Page 33 of Highlander’s Captive

“And with this band, ye are now man and wife,” Owen said.

The warriors around the room stomped their feet and hooted.

“Share a drink from the cuach.” Owen took out the communal drinking cup with two handles and poured the uisge into it. “As a symbol of many other things ye will share.”

He brought the cuach to Craig’s mouth, and he took sip, then watched as Amy sipped the liquid as well, her lips red and soft around the side of the cuach.

“And join the union with a kiss,” Owen said.

Craig suppressed a “finally” that longed to get out of his throat. He looked into Amy’s eyes, then gazed at her lips, a little swollen from the spirits. Oh, how he craved them. But he would never do anything against her will.

He looked into her eyes again, asking for permission, letting her know he wouldn’t kiss her unless she wanted him to.

She breathed quickly, her chest rising and falling. There was alarm in her eyes, but also desire—then they softened, and her lips called to him.

With a groan he couldn’t stop, Craig brought her to him with his free arm and sealed his lips with hers.

Chapter 10

Craig’s lips were like velvet, warm and soft, and yet his chest under her palm was hard as a rock and as hot as a furnace. His heart thumped under her hand fast and strong.

He smelled like clean skin, and male musk, and like mountains and the forest in fall after a rain.

And the kiss…

Oh, the kiss…

It spurred an avalanche of tingling and sweet burning through her lips. He pressed a little more, opening her mouth with his tongue. Then he swiped it against hers gently once, twice. Maybe she heard herself moan. Maybe it was him, but her head spun and her whole body ignited. Her mind went blank, filling with sighs and moans and dirty, dirty thoughts.

The room filled with whistles and hoots.

“Aye, ride the MacDougall so that she canna stand on the morrow!” someone cried.

“If he has anything to ride her with,” another man said.

The room erupted in guffaws.

Amy sprang away from Craig, her face hot. “Are we done?” she asked Owen. “Please, remove the ribbon.”

“Aye,” Owen said and glanced at Craig.

Amy ignored Craig’s eyes on her, which were as heavy as lead. She was such an idiot. Being attracted to him—allowing him to kiss her like that… As though it was normal, as though having feelings for him wouldn’t complicate things and make her leaving even harder.

Owen undid the tie, and Amy snatched back her hand. The warmth of Craig’s skin gone, coldness surrounded her. They were married now. She was tied to him. Entrapped even deeper here in the medieval Highlands—because she was tied to a human being now. And even though there was no ring to bind her, the memory of the band around her wrist was like a handcuff.

Craig held her gaze for a moment, then gave a curt nod. He turned to his men. “A wedding canna go without a feast,” he said. “Let us bring the tables and the benches back to their places. The hunters have already gotten back with the game and ‘tis being roasted. I bought bread, butter, and pies in the village. And there won’t be any lack of wine, ale, and uisge. Ye all may empty the casks for all I care. A Cambel marrit a MacDougall today.”

He looked at Amy, and this time she saw something like regret in his eyes. The sight punched her in the gut.

“We better drink to that,” he said.

* * *

Craig was a fool. He’d thought it would be easy to be indifferent to her. It would only be for a year, and only to break the enemy’s position.

But that kiss…the handfasting…looking into Amy’s eyes and seeing the vulnerability in her. The real her.

Craig had always prided himself on being a good judge of character. And he sensed that she was lying about something. Which he hated but also understood, given she was living among her enemies. He’d probably have done the same—anything to protect his clan.