Pleasing his wife had become his favorite way to do that. Last night, he’d been eager to give Aftyn the pleasure he knew would ease their joining when he made her his. He loved her, and he’d wanted her to know exactly what they did together, to feel the joy in it, all the way to her bones.
It had been magical.
His abilities aside, she was the witch in the family, to make him feel what he had while wrapped in his pleasure. The unfamiliar, wonderful sensations of her sensual awakening had added to the power of their joining. Her climax had sent his soaring to heights he’d never reached before. If only he could have shared with her how that made him feel.
In a way, perhaps he had. She was not sensitive to him in the same way he was to her, but he had no doubt she was aware of every nuance of feeling he possessed. She could please him, console him, soothe him, make him laugh, whatever he needed, unerring in her perception of his feelings. More than once, he wondered if she had a talent of her own, like his. He was a lucky man.
Exhausted, they’d both fallen quickly asleep, but a new day meant a new opportunity to please Aftyn. If she wanted more, he was ready. And if she was sore, he could ease that for her.
Instead, he let her sleep, content to watch her dream. The changing light painted her skin and made her glow like a pearl. Her dark hair spread on the pillow around her head. He picked up a strand near his face and wrapped it around his fingers, reveling in its silky slip. The sheet had slid down during the night, exposing her breasts. Their pink tips tempted him to taste, lick, and suckle Aftyn awake. But nay, he would await her pleasure for his own.
EPILOGUE
Two months later, Aftyn was still insulted, but not surprised, that her father had not bothered to send for word about her, or to send men to demand her return. But she was glad, too, that her new life with Jamie remained undisturbed. They’d spent a blissful autumn at the Aerie, longer, Jamie told her, than he’d been in residence in years. Since he’d returned from fostering, his father made a practice of sending him out on missions for the clan, or with fighting men to assist an ally such as the MacKyries. He told her he appreciated the respite. And her.
Neve kept her informed. Her news about the happenings in the Keith keep arrived in a new letter every week. She and Hamish were still newlyweds, spending all their time together, which made Aftyn happy for them both. The laird still refused to follow their advice, so his wound still bothered him. And less than a month after Jamie brought Aftyn to the Aerie, Neve wrote to say the men who beat Aftyn near to death had been found beaten and robbed, both dead. She hadn’t provided any more information.
Braden wrote to her, too. Usually short missives saying he missed her and hoped she had found the happiness she deserved. His note around the same time provided no more details than Neve’s, which made Aftyn suspect Braden’s men made it look like highwaymen had done the deed.
She had discussed the news with Jamie. They both agreed that it was tempting to at least pay Keith a visit. Aftyn could retrieve her belongings and her mother’s journal, which she’d left behind in the urgency of their escape, and spend time with the friends she’d left behind. But her father was still laird, and they could find themselves being escorted into his dungeon—if not her, certainly Jamie. So they opted to wait. Her brother would be laird eventually.
It seemed strange to look forward to the day he took over, for that would mean her father had died. She wondered if she would feel anything besides relief when that news came.
She wrote back to both of them, but sent hers addressed to Hamish at the abbey. Her father treated her as if she had never existed, so keeping letters from her out of his hands seemed prudent. He might not care to open correspondence he knew she’d sent, but not knowing how he’d use anything he gleaned from her letters, she refused to give him the opportunity. So far, neither Neve nor Braden had complained the round-about delivery caused problems or delays. Hamish still supported the abbey and visited every few days, since the new healer had yet to arrive, so her replies never waited long.
When she wrote to Neve, she included instructions for making new potions that she’d learned from Aileanna or one of the other healers in the clan. She even noted some that might help her da. None of the other healers had Jamie’s or his mother’s special talent, but they knew herb lore and shared freely with her.
“Ach, I see ye have a new preparation for Neve and Hamish,” Jamie said, leaning over her shoulder to glance at what she was writing. “The evening meal begins soon. Can ye finish that afterward?”
“I could,” she told him, reaching up with her free hand to grasp his where it rested on her shoulders. “But I have other plans with my husband this evening.” She set aside the quill and covered the ink pot before turning to give him a smile that he could not misinterpret. “If he’s no’ busy elsewhere, of course.”
“I think he can make himself available,” Jamie told her with a grin. “If what ye have planned is worth his time.”
His grin always breached her defenses, and he knew it. Not that he needed to convince her. “I believe he will agree that it is,” she said and stood, coming fully into his arms. “I love ye, Jamie Lathan. And I want ye.”
“Now? What about yer letter? Yer supper?”
Aftyn began unpinning and untying, enjoying the process of revealing her handsome husband’s body, saying, “They can wait.”
Jamie quickly divested himself of the clothes she’d loosened, then turned her around and unlaced her gown. “I canna wait to see all of ye, my love,” he whispered in her ear as he slid the kirtle from her shoulders, then turned her and untied her chemise’s neckline. “Each time I see ye, I want ye more than the last.”
“Then take me, Husband,” she told him as she stepped out the puddle of fabric at her feet and kicked off her slippers.
Jamie removed his boots, then pulled her against his hard chest. Aftyn’s blood heated as his hands roamed her body, then he picked her up and dropped her on the bed. “In my own good time, wife.”
Joy and anticipation filled her. Jamie was a remarkable lover. She supposed his ability to sense the response in her body to his touch made him as unerring at finding her pleasure as if she touched herself. They might miss the evening meal, but she wouldn’t mind.
“I ken what ye’re thinking, lass,” he told her between kisses. “And yes, I can feel yer blood heating, yer heart beating faster, the way ye want me and are ready for me. But that doesna mean I willna take my time and make ye wait.”
“I like it when ye make me wait.”
“I ken that, too.”
“It isna fair that I canna do the same, to ken how my touch makes ye feel.”
“Aye, ye can.” He took her hand and placed it on his chest. “Feel my heart, my love.”
She sighed in appreciation of the massive muscles covering his chest, then lowered her ear over his heart and listened. The deep, slow beat speeded as she trailed her fingers down his chest to his belly. She loved hearing it. It told her Jamie was strong and vital—and hers. Then he lifted her hand to his face and she picked up her head to follow it with her gaze. “I see the flush in yer skin, too,” she told him.
