Highland Wolf (Highland Brides #10)(26)

When Claray immediately broke their kiss on a gasp, he pressed more firmly, then claimed her lips again and thrust his tongue into her mouth as he began to rub her through the heavy cloth, eliciting those groans and mewls he’d wanted.

She was so damned responsive to him it made him ache, and if it weren’t for the fact that he had Payton, Roderick, Hamish and two hundred warriors at his back, he’d have ridden into the woods, dragged her to the ground, thrown up her skirts and sunk himself into her. As Payton had said, bedding her every night and filling her belly with a bairn or nine would be no hardship at all, and where before Conall had thought he wouldn’t care if her father decided to break the betrothal and find her someone else to wed, the idea was now anathema to him. He wanted her for himself. He wanted to sink himself into her wet heat and stay there for a week. The only way to do that though was to claim and marry her. Oddly enough, that suddenly didn’t seem a bad idea.

Claray’s going stiff, crying out into his mouth and then convulsing slightly in his arms told him she’d found her release. He broke their kiss at once, retrieved his hand and wrapped it around her, pressing her to his chest. As she sagged there weakly, panting, he glanced over his shoulder.

Much to his relief, Roderick, Payton and Hamish were riding a good ten yards back with the rest of the men behind them and hadn’t seen anything. Hardly able to believe he hadn’t considered that ere this, he turned back to see that Claray was still leaning weakly against his chest, but she appeared to be regaining her breath.

Smiling faintly, he couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to her forehead. When she blinked her eyes open and peered up at him solemnly, he found himself announcing, “Ye’ll no’ be marryin’ Payton, or fleeing to a convent, lass.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Nay?”

“Nay. Because I’m goin’ to have to marry ye.”

She reacted as if he’d stabbed her in the bottom with his sgian dubh. Jerking upright, she gaped at him with wide eyes and gasped, “What?”

“Ye heard me. We’re marryin’,” he announced arrogantly.

“But ye—I can no’ just—Me da—” she stammered, apparently unable to finish a complete thought.

Deciding to save her poor lust-addled mind the effort, he explained away any possible concern he thought she could have by saying, “While I have gone by the name Conall, or the Wolf, these last twenty-two years, I was born Bryson MacDonald. I’m yer betrothed, lass. Yer da kens it, and kens I did no’ die. And ’tis time I claimed ye to wife.” He then pressed her stunned face to his chest and ordered, “Now sleep. We’ve a ways to go ere we reach MacFarlane, and ye’ll want to be well-rested fer the wedding.”



Claray lay still against Conall’s chest for the longest time, his words echoing in her head. He was her betrothed, Bryson MacDonald. Her father knew it and also knew that he hadn’t died. And he was claiming her to wife.

Her mind was having trouble accepting that information. She saw no reason for the man to lie. It wasn’t like he was trying to run off with her and get her to marry him at some far-off keep amongst strangers. He said they were on the way to MacFarlane and her father knew who he was.

On the other hand, Claray found it hard to believe that her parents would have lied to her all these years either. They’d told her when she was . . . Well, she couldn’t recall when she’d been told that a betrothal had been contracted after she was born, but that her betrothed had died shortly afterward and she was without. However, she’d known that for as far back as she could recall, so it must have been young.

She didn’t know what to think . . . except that it would be better for her soul if he were lying. Because then her father would clear everything up and send the man on his way as the liar he was. But if he was telling the truth . . . Dear God, at this point, she would be on her knees for a month or more doing penance for the way he made her feel and what she’d let him do both by the river and just now. If she was forced to marry the man and suffer that kind of overwhelming, mind-numbing pleasure every single night . . .

Claray shivered at the thought. Part of her reaction was alarm for her poor soul. But a good portion of it had nothing to do with her soul, and everything to do with her body’s response to the man. Just the thought of his kissing and touching her every night sent tingles racing through her body that had her wishing he’d kiss and caress her again.

“I’m going to hell,” she muttered sadly.

“What’s that, lass?” Conall asked.

Claray blinked her eyes open with dismay as she realized she’d spoken the thought aloud. She was even more dismayed to see Roderick riding beside them. Dear God, she’d forgotten all about the men. Had they been able to tell what was happening between her and Conall? Roderick hadn’t been beside them then, had he? Dear God!

“Lass?” Conall nudged her with the arm at her back when she just gaped at Roderick. “What’d ye say?”

Claray finally lifted her gaze to his face, flushed with embarrassment and muttered, “Nothing,” before quickly lowering her head again. She then closed her eyes and forced herself to relax against his chest, hoping he’d think she’d fallen asleep. He apparently believed it, because he didn’t ask anything else. But it was a long time before her mind stopped wrestling with the problem that was Conall-the-Wolf-Bryson-MacDonald and the possibility that he might be her betrothed who would marry her and surely send her to hell with all the pleasure he would give her.