It was a small act of rebellion on her part. Her father thought it unruly, but Marian had always preferred it that way. It made her feel more like herself.
“You look beautiful.”
Marian clenched her hands to stop them from trembling. Grey noticed and took both, squeezing them tightly.
“You’re nervous? Marian, Clan MacKinnish is as committed as I am to keeping you safe. You don’t need to worry about your father, or your intended, or the Earl of Fife. I promise. We’ll protect you. I will protect you.”
She believed him, but that was not Marian’s concern.
“You said once . . .”
Her fears had seemed more reasonable before. Now that he was next to her, holding his hands, she felt safe. He’d always made her feel this way, ever since the day of the attack. Safe and loved.
“You told me you would bring me with you, back through time.” She took a deep breath. “But that I could be free, do as I please.”
“And you can. You will,” he said with the same conviction he expressed every time they discussed going back to his time.
“That I could be free of you,” she clarified.
Grey’s eyes widened in understanding.
“Marian, I said that because I wanted true freedom for you. The ability to make your own choices, in all things. If that meant coming to my time but not being with me . . .” He paused. “I also said that I believe fate brought us together. And that I love you. Both of those things are true, Marian. I’d never marry you out of some sense of obligation. If for one reason alone.”
“What reason is that?” she asked, already feeling much better.
“When my brother finds out your name, learns we met here, in this time . . .”
He was withholding something from her.
“What is it?”
Grey smiled. “Do you remember what I told you about Robin Hood?”
“Of course. And still you call me Maid Marian at times.”
“I failed to mention my brothers, Ian especially, used to call me Robin Hood because of the archery. They still do, actually.”
She tried, and failed, not to laugh.
“They call you Robin Hood? And I am . . .”
“Maid Marian”—he made a not very gentlemanly sound—“yeah. So trust me, they’ll be busting my ass basically for eternity.”
Marian attempted to compose herself.
“If I could have chosen my wife’s name, it probably wouldn’t have been Marian.” He smiled. “But I would choose you no matter what. Any time. Anywhere. So shall we?” He let go of her hands and gestured toward the door.
“Aye,” she answered, leading the way. “Robin.”
Marian laughed at her own jest all the way to the chapel doors.
Mom will kill me.
No fancy procession or reception. Just a woman he’d fallen in love with standing by his side on a cloudy October day in the middle of medieval Scotland.
Not what he, or his mother, had imagined. She loved planning parties and had told them all in no uncertain terms that she’d be unhappy if any of them eloped.
Hopefully this didn’t count.
Perhaps it was the happiness of being with Marian, or maybe it was her optimism twining with his, but every day that passed Greyson was more confident that his mother was alive, in this time, and that they would find her. He couldn’t wait to introduce Marian to her.
His wife.
Repeating the words of the tired-looking chaplain, Greyson found himself well and truly married, as they would say in this time. If they couldn’t get back, he could see himself staying here. He’d adjusted enough to appreciate life without technology. Without distractions.
Unless being attacked on a weekly basis was considered a distraction.
“Do I get to kiss the bride?”
From the chaplain’s scowl, it apparently wasn’t a custom in Scotland, at least not yet.
He thought of refraining, so as not to shock the two dozen or so witnesses, but Greyson remembered he’d never see most of them again. So he kissed his wife, fully aware they’d not yet made love. Soon. Hopefully very soon.
“The smile of a man happy with his bride.” Ross clapped him on the back as they all left the chapel, heading down the dusty road to the Brennans’ manor. “And hopefully not of a marked man with two earls peeved enough to track him down.”
Holding Marian’s hand, he grimaced at his uncle.
“Thanks for letting us appreciate the moment,” he said dryly, but Ross didn’t seem overly concerned with his lack of tact.
“When do you leave?”
Ross nodded up ahead to the stables just next to the stone manor. Alban had apparently gone ahead of them and was leading out their mounts even now.
“You don’t even want cake?”
Marian watched them, clearly uneasy. He knew she didn’t want anyone to fight on her behalf. The violent end of her men had made a mark on her.
“It will be fine,” he said with no notion of whether it was true. He looked to Ross to reassure her, and although it took his uncle a while to catch on, he’d give credit where it was due—Ross’s tone was most convincing.
“With your dowry and the knowledge we’ve pieced together, you pieced together, aye lass, your husband has the right of it.”
Your husband.
Two words he hadn’t thought to hear so soon, but ones that warmed him to his very soul.
“You are certain about this?” Marian asked again.
“Aye, lass,” Ross said. “I’ve met the earl and his son before, and will appeal to them as a fellow ally to Bruce.”
They stopped in front of the stables, the cart horse now appearing with her trunks.
“If he does not accept the new terms?”
Ross leaned toward them. “We’ll need to find my sister and her other son quickly.”
“Us leaving does not help you or your clan.”
Grey could tell she was still worried about putting Clan MacKinnish in a predicament, one with two angry earls on one side and the future king of Scotland’s grandfather on the other.
“Bruce may have to be told the truth,” Grey said in an undertone, watching Ross mount beside them.
Marian whipped her head toward him.
“You would tell him everything?”
He looked at Ross, who had his own feelings on the matter. There was much still to be discussed, and more they had yet to learn. But given the players involved in the Irvine plot, plus the king’s obvious interest in the Bruce, it was seeming more and more likely they would have to bring the man into the fold.
“There are too many uncertainties yet to determine the best path forward,” Ross said, preparing to ride out. “But first let me negotiate on your behalf and settle this matter.”
Marian looked toward the trunks, then back up to his uncle. Nodding, she thanked him again. With that, Ross and Alban rode off, the cart creaking beneath the weight of Marian’s trunks. She’d kept just two gowns. The others were being carted off as a part of her dowry to replace the sole necklace and brooch she’d kept, along with a gold belt and, by her admission, a few coins. If their plan succeeded, she wouldn’t need more.
“Come inside.” Lady Brennan waved them into the manor.
He and Marian followed the others inside, and they were all served cake. Or more precisely, spiced buns piled onto each other in the form of a cake. He thanked Lord and Lady Brennan again for giving them at least some modicum of an actual wedding. Flowers had been brought into the hall, and Greyson couldn’t believe how quickly it had been transformed.
Who needed a Degas House wedding when you could be married in a remote manor house in medieval Scotland? Although he did wish they could have a second line, one of New Orleans’s famed brass band parades.
For the first time since he’d found himself at Ross’s feet in the Cony and Cross, Greyson felt at peace. His wife was by his side, and no one was attempting to murder them at the moment. As soon as Ross re
turned, they could continue on to Perthshire, where Grey was more and more certain they would find his mother, and possibly Rhys too.
And he could tell she felt the same sense of peace. Her smiles came easily, and they reached her eyes. He’d seen her like this only once before, at Quinting Castle.
“You’re watching me.”
She took a bite of the cake, and Greyson allowed his gaze to linger on her lips as they closed around her spoon. Jesus. This woman was his wife.
“I am.”
“Lady Brennan kindly prepared a private bedchamber,” she said.
He liked the way his wife thought. And though he might not know as much as Rhys about the Middle Ages, he did know the consummation of their marriage was more likely to dissuade her betrothed from attempting to reclaim her than the ceremony itself.
Greyson stood, holding out his hand.
“Shall we?”
It didn’t take long for the hall to fill with hoots and hollers that could rival the best of any bawdiness New Orleans could offer.
With a nod of thanks to the lord and lady of the manor, Greyson and Marian walked from the hall. Thankfully, no one attempted to follow them. So much for the whole idea of bedding witnesses, one medieval myth that didn’t appear to be entirely accurate.
Which was good, because he wasn’t prepared to share.
28
The hall had been bright, but not so their bedchamber.
Somehow Marian would find a way to repay the kindness they’d been shown here. Lady Brennan had truly outdone herself.
Though less than half the size of the smallest bedchamber at Fenwall Castle, it was the most magnificent room possible. A fire had been stoked, candles lit. A white canopy hung over their bed as if welcoming them.
“Come here, wife.”
Marian laughed as Greyson pulled her toward him the moment he closed the door behind them.
“Do I sound medieval enough?”
Greyson’s hands wound through the hair at the nape of her neck.
“I’ve not heard anyone speak like that, but I have also never been a wife before.”
“Hmmm.” That sound, deep in his throat . . .
When Greyson’s lips descended onto hers, Marian was immediately lost. But not the kind of lost she’d felt after leaving Fenwall behind, knowing she would likely never return. This was a glorious, welcome kind of feeling. All but him fell away.
All but the touch of his lips.
She’d tried to imagine her wedding night, or day as it happened, but the sensation of air on her bare skin, Greyson’s lips on her neck . . . never could she have imagined such an exquisite pleasure.
“I wanted to take it slow.”
His words were at odds with his actions, but Marian encouraged it. She helped him, in fact, until each piece of her clothing, and his, lay at their feet.
She stared, unable to look away.
“Are you scared?” he asked, watching her.
“I’ve not seen . . . that is to say . . .” Marian concentrated on his chest instead. The markings, tattoos he’d called them. They had fascinated her before, but they were even more enticing now, each and every one on display.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
Marian allowed Greyson to lead her to the bed. Aye, she was nervous. She’d not felt anything other than excitement all morn, but now, unsure of what to expect . . .
“Let me tell you what will happen here.”
Lying down with Greyson moving atop her, Marian swallowed.
“I will kiss every inch of you first.”
He began straightaway. First, her lips. Then her neck. Bringing her hands up to his shoulders, pressing him closer, she gave over to the feelings and attempted to forget what was to come. Gilda had told Marian of her duties to Duncan, but they’d hardly sounded pleasant.
Greyson, however . . .
Every bit of what he did to her was very pleasant. Surely that would be no different.
“And then,” he murmured, his lips wrapping around her nipple, “I will prepare you, my lovely Maid Marian.”
“Prepare me?”
Light flickered off the canopy above them as Marian let Greyson guide her knees open.
Holding himself over her with one hand, he used the other to stroke her hips and then the inside of her thigh.
“Wider.”
When she did his bidding, his fingers entered her, ever so slowly. As she became accustomed to it, Greyson increased the pressure. His thumb teased as she tried, unsuccessfully, to get a better grip on his shoulders.
Giving up and clutching the coverlet beneath her instead, Marian abandoned each and every one of Gilda’s well-meaning comments about the marriage bed. Because this was no duty. What Greyson was doing to her just now . . .
“And then, only when you’re ready—” Her eyes popped open. Marian wasn’t even aware she’d closed them. “—I will make you mine.”
Guiding himself toward her, Greyson did not take his eyes from hers.
“It will hurt, but hopefully just for a few seconds.”
He was inside her.
“Hopefully?”
Filling her, little by little.
“I’m not in the habit of bedding virgins.”
Until . . .
“Hold on to me.”
She’d barely brought her hands up when a sharp pain had her clutching at him like a wounded cat, clawing at his back, attempting to shut out the sting of it.
“I am so sorry.”
This kiss was soft, tender. But as the pain subsided, it became more like his others: all-consuming.
It surprised her when she found her own hips lifting to meet his. He moved more quickly only when she did, the pace set by her.
And Marian suddenly wanted more. Much, much more.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Hands on each side of her, the muscles in Greyson’s arms flexed with every thrust. She couldn’t decide if they, or the look on his face, were more pleasurable to look at.
When he lowered himself, his chest touching hers, that same urgency from before took over. Every bit of Marian tensed. She met each thrust, encouraging them even.
“Marian . . .”
His face, she decided—that’s what she liked to look at most. The love in his eyes as he reached down between them and, with one touch, sent her spiraling into oblivion. The last thing she was aware of Greyson’s moan of pleasure as he tossed his head back and thrust one final time.
The world slipped away, leaving just the two of them, his arms around her, his body’s shudders mirroring her own. Everything was sensation.
They lay there, Marian content to say nothing.
When he pulled from her, the loss was only momentary as he kissed her so gently every doubt she’d ever had melted away.
“Next, we will wash”—he propped himself back up and nodded to the bowl of rose water beside their bed—“drink some wine, and do that all over again.
Marian smiled. “I like your accounting of that.”
“A play-by-play,” he teased, though Marian had no idea what that meant.
He pushed up to sit beside her. “So much to teach you,” he said, “in bed, and out of it.”
“Someday I will need to learn more of your customs.” Marian lifted herself onto her elbows. “But we are still in my time, and ’tis you who are the student.”
“Is that right?” he asked with a grin.
“Aye, ’tis so.”
“Mayhap tomorrow we shall begin your lessons, Maid Marian. This day belongs to the pleasures that can be wrought between a man and a woman.”
Marian burst out laughing. His words. His accent.
He sounded very much like a Scotsman.
Her Scotsman.
She would emulate his speech, repeating something she’d heard him say once before.
“Let the games begin.”
29
“Nay,” Marian told him, “we do not believe the world to be flat.�
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They sat in front of the fire, clothed for the first time in days. As far as honeymoons went, this tiny village, not much bigger than a hamlet except that it had a chapel—a rarity, according to Marian—was better than sitting on a beach in the Caribbean. Or skiing in Aspen, his father’s favorite vacation.
Eating freshly baked bread, drinking ale with lunch and hardly leaving a room that could easily pass for a medieval-style B&B back home . . . all of it had been idyllic.
Especially given the woman with whom he shared it.
Greyson could tell she was worried about his uncle. About Duncan and her father. And so was he. But he was so enjoying this time with Marian, this respite from the constant fighting and stress, having the opportunity to train and talk with his clansmen, that he didn’t wish for Ross to rush back.
He took another sip of wine, grateful Marian had kept some of her coin so she could offer compensation to Lord and Lady Brennan. Comfortable as they might be here, it was obvious he’d been wrong about another facet of medieval life.
Titled did not mean rich.
He tried again.
“Are chastity belts really a thing?”
She had no clue what he meant.
“You know. A belt that locks up your hoo-ha.”
“My what?” Marian laughed as he pointed to show her. “Oh, Grey, you are mad. ’Tis your turn.” She lifted her goblet. “What do you drink in your time?”
“You’ll be happy to learn we drink wine that tastes much like this. But the ale—beer we call it—is completely different.”
“Will I like it? Your time?”
They’d talked many times over the last few days about what would happen when they found his mother, his brother, and the cross that had obviously been used to pull his mom back. Pretending it would be as easy as walking from St. Louis Cathedral to Cafe du Monde, they operated under the assumption that they would indeed make it back.
Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2) Page 15