Hannah and the Highlander (30 page)

She gave back as good as she got. Her palm ranged over his ravaged back, delighting in the ripple of his flesh at its passing, loving each and every inch of him. She raked his scalp, thrilling in his shudders. She tested the strength of the muscles on his arms and, though she'd tested them before, nearly swooned, as though it were the first time. She'd never had the urge to
consume
a man as much as she ached to consume him. She wanted his all. Everything.

Their mutual fervor rose as he teased her and she teased him. When she wrapped her fist around his cock, hard and rampant and ready, he stilled and lifted his head from his nibbling of her neck and stared at her.

“Hannah.”

A question, but not.

“Aye, Alexander.”
I am ready.

She shifted her legs farther apart and he settled between them, nudging in without delay. At first touch, delightful sensation exploded in her. It was as though she'd been saving up, waiting, holding her passion in abeyance for the moment they could be alone, like this.

It all rushed back in a heartbeat, swamping her. Drenching him.

He groaned as he pushed deeper. His cock filled her, stretching her, inciting a fresh wave of delight. He groaned again as her body, of its own accord, closed on him.

New pleasure raged. It was wild and savage and tender and sweet, all at the same time. As splendid as their lovemaking had been, and always was, this was something else entirely. And Hannah knew why.

Love.

Heart wrenching and soul feeding.

She knew him in ways she'd never suspected. She had glimpsed his essence and loved that too. She loved who he was as a man, as a husband, as a leader.

It didn't matter that he wasn't a
bletherer
. His body spoke well enough for him.

And ah, if it was saying what she thought, he loved her too.

At the very least, she knew he respected her and cared for her and wanted to make her happy. She suspected, she hoped, his heart was hers until it ceased to beat.

He made a fierce movement with his hips and all thoughts flew. He hit a spot, deep within, that made her eyes cross and her mouth water. Bliss, unlike any bliss she'd ever known, rained through her and she gasped, groaned, clutched him tighter.

His breath stuttered. He gave a growl and pulled back to hit her there again and again and again. Pleasure screamed through her.

Hannah went wild. There was no other word for it. Some ifrit slipped in and claimed her sanity and she lost all control. Scraping at him with her nails, she fought against his thrusts. It frustrated her, aggravated her, ached, until she got the rhythm right. And then, ah, and then they moved in concert.

He increased his speed and intensity. His lungs worked like a bellows as he pounded into her harder, deeper, faster. His cock swelled and, with it, the insanity consuming her. The tension between them mounted to near unbearable heights.

She broke first, shattering beneath him, shuddering and wailing and succumbing to his demanding plunges. Her calamity incited his. It could have been the tight hold she had on him, or the heat, or the gush of welcoming arousal, but he stiffened over her, lunged in once, twice, thrice … and he released.

He flooded her, inundated her womb. She hoped, prayed, that his seed would take hold, that they would make a child this night. Because it was the most perfect melding she could ever have imagined.

And she dearly wanted his child.

A boy, perhaps with Alexander's tumble of curls and shy smile. A boy they would adore and spoil and surround with all the security and love his father had never known.

That would, perhaps, help to heal him.

That would, perhaps, make him whole.

*   *   *

Alexander felt as though he were walking on air as he made his way up to his study the next morning. He'd spent the whole night in Hannah's room, making love to her off and on until dawn. Something had changed between them. He liked to think it was his gesture of redecorating her room, but he knew it was probably something more profound.

The fact that she knew the truth about his past—or the bits he could bear to share—had lifted a weight from his shoulders. He'd been living in fear. Fear that she would discover how weak he'd once been and that the truth of it would shatter her esteem for him.

But that hadn't been the case at all. If anything, the knowledge of the trials of his past had made her respect him more, or at least that was how it had felt. It was certainly what she'd said, and he believed her.

How freeing it was. How glorious. As though the specters that had shadowed him his entire life had wafted away, like morning mist burned off by the kiss of the sun.

And how odd—and wonderful—that with Hannah's advent in his life his uncle's memory had lost all power over him. He even found it easier to speak.

When he'd clipped a chipper, “Good morning,” to Fergus, as he'd passed on his way to the stables to check on Brùid, the factor had jumped and gaped at him, as though the suit of armor in the hall had suddenly burst into song.

He would have woken Hannah and taken her with him, but, poor thing, he'd exhausted her the night before. He'd left a note, which would probably annoy her … at least until she read it.

Come join me
, he'd said.

He hoped it would be soon. If he got through his mail and she had not yet appeared, he planned to head back to their suite and rouse her. The thought filled him with exhilaration and an even more trenchant resolve.

His footsteps stalled as he rounded the curve on the narrow staircase leading to his study. Maybe he shouldn't wait. Maybe he should rouse her now.
He
was certainly roused.

With a chuckle he pushed into his office and headed for the desk. While he loved this room, and he always had, it was a long way up, and it could be tiring for Hannah if she was truly to work with him every day. He should probably find a room closer to the ground floor. He certainly didn't need a sanctuary anymore. Indeed, he didn't want one. He felt no urge to separate himself from the world. Not anymore.

The mail on his desk was high. He regarded it with a frown. They had only been gone a day. He flipped through it quickly, separating out the pieces he thought Hannah might want to tackle. Although, if he was being honest, many of those were the ones he dreaded.

His hand stilled as he came upon a letter with a seal that made his throat clog. His heart gave a painful thump.

The Duke of Caithness.

Hell.

He ripped it open and scanned the contents. His bowels clenched.

Hell and damnation.

So soon?

He was still staring at the letter when Hannah breezed into the room with a bright smile on her face.

God, he loved her smile. It was a balm to his soul. He opened his arms to her—because he needed her touch—and she settled on his lap, dropping a kiss on his forehead. “Good morning, my husband,” she purred.

A pity she was in this mood, because he no longer was.

“Hannah—”

“Did you sleep well? Because I dinna. Something kept me awake to the wee hours.”

“Hannah—”

“Why did you leave so soon?” She put out a lip. “I was hoping we could…” She wiggled illustratively on his lap. Despite his misery, his cock rose. His cock had a terrible sense of timing. Or maybe not. Maybe making love to her would wash away the panic, the worry, the cold—

“What is this?” She took the letter from him.

“It came while we were gone. From Caithness.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, bother.”

“Read it.”

Something in his voice, something desolate and weary, captured her attention and she focused on the letter. He knew—
knew
—when she read
that part
. Her entire body stiffened. She crumpled the letter in her fist. He took it from her and smoothed it out.

She leaped to her feet and paced from one end of the solar to the other. “That ass. That bastard. That—” She ran out of invectives.

He'd thought her capable of more, but he understood. Caithness' letter had rendered him mute too.

“To speak to you in such a condescending tone—”

“‘Tis a letter.”

“To
write
to you in such a tone. As though you are a witless child who needs to be
educated
. Oh, I could throttle him.”

Aye.
It had been a patronizing letter. But that wasn't the worst of it. Caithness was coming
here
. To
speak
with him. And, likely, to discuss the Clearance he had in mind. The Clearance Alexander had, in essence, refused.

It would likely not be a congenial meeting. No doubt the duke would be … displeased with him.

“We should probably notify the staff that he's coming.”

She snatched the letter back and read it again. “He doesna say when.”

“Soon, I imagine.”

Hannah stiffened her spine. “We need to prepare.” But rather than turning on her heel and leading the way downstairs to assemble the staff, she took her seat at his side and folded her fingers. “How shall we approach this?”

He blinked.
Approach this?
How did one approach potential disaster?

She tapped her lip with a finger, a militant look in her eye. “The best tack would be to show him the true effects of the Clearances, do you no' think?”

“Show him…?” What was she talking about? Had they not read the same letter? Caithness was not coming here to negotiate.

Hannah rose and began to pace once more. “The man spent his entire life in England, poor wretch. I doubt he has a clue what devastation this policy has wrought. How could he, and still make such a demand?”

“Greed is a powerful motivation.”

She pinned him with a resolute frown. “So is understanding. If he could
see
what clearing the land really means to his people, speak to the ones who have been affected, realize that this is a dagger in the heart of all Scotland, surely he would change his mind.”

It was adorable how naïve she was, but she'd never met Lachlan Sinclair. She had no clue what a heartless prig he was. “He wears
lace
, Hannah.”

Her face scrunched up. “Lace?”

“Aye.”

“Well, there's the problem right there. We need to get that man into a kilt. Who wouldn't cleave to Scotland wearing the Garb of the Auld Gaul?” She paced some more, her expression adorably fierce. “We shall begin with the orphans.”

“The … orphans?”

“The orphans of the Clearances.” Her smile was fiendish. “What man with a soul could look into those eyes and not be moved?”

“You are assuming he has a soul.”

“Of course he has a soul. And if he isna moved, we shall lock him in a room with Lana—”

“I doona think that would be wise—”

“And she can tell him what his ancestors think of these
Improvements
.”

Perhaps the lack of sleep had made Hannah dotty, but he liked where she was going with this. “He did seem rather obsessed with ghosts the last time we spoke.”

“Excellent. Because I can tell you, the Scots of old are turning over in their graves at this new policy.”

“
You
can tell me?”

Though she was on a roll, she stilled and shot him a contrite glance. “
Lana
can tell you. The point is, we can convince him, Alexander. I'm sure of it.”

He waved the letter. “Did you read this?”

“I did.”

“He doesna seem … pliable.” Not in the least.

Hannah set her fists on her hips and glared at him, but it was a lovely glare, because it was lit with her determination to go to battle … for him. “We shall convince him. I know it. And now, as much as I was looking forward to spending the morning with you, my love, I must get to work. There is much to prepare and verra little time.”

Alexander didn't respond, other than to stare after her as she whisked from the room with a swish to her skirts. He couldn't. Couldn't so much as utter a word.

She'd called him
my love
.

It was the sweetest moment he'd ever known.

*   *   *

Hannah was certain their plan would work. She was convinced they could change the duke's thinking.

Until she clapped eyes on him.

And suddenly she understood Alexander's reservations.

It was early morning when word came that the duke's entourage was near. Hannah met her husband at the gates, where he was stationed to greet his overlord. As all the men had, Alexander had donned a kilt. Her heart clenched at the sight of him. He was so handsome in the formal dress. She brushed her hand over his shirt to smooth it, adjusted his sporran, and gazed up at him. “It will be fine,” she said.

He wrapped his arm around her. “Aye.”

But when the gilded carriage rolled to a stop before the gates and his footmen swarmed around to help the duke alight, Hannah's optimism deflated.

He was, indeed, a dandy.

And an English dandy to boot.

He wore the most ridiculous costume. His white breeches looked as though they had been painted on … and he clearly wore a codpiece. The ensemble was finished by a pink tailcoat with gleaming buttons. His boots were nice, but for the tassels that blew in the breeze. As Alexander had warned, there was lace. Everywhere. And he wore a cravat.

Hannah had never liked cravats. She felt they looked unnatural. And this one was unnatural, so tight the man could barely move his head. He looked around with odd, sharp movements, like a bird, blinking incessantly as though surprised to find himself in such surroundings.

Aside from all of that, he was a strikingly handsome man, tall and broad shouldered, with a bold jaw and piercing blue eyes. It was a pity he had the pallid white skin of an Englishman. Had he been more robust, he would have been bonny indeed.