Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Ye’ve summoned us, Laird McEwan,” Councilman Henry Ross said, stepping forward with his usual smugness. His tone carried a veneer of respect, but Michael knew better.
“Aye,” Michael growled, his voice low and gravelly, like distant thunder. “I summoned ye to speak on matters of import to the clan.”
Those were the words he had started with, and their conversation, just as he had predicated, lasted for two hours.
“I’d like to raise me concerns about recent raids along the western border,” Councilman Douglas Graham spoke first. “Rumors of bandits, perhaps deserters from rival clans, have grown and we need to increase patrols or fortify key outposts.”
Michael leaned back in his chair, his sharp blue eyes cutting across the room. “The patrols are doubled already, Douglas. Reinforcements will take time, and the harvest is nearly upon us. We cannae leave the fields unguarded.”
Andrew MacLeod cleared his throat. “Speakin’ of the harvest… reports say the yield looks better than last year’s, but there’s still the matter of storage. If winter hits hard again, we’ll be needin’ trade agreements in place. Perhaps the Camerons… or even the Grants.”
“Trade?” Henry Ross scoffed, stepping closer to the desk. “What we need is security, nae bargains with neighbors who could turn on us in a heartbeat. Alliances are built through blood, nae barley.”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “And what would ye suggest, Ross?”
Henry spread his hands. “Marriage, me laird. A strong match could tie us to another clan’s strength. With yer son still sickly, aye, gettin’ better, but still frail, the clan needs more heirs. Ye cannae ignore it forever.”
Michael’s hand slammed down on the desk, rattling the inkwell and scattering papers.
“Enough!” he roared, rising to his full height. His piercing blue eyes locked onto Ross’, and the room fell into a tense silence. “I warned ye the last time this was mentioned, did I nae? Ye seem to think me a man to make idle threats.”
Ross’ smirk faltered, his complexion paling. “Me laird, I meant nay offense—”
“Guards!” Michael barked. The door flew open, and two armed men stepped inside, their expressions stony. “Take Councilman Ross to the cells. He’ll cool his heels there until he learns to hold his tongue.”
Ross’ protests were swift and loud. “Me laird, this is an outrage! Ye cannae treat a member of the council with such disrespect!”
“Disrespect?” Michael’s voice was deathly calm now, more dangerous than his shout. He stepped around the desk, towering over Henry. “Disrespect is ignorin’ the word of yer laird, flingin’ yer petty schemes at me when the clan’s survival is already me every thought.”
The guards hauled a sputtering Henry from the room, his protests fading as the door shut behind him. Michael turned his icy gaze on the remaining council members, who shifted uneasily under the weight of his fury.
“Let this serve as a warnin’ to the lot of ye,” he said, his voice like steel. “Mention marriage—or heirs—again, and ye’ll find yerselves keepin’ Ross company in the cells. Do ye understand me?”
“Aye, me laird,” came the murmured chorus.
Satisfied, Michael strode back to his desk, the tension in the room thick enough to choke.
He sat down heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.
These men had no idea the weight he bore, the sleepless nights by his son’s bedside, the endless battles to keep the clan thriving despite the constant threats from within and without.
“Get out,” he said wearily. “And next time I summon ye, come prepared to speak on matters that truly matter.”
The council filed out in silence, their usual arrogance tempered by fear. When the door closed behind them, Michael leaned back in his chair, staring into the flames. The firelight reflected in his eyes, a reminder of the simmering rage he kept tightly leashed.
Michael stormed down the dimly lit corridor, his boots striking the stone floor with purpose. The echoes followed him, but his thoughts drowned out the sound. Fury still burned in his veins from the council meeting, but beneath it lurked something else, a restlessness he couldn’t shake.
Without thinking, his steps carried him to Freya’s chamber. He didn’t knock. He refused to this time.
The door creaked open, and he stepped inside.
Freya stood near the vanity, her back to him, dressed only in her shift and stays. Her long, auburn hair spilled down her back, half-loose from its braid. She turned at the sound of the door, her eyes widening in alarm.
He froze. The sight of her, bare shoulders glowing in the candlelight, lips parted in surprise, hit him like a fist to the gut. His breath hitched, and for one treacherous moment, he couldn’t look away.
Heat curled low in his stomach, tightening like a snare. She was beautiful, more beautiful than he could have imagined, and far too tempting.
Before he could say anything, Freya stepped toward him, her expression softening. “Michael?”
Her voice undid him.
In three quick strides, he closed the space between them, his hand cupping her face.
“I’ve had enough of holdin’ back,” he growled, and a moment later, his lips crashed down on hers.
She gasped against his mouth, but her surprise melted into something else, something dangerous. Her hands slid up his chest, and he groaned, pulling her closer, as if he could devour her whole.
The kiss deepened, fierce and desperate, like a man drowning and clinging to the only thing that could save him. He tasted fire and honey, and for a moment, nothing else mattered… not the council, not his son, not the weight of his clan’s expectations. Only her.
That was all he could think about as he led her to the bed and laid her upon it as gently as he could. He couldn’t tear his lips away from hers. He couldn’t get enough of her silky mouth, of her wet tongue. He kissed her slowly, deeply, relishing each moment.
When he finally pulled away, it was only to gaze at her in adoration.
She was everything he thought she would be, and more.
She was soft and warm, she was silken and smooth, her skin as fragrant as a rose in bloom.
Her fingers threated through his hair, wanting to kiss him again, but instead of granting her that wish, he grinned He felt his manhood rock hard, trapped in the confines of his clothes, but his own pleasure was irrelevant right now. Her was all that mattered.
He kissed the soft hollow of her collarbone, inhaling her scent as he did so. He licked her gently.
“Oh…” she moaned loudly.
Everywhere he touched, he kissed, he licked, she was so deliciously responsive. He wanted to be inside of her, to claim her as his own, but he knew better than to do that. She wasn’t his. All he could do for her now was make her explode. And that was what he wanted.
He trailed an invisible line of kisses down her bare breasts, sucking her pebbled nipples.
He lavished it with the wet heat of his tongue, swirling over them slowly, teasing her.
All the while, he couldn’t stop looking at her.
Her cheeks flushed in a soft pink hue, and her luscious lips were parted, in a perpetual moan.
With his mouth cupping her breast, his fingers easily found the place where the pulse of her desire was beating. He dragged a finger through her wet folds, parting them, feeling how soft they were. He had to taste her.
Release her nipple from his lips, his tongue glided down her stomach, between her thighs. She spread them open, granting him clear access to her swollen bud. Her hips arched toward him, wordlessly letting him know how much she relished everything he was doing to her.
He couldn’t wait. He had to taste her immediately.
He lowered his head, taking her into his mouth. Her fingers gripped at him, in an effort to keep him close, urging him on. Her hips rocked, lifting herself higher, giving all of herself to him.
Tasting her made him discover all the desires he didn’t even know rested inside of his body.
Every inch of him screamed with need for her.
The taste of her dew drove him mad, so sweet and musky.
He slid his tongue inside of her, deeper and deeper, and every time, she bucked her hips, moaning louder and louder.
He was desperate for her. He wanted to make her explode with desire over and over again, with his mouth, his tongue, his fingers.
He withdrew his tongue from her, but he didn’t stop playing. He sucked her pearl into his mouth, making soft, wet sounds. His own manhood bulged in his kilt, begging for release, already beading at the tip. If he could just feel her, he was certain he would explode.
But instead, his tongue slid back inside of her, in and out, repeating this motion, just as he imagined he would have done with his manhood. He circled her bud with his thumb gently, knowing it was swollen and in desperate need, just like himself. He couldn’t stop; He was ravenous for her.
“More, Michael… more…” she said, her words sending a bolt of lightning through him. He had never heard a woman sound so desperate, yet so raw and powerful.
He kept on licking her, sucking her, thrusting into her, feeling her wet juices drip down his tongue, savoring every bit of it.
That was when she unraveled for him, her entire body tightening, her nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders.
But he didn’t mind. He kept on going, sucking her hard, giving her just what she needed from him.
She was still breathing heavily, when he forced himself to pull away from her. But that was only for a moment. His arms refused to let go of her.
He lay beside Freya, her soft breaths warm against his bare chest. The fire in the hearth had burned low, leaving only a faint glow to light the room, but he didn’t need to see her to feel her presence.
Her head rested against his shoulder, her fingers curled lightly against his ribs, and he held her as if letting go might shatter the fragile peace that had settled between them.
He hadn’t meant for it to happen… not like this, not tonight. But when he’d kissed her, when she’d opened herself to him so willingly, so trustingly, all his resolve had crumbled. Now, with her body soft and sated in his arms, he could scarcely remember why he’d fought it for so long.
“Stay,” she whispered, her voice drowsy but insistent as she shifted closer. “Just for tonight.”
His chest tightened at the simple plea, and for a moment, he nearly said no. He should say no. But when she tilted her face up, her eyes heavy-lidded and full of unspoken longing, the word died on his tongue.
“Aye,” he murmured instead, brushing a kiss against her hair. “I’ll stay.”