A Highland Handfasting by Parker Daniels
When proposed to by Edan, an arrogant MacDougall warrior and her father’s favored suitor, Ragan MacDougall’s prompt response is a firm and definite no! She’ll have nothing to do with an arranged marriage, and will only marry a man whom she loves.
However, when the laird discovers his daughter has rejected the highlander, he orders that she marry the man at once! Being the spirited lassie that she is, Ragan defies her father at the annual May Day festival and handfasts with the intriguing Saxon knight, Warrick Vymont. Learning of what his daughter has done, her father banishes her from his home. Forced to travel with Warrick to his ancestral keep as his “temporary” wife, Ragan uncovers a mystery that is as old as the castle stones themselves and a love for her Saxon husband which promises to span just as long!
A torrid medieval romance taking place in the Highlands of Scotland, featuring, male domination, female surrender, obedience and sizzling, graphically depicted sexuality. Add to the drama and suspense you’ll find knights, castles, forbidden romance, dirty and explicit sex. A real page-turner from its beginning to its happily-ever-after conclusion.
Warrick fumbled along the dark stone wall of the hallway. His night of excess had run into the late hours of the eve and his destination was the garderobes.
Though he drank heavily throughout the night, he still maintained his balance and wherewithal, for his training as a knight had taught him to always be on guard.
As Warrick groped along the dark corridors whose sconces had long since been extinguished, he reflected upon his evening with the MacDougalls. They were an interesting group of men who could hold their whiskey with the best of them! Especially Ronan, the family’s patriarch.
Though the eldest of the lot, the chieftain was hard and had molded his sons in his image. Even his daughter, the man had confided, had a warrior’s spirit. A revelation that had pleased Warrick much to hear.
“Are ye lost, Lord Vymont?”
Warrick peered into the darkness and discerned it was Ronan’s son, Riley, who’d addressed him. His hand, which had flown instinctively to his sword, relaxed.
“I was searching for your garderobes, milord, but have nye had any success in finding them.”
“Tis a little further down the hall. And please, call me Riley,” the man permitted. “We have no need for such formalities around here.” When Warrick nodded, he asked, “Will ye be staying the night then?”
“I just might. I have had a tiresome day, and much too much fine Scottish whiskey.”
“Tis a wise decision to do so. The late hour can make traveling in the highlands somewhat dangerous.” However, Riley doubted there would be one so foolish as to pick a fight with a knight the size of this lord. “If ye should need anything,” he spoke kindly, “my chamber is the second door on the right.” And with a polite nod, he walked away, whistling an upbeat tune.
Warrick set out in search of the garderobes once more. Thinking he’d found the correct door, he opened it and entered.
Right away, he could tell this room was too large to be the privy. He made to exit the chamber, but the slight sound of breathing caught his attention.
In the center of the room lay Ronan’s daughter, asleep upon a bed of thick coverlets. Her lips, which curled into a smile, and her eyelids, which fluttered upon her porcelain skin, seemed to beckon him forth.
Reminding himself to breathe, Warrick was drawn toward the bed. Whether it was the large quantity of whiskey he’d drunk this eve, or the allure of the woman’s intoxicating beauty, he was hopelessly compelled to answer her siren’s call.
Standing above her, his hand grasped lengths of her flaxen mane, which was tousled and splayed like spun gold upon her pillow. Letting the silken strands spill through his fingers, he brought a long, pale lock to his face to take in its scent. Inhaling, he smelled roses in full bloom.
Knowing he should stop himself, Warrick motioned to leave. But a soft mew extolled from the girl’s perfect lips stilled his departure.
Shifting in her slumber, the sleeve of Ragan’s nightgown slipped, revealing the ample swell of her plump, round bosom. Warrick’s body at once turned as hard as granite.
As though in a dream state, his fingers played along her creamy white flesh. First running down her soft arms, then up again. Though asleep, the woman responded to his stroking by sighing, seemingly receptive to his warmth and touch.
Ragan slowly awoke from a pleasant dream in which she was being caressed by her Saxon knight. She stretched with feline grace and pressed herself against his phantom touch. When it stopped, she whimpered for it to return. And, after a moment’s pause, it did.
Shivering, Ragan delighted in the sensitive pads of the man’s fingertips, tracing subtle patterns along her arms and breasts. Her smile, which she’d already been wearing, deepened with such proficient handling.
Wanting more, Ragan pulled her dream lover onto the bed. Warrick obliged her command and pressed his form alongside hers. He rubbed his hardness against her hips, a demand her body responded to and began to imitate.
Aligning his mouth with that of hers, Warrick lowered his thirsty lips for a kiss. He’d only meant to take one, but found he could not stop with such a meager filling.
Regan had never experienced a dream like this before. It was so real she could even smell the knight’s masculine scent. It was a heady combination of horses and leather. She could feel his touch, rough and calloused, roving over her body. And his tongue, which delved into the inner sanctum of her mouth, tasted of the sweet burn of Scottish whiskey.
Wrapping her arms around the man’s solid neck, Ragan deepened their divine kiss. It was only a dream after all, and so she saw no harm in such a response.
Growling, Warrick pulled the girl squarely beneath him. He wanted to enjoy each splendid curve she had to offer, to mold their bodies together as one.
The coverlets became tangled in her limbs and Warrick dragged them away. However, Ragan’s nightdress, which had become bunched around her thighs, was still acting as a barrier to her nudity.
Wrenching the gown upwards, Warrick tore the flimsy material, exposing what lay beneath. A more perfect set of breasts he’d never beheld. Her nipples were tiny rosebuds, rigid and flushed with desire. Running his calloused palm against their stiffness, his cock ached from wanting. He had to have her. Needed to be inside of her.
Warrick’s hand slid down the lady’s body. Checking to see if she was ready for him, he slipped it between her thighs. With care, he inserted a single finger into her tight sheath. Her slick moisture and soft pleas of desire told him that she wanted him just as badly as he did her.
Untying his trousers, Warrick freed his aching member. He made to pinion her wetted core with his cock, but the unexpected sound of masculine voices outside the door broke through his lust and whiskey-addled brain before he had the chance.