Page 37 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

“I need ye—”

“I need this,” he gruffed.

In unison, she cried nearly the same words as he felt her sweet release crash over her, her eyes pinched shut. She held his rear to her, holding him joined, her legs around him trembling as that magic from last night bloomed between them again, and ribbons of lust surged through him like gunpowder sizzling through his blood.

Together they crashed to earth. Spent. His bones were made of mud. His body vibrated, satiated like never before. Soon he realized her fingers were swirling patterns on his nape, and after another moment, as his heart still raced and his cock slowly softened and his mind returned to the boat from where it had been drifting, he felt her soft kiss-swollen lips trailing gently up his neck, from his collarbone along the ragged scar that had nearly killed him once.

Peace in this snippet of time settled like a comfortable mantle over him, to feel her soothe the scar her brother had given him before he’d returned the favor to James’s ribs. He rolled to the side and gathered her in his arms, her back to his front, draping down her skirts to cover her bare legs and, fishing for his doublet, he found it and dragged it over her like a blanket.

It was dark, though the harvest moon hung, a golden orb in the sky, just as a striation of clouds drifted overhead, misting rain. Burying himself in her hair, his arms wrapped around her like a favorite pillow, he dusted kisses over her ears, felt her fingers trail up and down his forearm contemplatively. He could feel her pounding heartbeat matching his.

“What are we doing, my demon?” she breathed into the night. “What is this game we play now?”

“I nay ken,” he replied, tightening his grip as thoughts of the pending ambush and secrets in Inverness assaulted him through the haze of lingering lust, sobering him.

“Is there a boon at the end? Or will we both lose?”

He gnashed his teeth.

“I’m a blackguard who stole yer virtue and nay wants to give it back.” Addicted to ye.

“Ye forget so soon that ye cannae steal what’s been given freely.”

“Ye deserve someone honorable,” he argued. Why can she nay see how bad I am for her?

Her hand found his. Wrapped around it, gripping him and pressing a kiss to his battered knuckles. “Ye are honorable.”

Jesu, if she only knew the secrets he harbored.

“Yer brother would never accept us. Would he?”

She fell silent at his remark. Because it was true, and she knew it. He rested his forehead to the back of her head, tightening his hold on her, breathing in her calming lavender. Good, he didn’t have to confess anything else. This truth alone was enough to wedge them apart.

“I can nay give ye forever, angel, but I can give ye this sennight.” So much for working her out of his blood. He could give her a tiny bit more. The words left an ache in his throat. “Let it be enough.”

“I’ll let it be enough if ye promise to keep the winnings.” At her plea spoken plainly, with no hint of humor, he buried his face in her hair as her hands tightened upon his forearms. Breathed in the fragrant scent of home. “Please, Torm.”

Christ. Finally, a truce struck. The transaction sullying this moment. He just wished he didn’t feel so bittersweet about it.

Chapter Ten

Forfeit. The word continued to nag at Brighde as she lay on her cot, reading by candlelight. It had nagged her as Tormund raced her across the sands to the village in the mist, her hair sopping and gown ruined by the time they arrived, as she danced with the villagers, her eyes connecting with Tormund’s across the bonfire light as he partook in ale with the crofter who’d guarded his mount. As she dragged him into the fray to twirl her and teased more smiles from his reluctant lips that took to dusting kisses atop her crown, behind her ear, along the corners of her mouth when he thought no one was watching them.

With Owen’s death, all was forfeit.

By the time he returned her to the castle grounds and snuck her into her tent, ease had settled comfortably between them. The definite end to their tryst was discussed no more, as if the proverbial thorn in the flesh were invisible, for she’d heard the pain raking through his throat when he’d beseeched her not to ask for more and didn’t want him to feel so anguished again.

She finally cast aside her book of poetry and stared up at the tent, exhaling. She’d read the same verse over and over again, not remembering a whit of it. Not only did the weight of Tormund’s growled plea lodge an ache tight in her belly, but he’d stirred a memory, too.

My love…help him…’twill be forfeit…

The hour so late, the serenade of insects long since having quieted, Brighde couldn’t silence the memory any longer and thrust aside her heavy covers.

What had Marjorie meant when she’d pleaded that? So much about her death hadn’t made sense, and everything Brighde had learned from Tormund about Owen’s innocence nagged. Who had Marjorie been calling my love? She’d always called Brighde that, for she’d been the oldest and a doting mother hen. But what if Marjorie had been calling Owen her love? What if Marjorie’d been beseeching Brighde to help Owen in some way because James would never understand her plea? What if whatever Marjorie had thought would become forfeit, had done so when Owen died?

And what had Tormund almost told her as they lay together tonight, before he’d distracted her with his body? Their bloodline was gone except for Tormund and Ghost? Something wasn’t adding up. Why did she feel as if he owed her an explanation?

Her taper had burned low and dripped animal fat in glops onto the metal holder. Shifting it closer, scooting it through the shells she’d collected and the sand sluffing off them, she removed her gown from where she’d laid it upon her trunk—still sodden from rain and the sand—and draped it across her stool. She opened her trunk, digging to the bottom until she found the documents she’d pilfered from Tioram Castle’s cellars.