The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,107

his cravat, which presently lay on the carriage floor. She frowned now, recalling how his mood had darkened to a near-primitive state. He’d growled through gritted teeth, his eyes maddened. Then he’d picked her up, rising to tumble her back onto the opposite seat, seemingly incensed at having her anywhere but beneath him. He’d wadded her skirts carelessly around her waist—more wrinkles, naturally. Then he’d pressed her legs wide, forcing her bent knees toward her shoulders so he could go deeper and harder. Her peak had come with such force, she’d bitten his fine wool collar to stifle her screams of ecstasy.

Now, she surveyed their surroundings—the black cushioned seats and silver velvet curtains. “This is a very fine carriage,” she murmured.

He lay heavily upon her, hot breaths fanning her neck. “Glad you like it.”

“I think I may have damaged your coat.”

“I have other coats. You may damage them later.”

She sifted her fingers through his hair. Turned her head to kiss his brow. “It seems ye dinnae like me to sit astride ye for very long, English,” she whispered tenderly. “Why is that?”

He stilled. His muscles tensed. He levered up and away from her, expression shuttered. For the next few minutes, he didn’t speak. Rather, he busied himself reassembling his clothing then helping her do the same.

She made an attempt to redress her hair, but her arms were limp as overcooked cabbage.

“Let me help,” he rasped, gently turning her until her back was to him. Then, she felt his fingers against her scalp, lacing through her curls and stroking the length before winding it into a coil and fastening it at the back of her head. Every moment sent waves of silvery shivers washing across her skin.

She sighed and reached for him, bringing his hand to her mouth so she could kiss his palm. Then, she held his hand between her own. “Ye go a wee bit mad when ye awaken with me on top of ye. It’s happened twice. And it’s plain ye prefer to be the rider rather than the mount. Can ye tell me why, English?”

He withdrew. She shifted so she could see his face, but he’d turned away to stare out at the rain.

“I’ve told ye everythin’ about my life,” she said. “The parts I love, the parts I hate, even the parts I didnae think ye’d believe. How Finlay and I would play ghostie tricks on the villagers and how Broderick would sing to me in Gaelic when I fell ill. How Grisel made me want to crawl into the grave with my mam once or twice.”

She watched his throat ripple and his muscles tense. He was fighting the same rage he’d shown when she’d first told him about the spitting and taunts—all the small cruelties she’d endured until she’d learned how to avoid them.

“Do ye think I willnae understand?”

“I think you’ll view me differently.”

“Nah. I ken who ye are, John Huxley. Even if ye did lie about bein’ a lord.”

Slowly, as the rain pattered on the roof and the outskirts of Inverness became the town of Inverness, his shoulders lost some of their tension. His fists loosened. His hand slid over hers.

His other hand raked through his hair. “You really wish to hear this, do you?”

“I really do.”

“Fine.” His lips paled with tension. “She was a governess. Came from an old but impoverished bloodline. My parents hired her to instruct my sisters when I was sixteen.” His right hand, she noticed, was gripping the seat beside his leg as though to keep himself in check. “I was home from Eton. The first week, she attempted to flirt with me, but my interests lay elsewhere at the time.”

“She was ugly, then.”

“No, she was pretty enough. Merely less fetching than the village barmaid who’d captured my fancy.”

“Did the barmaid have large bosoms?”

“I don’t wish to discuss it.”

“Aye, she did. This explains a great deal, English. Mayhap ye’d like me to wear a barmaid’s dress, hmm?” She waggled her brows. “I could serve ye whisky, and ye could act very lordly.”

He didn’t laugh, but the tension around his mouth and eyes eased, which had been her aim. “The governess sought me out numerous times, approaching me in empty corridors and pretending to accidentally find me alone in the library. She hinted that she’d been meant for a higher station in life, that she’d