by Sam Crescent
“You’re right, it’s ours, our money, but I will deny you nothing. Your every wish, no matter how big or small, will be met. You will live in comfort, see the world, and enjoy luxury every day for the rest of your life.”
“How about my wish to sleep in my old bedroom, in the staff quarters? You will deny me that?”
His expression darkened. “And how would that look to all of these lovely people who have come to celebrate our union?”
“I’ll sneak out, late. No one will see me.”
“You will do no such thing.” He pulled her closer, his mouth by her ear. “And if you do, you will face the consequences.”
“Are you threatening me?” Her blood heated with indignation. She turned her face so the crowd couldn’t see her scowl.
“No, I’m simply telling you how it is between us. You will do as you’re told.” He pulled back and cupped her cheeks, holding her face. His gaze was wild and intense as he stared into her eyes. “You are mine.”
She gritted her teeth as the photographer came near and snapped a few pictures, obviously mistaking their intensity for wild passion.
Fire burned through her. What the hell had she done? She’d sealed her fate to this outlandish man. She had to get out of there. Away from The Balmorals Inn. Away from the Highlands, Scotland. She’d take her chances. She’d have to.
Other couples took to the dance floor, connecting and swaying as if everything was okay in the world.
Stuart set a kiss on the tip of her nose then tucked her head beneath his chin and continued to dance.
The urge to shout, scream, and cry bubbled up inside her, but she kept the brewing explosion trapped. It wouldn’t stay that way forever, though … the pressure was building.
At last, the damn song came to an end.
“I’m thirsty.” She untangled herself from Stuart.
“I’ll get you a drink.”
“No, I can do it myself,” she snapped.
His jaw tensed.
She was relieved when Mark clasped Stuart on the shoulder. “You and Jasmine must come to the cottage soon,” he said.
Stuart dragged his attention from her and smiled politely at Mark. “That would be nice. It’s been a long time since I visited The Mull of Kintyre.”
Quickly, Jasmine took her exit from the ballroom.
Her steps hastened across the hallway. The reception desk was unmanned and there were no hotel guests. Today was all about the wedding.
By the time she reached the front door, she was running. She pulled it open, and gathering the base of her dress, rushed outside into the elements.
The wind whipped her veil around her face, and bitterly cold rain lashed her cheeks. But that didn’t stop her, she rounded the castle toward the guest accommodation, her heels sinking in the gravel.
When she got there, goosebumps pimpled her arms and chest. She dragged at her door handle. It didn’t open. She yanked again. She’d left it unlocked, damn it. Security was lax. It could be in the middle of nowhere.
“Fuck!” She spun around.
Whoever had cleared her things out must have locked it.
The castle towered before her. The turrets piercing the steel-gray sky that rushed overhead as the clouds skittered west. A roll of thunder clattered down the mountains, echoing over the loch.
The loch.
It called to her. Beside it ran a path to the nearest village. She’d go there and find transport to the city.
Suddenly, that was all she could think about, getting to Edinburgh.
Away from The Balmorals Inn. Away from Stuart McKeith.
Chapter Five
Jasmine hiked her now wet dress higher, and ignoring the stinging rain, she rushed alongside a row of pine trees.
Her veil caught on a low branch, yanking her backward.
“Damn it.” She dragged at it, wrenching it from the clip in her hair, and ran on, leaving it flapping in the wind, forgotten.
Scooting past the kitchen window, she hoped no one would see her. Food service was over. The chefs would be enjoying the entertainment in the ballroom … surely.
A flight of stone steps led past four massive urns and over a lawn. She crossed it quickly, her breaths coming fast, her sodden dress getting heavier by the second.
Rounding a water feature, the fountain being blown sideways in the gale, she spotted the route down to the boathouse. Beyond that was the loch. It gave her hope, yes, she was doing this, escaping.
On and on, she went, her thighs aching as she pounded the puddled path. Several times, the push of the wind threatened to topple her over, and the booming thunder overhead tortured her eardrums.
But still, she kept going.
The loch came into view. Tubes of water were being whisked upward, long angry funnels of spray.
Turning left with the path, she stumbled, her foot catching on a rock in a deep puddle. She fell forward, arms outstretched, and hit the muddy ground with a splash.
“Damn it.” She scrabbled to get up. Her hand slipped. So did her foot, and she smacked into the puddle for a second time. The icy water pierced her skin and a side-winding squall caught her breath. Muddy water dripped from her nose, her chin, and soaked her cleavage.
“What the hell are you doing, woman?”
Two big hands gripped her upper arms and hauled her to standing.
Her hair hung over her face, her nose was running, her eyes misted, and she panted hard. “Get off me.” She tried to wriggle free.
“You’ll catch your death,” Stuart snapped.
“I can’t do this. I have to…” She paused when her teeth chattered and a painful shiver shot up her spine. “I have to go.”
“Now is not the time to discuss this.” He shrugged out of his black jacket. “We have to get you warm.”
“No. I—”
“You’re not seriously going to argue with me.” He threw the coat around her shoulders.
She swayed under the weight of it.
He caught her around the waist. “Of all the crazy things I thought you might do … this … this, I couldn’t have imagined. Are you trying to kill yourself?”
She managed to shake her head before her legs gave way. The effort of standing was just too much. She was so cold. She’d never been this cold. The storm had penetrated to her organs, filled her blood with frost, and addled her brain.
Suddenly, she was in his arms. He’d swung her up against his chest and now held her close. She shivered against him, one hand clasped around his neck, the other in a fist at her heart, snatching his jacket close.
He turned, and with steely determination, strode back toward The Balmorals Inn.
She closed her eyes. All she could think of was the shivering. It hurt. Each muscle contracted tighter and tighter. Her chest pained her, the cold air stabbing her lungs.
He stomped along the puddle-littered path, then over the lawn and up the stone steps.
But instead of going around the front of the castle, he unlocked a door in the west wall.
When it closed behind them, everything went silent.
He paused.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him. Drips ran down his face, his lashes were shaped into small wet triangles, and his hair was plastered to his scalp. His eyes burned bright. The storm hadn’t dulled them in any way.
“There will be no need for you to see the wedding guests again today. We have more important things to attend to.”
“Of course,” she managed. “You will want to punish me for leaving or have sex, one or the other, or both.”
His jaw tensed, a tendon flexing beneath the skin. “I was referring to raising your core body temperature before my new bride becomes hypothermic. I have no intention of being a widower on the same day I’ve become a husband.”
He held her tighter. It was as if her weight was of no consequence to him as he’d marched up the hill in the storm.
Reaching the top of the steps, he took her into the bedroom. The air held a scen
t of spice. The fire was lit and flames danced upward. He marched past it and took her into a large bathroom. The suite was white, the walls wood-paneled except for one that was made up of large, oblong stones.
He set her down but kept hold of her arms. “Can you stand?”
She nodded.
Quickly, he turned to a cast-iron tub on golden legs. He turned the faucet to full and a blast of steamy water shot out. He threw in a spoonful of bath salts and added a blob of bubble bath.
“We need to get you out of this dress.” He took his jacket from her shoulders and tossed it to one side.
Another full-body shiver attacked her. She was exhausted, her body aching. She could taste the mud she’d fallen into.
Stuart worked quickly, his big fingers releasing the catches at the side of her bodice. Each freed some of the constraint around her waist. And then the dress fell, the thin shoulder straps slipping down her filthy arms. It exposed her bra, her belly, then slithered over her hips and down her wet legs.
It was a relief to get rid of its weight, but at the same time, she was aware of standing in just underwear, splattered with mud, and shaking from her teeth to her toes.
“This is nearly ready for you,” he said, stooping and swirling the bathwater.
Remembering the necklace, she touched it. A shot of relief went through her that it was still there. Her mad dash from the castle in a storm had been foolish and tempestuous, she could see that now. If Stuart hadn’t found her, she could have died of hypothermia. Getting to the village wearing nothing but a bridal gown was impossible. And what on earth would she have done when she’d gotten there?
He stood. His wet shirt was plastered to his broad chest, his nipples just visible.
As though it suddenly irritated him, he put his hand over his shoulder, fisted it, then dragged the shirt off. A scribble of wet chest hair sat on his sternum. His belly was flat and his muscles defined.
Despite her bedraggled, pathetic state, Jasmine could appreciate a fine body on a man—even if the man was annoying and domineering.
He stepped up close and reached around her neck.
She was hyperaware of his body heat. Her nipples were hard peaks, pressing on her satin bra, and her panties were soaking wet from the rain.
He released the necklace then set it to one side. “We need to get you in the warm water.”
“I can manage myself.” Her hands shook as she tried to reach behind herself to undo her bra. The shake went to her shoulders, her chest, and clenched her belly. Her fingers wouldn’t work. “Damn it.”
“Here. Let me. I am your husband, after all.” Once again, he was behind her, this time undoing her bra. It loosened, her breasts heavy as it slipped off and was added to the pile of clothes on the bathroom floor.
She folded her arms, covering herself. Lavender-scented steam from the bath had reached her nostrils.
Then his hands were at the waistband of her panties and he pushed them down her legs.
She didn’t stop him. She needed that hot water around her body, enveloping her. It was the only thing that would stop the damn shivering.
“My love,” he said, his voice softer than it had ever been. “Let’s warm you up.” He took her hand, and with his eyes on her face, helped her into the bath.
She sank in deep, sighing as she lay back, the water coming up to her neck. A thin layer of bubbles sat on the surface, offering her some cover to protect her modesty.
“Better?” he asked, kneeling beside the tub.
“Don’t call me your love.” She paused to shiver. A set of ripples went over the water. “You don’t love me.”
He reached for a cloth and rang it out. “I know that I will. Doesn’t that count?”
“But how? How do you know?”
He squeezed out the cloth and carefully wiped her right cheek. “Jasmine, I am the owner of this hotel, correct?”
She nodded. His touch was gentle.
“Which means I like to know what is going on, and that includes who is working for me.”
“But … but we barely see you.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t see you.” He paused. “That I didn’t see you the moment you arrived for your interview.”
“You were here then? I had no idea.”
“Aye. I was here.” His eyes sparkled. “I saw you step from the taxi holding nothing but a small case. Your eyes were wide as you stared up at my castle and the wind caught your hair. You had on a red dress and black boots if I remember right.”
“Yes. That’s right.” She studied the softening expression on his face. “But we’ve hardly ever spoken.”
“True, but Benson and Mrs. Cardigan have kept me informed about you.”
“Informed about what?”
He rinsed out the cloth and set about removing the mud from her chin.
“I know that you are a good, kind person, Jasmine. That you work hard, rarely complain, and are humble. I don’t mean humble in that you don’t value yourself, but that you put others first. These are honorable qualities I admire very much.”
Jasmine nibbled on her bottom lip. She did work hard and she was honest—until today. She’d been brought up to be generous and kind.
“And I know,” he went on, wiping the cloth over the left side of her face and carefully tracing the contours of her features. “That what you did, to leave a bad situation to start anew, completely on your own, was a courageous act. Not many people could have done it.”
“I had no choice.”
“There’s always a choice. You made a decision to have a better life, and you know you deserve that.” He wore such a look of concentration as he wiped the muddy streaks from her skin.
A final shiver made its way up her spine.
“Are you still cold?” He frowned.
“I’m warming up. Might take a while to get the chill from my bones, though.”
“You scared me half to death,” he said, “when I saw you disappearing onto the boathouse path.”
“Because my vanishing act would be hard to explain?” She’d used a harsher tone than she’d intended.
His head twitched back, as though her sharp tongue had surprised him. “No, Jasmine, because I didn’t know what you planned to do.”
“I wasn’t going to harm myself.”
“But you did. The storms in the Highlands are unforgiving. The temperatures extreme and what looks like a few hills is a wilderness.”
She swallowed and closed her eyes. “It was a stupid thing to do.”
He was silent for a moment. “If you would like, we can agree to not talk of this wee incident anymore.”
“Oh!” His words had surprised her. “Really?”
“Aye, really. We all make mistakes. Now let’s get this mud from your hair. Sit forward. I will wash it for you.”
Jasmine rose, her shoulders coming out of the water, and hunched forward, hugging her knees.
Softly and meticulously, her new husband began to wash her hair. Working in the suds, rinsing, then adding conditioner. He used a comb to brush it through, teasing out the tangles, then rinsed it again.
Jasmine found her body relaxing, his touch becoming more familiar with each minute.
She couldn’t remember when anyone had last washed her with such tenderness. If ever. Her heart softened, some of the tight bands around it loosening, and the tension in her stomach eased.
Perhaps her husband wasn’t such a tyrant after all.
“How are you feeling now?” he asked after a final rinse of her hair.
“Much better, thank you.”
“I believe a hot toddy is in order. Let’s get you out and dry and beside the fire.”
A flash of lightning lit the high round window. A split second later, it was accompanied by a roll of thunder.
“The storm rages on,” she said. “I’m glad I’m not out in it now.”
“Aye, me, too. And darkness is coming upon us fast.” He held up a large, fluffy white towel. “Here. This
is warmed.”
She hesitated. Stepping out of the bath would expose her fully.
“You’re shy?”
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s just…”
“We will soon be well-acquainted with each other’s bodies,” he said. “And I already know that will be quite a treat for me. You are very beautiful. God strove for perfection when you were created, and I think he succeeded, too.”
“Stuart. I…”
He smiled. “I like hearing you say my name. Now come on, time to get out of the water. It is cooling and to be honest, a wee bit muddy.”
He was right. So taking a deep breath, she stood and stepped from the bathtub.
Her husband’s adoring gaze followed her every move. This time, his focus roamed her body, taking in her breasts, the flair of her hips, the juncture of her thighs.
And then she was wrapped in the warm towel and he stood behind her with his arms around her waist. “I must change. This kilt is sodden. You will find your clothes in the dresser in the bedroom. I suggest you put on something suitable for bed.” His mouth lingered by her temple. He breathed deep, as though inhaling her scent.
Suddenly, he stepped away.
She gripped the towel and watched him stride through another doorway to the right. His back was muscular and his waist tapered. The wet kilt swung with each step.
He’d cared for her before considering his own comfort. And there’d been no rush in his movements, no complaint. Her husband had put her first even though she’d run from him.
A sense of shame came over her as she wandered into the bedroom. She’d been foolish, and she hadn’t thought him at all, only herself. A fact she now realized she wasn’t proud of.
Plus, he, or Benson, would have to explain her absence to the wedding party now.
“Oh, they won’t care.” She pulled open a drawer and found her favorite pair of pajamas—red silk she’d gotten in the sale at Macy’s a few years ago—and pulled them on.
The fire was waning, so after getting the drips from her hair, she placed another log on it and sat in the deep winged-back chair, folding her legs beneath her.
For a few minutes, she watched the flames dancing a waltz over the new log. Stuart came into the room. He wore soft black joggers and a black t-shirt that strained around his biceps.