“Nothing feels like you,” she whispered, arching against his hand.
“Did you touch yourself like this?” He drew back so she could see him. One hand palmed her mound, the heel of it exerting gentle friction; the other he wrapped around himself.
She lost her breath, mesmerized by the sight of his hand holding his heavy shaft. Jealous of his hand being where hers longed to be. She reached out and knocked his hand away and he laughed.
“Mine,” she said roughly.
“Ah, yes.”
* * *
Later he began again. “Tell me everything about your life. Tell me about the wreck and what’s wrong with your mother and what you missed and what you longed for.” He quickly tried to mask his feelings, ashamed of what he was thinking. He must have been successful at hiding his emotions, for she confided readily, teaching him many new words as they went along.
A dangerous thought had formed in the back of his mind, and he pressed against it, trying to force it into submission.
But he knew well the danger of seeds once sown.
“GALAN, WE’VE DONE IT,” DUNCAN SAID SMUGLY. THE two brothers were leaning against a stone column near the entrance of the Greathall, observing the revelry. Circenn was teaching Lisa one of their less complicated Highland dances. Engrossed in watching her feet, every few moments she tossed back her head and laughed at him. She was adorable, Duncan decided.
The villagers had finally gotten their feast, thanks to Galan, Duncan, and the enthusiastic castle staff who had planned it without awaiting further input or permission. While Circenn and Lisa had wandered about, oblivious and infatuated, the residents of Castle Brodie had finalized the plans, simply informing the couple when the celebration would be. The laird’s blossoming romance with his lady had infused the estate with good humor.
Duncan conceded that they’d done an astonishing job; the staff had devoted loving care to transforming Castle Brodie for the festivities. Brilliantly lit by hundreds of rushlights, the hall was warm, the atmosphere most conducive to romance. Rippling banners of crimson and black Brodie tartan decked the walls. Thirty long tables formed a rectangle around the room, each laden with a sumptuous feast. The musicians gathered behind the laird’s table at the head of the hall, while in the center of the rectangle, on the floor cleared for dancing, couples, children, even an occasional wolfhound indulged the fierce Scot penchant for celebrating. In such a war-torn land, any cause was reason to feast as if there was no tomorrow, because there might not be. The musicians were playing a sprightly, edgy tune and the dancers faced the challenge with relish. As feet flew, the tempo increased, and ripples of laughter broke out as they kept pace with the frenetic beat.
“Look at them,” Galan said softly.
Duncan didn’t have to ask whom he meant; Galan’s eyes were fixed on Lisa and Circenn, as were many other eyes in the room. The laird and his lady were clearly in their own universe, absorbed in each other.
Duncan had heard the strange note in Galan’s voice and now gazed at him sharply, seeing his older brother in a new light.
“They are so in love.” Galan sounded weary, and longing infused his voice.
Duncan frowned, confounded by a new and uncomfortable sensation—as if he were the older brother and should take care of Galan. It occurred to him that Galan was thirty years old and had single-mindedly devoted the past ten years of his life to warring for Scotland’s independence. That didn’t leave much time for a disciplined warrior to taste the comforts of family and home life. How had he failed to see that Galan, in the midst of all the warriors and the fighting and the splendid wenching to be had, was lonely?
“Wasn’t there a lass in Edinburgh you visited when last we were there?” Duncan asked.
Galan glowered. “Doona try to finagle a match for me, little brother. I’m fine.”
Duncan lifted a brow. How often had Galan assured him that he was fine, and Duncan had gone about his merry way, leaving him alone? Bewildered by his new insight, he uneasily filed the subject away for future consideration. His brother needed a woman, but not in the way Duncan needed a woman; Galan needed a wife.
“Think you they will have children?” Duncan changed the subject, noting Galan relax visibly when he did so.
“Bah! If they haven’t already conceived one. I hear they have taken over one of your favored tupping spots.”
“My bothy?” Duncan exclaimed indignantly. “A man can’t have any privacy.”
Neither brother spoke for a time, each absorbed in his own thoughts. The musicians commenced a slow, haunting ballad and the dancers moved into more intimate embraces.