by Paula Quinn
“May I?” he asked before untying the ribbon at her waist.
To his surprise, layers of white petticoats slid to the floor with the panniers.
“It’s all one,” she murmured.
He could only gape as he beheld a vision, naked except for gartered stockings—and drawers.
He’d dealt with stockings before and looked forward to removing the garters and peeling off the hose—later. He’d only heard talk of the opulent female pantaloons some high-born ladies wore. He stared at the juncture of her thighs, wondering if the rumors were true.
Shona parted her legs, slightly, to reveal darker curls than he’d expected at her mons. “I ken some say they’re not healthy,” she whispered self-consciously, “but they’re slit—for air.”
“I see,” he managed to reply, though his mind was working on a completely different notion.
A wave of heat threatened to drown him. “I need to get out o’ my clothes,” he growled, glad of her assistance in shrugging the ceremonial plaid off his shoulder and dragging the cambric shirt over his head.
Like most young Highlanders, he’d spent a goodly part of his life in the training fields. Every Mackinloch knew that a fighting force of fit and robust warriors deterred enemies. If confrontations occurred, men with bodies honed for battle stood a better chance of prevailing, and surviving. He was proud of his body, especially now as Shona raked her gaze over the muscles of his chest and belly.
He sucked in a breath when she grazed his nipples with her thumbs and smiled seductively. “Do ye like that?” she whispered.
He probably replied but his attention was on getting to his feet and ridding himself of his trews and braies.
She gasped when his manhood sprang forth. Afraid he’d frightened her, he took hold of her hand and curled it around his arousal. “Dinna worry, beloved,” he rasped. “I’ll make ye ready.”
Eyes wide, she nodded. “I understand now what ye meant by nine inches.”
*
Shona had seen men stripped to the waist before, some with torsos as well muscled as Ewan’s. But she’d never been so close that she could see every soft curl that sprang from the chiseled muscles, never felt the pebbled texture of a man’s nipples, nor run a fingertip along the line of golden hair that wandered down his tight belly to the impressive male appendage she held.
Right enough, she’d seen mothers bathing their sons at the village pump—wee boys splashing each other and running about with little willies nestled between their legs. She’d suspected from touching Ewan when he was clothed that something bigger lurked there, but was completely unprepared for the thick, swollen lance that sprang forth. The fierce beauty of his male parts sent a feverish wave of heat rushing through every part of her body. A twinge of apprehension only added to the excitement.
In the recesses of her mind a voice whispered there was perhaps another reason for pantaloons to be split, but Ewan was suckling her again, causing cravings—though she wasn’t entirely sure what it was she craved.
Then suddenly Ewan dipped his warm fingers in the wetness of her most intimate place, and she knew.
Evidently sensing her trembling legs were about to give way, he pivoted so she was on the bed. He loomed over her, suckling and teasing, slowly then faster. Faster, faster on the very spot she needed him to go faster. She twirled her fingers in his hair and opened her legs wider, whimpering when a finger ventured a little way inside, but quickly withdrew—then in again.
“Come for me,” he urged, his voice husky with wanting.
She’d dreamt of the sensations building in her woman’s place ever since the first time, but now the touch of his fingers made them hotter, more insistent. Something was coming, something cataclysmic; she had to cry out, give vent to the wildness, but all that emerged as she soared was a guttural moan of pure ecstasy.
She clung to his shoulders, afraid to fall from the heights he’d brought her to, but then she opened her eyes. Ewan knelt between her legs, his hand guiding his maleness to her opening. “This is the one and only time I’ll ever hurt ye,” he promised with a reassuring smile.
She sensed his restraint as he slowly and patiently filled her, pausing when she flinched. The discomfort passed quickly and the needy cravings began again as he thrust more deeply. She inhaled his pure masculine scent, relished his grunts, sucked on the salty taste of his skin. She felt safer than ever before and knew he would never let her fall no matter how high they flew.
*
Ewan rode his wife like a man possessed. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the fierce pride that filled his heart when he breached her maidenhead. He couldn’t get enough of the heat, the wetness, the tight, tight sheath. He held off his release until he feared he might go mad, but still wanted the thrusting and grunting to go on and on.
He vaguely hoped he wasn’t hurting her; she chanted his name over and over, sucked on his shoulder, clenched on his rampant tarse and thrust her hips in rhythm with his own, so it appeared she was enjoying their union as much as he was.
If he had the wherewithal he’d chuckle at the notion it was merely enjoyable.
Hah!
“Fyking rapture,” he growled as his seed finally erupted, binding him body and soul to the woman he loved.
*
It was still dark when Shona drifted awake, but she sensed dawn wasn’t far off. She closed her eyes, anxious to return to the realm of dreams.
Had she dreamt the reverence in Ewan’s gaze as he’d peeled off her garters and hose during the night before the tallow guttered out?
Had he truly parted her nether lips with his callused thumbs and suckled her juices, all the while whispering how wonderful she tasted.
Her hand wandered down her belly to her female place. She expected to feel tender, but instead found stickiness and heat and…her eyes flew open. She was naked! Ewan must have removed her scandalous pantaloons.
She licked her lips, reminded of the salty taste of his manhood, the exhilaration caused by his groans of pleasure.
She couldn’t say how many times he’d pleasured her, but recalled begging him to fill her, again and again.
The feelings, the scents, the growls, the sweating, the laughter, the whispers of love, the physical exhaustion: everything had been so very new, yet there was a peacefulness to it, a sense of completion, of coming home.
“What are ye thinking?” a husky voice asked close to her ear.
She turned her head. The first grey streaks of dawn limned a beloved face—and a naked and aroused male lying next to her. The need already sparking in her womb ignited. She moved onto her side and swirled her tongue over his maleness, then looked into his brown eyes. “I was thinking of this,” she admitted, comfortable with her wantonness.
He sucked in a breath and splayed his fingers in her hair to spread it in a drape around him. “My last fantasy fulfilled,” he rasped.
“What’s that?” she asked.
He eased his hands under her breasts and brushed his thumbs over her nipples. “To awaken wrapped in yer glorious tresses.”
She arched her back and thrust out her breasts, anxious for their play to begin again. “I have my own fantasy,” she teased, “that ye teach me new ways to please ye every night.”
“That’s not a fantasy,” he growled. “We can start now, if ye like.”
Cocoon
Ewan narrowed his eyes as the sun’s rays caused him to blink them open. He’d never stayed abed so late in his life, but then again he’d never spent an entire night and the early hours of the morning making love. Filling Shona with his seed seemed to have become an addiction. Truth be told, his stamina surprised even him.
She lay atop him now, drooling on his neck, legs splayed and bent so her wet warmth comforted his sated cock curled up at her entry.
A twinge of interest stirred in his balls, but someone tapped at the door, waking Shona.
“Go away,” he shouted gruffly, blowing her hair off his face. “We d
inna need anything.”
“I canna, my laird,” Isobel replied meekly. “The lads have buckets o’ hot water.”
“A bath does sound good,” his wife murmured.
That was a fantasy he’d forgotten. Shona in a tub of hot water, naked, Castile soap…
“Come back later,” he shouted.
“I canna,” Isobel repeated. “My laird Kendric asks that ye be in the hall within the hour for a celebration luncheon. Lady Jeannie and her husband are up and dressed already.”
Shona raised her head. “No surprise there,” she quipped. “The prospect of another feast would have quickly roused my aunt from her bed. I suppose we’ll have to get up.”
Getting up was precisely what Ewan had in mind, but, resigned to his fate, he cocooned them both in the linens and gave grudging permission for the maid and her cohorts to enter.
*
Shona wasn’t sure what devilry came over her, but she suddenly had an urge to lick Ewan’s nipples under the covers, even though Isobel stood by the boudoir, exhorting the scullery lads not to spill a drop of the hot water as they poured it into the tub.
With her head under the linens she couldn’t see how many there were, maybe half a dozen judging by the sounds, but in any case she was enjoying making Ewan squirm.
“Minx,” he rasped when she burrowed lower and suckled his arousal, savoring the salty taste of his seed and her own juices. She filled her nostrils with the scent she was coming to recognize as uniquely Ewan.
She liked that notion so much she said it out loud when she heard the door close. “Uniquely Ewan.”
Suddenly, her husband leapt from the bed and threw off the linens. Cool air caused her to shiver, but it paled in comparison to the apprehensive expectation rippling in her belly, and lower, when she beheld the magnificent aroused male looming over her. “Naughty lasses must be punished,” he warned in a teasing voice.
She squealed a protest when he flipped her over and smacked her bottom, but the experience was strangely arousing. He spanked her again then kissed away the sting. “This pleases me,” he murmured.
“Me too,” she confessed, gasping with delight when he raised her hips and thrust his fingers inside her. In moments she was riding a wave of bliss, as hot and demanding as the other times he’d pleasured her, yet somehow different. As she came back to earth, he carried her into the boudoir and eased her into the tub.
She luxuriated in the heat of the water, feeling like a nymph being watched by a golden god, aware of his heated gaze on nipples floating just above the surface. She stretched out a hand but couldn’t quite reach his erect manhood. “Come closer,” she said seductively.
He smiled the lustful Ewan Mackinloch smile. “Be careful what ye wish for,” he replied.
In seconds, he joined her in the tub before she could protest it was too small. His feet pressed against her hips; his knees protruded above the water. She stopped laughing when he took her hand and curled it round his underwater arousal. “Better?” he asked, handing her the soap.
“Much,” she conceded, accepting the challenge.
*
Isobel was nowhere in evidence when the newlyweds emerged from their bath, but she’d laid out fresh clothing.
Ewan eyed the bed on which the maid had spread the garments. “Something tells me she changed the linens,” he said.
“I doot she’d think to do that herself,” Shona replied, donning her shift. “She’s just a child.”
He raised an eyebrow as he quickly shrugged the shirt over his head. Watching his wife dress was proving to be as arousing as stripping her naked. “She probably had help.”
He pulled back the covers. “Definitely fresh.”
She gathered the frock, ready to lift it over her head, but then paused. “This means ye’re already The Camron.”
Determined to get a last look at the breasts he’d come to know so intimately before she donned the gown, he wasn’t really paying attention to what she said.
“The pole,” she explained, her voice muffled by the frock.
Without thinking he grasped his hardening manhood.
She shoved her arms in the sleeves and eyed him. “Not that pole, we dinna have time. My uncle is waiting. I mean the sheets…Walter.”
He was instantly contrite. Having made love to his wife countless times during the night and early morning, the taking of her maidenhead seemed eons ago. He took her into his embrace. “I’m a typical Highlander,” he confessed, “a thoughtless ravisher who cares naught that he deflowered a maiden and hasna even asked if it was painful.”
Desire flared when she pressed her mons to his arousal. “The pain was fleeting,” she whispered. “The ecstasy went on and on.”
“Are ye sure we dinna have time…”
Shaking her head, she pulled away. “Come, Laird Ewan Mackinloch. Yer people await. But best ye put some clothes on first.”
Under Attack
During the luncheon, Shona enjoyed the teasing of her clanfolk as they offered one bawdy toast after another. They seemed genuinely happy for her and Ewan, as well as for Fynn and Jeannie. Their regard glowed in the smiles and winks of everyone from her uncle down to the serving wenches.
When it came to the ceremony confirming Ewan as The Camron, the enthusiasm was more muted.
She couldn’t blame them. The clan understood that accepting Ewan as their chief was essential for their survival and prosperity, but he was nevertheless a Mackinloch.
Her uncle was the first to swear loyalty to her husband, followed by the elders; Fynn and David gave their oaths, then Walter led the procession of MacCarron clansmen to the dais.
It was likely she was the only one aware of the slight change in Ewan’s demeanor as the lengthy ritual progressed. He accepted every pledge with dignified pride, but an almost imperceptible twitch of his nose betrayed his doubts about the sincerity of certain men. He probably wasn’t aware of his reaction, but it confirmed her opinion that he was an excellent judge of character. As she scanned the line of those waiting to offer allegiance, she could almost predict which ones would earn the twitch.
The cheering was louder than before when Kendric draped a new MacCarron plaid over Ewan’s shoulder and pinned it with a clan brooch. She wondered if some in the crowd had perhaps also noticed his keen ability to glean the wheat from the chaff. Half-expecting to see his nose twitch again, she was glad when he accepted the gesture with a broad smile.
“Whisky for everyone,” Kendric proclaimed.
Amid the resultant din, most failed to notice the arrival of three warriors who hurried into the hall. Wild-eyed and red-faced, they looked like they had ridden hard.
Shona touched Ewan’s arm. “Aren’t they the men ye sent to bury Mungo?”
Ewan clenched his jaw when he looked where she pointed. He held up his hand to call for quiet. “What news?” he shouted as a hush fell over the hall and heads turned to the entry.
“We’re under attack,” one replied, striding towards the dais. “We were burying Morley when we espied a war party near Loch Alkayg.”
Ewan frowned. “A war party?”
“Aye. Chattan clans. Armed to the teeth. They’re nay far behind.”
Pandemonium ensued.
*
A thousand conflicting thoughts swirled in Ewan’s brain. His plans for improving the castle’s defenses hadn’t yet been put in place. He thought he was winning over the MacCarrons, but angry faces and shouts of recrimination made him worry for his wife’s safety. Everyone knew the Mackinlochs were the most powerful of the Chattan federation clans.
Suspicion replaced trust on Kendric’s face.
Fynn and David frowned in bewilderment.
Babbling servants ran around in panic.
Jeannie’s strange eye blinked uncontrollably.
Walter glowered.
Above all, Ewan couldn’t for the life of him fathom why his father would want to reignite the feud.
The answer was simple, and it dawne
d on Shona at almost the very same moment. “Perhaps they’ve come to wish us well,” she suggested with a tentative smile.
He had to trust she was right and bring the mob under control before they rushed off with murder in mind. “Hold!” he bellowed.
To his surprise, most stopped and listened.
“No Mackinloch will attack MacCarron lands while I am The Camron,” he declared, hoping he spoke the truth. For all he knew, his father might have died suddenly. Perhaps Colin had decided he wanted Creag for himself and had no intention of honoring the Clunes agreement.
He squelched the doubts. “Be calm. I will ride out with a party of clansmen to greet our visitors.”
Fynn kissed his new wife’s hand and was first off the dais. David met him at the door.
“Ye’ll explain why I canna greet them,” Kendric muttered, indicating his cast.
“Aye,” Ewan replied before turning to Shona. “It falls to ye to keep order here. If I dinna return,” he whispered, squeezing her hands when tears welled, “remember me.”
He put a hand on her belly. “And if we’ve already made a bairn…”
She smiled. “I’ll baptize her Margaret.”
He didn’t know how she knew his dead mother’s name, but he loved her for it. He pecked a goodbye kiss on her lips and followed Walter to join Fynn and David.
*
Ne’er forget ye’re a laird’s daughter.
Beathan MacCarron’s oft-repeated words echoed in Shona’s head. Except now she was the wife of a laird, a man who faced his first test as The Camron and trusted she was capable of easing the fears of the frightened mob.
Most had calmed, but a few still shouted vitriolic slurs against all Mackinlochs. She pressed both fists into the table, leaned forward and glared. “Ye forget I am a Mackinloch now,” she said loudly, “and proud I am to bear my husband’s name.”
Some cheered her words, others grumbled.
Sometimes men need to be reminded o’ their duty.