Later, the hall was more crowded than he could ever remember, and Alec realized he didn’t even know all of the guests, only supposed his parents did. He introduced Katie to Lach and Iain, the most important persons in attendance in his mind, after all the Swordmair kin and folk. It had dawned on him too late to have given Katie warning about Lach’s scars, but damn if she hadn’t done him proud by barely blinking, smiling fondly as his friends shared their good wishes. And both he and Katie had met their wives, Mari and Maggie—nice lasses, though neither possessed the poise and beauty of Katie, Alec had thought with even greater pride. Mari and Maggie had pulled Katie away from their husbands, engaging her in quiet chatter, which pleased Alec for their overt friendliness.
Katie, in turn, had caught a woman’s hand as she walked by the threesome. Alec had blinked and scowled, though was able to refrain from rubbing his eyes to clear them. It was Elle. In a gown. Looking...amazingly feminine. Christ, how the hell had that happened? How the hell had he not noticed this earlier? He recalled then having woken Katie at the short table in her house, when she’d fallen asleep. She’d had needle and thread in her hands, and the fabric he’d pushed out of the way had been the exact same blue as what Elle now wore. Admittedly, he ignored Lach and Iain just then, watching to see how Elle handled herself—in this new persona and amid these three very petite, very graceful women. Like she was born to it, was the answer, he realized, grinning, as Katie dragged her into their circle, keeping hold of her hand, including her in the conversation with Mari and Maggie. Elle showed not one ounce of unease but laughed and joined the conversation as easily as Katie had.
“Christ, is that Elle?” Lach wondered.
Quite regularly, any of the three men had sent their gazes, if only briefly, over to where the girls chatted.
“Aye, I guess it is,” Alec said, a small chuckle of lingering disbelief emerging.
“How the hell’d that happen?” Iain wondered.
“Katie, I’m sure,” was all he could figure.
“Losing a good officer, there,” Lach predicted.
“Likely.” She was lost to him anyway as a soldier, he knew. A bairn and now a gown. Aye, but it was as it should be.
Sometime later, Alec and Katie were ushered back to the head table, having occupied the two head seats earlier for the meal. Now, they were made to stand behind the raised table while a line of people passed before them, each person depositing a bannock upon the table in front of them, one on top of another.
“What is this?” Katie asked of him, her eyes alight with joy.
“They stack ‘em high as they can, until they can no more. Whatever height that is, they’ll want us to kiss over the top of it. If we can no’ or we topple it, ‘tis a bad omen.”
“And if we do?”
“Prosperity and a happy life,” he told her.
She joined her hand with his and smiled up at him. “We can do this.”
Alec returned her smile. “Aye, we can.”
They did. Even Lach and Iain’s attempt at finer engineering to maintain a straight tower of buns couldn’t see it any higher than Alec’s head that all he had to do was lift Katie into his arms and kiss her for all to see.
So, it was a magnificent shame then that when the newly wedded couple were finally hastened up the stairs and to his chambers which they would share for now and evermore, that she’d begged one moment to tuck Henry in, had taken her hand from Alec’s and had swept gracefully down the hall to her son’s new chambers.
Alec had, at first, leaned against the wall in the corridor, content to allow her a few moments with Henry, but damn, so eager to get her naked. But she’d been gone into that room for much longer than he’d have suspected that he walked down the hall, hoping nothing was amiss, that Henry hadn’t developed any sudden or worrying dislike of this new circumstance.
Their voices, soft and quiet inside that room, drowned out by the ongoing merriment in the hall, had forced him to move closer, to hover in the doorway, listening.
“But is he my da’ then?”
“Henry, Alec will be a father figure to you, and likely a very good one. But of course, no one can replace your true da’, as he was a very great man. All your intelligence and bravery and even your long legs come from your father. You must always honor that.”
“What did I get from you, though?”
Lightheartedly, she told him, “Your good looks and your charming personality.”
Still serious, Henry had asked, “But do you have to stop loving da’ now? Should I?”
“Of course not. He should remain always in your heart,” she’d answered softly but firmly.
I’ve had already my life’s love.
Her words, from so long ago, crashed into him with all the force of a massive sword strike, straight through his heart.
Stunned, and so many other things he couldn’t define just now, Alec strode back to his chambers. Blindly, he removed his plaid and belt and sword. He sat, or rather fell into the chair before the hearth. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t known. He hadn’t forgotten that she’d been wed before, hadn’t forgotten at all that she’d apparently loved that man, the one who came before him, beyond reason. He’d simply chosen to not think about it. But, Christ, that was a punch in the gut, ill-timed and unrelenting.
The harm done, though, by that sobering memory slapping him in the face, was what shocked him most. He knew a deep and unexpected anguish, his lip curling with the strangeness of it. He thought he should crush her in his arms when she came to him, and demand that she say it wasn’t true, make her tell him there wasn’t room in her heart for any but him.
A muscle moved convulsively in his throat while he waited her. The day had been perfect, he thought with some emotion he recognized belatedly as bittersweet pain. She’d been so impossibly gorgeous, had smiled so prettily at him, had been rightly in love with the merriment and kind to his dear friends. His current condition—stark bitterness—had him uncharitably wondering how much of it had been a lie.
Yet something nagged at him, some other memory, of her telling him that she’d not ever known love until she’d held Henry in her arms, had only understood it at that moment. At the time of this revelation, he’d frowned over this, trying to impose that statement with her previous one, I’ve had already my life’s love.
He shook his head, trying to make sense of everything, more so his reaction than to understanding what her truth was. He reminded himself they’d made no vows of love, reminded himself further that he’d asked her to wed him for sensible reasons. Neither had made any declarations of greater emotions.
Cold and lifeless reason prevailed.
Resolutely, he convinced himself that it didn’t matter. He’d known of her undying affection for Henry’s father when he’d met her, and when he’d pursued her, and when he’d made love to her. She’d promised him nothing more than to be a good wife. The only thing that would change, then, he decided, was how much he ultimately allowed her to mean to him. Already, it was very much.
When finally she entered their chambers, Alec straightened, making his back rigid but caught himself enough to unfurl his fists from the arms of the chair.
Katie closed the door and leaned against it, smiling at him. More playacting?
With a wee bit of shyness and a rising blush that he cynically refused to find endearing, she watched him.
Ten minutes.
That was what laid between the jubilant expectation he’d known walking up the stairs with her, knowing what he would have tonight and always, and the heavy emptiness that gripped his chest right now.
Ten bluidy minutes.
“Alec?” She pushed away from the door, went to her knees at his feet. Ten minutes ago, he would have adored her hands so familiarly upon his thighs, might have grabbed hold of them and moved them further, up between his legs.
“Aye.”
She gave a nervous giggle. “Are you...are you tired or...?”
“Verra.”
/> She was undeterred. “I’m very sorry to hear that, husband. I’m going to have to insist that you consummate this marriage.”
Oh, he would.
But damn....
Just ask her. Get it all out.
“Katie,” he said. Jesu, do I want it fecking verified, by her own lips and to my face?
With a curious tilt of her face, she returned with some playfulness, “Alec.”
Shaking his head, he reached for her, taking her by the arms, lifting her to her feet to stand between his thighs. He settled his hands on her hips and stared at her waist, where the light green cotton fabric of the skirts was split in two, revealing the embroidered ivory beneath. She touched his shoulders. Possibly she sensed his mood now, guessed it might be more than weariness that had turned him to stone.
Decisively, he stood and crushed her lips in a punishing kiss, savage as was the riot inside himself. He said nothing, whispered no sweet words to her, didn’t bother to gentle his touch or even his racing heart. He didn’t scoop her up into loving arms but walked her back toward his bed. They rather fell onto it, Alec landing on top of her. He let his hands wander, mumbled impatiently, “Get this off,” when the tight bodice refused to bow to his want of access.
She pulled her arms free, sent the gown and chemise down to her waist, reminiscent of their previous tumble. And while she did, her gaze sat uneasily upon him, surely so many questions in her blue eyes. He couldn’t be sure, though, wouldn’t look at her.
Bluidy hell. She didn’t deserve this, not some fumbling, impersonal coupling on her wedding night. She couldn’t help that she still loved Henry’s father any more than Alec could force himself not to be so damn enamored of her. He closed his eyes and brought himself under control.
“Alec?”
When he opened his eyes, her breasts were bared to him, his for the taking. Pinked tipped, silken skin, beckoning him.
She raised her hand and touched his cheek. He did not meet her gaze but kissed her again. The same pride that wouldn’t allow him to confront her with the fears inside his head also demanded that he not come up short against a ghost in regard to pleasuring her. It wasn’t difficult, in reality, to gentle his touch or his kiss. His own pleasure would only be heightened by hers, he knew.
He opened her mouth with his own, his tongue driving inside, reveling in her response, eager and filled with a similar longing. His hands cupped her breasts, rousing her nipples into tightness before he lowered himself and replaced his hands with his mouth.
He felt her hands in his hair and then on his shoulders, moving down his arms. “Get this off,” she whispered, trying to pull his tunic away, using his own words to have her way.
Alec obliged, sitting up but briefly to yank it over his head. When he returned to her breasts, she caressed him, sending her soft hands around his back.
“Alec?” Alarm tinted her voice now.
She’d discovered his scars.
“Gifts from the English,” he explained mildly, but thought to add emphatically, “and no’ something we’re going to discuss right now.” Wait until she saw the mess they’d made slicing up his legs.
She’d lifted her hands, held them around him yet, but only hovering above his back, when she’d first noticed them. But now she returned them to the carved and scarred skin, her touch gentle. She’d learn soon enough there were few places on his body that her hands might not encounter any remnants of the English’s hospitality.
He sensed her distraction then, supposed her mind was whirring with some misplaced sympathy for what she’d discovered. Alec didn’t want her pity. He wanted her body. He coaxed the skirts down off her hips until she kicked them off her legs while he explored her soft and warm skin with his hands, over her naked hip and up her ribs, across her breast and still-hard nipples and down again, until his fingers delved between her legs, into a triangle of hair several shades darker than the blonde waves around her head, loosened and mussed already.
A breathy gasp spilled from her as he slid his fingers over her, his touch deliberately light and teasing. She was patient, breathing rapidly, but did not raise her hips to his fingers. Alec swayed his fingers gently back and forth over the hair and not until she was writhing, begging, “Alec, please,” did he actually touch her fully, opening her, sliding his fingers over the most sensitive part of her with aching slowness, back and forth. She whimpered, and his erection surged, hardening yet more when he finally, satisfyingly slipped one and then two fingers inside her. And now her hips moved, answering his touch.
“I want you inside me,” she moaned, her neck and back arched, her skin golden silk in the firelight. “Please.”
Needing no further urging, he complied, rising quickly to slip off his breeches and drawers. He spared a glance at her complete nakedness, unable to renounce her beauty or the lure of her innocently seductive pose; elbow bent and her fingers languidly resting just above her breast; her legs closed and tilted toward the right in some display of modesty; her small breasts glistening where his tongue had loved them. He joined her again, his cock made rigid when he laid himself on her, when she opened her legs so willingly to him. Alec kissed her wildly then, teasing her by pressing his erection against her but not inside. But she moved against him, rocking her hips back and forth, tormenting him that he growled and surged deep within. They gasped together at this, still for a moment, until he began to move, hungrily stroking her again and again until she cried out, clutching the bunched muscles of his shoulders. Moments later, with one final plunge, Alec gave a hoarse cry of his own and joined her in that perfect oblivion.
He waited only long enough that it didn’t seem an outright rebuff, and then withdrew from her, falling heavily onto the bed beside her. He’d flopped on his stomach, facing the window and the darkness, wondering if making love to her wasn’t so damn amazing if it would disturb him less that she cared naught for him.
She turned, folding herself against his side, and one arm slid across his back. She pressed a kiss onto his arm and sighed.
Alec closed his eyes.
MORNING HAD COME.
She watched him for a while. She’d opened her eyes to find him already awake, lying on his back, thoughtful, one hand idly scratching his chest, his jaw tight. Tentatively, she’d reached for him, set her hand upon his warm, hard skin. He startled, must have been so lost in thought, but then did not return Katie’s cautious smile. Instead, he nearly leapt from the bed and had begun to dress.
“Good morning, husband,” she said. More as a test, to see what his response might be.
“Aye.”
Just that, nothing else.
She sat up, let the blanket fall away. And watched him covertly as he moved about the room, retrieving his clothes. He bent to pluck his tunic from the floor and Katie was offered a full, unobstructed view of his backside. It was as she imagined, as her hands had discovered last night, riddled with scars, large and small, deep and not, and then covered as he pulled his tunic over his head and it dropped over his back, shrouding the marks at the top of his hard buttocks. Her eyes enlarged when her gaze fell on his massive thighs, which were lined with marks of a similar size, one after another, four or five inches long, from just beneath his buttocks all the way down to his calves. These were not, had not been, superficial flesh marks. These had been carved deep, enough to leave raised and thick welts yet, even after so many years.
Was this then the reason for his remoteness on their wedding night and now, this morning? Something was terribly, undeniably wrong. Throughout the day he had been unquestionably charming and solicitous, had smiled at her and teased her, had seemed to enjoy the festivities as much as she had. And yet, last night when she’d first come to their chambers, he’d been so detached. When he’d kissed her, she’d sensed a harshness about him that had no place inside a kiss between them. Even their lovemaking, initially, had been lukewarm. It had heated, that was certain, but Katie had been left not only sated but befuddled. Was it the scars she’d disc
overed? Was he shamed by them? Did he think she would have been disgusted or appalled by them? She didn’t dare ask, recalling his stoic, grave reaction the last time she’d mentioned his captivity.
But she could show him that they didn’t matter to her, wouldn’t need to remind him that the scars were part of him, had forged him in some ways, had shaped him into the man he was today. She would show him. He would realize they mattered not, would not be so aloof again with her.
“You should show yourself belowstairs soon,” he said while pulling on his breeches. “We’ve guests to visit with.”
Katie was torn, having a hard time believing Alec MacBriar was made uncomfortable—with her—by his scars. Was there something else?
“Alec, what...what has changed? I don’t understand why you’re—”
“Changed?” He lifted his gaze though did not pause in the action of arranging his plaid over his shoulder. His brow furrowed. “Nothing has changed.”
“But you’re so....you’re treating me so coolly.”
He continued to work on his plaid, positioning the pleats neatly and evenly but lifted his broad shoulders in a negligent shrug. “Dinna seem too cool last night.”
Aye, but it was, certainly if this were to be his behavior afterward.
Good Lord, had she misread any emotion in him? Had it only been fleeting, or worse, fabricated, employed merely to coerce her acceptance of his proposal. It didn’t make sense though. She was no coveted bride, she knew, had no coin or land or connections to bring to him. Was it as she had originally believed, she wondered, assaulted by some thought that he’d married her out of some misplaced sense of pity or duty, that he coupled with her out of necessity—though freely now, as he was her husband—that all her life, there might be no other emotion that tied them together?
Katie sighed, but her dismay only grew when he was fully dressed, boots and sword and all, and did not kiss her before he left the room, only said, “I’ll likely be gone most the day with Lach and Iain.”
The Love of Her Life (Highlander Heroes Book 6) Page 25