Chapter Twenty-Four

It was full dark by the time they’d seen William off, retrieved Glenfiddich, ate his provisions, and made the short trek to the MacKiarans. The elderly couple was glad to see them and insisted on giving them a repast, but Duncan was eager to go upstairs to the loft with his wife.

They had much to discuss.

And he had much for which to beg forgiveness.

He watched Fiona climb the ladder above him. Anticipation filled him. Once she disappeared over the top, he gripped the candlestick in one hand and swung up onto the second rung. Her upper body reappeared, and she leaned down and grabbed the candle from his upstretched arm as if they did this every night and not just the once. When he’d led her here the previous night, told her to sleep, and returned below.

The candle’s soft glow bounced off the low, wood-beamed ceiling, filling their aerie with a diffuse light. He climbed toward the warm circle of light, hoping that, once he reached her and they were finally alone, he could find the right words.

He grasped the top rung and swung up, his head now level with the small space’s interior. She sat with her feet tucked under her on the large, fresh heather-filled mattress that took up most of the floor space. The MacKiarans had opted to make only one large bed for all their children rather than multiple small ones.

He gave her a tentative smile, and she smiled back. She patted the space next to her.

His blood heated as he dared hope this night went far differently than their last visit.

“I won’t bite,” she whispered, as if he needed reassurance.

He took that as another hopeful sign and levered into the loft, his body having to stoop to fit under the ceiling. Her luminous eyes tracked him.

He dropped onto the bed beside her, took her hands in his, and faced her. When she’d felled William’s impostor, he’d never known fear as great as at that moment. He’d acted on instinct, and instinct dictated having her at his side immediately. When her hand touched his, he’d thought, Good God, he might never know her touch again, know the quality of her laugh, her wit, her strength. And when she voiced what he feared by whispering she would disappear? Well, the fear had flared to panic, and he could only hold on tight, as if he could prevent her disappearance if he could just hold her tight enough.

In a way, that searing fear made his next move easier. No fear could ever compare, and so whatever fear he faced now—that he’d still been a fool, that she didn’t return his affections, that she’d never forgive him—he could face.

Especially when buoyed by hope.

And a newfound faith in his own instincts.

“I should have told ye about Margery and the babe, especially when ye asked, if not before,” he began. He kept his voice low so as not to disturb the family below.

“Duncan—”

“Let me finish,” he urged gently. He looked down at their joined hands and skimmed his thumb across her soft skin. “I’m not a man of many words. Sharing is not my strength. I reacted badly to your revelation. I should have stayed and listened, but my pride got the better of me. And, if I’m being honest, that pride blinded me. I assigned you motives I…” He cleared his throat as his face heated. He dared risk that his initial instincts with her were true. “I hope now are not valid.”

She leaned closer, chin tilted up to peer into his eyes. Her own darted back and forth between his, searching. Her forehead wrinkled. “Duncan, what happened with Margery?” she asked, voice soft.

His heart pounded as he ventured that final step into the center of their foundation. If he didn’t share, he’d lose her. Maybe not now, but eventually. For refraining did not strengthen that foundation, only weakened it. And he had to trust that in the telling, he’d not lose her either.

So, hands intertwined, he told her what a simpleton he’d been, begging for Margery’s hand that day, and how she’d manipulated him into taking the blame for her pregnancy. How he’d received the scar.

She pulled her hands from his, and he knew a moment of panic. But only a moment. For her touch returned, this time with her fingers splayed over his chest, where his scar was hidden under his clothes. The scar he’d seen as a warning. The scar that had turned her away. The scar that had brought them together.

Then her eyes filled with emotion, and he could see her making the connection too. Her arms whipped tight around his shoulders. He sat there stunned as her arms surrounded him. He slowly raised his hand and placed it on her back. His other hand followed, cradling her head against his shoulder. He turned his head, inhaled her unique scent, and placed a kiss on her crown so light she might not have felt it.

“So when I confessed about my ancestor, you couldn’t help but think that I’d manipulated you like she had. That I had come along only to save William.”

He swallowed. “I kept thinking of our conversation near the steps at Dunvegan. How I’d wanted so badly to believe your words were true as you begged to accompany me, that it was because we were married, but…”

She pulled away and gripped his face. “I didn’t lie then. Yes, I needed to stick close, but that was a side reason. An additional reason. One I didn’t think I could risk telling you. But the reason I told you was also true. You have to believe me.”

“I do,” he whispered, and he was horrified when his eyes welled with tears. This opening up resolution seemed to be all or nothing, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. But as he stared into her eyes and finally believed—fully—that she was with him for him, and that being open was a prerequisite, he knew exactly how he felt.

Absolutely wonderful.

And terrified.

She continued, “I was so torn when I first met you, because I felt an instant connection. I can’t explain it.” She looked off to the side and then back at him. “It was as if we’d always known each other, and the getting-to-know-you stage was a minor detail. And then, when I realized who you were and that you were the enemy of my ancestor, I panicked.”

He gave her a soft lingering kiss on her lips. He’d felt that connection as well.

When he pulled away, she clutched her fingers into his clothes covering his scar. “Ever since, it’s been a push and pull battle between fulfilling the legend and my desire to be with you. And well, after we escaped from the Williamites, you know how that battle ended.”

“Aye.” He smiled. “You could resist me no longer,” he teased.

She chuckled, light and low. “You have that right.” She took a deep breath, and it looked as if she too were weighing the strength of their foundation before she risked another step. A fierce sense of protectiveness welled within him. “Duncan, I’ve never felt this way about anyone. It sounds like a cheesy line, but it’s the truth.”

“Cheesy?” he asked, for she’d inserted this English word into her Gàidhlig.

She waved a hand. “Never mind.” She placed her hands gently on either side of his face, her palms like silk against his stubble-roughened cheeks. “You make me feel special. Like I matter in your world.”

His heart hitched. “Och, ye do matter, nighean. And not just to me. You matter to Iain. To your sister. To our clan. They hold you in great affection.”

She brushed her lips across his. “And you’ve helped me see that. Though I still have a little ways to go, I think. I’m terrified I’m not enough for you.”

What? He pushed her back so he could see her face clearly. Her eyes looked haunted, her forehead creased. These were the steps she was afraid to take. “Not enough?”

She pulled in another deep breath and bit her lip. Och, the lip. “I’m going to lay it all out there, okay?”

But he couldn’t help but smile at her use again of that strange English word okay. Someday, he’d understand fully how to use it. For now, he nodded.

“I’m hoping you’re still wanting to be married?” Her voice rose on the last word and cracked on the last syllable.

His heart began to pound. “Aye. Very much so.”

Her lips puckered up as if words were trying to emerge and she was holding them in. He cupped a cheek, hoping to impart a silent encouragement.

“I don’t know what to do!” she blurted.

His laugh was a deep rumble. “I think you’ve demonstrated very well that that is not true.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s not what I mean. And that’s not helping.”

He sobered. “I’m sorry. I’m listening.”

“I have no clue how to be a wife in your time. In mine, I’d have a job, and we’d be equal partners in our decisions and what we’d do. But here? I’m afraid I won’t be what you need.” Her voice cracked on the last word and ended in a stifled sob.

His heart twisted. “You’ll not be needing to fill some role in order for me to honor you, for me to love you.”

She gasped.

“Aye,” he whispered. “Ye have my heart, nighean. I thought ye knew.”

She sat absolutely still. He could almost see that knowledge gathering, Fiona soaking it in and letting it fill her up. He gave her that time and space. Anything for her to realize what she meant to him. Until she could believe it.

Then she leaped into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. Duncan cinched his arms tight around her, reveling in having her in his arms again. As he smelled her, touched her, he thought, This is everything I want.

“I love you too,” she whispered, her eyes shining in the flickering candle light. “Can we have makeup sex now?”

“Makeup sex?” Clearly she was more distracted than usual, for she peppered more English into her speech. “I know the meaning of the second word, but together with the other word, I don’t understand.”

“I’ll show you,” she whispered.

When her hand unerringly found his already hard cock, he grasped the meaning indeed.

Heart pounding, Fiona pushed her warrior flat onto the mattress and reveled in the newfound power surging through her. A feminine, sexual power.

But several others too—the power that came from believing in herself and that she mattered.

Boy, did that unleash a whole tidal wave of confidence. Confidence that could have been hers if she’d understood this earlier.

Always, she’d looked outward for validation. From her parents. Teachers.

Hell, she’d even believed it was her ancestors that made her interesting. That it was her ancestors who had had interesting lives.

She should have been looking inward.

Inward to see and love her own self. Be her own self.

And this newfound power—which gave her a kind of freedom really—quickened her pulse, lighting her up inside with warmth. So she trailed her hands along the muscled contours of her husband’s body and cherished him, in a way she suspected few ever had. Because she surmised he also wanted to feel as if he mattered.

This man was everything, and it should scare her. It did.

But as she straddled his hips and saw the hint of vulnerability mixed with lust and love in his eyes, she realized that fear was okay. She was ready for the challenge.

The last of her fear dissipated, chased away by a desperation completely new—a desperation to melt into him, soak him up, and burrow inside him all at once. It made her movements jerky as she raised his linen shirt up his body. The candle’s warm glow danced across the muscled planes of his abdomen and pecs, the sprinkling of hair around his flat, brown nipples gathering into a line and disappearing below his kilt.

Her breath caught. Holy wow. He was beautiful. All his tender vulnerability coiled inside that strength. And he was all hers now. She leaned down and stroked and licked and tasted and teased her way up his candle-bronzed torso, trailing her tongue and lips behind her hands. He tasted amazing—spicy and salty, with a hint of leather and clean wool.

He gave a long shudder. And when she reached her little prize, his nipple? A low groan. God, this man. So responsive to her touch. She smiled and gently bit, and he jackknifed up, gripping her shoulders, his eyes hooded and wild but blazing with heat. His hot breath coasted across her cheeks on a shuddering exhale, and then he was kissing, kissing, kissing the ever-loving heck out of her. His tongue, his lips, his hands, hot and urgent.

Oh God. She’d almost lost this man because of her insecurities, because she’d wanted so badly to be a part of something seemingly important that she’d failed to stop and listen and understand his feelings and needs. Or her own, for that matter. And it felt so…freeing to have opened up to him. Taken that leap, that risk.

He locked his gaze with hers and flipped her onto the mattress, his tongue thrusting and tasting, his large hands gently cradling her face against the down pillow as he knelt between her thighs.

He hovered over her body, his fervent mouth and feverish hands the only point of contact with her.

And if she hadn’t heard the words, she would still know how he felt, because she could feel it. The passion. The tenderness. The specialness, as if she were precious to him. But along with a wave of tenderness was one of urgency. To connect.

She squirmed, eager to feel his weight. As if sensing her thoughts, he lowered himself onto an elbow, his bicep bunching under his jacket. The other hand moved down and shoved her skirt and his kilt out of the way.

Finally his delicious, warm weight was pressing against her body, and he nestled himself against her, his cock hard, almost branding her where it was trapped against her folds. Goosebumps chased each other along her skin as a sensuous heat and urgency bloomed in her sex.

She plunged her fingers into his wonderful hair and looked into his earnest and expressive eyes. Wiggled to move the pressure just to the left…yes. Those eyes flared, from earnest to carnal.

She latched her arms and legs tight around him, her hands digging under his shirt and jacket and frantically exploring every dip and steel-edged curve of his muscle-bound body she could stroke, knead, caress.

Duncan stilled. Under her questing palms, tension flexed and raced along those delicious muscles as he obviously fought for control. Their shallow, frantic breaths filled the dark space of their loft, muffled between their desperate kisses. She vibrated with the urgency building within and moved her hips another fraction to the left. Enough to hit that bundle of nerves and…

“Oh God.” She clamped her mouth shut, not wanting to have the MacKiarans hear.

Heat and desire and love all coalesced down where she ached for him to fill her and shot tendrils of greedy need all through her. She trembled. Jeez, she was about to come, and they hadn’t even really started.

He broke their fevered kiss and nestled his cheek to hers. “My love,” he whispered in English.

For some reason, hearing him say it in English rather than Gàidhlig was way hotter. And then he shifted his hips and stroked into her, confident and hot and oh so tender.

Oh God. He filled her so completely, stretching her with his searing heat. And in a blinding flash of understanding, she realized that she herself was also filled. Filled with his love. Completely. And that love had stretched her, challenged her, to be a better version of herself.

“DuncanDuncanDuncan,” she whisper-chanted. She placed her palms quite deliberately, quite carefully, on either side of his face and held him, staring into his eyes. Eyes that were no longer inscrutable. Oh no. They were filled with love. Others might still look in them and find them enigmatic. But not her. She was the one who’d unlocked him.

And as he quietly moved inside her, whispering fervent words against her lips and then in her ear, that building heat bloomed into her chest and swelled her heart. Wave after wave of pleasure burst, and she clenched down hard on his driving, rigid length, milking him, her arms and legs gripping him tighter, her mouth pressed against his upper chest to keep from crying out. His movements grew jerky as he lost control.

“Fi,” he groaned. His eyes were wild, searching hers. Then he choked out a gasp and stifled a rough grunt into the pillow by her ear as he thrust into her one final time and stilled. His heat spurted inside in erratic pulses, filling her, and she never ever wanted to let this big, tender man go.