The Campbell Trilogy Read online

  Patrick’s blood pounded; he was holding himself by a very tight rein. It scared him how much he wanted to take up her offer. But he loved her too much to do that to her. She had no conception of the life she would be thrown into, the desperate situation of his clan, and what she would be giving up. He couldn’t allow her to make such a sacrifice for him.

  His face turned hard, his mouth twisting in a sneer. “You’ve been raised in the finest castles in Scotland, surrounded by servants who tend to your every wish, you have never wanted for anything. Can you imagine what it’s like to go to bed with nothing in your belly? To hear your babe cry with hunger? To go for months being so cold you can’t move your fingers? This isn’t some romantic girlish fancy—something you can end when you get tired of it. It never ends.”

  Her face flushed. “I won’t pretend that it will be easy.”

  “Easy?” He laughed harshly. “You wouldn’t last a month.”

  Her eyes flashed, and he knew he’d gone too far. “How dare you condescend to me like this! Have I in any way proved myself less than any of the women in your clan? I am not some pampered princess, and I will not be treated as such. I can make my own decisions, and I certainly don’t need some overbearing, overprotective knight in shining armor who thinks he knows what’s best for me doing it for me. What you describe is horrible, and I won’t make light of the situation of your clan or pretend that I know what it is like, and God knows why with the way you are acting right now, but for some reason you make me happy. I love you and I’d rather endure hell with you than hell without.”

  Jesu, he thought, taken aback. She had a feisty little temper beneath that sweet façade.

  “If you don’t want me for your wife, just say so, but don’t try to scare me away because it won’t work.”

  He swore, standing stone still, willing himself not to pull her into his arms and ravish her senseless. He was only trying to save her from herself. “This has nothing to do with what I want.” His eyes met hers. “God, Lizzie, you’re killing me. I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

  She leaned toward him. Her soft breasts pressed against his chest enticingly, but it was the flash of hope in her eyes that proved the death knell of his resistance. “Then stop. This is the right thing.” She reached down and clasped his hand in hers. Her soft, warm fingers entwined with his. “Give me a year to prove it to you. If I’m wrong, you can walk away with impunity.”

  He stilled, understanding exactly what she was proposing. A handfast. The old Highland custom was frowned on by the Kirk, but not as uncommon as it would like. A year? Hell, once she was his, he’d never wish to let her go. But it would give her a way out.

  Gazing into her big blue eyes, he knew that he couldn’t fight destiny. He loved her, and he was done trying to find reasons for them not to be together.

  He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers. “Here, before God, I, Patrick MacGregor, do pledge to you, Elizabeth Campbell, my troth. I agree to be bound to you for a year and a day under the ancient custom of handfast.”

  “Here, before God, I, Elizabeth Campbell, do pledge to you, Patrick MacGregor, my troth. I agree to be bound to you for a year and a day under the ancient custom of handfast.”

  When she was done, a wide smile broke across her face, unleashing a swell of something inside Patrick that he hadn’t felt in many years—happiness.

  His mouth brushed over hers softly, tenderly, sealing their vows with a reverent kiss. The poignancy of the moment was forever etched on his soul.

  He swung her up in his arms and carried her over to the pallet near the fire.

  “Your leg,” she protested.

  “It doesn’t hurt.” In truth, right now he was so happy that he could feel no pain.

  He set her down and removed the plaid from her shoulders, arranging it on the pallet as a covering. He shirked off his unbuttoned jerkin and removed his boots, but when he started to pull off his shirt, she stopped him. “Let me.”

  The soft huskiness in her voice filled him with heat, but it was nothing to the incredible sensation of her hands on his body.

  She slid her hands under his shirt, skimming her palms over his belly and chest, lingering, exploring the ridges of muscle with her fingertips, driving him mad with her feather-soft touch. His skin heated, and every nerve ending flared at her delicate caress. She drew out every movement, taking her time in lifting the linen shirt up and over his head.

  She knew what she was doing to him, the little minx, and when her hand dipped to play the same game with the ties of his breeches, he clasped her wrist. “My turn.”

  He knelt before her, running his hands up her calves and looping his thumbs under the edge of her torn sark. He raised the fabric inch by inch as his hands stroked her long, shapely legs. Her skin was like velvet—so incredibly smooth and creamy under his rough fingertips. The contrast between them could not be more profound, but it no longer worried him. She might be tiny and delicate, but she’d been made for him. She wouldn’t break—he smiled wickedly—though he intended to make her shatter.

  When his hands had finished exploring every inch of creamy smooth skin, he used his mouth, pressing soft kisses on the curves of her calves, her tiny knees, the tender insides of her thigh, pushing the fabric higher and higher as his mouth climbed toward her petal-soft sex. The scent of her filled him, seeping deep into his bones, arousing dark, primitive yearnings.

  His staff pulsed against his belly. But it would have to wait.

  Her legs started to shake and her breathing hitched as he slowly approached his destination.

  He wanted to bury his head between her legs and taste her hard and deep, but he forced himself to go slowly—to drag out every moment of her pleasure.

  Her legs pressed together reflexively, her body tightening with resistance, but he forced them apart.

  “No,” she protested. “Surely you can’t mean to—”

  She gasped. Her words turned into a moan as his tongue flicked over her slick womanly core.

  He closed his eyes and groaned, savoring her taste and the feminine scent of desire, before pressing his mouth fully over her.

  Her legs wobbled and she had to grab his shoulders as he slid his tongue deep inside her, probing intimately. She was so warm and soft. So deliciously wet. And tasted as sweet as honey.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he increased the pressure, increased the pleasure. Stroking. Flicking. Sucking. Bringing her to the brink and then easing her down.

  Her moans turned frantic. “Please,” she whispered, threading her fingers through his hair.

  Her passion undid him. He grabbed the soft curves of her buttocks and lifted her fully against his mouth, thrusting deep inside her with his tongue, the stubble of his beard scraping her gently as he gave her the relief she desired. And when he felt her body clench, he sucked, right as the spasms of release crashed over her.

  He jerked, having to hold back his own release as the soft cries of her pleasure echoed in his ears.

  Only when the shudders had ebbed from her body did he finally lift the sark over her head and lower her to the pallet. Naked. Sated. Her gaze soft and her cheeks flushed with pleasure. Never had she looked more beautiful.

  My wife.

  His chest burned with emotion and wonderment. Moved beyond words at the poignancy of the moment, the most perfect of his life.

  Unable to wait a minute longer, he quickly divested himself of his breeches and moved between her legs.

  She grabbed his shoulders, holding him with her loving blue-eyed gaze as he entered her.

  He loved to watch her face, watch the erotic way her eyes widened and her lips parted with soft gasps as he pressed inside her, inch by inch.

  Her body clutched him like a warm glove. He shook with the effort of restraint. She was so small, so incredibly tight. It felt too good.

  He thrust, groaning at the sensation of being deep inside her, filling her. Loving her. The pressure in his groin was in