Juliette Miller - [Clan MacKenzie 02] Page 8

  At the sight of the small painting, it occurred to me, too, to wonder how Kade felt about leaving his home. It was obvious to me over the past days that the Mackenzie siblings were especially loyal to each other. They were a family that valued each other’s company above all others. And now Wilkie was due to leave for Ossian Lochs with his new bride, and Kade would accompany us, to Glenlochie, to become laird-in-waiting of our keep, to succeed my father.

  Did he want to go, to leave his family and the only home he’d ever known? Before this moment, I’d assumed that such an arrangement would be coveted by any man. What warrior didn’t aspire to lead his own army, to be in charge of his own clan, to be bestowed with wealth and land, to do with what his own leadership and industriousness would allow? But the warm, comforting space of this room and the care taken with the possessions that surrounded my husband in his own private chambers made me question whether his own distant lairdship truly would have been a conquest Kade Mackenzie would have actively sought for himself. In the end, he had stepped up to take the Morrison clan lairdship because his brother had refused it. Kade, too, had done his duty, as I had been forced to do.

  Kade unslung several of his belts, hanging them on a wooden hook. He walked to the fire and crouched down next to it, adding several more logs and blowing on the glowing embers. The cloth of his shirt stretched over the shaped lines of his broad shoulders and muscular back, reminding me once again of his size and his strength. I thought of his stormy attack during his swordplay and the calculated violence of his strike. The image seemed at odds with the peaceful scene here and now.

  I stood near the door, making no move to enter into his private space, but I couldn’t help looking now at the soft, warm expanse of his large bed. I realized my own exhaustion, after many nights of broken sleep. When I looked again at Kade, he was watching me, noticing the direction of my gaze.

  “Take off your gown and get into bed,” he said. “I’ll make sure the chambers are warm enough.”

  As mortifying as this suggestion seemed, I had known to expect it, and more. At least he wasn’t tearing the clothing from my body, or making any move whatsoever to approach me. And I was glad for his offer to heat the room. It was a kindness he wasn’t obliged to extend. That he was taking measures to see that I was comfortable was...well, unexpected.

  His back was turned to me. I removed my gown quickly, leaving my shift on, and climbed under the many layers of furs. His bed was plush and snug.

  I watched him as he fed the fire, and I waited. I thought of the first time I’d seen him, only weeks ago, and that first flush he’d inspired. And I could acknowledge that my alarm, as I lay here in his bed and watched the play of the firelight paint his face and his hair, was laced with a subtle curiosity. Whatever criticisms I held for Kade Mackenzie—of which there were plenty—I could allow that he was lean and perfectly proportioned, as though sculpted by nature with particular care.

  He stood and walked to the far side of the bed. He began to unfasten the last of his holsters.

  I closed my eyes.

  “It would be in the best interest of everyone involved,” he said, “if you would keep our marriage bed activities—or lack thereof—to yourself.”

  I dared to steal a glance at him, and his riveted contemplation caused a tiny lurch in my stomach. If I had hoped wedding vows might soften my own anxious reaction to him, I’d been sorely mistaken. Yet as my eyes met his, I was momentarily dazzled by the depth of some unfathomable whirl of emotion in him. I had first thought his eyes cold in their crystalline clarity, but they were far from impassive now. His face, framed as it was by the thick, lustrous locks of his dark hair streaked by fiery glints of auburn, showed what might have been a ripple of empathetic concern, brief and disarming. But then it was gone, leaving me feeling inexplicably bereft.

  As though unsure whether I had understood his suggestion, he said more forcefully, “I forbid you to discuss what goes on behind our private doors with anyone.”

  “You don’t need to command me,” I said. “You only need to ask me. I have no intention of discussing anything, now or ever.”

  “Good. Because I’ll not have you defying me.”

  Brute! So immersed in the angst and upheaval of my quick marriage to Kade Mackenzie, I had not had the time to consider my new status as the laird-in-waiting’s wife. If I had, I might have, in different circumstances (or with a different husband attached to it), been pleased with the title. I’d spent a lifetime under the thumb of my father. Every detail of my life, every activity, relationship, task and outing, had been dictated and contained by my father’s enforced decisions. Now, as impending lady of the clan, I might have had an opportunity to free myself of such dictatorial constraints. But clearly, I would be as bound and limited by my new husband as I had ever been by my father. Anger and frustration colored my words. “I wasn’t defying you. I said I would do as you asked.”

  “What goes on in our chambers is between you and me, and is not privy to the intelligence of others. Are we agreed?”

  “Aye,” I replied indignantly. I was used to being punished, and to hiding the evidence. Was this what my new husband had planned for me? Would he beat me into submission and order me to conceal his secret brutality?

  “Are you wearing any underclothing under your shift?” he asked.

  I froze instantly at the question, but I met his unrelenting stare with an approximation of the same. The moment was upon me, when my husband would use my body as he pleased. The inevitable consummation of this loveless marriage was about to commence. Would he bind me to the bedposts? Beat me? It took her several days to recover. My heart thumped frantically in my chest, but, in fact, I felt almost relieved. At this point, I almost wanted him to do what he would do, to get it over and done with.

  “Aye,” I said, and my voice had a fearful, breathless quality to it I took care to overcome.

  “Take them off.”

  I suppose I should have expected a harsh, overbearing approach. My husband was a loutish devil, I had known this about him all along. If I had ever harbored secret hopes that he might be a skilled, thoughtful, tender lover, I laid them decisively to rest now, and not without anger. Insolently, and perhaps overly dramatically, I did as he asked. I sat up and removed the thin cotton garment I wore under my shift and flung it to the edge of the bed. Even so, my legs returned to their clasped-together state and I pulled the furs even farther over my body. If he would force me, at least I had a few remaining barriers to comfort myself with. For a few moments longer.

  Watching my eyes, Kade reached to draw the furs from where they lay, slowly exposing my lightly clad body and bare legs to the cool air. I could read no emotion in his expression now and I wondered if I had imagined the brief flicker of compassion. Distant: that’s what he was, as I had suspected all along. A hint of lightness clung to his words. “I remember. I’m to expect insolence. We established that at the start.”

  It had been our very first conversation.

  “And I assured you then,” he continued, “that I might be able to persuade you to comply with my requests, as unreasonable as they may seem.”

  “Which requests?” I asked.

  “Open your legs,” he said.

  I hesitated, defenseless in the face of his promised strength.

  “Do it.” The quiet command riled me, and I decided then and there that anger might be more productive than fear. The man certainly lacked any hint of a bedside manner. Why couldn’t I at least have acquired a husband who wasn’t such a complete and utter bully?

  “Nay,” I dared to whisper to him.

  He wasn’t at all fazed by my impudence. Patiently, he said, “Do it now or I’ll do it for you.”

  I clung desperately to my fury, but it was losing ground against the apprehension that seemed to dominate all my interaction with this belligerent, perplexing beast of a man.

  “What do you mean to do?” It was an entirely daft question, aye. Of course I knew why he wanted m
e to expose myself to him: so he could ravage me and impregnate me and trap me irrevocably in this horrid marriage.

  As it was, I was mildly shocked when he said, “I mean to make it appear as though this marriage has been consummated. There will be certain people who will inquire after the evidence. I would prefer not to be plagued by other people’s gossip on the matter.”

  I realized my fists were digging little crescents into my palms and loosened my grip as I tried to absorb his meaning. What?

  My voice sounded breathy and frightened even to myself when I asked hopefully, “Will we...not consummate this marriage now?”

  “Good God, nay. ’Tis clear you believe otherwise, but I would never force a woman to bed me against her will, particularly not my own wife. Truth be told, as outrageously appealing as you are, you’re doing little to stoke my desire by continually looking at me that way.”

  I was doing little to stoke his desire? Indignant, I said, “What way?”

  “As though I’m about to string you up on a torture rack and flay you to death. ’Tis unnecessary. I’ll not force you, nor will I do anything at all that you don’t beg me to do.”

  I was somewhat taken aback by his words. Relieved, to be sure, and also surprised. Could it be that my husband wasn’t quite as unfeeling as I’d first predicted?

  Again, his severity became laced with an underlying thread of humor, which, at this moment and in my fragile state, I found more irritating than engaging. I thought it unlikely I’d ever beg my husband to do anything except leave.

  Nevertheless, I was mildly intrigued. I couldn’t help asking, “What was it you imagine I would beg you to do, husband?”

  He paused, and the intensity of his skewering gaze was enough to steal away any boldness I might have enjoyed only moments ago. “All manner of things, when the time is right,” was his quiet response. “Now open your legs.”

  My heart thumped in my chest, and the overzealous pulse could be felt elsewhere, curiously, as I moved very slowly to obey him. I moved my knees just slightly apart, thankful that my shift barely covered my most intimate places. The light fabric didn’t feel like enough, though, and I placed my hands over myself in a last attempt at modesty.

  But my husband would have none of it. “First, by covering yourself you are only succeeding in rousing my curiosity further. I’m more likely to seek out what you hide from me. Remember that. Second, I am your husband, whom you are hereby obliged to obey at all times. You will do well to also remember that. Now remove your hands, Stella. I’ll not hurt you.” In truth, hearing my name spoken in the rasping tones of his warrior’s voice, then followed by his unexpectedly gentle assurance: it touched something in me. It made me feel as if we were in this together somehow, this ruse. Us, fooling them, taking our time, allowing me my hesitations. It made me want to believe him, and obey him. “At least not unless you want me to,” he added, to which I had no reply.

  Unexpectedly, he pulled a knife from the scabbard strung to his belt. I felt my eyes widen at the sight of it, but my husband wasn’t looking at me. Instead, he ran the blade of the knife lightly along the skin of his tanned, hair-dusted forearm. Then he turned his arm over and, to my astonishment, he pressed the blade deeper, drawing a small clean line along a single vein of the finer skin of his inner arm. Blood began to flow freely and trickled from his arm, spilling a drop onto the stone floor.

  He raised his eyes to me and he repeated his soft demand. “Now.” His tone left no room for argument.

  I removed my hands and placed them by my sides and he watched me all the while, waiting for me until I did as he asked.

  Then he touched his fingers to the pooling blood of his wound, and, very carefully, he reached those bloodied fingers to slide under the thin film of my shift. His eyes were on my body and I thought I detected a slight quickening of his breath. I gasped before he even touched my skin, at this bold and sudden intimacy, from the startling sensation of localized heat.

  I felt his warm touch very lightly paint the blood to my skin of my upper thigh. Shockingly, the hot silken glide of his fingers spread a sudden molten awareness through my veins, suffusing me with an unfamiliar sensation, which gathered warmly in the innermost regions of my body. He withdrew his touch, reapplying his paint. And then, when his fingertips sought my most secret place, I could not move or breathe. I closed my eyes. His fingers stroked softly, prodding lightly, parting my intimate folds to stain me with his blood. He carried out his task with tender, careful deliberation. The smooth glide of his touch shocked me with its gentle potency. His fingers were barely inside me, and his thumb rubbed against the sensitive hooded nub. My mind went blank, overwhelmed by the rush of vibrant sensation and the complete vulnerability. Involuntarily, my legs opened wider, causing my shift to rise. I writhed slightly against him, not entirely sure whether I meant to move with him or away from him. His thumb circled the little peak again, while an agile finger probed deeper, in a silky, languid rhythm, as though ensuring that he was making a proper job of the task at hand.

  Vivid, collecting energy warmed me where his wicked fingers touched me, his movement unhurried and sure. I tried to keep quiet, but I couldn’t stop a small gasp from climbing in my throat.

  And then his touch was removed.

  My eyes opened, and my awareness returned to me. My shift was raised and my legs were parted. I thought of adjusting my position, and covering myself, but he was touching his fingers again to the blood on his arm. I kept myself still. Waiting to see what he would do next. My body was tense with a subdued anticipation. My intimate flesh, revealed to him, was heated with a light throb. Would he touch me again? I found that I was not averse to the thought. Instead, my body seemed to pulse at the possibility. I was afraid of him, aye, afraid of the dark, challenging glimmer in his shadowed eyes. Yet my fear and a cautious expectancy bundled into a glowing ache that I could not name.

  Watching my eyes, he reached instead to paint a light stain on the sheet between my legs. A ripple of amusement, which I was now becoming used to, played across his expression fleetingly. Then he pulled the hem of my shift down to cover me.

  “There,” he said. “That will satisfy anyone who wishes to inquire after the validity of our marriage. And you can lay your terror momentarily to rest.” He rose to his feet and walked to a table where a pitcher of water and a bowl sat. He poured some water over his cut to clean it, then wrapped a small thin strip of cloth around it, tucking the end in place. And I, still dazed by the lingering effects of his slick, debauched fingers, pulled the furs to my neck and lay back in the large bed. “Although,” he drawled, “for such a timid, hesitant creature, you react to me in a way that suggests that you are not as averse to my attentions as you may think you are. ’Tis something I had already suspected, aye. A very pleasing detail in a wife, to be sure, and one I intend to make the most of.”

  I had no idea what he was referring to, yet I had the feeling I should perhaps be offended. Or flattered. My confusion frustrated me somewhat. Would I ever understand the complexity of his textured, layered insinuations? “What do you mean?” I asked quietly.

  “’Tis a topic we will revisit later,” he said enigmatically, then, to my shock: “Avert your gaze now, if you’re as chaste and innocent as you act. Or feast your eyes—whatever pleases you. I prefer to sleep in the raw.”

  “What—” I began. Then, as realization dawned, I whispered, “Oh.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed.

  I could hear him begin to unfasten the straps and holsters that held his many weapons, and the clang of metal striking against the stone floor as he gently dropped them.

  “But don’t worry, lass,” he said, to which I dared to barely open one eye. He was shirtless—and for a moment my eye roved the contours of his broad chest, his skin tawny and glowing from the dancing firelight, until he began to pull at the ties of his leather trews, at which point I squeezed my eyes closed once again. “I always keep my weapons within reach and at the ready.”


  “That’s...that’s good,” I murmured, unsure of what reply he might be expecting.

  I heard the rustling sound of his clothing being tossed to land on a nearby chair, then movement as his heavy form settled into bed next to me. He didn’t touch me, but I could feel the instant heat of his body as intensely as if I was standing next to a roaring blaze. With the howl of the cool wind rippling the furs at the windows, I could admit that the heat he provided was not unwelcome. The thought, however, of his bulk and his nakedness so close beside me was alarming indeed. He was so big and so outrageously...male.

  I lay entirely motionless, afraid to move lest I rubbed up against him or somehow issued an unintentional invitation of some kind.

  He suffered no such hesitations and thrashed mildly until he found a position that was comfortable to him, occasionally brushing some part of himself lightly against me, only to quickly withdraw the touch. He turned his head to look at me, although my gaze remained resolutely directed at the ceiling.

  After a time, he spoke. “Stella,” he said softly.

  Tentatively, I looked over at his face. It was so dark in the room that I could only see the outline of his disheveled hair and the gleam of his eyes. “Aye?” I whispered.

  He didn’t reply immediately, as though he was considering discussing something with me but was unsure how the topic might be received. It was several minutes before he continued. In the end, what he said was, “Good night.”

  I almost smiled. It was the very last thing I expected him to say. “Good night,” I whispered.

  With that, his eyes closed and he sighed deeply. Very soon, his breathing deepened. His big body twitched gently several times as he succumbed to sleep.

  As soon as I was assured he was deeply asleep, I exhaled with a great sense of relief. This dreaded day had passed less painfully than I had imagined. I had not been forced by him. He had not hurt me or threatened me. As much as I’d been incensed by his manner, I could understand now that he’d merely asked me to comply with a request—somewhat aggressively, aye, when he doubted my agreement. Yet as soon as he was assured that I would honor his—our—privacy, he had shown me kindness. Respect. Compassion. Not only that, but his touch had inspired unexpected sensations that had not been entirely unpleasant. An inexplicable warmth. The soft pull of a new and enticing anticipation—the same manner of anticipation that had once visited me in the night garden far below us.