Page 38 of Her Reluctant Highlander Husband

He’d told her the good part wouldn’t be quick. Why had he made such a foolish promise? It had been so long since he’d lain with a woman he’d probably spend in less than a minute. She was so tight around him he could barely stand it.

He moved out of her, watching for any sign of pain. When he saw none, he pushed forward again. She groaned in pleasure, saying his name.

He murmured her name as well and was surprised when it didn’t bring the usual guilt and sadness with it. Building on the welcome freedom, he whispered other words of praise and encouragement. He told her how wonderful she felt under him, how lovely it sounded when she moaned. How he would never tire of hearing his name spoken in her sweet voice.

Her breathing came faster, and when she tensed in pleasure, he thrust deep inside her, feeling the pulses of her body drawing him to his own release. He hadn’t made it last all that long, but thankfully it had been long enough.

He collapsed next to her afterward, tossing his damp hair out of his face so he could watch her reaction to what had just happened between them. When she tilted her head to smile up at him, he allowed the joy he felt to pull his lips up into an answering smile.

Unfortunately, his happiness was short lived. It didn’t take long for the guilt and pain to return in a rush. He pulled her against him so she wouldn’t see the hurt in his eyes.

What had he done? This was not at all what he’d planned for. He’d wanted the act to be cool and devoid of tender feelings. It had been anything but that.

Worse, all he could think of as he lay next to her was, what if he’d planted a babe in her belly? Of course he was aware of the possibility. It was the reason for the act in the first place. But he worried what would happen if Dorie had a child. It was unfair that he wasn’t able to love Dorie the way she deserved; he wouldn’t be able to stand it if he disappointed an innocent child as well.

He took a shaky breath and forced himself to calm down. He would decide how to handle the situation if it came to that. For now, he wanted to know more about the woman in his arms.

“Will you tell me why you chose not to speak?”

…

Despite Dorie’s exhaustion, she felt something stir in her core. How could she still want Bryce after all they’d done already? It was probably the way he looked at her while tracing his fingers down her arm. So…meltingly open and warm.

Her cheeks heated from the memories as she cleared her throat to answer his question.

It felt strange to speak so openly. She’d used her voice over the years, but never in front of anyone. Except her dog.

She didn’t want her husband to know what she’d done. She didn’t want him to hate her. But she was tired of carrying around this terrible secret. The weight of her guilt labored every breath she took. It was time to confess.

“The last time I spoke, I killed my mother,” she said quietly.

As expected, his face showed his shock and confusion.

She swallowed and explained. “I was nine when I overheard my mother and my aunt—her sister—talking one day. I’d been playing under a shrub and they didn’t know I was there. My aunt told my mother she could no longer send letters for her. That the affair had gone on long enough, and that nothing was ever to come of it. Of course, I had no idea what they were speaking about. But then my mother pointed toward the castle. And she said, aye, something had come of it. Me.”

Bryce sat up, looking at her more intently, but didn’t interrupt.

She couldn’t stop now. She had to get it out. She’d had it all bottled up inside of her for too long. She brushed tears aside and pressed on. “My aunt told my mother that it didn’t matter that I was Captain Dorien Sutherland’s daughter. No one could ever know. And there was no use in staying in contact with the man. He lived in London and was to marry another woman. My mother began to weep then, and even as a child I knew it was because she was brokenhearted.”

Bryce didn’t touch her; he simply sat there, silently listening.

She’d reached the hard part of the story. She looked him in the eyes and went on. “Later that same day my father—the McCurdy laird—scolded me. He took away my doll, and I was very upset with him.” As an adult she saw that punishment as nothing compared with what came later. “I opened my mouth and words flew out. Angry words.”

She twisted her fingers together, remembering the rage she’d felt.

“Go on,” Bryce urged quietly.

“I told him he wasn’t my father,” she blurted out. “I told him my real father was a brave captain and that my mother loved him and didn’t love the laird. I kept talking, spewing fantastical stories, as children often do. I told him my mother and I were going to move to London to be with my real father, and that he would buy me new dolls and never scold me.”

Bryce gazed at her with an expression torn between sympathy and horror.

She took in a deep breath, preparing herself for the final part of the awful tale.

“The laird was enraged. He hauled me up by the arm and dragged me to my room, tossing me roughly to the floor and locking me inside. I hammered my fists on the door, demanding to be let out. I only stopped when I heard my mother’s screams.”

Bryce reached for her, but she shook her head as tears pooled in her eyes and leaked out.

“Her cries went on for hours. It grew dark, and eventually they fell silent. The next morning, a maid came in to bring me food. I asked about my mother, and she told me she’d had an accident and had died.”