Highlander's Heart (Clan Matheson Book 2) by Joanne Wadsworth Page A
Authors: Joanne Wadsworth
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rejoiced that they’d soon be one. “What are you thinking that has that intriguing smile on your face?” she murmured against his ear.
“My soul is rejoicing at being with you.”
“As mine is at being with you. You are the only man I ever want touching me, and after what you just did to me, I see the error of my ways. I should never have questioned whether or not I’d accept the bond. I shall, with all of my heart.”
“Those are the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard.” He grinned, beyond taken by the woman who was his. Well, almost his. Once her betrothal was broken, he would lay claim to every last inch of her. She would be his wife, not Donnan MacDonald’s.
Chapter 4
Before Tor lost all thought and took his mate just as he wished to, he instead lifted her bodice back over her breasts, righted her skirts and forced himself to rise from her bed. “I want you to stay right here.”
“Where are you going?” She sat up, her beautiful golden curls mussed and the circlet headband of red silk flowers with trailing red and white ribbons now completely askew. She appeared a vision in her royal blue gown with its lacy white embroidered scalloped neckline, cinched waist and leather girdle with blue tasseled ties draping down to her knees. All he wanted to do was climb back into bed with her and never leave her again.
“To my chamber to collect my belongings. I’ll pack what I need to and return. From now on, I sleep in here with you.” He strode to her door, unbolted and opened it. “I’ll also wash up and change since I’m already without a shirt. Give me ten minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting.” She grinned, her gaze roaming his body and halting with mischievous intent on his crotch. “Particularly since I enjoy your attention so well.”
“You’re a vixen.” He fixed his too tight pants.
“Aye, but I’m now your vixen.”
“No moving. Stay right there on that bed.” He closed her door then gathered his scrambled thoughts and strode down the corridor with its narrow window at the end emitting a stream of midday sunshine.
In his chamber, he shucked his clothes, donned a clean pair of pants in a soft, faded brown leather and tucked her red ribbon from the old pair into the pocket of his new ones. He chose a loose-sleeved black shirt with golden thread sewn in a circular Celtic belted design on the front pocket. The design surrounded a tiny symbol of a crown and sword-arm, his clan’s motto, Fac Et Spera , “Do and Hope,” emblazoned around the edge.
Shirt and boots on, sword once again belted around his waist, he collected his satchel, flipped open the leather flap then nabbed the remainder of his clothes from the trunk under the window and folded them inside. He crossed to the side table, his gut gnawing at him as he filled the basin with water from the jug and splashed his face. Even being only a few doors away from her was pure torture when all he wished to do was hold her in his arms and never let her go.
A knock sounded. “It’s Tavish.”
“Come in.”
His brother strode inside with the padded cotun he’d worn earlier during training slung over one shoulder. Tavish closed the door after himself, a determined look on his face, one that likely matched his own. “Kirk has welcomed the MacDonalds into the keep. Donnan and his men are partaking of the midday meal in the great hall. Word is Donnan’s here to stay until he and Layla have spoken vows at the end of the week. How’d your conversation with her go?”
“Very well, although she can’t complete the bond with me until she’s no longer betrothed to him. The guilt would consume her otherwise. I’ve told her I’ll be the one who speaks to Donnan, which will need to be sooner rather than later.” Bar of soap in hand, he lathered it then slapped the suds on his jaw. He unsheathed his wrist dagger and set to work shaving in front of the looking glass propped against the wall behind the basin.
“You’re going
“My soul is rejoicing at being with you.”
“As mine is at being with you. You are the only man I ever want touching me, and after what you just did to me, I see the error of my ways. I should never have questioned whether or not I’d accept the bond. I shall, with all of my heart.”
“Those are the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard.” He grinned, beyond taken by the woman who was his. Well, almost his. Once her betrothal was broken, he would lay claim to every last inch of her. She would be his wife, not Donnan MacDonald’s.
Chapter 4
Before Tor lost all thought and took his mate just as he wished to, he instead lifted her bodice back over her breasts, righted her skirts and forced himself to rise from her bed. “I want you to stay right here.”
“Where are you going?” She sat up, her beautiful golden curls mussed and the circlet headband of red silk flowers with trailing red and white ribbons now completely askew. She appeared a vision in her royal blue gown with its lacy white embroidered scalloped neckline, cinched waist and leather girdle with blue tasseled ties draping down to her knees. All he wanted to do was climb back into bed with her and never leave her again.
“To my chamber to collect my belongings. I’ll pack what I need to and return. From now on, I sleep in here with you.” He strode to her door, unbolted and opened it. “I’ll also wash up and change since I’m already without a shirt. Give me ten minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting.” She grinned, her gaze roaming his body and halting with mischievous intent on his crotch. “Particularly since I enjoy your attention so well.”
“You’re a vixen.” He fixed his too tight pants.
“Aye, but I’m now your vixen.”
“No moving. Stay right there on that bed.” He closed her door then gathered his scrambled thoughts and strode down the corridor with its narrow window at the end emitting a stream of midday sunshine.
In his chamber, he shucked his clothes, donned a clean pair of pants in a soft, faded brown leather and tucked her red ribbon from the old pair into the pocket of his new ones. He chose a loose-sleeved black shirt with golden thread sewn in a circular Celtic belted design on the front pocket. The design surrounded a tiny symbol of a crown and sword-arm, his clan’s motto, Fac Et Spera , “Do and Hope,” emblazoned around the edge.
Shirt and boots on, sword once again belted around his waist, he collected his satchel, flipped open the leather flap then nabbed the remainder of his clothes from the trunk under the window and folded them inside. He crossed to the side table, his gut gnawing at him as he filled the basin with water from the jug and splashed his face. Even being only a few doors away from her was pure torture when all he wished to do was hold her in his arms and never let her go.
A knock sounded. “It’s Tavish.”
“Come in.”
His brother strode inside with the padded cotun he’d worn earlier during training slung over one shoulder. Tavish closed the door after himself, a determined look on his face, one that likely matched his own. “Kirk has welcomed the MacDonalds into the keep. Donnan and his men are partaking of the midday meal in the great hall. Word is Donnan’s here to stay until he and Layla have spoken vows at the end of the week. How’d your conversation with her go?”
“Very well, although she can’t complete the bond with me until she’s no longer betrothed to him. The guilt would consume her otherwise. I’ve told her I’ll be the one who speaks to Donnan, which will need to be sooner rather than later.” Bar of soap in hand, he lathered it then slapped the suds on his jaw. He unsheathed his wrist dagger and set to work shaving in front of the looking glass propped against the wall behind the basin.
“You’re going
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