by Deb Kemper
She waited for him to invite her to sit down. With a flourish of his hand he indicated her seat without a word. Mead and rich tobacco infused the air.
“I need to apologize to you, laird. You brought me a lovely gift and it frightened the wits outta me. I’m sorry I reacted so poorly to your generous gesture. Thank you for the necklace. I’ve missed my jewelry.” She laid her hand over the stone. “It makes me feel—a woman again.”
He sat and studied her under a dark frown. “Ye’re welcome, Amalie.” His jaw clenched. “I need to discuss a matter with ye.” He picked up his pipe and studied it. “Quentin made me an offer fer ye in handfastin’.”
She recoiled in shock, fell back into the chair and gripped the arms. “Handfasting is livin’ as husband and wife, without benefit of marriage.”
“Aye, that’s one way of lookin’ at it.”
She swallowed and dropped her gaze. “What’d you say, sir?”
“I promised to speak with ye. Told him not to get his hopes up. Think it over and lemme know what to tell him, unless ye’d rather tell him yerself. He may propose marriage if you decline his offer. Be prepared for that too.” He watched her for a moment. “I canna swear he’d keep yer secret.”
“What would you have me do?” She glanced up into his cold glare.
“It’s not fer me to say. Ye may still be here to tutor the girls of a day. Ye’ll spend nights, with him, at his cottage outside the gates.” He flushed and regarded the dark corner beyond her.
She studied his expression for a moment before responding. “Nay, I canna be handfasted. As for marriage, permission needs to come from my father and you. You’re still my laird and…own me.”
“Ye are redeemed, woman! I leave it rest on yer shoulders. I clearly do not own yer heart.” He stuffed tobacco into his pipe.
“Is it what you want?” She frowned as the words stole through pain. “My heart?”
He chewed his lower lip and refused to meet her eyes. “Aye, that was my intention.” He rubbed a knuckle across his lower lip and cut a slanting glare her way. “Amalie, I love ye more than life itself. I canna bear ye to be attached to another man.”
“Sir, I’m honored.” She clenched her hands. “I’d never dream my feelings to be returned.”
He clutched his pipe and looked up to meet her dark eyes. “What are they? Ye’re impossible to fathom. One minute I offend ye with attention, next I own ye. What is it?” His harsh tone sliced through her defenses.
“I belong to you.” She dropped her gaze.
“May I ken that, lass?” He growled. “What do ye mean?”
She met his eyes with all the openness she could manage. Tears hung in her long, dark lashes. “You own my heart, Garth.” His name sounded like music on her tongue. She’d practiced whispering it, when she was alone, but this was her first time speaking aloud.
He studied her, mulling over her words. His scowl didn’t change. “I’ll have everythin’, Amalie, or nothin’ at all.” The stem of his pipe pointed her direction.
She nodded. “You do.”
“Beyond friendship—marriage.” He held her gaze. “Will ye be my wife?”
She nodded. After a few moments of silence, she left her chair to kneel at his feet.
He reached for her hair, brushed his fingertips across the silky waves. She watched him move, studied the change in his features as he touched her, from austerity to agony, finally to peace. He stood and lifted her from the floor. She allowed him to draw her head onto his broad shoulder. His heavy arms encased her. She shivered. He kissed her forehead, nuzzling the coppery tresses.
He turned her face to his and kissed her mouth, gently at first. Hunger for the sweetness of her pressed him.
He left her breathless, with a sigh, and cleared his throat. “My great-great-grandfather enacted a law in his time. Our knights returned from war ragged, rough, and in need of genteel company. Far too many maids fell prey to their wiles. So here in the Chattan, edict requires a man to marry a maid whom he’s compromised.” His fingers worked at the laces of her bodice.
“Wha, what?” She sputtered.
“Shh, there’s a point to my madness.” The opening was large enough his fingertips slipped in to caress the soft, white mound of her breast. He inched lower, felt the bone edge of her stays against the back of his hand.
She barely breathed. Her eyes closed, her mouth opened. Full lips quivered slightly.
He nuzzled her neck, kissing the smooth ivory flesh and whispered. “Ecstasy or fear, little one?”
She pushed away, her eyes fiery, as she muttered. “I’m not afraid of you!”
He reach for her and pulled the lacing snug again. “Excellent!” He grasp her hips and pulled her into his arms. He pressed his face into her hair. He ran his hands down the back of her body until they rested on her thighs.
“Ye’re compromised, Amalie. Law decrees ye must marry me. Choice is outta yer hands.” He spoke softly into the sweet fragrance of her hair.
She lay against him listening to his breath in tempo with her own. She felt as though she’d melted into his body, separated only by garments. The feel of his fingertips brushing across her bare flesh was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She closed her eyes and savored his fragrance: leather, smoke, and mead.
He turned her face toward his mouth and kissed her gently again and sighed, “I’ll handle Quentin on the morrow.” He released her too late. She’d felt his passion.
He sat in his chair and studied her.
She dropped back to the floor, at his feet, and considered him for a moment. “Milord, will you petition my father or send my family notice?”
He reached for her. She propped her arms on his knees. His hands ran over her shoulders.
“If ye weren’t of an age to reason, I’d petition him. As he’s weeks away by post—no, ye’ve made yer bed with me. We’ll hie to the chapel at the end of Matins and make it official. Banns will post after. Ye may help Millie prepare for the feast to celebrate in the comin’ week. Order everythin’ ye want.”
“What about Mallow and Jessica? Should you not speak to them?”
She loathed leaving his warmth and security.
“I’ll confer with them in day’s light.” He reached for her again, spread his legs, and pulled her close enough her breasts pressed into him. “Do we part as friends or sleep as lovers this night?” A smile played at his sculpted mouth, eyes heady with desire.
She stretched to meet him for a brief kiss and whispered. “Friends this even’, milord, on the morrow, lovers.”
****
After Matins, the following morning:
“Fetch Quentin.” The laird ordered his page on the way upstairs. “Bring him to my chamber.” He unbuttoned the cuffs of his leine and rolled up the sleeves.
The page returned with the champion quickly. Garth paced his chamber.
“Milord, what do ye need?” Quentin held his breath. Tension thickened between them.
Garth finished pacing the lap around the room. “I married Amalie this mornin’.”
Quentin paled and gasped. “What? Ye said she don’t care fer ye!”
“We were together last night in my study, as usual. I compromised her. I apologize to ye as my family and my champion. I let things get outta hand.” Garth studied the younger man’s countenance. Hands resting on narrow hips, he tried to control the wave of grief rushing through him. “I’d not hurt ye fer anything, but—well, she’s mine now. No matter how painful it is, she’s the Lady of the Chattan as of the past hour. I beg ye to honor her position.”
Quentin looked up and met Garth’s cool glare. “I know ye. Ye did it yerself but she had to be willin’.”
“She didn’t struggle again’ me, but I take full responsibility. She’s but a maid, with no experience. It’s my doing and none of her own.”
Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “Did ye even tell her of my offer?”
“I did. She canna be handfasted.”
“
I would’ve married her!” Quentin whirled away from Garth and stepped to the entry.
A page pushed the door open and held it fast as three others passed through to the laird’s bathing chamber and poured warm water from copper kettles into the tub.
Garth watched as the action revealed intent to Quentin. He covered his mouth with one hand, paled again, and passed through the doorway to the stairs.
“God in heaven, forgive me!” Garth looked at the tall ceiling and closed his eyes.
“Sire, yer bath awaits.” The senior page announced and closed the door.
Chapter 12
Amalie felt like a present wrapped in a lovely white shift of boiled muslin, with a silk cord laced through the neckline. As Gerty fussed over her hair, all she could think of was that her husband waited for her two rooms away. She brushed her hand back. “Enough, girl, you’re drivin’ me mad. Just take me to his chamber, please.”
Gerty giggled. “Aye, milady. I thought those verra words when I first saw ye. It was like I kenned this day wou’ come and here we’d be.”
“You’re makin’ me more nervous. Just take me to him.”
Gerty picked up a puff filled with lavender scented talc and dusted it across Amalie’s shoulders. “As a final touch; now ye’re ready.” She hastened to the door and opened it.
Garth flung his door wide at Gerty’s first tap. “Ta, Gerty.” He reached for his wife and led her across the threshold. “Good day to ye. We’re not to be disturbed. The sheet’ll be in the hallway shortly. Have a page wait fer it.” He swung the door closed, threw the lock, and turned to his bride.
His hair, still damp from his bath, hung past the shoulders of his long-tailed saffron leine. “I wondered if ye’d changed yer mind.” He approached her slowly.
She laughed, a full throaty, sensual sound. “Too late, milord.” She reached her left hand toward him.
He caught it in his and carried it to his lips, kissing the gold ring he’d placed there an hour earlier.
He began the dance. As he stepped forward, she backed toward the massive feather bed, framed by carved wood, and a curtained canopy. She reached the mattress and stopped.
She felt anxious but apprehensive. “You have to show me how.”
His mouth covered hers, his tongue probing her mouth. He pressed into her and untied the ribbon at the top of her shift. He stepped back as it cascaded onto the floor in a puddle. He scooped her off her feet and carefully laid her in his bed, crawling across the expanse to join her, losing his garment along the way. His fingertips gamboled over her body.
“Milord?” She opened her eyes, watching him, her hand poised to stroke his chest.
He drew her hand to his body. “Please, touch me, Amalie. Ye don’t need permission.”
She raked her hand through the curly mass of hair on his chest, to his taut belly, and hesitantly elsewhere. Her eyes widened. She paled. “What?”
“We are fearfully and wonderfully made, are we not?” He grinned and kissed her mouth again with passion. “This is like dancin’, lass. I’ll lead. Ye do what comes naturally.”
His tongue traced a path from her temple to her neck where he stopped to nuzzle her softness. He traversed the alabaster flesh to her breasts. His mouth encased each, in turn, as she gasped. He tracked a line to her belly button and beyond.
“Please, please, I canna bear it.” She begged, laughing.
He moved up to her mouth again and gently probed her wet softness. She held her breath at the intrusion.
He reached the barrier and stopped. Propped on his elbows he whispered, “My heart, do ye trust me?”
She nodded, eyes love-drunk. “Aye, I trust you.”
“I’d take this pain if I could.” He paused. “Take a deep breath.”
She obeyed.
“Let it go.”
She obeyed.
He pressed through the barrier.
She suppressed a cry and clung to him, moaning.
“Be still. Wait. It’ll ease soon.” He murmured into her hair.
They paused for the burning ache to subside, her mouth turned into the crook of his thick arm.
Moments dragged past. “It’s lessened, laird.”
He began to move inside her slowly, bringing her to the summit of love again. He delighted in feeling her spasms of release and soon joined her. He rolled to his back pulling her with him.
She lay on top of him, completely spent.
****
“It’s an archaic ritual with practical purpose.” Garth folded the top sheet from the bed, cautious to preserve evidence of his wife’s virginity.
“What’d you’ve done had I been sullied?” She watched with amusement, curled on her side, wrapped in his leine.
“Cut myself, added blood to our body fluids. I knew ye’d be fresh, my heart. Ye’d never been kissed before last even’, at least not properly.” He grinned. “The point to the sheet is proof that the child ye’ll carry is mine. This is for yer protection, in the event of my death. If ye’re with child there’s little doubt he’s my get. Everythin’ benefits the Chattan.” He sighed, eased the door open where a page waited, who took the sheet, and left at a lope.
Garth locked the door again. “Gerty’s a gem. She put four sheets on the bed. We could stay here fer days.” A wolfish look crossed his handsome face as he approached his wife.
She laughed. “Days, sir?”
He melted, at the music in her voice. “Aye, days, my sweet. Have servants bring our meals, send banns out to all the clan to say we’ve decided to hoard our love, barricaded in this room, until we’re done fer.”
****
Garth lightly tapped on the nursery door.
“Come in, Da.” Mallow’s voice rang out to him.
“How do ye always ken it’s me?” He strode in to find his daughters breaking their fast.
“It’s yer footsteps.” Jessie answered while she watched him move a chair close to their table.
“Ah, stealth will never serve me with the two o’ ye.” He sat and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I need to speak to ye. I was married this morning.”
Mallow paled; her mouth agape. “Oh…we knew something unusual was happenin’ with all the pages rushin’ through the hallway.” She lowered her eyes.
“Miss Amalie won’ be comin’ in to ye today.” He studied Mallow, drawing out her misery for a moment.
“Is she leavin’, then?” Mallow stirred a spoon of sugar into her tea, avoiding his eyes.
Garth almost whispered the words. “She’s not going anywhere. She’s yer mam now.”
Mallow’s head shot up. “Ye married Miss Amalie? Not that wretched Cameron woman?”
“What do I tell ye about cursin’?” He bit back a smile.
“Really, Da? Miss Amalie’s our mam?” Jessie’s puzzled look begged attention.
“Aye, she’s yer mam and my wife, the Lady of the Chattan. Will it suit ye, pet?”
Both girls responded. “Aye, sir.”
Mallow continued with a smile. “It suits us just fine, Da.”
Garth slipped to the edge of the chair. “Good, ’cause it can’t be changed. Mallow, ye’ll have to help with Jessie’s readin’ as yer mam won’t be attendin’ ye today. Do ye need me fer anything before I return to her?”
“No, sir. Just tell ’er we’re really glad ye came to yer senses. She’s been lovin’ ye fer months but ye’re too bullheaded to see it.” Mallow smiled to soften her words.
Garth frowned. “If ye’d told me, life would’ve been easier.”
“Some things ye must learn fer yerself.” Mallow added sagely. “That’s what ye’re always tellin’ us.”
Chapter 13
“What’s this ye’re makin’?” Millie watched over her shoulder as Amalie added mead to dough she mixed with a large flat wooden spoon.
“Cake.” Amalie folded the mead in slowly. “My stepmother taught me to make it. She does everythin’ in the kitchen though she has help. I’ve never used oat
and barley flour for it but the mead and eggs help it rise. While the cakes bake I need to get upstairs. Mrs. Grant’s comin’ with my dress. Will you watch this batch for me? They’ll be done when the middle’s set and springs back a bit to the touch, like the ones coolin’.” She pressed her fingertip in the center to demonstrate the technique. “We’ll glaze them with your fine sloe jelly. They’ll be beautiful!”
Millie felt the spongy lightness of the warm cakes. “Aye, I can do that. I wish I’d been here sooner to see how ye make it. Ye’ve got enough to feed an army.”
“I want everyone to have cake. The whole village will come, hopefully, and feast the entire day.” Her brilliant smile lit the dim, hot kitchen.
“With what the master ordered, they’ll be not one left out, fer sure. The minstrels are ready in the great hall, the mead and ale already flow generously.”
****
Garth stood in front of the mirror in his dressing room. He tugged down the sleeves on a handsome long dark green velvet jacket. He checked his kilt, green on red, for the occasion, and slid his sghian dubh into the top of his knee-high leather brogues.
Not that I’m expectin’ a fight but you can never be too careful.
He checked the sheath under his jacket, over his left shoulder, and slid his dirk inside. He left through his bedroom, stopping to ponder the romance of the past seventy-two hours. That lass makes me feel twenty again. I can’t get enough of her. Pray, God, it’ll be so for many years to come.
Unbidden, his gut wrenched at the thought of Quentin’s anguish. God, forgive me hurtin’ the lad like I did. I’d give anything to take back the conversation we had in the barmekin, leadin’ him to believe I don’t care for Amalie. The truth was too much fer me to accept. Never in all my days have I been so smitten with a woman.
He turned the latch and left his chamber. In the hallway he stopped to listen to the banter coming from the nursery and Amalie’s room. Her door was open. He glanced up to see Gerty fly through.
She stopped to curtsy. “Beg pardon, sir.”
“Go on, lassie. Is my wife almost ready?”