Chapter 16

16

D oughall traced the rim of his glass with his fingertip, wondering how quickly she would explode if he yawned. He had not been looking at the clock, so he did not know how much time had passed, but he did know that Freya had been ranting for an eternity.

“I didnae want this… Ye should have heard him approachin’… What sort of protector are ye if ye cannae hear footsteps on frost… If ye’re that against it, if ye’re only bothered about tormentin’ me, then ye can find yerself someone else… I wanted to stay at MacNiall Castle, but far be it from me to voice me opinion…”

On and on, saying so much without saying much of anything at all. It was nothing he had not already heard, though he did not appreciate his warrior instincts being called into question. They had only failed him because of her, after all.

But they willnae fail me again. That is why I willnae touch ye again.

Despite having heard everything she said before, Doughall found himself listening to every word that fell from her sweet mouth. He never thought that Freya would be one to rant for so long. If he was being honest with himself, he liked that she had finally found her voice and was ready to defend herself. He just didn’t like the fact that he was the one on the receiving end of her wrath.

With every “Why must I always do what all of ye tell me to? Will ye ever hear a word I have to say?”, he noticed how her eyes darkened with rage, how the movements of her hands became more frantic. He listened and watched and said nothing until she stopped for a minute.

“Are ye done?” he asked bluntly, leaning on the armrest of his chair.

She blinked and pulled a coarse woolen blanket tighter around herself, tempting his mind to wonder what she was hiding beneath it. And why she had come to his study in such a state of undress in the first place—her slipper-covered feet suggested that she had been about to go to bed.

“Almost,” she said, tilting up her chin defiantly. “To conclude, I believe ye ought to let me be free to choose a real husband—one who can offer me a real marriage.” She paused, a glint in her eyes. “Laird MacMillen, perhaps. He is a laird who kens how to make a lass happy, who wouldnae ever threaten nae to touch her.”

Doughall was up and out of his chair in an instant, slinking around to the front of his desk like a wolf on the prowl, leaning back against it. His hands gripped the wooden edge and might have broken it if it had been made of weaker stuff.

Nae wise to provoke me, lass. Nae wise at all.

“Ye never did tell me if ye were jealous or nae,” she continued, only the bob of her throat betraying her nerves. Otherwise, she was putting on quite the performance.

Doughall pushed off the desk, walking slowly toward her. “If it wouldnae cause a clan war, I’d have broken Laird MacMillen’s arm at the shoulder.” He reached out, letting his palm hover over her waist. “The fingers that touched ye here, too.”

“What if he is the one I want?” she replied, the lie woven into each breathy word.

He rolled his shoulders, stretching the frustration of her question out of his neck. “If what ye want is to shed a thousand useless tears, wonderin’ where yer husband is, who he is with , vyin’ desperately for his attention once he’s bored of ye…”

“At least he would pretend to love me,” she whispered, her eyes shining in the dim light of the study.

“And ye want pretty falsehoods?”

She did not back down. “More than brutal truths. Ye dinnae want me in the slightest. With another man, I could at least pretend.”

Their gaze locked as they stood in crackling silence in the center of the room, Doughall’s hand still hovering above the dip of her waist. His fingertips yearned to touch her, to rip away the blanket and tear the seam of whatever she had on beneath until he could feel her skin against his.

Just one caress…

Like an inebriate, he had a feeling there was no such thing. One little taste would only make him ravenous for more, but if he denied himself a single drop, it would drive him mad. To be mad or to be starving… he could not decide which was better.

“What ye’re offerin’ me is empty, Doughall. It’s nothin’,” she said, her voice cracking. “A wife in name only. A husband who willnae even hold me hand on a cold day to keep it warm. Although, if I am to marry ye, I imagine every day will be a cold day.”

“Ye could do worse than lifelong protection, a promise of nay harm or cruelty, and bein’ free to do as ye please,” he replied nonchalantly, eager to discover just how far she intended to push him. It was almost as if she wanted to be punished.

Her eyes flashed. “We’ve already discovered what ‘being free to do as I please’ actually means. It means ye chargin’ in like a bull, ragin’ over the heinous act of—heaven forbid— readin’ a book. Och, and interruptin’ a perfectly enchantin’ dance.”

A pinch of regret caught him under the ribs, a reminder of what he had done in that sacred library, and what he might have continued to do if he had not collected himself in time.

“ And , of course, the fact that I wouldnae be able to touch ye,” she added. “How is that doin’ as I please? How would ye be a real husband? Ye might as well be a statue.”

Catching the edge of her blanket, Doughall raised his hand to cup her chin, the woolen fabric between her skin and his. “Soon enough, I will be yer real husband,” he said, his voice a rumble in the back of his throat. “And ye would do well to watch that smart tongue of yers if ye dinnae want a punishment unlike any I’ve given ye before. Unless…”

He brought his lips so close to hers, pulling back as she tried to rise on tiptoe—a movement that would surely mean a kiss. He did not finish his sentence, leaving it to mature like potent liquor in the air between them, certain that she would need to hear the end of it.

“Unless?” she murmured.

He nearly smiled, relishing the satisfaction of hearing that word. “Unless that is exactly why ye came to talk to me—to provoke me.”

“ Ye can be provoked?” she replied with a quiet snort. “I thought ye were supposed to be immovable. That’s what I heard, at least.”

I was… before ye stumbled into me life, and almost got yerself killed or worse.

Just the fleeting memory of that night by the loch made him want to pull her to him and hold her as he had held her in the courtyard—possessively, entirely, as if he never meant to let go. Not in the face of her brother, not in the face of anyone who might threaten to take her away. He would shield her with his body, take a thousand arrows for her before he let a single scratch mar her smooth skin.

“It’s nae wise to try and provoke me,” he said.

She tilted her chin up, a new confidence in her gaze. “But, Doughall, what can ye possibly do now?”

“Ye ken what I can do.”

She shook her head, the movement somehow taunting. “That was before.” Her teeth grazed her lower lip. “But ye just promised me braither that ye wouldnae touch me. How can ye ‘punish’ me if ye cannae lay a hand on me?”

Clearly, she thought she was being exceedingly clever, thinking she had some kind of upper hand. Doughall was almost sorry to disappoint her.

“Ye’re forgettin’ somethin’.” He leaned down, his breath whispering against the shell of her ear. “What did I tell ye on the night that we met?”

A soft gasp slipped tortuously past her lips. “That… ye dinnae make promises.”

“I rarely keep ‘em either,” he growled, letting his tongue follow his breath.

Enough was enough. He needed a taste of her, and the Devil Himself would not have been able to prevent him from taking his fill… but that did not mean he could not toy with her a little more, to make her all the sweeter.

He brushed his lips against her neck, down to where it curved to meet her shoulder. Her body went still, her breath hitching, as if anticipating what he was about to do.

He bit her soft flesh and dragged his teeth up slowly, drawing a sharp gasp from her throat. And as he dipped to bite again, he did not let his teeth sink in too deeply, sucking that sweet skin into his mouth instead, leaving his mark so that if any other man dared come too close, he would know to whom she belonged.

She moaned, the vibrations making his lips tingle, urging his mouth to capture the sensation. He kissed and tasted the column of her throat, edging closer to her lips before pulling away again. She would not get what she wanted that easily.

Her hands moved up to grasp fistfuls of his shirt, the sudden motion causing the blanket to drop from her shoulders. The feel of her ripe breasts against him and the rustle of flimsy fabric made him step back, his hungry eyes roving over her, taking her in.

“What a naughty, little lass ye are, comin’ to me in yer nightclothes,” he said in a silky voice, bringing his gaze back up to hers.

“I… couldnae wait,” she murmured, her voice thick with the same temptation that had caused so much trouble before.

Indeed, it was about to get Doughall a wife, despite that being the last thing he wanted.

“I bet that’s a long overdue lesson ye need to be taught,” he said, sliding his hand around her neck and pulling her to him. He moved to kiss her but held himself back just enough. “Patience.”

“I—”

He kissed her then, hard and fast, so suddenly that he knew she would have little time to react, to savor the moment. That would come later, with patience.

Pulling back quickly, he noted her wide eyes and ragged breaths, so stunned that she stumbled back a half step. He caught her hands to steady her and slowly began to walk backward, toward his desk.

“Are ye goin’ to… make me write the word out… a thousand times?” she panted, following his lead.

He said nothing.

What would be the point of that?

Still silent, feeling the change in the air as she allowed herself to be guided by him, he wished he could bottle the anticipation and drink it whenever temptation crept up on him again.

“Sit,” he instructed, stepping out of the way.

She moved to sit in the chair that her brother had vacated.

“On the desk,” he growled. “Sit.”

He heard every sawing inhale and trembling exhale, music to his ears, as she took the last step toward the desk. With her back to him, she braced her hands on the wood and seemed to take a moment for herself, slowing those exquisitely labored breaths.

I wish I could hear yer thoughts…

But her body would have to speak for her.

Head held higher, she finally turned to face him, and with a gleam in her eyes, she lifted herself onto the edge of the desk. Exactly where he wanted her.

“There’s a good wife,” he purred, carefully removing her spectacles. “Now… a lesson ye’ll nae soon forget.”