Chapter Ten

Callum

He was fighting a hard-on so huge he felt light-headed, but still Callum struggled to be rational. To stop from doing exactly what Molly wanted him to do. Only, she was right. His suit was dirty.

He’d call Mack. That’s what he’d do. He’d call Mack and ask him to fetch him a new suit or something clean to wear. Then he’d take off the kilt he’d bought from a local vendor.

But an aggressive knock on the bathroom door reminded Callum that at that point, he had no hopes of changing her mind.

“Let’s go, princess!” Molly shouted. “Those logs aren’t going to throw themselves!”

Rolling his eyes and tucking his hair behind his ear, Callum sighed and pushed open the bathroom door. He shoved the muddy bundle of his suit into Molly’s arms and marched right past her. Behind him, she whistled, and he couldn’t help but grin. Checking around him, he flipped up the back of his kilt and gave her a quick show.

She laughed. “Hot damn!”

As he headed along the field’s edge towards Mack, Callum noticed a few curious looks from spectators. Whispers traveled through the crowd. No one expected to see him on the Highland Games field. And yet there he was, dressed in a kilt, heading for the line of competitors awaiting their turn.

“Your Grace.” Mack gave a nod of his head. “I’ve added you to the list for the log toss. The Master of Games is more than pleased to have your participation.”

Callum patted him on the shoulder as he turned to walk along with him.

“Sir?”

Stretching out his arm across his chest, Callum looked over at Mack, who clearly wanted to ask him something.

“Sir, might I ask who has caused you to change your mind regarding participating in the games?” A knowing smile was on Mack’s face. “As far as I was aware, you decided quite firmly against it.”

Callum didn’t like that Mack obviously knew it wasn’t “what” changed his mind, but “who.” When he remained silent, Mack’s smile grew wider.

“I see our guest has had a rather…” He paused and searched for the right word. “…A rather transformative effect on you, Your Grace.”

Callum shook his head and swung out his arms to stretch his muscles. “She’s a pain in the ass is what she is.”

“I feel you are quite the same for our strange Miss Lane.”

“Yes, well–”

Callum froze mid-step and turned slowly to face Mack. As his heart rate spiked, he leaned in to whisper, “You mean Miss Rose?”

Mack winked and clapped his young friend on the shoulder. Thank God no one was listening, Callum thought, in shock. He could well imagine the look on his mother’s face if she discovered some nobody artist from Brooklyn was painting her precious son, let alone fucking him. He dragged Mack away from the crowd.

“How long have you known?”

Mack chuckled. “No need to worry, lad. During your first sitting session, I got an email from the real Priscilla Rose about a family emergency and other unfortunate delays. I went straight away to inform you, but then I saw the way you were looking at her, and she at you.”

Callum rubbed at his eyes. “Am I making a terrible mistake, Mack? I’m just trying to be the man a duke should be, but she’s so…I can’t…”

He sighed from the struggle to describe the indescribable effect Molly had on him.

“She’s a magnet,” he finally spit out. “She’s a magnet and I can’t help drawing closer and closer.”

Just then the Master of Games announced Callum’s name over the speakers. It was his turn at the log toss. Mack smiled and nodded towards the field.

“Go on then, lad. You’ll figure it out. I’m delaying the real Priscilla Rose for as long as I can. But, if I may, sir -- a word of advice?”

“From you? Always.”

“Don’t decide what you want to do about Miss Lane as the Duke of Roxburghe.”

As Callum’s name again sounded from the loudspeakers positioned high above the stands, he had no time to ask Mack exactly what he meant. He was the Duke. How else was he supposed to decide?

He ran out onto the field where other competitors waited, surprised at the volume and enthusiasm of cheering from the main stands. When he’d taken on this position after his father’s death, he’d presented himself before them. He’d given speeches and attended town meetings and waved at the Kelso Arbor Day parade. But until now, he’d never received such a loud and welcoming reception. He attempted a small royal wave toward the stands. The cheering boomed.

He was actually enjoying this, something he had never thought possible after his brother Jamie’s accident. The last time he’d competed in the Scottish Games had been before then, and afterward he’d sworn he wouldn’t do it again. But then Molly Lane happened. Damn pushy American, he thought. He couldn’t help but smile.

Memories intruded, spurred on by the invigorating chill against his chest, the nerves from competition, the rush of blood as the crowd cheered: it was all as it had been long ago, when he’d competed with Jamie as kids, and yet he’d believed nothing in his life could ever be the same after Jamie was gone.

“Your toss, Your Grace,” Patrick Stewart said with a bow, acting as if they hadn’t been friends since they were each in diapers.

Callum couldn’t really blame him for that, though. After Jamie’s death, he’d withdrawn from his old life of partying hard and often. After the passing of his father, he’d pulled back even further from his friends. When he became Duke, he’d practically cut himself off from anything and everything that reminded him of who he could no longer be.

Callum wiped his hands on his kilt and stood before the end of the log.

“What’d you throw, Stewart?”

“Scored an 8.6.”

“And you’re in first?”

“That’d be correct.”

Callum grinned. “Well, I hope you’re contented quite the same with second.”

And so, forgetting his royal responsibilities, forgetting the mud-stained suit crumpled in Molly’s arms, and forgetting his promise to never again enjoy these games, Callum gripped the larch tree and launched it towards the gray clouds.

* * *

Sweaty, his kilt covered in mud, Callum shook hands with the crowd gathered around him. It had been a long, hard, and amazing day. He’d participated in the log toss, the hammer throw, and for the traditional grand finale, the tug-of-war.

For the first time, he’d felt joy in his duties as he drank and sang along with the bagpipers like everyone else. He was tired and dirty, but he hadn’t felt this invigorated in a really long time.

The crowds around him started to dissipate as everyone headed over to The Badger to continue the festivities. Molly stood off to the side, leaning against the empty stands. Throughout the afternoon, he’d caught glimpses of her cheering him on. None of this would’ve happened without her pestering.

He smiled and walked over to her. She smiled, too, sipping her pint while she watched him approach. Blue and white ribbons were braided into her blonde curls, slightly damp from the fine, misting rain that had started an hour earlier. As he neared, he realized her eyes were the same color as his family’s crest flags, which had flown over Floors Castle for centuries. That blue in her eyes was in his blood, pulsing through his veins.

“No more babies to kiss?” she joked.

Callum laughed, and it felt so good, being here with her. “I’m all kissed out.”

She raised a mischievous eyebrow. “I do hope that’s not true,” she said over the lip of her pint glass.

Callum glanced at the dirt parking lot near the fields. Only a couple of cars remained, everyone else having left for the pub. Vendors’ stands were packed up for the day. Mack had left earlier to drive Callum’s mother home.

Molly was still here, waiting expectantly for him. She slowly licked the foam from her lips, and he knew she did it for him.

“You are a dirty little one, aren’t you?” He placed both hands on either side of her face. “I haven’t showered yet.”

“Good.”

“You want me all filthy like this?”

Her boots hooked around his ankles and slid his feet forward, pressing his body tighter to hers.

“You have no idea how wet I was the whole time I was watching you.”

He reached out and twisted a blue and white braid around his finger. His eyes flickered to hers.

“Tell me.”

“My panties are a soaking wet mess, Your Grace.” She dipped her finger into the foamy head of her beer and sucked it clean in her perfect little mouth. “Every time I saw the muscles in your arms straining, I had to stop from touching myself.”

The image of her hot thighs squirming on the cold metal stands sent blood crashing toward his cock. His fingers tightened around her pretty little braid, and his voice deepened until it was rough and gravelly.

“Was it very difficult to stop yourself?”

She rolled her hips against his growing erection, as if to show that even just thinking about it made her wiggle. He exhaled a shaky breath.

“All that mud and sweat on your naked chest,” she whispered. “All I could think about was that mud and sweat on my naked chest. All those people around me—and not a single one knew all the filthy, dirty things I wanted to do to their perfect little duke.”

He groaned, tracing her lips as she gazed up at him.

“You kept grunting as you competed, and all I could think of was the sounds you made as you plowed into me yesterday. I wanted your cock so badly as I was sitting there, watching you. I didn’t think I could make it, so I asked Mack for the keys to the car.” She admitted the last bit with an embarrassed pink flush across her cheeks. Callum wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.

“I told him I left my phone, that I’d be right back.”

“Holy fuck.”

“The windows were tinted,” she added with a little grin.

“Molly Lane,” he whispered in a reverent tone, “what an exquisite creature you are.”

How he wished he could have seen her. Did her eyes flutter closed when her hand slipped into her pants? Did she squirm against the car’s smooth leather seats? Were her knuckles white as her fingers dug into the headrest when she neared her climax? Did she bite the side of her hand to keep from screaming his name? Did she stuff her shirt in her mouth or turn her face into the seat to muffle her scream of pleasure, so no one would discover her dirty little secret in the back of the Duke of Roxburghe’s car?

She caressed the side of his face. “Do you want me?”

He leaned into her touch. She’s my magnet. Where her hand goes my cheek follows. It felt dangerous. A power outside of his control that scared him.

“I want you,” he whispered back. “Oh Lord, I want you.”

She tossed her pint glass to the grass and ducked underneath the grandstands. She looked back to see if he was following.

“Here?” he asked.

She grinned and shrugged. “Why not?”

He didn’t need to feel his dick twitch under his kilt to follow her. But, he happened to look up at the forest just past the field’s far edge. With a smile, he slipped her hand into his.

“I’ve got a different idea.”