He started a gentle exploration with his fingers, separating the folds, caressing the valleys. Soon her body grew restless. The slim hips rocked against him. Shifting on the bed, Stefan tried to catch a glimpse of her face in the flickering candlelight, but he could only see the shadow of her lashes and the curve of her flushed cheek.
Impatient now, wanting to push his advantage, he dipped one fingertip into the warm well of her passage and spread the moisture upward to the swollen bead at the top of her sex.
With a startled cry, Lady Morag gave a violent wrench against him.
‘Easy, my love.’ He repeated the action and held her steady while she thrashed against him. ‘Tell me what you like.’ He returned his finger to her opening, teased and probed, then pushed inside an inch, and another. ‘Is this what you prefer?’ He withdrew his finger, dragged it up to her pulsing bead, circled and rubbed. ‘Or this?’
Lady Morag didn’t reply. A high, keening sound rose in her chest, and her spine arched, seeking to increase the force of his touch.
‘You’ve got to tell me.’ He moved his hand away an inch. ‘What do you like? This?’ He returned his finger to the opening of her inner passage. ‘Or this?’ He slid his thumb over the swollen nub.
‘Both.’ The word wrenched out of her, harsh and guttural. ‘I want both at the same time.’
Triumph surged through Stefan’s taut muscles. Whatever her regrets over the changes in her circumstances, whatever her fears for the future, he had elicited a response from her body. A greedy and demanding response, one that he could build on. He would forge a nightly intimacy between them that would eventually spill over into their daily life as husband and wife.
‘Enjoy it, my sweet.’ He positioned his hand to span her intimate area, his middle finger dipping and teasing, his thumb rubbing and circling.
With increasing abandon, she writhed against him. The sweet torture of her rounded buttocks kneading into his throbbing erection drove Stefan half out of his mind, but every instinct told him to restrain from rolling his wife onto her back and driving into her. If he put her pleasure first tonight, he would reap the benefits tomorrow.
Her frantic moans intensified. ‘What are you doing to me?’ she rasped. ‘I feel like I’m breaking apart, like I’m dying, but at the same time more alive than I’ve ever been before.’
‘Reach for the pleasure, find your release.’ His voice sounded rough with the restraint he had to exert over his own needs. As if she understood his plight, Lady Morag touched his hand where it nestled between her legs, the gesture an unspoken message of acceptance and encouragement.
He picked up his pace and pressure, seeking, teasing, rubbing, circling, dipping his long finger inside her. Lady Morag bowed against him, her head thrown back, her heels digging into the mattress, and, finally, with a cry of exultant relief, she came apart in his arms.
He held her close as her pleasure peaked and crested, his finger far enough inside her passage to feel the rhythmic contractions of her climax.
When she stilled, Stefan cradled her to his chest. Neither of them spoke. Lady Morag shielded her face from him, but the way she curved into the heat of his body confirmed the peaceful surrender he had asked of her.
Tonight he would leave her to close the door on her past. He had shown her a glimpse of what lay on the other side, but he couldn’t force her to walk forward to a shared future with him. ‘I’ll not ask you to take me into your body tonight, although a powerful lust is tormenting me,’ he told her.
He raised his arm to brush her hair aside and press another kiss on her neck. ‘Your husband was alive this morning, and I understand that you need to separate your past from your future.’ With a resigned sigh, he leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘I can wait another day, although I’m not going to deny it leaves me in a state of turmoil.’
He felt a stirring in his arms as Lady Morag turned to slant him a quick glance. A pink flush covered her face, and tears glinted in her eyes. Resentment flared up inside Stefan at the thought that she was crying for Stenholm. He almost wished he had spared the laird, so he would have had the opportunity to show Lady Morag that he was the better man, but without the laird dead, he couldn’t have married her.
With that final troubling thought in his mind, Stefan closed his eyes and forced his body to relax so he could get some rest.
Chapter Three
In the castle kitchens, venison crackled on the roasting spit and heat blasted from the open mouth of the bread oven. Lady Morag stirred a spoon in a bowl of saffron sauce and licked a taste. Satisfied, she nodded at the portly cook then rushed out to inspect the great hall, where friendly banter between soldiers and castle folk mixed with the rhythmic tapping of hammers.
All day, the servants had labored, helped by Navarro’s army of knights. Some were mixing cement outside to fill holes gouged by mortar fire into the castle walls. The rest were building more benches, so those of the lowest rank wouldn’t be forced to spend their nights on the drafty floor.
Morag rushed up to Brother Thomas. ‘Where is William?’
Distracted, the chaplain missed his aim. Grunting unholy words, he lifted his injured thumb to his mouth. ‘The lad is outside showing Navarro the stables,’ he mumbled around the digit. ‘They’ve been gone for some time.’
Fear kicked in Morag’s chest. Not again. Please, God, no. Spare the boy. She whirled about and raced to the door, lifting her heavy skirts of forest-green wool to leap over the seasoned spruce planks that blocked her path.
In the morning, she had woken alone, warm and languid under the pile of blankets, a new sensual curiosity throbbing through her body. Not finding Navarro beside her had filled her with an odd sense of abandonment that she struggled to understand. Her solution had been to bury her edginess under the distraction of household chores.
She shoved the massive oak door open into the howling February wind, and heard a faint clash of metal mingling with the shouts of men who worked on ladders propped up against the curtain wall that enclosed the bailey.
‘Don’t look at only the blade.’ Navarro’s deep voice carried out to her across the hard-baked earth. He stood facing young William on an empty patch of ground. ‘Follow my eyes. They reveal where my sword will swing next.’
With slow, exaggerated moves, Navarro lifted his gleaming broadsword and pointed the tip to the left. William clashed their blades, then deftly retreated and positioned his sword at a low angle, where it blocked his opponent’s descending move.
‘Good.’ Navarro lowered his weapon. ‘You are making progress, but I think that’s enough for today.’ He gestured with his left hand. ‘Lady Morag wants you.’ As he turned and fastened his gray gaze upon her, a gust of wind caught his ebony hair and tossed it back, revealing the strong line of his jaw and the vertical creases that bracketed his mouth.
Something dipped and soared inside Morag, as if a tiny bird had been caught in her belly and fluttered its wings in panic. She met his stare with a cool nod, but the flush of heat on her skin banished the winter chills and contradicted her pretense of nonchalance.
‘Milady, the laird is teaching me skills with the sword, and tomorrow he’ll take me riding if the weather eases.’ William hurtled across the bailey, almost tripping over the blade dangling from his hand. ‘He says I’m an apt student, but I must work hard so I can perform my duties as his squire. He has never had a squire before, but now that he is a laird, he needs one, and he thinks I’m the right man for t
he job.’
The youngster came to a halt before her, eyes shining, his chest swelling with pride under the blue doublet that Morag considered far too thin for the icy winds. She inhaled a deep breath of the frigid air that promised snow, and the memory of how the heat from Navarro’s body had kept her warm during the night wrapped like a sorcerer’s spell around her, drawing a fiery blush to her cheeks.
‘It’s both of you that I want,’ she told them, her words brisk to hide her agitation. ‘Dinner will be ready soon.’
‘Can I sit beside you?’ William flounced about, addressing his new master. ‘I ought to, since I’m your squire. I’ll need to taste your food for bad meat, or poison berries.’
Navarro was making his way to her across the bailey at a more measured pace. ‘I sense a ploy to pick through my dinner and steal all the tastiest morsels.’
‘Oh no!’ William’s face fell. ‘I wouldn’t...’ Then he caught the smile tugging at his laird’s mouth, and a merry laughter bubbled from his chest. ‘You are jesting with me.’ He turned to Morag. ‘Can I have new clothing in Navarro’s colors? A burgundy doublet with yellow piping, to match the yellow arrows on his purple battle standard?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Morag resisted the temptation to reach out and ruffle William’s hair. Regret fought with joy in her heart. A boy turning into a man. She could never again coddle him like a child without damaging his pride. ‘Why don’t you go and tell the men repairing the castle wall that they should break for dinner before the venison gets too dry,’ she suggested.
‘Yes.’ William squared his shoulders. ‘I’ll go and give the knights a message from their laird to gather in the great hall.’
‘You might include a mention of food in your message,’ Navarro instructed. ‘It will yield a more immediate result than merely a command from me.’
‘Oh no, surely not!’ William’s eyes rounded in protesting disbelief, but he spun on his heels and hurried down the bailey to complete his errand.
Morag watched him go as long as she could, and only when the youngster had disappeared beneath the raised portcullis to alert the men working outside the castle walls did she turn to face Navarro. He was studying her in silence, his eyes guarded.
‘When I woke up, you were gone.’ She blurted out the words, and another wave of heat surged to her face.
‘Aye.’ His voice was low, forcing her to lean closer lest the wind whip away the sounds. ‘My body ached with exhaustion after the battle. Not even the lure of your soft skin beneath my touch could keep me in that narrow bed until morning. I needed sleep.’
‘You went to...the other chamber?’
‘Aye.’ His expression hardened. ‘I know that your first husband is barely in the ground, and I understand that you struggle to break your loyalty to him, but let me be clear on this—I won’t leave you alone for another night. We’ll sleep together, whether it is struggling not to fall down from that narrow straw mattress, or in comfort in a canopied feather bed. The choice is yours.’
Morag gasped. The blood drained from her face at his reference to her first husband, and an icy terror replaced the heat generated by Navarro’s nearness. No, she wanted to scream. Not loyalty. Nightmares. The instinct of a wounded animal to slink away from the scene of carnage and hide in a place of refuge. She raised her chin and saw a man who offered fairness to those he’d vanquished in battle, a man who had treated her with gentleness despite the sexual hunger that pulsed through his body, and who took the time and trouble to reassure a youngster whose confidence had been stripped away by others.
She owed him the truth about her life as Angus Stenholm’s wife, and when the darkness fell tonight, she would give it to him. ‘As you wish.’ She lowered her head in a sign of respect and obedience. ‘I’ll join you in the laird’s bedchamber tonight.’
With one last glance at his stern face and steely-gray eyes fringed with sooty lashes, Morag turned and fled inside.
She owed him the truth, and telling it would hand him the key to her heart.
* * *
Morag inspected the table in the great hall one more time. Normally, she paid scant attention to domestic graces, but tonight something drove her to excel as a hostess. The silk cloth shone spotless beneath the plates laid out, each to be shared between a couple. A little old-fashioned, the drinking vessels were pewter tankards, although there were silver goblets for the ladies.
She signaled for the trumpeter to sound the call. The gentlemen selected ladies as their companions and settled at the table. Morag took her seat beside Navarro and looked around. She noticed her maid, Alice, her back straight and proud, giving a tug a resistance at the knight who escorted her across the room. Rolf, the dark knight with a scar across his cheek, laughed and bundled the tall girl along.
Behind them, the lower-ranking knights occupied the narrow benches that lined the walls. Fully armed, as if heading into battle instead of supper, the clinking sounds of their swords and dirks accompanied their movements.
A steady stream of dishes flowed from the kitchen. Venison, salmon, goose. No one would go hungry tonight. From between her lashes, Morag watched Navarro sitting on her right. Dressed in a black doublet and a white shirt, his plain attire evidenced a lack of vanity. No need for him to have wadding sewn into his shoulders, or a corset to cinch in the excess flesh around his waist.
A blush heated her cheeks as she recalled the sight of his naked form.
Their plates filled, Navarro cut a choice piece of meat and pierced it with the tip of his dagger. Turning to her, he held up the offering. Caught by the intensity of his gaze, Morag leaned forward and gingerly plucked the morsel with her teeth. Navarro laid his hand on her thigh, ostensibly for balance as he bent closer, but she could feel the covert caress through her clothing.
Her skin tingled. Her stomach tightened. She struggled to chew and swallow.
As the meal wore on, Navarro’s attentions spun a thread of magic around her. The bard singing in a corner launched into an unfamiliar tune, and with a start Morag realized her new husband must have ordered a recounting of the siege. She yearned to know if the verse praising her beauty had been included upon his suggestion.
When everyone had satisfied their hunger, and the tankards and goblets were filled, Navarro stood up. ‘A toast to my wife. To her grace and beauty.’ He tipped back his head and downed the ruby liquid, his strong throat flexing as he swallowed. After he finished, he held the empty vessel upside down in front of the cheering crowd.
He was wooing her. The comprehension expanded in her heart. Despite having won her hand in battle, Navarro took the time and trouble to give her the public declarations of admiration a knight reserved for the lady of his choice.
Two servants carried in the punchbowl from the kitchen, a sign for the ladies to retreat. Now the toasts would turn rowdy, and the bard’s songs would become lewd as the men would drink one another under the table with the mix of hot water and sugared whisky. Sometimes the revelry went on until the early hours of the morning.
With trepidation, Morag made her excuses and retreated to the laird’s bedchamber.
Would Navarro turn violent when intoxicated, the way Stenholm had done?
Chapter Four
Morag curled her fingers around the fluffy white covers and fought to calm her jittery nerves. The room closed in on her and, despite the fire crackling in the hearth, chills crept along her skin.
It’s over. Nev
er again. She repeated the words in her mind and prayed for them to be true. She knew too little about the male sex. How could it be that one man with soft features and golden hair possessed a hidden core of cruelty, while another man, whose reputation for fierceness spanned the whole of Scotland, treated her with kindness?
Was Navarro’s gentle manner a lie? Did he conspire to hide his true nature from her, until the lands she brought into the marriage were safely his? Would the quantities of wine and whisky he had consumed reveal a streak of violence, a cruel need to dominate?
Heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs, and every nerve in Morag’s body grew tense.
In a few moments, she would find out.
Without a knock to warn her, the door flew open, the draft sending the candlelight flickering. She had lit a dozen tall tapers, scattered on every surface—the table beside the bed, the chest by the window and the shelves high up on the opposite wall.
Navarro glanced around the room. His gaze lingered on the wasteful display of light, but he offered no comment as he crossed the floor to the chair in the corner. With a heavy sigh, he sank upon the cushioned seat.
‘Did you drink many toasts?’ Morag asked, fear constricting her throat.
‘No.’ Navarro began to disrobe. He didn’t look in her direction. ‘My groan was one of fatigue, not of intoxication,’ he told her. ‘The second day after the battle is when the aches and pains catch up with you. My bones are weary, but my mind is sound.’
He proved his words by removing the doublet and shirt with ease and dropping them on the floor beside the chair. Light and shadow danced on the bare skin of his arms and chest, adding to the play of muscle beneath. The coal-black hair that skimmed his shoulders blended with the night, catching fiery glints as he leaned down to unfasten his shoes. Silent, he stood and stripped away his hose and braies, releasing his straining manhood to rise up from the dark thatch of curls at his groin.
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