Page 14 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

She squeezed the sponge, rinsing his chest. “Lean forward, so I can scrub your back,” she said, much more softly.

As she washed him, she exchanged the sponge for her hands, feeling smooth skin and hard muscle beneath her fingers, watching the bubbles glide slowly down his broad back.

She could get used to this—his warmth, the quiet intimacy, touching him everywhere.

Washing his hair was enjoyable, too, the thick, slick strands moving between her fingers and clinging to her skin as she lathered.

It was a shame when the water started to cool, which was when she picked up the pitcher she’d reserved and poured clean water over his head to rinse the suds.

“You’re quite good at this, lass. Have you bathed a man before?”

She could tell he was teasing. Even exhausted, Duncan liked to play. So she sniffed dramatically and exclaimed, “I came from a reputable family, laird. So, you know I have not!”

Something occurred to her that hadn’t before. She sniffed again then stifled a laugh. “You’re starting to smell less of smoke, laird—and more of roses.”

“What’s that?”

“I poured my rose attar in the water, and you couldn’t wait for more.” She giggled. “Men will be composing ballads praising your beauty tomorrow, my lady.”

Both eyes opened this time, glaring in mock offense. “Taunting the laird of the castle is a dangerous habit, lass. Keep it up, and I’ll turn you over my knee.”

“Idle threats,” she replied, splashing him lightly.

He growled, water sloshing over the sides as he lunged and caught her about the waist. With a squeal, she twisted, laughing, but he was quicker.

In a blink, she found herself in the tub with him, soaked instantly, her body molded to his front from chest to knee, cooling bathwater swirling around them.

“I believe it is customary for one to remove their clothing before bathing,” she observed drolly.

“You were warned,” he said, infuriatingly calm as he peeled up the back of her gown, inch by deliberate inch.

“You aren’t really going to—”

She sucked in a breath when he gave her bottom a swift, playful swat—then another, each barely more than a splash of warmth.

“Every time you’ve been in this position, you’ve asked me a similar question. By now you should ken that I’m going to and that I will dare.”

His hand came down again, this time with less play and more swat.

Half laughing, half shocked, she sputtered, “You—you—brute!”

“Name-calling, mo chridhe , will get you more of the same.”

Two more wet cracks were delivered with his palm. Then both his hands curled around her tingling bottom and squeezed, his fingertips gliding through places they shouldn’t, but felt exceptionally nice. He slid her up his chest until they were eye to eye and their mouths were aligned.

“Beast... Barbarian... Incredibly handsome Scottish devil,” she whispered, her lips just barely grazing his.

Duncan’s gaze sharpened. Whatever fatigue had dulled it before was gone now. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she didn’t look away. “And if it is?”

“I accept.”

With vitality she hadn’t expected after working late into the night, Duncan rose with her in his arms, water pouring off their bodies in sheets. Dripping, he paid no heed to the floor, nor did he pause for the towels neatly laid out for him.

In an instant, he tumbled into bed with her. The scent of steam and roses lingering between them, he stretched out on his back, one arm pillowed behind his head, eyes half-lidded but glinting with heat as her hands glided over his skin and explored the hard length of him rising between them.

“You’re going to have to do the work tonight,” he murmured. “I’ve been hauling buckets since dawn.”

She arched a brow. “And what work would that be?”

His answer came in a low, wicked tone. “I’ll have your mouth on me, lass.”

She stilled, heart thudding.

He’d used his mouth on her, often. She’d been shocked at first, but now wantonly relished it.

She’d imagined returning the favor—in flashes, in dreams—but never with him as a king stretched out before her, offering himself up and watching her with a mix of pride and desire that undid her completely.

“I’ll teach you,” he said, guiding her hand and teaching her the rhythm he preferred.

Soon, she understood—stroking and squeezing.

“Now add your lips and tongue.”

With eagerness and trepidation, she bent to him, tentative at first as she licked the tip. When he groaned, well pleased, she grew bolder. He let her explore, his breath growing ragged, until he grabbed her waist and pulled her astride his face.

“Dinna stop what you’re doin’,” he said huskily as his mouth and hands claimed her, teasing and tasting. Until they both trembled, breathless and undone, clinging to each other as the last waves of pleasure ebbed.

Afterward, she lay against him, his breathing deep and steady beneath her ear. She kissed his chest then his jaw and brushed the damp hair from his forehead.

“I love you,” she whispered into the quiet.

She smiled faintly when he didn’t respond. There would be another chance to reveal her feelings. Her fingers traced his belly, memorizing every ridge as the rain began to patter against the castle stones. Soon, its steady rhythm carried her into sleep beside him.

***

Maggie woke before first light touched the glen. Duncan was already up. She dressed quickly—if she wanted more time with him, she’d have to match his erratic hours.

When he walked out of the bathing room, he stopped, surprised to see her. “’Tis early, lass. You needn’t be up.”

“I thought I’d have breakfast with you,” she said.

He gave her a faint smile. “I’ll no’ object to the company.”

He leaned in and kissed her softly, the warmth of his lips a quiet promise. She held onto it, knowing how quickly the day would steal him away.

As they walked hand in hand down the corridor and down the stairs, she noticed the early morning chill. When wasn’t it cold in the castle? But it posed a question.

“What will you do without the peat? Surely the castle needs it.”

“The weather’s warming, but spring snows are no’ unheard of,” he said. “It still turns cold at night. We can ration what’s left, but that means colder rooms, smaller cooking fires, and a less comfortable household.”

“Couldn’t we buy more?”

“Aye, or barter for it—but the price is high, and I’d rather save our coin for necessities we canna do without. That leaves chopping wood. Lots of it. And canceling Edinburgh for now.”

Her heart sank, though she kept her expression neutral.

She’d begun to imagine the quiet joy of walking beside him, exploring unfamiliar streets, a brief escape from the weight of the glen and its endless demands.

No messengers. No pounding at the door. Just time—precious and undisturbed.

But even that, it seemed, must be sacrificed for warmth and the common good.

When they entered the dining hall, voices carried over the clink of crockery. Two of his men—Hamish and Fergus, both cousins, if she remembered correctly—stood near the hearth, speaking low but not low enough.

“This would never have happened in his da’s time,” one said.

“Aye,” the other agreed. “Maybe the laird’s mind is too fixed on other matters.”

Duncan’s stride didn’t falter as he approached. “And what matters would those be?”

Maggie held her breath. His voice was calm, but she knew that tone—quiet steel, honed by years of command.

Both men stiffened, color draining from their faces. “We meant no disrespect—”

“Then answer the question,” Duncan said. “How would you react differently to acts of nature…or sabotage?”

The second man blinked. “Sabotage?”

“Aye. Or perhaps you think the peat set itself alight for mischief?” A muscle ticked in Duncan’s jaw, and Maggie saw the moment he regretted letting the word slip without proof. “Never mind,” he said curtly. “Off wi’ you, now. The firewood will no’ chop itself.”

They exchanged an uneasy glance before hurrying out, boots ringing against the flagstones.

“My regrets, mo bhean ,” Duncan murmured, distractedly. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

She looked after him, concerned as he followed the men out.

Maggie didn’t see him again until late that night.

In the hours between, she caught glimpses from a distance.

At the well in the courtyard with Lachlan, his sleeves rolled and shirt open at the throat, chest damp with sweat from his labor.

Stacking cut wood against the stable wall near as high as the roof.

And later, speaking with a tenant in the shadow of the gatehouse, his expression unreadable.

But she knew the overheard words at breakfast had unsettled him.

He worked as though sheer effort could quell the doubt, driving himself from one task to the next, but there was always another left to tend.

She could not think what more he could do.

He seemed to be everything to everyone—mediator, provider, protector—except perhaps to her, who must make do with the scraps of time that remained.

Those scraps were usually in the evenings, when he came to her, often doing more than holding her before sleep claimed him.

The rest of the hours were hers to fill as she could. And in them, she missed him.