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

by Elisa Braden

Was he a spirited woman who refused to be tamed and stuffed into an ill-fitting mold? No. He was a Huxley. Huxleys married. Huxleys bred. Huxleys did their duty.

Motherhood had a way of taking over one’s life. So did falling in love.

One by one, her sisters had fallen madly in love and promptly descended into a state of foolish preoccupation. Longing glances, fluttery lashes, florid Huxley Flushes. It was all a bit bizarre, really. Worse, they’d lost interest in discussing much of anything apart from their men and, eventually, their children. Even John—carefree, world-traveling, marriage-forswearing John—had fallen prey to the affliction.

To Kate, love was indistinguishable from a consuming parasite of the mind.

In her experience, there was no point ruminating upon whether a love match made sense. Love itself made none at all.

Rannoch was the charmer, particularly with the lasses. Every bit of trouble he’d ever landed in had been because of a lass or drink or, more often, both.

“Come to think of it, yer bride may need a salve when the tonic takes effect. ’Tis a powerful formulation. Not for the weak-kneed or those prone to chafing.” “For God’s sake.” He stopped. Turned. Glared. “There willnae be a bride! Any lass worth havin’ would take one look at me and flee in the other direction.”

Broderick was not a monster. He was a man. One who had been tortured, wrongfully imprisoned, and nearly killed. One dearly loved by his sister, his family. He must be protected, whatever the cost.

The way he glared down at her from his great height reminded her that it was a good thing she didn’t have to kiss him. She’d need a ladder and an entire bottle of wine.

“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?”

“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.”

“I want ye safe.” His low, quiet rumble jerked her head up. “Mayhap we didnae have the best beginnin’, lass. And I cannae promise ye easy because that’s as daft as promisin’ the moon. But I will stand betwixt ye and all others. Munro. Lockhart. So long as I’m alive, any man who seeks to harm ye will deal with me first. Ye ken?”

She’d laughed—twice—and his body had lit on fire. Everything inside him had wanted to take. Take and take and take. Her mouth, her breasts, her tongue. He’d wanted to fill her and drive gasps from those lips. He’d wanted to watch her come.

But you did not marry some ordinary milksop miss. I am a Huxley. Adversity is our fuel. Challenge us, and we only burn brighter.”

He wanted everything from her. He wanted to fill her and fuck her and make her understand no other man would ever give her this.

“Ye’re my wife,” he snarled as though he didn’t hear her. “Ye’ll sleep in my bed. Ye’ll take my cock into yer body and grow my bairns in yer womb.” His voice was pure gravel, his breathing harsh. He still hadn’t turned to look at her. “Ye’ll resign yerself to lovin’ only me, and nae for two or three years, lass. Forever. Do ye ken?”

If God expects a man to be honorable, He shouldnae send the devil to break him.”

“I’m nae the man I once was. Everybody mistakes that. They think I still have light in the dark places, ye ken? Mayhap if I did, I’d be worthy of ye. I’d be able to love ye easy. Soft. God knows ye deserve it, mo chridhe.”

Feeling him inside her had grown essential. The way water was essential. Or air. Or light. Without him, she would die.

“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.”