Anthony groaned, his pace faltering for just a second before he snapped his hips harder, his manhood pounding into her with aferocity that stole her breath. The bed creaked beneath them, the furs tangling around their limbs as he drove into her, each thrust deeper, more desperate than the last.
“Come for me,” he growled against her lips, his hand sliding between them to find her clit, his fingers circling, pressing, demanding. “Now, Catriona. Let go.”
The orgasm crashed over her like a wave, her body clamping down around him, her cry muffled against his shoulder as her nails raked down his back. He swore, his hips stuttering as her walls milked him, his own release tearing through him with a groan, his manhood pulsing deep inside her as he spilled, hot and thick.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing, the crackle of the fire, the slow, lazy drag of his fingers through her hair. He pressed a kiss to her temple, then another to her lips
“Mine,” he murmured, the word a vow.
She smiled, her fingers tracing the inked lines of the dragon tattooed across his shoulder.
“Aye,” she whispered. “Yers.”
EPILOGUE
The storm had been gone for three days, and the sky still looked surprised by its own color. A wide, startled blue that seemed too bright for the rugged peaks it spanned.
Catriona stood at the upper window in the hour before dusk, her fingers resting against the cool glass. She watched the courtyard filling below and felt a strange, humming vibration beneath her ribs. Something that lived in the narrow country between fear and joy, where the most important things tended to happen.
The clan was gathering in the loose, unhurried way of people who belonged to the stones they walked upon. Torches had been set in the iron brackets along the walls, their flames unnecessary in the amber spill of the late afternoon, but they flickered anyway.
James was already down there.
She could hear him before she could find him.
He darted between two clusters of clansmen, chasing Fox with the staggering commitment of a six-year-old. Fox was conducting himself with elaborate dignity, his tail a red plume. He was technically the quarry, but he was clearly controlling the pace and direction of the entire enterprise with a few flickers of his ears.
He's runnin'.
Six weeks ago, he had been a ghost of a boy, shuffling to the window with Anthony's massive hands braced at his back, rationing each shallow breath. Now he was a blur of movement, his dark hair flying, his cheeks flushed a healthy, wind-bitten red. His lungs were doing exactly what they were meant to do without a single soul monitoring the rhythm.
She pressed her fingertips harder against the pane, the glass clouding with her breath.
Daenae cry before the ceremony even starts.
That would be excessive even for ye.
She turned from the window to look at the room.
It had been her sanctuary these past weeks, the narrow bed, the worktable cluttered with jars and bundles of drying lungwort. It was the same window she had used to catalogue every possible exit on her first night, a habit she realized she'd abandonedsomewhere around the third week without even noticing the change.
The room felt different now. Nothing in the arrangement of the furniture had shifted, but the air within the walls had turned from a temporary shelter into something that held her.
Mairi appeared in the doorway, her face set with intense focus that showed she had invested more in this day than the bride and groom combined.
"Ye're nae dressed," Mairi said, her voice dropping into a tone of personal affront.
"I am dressed."
"That's yer working dress. There's mud on the hem."
"I work in it. It fits."
Mairi stepped into the room, kicking the door shut with her heel. A quiet, authoritative click that signaled the end of the debate.
She was carrying something folded over her arm, a heavy weight of deep green wool, finer than any fabric Catriona had ever touched. Along the edges, a border was worked in the MacArthur colors, the stitching so precise it could only have been done by a particular household matron who would likely deny the labor to her dying breath.
Catriona reached out, her hand hovering. "Mairi."
