Page 85 of Promised to the Cursed Laird

"Marcas. I cannae…"

"Ye can. Ye're the only person I've ever wanted tae give it tae." He closed her fingers gently around it with his own. "I've spent fifteen years believing that piece of silver belonged only tae grief. I want it tae belong tae something else now. Tae us."

She looked up at him, tears spilling freely now, and found no words adequate to what he'd just handed her. She simply reached up, pressed her palm to his jaw the way she always did when words failed, and felt him lean into the touch the same way he always did too.

"The wedding may still be delayed," he said, low, his forehead coming to rest against hers. "Cailleach may yet make us wait longer than either of us wants. But I need ye tae ken that naething he does changes what I intend. I will marry ye, Neilina Chisholm. The moment this danger is past, whatever it costs tae see it past, I will stand before my own clan and make ye my wife, and naething Cailleach MacRath throws between us will change that."

"I believe ye," she said, and meant it entirely, the brooch still clutched warm in her closed hand. "I've never believed anything more certainly in my life."

He drew her against him then, and she pressed her face into his shoulder, feeling the steady, familiar warmth of him ease something in her chest that the whole long day of other people's grief had worn raw. He kissed her then, slow and aching, and she felt the exhausting weight of the day finally fall away, replaced by nothing but the warmth of his mouth and the steady, solid reality of him, and when she wound her arms around his neck and pressed closer, she felt him groan low against her lips, his hands finding her waist and drawing her flush against him.

"Come with me," he murmured, against her mouth. "Nae here. Nae in a kitchen corridor with a dying candle and a tally board at my back."

She didn't need telling twice.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Once in the room, she reached up first this time, her fingers curling into the thick wool of his tunic as she pulled him down. She kissed him slow and deep, her tongue sliding against his in a rhythmic, hungry dance.

"Hmmm," she moaned and slid her hands up and down his back

Marcas responded immediately, his large hand sliding down to the small of her back, gripping her firmly to crush her breasts against his chest while squeezing her hips.

"Come tae bed," she murmured against his mouth, the taste of sweet wine still on her breath. He smiled against her lips, a low vibration she felt in her own chest, before he swept her up into his arms. She laughed softly against his throat, the scent of leather and metal clinging to him, as he carried her the short distance across the room.

He laid her down among the heavy furs, the firelight casting flickering amber shadows across their skin. Her fingers found the laces of his tunic, tugging them loose with a confident speed, while his hands worked the fastenings of her gown. He knew every button, every tie, peeling the fabric away to reveal her nakedness to the warmth of the room.

"I love ye," she gasped, her back arching as his mouth found the sensitive curve of her shoulder, his teeth grazing her skin. "I love ye, Marcas MacKinnon, whatever army is marching toward us."

"I love ye," he groaned, his voice rough and thick with love. He drew back just far enough to lock his eyes with hers, his gaze burning. "More than I have words left tae say properly, which I'll make up for by showing ye instead."

He began with a slow, worshipping thoroughness. His mouth traveled down her throat to her breasts, his tongue swirling around her nipples until they were hard, sensitive, peaks, before he took one deep into his mouth, sucking hard.

She cried out, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips beginning to tilt upward instinctively. He moved lower, his hand sliding between her thighs, finding her already slick and swollen. When his fingers slid inside her, she let out a long, shuddering moan, her legs falling open.

Marcas knelt between her legs, his tongue replacing his fingers. He licked her with long, wet strokes, tasting her sweetness, his breath hot against her sensitive folds. She thrashed against the furs, her breath coming in ragged gasps as he sucked her deeply, driving her toward a peak that made her toes curl and her vision blur.

Just as she reached the edge, he surged upward, stripping away his remaining clothes. He was thick and pulsing, aching for her. He paused for a heartbeat, forehead against hers, before he guided himself to her entrance. With one slow, steady thrust, he buried himself deep inside her, filling her completely.

She groaned and wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her body clamping tight around him. They moved, the sound of their skin slapping together mixing with the crackle of the fire. He gripped her hips, driving into her with a raw intensity that spoke of a desperation to claim her before the world outside tore them apart. A tear slipped from her eye and he kissed it away while pounding into her.

"Ye're mine," he growled, his pace quickening, his breath hitching. "Always mine."

"Aye," she sobbed, her climax hitting her in crashing waves that squeezed him tight, making her limp. He let out a guttural roar, thrusting one last time as he came deep inside her, his body shaking with the force of his release.

Afterward, she lay curled against his chest, the room warm and heavy around them. His fingers traced idle, absent patterns along her spine, while the brooch rested safe on the small table beside the bed, catching the last of the firelight. Listening to his heartbeat slow beneath her ear, she thought that whatever came with the dawn—Cailleach's army, the delayed wedding, the long work still ahead—she had never once felt more entirely, unshakably his.

Marcas looked up when Fearchar entered. The maps were spread the full length of the table, he’d already worked through half the problem alone and needed another mind to finish it.

"Ye sent for me," Fearchar said, crossing to the table.

"Look at the timing of this." Marcas tapped the dates marked along the margin of his own report. "The attack in the village. The ambush on the road. Every move Cailleach's made since Neilina arrived, they didnae simply happen tae coincide with the Accord's progress. They're timed tae it, deliberately. Dae ye see? He struck hardest right when the marriage looked most likely tae proceed, and he's massing his full force now, at precisely the moment it's been delayed.”

Fearchar studied the dates, frowning. "Ye think he kens how long this may take."

"I think he was counting on it."

Marcas pulled a fresh sheet towards them, the Accord’s own terms copied out in his hand.