Epilogue
The tower room was quiet.
The cold night air came through the narrow window carrying the smell of heather and earth and the particular sweetness of the glens. The candles were low, and the hall below had gone still. It was just the two of them.
Alasdair paused at the window, observing the view. She monitored him from the opposite side of the room, noting the position of his shoulders, his relaxed hair, and the characteristic composure he exhibited—a demeanor she recognized as indicative of careful deliberation.
“Come here,” she said.
He turned. She crossed the room and put her hand flat against his chest and felt his heartbeat, steady and present, and looked up at him.
“You’re thinking too hard,” she said.
“Aye,” he said.
“Stop,” she said.
He looked at her for a moment. Then his hands gently moved to her face, both of them slow and completely intentional. He cupped her jaw, tilted her face up, and kissed her.
Not the way he had kissed her before, urgent and breathless and undone. This was different. This was a man who had decided something, was not in a hurry, and knew it. She felt the difference in his movements. She lifted up on her toes and tried to kiss him back the same way.
His fingers traced the line of her jaw slowly, down the side of her throat, and she felt her breath change.
Her hands tightened in his shirt. He pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, her cheek, the place below her ear, and she turned her face toward him.
His hands moved through her hair, and she felt the low sound he made against her skin.
“Isobel,” he said.
His mouth continued its path, trailing fiery kisses down her throat.
She tilted her head back, a soft sound escaping her lips as he found the pulse point at the base of her neck.
His tongue traced its flutter before his teeth grazed gently.
Her fingers curled into his hair, holding him there, and he let out a satisfied sound against her skin.
He kissed lower, his lips brushing the edge of her bodice and the tops of her breasts where they swelled above the laces. His breath was warm there, and she felt herself grow slick between her thighs, a pooling heat that made her press closer to him.
“Alasdair,” she breathed.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. There was a dark, hungry look in his eyes. Then his hands found her shoulders, and with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity in his gaze, he turned her around.
Her breath caught as she felt his fingers at her back, working the laces of her gown with a patience that was almost torment.
One by one, the ties loosened, and the fabric began to fall away.
He pushed the fabric down over her shoulders.
His knuckles brushed her bare skin, and she shivered.
The gown pooled at her feet, and she stood before him in nothing but her thin shift, her heart pounding so hard she was certain he could hear it.
He turned her back to face him, and his hands came to her shoulders again, pushing the shift down. It fell, and she was bare.
For a moment, he simply looked at her. His gaze traveled from her face down the length of her body, unhurried, reverent, and she felt the heat of it like a touch. Her hands twitched at her sides, an instinct to cover herself, but she held still.
“Ye are so beautiful,” he said, his voice rough and low. “I have ken it since ye first came to Dunalasdair , but God, Isobel. Look at ye.”
He moved closer, his fingers tracing the curve of her collarbone before floating down the center of her chest, between her breasts, and over the soft curve of her stomach.
She shivered under his touch. Her skin prickled despite the warmth of the room.
His hand kept its path, fingers gliding along her hip, the outside of her thigh, and she let out a shuddering breath.
When his fingers trailed back up the inside of her thigh, she moaned, a low, wanton sound she barely recognized as her own. Her knees felt weak, and she reached for him, gripping his shoulders for balance.
He kissed her then, swallowing her next moan.
His mouth was fierce and demanding, and she kissed him back with equal fervor.
Her fingers dug into the hard muscle of his shoulders.
But he did not stop his exploration. His hand moved higher, and then his fingers found her, slipping between her slick folds, and she broke the kiss with a cry.
“Alasdair,” she gasped, her forehead falling to his chest.
“Aye,” he murmured against her hair. “I have ye.”
His fingers moved slowly, learning her, as she clung to him. Her hips rocked against his hand. He found her center, the place where pleasure coiled tightly, and she cried out his name again, nails digging into his back.
“That’s it,” he said, his voice a low rumble in her ear. “Let go for me, Isobel.”
She did, her body trembling against him as waves of pleasure washed over her.
Her mouth open against his chest. His name slipped from her lips again and again.
He held her through it, his arms strong around her, gently calming her as the aftershocks subsided until she was limp and trembling in his embrace.
She looked up at him through hazy eyes, and she watched him step back. His hands went to the fastenings of his trews, and he undid them with the same unhurried deliberation, pushing them down and stepping out of them. He stood before her fully naked, and her breath caught in her throat.
He was magnificent, all broad shoulders and strong arms and the lean, hard planes of his chest. The scars she had traced before were silver in the candlelight, and the thatch of dark hair between his legs led to…
She went red. A flush started at her chest and climbed up her throat and flooded her cheeks. Her eyes had gone wide, and she could not seem to look away from the hard, thick length of him. The thought that entered her mind came out of her mouth before she could stop it.
“How…” she said, her voice a squeak. “How will that fit?”
He laughed, a low, warm sound that made her flush deepen, but there was no mockery in it. He stepped toward her, cupping her face in his hands, tilting her chin up so she had to meet his eyes.
“Trust me, mo chridhe,” he said, and kissed her.
The kiss was soft at first, patient, meant to soothe, but it deepened quickly, and she found herself rising onto her toes to press closer to him.
He walked her backward toward the bed, his hands never leaving her.
When the backs of her knees hit the edge, he lowered her onto the mattress with a gentleness that made her chest ache.
He hovered over her, his weight supported on his forearms, and she felt the hard length of him pressing against her thigh. He looked down at her, and his face was open in a way she had never seen before. All the walls were gone, all the distance burned away.
“I will be gentle.”
She reached up and touched his face, tracing the scar in his eyebrow, her fingers trembling slightly. “I know,” she said. “I trust you.”
He kissed her again, and then she felt him at her entrance, the blunt pressure of him, and she tensed for just a moment. He stilled, his forehead pressed to hers, his breathing ragged.
“Breathe,” he said.
She did, and as she exhaled, he pressed forward, slow, so slow, and she felt herself stretching around him. The fullness took her breath away. She gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders. He paused again, waiting, his body taut with restraint above her.
“All right?” he asked, his voice strained.
She nodded, unable to trust her voice. He moved again, this time deeper, and she moaned. Her head fell back against the pillow. He filled her completely, and there was a moment of silence. Both of them breathed heavily, both of them suspended in the quiet of the room.
Then he began to move. Slow at first, a rhythm that made her gasp with every thrust. Her hands slid down his back. Her nails dug into the muscle of his backside. He groaned against her throat, and she felt the vibration of it through her whole body.
“Alasdair,” she breathed, and the sound of his name seemed to undo something in him.
He moved faster, deeper, and she met him thrust for thrust, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels pressing into the backs of his thighs. The pleasure built again, faster this time, brighter, and she clung to him, her cries muffled against his shoulder.
He reached between them, his fingers finding her again, and she shattered with a cry of his name, her body tightening around him.
He followed her with a hoarse shout, his hips thrusting into her once, twice, three more times, and then he went rigid above her.
Alasdair buried his face in her neck, muffling a sound torn from him that was raw, real, and completely unguarded.
They lay tangled together, the night quiet around them, their breathing slowly returning to normal.
When she ran her fingers along the line of his jaw, he turned his face into her hand. She felt his breath warm against her palm, and he said, very quietly, his voice gone low and rough, “I love ye, little rabbit.”
She held his face in her hands and looked at him in the candlelight. She felt the weight of all that had passed between them, shaping their present status, molding their future. “I love you too. ”
He laughed, a genuine, warm, low laugh, and she felt it in his chest. She pressed closer, and he pulled her into his side. The candles burned lower, and outside the window, stars flickered and faded, bearing witness to this union and blessing it completely.
The End?