid from the world. He needed to hear how much she wanted him .

“Just one look from ye is enough to rob me of thought,” she whispered, even as her cheeks warmed. She wasn’t used to being bold about her feelings, but for him, she’d do it. “Yer touch, yer kisses, set me alight … and when ye are inside me … I feel like … everything is … right.”

His chest heaved against her back, emotion shuddering through his body. “I’m not used to feeling this close to anyone,” he admitted roughly.

“Neither am I,” she whispered.

He made a sound low in his throat. “I don’t like being so … exposed.”

“Ye can trust me, Bran,” she replied, her tone turning fierce. She wanted him to believe her. “We MacGregors are loyal. I’m at yer side now … and I will always remain so.” And as she spoke those words, she believed them wholly.

He stroked her back in response, his breathing shallow now. An instant later, he withdrew from her, in a slow slide that merely left her needing him again. Swallowing a groan, she twisted under him. Their gazes met and held, the intimacy of the moment turning the air between them heavy and charged.

“Ye’ll put up with me then?” he asked softly, his lips quirking.

She smiled up at him. “Aye … if ye’ll suffer me?”

Bran’s hand lifted, and he caressed her face, his eyes gleaming. “Gladly.”

Crouched on the bank of the River Lyon, while puddocks croaked in the nearby rushes, Makenna placed the small boat made of reeds upon the water. It carried a brooch that had belonged to Lloyd Walker, taken from his quarters in the guard tower.

His body remained at Finlarig Castle—so, instead of a burial, they were giving him one last journey.

Earlier, they’d stood in the sunny kirkyard, where Father Malcolm had spoken prayers and blessings for the souls of the fallen. The families of the warriors who’d been cut down by the Campbells wept and consoled each other. Afterward, a group gathered at a curve in the nearby River Lyon.

Craeg, Ailean, and Lyle had spent the last day making the boat. The lads had cut rushes from the riverbank and woven them tightly into a craft reminiscent of a birlinn. It was a sweet gesture, and one that Makenna appreciated.

They hadn’t known Walker long, although just a couple of days after their arrival at Meggernie, they’d taken to following the Captain of the Guard around like eager puppies. Walker didn’t have any bairns of his own, and he’d been delighted by the attention.

“Goodbye, Lloyd,” Makenna murmured, watching the wee boat bob in the swirling current. “Have a safe journey.”

She straightened up then, casting a glance over her right shoulder at where her parents stood, arms around each other, watching the boat travel downstream.

Grief etched both of their faces, making them suddenly look much older.

Ever since his return to Meggernie, her father’s face had been uncharacteristically severe.

Black Duncan’s treachery would never be forgotten .

Makenna couldn’t let it go either. Whenever she thought about the Campbells, her gut clenched.

Meanwhile, her sisters and their husbands and bairns stood a few feet farther back, looking silently on. Everyone gazed upon the little reed boat.

After a few moments, Makenna shifted her attention left, to where her husband stood. But Bran wasn’t watching the river. Instead, his gaze was wholly upon her, and the softness, the understanding, in his eyes made her long to step into him, to let him enfold her in his embrace.

She didn’t though. Aye, after the night before, things were good between them. Nonetheless, she still wasn’t comfortable enough to let the last of her shields down—especially with everyone watching them.