Free Highland Magic by K. E. Saxon

of
action where Branwenn was concerned. He had little doubt that she
would be gone by morn, to who knew where, should he leave her to
her own devices for long, especially after their lurid, erotic
interlude.
    He turned and aggressively moved in the
direction he’d just come from. Hell, he’d no doubt find the chamber
empty even now. What a fool he was! First to allow her to talk him
into such a dangerously tempting dialogue and then to allow her
to...to...well, to take him in that way. God! She was such an
innocent! Even with all of his experience with the gentler sex—and
he’d had a lot—he’d yet to meet one with so avid a curiosity and
appetite to bring delight to him. ‘Twas usually the other way
around—and that was fine with him, for, as his erotic imagery he’d
shared with her had shown, ‘twas he who liked to do the
pleasuring.
    He’d just stumbled back into the front
chamber when a blow landed with a harsh ‘thwack’ across his
cheek. “Ow! What the hell...?”
    “You called me ‘Branwenn’!” his lively,
sharp-tongued tormentor accused loudly.
    Callum rubbed his abused cheek and sighed.
Damn. This— this was why he was an idiot. “Aye, and you were
in my room—nay, in my bed —this morn when I awakened.” He
hoped that tidbit of a memory would startle her enough to give him
time to come up with a way of getting her back to the keep without
using manly force—a thing he was sadly, and shamefully, lacking
ability in at the moment. For, tho’ she was a wee thing, she had
strength, and she’d no doubt claw and bite, kick and wriggle, the
entire time he tried to keep her in his arms, were he to do the
most efficient thing by heaving her over his shoulder and trudging
back through the cave passage to the keep.
    Nay, with his unstable walk and his sore
shoulder—he still couldn’t lift his arm very far—he’d drop her for
sure. Or worse, fall on top of her and kill her with his
weight.
    “I was bathing your unworthy brow, you
thankless, pompous curdog!” Branwenn said, at last finding her
voice. “And, by the way, you’re welcome for the clearly
violently pleasurable ‘release’ I gave you a few minutes ago! And
you forced me to swallow your seed—that can’t be good for me! My
stomach is all burble -y now.”
    Callum felt his cheeks burn. He’d never met
another lass like this one. Such a bold tongue, but still so young,
so innocent of men. She could get him riled and spitting iron nails
within seconds of being in her presence. How could this be? He
didn’t even recognize himself when he was with her. For, ‘twas a
well-known fact, was it not, that he was the charming one, he was
the affable one, he was the one all the ladies wanted to
share company with? “I... ahem ...I...uhhh...” Through gritted
teeth, he released a very long sigh—and growl—of frustration.
“Damnit, Branwenn, enough. You’re coming back to the keep with me
right now.”
    “Nay!” That silky, short-cropped,
black-haired head of hers adamantly shook a negative.
    “You can either gather your belongings now or
get them later, I care not which.” He guessed he’d be carrying her
after all. And he would not drop her, he told his much
abused body. Christ’s Bones, but the lass was a menace.
    * * *
    An hour and a half later, just past dawn,
Branwenn sat by the hearth in the solar with her Grandmother
Maclean and Aunt Maggie. Though she was of no true relation to the
two ladies, they’d taken her into their hearts and under their
wings last summer and winter, and had insisted upon her calling
them by those familiar epithets.
    “And your brother Reys knows not where you
are?” Lady Maclean asked, her brow furrowed in worry.
    Branwenn shrugged. “I know not—I think not.
For, ‘twas only by the grace of God that I managed to stay afloat
long enough to find land.” She dipped her head and studied her
tightly clasped hands, pressed deeply into her lap. “He no doubt
believes me dead—if he knows of