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“Listen to me, Son. I want a Scotland free from that bastard king’s grip as well as you. But this will be a long and bloody fight. Until one claimant emerges that all the clans can get behind, your friends stand little chance of being successful.”

They’d been having this same argument for years now. “And how do you believe all of our countrymen will get behind one man if Clan Kerr cannot even do so?”

“Comyn and Bruce will never make peace,” his father said. “Lamberton has little chance to mitigate their feud. So nay, the time is not yet ripe for war.”

William Lamberton had been appointed as third Guardian to Scotland in recognition that, as his father said, Robert the Bruce and John Comyn could not peacefully see to the duty of joining Guardians on account of their bitter feud. Was there in-fighting among the nobles? Aye. But Wallace fought, and won, despite it. He had the people behind him; that’s what it would take for his country to be wrestled free from the English king. Did they need the support of the nobles? Aye. But the nobles needed the clans too.

“The war has already begun, Father.”

Finally, he did sit. “We will not agree on this. So tell me, son. You will risk yourself as a son. A brother. A cousin. A clansman. But will you also risk losing the woman you love? She cannot go with you to fight. Would you marry her and make her a widow in the same breath?”

He’d known his father would ask this question the moment Galien sat down. When he’d realized he was in love with Reina. It was the same one he’d been asking himself. The reason he’d held back from her. Stupidly, he’d hoped his father would somehow have the answer on how to reconcile his devotion to the cause and his need to be with Reina.

“How can I do both, Father?” he asked, in earnest.

“You can’t, Son.”

Which was the reason, as he now stood at her door—the one his mother very deliberately tempted him with by putting Reina next to him—he should not have knocked.

Except, he did. And she stood before him, waiting for Galien to say something.

“Good eve,” Reina said, her familiar voice lilting in its sweet welcome.

He pulled her toward him. Embraced her. Crushed his lips to hers. Consumed her as he’d wanted to do since the start. Galien’s tongue slashed as his hands cupped her backside and pulled her even closer to him than she’d been while they rode from Anbarth to Brockburg.

And that was damn close.

But he needed her to understand first. Breaking off the kiss, Galien explained precisely what he planned. “I will not take your virginity, Reina. But if you’ll allow it, I will properly thank you for saving me.”

It was all he could give her now.

“I would like that,” she said with a slight smile. “I would like that very much.”

25

When he reached for her again, Reina shrugged off any doubts she might have.

She’d been given a false story of her birth, it seemed. Even if she was not the lost babe of Dennochbrook, certainly her parents’ tale did not hold on its own merit. Reina had been betrothed her whole life, to a man she neither desired nor even liked. Aye, she’d found a place by Joan’s side and very much enjoyed caring for others. But all her life had been spent waiting.

Waiting to learn the truth. Waiting to be married. Waiting to be betrothed once again.

Since meeting Galien, she’d endured some hardships, aye. But at least Reina was not waiting for something to happen to her. She was acting. And it was a glorious feeling. As was the sensation of Galien’s lips on hers as he once again embraced her.

This kiss was different from the others, though. Mayhap knowing it wasn’t going to end at any moment. Knowing they were alone, undisturbed. And for some reason, Galien had made the decision to give her the full measure of pleasure he’d been teasing her with, even if unwittingly.

“Reina,” he breathed, pausing only long enough to move them both to the bed. Galien wore only a long shirt, wide open at the neck. The moment she opened the door, her gaze had been drawn down to his bare legs. She wondered then, and now, if he wore anything under the linen shirt.

As their bodies melded together, she could feel the length of him pressed against her. When they reached the bed, he cupped her backside and lifted her onto it, standing between her legs. Suddenly, Galien’s hands moved to the front of her shift. As he kissed her—a long, drawn-out, searing kiss—they glided from her waist upwards.

Under the shift.

His bare hands ran along the skin of her waist, the shock of such a touch followed by a rush to her very core. Upwards they moved, Galien’s hands now covering her breasts. It was as if he pulled from her an entirely different person, one without abandon. His thumbs and forefingers pressed tougher, pinching her nipples.

Reina tore herself from him, wanting affirmation this was, indeed, proper. Nay, not proper. For it was anything but. They were not married. Not even betrothed. But still she looked into his eyes for some kind of approval.

Instead she found only lust. And a desire to please her.

“Galien. . .” He continued the torment as she peered up at him. Even high atop the bed, he towered above her. “Please.”