Page 9 of The Highlander’s Auctioned Hellion (Auctioned Highland Brides #4)

Lydia’s whole body melted into him as she felt his lips touch hers. The feel of them was shocking, intimate, and unexpected.

At first, it was only that, their mouths meeting, almost gently, and then the Laird pulled back, watching her as if to gauge her reaction.

When she made no move to pull away, he gave a low moan and crushed their lips together once more.

Lydia’s mouth parted on a sigh of pleasure, and then his tongue thrust inside.

She shivered, her body going limp as his hands came up to the back of her neck. His tongue caressed hers, commanding, uncompromising, and urgent.

There was a desperation about him as his body pressed into her, and she let out a shocked cry as his hands skimmed down her waist and came to rest against the back of her thighs.

She jolted forward as he gripped them painfully tight, thrusting into her body, hard and demanding. She could feel the length of him through his kilt, the shape wicked and shocking as she gasped into his mouth.

With a long growl of pleasure, the hands that had been resting on her thighs moved, lifting her up the wall, pulling their bodies together as her legs wound around his waist.

Lydia trembled as his mouth became more urgent, his hips pushing against her ruthlessly, his big body crushing her into the wall so hard she could barely breathe.

Her skin was on fire, her hips moving tentatively to meet his, the wild, unfamiliar heat that rippled through her a new, startling world she had never known existed.

She was suspended, held against the wall by him as he took what he wanted, his thick fingers pushing inside her robe, running along the base of her thighs.

She let out a startled cry of desperation, but at the sound, as quickly as it had come, the urgency evaporated, and the Laird was pulling away.

The hands that had just been clutching at her skin, bearing her weight, abruptly lowered her to the floor.

Lydia shuddered as she slid down the cold wall— was it always this cold?

The Laird swiftly disentangled himself from her robe, where the knot of it had caught against his belt.

He stepped back, his jaw working as he smoothed a hand down his shirt.

“I am sorry, lass,” he said, not meeting her eye. “I shouldnae have done that. I willnae again.”

“But—”

“I’ll only touch ye like that if you ask for it. I should never have allowed it to go so far.”

Before she could utter another word, he turned and left the room, closing the door gently behind him as Lydia tried to recover herself.

Her body still felt as if it was singing, like it had come alive for the first time.

Lydia clutched her throat, remembering the feel of his fingers against her, the need and desire in him.

Why would he touch me that way? Is this all a game to him?

Callum thundered through the corridors, his léine still half open from where her fingers had clutched at it.

How could I be so stupid?

He wanted to rip the paintings from the wall as he made his way down the dark corridor, his boots thudding over the flagstones like an angry heartbeat.

Still, the anger thrumming through his body was a comfort. It was better than the feelings of lust that had threatened to consume him.

Women were good for one thing, and that was driving a man insane. He had seen it with his brother, and he had no interest in becoming like him.

Moira had an icy grip on Angus from the moment she set foot in the castle, and as soon as his brother had met her, a part of him had been lost to Callum forever.

He had no business feeling anything for Lydia, and he would make sure that from that day onward, he would never behave like that again.

They were better as ships passing in the night, never close enough to touch. She would care for Eilis and Amy, and he would keep his damned distance.

Callum burst through the door at the end of the corridor and into the entrance hall of the castle, only to find Alexander standing there, staring at him with wide eyes.

The man-at-arms bowed smartly. “M’Laird.”

“Away with ye!” he barked.

It was a relief to let his temper run ragged, the pent-up energy, and the pleasure simmering beneath his skin spiraling downward and away as he glared at the man who had once been his best friend.

“Is all well, M’Laird?” Alexander asked.

“Aye, and why should it nae be?”

“Ye look as if ye are in a lather that is all,” the smirk on Alexander’s lips faded as Callum continued to glower at him.

“Dae ye nae have some duties to perform?”

“Me duty is to ye, M’Laird.”

“Well, then, be about it somewhere else.”

Callum walked past him to leave the castle, but as he reached the top step, he realized Alexander was following him.

He spun round. “Dinnae make me give ye another scar to match the first.”

His man-at-arms stopped, but his expression showed no fear.

He looked at Callum wearily, as if he were a child in need of placating. Stepping back, he held an arm out in defeat.

“Ye continue alone, then, M’Laird. But have ye seen the weather?”

Callum turned to the doors of the castle. They were closed, and he could not see out into the night. Stepping forward, he heaved at the heavy weight of them, pulling them aside, his muscles straining with the effort.

After a relatively sunny day, the heavens had opened, and the ground was saturated with the rain that was still falling heavily all about them.

Callum strode out into the downpour without hesitation, listening to his man-at-arms call out in dismay, followed only by a heavy sigh. The rain felt good as the cold drops drenched his léine, stinging his skin.

He strode out across the grounds with renewed determination.

It had been many years since he had walked these paths, but even in the darkness and the rain, he would be able to do so blindfolded.

But as he stalked across the courtyard, cobblestone shimmering in the light of the torches on the walls, he slowed to a stop.

Growling at the back of his throat, he willed his body to keep moving, but it would not. Something held him there, like an invisible wall he could not break through.

Turning slowly, he looked up at the castle behind him, the lighted windows at intervals along its length showing him the girls’ room and that of Duncan and Isla in the west wing.

But now there was a new light.

Beside his own chambers, a candle glowed in the window. Callum swallowed as the rain beat down still heavier on his shoulders.

Damn that woman.

He pursed his lips, spinning on his heel as he continued on his way toward the lake.

There were many things he didn’t miss from his grandparents’ castle—not least the crumbling walls and the damp. But it had been near the coast, and he missed the sea.

There was nothing like an early morning dip in the waves to shake off melancholy, or so he had believed.

Still, there was a lake on his lands, and he made for it, hoping that the rain would help his heart to settle and his body to calm.

He could still feel the persistent ache between his legs, straining against his kilt, and he wished that he could banish it with a mere thought.

The memory of that scent, her pale skin, the soft sighs that fell from her lips as he took her.

He had expected her to push him off in disgust, march from the room, saying she had no interest in the touch of a monster.

But instead, she had melted against him. Her whole body became pliant and soft, as if she would do anything he told her. And those eyes, bright and sharp as clover, made his entire body tremble with need.

Callum reached the lakeside a few minutes later, the black surface of the water rippling beneath the rain as he stripped off his léine and kilt, leaving only his underclothes.

Hissing at the cold, he stepped in, diving beneath the black depths almost immediately, and allowing the chill of the water to soothe his aching bones.

The swift pace of his swim was a balm for his soul, each muscle coming alive as he propelled himself forward, enjoying the contrast of the warm rain on his back and the cold pull of the water on either side of him.

He swam purposefully, each stroke allowing his lust to fade, and slowly, thoughts of Lydia ebbed from his mind, and he could think again.

As soon as he did so, however, another sensation began to overtake him.

It began as he reached the opposite bank.

The lake was uneven, wide and deep in the center, and narrower along the bank. He had kept to the edge, not wishing to go too far out in the middle of the night.

As he turned at one end, a prickling over the back of his neck alerted him to danger. It was a sixth sense he had had since childhood.

He was being watched.

Callum kept swimming, his body on high alert, flipping onto his back for the rest of the distance so that he could discreetly run his eye along the bank.

The driving rain and the darkness made it almost impossible to see anything, and Callum cursed his absence of the past four years. He could not recall the shapes of the bushes along the bank or whether there was movement behind them in the darkness.

Still, the prickling prevailed, and he knew his body well enough to understand that there was a presence near him that should not be there.

As he neared the bank, he slowed his pace and, without warning, dove beneath the water, swimming several feet along the bank, reeds brushing against his torso, until he surfaced.

He kept his body concealed, only lifting his head enough so that his nose was out of the water.

He moved silently as the rain began to ease. He could hear the rustle of movement in the bushes on the near bank now. Whoever was watching him didn’t understand how to be stealthy.

Crouching low, he tiptoed through the water, his toes hooking into the silt at the base of the lake, bending his knees to keep himself concealed until he came to the bank where his clothes and sword lay.

The idiot hasnae even thought to take me weapon.

Shaking his head at the stupidity of some people, his fingers closed over the familiar shape of the sword handle as he crawled out of the water, belly low to the ground, gravel spiking into his knees.

The whisper of voices traveled to him on the breeze, and Callum crept slowly toward them.

A line of bushes beside the bank was dominated by reeds and thick shrubs, but he could clearly hear hushed voices from within.

Leaping to his feet, there were two shouts of surprise in front of him as two men jumped to their feet from their position by the lakeside, blades in hand.

The larger of the two rose with his sword aloft. They were both fully clothed, whereas Callum was all but naked, yet he felt no fear.

It had been a long time since any fight had intimidated him. There were few warriors he could not beat, and he was rather relishing the chance to fight a real opponent again.

Their swords clashed, a flash of lightning above their heads illuminating the pale face and wide eyes of the man before him. He was small, but stocky, with a scar on his left cheek and a scowling countenance that twisted as he hollered at his partner.

The man’s left hand went behind his back, pulling out a knife, and Callum laughed.

“If ye cannae beat me with one blade, ye willnae manage with two.”

He heard the other attacker move behind him and effortlessly spun around, planting a fist into his nose as he screamed in protest, his body crumpling to the floor.

When Callum turned to the other man, he was lunging forward again, and he deflected the blow with ease. These men might be stocky, but they were weak and untrained, learning to fight in tavern brawls and street fights rather than in the training arenas of Callum’s youth.

They circled one another as Callum bided his time, waiting for the best chance to strike.

“If ye think ye can replace Lady Moira in her children’s lives, both ye and yer little sassenach are dead.”

The other man was recovering now, pulling himself to his feet, and Callum paused, ensuring he had them both in his sights.

“It isnae wise to threaten me, lad, have ye forgotten what I am capable of?”

“I am nae scared of ye,” his opponent spat, and Callum’s fingers tightened on his sword as he shrugged a shoulder.

“Then ye die braver than most,” he murmured darkly, and lunged forward, knocking the knife from the man’s hand and swinging his sword in a wide, purposeful arc as it came down, slicing against the man’s neck.

Blood spurted outward as his opponent made a horrible gurgling sound and sank to his knees, collapsing into the muddy ground, the life draining out of him.

The other man lunged forward, a weapon in each hand, flailing madly and without skill. He landed a sharp strike on Callum’s upper arm, more by luck than judgment, and Callum deflected the other blade, sending it spiraling into the dirt.

Another bolt of lightning accompanied a loud clap of thunder above their heads.

The man’s eyes widened in horror as Callum advanced on him, two feet taller, wearing nothing but his drawers, and still there was no competition between them.

Callum struck out easily, almost lazily, stabbing the man in the gut just deep enough that he was injured but not dead—yet.

“Go back and tell yer Laird that if he wants a war, he can come and declare it himself,” he snarled.

The man ran away clutching at his stomach, and a few seconds later, there was the sound of a horse’s whinny in the distance and the clatter of hooves in flight.

Callum lowered his sword, just as he heard the snap of a twig behind him, and twisted in place, expecting a third man hiding in the shadows.

His shoulders lowered as Alexander stepped out from the darkness.

“I came to help ye, but was clearly nae needed. Ye’re bleedin’,” his man-at-arms stated, his eyes moving to Callum’s wounded shoulder.

“If ye want to be useful, stop statin’ the obvious and get me damned clothes.”

“Who were they?” Alexander said as he bent to pick up his sodden léine and handed it over.

Callum yanked it over his head, his jaw clenched tightly as his arm stung painfully. As he dragged on his clothes, his eyes were fixed on the light in Lydia’s window in the distance.

“Trouble,” he murmured darkly.