The Highlander (Victorian Rebels Book 3)

The flavor of Ravencroft’s lips pushed Mena past shocked to absolutely witless. She wasn’t pliant so much as thunderstruck. She didn’t kiss him back, but neither did she push him away.

The sweet burn of whisky on his tongue caused her jaw to sting with overwhelming thirst as her mouth flooded with moisture. She closed her lips to swallow convulsively, and instantly his hands were there, his thumbs dragging the corners of her mouth open so he could thrust his slick tongue back inside.

A growl caught in his throat, quickly turning into a groan. The calluses of his palms abraded her skin as he cupped the side of her face, lifting her to give him better access.

He might be a little drunk, but Mena knew she was on the edge of pure, carnal intoxication.

It was impossible to tell what was harder, the wall behind her, the man trapping her against it, or the length of his sex pulsing as hot as a branding iron against her belly. His arousal was as incomprehensively large as the rest of him, enough to send her thoughts scattering to the most indecent places. Its purpose unmistakable, his desire inescapable, Mena found herself rocked by sensation so thoroughly that she feared she would lose consciousness. Dizzying chills racked her frame until she trembled as though she’d been left out in the bone-chilling cold. But it was liquid heat spreading through her, settling in her core and causing a rush of alarming moisture to pool there.

She’d been angry, hadn’t she? Mortified, hurt, and … leaving? She’d been afraid. Should be afraid. This was wrong, though she couldn’t at all remember why. Somehow Liam Mackenzie was able to dissolve her ever-churning thoughts into a puddle of nothing. With one kiss, he’d morphed her into a creature as instinctual and primal as he, with just as much difficulty controlling her most secret and basic of needs.

The sharp scent of his soap and the musk of something darker, earthier, invaded her senses and Mena breathed it in, making it a part of her. His kiss gentled from bruising to merely relentless. His movements against her lips were urgent and greedy, but strangely unhurried as he penetrated her deeply, searching the recesses of her mouth with a tender sort of aggression.

Mena waited to feel the inevitable revulsion that came with intimacy, the forbearance, the distaste and apprehension. As hands trailed down the fragile skin of her neck, evoking shiver after shiver, she couldn’t believe those terrible emotions never found her. It was only anticipation that coursed through her as his powerful fingers curved down her shoulders.

“Kiss me, Mena,” he moaned against her mouth, his hot, sweet breath fanning over the moisture on her lips. “Touch me. Teach me to keep the demon at bay.”

She could only see the whites of his eyes in the dim light, circling the obsidian of his pupil and iris in such a way that truly seemed demonic.

With trembling fingers, she reached up to softly test the shape of his masculine jaw. Bristle scraped against her fingertips as they explored the raw, hard features that she’d always wanted to study, but didn’t even allow herself to look at for too long, lest she be lost.

How fierce he was all the time. How strong and capable and remote he had to be. Never showing weakness, never allowing vulnerability.

Except in this moment. With her.

He turned into the press of her fingers, seeking more of her touch as a primitive sound escaped him on a shaken breath.

She was lost. Never in her life had she been able to turn away a wounded animal.

Liam Mackenzie was no different. The scars he carried upon his soul were horrid and deep as those on his back. Some of the wounds remained open and bleeding, poisoning his chances at happiness or peace.

What a tragedy they both were. Bruised and beaten by those who were supposed to have loved and protected them. Tossed upon a sea of cruelty, and seeking refuge in this unforgiving world. Seeking sanctuary, but hoping for redemption.

Shivering and impassioned, Mena lifted to her toes, pressing her lips against the hardness of his mouth. This time, her tongue met his with welcoming heat as she dragged her hands down the swells of his chest and around his broad torso to wrap what she could of his big frame in her embrace. Her hands searched for a place to settle, light as moth wings at first, and then stronger as she clutched him to her.

A shudder coursed down his spine as she smoothed her fingers over the powerful stretch of his back. The wide muscles flinched and flexed beneath her touch and he groaned his approval into her mouth. She noted the scars, but only the man beneath them registered to her tantalized senses.

His hunger became a tangible thing, escalating his breath until it heaved against her. Hands were everywhere, cupping her breasts, shaping them as the tips instantly hardened and ached against his palms. Testing them with gentle, insistent pressure, molding until she could no longer think past the sensation gathering there.

A whimper of surprise escaped her as her hips tightened and jerked against a stab of need she’d not even thought herself capable of. Wet and swollen, her body called to him.

And his answered.

Chilly air kissed her ankles as his hands gathered her filmy robe until it parted. His knee gently pressed between her legs as he ravaged her with deep, drugging kisses. His solid weight pinned her in place as her robe gave way and he replaced it with his body.

The marquess swallowed her gasp as she realized his kilt had also ridden up between them, and with one smooth and sinuous movement, he’d split her legs and pressed the flesh of his naked thigh against her exposed sex.

He uttered a curse in a language she didn’t know as he moved against her, replacing her flare of panic with one of pleasure. Suddenly the hard muscle of his leg was also drenched and slick as he undulated again, creating a strange and delicious friction. His shaft pressed against her hip as he rocked against her. She knew he wanted it inside her, that if she opened to him, he’d sink every hot inch as deep as he could.

“Wait,” she said. Or perhaps didn’t say, as he never let up the pressure of his mouth, even as her lips moved. She wanted him to stop. She never wanted him to stop.

Then his hand was there, clever fingers slipping into the wet cleft and touching a place no one had ever before paid attention to. He somehow ignited frenzy into her blood with infuriatingly slow strokes. A curious heat unfolded in her core and quickly caught into a blaze of sensation.

Mena writhed helplessly against him, riding his strong thigh as more heat created more friction, which in turn built the flames even higher. What sort of pagan magic was this? How could hands so rough and raw create such smooth, silken sensations against her most tender skin?

Something was … happening. Her muscles contracted and expanded, her body seemed to open, to prepare, to warn her to brace herself against his strength because she wouldn’t be able to stand against what he was about to do. Her hands groped at his back, then his shoulders, clutching at him, then pushing him away. He ignored her feeble struggles, silently pressing her higher with his leg until she was forced to lean on his limitless strength as her toes seemed to no longer touch the ground. He held her there, suspended on the exquisite edge of a dark and unknown abyss. She could feel it reaching for her, a pulsing oblivion that knew no limit, that gave no quarter and had no end.

All she needed to do was let it take her away.

“Come for me, lass.” He breathed the order against her throat as he trailed his hot lips down the sensitive column of her neck.

And she would have, had his fingers not tangled in her hair. A thrill of fear pierced her with its icy arrow, and leached the heat from her liquid bones.

Gordon used to pull her hair.

He’d used it as a tool of submission, to lock her head where he wanted, to compel her to be still as he forced himself into her mouth. Sometimes her hair would rip from her scalp, and the sound of it would echo through her ears from the inside.

Whatever desolate, frightened sound she made when she wrenched her mouth away from his and turned her head to the side was enough to pull him out of his aroused stupor.

“Please,” she begged in an uneasy whimper. “I can’t.”

She found herself released as abruptly as he’d seized her, and Mena would have fallen if the wall hadn’t caught her.

Ravencroft flung himself to the opposite side of the room, where he braced his hands against the far wall. His head hung below his shoulders as his wide back expanded with panting breaths.

Dazed by a maelstrom of fear, lust, and shame, Mena gripped the sagging folds of her robe and wrapped them back over her inflamed body, belting it closed.

“Forgive me,” he finally said. “I’ve had too much to drink. I wasna thinking.” His voice was thicker than usual, the accent more pronounced. The few seconds of silence between them stretched on for an eternity as Mena desperately groped for the thoughts that had scattered about the darkness of her room like a child’s errant marbles.

“Ye canna go, Mena,” he ordered.

She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Leaving would be safer in some ways, and utterly dangerous in others. Her husband was still out there, searching for her.

But if she stayed …

“Andrew can keep his beast,” he rumbled, pushing from the wall and moving to the broken door.

Mena remained silent, still trying to catch her own breath. Trying to ignore the pulses of need still throbbing between her legs, and the pulses of fear threatening to stop her heart.

“And…” Ravencroft continued, still refusing to turn around. “I’ll not dictate how ye spend yer free time … or with whom.” He said this as though the words cost him a great deal.

Dumbfounded, Mena could still think of no reply until a polite “Thank you,” escaped her out of sheer habit.

“Doona leave.” It had to have been the gentlest command he’d ever issued, as close to a request as she’d ever get from the Demon Highlander. “Doona abandon them as I have, as everyone has.”

He’d used the most devious and effective weapon in his arsenal to get what he wanted. His children. They did need her help and, in truth, she needed them. Needed Ravencroft. Not just the man but the stones of the fortress around them. She remained a fugitive from the crown, and returning to England was simply out of the question.

“Ye’ll stay,” he prompted again. “And I’ll … leave ye alone.”

That should have made her feel safer, but it didn’t.

“I’ll stay,” she whispered, and didn’t allow herself to slide to the floor until he’d left the room, shutting the splintered door firmly behind him.

*   *   *

Mena dreamed of the Brollachan that night.

She tossed and writhed about in her sleep as though afflicted with a fever. Rough, callused hands soothed her until she settled from thrashing to merely fitful.

“Liam?” she whispered through the miasma of dream mist and moonlight.

“Nay, lass,” a dark voice rasped back at her. “Ye should go. Leave this place. If ye stay with the Demon Highlander, it’ll mean the end of ye.”

In her dream she was on her bed, but it was not as before. A cold mist billowed inside her room. It fragmented the moonlight and obscured her vision. Her lungs filled with ice and it coursed through her blood blooming with fear.

“Is he going to hurt me?” Mena whispered to the dark, her eyes searching the mist for the frightening demon-red eyes.

“Aye.” The word came from behind her, but she dare not turn around from where she lay curled on her side. “He takes what he desires, and then he crushes it. He canna help it, lass, it is in his blood.” The voice seemed closer now, stronger. “Ye are the object of his desire now, which means ye are in danger. Run before he claims ye, too.”

Mena shook her head in emphatic denial. “He does not mean to claim me. He was drunk and I was weak, but nothing will come of it, I’m only the governess.”

“We both know ye’re more than that.”

Panicked tears pricked her eyes and she yearned to run, but in her dream, her muscles didn’t seem to be working.

“Who are you?” she whispered, frightened tears springing to her eyes. “How—how do you know what I am?”

Mena thought she felt the whisper of a breath against the tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck. She released a terrified gasp that escaped as a whimper.

“I am the horrible embodiment of the Mackenzie’s many sins. The specter of his demon. He’ll not escape the promise he made me.”

“What did he promise you?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

“Everything, lass. Everything. And I’ll collect what I’m owed.”