“I’m returning the favor.” He’d brought her such pleasure when he’d kissed her there, so she intended to do the same. “Lie still and let me explore,” she commanded.
She knew the exact moment he gave up control and relaxed against the pillows. His hands uncurled from their fists, and he exhaled. “Aye, love,” he whispered, closing his eyes and giving himself up to her.
Smiling, she bent to her task, knowing no matter what happened with the lairdship, she would remind him how to always have fun.
Epilogue
This seemed like a fine time to get drunk, but Kiergan was failing at that too.
Just one of many things.
His entire life, he’d always been the jokester, the one who was good for only one thing: bringing women pleasure. It seemed as though anything else he tried, he failed at. Or mayhap not actually failed…but with five brothers, there was always someone who was better than him at everything.
Even getting drunk.
He peered down at the flagon in his hand and realized ‘twas empty. With a sigh, he tossed it down on the table in front of him and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He leaned back in the chair and watched the revelers dancing in the center of the great hall.
There was Rocque, holding Merewyn around the waist as he spun her. Her red hair flowed behind her as she tilted her head back and laughed happily. Duncan and Skye were less exuberant, but ‘twas clear they had eyes only for one another.
Malcolm wasn’t dancing, but he had his new son Liam perched atop his shoulders as he chatted with Father Ambrose and Aunt Agatha. Beside him, his wife Evelinde patted the younger bairn’s bottom as she swayed. And across the way, Finn stood with his arms around Fiona’s waist, his chin propped on her shoulder as they watched the dancing.
Kiergan blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand across his face. And Alistair was even now in his solar, making love to his soon-to-be wife, if Kiergan didn’t miss his guess.
He’d known for some time that his friend Lara carried a torch for Alistair—he’d learned it from Nessa, although he’d never betray that confidence. It had been hard, but he’d subtly tried to push the two of them together.
And when subtle didn’t work, he’d taken matters into his own hands and lied. He’d been the one to suggest the birthday celebration to Da, and the older man had been enthusiastic about it. The lie had come when Kiergan had claimed Da wanted Alistair and Lara to work together—‘twas the only way he could think of to force the two of them into the same space for any amount of time.
It had worked.
Slowly, a grin grew on Kiergan’s face. Not the charming smile he was known for, but something more personal.
Well, I’ll be fooked. Apparently I am good at something. Matchmaking.
Nay, ‘twasnae fair. He was good at three things now:
Matchmaking.
Lovemaking.
And the clan’s correspondence.
When Alistair had handed that responsibility over to him, no one had been more surprised than Kiergan himself. But as it turned out, he was good at it. ‘Twas naught more, really, than negotiations, which he’d gotten quite adept at over the years.
Negotiating a marriage contract or a trade agreement was easy compared to the time he’d talked the McNeal sisters into bed…at the same time.
His grin turned self-satisfied, which was the one more people might recognize.
“Hmm, I’d like to ken what ye’re thinking,” came a purring voice behind him, moments before a set of feminine arms slid around his neck.
Kiergan twisted in his seat to find Minnie, the serving lass he sometimes sought out, grinning suggestively.
“Naught important,” he assured her, tugging her around so she stood beside him and he could appreciate her assets easier. “What are ye doing bothering with a moping man like me on a fine evening like this?”
“I’ve missed ye, milord,”
She pretended to pout as she ran her fingers through his hair, but he noticed the position put his face—especially his mouth—level with the low neckline of her gown. Recognizing her attempts at seduction, Kiergan smiled, and was surprised to realize he didn’t feel the slightest bit of arousal.
Gently, he pulled her hands off him and patted her on the rear end. “I’m no’ fit company tonight, lass. Go find some other gentleman to scratch yer itch.”
Her pout grew. “Like whom, Kiergan? Nae other man—”
He scoffed and patted her again. “Dinnae lie, lass. I ken ye have plenty of other men ye turn to.”
“Oh, aright.” Her grin flashed, proving she’d just been trying to manipulate him. “I see Bean over there all by his lonesome. Do ye ken he has the biggest cock of any man I’ve met?”
Forcing a chuckle, Kiergan shook his head. “Ye’ll no’ make me jealous, sweet. Go drape yerself over him, and I’m sure ye’ll make Bean’s entire month.”
Giggling, the serving lass sashayed over toward the group of warriors, and Kiergan shook his head.
Why had he turned down her offer?
The cock-size comparison. I dinnae want to be told my member is smaller than Bean’s!
Nay, he’d turned her down before then.
Mayhap ‘twas seeing all his brothers happy and in love. Or mayhap ‘twas the ale. Either way, the thought of a quick fook up against the wall didn’t hold any appeal for him at that moment.
He scooped up his empty flagon and frowned down at it.
A quick fook held no appeal?
Mayhap he was ill.
Or more drunk than he’d suspected, after all.
Or no’ drunk enough.
Bah! This celebration was no fun anymore. Scowling, he slammed the empty flagon down once more and pushed himself upright.
Stumbling slightly, he managed to make his way toward the stairs and his bedchamber. He’d go over Nessa’s betrothal contract with the Campbells once more before presenting it to Da on the morrow. Aye, if that didn’t sober him up, naught would.
Then he’d take himself in hand and try to relieve some of this strange energy which made him itchy and uncomfortable. Imagine him—him!—turning down a quick tumble with a willing wench!
Mayhap he was ill.
One thing was for certes, with Alistair finally marrying, there was no way Kiergan was going to have to worry about finding a bride and becoming laird.
He was safe.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On Historical Accuracy
Kilts, secret passages, dildos, blah blah blah. Let’s talk about the history that really matters: fried chicken.
Yep, fried chicken is actually traced back to Scotland! The method of cooking the meat of a young, tender chicken in fat became very popular. Scots brought the recipe to the American south when they immigrated, and the dish was adopted by enslaved Africans, who combined the cooking method with the seasonings from West African cuisine. Fried chicken became a popular dish among the African American communities to celebrate special occasions (because, as Lara points out, it’s time- and resource-consuming), and in a time when restaurants were often closed to them due to segregation, it was a dish which traveled well.
The dish we know and love today is actually a combination of Scottish cooking practices and West African flavoring. How cool is that?