The Taming of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland, #2)

by Elisa Braden

“If he approaches ye again, ye’ll come to me, and I’ll take care of it.” “Oh, no. You mustn’t.” He glowered. “Why?” “Broderick,” she whispered, placing a second hand flat over his heart. “How am I to protect you if you won’t let me?” God, she stole his breath from his body. Rain had started. It was pelting him now, but he didn’t feel it. All he felt was her hands. All he saw was her eyes. She meant it. She honestly intended to protect him.

She patted him with both hands and laughed. God, her laugh. It was a crack at the beginning, a wee hitch in the middle, and a cascade of fluttery giggles at the end. It was as wide, warming, and free as sunlight on water.

“It’s not fair. You deserved to choose your own wife. Bloody hell, that’s the least of what you deserved. But that is not what’s happened.” His hand tightened over Broderick’s shoulder blade until the force was bruising. “My baby sister might be vexing. She might make your head spin with her nonsense. But she is yours, and you will take care of her. Do we understand one another?” Broderick’s jaw hardened, along with his gut. He grasped Huxley’s wrist and forced it away. “Fine,” he growled. “Ye want me to say it? She’s mine.” An odd sensation rippled over his skin. Hot. Pleasurable. He ignored it. “Now, kindly take yer men and yer wife and leave me alone with my bride.”

Oh, God. He’d rolled up his sleeves.

“I should be gainin’ somethin’ from this arrangement, wouldnae ye say?” She blinked. “Your freedom isn’t sufficient?” “Some men dinnae consider leg shackles freedom.” “Hmm. ‘Men are April when they woo, December when they wed.’” She quirked a smile. “It seems my winter will be as cold as Mr. McInnes warned.” “I havenae wooed ye, Kate. Else, ye wouldnae be speakin’ of winter.”

His nostrils flared. He nodded, his eye burning as it traveled her throat and flickered briefly to her bosom. It didn’t linger, however. “We’ll discuss this more at dinner.” His arm retreated. He rubbed his nape and backed up with a grimace. “I smell like the coos.” She couldn’t help it. She laughed. He didn’t. Rather, he stared down at her with dark intensity. “Apologies.” She covered her mouth with her fingertips and peeked up at him. “I wasn’t laughing at you. I just adore the way you say cow.” “Coo?” She giggled. Nodded. The slightest quirk of his mouth lifted the scar. “Highland coos shouldnae be mocked, m’lady.” “I wouldn’t dare. And you don’t smell like them,” she insisted. “You smell … splendid.”

She was maddening. Gazing up at him with those rich, dancing brown eyes. Laughing with that crack-hitch-and-tumble rhythm. When she’d gone breathless at his mention of wooing her, he’d nearly forgotten how hideous he was. The way she looked at him, she didn’t seem to see the scars at all.

“What he did—I cannot … Heavens, how you must hate him.” Her hand reached for his, and he didn’t have the strength to pull away. “I will not be the weapon wielded against you. I refuse to add a single drop of suffering to what you’ve already endured.” Her smile trembled at the corners. “I know I sometimes seem a fribble. Perhaps I am. But I shall protect you, as well. With all my strength.” His heart felt as though it had been kicked with a hard boot. Lust warred with something deeper, painfully sharp. He forced himself to remain still.

“I meant to do the right thing,” he continued. “I meant to leave ye here, happy to be rid of me.” Granted, it had been a difficult night, but he wasn’t making sense. She glanced at her cup. She hadn’t had that much whisky, had she? “Pain is nothin’, I thought. But that pain and this pain arenae the same. Christ, they arenae on the same continent.” His voice was raw, his arm flexing as though he were clenching his fist over and over. “So, I’ll keep ye, mo chridhe. I’ll keep ye, and ye’ll be mine.” A strange, pulsing wave moved through her. “’Tis selfish, I ken. To take my pleasure with ye, to demand yer love and expect ye to take me as yer own. I might leave ye with bairns. I might break yer wee heart. Selfish, aye. I’m a blackhearted bastard. I’ve nae excuses.” Her own heart clenched so hard, she covered it with her palm. “By God, I’ve sacrificed everythin’ for nothin’. And I want one bluidy thing for myself. One precious thing.” “Broderick?” “Mayhap ye prefer Rannoch. Too bad.” “I—I don’t.” “Ye’re my wife,” he snarled as though he didn’t hear her.

His thumb stroked her cheek, brushed her lower lip with a sensual tug. “Do ye hear me? I want ye more than I’ve ever wanted any bluidy thing in my existence. Ye’re a fire in my blood, mo chridhe. These wee curls along yer cheeks. The way ye shine when ye smile. The sweet scent of ye and the sweeter way ye touch me when ye think I’m asleep.”

“In the Bridewell, the only safe place was the Dark Cell. No window. No light. I came to crave it, would have the gaolers toss me in there as often as possible.” He stroked her hair, knuckling the curls near her damp cheek. “That’s where I live. In the black. But every now and then, my wee, bonnie wife smiles, and a bit of light comes for a visit. Then, she laughs, and that light dances.” He quirked a smile of his own. “Ye’re a flame in my darkness. I wouldnae have predicted it, given how we met. But nothin’s ever been truer.”

Tis you, Kate Huxley MacPherson. I didnae have a heart before ye wandered into the dark and decided ye belonged here.”

“I love ye. But that’s a weak fucking word for what I feel, Kate.”

“Le cùmhnanta teann ’s le banntaibh daingeann. ’S le snaidhm a dh’fhanas ’s nach trèig.”