“Stay put, lass,” he commanded, his brogue thick with excitement.
He ducked back inside and gathered her up like she weighed nothing at all.
“Boyd!” she yelped, but her protest dissolved into a laugh.
His grin was wicked as he strode toward the estate, his bride cradled possessively in his arms.
“It’s tradition, lass,” he said, his voice a rumble in her ear. “A Highlander carries his wife over the threshold. A matter of pride.”
The house sparkled ahead, its golden windows glowing in the twilight. Boyd stiffened, his attention shifting. Beth followed his gaze to Reginald, the poor footman emerging from the stables in his ludicrously ornate livery, its bright buttons gleaming even in the dim light. He spotted them and, with a determined set to his jaw, began his march toward the front door.
“Oh, no.” Beth groaned.
Boyd adjusted her on his chest. His grip tightened, and he leaned forward like a Highlander storming the battlefield. His boots crunched against the gravel as he angled toward the door with all the stubbornness of a man who refused to lose.
Her ribs shook with suppressed laughter as she bounced in his arms. “Boyd, you can’t possibly—”
“Watch me,” he growled, his eyes locked on the prize.
The door loomed, but Reggie was closing in fast from the opposite direction.
“He’s just doing his job.”
“Not tonight, lass.”
Beth sighed, feigning defeat—then laced her arms around his neck and tugged him down for a kiss, tracing his lips with her tongue. His steps faltered, and she felt the moment his determination crumbled.
“Lass,” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough with surprise and need.
She deepened the kiss, one hand threading through his hair as his arms tightened around her. The heat of him, the solid strength beneath her, made her forget her own ploy—until she heard the door creaking open.
Reggie stood there, proud and triumphant, his hand on the knob and a satisfied grin on his face.
“Welcome home, sir. Madam,” he said with a bow.
Boyd broke the kiss with a muttered curse, his lips still tantalizingly close to hers. His narrowed gaze flicked toward Reggie, who shifted aside to allow them entry.
Beth smiled innocently up at her husband. “Well, darling? Shall we?”
With a growl, Boyd carried her across the threshold. As they entered the grand house, Beth caught the way Reggie’s chest puffed with pride, and she couldn’t suppress a giggle.
“Keep laughin’, lass,” Boyd whispered in her ear, his tone full of promise. “We’ll see who has the last word tonight.”
Her breath hitched, his words sending a pleasant shiver down her spine.
And as the door closed behind them, Beth decided she wouldn’t mind losing that particular contest.
The End
Epilogue
"Love, like the finest wine, is born of chaos, crushed underfoot, and left to age in the dark—only to emerge bold, rich, and utterly intoxicating." The Polite Rogue’s Guide to a Blissful Marriage
Douro Valley, September, 1877
“Mr. Sandeman, the grapes won’t tread themselves, you know? Beth called out to her bashful husband.
The summer night air hung warm and sweet with the scent of ripening grapes, and Beth waited by the winery’s tanks, a delicious anticipation buzzing through her. The moon cast a silvery glow over the vineyard, and somewhere nearby, an owl hooted—a lone witness to their little midnight escapade.
