Highlander Brawn

Highlander Brawn

Eliza Knight

The sequel to
Highland Steam
.

Sorcha never thought she’d be married, let alone to Reed Campbell, leader of a rival clan. But when her brother and Campbell form a truce—and she finds herself kissing Campbell in her bedchamber—her brother insists on a marriage. And Campbell insists on having Sorcha in his bed. Though she vowed never to fall in love, she can’t resist his strong arms and hot kisses—or the way he spanks her when provoked. And oh, she provokes him. As much and as often as possible.

Campbell has never cared for weak women. Is it any wonder his desire for the sword-wielding, knife-throwing Sorcha consumes him so completely? The lass may say she doesn’t like him, but the way she writhes and moans beneath him proves otherwise. He’s determined to have her in every way—and in every position—it’s possible to have a woman. But first he needs to win her fierce, feisty heart.

Highlander Brawn

Eliza Knight

Chapter One

Scottish Highlands, 1296

Sorcha stood atop the battlements and glowered at Laird Campbell, who was barreling across the landscape as though a demon were on his tail.

How was it possible for a Highlander to be such a coward? Though she couldn’t say much more for herself. When their eyes had locked in the great hall as Campbell spoke with her elder brother Drostan, the Laird of Clan Comyn, her interest had been piqued. Drostan and Laird Campbell had settled a long dispute, agreeing to be allies. Good for them. Not so good for her sensibilities.

Sorcha braced herself on the stones of the wall, leaning forward as if by doing so she’d catch his scent on the wind. There was naught but the usual scents of Comyn Keep.

She closed her eyes, envisioning the moment when his stormy gray gaze had slid over her, warming her to her toes. His stare had been intense. Powerful enough to shock her system. To make her forget everything she’d vowed—never to get involved with a man.

She’d been down that path before and did not care to repeat it—ever. Why then did this man, a former enemy of her clan, cause her body to betray her? Nipples taut, thighs quivering, cunny slick, she was completely undone by him. This raven-haired devil with sharply handsome features caused her to lose her breath.

Campbell…

The stricken look on Campbell’s face after their initial connection was enough to make her cheeks flame. He hadn’t liked the reaction—the sudden attraction—any more than she did.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered and whirled around to go back inside.

She would forget about him. She would remain true to her vow. She was Sorcha, sister to Laird Comyn, a warrior for her clan, a healer to the sick. The Campbell would not sway her from this. Not now, not ever.

With her declaration renewed, she stormed down the stairs of the tower until she reached the third floor where her chamber was housed. She picked up a leather satchel filled with an assortment of knives and headed to the field where she could practice, exert herself enough to forget about the damn man.

She imagined Cambell’s heart as the mark—and she hit dead center every time. She twisted around and threw. She hurled it from behind her head. She whipped the knives from beneath a lifted leg. She even launched one backward. Never once did she miss. She viewed it as a sign.

“What are ye doing?” Drostan said from behind her.

Sorcha turned to see her brother, arms folded over his chest, frowning at her. “Practicing.”

“Looks more like ye’re trying to murder my target.”

“Perhaps I am.”

Drostan chuckled. “I know why ye’re so distraught.”

Sorcha narrowed her eyes. Since he’d been bewitched by Briana and the sacred stones, he’d changed. The clan’s tradition called for the laird to await his bride within the stone circle. Their eldest brother Niall and his bride Ceana were brutally murdered as they made love there, leaving the clan devastated and Drostan as laird.

She still missed Niall’s smile, his barking of orders and the way he chucked her on the chin as he passed by. His death left a tender spot inside them all. Drostan feared the sacred stones but had done his duty with flourish. When the moon was high, an ancient magic came to life and brought with it Briana, his soul mate. Their attraction and love had been instant as they bonded carnally within the circle, covered with mist and the power of the pagan runes.

Now that Drostan knew love, he’d become sappy. Where had his lady love gone off to? And shouldn’t he be crawling behind her, begging for a treat?

She snorted with disgust. “I doubt it.”

He grinned. Sorcha tightened her grip on her knife, employing all her willpower not to aim directly at his face. “Might the Campbell be the cause?”

Sorcha hissed through her teeth. Just the mention of his name brought back the image of him standing in the hall. He was a good two to three inches taller than her brother, his chest a ridiculous expanse of muscle and his arms… Despite trying to convince herself she was disgusted by his show of brawn, she was captivated, spellbound—hungry.

“No.” She whirled around and spiked the knife at the target. For the first time, it missed…by two feet. “Go to hell, Drostan!”

“Ye’ve not the mouth of a lady, sister.”

“I’ve not a lady’s disposition either. ’Tis not a thing that bothers me.”

Drostan walked to the target and picked up her knives, including the one that was two feet away. “I dinna think a lady is what the Campbell is after. He likes a woman with spirit.”

“What makes ye say that?” She cringed at the hope in her voice and quickly added, “I care not. Give me back my knives.”

Drostan gave her back each one slowly, studying her. “I think ye do care. I think ye care more than ye want to. Keep it in mind. I have a sense he might be returning for ye.”

“Well, I willnae be leaving with the bloody oaf.”

Drostan chuckled, heading back toward the keep. “Suit yerself, sister. I’ve come to learn that happiness truly does come with love.”

“Bah! Ye’ve become a—”

“Dinna say it, lass. Ye’ll regret it.”

“I never regret anything I say.”

Drostan chuckled. “Aye, never.”

“Humph.” She folded her arms and glared at her brother’s retreating figure.
Magic had brought her brother love, maybe it would for her too… No. Never.

Campbell had better not show his face here with the intent to claim her. She would see to it that he met an early death.

Then, of course, she’d be labeled a murderess and start a war between the clans. She’d better just pray he not arrive.

* * * * *

He arrived two weeks later, a contingent of men behind him, as if that would bolster his confidence. As soon as Campbell rode to the center of the bailey, Sorcha launched a knife from her chamber window without thinking. It landed just in front of his horse, startling the animal, which reared up in fear.

Sorcha smiled into the thunderous gaze of Campbell as he remained seated and calmed his horse.

He dismounted, fury in his every move, and stalked to the stairs leading into the keep. Sorcha rolled her eyes at his obvious display of male power. She had no use for it. What did he intend to do? Storm past her brothers, up two flights of curling stairs until he reached her room and banged down the door?

A thunderous clap sounded behind her as her door was thrust open with such power it ricocheted against the wall.

“What the devil?” She whirled around and came face-to-face with the man himself.

Her heart skipped a beat and fear trickled along her spine. Gooseflesh rose along her arm. She took him in with wide eyes. “What are ye doing in my chamber? Get out!” She pointed at the door and shoved at his hard chest with her other hand.

“What am I doing? Ye have the nerve to question me after ye nearly killed my mount?”

Again, she rolled her eyes to heaven and tucked her arms across her chest. She tapped her foot against the wooden planks of the floor. “I didna nearly kill your mount at all. I aimed for the exact spot I hit.”

He laughed, his expression a storm of anger, belying the lighthearted sound. “I doubt that.”

Inside, her pride was crushed but she cared not for his thoughts on it. She knew her own skills and wasn’t a braggart. She lifted her chin a notch, refusing to respond to him.

He stepped forward, only a foot away. His heat consumed her, making her want to step the rest of the way so they would be touching, chest to chest, hip to hip. As the thought pummeled through her mind, her body reacted. Nipples tightened, ached. Her cunny grew slick, clenched with the need to be filled. Her breaths quickened. She bit her lip then swallowed hard, stunned by her reaction to him.

“Ye’re a hellion in need of discipline.” His voice was husky, low, a sound that stroked her insides into flames.

And yet she hated him for the words he emitted. Hated him more for the vivid thought of being hauled across his knees as he spanked her bare arse. Hated that the image sent chills of yearning racing along her spine. Her body was betraying her… This was not part of her plan. She didn’t want this. She knew firsthand the pain of falling in love.

And yet… She desired him. But she also felt a deeper connection than just yearning. Somehow, her mind called out to his, and likewise, when he looked at her, she felt the same draw from him. There could never be anything between them. Sorcha could not ever explore what those feelings meant. She would not allow herself to fall in love. However, she would permit touching—just once—to satisfy her curiosity.

She stepped forward, closing the gap between them. Without another thought, she pressed against him, licked her lips. “Then I hope ye will be the one to dole out my punishment.”

Chapter Two

Laird Reed Campbell stared in disbelief at the imp who’d molded herself so tantalizingly against him. What was she up to? He narrowed his brows and gazed into her dark-blue eyes. They were wide with conflicting emotions of desire and fear.

“What are ye doing?” he asked, disliking how much his voice sounded as though he were choking on his own tongue. He tried to swallow but his throat was dry.

He inhaled and exhaled roughly through his nose. She would be the death of him for sure. His whole body ached to press her completely against him. Even now his plaid lifted in the front—his cock raging hard and demanding entrance into her hot, wet channel.

She smelled of flowers, fresh air, sweet grass. How he would like to toss her onto the bed and taste her essence.

But first he would punish her. With a kiss. He kept his hands fisted at his sides so as not to touch her. Her brother would kill him. Hell,
she
might kill him. Their clans had just formed a fragile alliance; this moment could mean the cessation of trust.

But he could not hold himself back without at least one taste. He bent low, his eyes never leaving hers, and brushed his lips against her own. They were soft, wet from where she’d licked them. He growled and uncurled his fists. He pressed his lips more firmly to hers, slid his tongue along the seam until she opened to him, inviting him in with a tiny flick of her tongue.

He stroked his palms up her arms, relishing her shiver as he did so. His hands came to rest against the silkiness of her neck, his thumbs tracing the pulse at her throat and then the delicate lines of her jaw. He tilted her head and deepened the kiss, taking possession, punishing her with his tongue, his lips. He pushed his cock against her warmth, finding a welcoming dip at the crux of her thighs.

She whimpered against his mouth, and at first he took it as fear and started to pull back but she only gripped him tight—on the arse—urging his cock more fully against her mound.

Oh, heaven. He kept his kiss unrelenting and explored the length of her neck, the slope of her shoulders and the round, plush globes of her breasts. Jutting from her gown were two jewel-hard nipples. With each brush of his thumbs, each tiny pinch, she moaned, quivered and swayed closer.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop. He didn’t want to. He wanted to go all the way. He gripped her gown and inched it up slowly but steadily until he brushed the bare skin of her thigh.

She moaned into his mouth and he groaned, rocking his pelvis closer to hers, mimicking what he’d do to her if they were no longer clothed, and just that thought had more blood rushing to his already rock-hard cock. He gripped her leg, wrenching it up around him to gain better access to the warmth between her thighs.

“
Mo creach
, are ye an angel or a siren?” he growled against her warm, moist lips.

“I am neither,” she panted. She rubbed up and down his back, undulating against him with tiny whimpers of pleasure. “I am but a woman in need of a man.”

“I can be that man.” Did he just say that? Reed wished to pull the words back—a promise he should not be making.

“Take me to bed then.” Her words were soft, sultry.

He did pull his mouth from hers then and gazed into her eyes—eyes filled with passion, need, hunger.

The same as him. He wanted her, needed her, sought pleasure for them both, but making love to her meant so much more. It could jeopardize everything. Could mean his death.

“I canna.”

She quirked a sensual brow. “Canna or willna?”

“Oh lass, I would take you to bed morning, noon and eve if I could.
Canna
.”

She huffed and pushed against him. He relented, taking a step back. Her gaze shifted to the obvious evidence of his need for her. “Are ye sure?”

He groaned, hissed through gritted teeth. He wasn’t sure. ’Twas the problem. “Dinna fling your knives at me again.” With that said, he stomped from the room.

Away from a sure disaster. Away from her. Away from the almost promised pleasure he so badly still wanted. One thing was for sure, his cock wasn’t about to go down anytime soon.

Reed headed down the hall, opening one door after another until he came to the garderobe. Once inside, he leaned up against the door, closed his eyes, flipped up his plaid and took his erection in hand. He was pulsing with need. Stroking up and down vigorously, he imagined succulent red lips wrapped around his cock. Imagined her vibrant stare connected to his as she swallowed him again and again. Envisioned a pink tongue circling the head of his cock. And when he found his release, the woman in his mind swallowed every last creamy drop.

* * * * *

Indeed, she had been correct. The man was a coward.

Sorcha turned away from the garderobe, having heard every moan, visualized each pump of his hand, and wished she were inside pleasuring the stubborn laird instead of letting him run away to take care of himself.

She wasn’t going to run after him at first but she hadn’t been able to help it. Sorcha knew what went on between a man and a woman. She’d taken pleasure with a man before. She’d seen many sacred joining ceremonies, watched people pleasure each other. Desire thrummed through her veins. Her cunny dripped and ached with the need to be filled, to be stretched and…fucked. She was going to tell him he needn’t make promises, just take her, give her what she wanted.

He may be a coward, but she was a fool. A wanton fool. Willing to let a man have his way with her and then walk away. But she couldn’t help it. He’d made her body come alive and even now her cunny hummed and quivered. Especially after his shout of release.

She stopped in her tracks, hearing the door to the garderobe open.

She wanted him. She would have him.

She whirled around and saw him standing in the middle of the dim corridor. But even from here she could tell his stare was dark and a sensual flush crept over his skin.

“What are ye doing?” he asked, his voice guttural.

She licked her lips, her throat suddenly too dry to speak.

“Well?”

“I…uh…”

He chuckled. “Did ye like what ye heard?”

Heat infused her cheeks. Why had she stopped? She should have run.

He stalked toward her, prowess in his strides. “I should have known ye would follow me. Ye’re a stubborn lass.” He stopped a few inches away. Reaching out, he traced a line from her ear to her collarbone.

She shivered.

“Your brother has given me more than enough time up here. I think he’s doing it on purpose.”

She blinked out of the haze his touch had put her in. “What do ye mean?”

“He should have run after me.” The muscle in his jaw clenched, his fingers brushed her breast and she trembled, sinking back into her fog of desire. “He
wants
me up here. Ballocks!”

The sensual cloud she’d been floating in dissipated and reality struck. “What?”

Campbell said nothing more. Instead he stomped away. But it was too late.

Her brother stood at the top of the stairs, took one look at their mussed appearances and a wide grin split his face. “Excellent. I shall call the priest.” Campbell sputtered but her brother held up his hand to stop the man from talking. “Ye willna compromise my sister and then walk away from her.”

“I wasna compromised, Drostan, and ye know it!”

“I dinna know that,” he said, slowly taking in her rumpled gown. “In fact, looks like just that indeed.”

“Comyn, ’tis not what it looks like.”

Her brother only laughed. “Actually, ’tis exactly what it looks like. And I willna budge. Ye’ll take my sister to wife or I’ll see to the deed of cropping your head from your neck myself.” Drostan darkened, as if he was no longer so lighthearted. “Get used to the idea of spending the rest of your lives together.”

Sorcha knew better than to argue.

She would be married to Campbell. But she would bloody well make his life hell. And she damn well wouldn’t sleep with him now.