Sins of the Highlander (A Highland Erotic Romance) (11 page)

Jannet bit her lip. “Aye, lady. I won’t do it again.”

She smiled. “Good lass. Now run along and fetch yourself some breakfast.”

“Aye, Lady Aileen.” With a tentative smile, Jannet left the room.

Aileen turned back to her table and braced her hands on its edge. Could it be true? Had Niall slaked his lust on one of John’s whores?

And what did it matter? She had no claim on him.

Still, jealousy curdled in her gut. Insane, angry jealousy.

She should not listen to gossip. Half the time it wasn’t even true.

But last night, she had seen him. She’d
seen
him.

Still, it could have been someone else. Perhaps Jannet had seen the similarity too, and just made an assumption that the man she saw was Niall…

It hurt. The very idea that he’d turn to a whore drove splinters deep into her raw, bleeding heart.

It couldn’t be true.

If it was, she would kill him. She pressed her lips together until they were numb. Nay, she would kill them both.

And what would she say to John? She was set to meet with him this morning. How could she request permission to marry Niall when she had reason to believe he’d bedded someone else last night? How could she voluntarily marry another man who would betray her?

With shaking fingers, she finished her braid by herself. As she tied a ribbon over its end, someone knocked on the door.

“Auntie Aileen? It’s me, Margaret.”

Aileen blinked slowly, thrusting the wicked, blinding jealousy aside. “Come in, Margaret.”

The lass flew in, straight into Aileen’s embrace.

“Oh, Auntie! I’m to travel to the Lowlands to meet my new husband tomorrow. Tomorrow!”

Aileen wrapped her arms around her niece. She had been in a similar position long ago. She remembered the fear and uncertainty as if it were yesterday. Still, she knew for certain that Margaret was to marry a much stronger, much better and much more formidable man than Walter Munro.

She stroked Margaret’s back. “It will be all right.” She tried to recall what would have made her feel better when she was in Margaret’s position, but she couldn’t think of anything. The only thing Margaret could do was meet her fate with her head held high.

“You will make your da proud,” she murmured.

Margaret sniffed, and Aileen pulled back, grasping both the girl’s hands. “Have you ever seen the Earl of Dolphinton?”

“Nay,” the girl whispered.

“He stayed at Dornoch for a month once, so I’ve spent some time with him. He’s polite and gentlemanly—tall and dark for a Lowlander, with dark hair and piercing black eyes. He’s quite clever as well.”

“But Da has always said Lowlanders are all conniving and untrustworthy. How will I speak to such a man? Why would Da do this to me, Auntie?”

“Oh, no,
a leannan
,” Aileen soothed, “your betrothed isn’t conniving and untrustworthy. Did you know he spent some of his childhood in the Highlands? He speaks Gaelic as well as any of us and has great respect for our ways. Margaret”—she cupped the girl’s chin to look into her light blue eyes—“your da shows how much he cares for you by making this match. The earl is as proud and fierce as any Highlander, and he is powerful—with allies not only in the Highlands but in England as well. And,” she added, remembering his visit to Dornoch, “he is very attached to those he holds dear. Naught matters more to him than his love for his family. In that way, he is very much like your da.”

That seemed to soothe Margaret. Her tears slowed, then abated. Aileen knew there was no one the girl idolized more than the laird. She grasped Margaret’s hands and gave a reassuring squeeze.

Just then, Aileen caught movement in the open doorway at the edge of her vision. She looked over Margaret’s shoulder to see Niall MacRae hovering on the threshold. Her hands tightened over Margaret’s until the girl turned and saw him too.

Niall gazed at the floorboards, and Aileen could see that the tips of his ears had reddened. He bowed to the laird’s daughter. “Forgive me for intruding. I’ll return later.”

“Don’t go!” Aileen was surprised by her own outburst. “Please,” she said, more softly. But there was a grimness to her tone. She gave Margaret’s hands one final squeeze and released them.

He raised one inquisitive eyebrow and glanced at Margaret, who looked from Aileen to Niall. With a soft smile, Margaret said goodbye and slipped past Niall.

Fisting her hands at her sides, Aileen rose from her chair.

Why had he come? Had he really been with a whore last night? After everything they’d planned? After everything she was prepared to sacrifice to be with him? The questions reverberated in her mind.
Why, why, why?

He took a step inside, then turned and closed the door behind him. That action by itself nearly shattered Aileen’s nerve. Should she demand he get out or leap into his arms?

“Aileen—”

“Don’t speak to me!”

Startled by her outburst, she clamped her mouth shut. Tears pricked behind her eyes, but she would not let them fall. Not for this.

In two long strides, he came to her, capturing her body inside the curve of his powerful arm, crushing her breasts against his solid chest. His sea-blue eyes glittered down at her.

“I’ve no intention of speaking to you,” he said, his voice a near-growl.

Instantly, a flush bloomed between Aileen’s legs. Her blood coursed downward in a tingling rush, plumping the lips of her sex, causing the sensitive folds to engorge and flare with heat. Fisting his plaid in her hands, Aileen fought against the sensations and stared up at him, knowing her eyes were narrow and accusing. “Why…how could you—”

But his lips descended over hers, stopping her midsentence.

He’d been with the whore. She knew it without a doubt. She could smell the bitch—her syrupy-sweet perfume was all over him.

Aileen hated him,
hated
him. She would kill him.

But, oh, God, how she wanted him. How she’d missed his lips, his hard body, his cock pounding into her…driving her until she was out of control, making her scream.

She crushed her lips against him hard. She tasted blood. She hoped it was his.

“How could you?” she cried.

Without releasing her hold on his lips, she found the pin of his plaid, fisted her hands in the fabric, and yanked. His tunic plaid tore, and, grimly satisfied by the ragged screech of ripping fabric, Aileen’s lips curled into a grimace.

Aileen crashed against the wall, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. She hadn’t even realized he’d pushed her backward. Hooking one of her legs around his hip, she forced his body closer to hers. Niall’s hands fumbled between them, but her fingers had found the flaming hot skin beneath his shirt. She raked her nails up his back, hard.

Groaning, he jerked her skirts up and clamped his big palms over her thighs. He lifted her clear up off the floor, spreading her legs and pressing her against the cold stone wall. The rigid length of him slid against the sodden, sensitive tissues between her thighs, and she cried out, a low sound of combined pleasure and anger, against his lips.

His body crushed hers against the wall, and finally their lips separated.

“I hate you!” she sobbed.

With a feral snarl, he pushed her down, impaling her body with his cock. The angry words died in her throat. She gripped his shoulders and wrapped both legs around him as he pulled back and heaved inside her, slamming her body against the wall.

Aileen dug her fingernails into his skin and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting not to scream at the unbearable mix of ecstasy and pain, the opposing emotions of love and hate. After two thrusts, a tidal wave of sensation crashed down over her, and she dove into it, forgetting everything but the rush of tumbling, rolling pleasure.

Two more thrusts and Niall joined her. Silent, clinging to one another, their bodies heaved as they rode the wave together.

When the contractions finally began to recede, Aileen found her face crushed into the crook between Niall’s head and shoulder. He supported her weight over him, pressing his forehead into the wall, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs. As if he realized her discomfort, his fingers softened their grip and she slid down the length of his body.

His hands moved up until they wrapped around her waist, drawing her away from the wall and against his chest. Still, he did not look at her. His harsh breaths resonated around her, the only sound in the room.

Her intuition blazed, and Aileen knew with certainty that this was not the behavior of a man who’d been well-pleasured by a whore last night. He might have been with a woman, but he hadn’t bedded her.

Opening her palms, she stroked the welts on his shoulders. Slick blood covered her fingers.

“Thank you,
mo chridhe
,” Niall whispered.

“Why are you thanking me? I thought you…you…”

“I didn’t.”

She pressed her forehead against the front of his shoulder, all the pent-up anger and jealousy releasing from her in a flood. “I know.”

“I only want you, Aileen. No other woman. I…needed you.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I hurt you.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Nay.”

Finally he pulled away. Through blurry eyes, she gazed up at him. His look was tender.

“The laird…” He shook his head slightly, and she read the pain in his blue eyes as clear as if it had been words written in a book.

Her heart shattered.

Her brother had said no.

Chapter Ten

“Sister.” John took both of Aileen’s hands in his own and squeezed. He looked older than when she had last seen him. Gray streaks ran through his hair, crinkles fanned from the corners of his eyes and deep creases lined the edges of his lips. “It has been a long time.”

She nodded. “Two years.”

“And I see your beauty hasn’t diminished.”

She gazed past him at the heavy tapestry on the wall. “Thank you, John.”

John chuckled and she glanced at him again. His appetite for enormously expensive clothing hadn’t changed, but the English influence was even more present than it had been the last time she’d seen him. He wore a gilt-trimmed jacket and matching breeches with tall boots of the finest quality of leather. His shirt was made of linen, and trimmed with lace. His cloak lay over the back of his chair—wool lined with ermine.

Yet despite the garish and somewhat feminine attire, something about him seemed gentler than when she’d last seen him. More thoughtful. She hoped this was a good sign.

“I haven’t much time, Aileen,” he said. “As you’ve probably heard, we are sending Margaret to her betrothed tomorrow.”

“Aye, brother. Thank you for seeing me.”

“I did wish to let you know, however, that I have chosen the next man you shall marry.”

Though she knew she shouldn’t be surprised, she was. Something deep inside her clenched hard, and nausea swelled.

Stepping forward, she swiped her tongue over her dry lips before she spoke. “John, I’ve come to beg your indulgence.”

His blue eyes narrowed and the shrewd, hawkish look she remembered so well swept across his face. “Have you, now?”

“I have done my duty—I married a man of your choosing when I was but sixteen years old. I’ve spent the past ten years mired in a living hell. Please, I beg you, give me some say in my next husband.”

His expression softened, but he shook his head in denial. “Nay, Aileen, that cannot be. Walter Munro wasn’t so bad. He was old and weak.”

Aileen stiffened her spine. How utterly stupid her brother could be! In an effort to hide the jumble of her thoughts, she dropped her gaze to the carpet. “My husband is not yet two months in the grave. Please let us refrain from discussing him.”

“Very well.” John leaned back in his chair, resting one forearm negligently on the carved armrest. “Who then?”

“The man I have in mind—the man I wish to marry—is kind, generous and honorable. He has served you faithfully for many years. I have watched him with his men and he inspires harmony and loyalty among them. They would do anything for him.”

“Who is it?”

“He doesn’t possess a great deal in the way of land or riches, but I can compensate you for your loss. I would offer all the holdings from my mother besides those of Dornoch—”

“
Who
, Aileen?”

Terrified of her brother’s reaction, she choked out the words. “Niall MacRae.”

The laird’s lips twitched. “Oh, is that so?”

“Aye, that is so. I know you have already received him. I know he doesn’t have much to offer, but I offer you my lands. Surely that’s enough—”

“No.”

“Please—”

“I said no, Aileen.” The laird’s voice was almost gentle. “I’m sorry, but I cannot grant your fancy based on infatuation.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “It isn’t an infatuation.” The lashing certainty in her voice snapped through the hall like a whip. “I love him. And he loves me.”

“It would please me to grant your wish,” John said on a sigh. “But unfortunately, the world does not turn on your shortsighted concept of love.”

“You love your wife,” Aileen said stubbornly. Despite his whores, John was, by all accounts, besotted with his new young wife. Castle gossip did have some value, she supposed.

“Fortunately, my desires and the clan’s needs coincided on that matter. But in this, they do not. The clan would gain nothing from aligning you with MacRae.”

“You would gain thousands of acres!” she exclaimed.

“Not enough.”

In one last, desperate attempt, she offered the one thing that, until now, had always been most important to her—her home. “Dornoch, then. I offer you Dornoch as well.”

It hurt her to say those words. But not as much as being separated from Niall forever would hurt.

The laird’s face softened even more. He knew how much she cared about Dornoch. “It is too late. I have already signed the documents. I’ve betrothed you to Gilbert Dunbar.”

Oh, God. Black spots swam in front of her eyes. She struggled to remain standing, to keep from sinking into a helpless, suppliant puddle on the floor.