She squealed when he scooped her up and carried her into the keep. She clung to his neck, elated he’d observed the age-old tradition.
“Welcome to my home, Lady Drummond.”
“I thank ye, Laird Drummond.”
As if she weighed no more than a feather, he carried her through the entryway, past the ongoing din in the hall and up the staircase. “We made it,” he declared when they arrived at the door to his chamber. “Getting past the hall was the part that concerned me.”
“Weel done, my Highland warrior,” she gushed.
He reached for the handle and threw open the door. “Yer bridal chamber, my lady,” he quipped as he strode inside and set her down.
She kept her hands on his shoulders, awed by the uncertainty in his eyes. He’d slept in this chamber since childhood, and her approval was important. She gazed around, detecting Fiona’s hand in the tapestries and the blue bed hangings. There were even a couple of inlaid chests and an armoire she was sure had come from Fiona’s chamber. “I love it,” she exclaimed.
He picked her up and twirled her around, clearly relieved. “As I love ye. I thought we could make a start on consummating our union.”
Eyes wide, she reached to unpin his clan brooch. “A very wicked notion for an afternoon.”
He grinned. “I was certain ye’d like the idea.”
Carried to Heaven
Easing the unpinned breacan off his shoulder, Shaw turned to bar the door. “We dinna want any interruptions,” he said. “If ye’d licked the gravy off yer fingers one more time during the luncheon, I’d have taken ye right there on the table.”
He retrieved two goblets of mead from the table by the bedside. Mentally thanking Fiona for reminding the servants to set out the traditional beverage, he handed one to Caitlin.
Smiling, she dipped her finger in the mead and stuck it in her mouth, sending arrows of desire shooting through Shaw’s body.
“Surely nay in front of everyone, Husband,” she teased.
Shaw took hold of her wrists. “Beware, Caitlin, ye can only tease a mon so far.”
She blushed and averted her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didna mean to tease ye.”
He was contrite. He hadn’t intended to make her feel a wanton, something she definitely was not. His aim was to make this afternoon memorable and he had started off on the wrong foot. He drained his own mead, then licked her fingers. “Sticky.”
She smiled shyly when he drew her into his arms and asked, “May I help ye undress, my lady?”
She looked at him nervously and nodded. Her hands fidgeted with the braided belt of her gown.
He gently brushed them away. “Let me.”
He undid the decorative knot in the twisted silver thread and brushed his lips against her belly as the belt fell to the wolfskin rug.
She put her hands on his head, her breathing becoming more rapid.
Sensing she was nervous, he assured her, “We willna do anything ye dinna wish to this day.”
“I am a wee bit afraid,” she conceded. “But I trust ye’ll teach me how to please ye, like ye did before.”
His hopes soared, but he was determined to slow down, to make the pleasure last for them both. “Can I remove yer shoes?” he asked, his thoughts on delving his tongue into her moist folds, not on footwear.
When she nodded mutely, he drew her to sit on the bed. Dropping to his knees, he removed one shoe, then danced his fingers up her thigh until he came to the garter. The temptation to go farther was strong, but he resisted and rolled down her stocking. He massaged the sole of her foot, digging his thumbs into her flesh. She leaned back on her elbows while he repeated the painstaking process with the other foot.
“Shaw,” she breathed, her pose accentuating the thrust of her lovely breasts.
He might have to make greater haste, though it was important to arouse her slowly. He ran his fingers lightly over the soles of her feet. She giggled. “I’m ticklish.”
By now, he was a hungry wolf. The need to mate with his bride had become urgent. He had never wanted a woman so badly.
He lifted her skirts to reveal her knees and ran his fingertips over her calves. Her skin was smooth as silk. “I hope my hands are nay too rough,” he whispered.
“Perfect,” came the murmured reply. She was lying flat on her back now, legs parted slightly.
He leaned forward and smoothed his hands the length of her thighs, pushing the fabric far enough to catch a glimpse of his goal. She must not feel invaded. He licked each thigh, starting at her knee and going as far as he dare. She entangled her fingers in her own hair, hips rising off the bed as she stretched languidly.
“Shaw,” she purred.
His need was pressing. “Sit up so I can take off yer lovely gown. I want to see yer body in the full light of day.”
He stood, lifting the garment over her head and outstretched arms when she obeyed. The silken shift beneath clung to every curve, leaving little to his imagination. The glint of passion in her eyes sent blood rushing to his groin, but she folded her arms across her breasts. “’Tis somehow different in daylight.”
“’Twill be all right,” he whispered as he coaxed the shift off her shoulders. “Let me see ye.”
Awed by her naked perfection, he bent to touch the tip of his tongue to a nipple, suckling when the peak hardened.
She cradled his head, holding him to her breast. “Shaw,” she whispered.
Craving a taste of her most intimate place, he bade her lay back, knelt between her legs and kissed her pink folds. Easing her legs apart when she whimpered, he stretched out alongside her. Leaning on his forearm, he gently opened her nether lips.
“Does my touch please ye?” he asked when a moan emerged from deep in her throat.
“It sends wonderful feelings through my body.”
He carefully slid one finger inside, hooking it slightly. Her warm, wet sheath responded to his caress. She lifted her head, looking a little startled.
“Dinna be afraid. I love ye,” he whispered.
“I was born to love ye, Shaw.”
He had fallen in love at first sight with this incredible woman, but it was important their lovemaking be as emotionally satisfying as their deep friendship. He had longed to hear her confess her love while in the throes of sexual congress.
Caution be damned. He needed to taste her. He put his lips to her womanhood and licked her juices, swirling his tongue over the swelling nub as his finger moved slowly in and out.
“Shaw.” There was a hint of uncertainty in her voice.
“Ye taste wonderful,” he rasped. “Sweet like honey.”
As she watched him feasting on her juices, mewling sounds emerged from her throat. He delved his tongue deeper and she called out his name, crushing the bed linens in her hands, her hips lifting from the bed. He grasped her thighs and held on, suckling and licking until she screamed her fulfillment.
Elated he’d brought her to release again, he rested his head on her mons while her wits slowly returned and her breathing slowed. “Another little death,” she whispered.
He chuckled. “Who told ye that?”
“Moira.”
“I might have kent it. Aye, and there’ll be many.”
She sat up. “Ye’ve seen me. Now, I want to see ye again.”
He’d harbored fantasies about Caitlin undressing him slowly, but that would have to wait for another occasion. He unfastened his belt and let his breacan fall to the floor. He threw his bonnet aside, yanked off his shirt and held his arms wide. “Here I am.”
She stared open-mouthed at his proud lance, then her gaze traveled down his legs and she smiled. “Can I at least help ye remove yer shoes and socks?”
*
Caitlin wanted to laugh at her own jest, but her throat had gone strangely dry. She’d touched Shaw before and knew he was well made but, in the light of day, the naked reality of the length and thickness of his manhood convinced her Moira was wrong. Such a thing could not fit inside
a woman—inside her.
Clearly sensing her fear, he wrapped her hand around his most intimate part. “Dinna be afraid. I ken I am big, but we’ve already eased the way and I’ll go slowly. Move yer hand on me, like ye did before.”
She obeyed, hoping she was pleasing him. He sucked in a sharp breath. His manhood looked powerful, yet delicate and sensitive. The silkiness of his skin awed her. She had an urge to run her tongue from root to tip. What would he think of that?
“I’d love it if ye did,” he murmured. She hadn’t spoken out loud. Her wanton open-mouthed gaping and the way she had licked her lips must have betrayed her desire. She bent to swirl her tongue over the swollen tip, then sucked him into her mouth.
Groaning, he raked his hands through her hair and rocked his hips slowly. “I canna hold on much longer, Caitlin. But this is sweet torture. I am at yer mercy.”
The power she held as a woman struck her for the first time. Giving herself to this man did not mean she would lose anything of herself. He might dominate her as the male, but he would do it to bring her pleasure, not pain.
Shaw withdrew his shaft from her mouth, cupped her face and kissed her lips. Intoxicated by the sweet taste of mead, she thrust her tongue into his mouth. When the need to breathe broke them apart, he shifted his attention to her nipples, suckling each hardened tip in turn, grazing them lightly with his teeth. She moaned and arched her back, cradling his head to her breasts. He touched a fingertip to the nub that still pulsed from his caresses. “Ye’re warm and wet. Are ye ready to join with me?”
His eyes betrayed his need, his manhood looked painfully engorged. But he had asked, not just taken. “I’m ready, my love.”
He opened her legs wide. Guiding himself, he dipped into her opening and slid inside in one thrust, never taking his eyes from hers. She tried not to grimace at the stab of pain that arrowed into her core, and the discomfort eased as he continued to thrust.
“The pain will pass, Caitlin. I canna stop now,” he rasped.
“I dinna want ye to stop,” she replied truthfully.
She gripped his shoulders, then his thighs, relishing his strength. As the urgency of his thrusts increased, so did the warm tingling inside her, tantalizing, building, promising then fading, promising then fading, then mounting to an unbearable…suddenly, she was tumbling into an abyss of soaring bliss, bathed in orange light, her cries mingling with Shaw’s guttural shout as his seed erupted inside.
Breathing heavily, he collapsed onto her.
Twirling her fingertips in the sheen on his back, she relished the press of his warm, sated body.
At length, he stirred and came up on his elbows. “Sorry, too heavy.”
She pulled him back, curling her arms around his shoulders, trailing kisses along his neck. “Nay, I can bear yer weight.”
Their union had borne her to ecstatic heights, far beyond anything she had expected, but she could only hope his needs had been satisfied.
Gradually, his manhood withdrew to nestle at her opening. His breathing steadied. She thought he might have fallen asleep until he whispered, “Ye carried me to heaven, lass.”
Hogmanay
New Year’s Eve 1699
Reluctantly, Rory got out of bed early on New Year’s Eve morn and took a peek through the window. As he expected, the heavy snow that had blanketed Ardblair throughout the Yuletide season had turned to a blizzard.
He and Fiona had decided the day before there was no possibility of riding to Drummond and then on to Stirling, unless conditions improved dramatically.
Feeling better, he got back into bed and cuddled into Fiona’s heat. “Warm me up, Wife,” he said, kissing her bare shoulder.
She wriggled her bottom against his manhood. “I take it we willna be leaving?”
Aroused by her movements, he cupped her breasts and brushed his thumbs over rigid nipples. “Is it my imagination, or has yer voice become more seductive?”
She arched her back. “’Tis what happens when a woman lies abed with a naked mon for more than a week. I ne’er spent Yuletide in bed before.”
He moved to nestle his shaft between her legs. “’Tis expected of a honeymooning couple. Besides, I canna get enough of ye.”
“Nor I of ye,” she confessed. “And we have years to make up for.”
He kissed her nape. “’Twas worth the wait.”
“We’ll have to get up today,” she said. “Yer clan will expect their laird to put in an appearance on Hogmanay.”
“Aye. And on the morrow, I can be the first to jump in the loch.”
She sat up. “What?”
“’Tis a tradition. All the men of Clan Blair strip down to their trews and jump in the loch.”
“But the water is covered in ice and snow. ’Twill be freezing.”
He traced his fingertips down her spine. “’Tis the whole point.”
“Madness,” she mumbled.
“I’m glad we’ll be seeing in the new year here at home. Sir John can hardly blame us for the snow. Nairn will be pleased.”
“True, and I doot Shaw and Caitlin will make the journey if the weather is as bad there.”
“Shall we get up, then?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
He chuckled. “Who’d have believed Fiona Drummond would turn out to be a passionate wanton?”
She straddled his hips and lowered herself slowly onto his rigid shaft. “Do ye want me to stop?”
“Nay,” he breathed, already at the mercy of her intoxicating sexuality. “We can see to preparations for tonight later.”
“Dinna fash,” she replied. “I went to our solar while ye were sleeping and sent messages to Ethan. He’ll have everything ready.”
“Efficient as weel as beautiful,” he rasped as she rode him to heaven.
*
The folks of Clan Drummond were elated their laird and his new bride had been obliged to stay at home for Hogmanay. When Shaw and Caitlin entered the noisy hall arm in arm, the resounding cheers confirmed it.
“I’m so happy we are here,” Caitlin said close to his ear. “Stirling holds too many memories I’d sooner forget.”
“Aye,” he agreed, “but let’s remember ’tis where we met.”
She squeezed his arm, her warm breast pressing against his bicep. “But this is where we’ll live our lives—together.”
He kissed her lips. “I thank ye for agreeing to spend yers with me. Ye’ve made me a happy mon.”
The music resumed, pipers and fiddlers playing lively reels. People cheered again when Shaw took his bride’s hand and led her into the midst of the dancers.
He had never been overly keen on dancing. Watching happiness blossom on Caitlin’s flushed face as she whirled and twirled made him wish the dancing would go on all night.
The whisky flowed, the din grew louder, the dancing did indeed seem to be going on for hours. Finally, breathless, they cleared the floor for the entrance of the juniper bearers just before midnight.
Twenty men hurried in, led by Jamie, each one carrying a smoking juniper branch. The hall quickly filled with the acrid smoke. “’Tis to ward off evil spirits and disease,” Shaw explained, his throat already raspy.
Caitlin nodded. “We have the same tradition at Ardblair.”
He wiped away a tear trickling down her cheek. “’Twill clear soon.”
She leaned her head against his chest. “This is my first Hogmanay without Rory and Nairn.”
He held her tight. “I understand. I miss Fiona. But we can be assured yer brother and my sister are happy and enjoying themselves, just as we are.”
“Rory will be relieved we didna have to go to Stirling.”
He rocked her in his arms, hoping the love he bore her would make up for the lack of her family’s presence. No sooner had the smoke finally cleared when Jamie thrust a loaf of bread and a clump of peat into his hands. “Ye’re the perfect first foot,” his uncle declared.
Caitlin laughed. “Aye. Tall, dark and handsome.”
Shaw was reluctant to leave her, but the crowd was having none of it as they bundled him out into the bailey and slammed the doors shut.
He looked up into the night sky, enjoying the sudden silence after the noisy hall. A few flakes of snow cooled his burning face. In a few minutes, a new century would dawn—a new era for his clan, his family, and probably his country with the king reportedly ailing. The end of the feud was a good omen, and he was confident his beautiful, intelligent bride would help him lead the clan to greater prosperity. Clan Blair couldn’t help but prosper with Fiona at the helm.
He looked forward to living a happy life with many healthy bairns.
Soon, he was shivering, glad of the plaid Caitlin had managed to throw over his shoulders before he was summarily cast out.
Despite the cold, the few minutes of silence and solitude renewed him. He filled his lungs with the crisp air, looking forward to the challenge of a new year.
He startled when the doors were thrust open and clansmen bearing flaming torches formed an archway just inside the keep. Standing proudly, with legs braced, Jamie bade him enter. “Come in, my laird, with yer gifts of food and warmth.”
Shaw straightened his shoulders and marched into the castle he loved amid raucous cheers.
Epilogue
April 23rd, 1702, Edinburgh
Rory had shared some of the happiest moments of his life with Fiona since their marriage nigh on two-and-a-half years before. However, he’d never seen her so nervously excited as they waited in the warehouse at the Leith docks for her new French furniture to be unloaded.
“I ken ’tis ridiculous,” she conceded. “I didna mind leaving my other pieces at Drummond.”
He chuckled. “But ye’ve missed yer precious desk.”
“I wish we could have gone to Paris to order it instead of Shaw and Caitlin. I hope they bought the right thing.”
“They both use yer desk every day in their solar. I’m sure they kent exactly what ye wanted.”
She shook her head. “All they could talk about when they returned was Notre Dame cathedral and the palace of Versailles, and how romantic the Seine was, and how much they missed their wee twins. ’Tis a wonder they remembered to shop for my desk at all.”
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