The Highland Brother's Witch: HIGHLANDER ((Scottish Historical Pregnancy Bad Boy Romance)) Page 3

  Her tiny hand settled on his cheek, sending a lovely wash of warmth through him, and he looked up at her in astonishment. “You are not the one who wronged me,” she said simply, and he swallowed and felt his eyes sting. She gazed down at him from her seat at the hearth, her smile sad. “Will you stay, then, and make sure he does not return?”

  “As long as it takes,” he swore.

  “Then you're welcome.” She smiled down at him, her hand lingering on his cheek...and then trailed away, leaving soft tingling in its wake. She stood a little stiffly, turning to go through the curtain again. “Take the hearth, it's warmest.”

  Donal lay by the hearth that night, head pounding with the need for sleep, but ever watchful. After a while, he heard her soft, even breathing coming from the other room; it soothed him some that she felt safe enough around him to finally rest again. But he knew as well how temporary that could be, and so he kept one eye open all the long hours until dawn.

  Evan tried to come by twice the next day. Once in the early afternoon, while Donal was helping Maeve chop turnips for another cauldron of soup. They had been talking quietly for hours on this and that: life back in town, what happened with the herbs, how the old Laird was doing. Maeve talked of her training in herbs and simples, and Donal brushed over the subject of his time in war and the loss of his family. By the time soup-making rolled around, they had both relaxed so much around each other that smiles and laughter could be heard around the worktable. But then came the clatter of hooves outside, and Maeve stiffened. Donal sighed and pushed himself up from his stool, which was no more than a sanded-down chunk of tree trunk, and gave her a grim smile. “I'll handle it.”

  He had brought his horse out to the hidden pasture that lay beyond the next hillock. Since he didn't see it Evan must have thought that Donal had left, because he started pounding on the door straightaway. “Open up, Witch! We've unfinished business--”

  Donal shoved the door open so that it knocked into him hard, and stepped out as Evan stumbled back and landed on his ass. “It's not happening,” he growled.

  Evan looked up at him in amazement, his face mottled with bruises from the last beating but his bravado still intact. Then he pouted, folding his arms across his chest. “Oh, come on! Just once, and I'll leave her alone after! You can't deny your own brother a piece of arse, now can you--”

  “Leave. Don't return.” Donal raised a fist, and his brother got the fear in his eyes and scrambled for his saddle.

  The second time came late that night, when Evan was so drunk that the heavy thud of him falling off his horse warned Donal as he dozed by the hearth. He got up, went out the door, and stared at Evan as he staggered to his feet. Evan had that smirk on his face, but it faded quick when Donal drew his dirk and pointed it at his throat. “Enough, Evan. I warned you twice now. Show up again and you'd best be prepared to fight me until one of us dies!”

  “What is with you?” Evan slurred, his tone baffled. “Are you in love with her, then? Or did she work her witchery on you?”

  “The former. Not that I'll put up with any of your cruelties any more in any case. But it's true. I love the Lady Witch, and I'll die before I let anyone hurt her.” Donal took a step forward, forcing his brother to scramble back to avoid the tip of his blade. “Go. If you're smart, you'll leave town before I get back. I'm done with you for good, now.”

  Once Evan had left, cursing and spitting from his saddle but wide-eyed with fear, Donal caught his breath and went back inside, barring the door behind him. He looked up then—and froze, for Maeve stood in her nightgown in the middle of the room, and there was a sweet little smile on her face that threatened to undo him. It was then that he realized that she'd overheard the whole thing.

  “Do you, then?” she asked softly, and he felt his ears start to prickle.

  But he couldn't lie to her, and he was done with being a coward, even if it was so soon and made him sound foolish. “Aye,” he replied. “I love you. Have since the moment I laid eyes on you. I don't expect anything back for it, but there it is.”

  Her smile widened a touch, and her eyes twinkled as she turned to go back behind the curtain. “Well. I'll just have to think about what I want to do about that, won't I?”

  His jaw dropped as he watched her go.

  4: Torches on the Road

  They spent another quiet day together. Donal stood guard, but when Evan did not return he simply asked if Maeve had work she wanted done. She did, but it was easy work: feeding the sheep and chickens, tending his own horse, drawing water and chopping wood. The whole time they talked gently, and as the day went on their conversation turned from their pasts to what they might want for the future. Donal spoke of how tired he was living as a bachelor, and how he'd spoil any kids that came his way. Maeve spoke of having a daughter to pass her knowledge on to, as was the tradition in their family. Sometimes they both fell silent, and in the tender quiet simply gazed at each other while Donal felt his heartbeat pushing little rushes of joy through his chest. She simply smiled softly at him, the tenderness in those enormous blue eyes rendering him speechless.

  A week passed that way, and then another. Donal knew he should go back, to check on the plague and whatever Evan was up to. But every time he thought of bringing up going back, he felt a deep longing tugging him back to her side, and he fell silent again.

  At mid-month a storm rolled over the Cape, pelting everything outside with hard rain. He got all the beasts into the small sod barn, saw they had all they needed, and came back to Maeve with a big armful of wood from the sheltered pile just outside. He set his burden on its spot on the hearth, and sighed. “Seems we're not going to be able to take that Cliffside walk today,” he apologized as he turned to her.

  Maeve gave him that soft, disarming smile again, and got up from her spot at the workbench where she had been chopping herbs for a poultice mix. Without a word, she came up to him, and slipped her arms around him. He hugged her back gently, shivering as he fought the urge to squeeze her tight. “Maeve....” he started, but trailed off, words failing him again.

  “Shhhhh,” she murmured. He let her go reluctantly when she stepped back. She took his hand, and gently led him back behind the curtain. He stumbled after her, wide-eyed with shock at his good fortune.

  Beyond lay a small, dim bedroom, warmed by the backside of the brick hearth and dominated by a large wooden bed piled with a heather mattress, furs and blankets. Morag stepped out of her shoes as she went, and let his hand go to loosen her bodice and start undressing. He stared as her slim white body emerged from beneath the layers of concealing fabric, until she was as bare as her birth day. She walked to the bed and then looked back at him, an arch little smile on her face.

  Astounded, Donal started tearing off his clothes.

  He struggled to be gentle as he joined her in her bed, kissing her soft little mouth and running his callused hands over her soft skin. She felt and smelled so good as he embraced her, her small, smooth body a sharp contrast to his big, burly one. But she wasn't shy, now that she'd made her decision; even as he explored her with hands and mouth, she did the same to him, her delicate fingers leaving trails of fire over his skin.

  He lost track of time as they rolled and clutched and clung together on the mattress, mouths tasting each other, legs tangling up and hands tracing each other's skin. He ended up bending over her as he kissed and suckled her small breasts, hearing her moan as she tensed and squirmed under him. He tried to take his time, though he shuddered with the need for her; only when she finally started moaning with each breath did he caress her sex and gently open her.

  He groaned into her shoulder as he sank into her, and felt the bliss of their union rise inside of him, wave by soft wave as he thrust into her warm and welcoming body. She crooned softly and lifted her hips to meet his, her breath coming in soft little sips and her eyes falling closed. Their movements grew wilder, rougher, more frantic as their blood fired, and finally she arched against him and cried out in her soft,
birdsong voice as her contractions caressed him from within. It set him off in heartbeats; he went rigid over her, pressing in deep as he emptied himself, his groan of joy echoing off the cottage walls.

  He woke up in her arms that morning—and the next morning, and the next, each time warm and relaxed from the

  night's pleasures, and each time with a long-craved-for contentment settled softly into his heart. For a while, there was

  no pain in his life, and his future held more hope than he could have ever dreamed before.

  But two days later, the wind pushed the fog away entirely, and as night fell they heard hoof beats echoing across the hills toward them. Donal took the lantern and went to the top of the

  near hill—and saw a band of a dozen men riding out toward him, each bearing a torch. Stomach tightening, he hurried back home

  to warn Maeve. They did not look friendly, and the shock of red hair crowning the head of their lead man was all too familiar.

  “Hide,” Donal warned hoarsely. “Bar the door to the cottage, I'll deal with this lot.” He set his jaw and strode out into the wind to meet the men as they rode up the narrow secret path.

  Evan reined in when he saw him, grinning. “Good luck! What, then, brother, did you finally get free of the Witch?”

  Donal scowled at him, then looked around at the others. Young men, all, probably Evan's cohort down at the tavern. All looked a bit drunk, like Evan himself. “What are you on about?

  I'm here of my own will because I'm taking Maeve as my wife, idiot.”

  “Wait.” The burly blond next to Evan turned to him in confusion. “You said that your brother was a captive of magic.”

  “He is! Just look at him! He's been here guarding her from harm for weeks, and ignoring his own brother. It's either magic or madness--”

  “It's neither.” As the men came to a stop in a half-circle around him, watching with curious eyes, Donal pointed at his brother coldly. “The Witch sent us back with the herbs for the fever that's struck so many. But Evan had set his sights on ravaging her. Just as he's likely done to some of your sisters. I stayed behind to protect her from him.”

  Evan's face purpled as a ripple went through the crowd. “But he brought us here to rescue you,” the blond insisted, a worried line between his pale brows.

  “No he didn't! He came here to have you drag me off so he could go ravage the woman I love. That is what he does--”

  Some in the crowd were leveling skeptical looks at Evan, who apparently hadn't thought his plan out too well. His reputation still followed him around town, and even these young drunkards must have heard bits of it. Perhaps it was Donal's mention of sisters that made some of them look askance at their nominal leader. But whatever it was, Evan suddenly realized that he was already losing his end of the argument.

  “You've no balls left at all, do you? Betrayer!” He flung himself from his saddle, already drawing his claymore.

  Donal stumbled back as the sword went past his throat, and snatched out his own claymore in time to block the second blow.

  “It's down to this, then, it? You'd betray me and even kill me for the chance to get your dirk wet!” He slapped away his brother's

  third blow as the other men walked their horses back to give them room.

  They circled each other, Donal with grief and regret on his face, but nothing in Evan's but a deep and savage fury. It was like a toddler had gotten control of a grown man's body, and thrown

  a tantrum expressed in sword blows. Tears stung Donal's eyes as he finally saw how far his brother had gone. Not my brother any

  more, he thought as he blocked another blow. But he couldn't bring himself to strike back.

  “Donal!” called that soft birdsong voice from atop the hill. Everyone turned; Maeve stood there, shawl clutched around her

  as she held her lantern high. “You can't refuse to fight! If he wins, you'll not live to raise the boy you've left in my belly!”

  The realization sank in for Donal and lifted the stone from his heart. But Evan responded to her call with rage. “There you

  are, you little whore!” he howled, and tried to rush up the hill at her with his sword.

  ...No.

  Donal didn't realize he'd swung his claymore until he felt a moment's resistance against the blade—and then Evan's head

  sailed from his shoulders and disappeared into the darkened heather with a soft thump.

  He stood there then, arms dropping to his sides, while his brother's body toppled over lifelessly, the sword finally slipping from his grasp. He blinked tears from his eyes, the grief still twisting in his heart like a knife, even after everything.

  But then Maeve was running for him, handing off her lantern to the confused blond and diving forward to bury her face in his chest. Donal dropped his sword and held her gently, and the ache inside him eased a little. “It's done,” he choked out, and she nodded against him.

  When he had recovered enough, he looked up at the blond. “What's your name?”

  “Conor, sir.”

  “Is the plague done with us back home, then?”

  “Aye, there have been no new fevers in a week now.” Conor tilted his head as he gazed at the small figure in Donal's arms. “So there's no sorcery here, aside from the herbs that helped us? He had us all convinced--”

  “Yes, well. I'm not ensorcelled. Just in love.” He stroked Maeve's pale hair, his heart pounding. He would have to ask her later if the matter of the baby in her belly was true.

  “Not sure the man believed there was a difference, thinking about it,” Conor mused, staring down at Evan's corpse.

  “He wouldn't. There's no difference to a man who himself can't love.” he kissed the top of Maeve's head, and felt her relax against him.

  That morning he would reunite his brother's head with its body and burn them both at Cliffside. He imagined he would mourn even then, no matter what his brother had been up to. But he knew as well that the stroke of his sword had erased an evil from all their lives. Evan had been his only family once—and a poor one at best. But now, that was no longer true. And as the men made their apologies and started riding away, he knew that he now had a new family to stake his heart on—and one that would never betray him.

  THE END

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