A Hint of Heather

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  Even if she was the MacInnes? She’d heard of such things. Over the years, she’d heard whispered comments about this laird or that laird who beat his wife. Such things occasionally occurred within her own clan. Once, she’d overheard her father cautioning one of his warriors against beating his wife too harshly. She hadn’t heard what the wife had done to merit a serious beating. But Jessalyn knew the beating had been severe enough for her father to notice and intervene. What she didn’t know was what caused a husband to punish his wife so harshly. She wasn’t normally a coward, but what if she unknowingly gave her new husband cause to beat her? Who would caution him? Who would watch over her?

  “Perhaps, I should call for help.”

  She didn’t realize she’d spoken her thoughts aloud until Neil answered, “I don’t need help.” He shifted her weight in his arms and started toward the entrance to Castle MacAonghais. A quick glance showed that the door of the castle was open. The huge oak timbers that had once formed a barrier to the entrance had long since rotted off their iron hinges. There was nothing to bar his way.

  “Perhaps we should wait,” Jessalyn suggested, the sound of an almost overwhelming virginal panic in her voice. “You’ve had a long and trying day—”

  Bloody hell! Neil fought to keep from grinding his teeth in frustration as he listened to his bride question his skills as a lover and his stamina. Would she never cease insulting his manhood? “I’m fine.”

  “But you must be tired. And your head must pain you. Auld Tam’s ax left a lump the size of a bird’s egg on your head.”

  “You needn’t concern yourself, my lady. I may have a slight wound—” A wound that ached like a bitch. “But I’m perfectly capable of undressing and bedding my bride without assistance.” He looked down at her flushed face, at the rapid pulse beating at the base of her throat. “Are you concerned about my welfare, my lady, or have you had a change of heart? Have you decided against fulfilling the terms of the contract your father signed?”

  “Of course not! I know my duty. To my father and my clan.” Jessalyn’s temper flared. “I’d simply rather not be undressed and bedded tonight.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have stood beside me before God and your clan and promised to love, honor, obey or worship me with your body.”

  “I never …” she sputtered.

  “With my body I thee worship,” he recited.

  She wished he hadn’t said that. The worshipping him with her body was the part of the wedding vows that made her unsure of herself, made her doubt her abilities to fulfill her duties to her clan. And to her husband. She wiggled in his arms, trying to free herself. “Put me down. This isn’t dignified.”

  “It isn’t supposed to be dignified,” Neil informed her, tightening his arms around her. “It’s supposed to be romantic. It’s your wedding day, remember? And the husband of your dreams is carrying you over the threshold.”

  “I dreamt of a highland warrior.”

  “Then I’m a vast improvement.” He grunted as she elbowed him in the chest. “Careful. You don’t want me to drop you on your arse, now do you?” He whispered the words so that his warm breath caressed her ear and tickled the hair on her neck. “That wouldn’t be very dignified either. And it would definitely spoil the fantasy.”

  “What fantasy?” Jessalyn demanded. “This isn’t a fantasy. It’s a nightmare.”

  “Oh, no, my lady, that’s where you’re mistaken,” he said, as he stepped over the threshold and into the darkened interior of the castle. He made his way across the entry and started up the stairs. “Everything that’s gone before is the nightmare. This is the fantasy. This is the reward for enduring the nightmare.”

  “For you perhaps, but not for me.” She let out a sigh of relief when she realized he’d successfully negotiated the treacherous stone stairs, then sucked in another shakier breath when she realized he was standing before the door to her father’s bedchamber. Desperate, she tried to bargain with him, “If you let go of me, I promise not to scream this castle down around your ears.”

  “I want you to scream,” he replied in a tone of voice that made her skin tingle. “And I intend to do my utmost to assist you. Just wait until we get inside.”

  “My clansmen will come when I scream.”

  “Undoubtedly,” he murmured. “So will you.”

  “You don’t believe me,” she stated flatly.

  “I believe you, my lady. I promise you.” He pressed her against the wall, using his chest to hold her in place while he fumbled with the door latch.

  “Then, you should understand that you leave me no choice.” Taking advantage of his momentarily preoccupation with the door, Jessalyn opened her mouth to make good on her threat. But Neil was quicker. Leaning forward, he claimed her lips, capturing her breath, kissing her until her scream of outrage became a soft, mewling sigh. “Have you never kissed a man before?” he asked, seconds before the door swung open, banged against the wall and echoed loudly through the quiet halls as if to announce their arrival.

  “Aye,” she answered, “this morning.”

  Neil groaned aloud at her innocence, covering her mouth with his own as he carried her into the room. He laid her atop the coverlet and followed her down onto the bed, shifting the bulk of his weight to his forearms to keep from crushing her into the feather mattresses. When she was settled beneath him, Neil broke contact with her lips long enough to whisper, “I kissed you this morning. You didn’t kiss back. Someone’s been remiss in your tutoring.”

  “Well,” she told him in an irate Scottish burr that delighted his senses. “Despite what you Sassenachs think, we’re not all rutting savages. I may be ignorant of the ways of kissing, but I can learn.”

  “I’m at your service,” he invited, kissing her again, paying particular attention to her plump bottom lip. He savored the texture, flicking his tongue over it, touching the roughness of the myriad of tiny abrasions, absorbing the metallic taste of blood as he gently soothed the bite marks her teeth had made. He laved the wounds, licking her lips, teasing her, tempting her to open her mouth and allow him further access.

  She yielded to temptation, parting her lips, allowing him to deepen the kiss. He complied, moving his lips on hers, kissing her harder, then softer, then harder once more, testing her response, slipping his tongue past her teeth, exploring the sweet, hot interior of her mouth with practiced finesse. As he leisurely stroked the inside of her mouth in a provocative imitation of the mating dance, Jessalyn followed his lead. She moved her lips on his and kissed him back. Her abundant talent and enthusiasm thrilled him as much as it surprised him and Neil made love to her mouth, teaching her everything he knew about the fine art of kissing.

  She proved herself to be an excellent pupil, progressing rapidly, mirroring his actions and inventing a few of her own as she moved from novice to expert in the space of a few heartbeats. The jolt of pure pleasure he felt as she used her newfound talent with her tongue and teeth and mouth to entice him shook him down to his bare toes, threatening to steal his breath away along with his suddenly tenuous control. He was as hard as rock beneath his borrowed plaid, reminding him that it had been over four months since he’d held a woman in his arms. The blood pounded in his head and his arms trembled from the strain of holding himself above her while every nerve in his body urged him to lower himself onto her softness, find the hollow in the vee of her thighs, and press himself against her.

  Neil forced himself to slow down. He pulled his mouth away from hers as her soft sigh of surrender registered in his brain, reminding himself that despite her new kissing prowess, she was a virgin. Pushing himself to his knees, Neil looked down at his bride. The MacInnes. His breath caught and his heart seemed to lodge itself in his throat at the sight. Her skirts had ridden up her leg revealing an expanse of bare creamy white thigh. Against her thigh lay a badly frayed length of blue ribbon from the garter of her stocking. It peeked out from the top of his black boot. Stocking? He swallowed. Hard. She had on stockings. She
’d been barefooted. He remembered insulting her because of it. Remembered the sight of her curling her toes against the hard-packed earth of the bailey. When had she donned stockings? And where had she gotten them? He took a closer look. They were his. She was wearing his stockings tied with a bit of blue ribbon. His stockings and his boots.

  Neil sucked in a breath as the tightening in his loins hit him like a punch to the belly. God’s blood! Just looking at her had the power to make him ache. He struggled to tamp down his raging desire. His muscles were taut, his member rigid and insistent, and his control was stretched almost to the breaking point. With her hair fanned out across the pillow, her lips swollen from his kisses, the square of flesh visible above her bodice suffused with color, and the silver chain around her neck gleaming against a vivid pink background, she didn’t look like a bride. She didn’t look innocent. And she didn’t look like the stubborn, willful leader of Clan MacInnes. She looked hungry and wanton and more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen. Neil squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to blot out the image. For the first time in his life, he wanted to put his artistic gift to a better purpose than drawing designs for buildings and cities. He wanted to draw her. He wanted to sketch her image on paper, then paint it. He wanted to fill canvas after canvas. Like da Vinci. Like Titian. He wanted to fill canvases with studies of Jessalyn MacInnes. Opening his tightly clenched fist, Neil skimmed the front of her dress with his fingertips. She shivered in response and her nipples budded beneath his feathery touch. He sucked in another breath. When she looked like this, she was dangerous. Dangerous to his peace of mind. And far more potent than the most expensive brandy ever bottled.

  He wanted her. Like this. With her skirts riding up her hip. Wearing his black leather boots. With the tattered piece of blue ribbon lying against her leg. He wanted to bunch her skirts around her waist and lie naked between her thighs. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to taste her. He wanted to bury himself deep within her.

  Reaching up, Neil unpinned the brooch holding the length of tartan wrapped across his chest and around his shoulder. He yanked the fabric away from his shirt, pulled the fine lawn over his head and unbuckled the belt holding the folds of his plaid together. The fabric slipped down his abdomen and over his hips where it pooled around his legs.

  Jessalyn’s eyes widened in surprise as Neil stripped off his plaid and bared his body. She quickly squeezed her eyes shut, but curiosity compelled her to open them again and the force of his male beauty took her breath away. He was long and lean with broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a finely-sculpted chest and abdomen. His muscles were taut and the flesh covering them was several shades darker than hers. Thick dark hair covered the center of his broad chest, tapering into a thin line that snaked down over his navel and into another dense thatch of dark curly hair from which a portion of his body stood proudly erect. The sight of that forbidden part of him affected her as nothing else had ever done. Her flesh grew warm and her body seemed to have a mind of its own. The tips of her breasts became almost painfully tight and she had to press her thighs together to hide the embarrassing moisture that pooled in the center of her. She wanted to touch him—to caress that part of him—to see if he was as hot as she was. Taking a deep breath, Jessalyn licked her suddenly dry lips and reached out …

  The expression on her face—that of a kitten locating a hidden dish of cream—and the way her pink tongue whisked out to moisten her lips, as if she were already lapping up the treat, was Neil’s undoing. He gave up the fight to curb his desire and leaning forward, claimed her mouth once more in a hard, needy kiss. He caressed her breasts through her bodice, stroking the hardened peaks as he ran his palm down the worn fabric of her undergarment. He used his fingers to inch her clothing higher, seeking the pleasures he knew lay beneath the tangle of hair at the juncture of her thighs. Reaching the soft triangle, he slipped his fingers between the plump folds of flesh. She was tight and warm and wet and ready.

  And so was he. Gritting his teeth as the powerful force of desire ripped through his veins, Neil wedged his knee between her legs, initiating an onslaught of sensual persuasions—the pressure of his knee, the skillful touch of his fingers and his hungry kisses—to convince Jessalyn to open herself to him. She did so willingly and Neil quickly covered her body with his own. He meant to make love to her. He meant to arouse her further and introduce her to all of the delights lovers can share, but his body betrayed him. He could not blot out the wanton image of her that had burned itself into his brain. He teetered on the brink of self-control, fighting himself, fighting her responses until the sound, the sight, the scent of her combined to push him over the edge. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait any longer. He couldn’t find the strength to put her pleasure above his own. Groaning with frustration at his utter lack of gentlemanly control, Neil fastened his hands on her hips, flexed his taut muscles and pushed forward, burying himself inside her.

  The sharp, tearing pain that followed on the heels of extraordinary pleasure took Jessalyn by surprise. She blinked at the abrupt change, pushing away from him—away from the source of her pain, wrenching her mouth away from his, refusing to be tricked into further pain by his devastating kisses. He tightened his grip on her, pulling her closer, using his greater weight to calm her struggles.

  “Easy, easy,” he crooned the words in her ear, soothing her as he would an anxious mare.

  “Lie still,” he whispered, straining to keep her from moving, fighting his overwhelming need to withdraw just far enough away from her to savor the heavenly feel as he thrust back in. Again and again. “The worst is over.”

  The worst is over. That meant there was more to follow, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t fool enough to allow him to continue his torture. The pleasure he’d wrought with his kisses and his knowing fingers did not make up for the pain he’d inflicted. It didn’t matter that the worst was over. She wanted it completely over. “No,” she answered, shoving herself back as far away from him as possible.

  “Perdition!” He knew she was in pain and he tried to stop himself. But her squirming continued and his choice was to pull away and let her go—let them both go unsatisfied—or to push forward and find release for himself if not for her. He wanted to do the noble thing, but he did the only thing he could do. Lifting her hips, Neil began to move in and out. Slowly at first, then faster until he roared his release, muffling the words in the pillow beside her as he spilled himself within her and collapsed.

  She wasn’t sure but she thought he’d yelled her name. Jessalyn touched his shoulder. “My lord Derrowford?”

  He didn’t answer, but his rapid breathing had slowed to a manageable rate.

  Crushed beneath his weight, Jessalyn tried again. “My lord Derrowford? Neil? Is this all? Is it over?”

  He gave a deep sigh, tightened his arm around her waist and began to snore.

  Achy and inexplicably unsettled by his uninspired handling of what should have been a glorious wedding night, Jessalyn sank her teeth into his shoulder. Satisfied that she’d left her mark on him, she heaved his weight off her and rolled to her side, leaving him to snore facedown upon the bed.

  Chapter Ten

  Neil awoke the following morning rested and refreshed, despite the fact that his body was a collection of aching muscles and bruised flesh. He rolled from his stomach to his side and stretched, somewhat surprised to find himself alone and naked on top of the bed linens instead of beneath them. As he pulled the covers around his waist and felt the penetrating chill of the damp morning air, he realized that at some point during the night he had wrapped himself in the coverlet in order to stay warm. And as vivid memories of his wedding night returned with a vengeance to plague him, Neil realized why.

  For the first time in his adult life, he’d disappointed his bed partner. And not just any bed partner, but the one he had sworn to love, honor, cherish, and worship with his body for the rest of his natural life, his lady wife, the MacInnes. The woman who would bear his children. The center of
the bed drew his gaze like a magnet and Neil couldn’t look away. He was ashamed to admit that he had compounded his transgression by immediately falling into a sound sleep after selfishly taking the MacInnes’s virginity. He wanted to believe that he’d been a better lover to her, but there, marring the coverlet was the proof—dark red smears of blood. He hadn’t even undressed her. He had claimed her virginity by tumbling her fully-clothed atop the bed linens like some Covent Garden doxy. Neil ran his hand over his forehead. The headache that had plagued him since his meeting with Auld Tam was gone, but he couldn’t say the same for his recollections of last night. The devil take him, but the memory of her lying beneath him was still potent enough to bring his male member fully erect. He glanced around the sparsely furnished bedchamber, half hoping to find her, half hoping for the opportunity to make amends for disappointing her the night before. But he was alone. His bride had disappeared. Except for the virginal stain marking the coverlet, there was no sign that the MacInnes had ever shared the bedchamber.

  He pushed himself off the bed and stood up. The stone floor of the chamber was ice cold against the soles of his feet and Neil shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he looked around for his boots and his stockings. Both were gone. His bride had apparently taken them with her when she left—along with the rest of his clothing. All that remained was a length of neatly folded tartan and his belt.

  More than half an hour later, Neil had abandoned the notion that he would ever be able to pleat that damned piece of tartan and belt it around his waist the way those old highlanders had done the day before. He aborted his eighth attempt and in a fit of frustration, wound the cloth around his waist like a length of toweling and knotted it. He had also abandoned the notion that his wife or any of the members of her clan would show up with food or his clothing and now that he was decently, if incorrectly, covered, he intended to find both.