Too Scot to Hold (The Hots for Scots #8) - Caroline Lee Page 0,28

flooded down her throat. She swallowed, then sucked in a satisfied breath.

Smiling now, she dragged her lips along his cock, cleaning off every bit of evidence of his pleasure, and sat back on her heels to peer up at him. She couldn’t make out his features in the darkness, but she could hear his heavy breathing.

Then he whispered, “By all the saints, Vina, that was…”

He didn’t finish the thought, but instead, reached down to take her shoulders and pull her to her feet. She went willingly and was happy to tuck herself against his chest when he pulled her close. The unfulfilled feeling in her core faded, content now.

Or rather, almost content. They were together again, which seemed miraculous. These last few days, they’d spent hours sneaking about the keep through the secret passages, banging that silly drum here and there, wherever Lady Agatha and Grandda were likely to hear it. And it had worked; she’d noticed Grandda frowning and muttering about ghosts and love on their way down to the evening meal last night.

Aye, she and Graham were together again, and he was just as ardent in pleasuring her as he’d been last summer. But, just like last summer, they were together in the dark. They could be together only in secret.

‘Tis what all this sneaking about has been in aid of, ye’ll recall.

She sighed. If they were successful in this campaign to convince Grandda the ghost had foretold his love for Agatha, mayhap he’d be distracted enough to allow her the freedom to be with Graham in the daylight. Not in secret.

Because she loved him, and she wanted everyone to know of it.

When he blew out a breath, she felt it against the crown of her head. “Thank ye.”

‘Twas hard not to giggle, but she managed it. “After what ye did for me yesterday, up against that stone ledge in the passageway near my chambers, how could I no’ return the favor?”

His hum sounded skeptical, so she lifted her head as if she could see his expression. Or, more likely, lack thereof.

“What is it?”

“I dislike having to sneak about with ye, Vina.”

She huffed a little laugh. “I was just thinking the same thing. But if we are successful…”

His arms tightened around her, and she stretched up on her toes to brush a kiss across his lips. But he stiffened, and she pulled back, uncertain if she’d done something wrong.

That’s when she heard it; a sound from the chamber they waited beside.

Swiftly, he wrapped his hands around her waist and moved her out of his way. His movements were confident and certain, and she reminded herself he knew these passages—knew the darkness—better than anyone. He spread his fingers against the door leading to his aunt’s chambers and pushed.

A sliver of light appeared around the opening, although she knew another ubiquitous tapestry hid the entrance. Through it, they heard…giggling?

She exchanged a look with Graham. Was that Lady Agatha?

Then came a masculine voice. “I am tired of dithering woman! I’ve come to make ye mine!”

“Well, ‘tis about time, milord,” huffed Agatha, sounding as if she was crossing the room. “The ghost has spoken, and we dinnae have much time left in this world to fulfill his prophecy.”

“I’ll be marrying ye, then.”

‘Twas her grandfather’s voice. Davina’s hand was clamped over her mouth to hide her thrilled smile, and Graham caught the fingers of her other hand to squeeze them. As a warning to remain quiet, or in celebration?

In the chamber, Agatha’s voice had dropped to a murmur. “No’ unless ye ask me, ye stubborn auld goat.”

What followed was a wet sort of noise, and when Graham flicked an eyebrow her way, she had to control her giggles.

“Well, Aggie?” Grandda finally growled. “Will ye? Marry me?”

“Oh, Angus, aye,” Agatha sighed, followed by more damp noises.

Graham used his hold on her hand to tug Davina closer. “Angus?” he breathed in her ear.

Smothering her giggles again, she stepped back and pulled him away from the door. He made certain to close it carefully before following her. She stopped to scoop up the drum, and they tiptoed down the passageway before breaking into a run.

They collapsed, panting and near laughter around the next bend.

“Angus?” he repeated.

“Aye. Did ye no’ realize he had a given name?”

She felt him shrug. “He’s always looked like a Laird MacKinnon to me.”

“A Laird MacKinnon looks like a skinny auld man with false braids and knobby knees?”

“Mayhap I was intimidated by his stature,” Graham intoned, a hint of laughter in his voice