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Authors: The Highlander's Desire
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attention for a change when Sigrid and her wee brat had sailed into Kilgorra harbor, looking for a home.
That woman with her Norse speech and strange ways should have stayed at Kearvaig with her dead husband’s family. ’Twas entirely unfair that the fair-haired wench—a foreigner, at that—should have snared Catrìona’s father in marriage.
Ach, but she’d been a comely one. And Catrìona’s father had been unable to resist her wiles. He’d allowed Sigrid to distract him from Catrìona’s grief over the loss of her own beloved mother, and he’d taken Sigrid MacIver to his bed. He’d married her and then thrown his preference for the woman’s fair daughter in Catrìona’s face.
Catrìona had not cared one whit when the Norsewoman had died birthing her bairn. And she suspected that if the woman’s son had not died at birth, then she might very well have been motivated to . . .
Well, her actions likely would have depended upon how much her father had doted upon the bairn—and ignored her .
She watched Anna kneel before the fireplace, arranging bricks of peat on the grate and lighting the fire. When she stood up to leave and faced the table to give a slight curtsey, Catrìona took great satisfaction in the smudge of filthy ashes on her cheek. Not so perfect now, eh?
Her stepsister deserved that degradation and more.
Once she was given her leave, Anna picked up that horrid feline she favored and disappeared down the steps to the kitchen. Mayhap Catrìona should see to it that the foul cat disappeared. ’Twould serve the wench right.
She turned to Lachann, wishing there was a way to avoid Cullen on the morrow. Because when she beckoned him next, she wanted him to be mad with lust. Ach, she doubted she would choose Cullen for her husband, for he had nowhere near the wealth of the MacMillans. But she could enjoy him now.
She caught his eye and nearly laughed aloud. He was so easy to tease, and knowing that his cock was becoming hard under his plaid was incredibly arousing.
He was an adequate bedmate, though not half as inventive as Eòsaph Drummond. And Eòsaph did not mind when Birk Ramsay joined them in the cave for some brazenly stimulating activities. She wished Birk had come to the chapel with Eòsaph that afternoon, then mayhap she would not have felt quite so needy right now.
She felt Cullen squirm beside her, and surreptitiously slid her hand under his plaid and onto his thigh. And then up.
He made a strangled sound, then coughed to cover it when she cupped his ballocks in her hand.
While Catrìona grasped Macauley’s jewels, she observed Lachann MacMillan listening intently to her father, trying to make sense of his rambling discourse on the history of Kilgorra whiskey. And she smiled, thinking about the tryst she would have with Cullen upon the morrow in the locked office of the distillery, with Geordie Kincaid shuffling his papers just outside.
A nna felt naught but relief when there was no more to do besides scoop up the cat, Effie, and escape from her stepfather’s great hall.
She’d heard Laird MacDuffie’s rambling blather about the distillery, and it pleased her to note that Lachann MacMillan kept his own counsel for the most part.
She’d sensed his eyes upon her, and though his gaze had not exactly unnerved her, she’d felt a distinctly warming effect on her skin. Her face had heated, and the tips of her breasts had tightened so they were excruciatingly sensitive. She cuddled furry Effie tightly to her chest to make the sensation go away.
Her gaze had been inexorably drawn to MacMillan, and she could not help but notice the shadow of a beard on his square jaw. His dark hair curled slightly at his nape, and his big hand was curled in a deceptively innocent manner ’round his mug. Anna knew how potent those hands were, and not only from the way they’d dealt with Kyla and Birk. Even now, Anna could feel the energy of his touch, the leashed power that he wielded.
Ach, ’twas
That woman with her Norse speech and strange ways should have stayed at Kearvaig with her dead husband’s family. ’Twas entirely unfair that the fair-haired wench—a foreigner, at that—should have snared Catrìona’s father in marriage.
Ach, but she’d been a comely one. And Catrìona’s father had been unable to resist her wiles. He’d allowed Sigrid to distract him from Catrìona’s grief over the loss of her own beloved mother, and he’d taken Sigrid MacIver to his bed. He’d married her and then thrown his preference for the woman’s fair daughter in Catrìona’s face.
Catrìona had not cared one whit when the Norsewoman had died birthing her bairn. And she suspected that if the woman’s son had not died at birth, then she might very well have been motivated to . . .
Well, her actions likely would have depended upon how much her father had doted upon the bairn—and ignored her .
She watched Anna kneel before the fireplace, arranging bricks of peat on the grate and lighting the fire. When she stood up to leave and faced the table to give a slight curtsey, Catrìona took great satisfaction in the smudge of filthy ashes on her cheek. Not so perfect now, eh?
Her stepsister deserved that degradation and more.
Once she was given her leave, Anna picked up that horrid feline she favored and disappeared down the steps to the kitchen. Mayhap Catrìona should see to it that the foul cat disappeared. ’Twould serve the wench right.
She turned to Lachann, wishing there was a way to avoid Cullen on the morrow. Because when she beckoned him next, she wanted him to be mad with lust. Ach, she doubted she would choose Cullen for her husband, for he had nowhere near the wealth of the MacMillans. But she could enjoy him now.
She caught his eye and nearly laughed aloud. He was so easy to tease, and knowing that his cock was becoming hard under his plaid was incredibly arousing.
He was an adequate bedmate, though not half as inventive as Eòsaph Drummond. And Eòsaph did not mind when Birk Ramsay joined them in the cave for some brazenly stimulating activities. She wished Birk had come to the chapel with Eòsaph that afternoon, then mayhap she would not have felt quite so needy right now.
She felt Cullen squirm beside her, and surreptitiously slid her hand under his plaid and onto his thigh. And then up.
He made a strangled sound, then coughed to cover it when she cupped his ballocks in her hand.
While Catrìona grasped Macauley’s jewels, she observed Lachann MacMillan listening intently to her father, trying to make sense of his rambling discourse on the history of Kilgorra whiskey. And she smiled, thinking about the tryst she would have with Cullen upon the morrow in the locked office of the distillery, with Geordie Kincaid shuffling his papers just outside.
A nna felt naught but relief when there was no more to do besides scoop up the cat, Effie, and escape from her stepfather’s great hall.
She’d heard Laird MacDuffie’s rambling blather about the distillery, and it pleased her to note that Lachann MacMillan kept his own counsel for the most part.
She’d sensed his eyes upon her, and though his gaze had not exactly unnerved her, she’d felt a distinctly warming effect on her skin. Her face had heated, and the tips of her breasts had tightened so they were excruciatingly sensitive. She cuddled furry Effie tightly to her chest to make the sensation go away.
Her gaze had been inexorably drawn to MacMillan, and she could not help but notice the shadow of a beard on his square jaw. His dark hair curled slightly at his nape, and his big hand was curled in a deceptively innocent manner ’round his mug. Anna knew how potent those hands were, and not only from the way they’d dealt with Kyla and Birk. Even now, Anna could feel the energy of his touch, the leashed power that he wielded.
Ach, ’twas
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