Page 16 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

“I’ve been so bored, Duncan,” she whispered.

“You’re always off doing important things.

I thought helping the women would give me a purpose.

But I’m not very domesticated. The children invited me to join them, and it made the day fly by.

Until I lost the ball.” He continued to stare at her like she’d grown a second head.

“I couldn’t very well let one of them do it! That would be foolhardy.”

She heard her own words, a confession.

He stood slowly, towering above her. “Since you admit your guilt, we’ll go directly to the punishment phase of justice.”

She blinked. “What does that mean?”

“The children are suffering the consequences of their complicity by letting you go under those stairs. Seems only right the woman who broke the rules should get the same.”

“Are you serious ?”

“You risked your life. I’m deadly serious.”

Her breath caught. “Are you suggesting—”

“Taking you over my knee? Aye, lass,” he said, his voice low and calm. “Only it is no’ a suggestion. And if the look in your eyes is any indication, you’re not nearly as appalled as you think you should be.”

She opened her mouth then closed it again.

“I’ll help you dry off,” he said, retrieving a towel. “Then you’ll bend over that stool, and I’ll deliver a dozen firm smacks across your backside to drive the lesson home.”

“Twelve!” she squeaked.

“To start,” he replied. “If you wriggle too much, I’ll add more.”

She gripped the sides of the tub. “This isn’t how English earls behave.”

He unfurled the towel and held it up, meeting her gaze over the top of it. “It’s a good thing that, like you, I’m only part sassenach.”

She rose from the tub with as much dignity as she could muster. The linen enveloped her, Duncan’s movements to dry her quick but gentle.

Her cheeks flamed when he tossed the towel into a corner then moved the stool to the center of the room. The legs scraped loudly on the stone. Duncan helped her into a thin shift but gathered it at her waist, which did little to protect her modesty—or her behind.

He turned her to face the four-legged waist-high stool. “Let’s get this done.”

When she didn’t move, he nudged her forward. “Bend over, lass. You know you did wrong.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, her voice quivering when she tried once more to change his mind. “Duncan—”

“Pleading and tears will nae dissuade me.”

Her trembling hands gripped the stool, her backside bared, pride stripped with it.

“My intent is no’ tae harm you, lass,” he murmured, his woolen trews brushing her hip as he took position at her side. “My aim is to ensure you never do anything so insanely foolish again.”

His hand settled low on her back then came the first smack. Firm. Hot. Echoing off the stone.

Maggie yelped and wiggled because his hand was big and hard, and it stung.

“Hold still,” he said quietly.

She gritted her teeth. Another fell with a crack. Then another.

He kept count aloud. By the fourth, the initial sting turned into a burn. At the eighth, she was dancing on her toes and panting. By the twelfth, she was flushed with regret, her cheeks—both sets—burning with shame and something else she couldn’t name.

“’Tis finished,” he said low, as he rubbed his palm in slow circles over the searing heat of her bottom. “No name-calling or insulting my ancestors. Unlike in the Sommerville library, you took this punishment well.”

“Can we not do it again?”

“That’s up to you,” he answered, voice husky.

When he lifted her into his arms, she stiffened.

“No,” he said hard. “I’m not sure I will ever stop seeing you buried in rubble. So forgive me if I need to hold you for a good long while.”

He carried her to the bed, kissing her temple, her jaw, her trembling lips. Then he made them comfortable, sitting with his back to the headboard, her kneeling astride his thighs, and continued his embrace.

With his face buried in her neck, he whispered, “I nearly lost you.”

“I’m here,” she breathed. “And I promise not to scare you, or myself, by being so insanely foolish again.”

He held her close while she burned, unable to sit still.

“Duncan. I’m on fire.”

His head came up. “I have a cooling balm.”

He started to get up, but she braced her hands on his shoulders. “I don’t mean from the spanking. Well, some from that, but mostly from having your hands on me, and all the rubbing and kissing.”

She whimpered with disappointment when he lifted her from his lap.

“Hush . I’m no’ leavin’ you. ” Then he growled an order. “On your knees and grip the headboard—tae spare your tender bottom. I’m burnin’ for ye, Maggie—and this blaze won’t wait.”

Kneeling behind her, he pushed her thighs wider apart and entered her from behind in one long, moan-inducing stroke. She soon saw the benefits of this novel position. With her steadying herself in this way, his hands were free to roam.

As he moved deep inside her, every hot thrust an intimate brand, he cupped her breasts in his big hands, rolling and tweaking her nipples.

One hand strayed lower, and his thumb found the bud at the front of her sex, rubbing and circling until she cried out with need.

All the while, he murmured a mix of Gaelic and English endearments as he placed open-mouthed kisses on her neck, shoulder, and nipped her earlobe.

When they found release, they did so together. One of her hands released cool, unfeeling wood at the culmination to wind behind his neck as she turned her head for his kiss.

Their joining wasn’t just flesh—it was fire and forgiveness, soul-stirring and sacred.

Kneeling together, fused in the aftermath, Maggie said the words she didn’t get a chance to say in the meadow that day or the night of the peat fire.

“I love you, Duncan MacPherson. Always have. Always will.”

***

Much later, tangled in the sheets, languid but not sleepy, Duncan traced lazy lines across her back and hip.

“I will no’ lose you to a crumbling staircase,” he murmured.

“You already spanked me. Must you scold me, too?” Maggie said into the side of his neck.

“Aye, if it keeps you from places, you should no’ be,” he said, completely serious. “In fact, if you ever go near the north wing again, I’ll fetch the tawse .”

Her head snapped back, staring at him in alarm. “That split-tongued thick leather strap?”

“It will be a memorable Scottish lesson indeed.”

She grunted, indelicately. “You’re a barbarian.”

“You won’t be the first Englishwoman to call a Highlander that. Or arrogant, uncivilized, and exasperating.” He nuzzled her ear. “But you’re a na?ve, reckless, headstrong sassenach—so we make a fine pair.”

“I wouldn’t say na?ve,” she corrected him, not denying the rest.

“To our ways? I would. But I’m a good teacher and always up for more lessons.”

“Me and my tender backside can hardly wait.”

He chuckled, both hands cupping said body part and pulling her close. “Supper isn’t for another hour. Go to sleep, mo chridhe . I need my rest if I’m going to keep up with you.”

“Hmph,” she huffed, but snuggled closer, and soon her breathing evened out.

Duncan simply held her.

This was twice he’d found her near the north wing.

The damn thing was like a loadstone drawing the curious and the bold.

He didn’t want to crush her spirit with rules and restrictions—Maggie’s inquisitive nature was part of what he loved most about her.

But he couldn’t be by her side every hour, watching her steps.

Maybe he should tear the wing and tower down.

But that would mean dismantling the stone bit by bit, and demand untold hours of labor when the men were needed elsewhere.

And approval from the Development Department in Edinburgh, thanks to the historical designation under the new law a decade earlier.

He sighed in frustration, causing Maggie to stir. But she settled again.

Even if he had the funds and manpower to do the repairs, it would take time. Years, maybe. In the meantime, how did he keep his wee wife and the others who lived in the High Glen safe?

Short of taking a tawse to all of them, he’d set more patrols, add more locks, post signs, and pray nothing else happened. And, when possible, stick close to home.