He stopped briefly, looking up at her with a gaze that sent a pulse through her and made her whole body tense. He lifted her legs and placed them over his shoulders, watching her the whole time, before he dipped his head between her legs.
The first contact of his tongue against her core made her cry out, and one of her hands moved behind her head to grip the pillow. As Cailean held her hips and worked his mouth and tongue against her, she closed her eyes and lost herself in the sensations, her other hand moved to touch her own stomach, her breasts, holding herself to try to keep some control against the indescribable ecstasy that Cailean was making her feel.
He changed his movements, working harder, squeezing at her hips, and the next time Maeve opened her eyes she saw him looking up at her, love and lust and a deep craving in that gaze. That look was almost enough to make her lose control, and she moved her hands down to grip his hair again, so tightly that it must have hurt, holding him against her. He sped up, faster, harder, and Maeve's whole body grew warm, her muscles tightening, her heart racing, hips bucking against him.
The release came all at once, a crashing wave that flooded her whole body, tightening and loosening her muscles and drowning her in some of the most intense pleasure she had ever experienced. She cried out, helpless against the tide of ecstasy, and allowed it to take her.
When she came back down, Cailean was on his feet again, undoing his own drawstrings, and he soon stood before her, naked and breathtaking.
"Now," Maeve told him hoarsely. "Now."
He didn't need any more encouragement than that. Cailean climbed onto the bed with her, pressing himself into her, and as they danced together, their bodies as familiar as a well-known song and somehow still as new and exciting as the thrum of a thunderstorm. They touched and kissed and moved together, skin to skin, soul to soul, and when the build-up started again, Maeve was ready to give into it once more.
The heat that flooded her this time was almost more than she could bear, her fingernails digging into the skin of his shoulders, and she called out his name, almost like a prayer. Soon after, he grunted and finished as well, a new kind of heat flooding through them both as his body sent Cailean, too, into a world of pleasure that they could only find in each other's arms.
Breathing heavily, Cailean rolled off and Maeve let out a long satisfied sigh. She wanted to speak, wanted to tell him howwonderful he was and how much she loved him, but exhaustion flooded her. "Cailean…" she murmured.
Cailean smiled and reached out, taking her in his arms. "Perhaps I'm nae such a villain after all," he teased lightly, his fingers playing idly with her hair.
"Och, nae. Ye're a villain, all right. But perhaps I'm a bit wicked as well," Maeve replied sleepily.
He kissed her forehead. "Sleep well, me darlin'," he told her. "I'm here. I'll always be here."
She rested her head against his bare chest and closed her eyes. The last thing she heard before she fell asleep was the sound of his steady heartbeat. The sound she loved most in the world—the sound of home.
Cailean held Maeve long after the candle flickered out and darkness fell across the room again. He knew that he should probably return to his own chambers, but he knew more than that; that both he and Maeve would feel better if he stayed here. As she slept soundly and peacefully in his arms, Cailean resolved that he wouldn't leave her that night. He'd get up early, just before sunrise, and return to his chambers before anyone could see him. Or maybe he'd sleep in and just allow whatever happened to happen. It was hard to be afraid of consequences when he was here with Maeve.
But still, happy as he was and warm and satisfied as his body felt, sleep would not come to Cailean. Creeping at the edge of his mind's eye was that familiar nightmare and the most recent twist that had been horribly added to it—the burning of his childhood home, the destruction of Darach Castle, the death and destruction of everything and everyone he'd ever known andloved. He could still hear the screams echoing in his ears, and he knew that if he slept again, the horror would just return to him once again.
He stroked Maeve's dark hair while she snuggled tighter against him, enjoying having her close by. She always made him feel calmer with her very presence, helping him to focus better than he could when he was by himself. She stopped his thoughts from spiralling too wildly and made sure that he remained himself even in the worst moments.
The part of the dream that horrified him the most floated into his mind—the helplessness he had felt being restrained while Maeve was dragged away from him. The way he had struggled to get to her and there had been nothing to do.
Maeve would understand his horror from the dream, but he did not want to wake her, nor did he want to talk to her right now about what was haunting him. Who else could he talk to? He had Darren, his closest friend—but he didn't think Darren would understand this part, not in the same way Maeve did. Darren had known a lot of loss, too, but he did not dream in the same way that Cailean did.
What would Darren say if Cailean did confide in him? How would he respond to the terror that Cailean felt at even the idea of closing his eyes?
"It was only a dream, ye numpty," Cailean whispered quietly to himself in an echo of Darren's voice. He smiled slightly at the thought, but when he looked down at Maeve, his smile faded.
A sense of terrible foreboding washed over him. It seemed impossible now that she lay here in his arms that anything could ever tear them apart, but he could not get his thoughts away from the way she'd been dragged away from him in that dream. He wanted to ignore his feeling, but he knew better than that. The council, his foster fathers, had taught him to trust hisinstincts, and since Maeve had arrived, he'd finally started doing so. But what did this mean?
Cailean rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his hand, before returning to hold Maeve close once more. Her instincts were telling her things, too—he knew that she did not trust Murtagh McKenzie. However, Murtagh was their best chance at finally turning the tide of what felt like an endless war for the soul of his country. Cailean hated the uncertainty that he felt. He hated being unsure of Murtagh's intentions and being unable to decide whether he could fully trust the chieftain or not.
Sleep would not come for the lost prince—the rightful king—of Scotland that night, and he was resigned to that fact. All he could do now was whatever it took to keep the most important things in his life and heart safe. And so he would stay here in this room tonight, holding Maeve in his arms, taking comfort from having her near. He would protect her with everything that he had, and guard her from anything that might hurt her in any way, whether they were physical threats or the horrors that came from dreams.
He would guard her through the night—and she, in turn, would guard his heart.
5
Breana was used to being left behind. She was the oldest of her sisters, but she had never been the first among them. In their family, Nessa had been the only one prized by their parents, beloved by them both, though Breana suspected she had faced her own hardships in that role. Maeve, though she had suffered just as much as Breana had as a child, had always been the beautiful one, the fierce one. Maeve was Breana's younger sister, but she had always taken care of Breana, more than the other way around—at least, that's what it had always felt like.
Then, when Maeve had been taken away from her and married off to Malcolm Darach, Breana had been left alone. She had blended into the background, unseen and unspoken to, for years, a ghost in her own childhood home. Her father ignored her, her younger sister avoided her. It had been an empty life, a lonely one, but safe, at least. She had written Maeve a hundred letters, but she could never convince a servant to take them—her father had forbidden it—and so she had slowly retreated into a cocoon of only herself.
Even that comfort had been taken from her, though, when she was sent off to be married to Kyle Darach. She flinched awayfrom the memory of that short but awful time she had spent in this very castle.
But now…now everything was different. Maeve had saved her. The rebels had saved her. They had given her a place among them, and yet Breana still somehow felt like she'd been left behind. Everyone here had a role, a purpose. Her new friends Ferda and Patty were a scout and a healer respectively; her closest friend Eoin was a brave guard; Maeve and her love were fierce warriors and the future king and queen beside. But Breana? She didn't fit anywhere. She'd never learned to cook or to heal, never developed the stomach to fight. She tried to lend a hand where she could, but she felt hopeless, like she would never find a place to be herself—or even to discover who that self really was.
All that Breana liked to do was draw. Though she cleaned up after the healers and the cooks, she really felt like the only thing she was good at was designing and drawing up the maps that so fascinated her. After spending such a long time trapped, she had developed a sixth sense for cartography, bringing the worlds she'd believed she'd never visit into her home and her heart. But now, she felt silly and even inadequate, doodling a detailed map of the lands of Bruce Castle and the surrounding clan lands, not sure if she would ever find a sense of purpose.
