Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 03]

by Wedding for a Knight

  Then she stunned him by cupping her flushed breasts and lifting them, offering him their bounty—or so he thought until she indicated the dried patches of white-rimmed sweat stains marring the fabric of her bodice.

  “Do you see these stains?” she demanded, her whole demeanor daring him to speak the truth.

  I see the top halves of two of the largest, most delectable-looking areolae e’er to be my pleasure to gaze upon, he almost said, catching himself just in time to clear his throat and give her a nod.

  “Aye, I see them—the stains, I mean. What of them?”

  She took a deep breath and a wee bit more of the sweetly puckered reddish-brown flesh welled into view. At once, a sharp-gripping tightness swept across his groin, but he quelled the urgent pulling, banning the pleasurably insistent pulsing to a more appropriate time and place—if ever one should arise, which he sorely doubted.

  “I bear these stains,” she was saying, “because I was hastening about in a bit of a dither earlier.” She narrowed her eyes as if she expected him to comment.

  When he opted for the wisdom of silence, she went on. “Not many a lass would traipse about in such an unladylike manner as to cause this degree of dishevelment. Nor would most high-born lasses allow themselves to be caught in an unflattering condition.”

  Unflattering?

  Magnus near hooted—and would have, were he not in such a foul mood. She could stand before him soiled with muck and goose feathers and he’d still find her the most fetching creature he’d e’er laid eyes on.

  The most desirable.

  Aye, she proved an unbearable delight . . . any way she wished to come before him.

  Not that he’d admit it.

  “The stains matter naught.” It was the best he could do without compromising his pride.

  “Ah, but you err, for they matter greatly,” she contradicted, her dark eyes ablaze in the candle glow. “They matter because they prove I am stout-hearted . . . other than most. I will not cower and tremble at your family secrets and sorrows—they can be no more grave than some lying o’er my own clan.”

  Magnus stiffened, not liking where she was leading him. “Say you?”

  She nodded, clearly pleased.

  A sickening dread began to pulse through his innards, his every instinct warning him of what she’d do with the tale once she’d heard the whole of it.

  How she’d use it.

  She stepped closer, all rounded curves and luminous skin, her vibrancy and lightly musked female scent proving equally potent weapons.

  Sakes, if she came any nearer, all the strength would run out of him. Already he feared his knees would buckle any moment.

  Her gaze saying she knew it, she traced light fingertips down his mailed chest. “Will you tell me?” Her voice held a full woman’s sensual caress, its soft Highland lilt besotting him as soundly as the tempting swells of her breasts. “Tell me of your ancestor and his lady?”

  Magnus didn’t even try to smother his groan. “Aye, to be sure,” he agreed, the tops of his ears beginning to burn. “But only after you’ve taken to yon bed and I have settled myself on my pallet.”

  “As you wish.” She accepted his concession with an almost-too-casual shrug.

  But just as he pulled in a breath of relief, she undermined his small victory by setting surprisingly deft fingers to the lacings of her bodice. And, merciful saints, loosened and low-dipped as it’d already been, she had it gaping open before he could even exhale.

  Another moan rose in his throat, louder and more ragged than the first. Hearing it, she pinned him with a knowing stare and eased the gown off her shoulders until it bunched about her waist.

  “I told you I am mostly in good heart,” she said, reaching for the delicate straps of her camise. “As you can see, neither am I timid. Be assured there is naught you can tell me, or require of me, that I shall find . . . off-putting.”

  Magnus inclined his head—his throat, and certain other parts, too thick and tight for him to comment.

  “I would deny you nothing, sir.”

  That enticement shimmering in the air between them, she slowly peeled down the wispy covering of her undergown until nothing touched her magnificent breasts but the brisk night air and his riveted gaze.

  Full, large-nippled, and gleaming beautifully in the glow of the hearth fire, they swayed a bit from the swift workings of her fingers. And they swayed even more when she lifted her hands and began pulling the pins from the glossy black braids coiled loosely above her ears.

  The tantalizing motion sent bolts of sheer, white-hot need pounding into his loins, her every movement stealing his breath and setting him like granite. Her nipples began to contract, the large rounds of her areolae crinkling and drawing deliciously tight beneath his stare.

  “Jesu God,” he ground out when the hardened tips lengthened, stretching toward him as if begging for his caress, his kiss.

  Half-afraid he’d soon be reduced to begging, he bit down so fiercely on the inside of his cheek that he tasted blood. But the saints took pity on him at last, for the very urgency of his desire ripped through the spell she’d cast over him.

  The knowledge that he was a mere hair’s breadth away from dragging her against him and taking her, mayhap even in standing, braced against the cold, hard edge of the table, restored his sanity as naught else could have.

  His lesson learned, he began stalking about the chamber, snuffing the candles one by one. He slid a hot glare at the night taper, flickering innocently on the small bedside table. That flame, too, would meet its end—but only after Lady Amicia was securely ensconced within the massive, canopied bed.

  Meantime, he doused every other source of illumination, plunging the room into ever-greater shadow until only the soft glow of the peat fire and the tiny coal-burning brazier lit the murky half-dark.

  She moved about behind him, turning down the bedcovers. Something she did not seem to be doing with all speed.

  And he wasn’t about to glance her way to be sure. He deemed it wiser to keep pacing and simply set his jaw against the image of her voluptuous body stretched sinuously upon the linen sheets.

  Blessedly, the worst throbbing at his groin receded. But one more glimpse, however fleeting, of even an inch of creamy skin not usually freely visible, and he’d find himself in fine ferment all over again.

  “I am abed, sir, and . . . covered.”

  The words floated out of the semi-darkness, mellifluous as always but with a slight tinge of defiance.

  And that wee suggestion of rebelliousness sent another hot tide of tingles sluicing across his nether parts. Had she perchance divested herself of all her garments? Would she, in her boldness, have other sultry delights on display for him?

  Perhaps a quick flash of the sooty-black curls he imagined sprang in wild abundance between her shapely thighs?

  At the thought, his tarse raged harder than the bone hilt of his dirk, but he took the bait and spun to face her—and saw at once exactly how she’d chosen to express her defiance.

  Not that he could see much of her at all, buried as she was beneath a welter of furs and mounded pillows.

  She’d extinguished the night candle, but enough of the fire glow seeped between the parted bed curtains to reveal the lusty spark of humor in her dark-flashing eyes. Equally telling, she appeared to be biting her lip to keep from smiling.

  And those brief—but startlingly revealing—glimpses of her indomitable spirit filled the cold places inside him with warmth just as glorious as the fierce heat that had swept through him upon glimpsing her naked-swaying breasts.

  For one precious moment, he savored that warmth, holding it as close and dear as he’d like to hold her. Then, with a heavy sigh, he crossed the room, seeking sanctuary in the infinitely safer wash of cool, gray moonlight spilling through the opened windows.

  And if the saints had any mercy at all, they’d let the patter of the mizzling rain, the hollow whistle of the wind, his own wise distance from the bed, bl
ur the tale he’d promised to tell.

  Ill ease nipping at every inch of him, he stared up at the black-raftered ceiling and began. “The first keeper of this castle, Reginald of the Victories, had but one arm,” he said, his words eliciting a sharp gasp of surprise from his wife . . . just as he’d known they would.

  “But I’d heard he was a great warrior,” she argued from the bed. “How—”

  “By all accounts he was a much-esteemed man—the most skilled warrior in all the Isles,” Magnus confirmed, tossing her just the wee hint of a sad smile. “But life being as it is, there always comes a day when even the greatest amongst us meets someone better skilled. That day cost Reginald his right arm, and he never considered himself a whole man thereafter.”

  “Was he married when he lost his arm?” Amicia raised herself on an elbow, peered at him through the gloom. “Is that the sadness in the tale? His wife stopped loving him?”

  “Nay, far from it—she loved him deeply. That is the tragedy, for he could not believe it.”

  “Because his pride would not let him?”

  “So tradition claims,” Magnus admitted, pulling a hand down over his face. “He had only just married and was building this stronghold when his arm was sliced off in the heat of a fierce battle. Although he’d e’er been a bonny man of quick wit and a sunny nature, he quickly grew bitter.”

  Amicia sat up straighter, but still kept her nakedness well-hid beneath the bedcovers. “He must’ve kept building the castle?”

  “Och, aye, that he did.” Magnus stared at the falling rain, preferring not to see if the coverlets slipped. “He spared no expense or trouble, strove to build the finest stronghold these isles had e’er seen.”

  He blew out a frustrated breath, hating what he must tell her.

  “Reginald hoped to impress his new bride, see you? He feared she would not love him unless he gave her the grandest home his coin and standing could provide.”

  “But you said she loved him deeply.”

  “And she did.” Magnus sighed. “With the whole of her heart and every breath she drew.”

  “She didn’t care that he’d lost his arm,” Amicia said, making the words a statement.

  “Nay, she didn’t—not one whit. But she did doubt Reginald’s love, even though the seannachies tell us he loved her endlessly.” Magnus’s stomach began to pitch and twist. This was the part he’d been dreading. “’Tis said he ne’er spoke his heart to her, ne’er laid bare his innermost feelings. He only devoted himself—his life—to building this castle.”

  He slid a glance at her, then immediately wished he hadn’t, for her unbound hair now spilled in charming disarray around her shoulders. The long, black-gleaming tresses beckoned almost indecently, demanding all manner of lascivious attention even as she stared at him all dewy-eyed, her feminine heart most assuredly guessing the end of the tale.

  “She felt unloved,” she said, proving him right.

  Worse, her lower lip wobbled with tears she clearly fought to keep from spilling. “She didn’t ken why he was so obsessed with building the castle and he ne’er told her.”

  Magnus pressed his fingers to the icy-damp stone of the window molding and a great shudder racked his spine. “Every new day saw them loving more, yet growing further apart,” he said, borrowing one of Hugh’s descriptions of the pair when his own words failed him. “With each new stone laid, each new comfort provided, rather than showing the appreciation and devotion Reginald hoped to win from her, his lady—Margaret was her name—only became more sad-eyed.”

  “Did she not tell him how she felt?”

  “More times than there are stars in the sky.” Another of Hugh’s quotes. “But each time she did, or begged him to reveal his heart to her, he would either plunge himself into some pressing castle-building task, or fall into an exhausted sleep from having done so.”

  A sniffle came from the direction of the bed.

  Magnus suppressed a groan . . . and an urge to smash his fist into the chamber’s cold, arras-hung wall.

  “So Reginald of the Victories could not see his greatest victory of all.” The statement came on a long, quivering sigh. “He ne’er knew that it was not a proud and mighty castle his lady wife so desired—she wanted only his love,” Amicia concluded.

  “That will have been the way of it, aye,” Magnus agreed, bracing himself to tell her the rest, wishing she hadn’t proved so persistently curious.

  So persuasive.

  “And loving him as she did, life without his love held no meaning for her.”

  At his words, all color drained from her face. “So that is why you called her doomed. She took her own life, didn’t she?”

  Magnus nodded. “Hers, and surely Reginald’s, too, for from the day she let herself fall from the parapet walk, he is said to have grown ever more bitter, believing until his death that she’d taken her life rather than endure being bound to a man who was not whole.”

  “Oh, dear saints . . .” Amicia gasped, dashing silvery tears from her cheeks with trembling fingers.

  Furious with himself for distressing her, and equally frustrated with her for giving him scant choice, Magnus stared out at the dark, impassionate night and pulled in a great, spine-stiffening breath of the chill air.

  When he trusted himself to speak again, he turned back to her. “There is more. The reason many believe a pall—or curse—lies over all who live within these walls. Would you truly know Coldstone’s heart, my lady?”

  She nodded, her eyes still misting but with a decidedly belligerent spark beginning to replace the tears.

  “Then know you that from Margaret’s death onward, the stones of this castle turned cold—so frigid that even the brightest summer day cannot warm them. Hence, the name Coldstone,” he told her, his nape prickling at the way her chin thrust higher upon each spoken word.

  “Some say their ill-fated love yet lives—remaining as a clear memory to this day, ever locked within the chill damp of Coldstone’s walls.”

  Her eyes fair blazing now, Amicia regarded him long and hard. “Then I would say it is well past time for someone to release them.”

  Magnus blinked. He had no answer to that.

  But for one breath-catching moment, something inside him leapt and brightened; then the sensation passed as quickly as it’d come.

  So he strode for his pallet in silence and thought, stripping off his knightly accoutrements as he went, leaving his wife to stare after him . . . or seek her slumber.

  He also tossed aside her fool notions.

  Impossible, dangerous notions.

  Delving too deeply into romantic old tales best forgotten would mean exposing his own heart.

  And that was something he had no intention of doing.

  In especial, not to her.

  Chapter Eight

  ’TWAS THE SMELL THAT AWAKENED HIM.

  “Saints of glory!” The imprecation burst from Magnus’s lips, the stench’s bite watering his eyes.

  Rank and penetrating, the foul miasma weighted the air and invaded his nostrils with each indrawn breath. Too sleep-fogged to think clearly, he cracked his eyes to merest slits, half-expecting to find himself adrift in the cesspit.

  Blessedly, the dull gleam of his discarded hauberk and the pointedly closed bed hangings of the huge four-poster, outlined in shadow across the room, swiftly dispelled that particular concern.

  Not quite first light, a damp, blustery wind poured through the opened windows, rippling the wall hangings and causing the hanging cresset lamp to sway on its chain. A light drizzle still fell, and its soft splatter on the stone window ledges heralded the start of another wet, gray day.

  Blinking, he rubbed at the crick in his neck. That pain, and the acute throbbing at his temples, attested to a poor night’s sleep . . . a chaste one spent on his pallet of rumpled furs.

  Much as he’d rather it’d been otherwise.

  In especial, he could have done without the firm press of Boiny’s shaggy back against his
side. Or even more vexing, the dog’s noxious emissions poisoning his lungs.

  Wincing, he pushed up on an elbow and glowered menace at the sleeping dog. “You chose an inopportune moment to rekindle our affection, old lad,” he grumbled, reaching to tousle the beast’s floppy ears nonetheless.

  Stench cloud or nay.

  Who was to say what less than appetizing habits he’d develop upon achieving his own gray-bearded years?

  So he settled for a grimace and his wince, and saved any further harsh words for a soul more deserving of them.

  Another sidelong look at Boiny, and he stood. Stiff and sore from the too-short night, and trying not to breathe too deeply, he moved about, snatching up his scattered clothes.

  He tugged on his braies, eager to be gone, and Boiny seized the moment to claim the pallet’s warmth. Making it his own, the dog sprawled full-length across the mounded skins and borrowed blankets, seemingly content to wallow in his wicked, odorous fumes.

  Indeed, Magnus scarce had time to don his boots before another sharp wave of offensiveness rose up to taint the chill morning air.

  Pulling a face that would have sent the Devil running, he thrust his arms a bit more roughly than need be into the sleeves of his under-tunic and yanked it over his head. He swiped his sword belt off the table, girding it about his hips as he hastened for the door.

  But as he slid back the drawbar, his frown deepened. Had he truly been dreaming of the sweet press of his lady’s warm, well-rounded bosom? The imagined thrust of hardened nipples against his naked, slumbering flesh?

  And, most stirring of all, the curling squeeze of inquisitive fingers stroking up and down his eager, sleep-swollen shaft.

  He paused on the threshold, the notion sending liquid fire through his veins. Aye, he had enjoyed such dreams and the vivid images were yet fresh in his mind, still potent enough to rouse and enflame him.

  Especially the one with the full shapeliness of her lush body rubbing against his as, skin to damp skin, heat to lower heat, she’d begged him to take her.