Chapter 27

27

“ I could toss ye back in the loch if ye like,” Doughall said as he led Freya through the woodland, ready to catch her if she stumbled over the twisting roots or snaring undergrowth.

She had not said a word since he had helped her back into her clothes and they had left the shore, heading deeper into the trees. If he did not know any better, he would have said that she seemed… disappointed.

Och, she’s nae goin’ to be too pleased about the weddin’ night then.

He resisted the sudden, overwhelming desire to smile. Of all the things that could have coaxed one to his lips, he had not thought it would be her sulking because he had put her back into her clothes.

He wondered if, perhaps, he had created a monster through their sporadic exploits into the realm of pleasure, raising her expectations too high.

Two monsters who’ve wound up together…

“What?” she muttered into the high neckline of her cloak, fogging the lenses of her spectacles.

“Seems ye’d be happier if I just threw ye back like a fish,” he replied, that smile still fighting to curve his lips.

She stared down at her feet, traipsing through the moss and fallen leaves. “I’m just tryin’ to warm up,” she replied. “I cannae expend any of me energy on talkin’ when I cannae feel me toes.”

“What were ye expectin’ when ye went swimmin’ naked at night?”

Her eyes widened, and in the glowing moonlight, her cheeks reddened. “I wouldnae be feelin’ the cold so much if I had the opportunity to actually swim. And I wouldnae have been naked if I’d kenned I was bein’ followed.”

“Ye should always conduct yerself as if ye are bein’ followed,” he chided lightly, appalled by the thought that someone else might have accidentally seen the splendor of his bride.

His temper flared, remembering the rabbit thief who might still be out there in the woods. It would do his reputation no favors, but Doughall would not hesitate to blind any other man who had looked upon Freya’s creamy skin—the swell of her perfectly ripe breasts, the sensuous hourglass of her waist curving into shapely hips, the soft swell of her stomach, and the faint freckles that dotted her bare body—to be mapped by his hand alone.

“I am to have nay freedom, then,” she mumbled, folding her arms across her chest, endearing in her momentary petulance.

“We have a pond in the gardens,” he said. “I can see it from me bedchamber window. Ye could swim naked there.”

She stared at him, aghast. “Doughall, if ye’re just goin’ to make me feel bad about wantin’ a moment alone in the loch, then perhaps ye should take me back to the castle.”

“A man cannae tease his bride?” Doughall replied in a flat voice.

Her stare became a squint of confusion. “Ye were… teasin’ me?” She paused, chewing on her lip in thought. “I didnae ken ye were capable of such a thing.”

Neither did I.

He shrugged and pressed on, weaving through the trees to their final destination. A place so secret that he had told no one, not even Ersie, about its existence. A place his mother had shown him when he was a boy.

As a younger man, he had visited often, but in recent years, he had been there less and less, occupied by too many other things to enjoy some peace and tranquility.

Freya seemed cheerier as they walked along, the gray clouds of her disappointment dispersing to reveal a sunnier disposition. He did not know what he had said exactly to bring a faint smile back to her lips and a shine to her eyes, but he was not going to risk the frown returning by asking outright.

Before long, Doughall spotted a familiar way-marker—a rock shaped like a cat that his mother had told him to look out for if he ever needed to find the secret place again. A horse chestnut tree stood above it, dropping conkers onto the forest floor, and faintly etched into the trunk of that tree was the arrow that he had carved there long ago.

“This way,” he said, resting his hand on the small of Freya’s back.

She peered up at him, a shy smile on her lips. “Where are ye takin’ me? I hope ye’re nae plannin’ to get rid of me before the weddin’.”

“Ye should read less,” he drawled, secretly amused by the drier side of her humor. “It’s addled yer mind.”

“Me mind is just fine, thank ye very much.” Her smile widened, her pace slowing as if she wanted to feel the touch of his hand more keenly.

A short while later, after following an overgrown trail that clearly had not been used by anything other than wildlife since the last time Doughall ventured there, he saw the border of that secret domain. Quickly, he stepped in front of Freya, blocking her view of it.

“Close yer eyes,” he said. “And be very quiet.”

“I dinnae ken if I can do both,” she replied, trying to peek around him.

He caught hold of her chin. “As if I’d let ye stumble, lass.”

Squinting slightly as if she still was not convinced, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. He waved his hand in front of her slowly, but he got no reaction. Satisfied that she could not see anything, he took hold of her hands and began to walk backward, his gaze fixed on her pensive face, leading her to his favorite spot in all the world.

“Can I open me eyes now?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Ye can open them when I say ye can,” he replied, glancing back over his shoulder to see how far he had left to go.

His eyes widened, his heart soaring in a way it had not done since he was a boy, looking upon the secret meadow. He had assumed that the season would have claimed all of the blooms by now, but it appeared that the wildflower meadow had known he was coming, putting on a late display of color and beauty for the couple.

Michaelmas daisies in snowy white, vivid pink, and pastel purple greeted his eyes, alongside sunflowers that should have wilted at least a month ago, orange and red crocuses with their hardy, almost waxy petals, and swathes of heather interspersed with plump thistles. But that was not all. Not to be outdone by the flora, the creatures of the meadow had decided to put on a display too.

“Open yer eyes,” he said breathlessly, moving Freya ahead of him.

He heard, rather than saw, her open her eyes. A gasp escaped her lips, her hand flying to her mouth in what he hoped was delighted surprise. Taking a half-step forward to get a better look at her face, he was rewarded by an expression so humbling, so incredible, that his chest swelled with pride.

Freya looked around the meadow in utter awe, her golden-brown eyes reflecting the ethereal glimmer of seemingly endless fireflies, creating their own night sky in that very meadow. They were a sea of constellations, twinkling within reach.

“What… is this?” she gasped, her voice catching. “It looks like… magic.”

“Nae magic, just fireflies,” he replied, though he could not deny that they made a person believe a little more in otherworldly things.

She took off running, spreading her arms wide. Doughall almost shouted after her, ready to scold her for chasing away the fireflies, but they did not move, continuing their exquisite light display for their eyes only.

In truth, they seemed to glow brighter, burning with the vibrations of her infectious enthusiasm as she stopped in the center of the meadow. Where the heather grew thickest, avoiding the more delicate wildflowers, she began to spin in dizzying circles, her laughter rising to the stars above.

Her earlier disappointment was nowhere to be found, but the same could not be said for Doughall’s desire to smile. He could not suppress the impulse any longer, his lips curling into a grin as he watched her revel in the beauty of this secret place.

I’ve never seen ye more lovely…

He could have happily stayed there for hours, just watching her spin, hearing her laugh, letting her giddiness sweep away the heaviness of the past twenty-one years. She was like medicine, relaxing every tense muscle, soothing every ache, the lightness of her unburdening him, taking the weight off his weary shoulders for a while.

Suddenly, she was running back to him, her red hair flying behind her, her eyes as bright as the fireflies that continued to dance in the increasing darkness. He was so unprepared for the impact of her slamming into him and throwing her arms around his neck that he almost stumbled backward, his arms quickly slipping around her to balance himself as much as to hold her.

In his tight embrace, she raised her gaze to his, her eyebrows rising a little as if surprised.

Slowly, she traced her fingertips up the back of his neck and along his jaw, coming to the still-smiling curve of his lips. As if she had never seen a smile before, she touched his mouth in a tender caress, tickling the sensitive skin as she observed it with intense curiosity.

“Ye can tease and ye can smile,” she murmured, transfixed. “Ye must be wrong, Doughall—this is magic.”

He rolled his eyes. “If ye’re goin’ to make a jest of it, I’ll stop.”

“Nay!” she yelped. “Nay, please dinnae. I wasnae jestin’, I promise. Please, keep smilin’—I like it so very much.”

If he was being honest with himself, he could not have wiped the smile off his face even if he had mustered every ounce of discipline he possessed. For one thing, he did not want to. This meadow had gone to such effort to put on a pretty display, it was only right that he offered it the joy it deserved in return.

“Thank ye,” she breathed, lightly stroking the corner of his mouth. “Thank ye for bringin’ me here… and for protectin’ me. Forgive me for nae showin’ me gratitude when ye deserved it. It was… unfair of me, considerin’ all ye have done. Trust me, I feel that gratitude now. In abundance. Thank ye. Truly, thank ye.”

He pulled her even closer, brushing the apple of her cheek with his thumb. “Ye’re forgiven for yer previous ingratitude.” Then, he leaned in, his smile a little sly as he softly whispered, “But I should still punish ye for runnin’ off into the night without a word and nearly catchin’ yer death in the loch. I told ye once, I’ll tell ye again—I couldnae bear the thought of bein’ a moment too late to get to ye if ye were in danger.”

He punctuated the sentence with a gentle kiss to her neck, pressing his smile to her soft skin as she trembled in his arms—not from the cold anymore, but with the anticipation that had been building since he pulled her to him in the loch, both of them stripped bare of clothes and artifice.

It’s goin’ to kill me, he wanted to tell her, but I cannae lie with ye. I cannae take the risk because if I ever lose control with ye, if I ever sink meself into the depths of ye, I willnae be able to stop ‘til I’ve spilled me seed inside ye.

He grazed his teeth across her earlobe, dipping his head to bite her neck gently, soothing the spot with a searing kiss, torturing himself with the breathy moan that slipped past her lips. Her back arched, pushing her body into his, her bosom heaving with a fervent desire that threatened to doom them both.

I should get her back to the castle. I should tell her to sleep in the library, with the door locked. I should go to Flynn in the distillery and lock meself in there until tomorrow. I should ? —

His lips caught hers in a fierce kiss that could only lead down one road. She melted into him, kissing him back with equal fervor, leaving him in no doubt as to how long she had been waiting for him to do that again.

She grasped fistfuls of his damp shirt while his hand cradled the curve of her neck, the other exploring the swell of her hip and the dip of her waist, grasping and pulling and feeling the give of her soft flesh.

If there was any magic to be found in the meadow, it was her—she was an enchantment, and he was bewitched, and if she was to take him in hand and draw him into the depths of her, he knew he would not be able to resist.

I should forbid her from touchin’ me, as I did before.

He nearly voiced the thought, but she released her grip on his shirt at the same moment and smoothed her palms over his chest, the sensation too tantalizing to prohibit. Aside from their dizzying kiss in the courtyard, too marked by what happened after to be counted, he could not remember the last time he had been touched by anyone. He never permitted it, but with her, he no longer had any desire to prevent it.

Her fingertips caressed his throat, his neck, running over his broad shoulders and back down his chest, sliding around to his back. As he kissed her harder, swept up in his need for her, her fingernails raked down his shoulder blades.

A shiver of pleasure and pain ran down his spine, his shoulder blades squeezing at the claw of her nails, a growl rumbling in the back of his throat.

Not only did she want him, but she wanted him to be rough.

Dinnae tempt me, lass.