Euphemia
Thaddeus was close behind me as he ushered me upstairs.
He was rarely far from my side now—even when overseeing the new cattle or taking stock of the spring crops being sown.
My aunt and uncle had declined his offer to live with us, though Thaddeus had insisted on improving their croft all the same.
Ranald, meanwhile, remained firmly attached to my shadow—ostensibly to keep me safe, should the Sassunnach show his true colours.
His father had formally transferred ownership of the estate to Thaddeus after finally accepting that his son was settled in Scotland. However, he had not hidden his displeasure over our hasty marriage, only four days after Christmas.
The bedroom door slammed shut behind us, the heavy lock sliding decisively into place. A shiver traced its way down my spine.
“Teasing me all morning, then running off,” he said, advancing slowly as I turned to face him. “And what you did at the breakfast table—utterly scandalous, Lady Wulverton.”
“I’m a bad girl,” I replied, reaching for his white cravat and tugging him closer. “What are ye going to do about it?”
“Well now,” he drawled, his voice low and unhurried, “since your brother is away working with Callum, you may scream as much as you like—but you will be shown no mercy.”
His finger traced a slow path from my throat to the edge of my bodice, deliberate and knowing.
The English dresses left very little to the imagination—an appalling lack of propriety, really.
But my husband?
He seemed to adore them.
“Sit on the bed, Lady Wulverton,” he murmured. “It’s time for an inspection.”
A ragged breath slipped past my lips, a frisson of excitement unfurling low in my belly like a slow, warming wave.
He unravelled his cravat with unhurried precision, sliding it free until it fluttered to the floor. I stepped back instinctively, unable to tear my gaze from my husband—my mate.
Our mate, Madadh, hissed before huffing and turning her back on me.
The pregnancy weighed heavily on her. She had grown fiercely protective—of our mate, our child, even my young cousins—guarding us all with sharp-edged vigilance.
“The longer you make me wait,” he drawled, fingers working deliberately down the buttons of his shirt, “the longer you will wait for my knot, my love.”
All thoughts of menus, cleaning, and preparing guest rooms vanished at once. Heat surged through our bond—blazing, fierce, undeniable.
I edged back as he shrugged out of his jacket, my tongue sweeping over my lips when his bare chest came into view—no wonder he hadn’t bothered with a waistcoat this morning.
“Remove your undergarment,” he said evenly, his gaze never leaving mine, “but leave your stockings and slippers on.”
Oh. He meant business.
Madadh snickered.
The sound made me smile. We remained interchangeable. The pregnancy made us emotionally wrought at times, yet we soothed one another gently until the moment passed.
My legs struck the edge of the bed, and I reached down to gather my skirt and petticoat in my hands, lifting the layers with a frustrated huff. I found myself wishing I’d chosen a simple skirt and blouse instead—it would have made reaching my undergarments far less clumsy.
“Do you require some assistance, Lady Wulverton?” he asked, his voice smooth as he closed the distance between us.
His shirt was gone now, leaving only dark brown breeches and his boots.
My breath caught as my gaze traced the hard lines of his body—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, powerful arms corded with muscle from work and strength rather than vanity.
A dusting of dark hair spread across his chest, thickest at the centre, trailing downward in a tempting line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his breeches.
He looked solid. Unyielding. Made to hold and to protect.
I nibbled at my lower lip and nodded, unable to drag my eyes away from him, from the quiet confidence in the way he moved—as though he knew precisely the effect he had on me.
I felt his feral restraint through the bond the moment he knelt before me—tight, coiled, deliberate. His dark head dipped as his palms slid up my legs, slow and possessive, until his fingers hooked into the fabric of my bloomers.
His head snapped up.
Golden eyes flashed, bright and intent, locking onto mine as he peeled the cloth downward with infuriating care, baring me inch by inch until it pooled at my feet.
“Oh, my,” he murmured, lips curling with a knowing smirk, a devilish glint sparking in his gaze. “I can smell your need. Naughty girl.”
I didn’t need the bond to know it.
He fully intended to ruin me this morning.
“Sit.”
I obeyed at once. He rose smoothly to his feet, circling me as he drew in a slow breath, scenting the air like a bloodhound.
“Mmm,” he murmured, dragging the sound out, rich with satisfaction. “This is what my mate should smell like. Belly full of our pup… and leaking sweet honey for her mate’s knot.”
The words hit me like sparks to dry tinder.
My mouth went dry, my pulse thudding as my heart raced.
“Lie down and open your legs for me. I need a taste of that sweet, sweet honey,” he said, lifting my skirt to bare me.
I fell back, bouncing on the soft bed—a far cry from the stiff pallet I had once slept on. I parted my thighs for him, watching as he moved between them. His warm hand slipped beneath my dress to rest over our child.
“So well behaved,” he murmured softly. “Unlike this morning.”
Before I could muster a defence, he was already moving—crouching, firm hands dragging me to the edge of the bed.
“Time to pay, little wolf,” he said, his fingers pressing into my legs as his tongue traced a slow path along my inner thigh.
This did not seem like a terrible punishment for my supposed offence.
I was wrong.
So very wrong.