What the Hart Wants - Fiona Davenport Page 0,84
still I would be proud of ye, and love you until I draw my last breath.”
“Then,” she whispered, “nothing would make me happier than to be with you for always. As your wife.”
He bent his head and placed a kiss on her belly. “Did you hear that, little one? You are witness to your ma’s consent.”
She giggled, and he kissed her again. “Come, lass, let me take you back inside before your sister slices my ballocks off and feeds them to the fish in that pond.”
“Did she say she would?”
“Had those children not been present, I think she’d have tried it the moment I arrived. But if I see her running toward me with an urn in her hand, then I know I’m in trouble. Isn’t that how the Hart sisters attack unsuspecting men?”
“Am I ever to be forgiven for smashing that vase over your head?”
“My dear lass, I will never regret the day a feisty wee terrier accosted me with a vase. I believe that was the moment I fell in love with ye.”
He helped her up and wrapped a fur around her as if she were as delicate as a bird’s egg. Then, hand in hand, they returned to the house.
Epilogue
Glendarron, Scotland
Six months later…
Delilah clung to her husband as his breath came in shallow pants, puffs of warm air against her neck. Still inside her, their bodies sticky with sweat, he held her as if his life depended on it. The hard rock against her back was still warm from the afternoon sun, and her body trembled from the aftershocks of her climax. She could still hear her screams of ecstasy echoing across the mountainside.
She shifted position, and a shock of need coursed through her nipples.
“Not yet, lass,” he murmured. “Let me hold ye against the rock for a while. Too long have I dreamed of this moment, that I wish to savor it, to etch it into my memory.”
“I trust this won’t be our only memory, Your Grace.”
A wicked glint shone in his eyes, and he grasped her wrists and pinned her against the rock. “Your Grace, is it? That wasn’t what you were screaming earlier as I buried myself inside ye.”
He ground his hips against her. A flare of pleasure pulsed deep inside, and a cry escaped her lips.
“Greedy lass,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Perhaps I should spend every day here, giving ye a good, hard tupping against the rocks.”
“You’re a beast!” she said, laughing.
“Aye,” he growled, “I’m a stag in rut, eager to please his mate. Perhaps this beast should mark his mate so none other can claim her.”
He lowered his lips to her neck and nipped the sensitive flesh, sending a shock of pleasure through her. When he lifted his head once more, his eyes pulsed with desire and love. He planted a soft kiss on her lips, then eased himself out of her. Once again, she felt that brief moment of loss, each time he withdrew.
He took her left hand and kissed the wedding band on her finger.
“We should return,” she said. “Flora will wonder where we are.”
“Our daughter will either be fast asleep or in Nellie’s care.”
“Or your mother’s.”
He chuckled, and his body vibrated against hers. “I swear young Nellie is turning out to be a feisty lass. I’ve never seen anyone battle so hard with Ma for a baby’s attention. She’s blossomed much since Mrs. Forbes sent her to us.”
“I’m sure your mother enjoys the challenge,” she said. “She told me the other day what a help Nellie was around the house. She also said she hopes to see Flora furnished with brothers and sisters for her to indulge and spoil.”
His eyes darkened with lust. “I shall enjoy making them,” he said. “Perhaps, even today, you may be carrying my son.”
“Do you wish for a son?”
“If I have no sons and a hundred daughters, I should be delighted. I care nothing for preserving the Molineux line, and a daughter can run the distillery as well as a son.”
He kissed her once more. “A wife, also,” he said. “Hamish tells me your idea of providing verse to adorn the labels of each bottle of whisky has attracted more orders. I’m pleased to see my wife’s talents are now being used to my benefit rather than my detriment.”
She swatted his arm, and he grinned. “There’s my hellion! I’d much rather battle with you than endure a biddable wife any day. Besides, I know you’ll sheathe your claws at the end of our battles and permit me to sheathe…”
“That’s enough!” she laughed, “or I’ll begin to believe the rumors that all Highlanders are barbarians.”
“Barbarians we may be, but we appreciate beauty nonetheless,” he said. “Did I see a package arrive this morning from Sandton?”
“You did,” she said. “My second book of poems has gone to print, and he’s written to ask if I’d be happy to write a third.”
“And will you?”
She gestured around her. “With this world at my fingertips, how can I not be inspired? I wish to spend the rest of my life here.”
“Just wandering?” he teased, “or rutting?”
“Fraser!”
“Ah,” he rumbled, “that’s what ye were screaming when I parted your thighs and thrust deeper inside ye.”
He planted a kiss on her lips. “I’m afraid, my love, it’s time to return to the house. This is the furthest you’ve ventured since Flora’s birth, and Ma said she’d slice me open if I didn’t return ye before dark.”
He buttoned his breeches and tucked in his shirt while she pulled her skirts down.
“We must look like peasants,” she said. “What will your mother think of us!”
“That we’re a couple unafraid to indulge our love,” he said, “by rutting against the hard rock of the mountains…”
He planted a kiss on her forehead. “…or when I mount ye over the desk in my study…”
His lips brushed against her cheek, then followed a path toward her mouth. “…or when I feast on ye in my bed while ye lay open and ready for me, your sweet flower luscious and pink, and…”
“Fraser!”
He cupped her face in his hands.
“Perhaps we might…” she hesitated. “Just once more?”
“Oh, lass!” He laughed. “When a man has thoroughly pleasured his woman, he must be given time to recover. But let me promise you here and now—tonight, when all have retired, I shall bring ye to the heights of pleasure such that ye shall scream my name and soar through the sky to join the eagles in heaven.”
“I must be content with that.”
“Ye’ll be more than content, lass.”
It was a promise she knew he’d keep.
He reached out his hand, and she took it, and let him guide her along the mountain path. In the valley below, Glendarron Castle shone in the light of the setting sun.
Her home in the foothills of the mountain of her heart.
The End
About the Author
Emily Royal grew up in Sussex, England, and has devoured romantic novels for as long as she can remember. A mathematician at heart, Emily has worked in financial services for over twenty years. She indulged in her love of writing after she moved to Scotland, where she lives with her husband, teenage daughters and menagerie of rescue pets including Twinkle, an attention-seeking boa constrictor.
She has a passion for both reading and writing romance with a weakness for Regency rakes, Highland heroes, and Medieval knights. Persuasion is one of her all-time favorite novels which she reads several times each year and she is fortunate enough to live within sight of a Medieval palace.
When not writing, Emily enjoys playing the piano, hiking, and painting landscapes, particularly the Highlands. One of her ambitions is to paint, as well as climb, every mountain in Scotland.
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