Wed To The Warrior (Kilts & Kisses 3)

Gods she looks beautiful.

While the tents were going up, and while I was sending ravens back home, and while Cat’s stepmother Darcy was loudly complaining about the “condition” of the “camp,” Catriona got the bath I know I interrupted earlier. And while I’m not pleased with knowing that she’s not sitting there with my cum marking her skin, my bride-to-be does look absolutely stunning.

So stunning, in fact, that this time I do groan, at the knowledge that tonight, she’s sleeping in the quarters at the top of Aerie Doon—under guard—while I sleep in a sumptuous tent her father had set up for me.

We’re sleeping apart, but gods do I want her. I want to claim her and taste every inch of her skin. I want to make her mine, and I know damn well that isn’t happening tonight. But just the same, I try to enjoy the feast. I drink the good ale, eat the tasty food, and let myself smile knowing that soon, this gorgeous, perfect girl will be my wife.

And yet, still…

…Still I want her. I thank the gods that I’m sitting as these thoughts rush through my head, because my cock hardens to steel as I dwell on them. I bite back the growl, blood burning like fire through my veins and my big, thick cock pulsing against my thigh under the table.

I eat, I drink, but still, my hunger doesn’t even remotely go away. Because what I hunger for is off limits—that is, until we’re wed. And then?

The grin curls the corners of my lips as my hungry, fierce gaze locks onto her.

Because after we wed, you can be damn sure that there’ll be nothing holding me back from what’s mine.

****

Separate quarters.

I growl, pacing my tent, a cup of whiskey in my hand and a roaring need to feel Catriona moaning under me blazing through me. The need to taste her lips and swallow her cries of pleasure—to lay her across that bed up in that tower again and drag my tongue over every inch of her, until she’s begging me so sweetly for release.

I grunt, still pacing, my jaw clenched tight and only loosening for another sip of the whiskey. It feels as though I’m going mad. It’s as if I’ve become addicted to Catriona and being apart from her is slowly poisoning me.

I know the flimsy tent walls and the handful of guards at the door to the keep itself won’t stop me if I truly want to go to her. Not a chance. But this is about control. This is about respecting tradition. Gods do I want her, but heaven help me, she’ll be my bride before I pluck her rose.

I growl, turning on the heel of my boot to begin another pace of the length of my tent in a vain attempt at making my cock go down, when there’s a knock at the front flap. I pause, frowning before the flap is pulled aside, and Darcy, Catriona’s stepmother and Lachlan’s wife, steps in.

“Pre-wedding jitters?” She smiles smugly and wickedly—a smile that besmirches the meaning of the word as she nods at my glass.

“None, my lady,” I say as growl-free as I can possibly muster.

She laughs, the sound like a raven’s claws against a shield.

“Oh, you don’t have to play coy with me, Lord Bruce. Every groom feels—”

“There are no jitters, my lady. No second thoughts, no fear. None.”

She eyes me, like she’s sizing me up before she steps towards me.

“Can I help you, my lady?”

I frown. Beyond the fact that I’m of no mood to entertain, it’s late. And her being here alone in my tent is…

I scowl.

It’s unbecoming, to be honest. Especially for a lady of her stature.

Slowly, she smiles that poisonous looking smile again, her eyes settling on me.

“Perhaps,” she says flippantly, waltzing across the room towards me. There’s a smokiness to her eyes, and my scowl only deepens.

“Can you help me, Lord Bruce?”

The words purr from her lips, and my body stiffens defensively.

She doesn’t actually mean—

“Why don’t we help each other, hmm?” She purrs again, and when she reaches for the ties at the front of her gown, suddenly, I snap.

“Lady Darcy,” I growl sharply, moving towards her and pushing her back with my hands on her arms. “I think you should go, now.”

Anger flashes across her face before she smiles, winking at me as if this is some sort of game.

“Oh, do you, Lord Bruce?”

“Lady Darcy, get out,” I hiss.

“You seem pent up, my lord,” she says thickly, moving into me. “Though I’m sure I can find a way to soothe your—”

“Out!” I bark, and suddenly, her little act falls apart. She glares at me, her face red with fury as she steps away from me.

“I chose to be nice, Lord Bruce,” she snaps. “I could always tell my husband that you pulled me in here and tried to have your way with me if you don’t consider my offer.”