Juliette Miller - [Clan MacKenzie 02]

by Highlander Taken

  Still, it was a long time before I could take comfort in my own dreams.

  * * *

  I AWOKE IN the night, startled to find another person in bed with me.

  Kade Mackenzie.

  My husband.

  He lay on his back with one arm slung over his head. His thick hair was in wild disarray. In sleep, his face looked younger. In repose, his aggression was virtually undetectable. His bare chest rose and fell gracefully with his breath. The top of the fur lay low on his stomach. My eyes studied with fascination the unfamiliar lines of his body. I had seen shirtless men before, from a distance, as they worked or fought or swam. But never like this. Never close enough to touch in the silvery moonlight. I was surprised by the light dusting of hair on his chest, the arrow line that ran below his navel down, to where the furs barely covered him, his carved hipbones. Little scars lined his skin in uneven patterns, including a jagged crescent that circled the front of his left shoulder and shone pale against his brownness. His very color was intriguing to me, the darkness of it, the vivid richness of absorbed sun on his skin, as though he retained some of its heat and its light. He was very muscled, each chiseled curve mortared between by smaller ones that rippled slightly as he breathed. A light pulse played gently under the skin of his neck.

  I was surprised at the sight being delivered to my eyes, and at the turn of my own thoughts. My husband, without his weapons and his wrath, was beautiful.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I WAS AWAKENED by a sound I was now becoming accustomed to: the clang of metal against metal, steel against stone. My husband had risen from the bed and was clad only in his leather trews and the low-slung belt from which one of his large knives hung. I watched him, studying more closely the wide span of his shoulders, the defined muscles of his torso, narrowing to the flat plane of his stomach. The blatant power of his body as he moved was obvious. Rising memories of the brutality I’d been subjected to all my life at the hands of powerful men such as this could not be suppressed. Despite the drowsed comfort of his bed and the dreamlike memory of his face as he slept, the sight of him sent a small chill chasing up my spine.

  Kade was taking care to put his weapons into place. He sheathed his oversized sword, distinctive for its unusual gold hilt. The hard leather of its scabbard had been etched and stitched with swirling flame-shaped designs.

  He added a second belt, reaching then for a sharpening stone, which sat on a cluttered table. He unslung a bone-handled knife from a holster. Before he began to sharpen the knife, he looked in my direction, as though mindful that the scrape of it might wake me.

  He noticed my open eyes watching him. “She wakes,” he said.

  I didn’t reply to him. I wasn’t sure what kind of answer he might expect.

  His fierceness had returned to him, so much so that I wondered if I’d dreamed the peaceful scene in the quiet moonlight. This was a different display entirely to the tranquil sleeping vision of the night before. Kade’s long tousled hair framed his face like a lion’s mane. Be assured: I don’t plan on eating you alive. Not yet, anyway.

  Yet the spectacle of him didn’t spear me with as much anxiety as it had done in days past. I had seen a softer side of him. And I knew he possessed the capacity to allow me my fears. This seemed important. I had no way of knowing when he might choose to consummate our marriage. But the fact that he hadn’t forced himself upon me at his very first opportunity gave me a small measure of comfort.

  And I had slept surprisingly well, without the agitated dreams that had recently disturbed me.

  There was a timid knock on the door. Kade answered it, ushering two servants with trays of covered dishes into our chambers, indicating the table where he wanted them placed. The women were young, and the sight of my brawny, armed husband, shirtless and barefoot, nearly caused them to spill their delivery to the floor. Managing to place their trays, they blushed and stared, huddling together. Noticing me, still reclined in the marriage bed, they giggled nervously and whispered to each other.

  “My wife requires a bath to be brought to my chambers once we have eaten,” Kade told them, having no time for their tittering embarrassment. “You will attend to her as she requires. Proof that the marriage is now valid, as requested by Laird Morrison, may then be stripped from the bed and taken to his chambers.”

  The chambermaids went silent, nodding slightly, and backed from the room with wide eyes to obey his command. They glanced at me once more as they made their leave. I could see the thoughts churning behind their eyes, imagining the debauched scenes of what had taken place here during the night.

  So my father was the one who wanted evidence that my marriage had been finalized, proof that his coveted alliance was now sealed irrevocably. This did not surprise me. I was used to my father’s domination. I could only hope that my husband would not be even more controlling than my father.

  “Come and break your fast,” Kade said. “We will attend the farewell of my brother and his new wife. They depart for Ossian Lochs later this morning.” His tone was neither friendly nor cold, but there was an implication there that I would do as I was told. “And we will prepare to leave for Glenlochie the day after tomorrow.”

  He would take and I would give. He would speak and I would listen. These were the rules of marriage and I understood them. Yet it irked me that he was so immediate about his dictatorship. Already he was ordering me about. “Whatever you wish, husband.” The last word of my reply was colored with a light note of overdone respect that bordered on mockery. And he noticed.

  One of his brows lifted, and he regarded me with cool contemplation. As though entertained by my light disrespect, he seemed to be making a point of regaining control. “Whatever I wish?” he asked softly. “Were that true, wife, you would be naked and weeping with pleasure at this very moment. But I’ll give you time to adjust before I take what’s mine.”

  “Wh-what?” I gasped. Oh, God, Agnes’s gossip was indeed true. My mind reeled at the thought but my body had a quite different response to his comment; I felt like our chambers had suddenly become quite warm. “What is your meaning?”

  “What is my meaning?” he repeated languidly, as though puzzling over the question himself. He put on his tunic and secured another holster across his chest. He did not look at me. Once he was satisfied that his weapons were in place, he removed the lids from the trays of food. He picked up a piece of salted bacon and took a bite, taking his time to study me as though enjoying my shock. “I mean that you’re very clearly terrified of me.” He caught my eye. “And so you should be.” I could hear that twang of amusement in him again, the one that never ceased to not only confuse me but also rile me. Why he found every aspect of our hasty, forced marriage entertaining, I did not know.

  “I’m not terrified of you,” I lied.

  “Of course you are.” He carried a tray over to the bed, and sat next to where I still lay under the furs. “Yet I have reason to believe that you’re exceptionally responsive to me, and I mean to test that theory now, if you don’t object.” He picked up a small piece of bread and, with his hunting knife, spread some butter onto it. “Allow me.”

  Warily, I sat up against the plush pillows and reached for the bread. What did he mean by “responsive”? I didn’t dare ask. He withdrew the offering, shaking his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. The light blue blaze of Kade’s irises was startlingly bright, and contrasted somehow with the swarthy features of his face. There was something entrancingly colorful about him, like his health and vigor were so potent they exaggerated the hues of him beyond the expected.

  “I will feed you,” he said. Had my sisters been mistaken? Had they misunderstood? I had been told that a wife’s duty might extend to feeding her husband, if he commanded it, yet my husband clearly had other ideas. “Open your mouth.”

  Hesitantly, I did as he asked of me. He placed a small piece of warm bread on my tongue. As he fed me, he spoke.

  “I understand that you have led a shelter
ed, pampered life and that you are not used to the company of men. ’Tis not difficult to see that you have little to no idea what to expect from marriage. Being the first of your sisters to marry, perhaps you do not know the way of it.” His expression was softer now, inciting an unfamiliar sense of reassurance. He paused to feed me another small bite of bread. The bread was fresh from the oven and the butter rich and creamy, melting on my tongue. I had never tasted anything quite so good. “I have thought about how I might ease your fear.”

  He used his knife to cut a slice from an overripe pear, reaching slowly to place it in my mouth. A drop of juice from the sweet fruit ran down my chin. I licked my lips to catch the moisture and found that Kade was watching my mouth with an absorbed, almost glazed expression. With his thumb, he wiped the sticky liquid from my chin, and the contact sent a light dart of awareness, oddly, to the tips of my breasts, which tightened beneath my shift. I noticed then that the furs had dropped to my waist and I made a move to pull them up. But my husband had other ideas. He placed his large hand over mine, preempting my bid for modesty; the warmth of it gave me pause, and I slid my hand from his grasp, letting the furs lie as they were.

  “In regards to sealing this marriage, I would prefer not to force you. I am therefore proposing that we wait one month, to allow you to acclimatize to your new status as my wife,” Kade said. “I would hope that you might trust me, eventually, and I make this allowance to give you time to come to terms with all that being a wife requires.”

  Despite the topic being discussed, I found I was enjoying the taste of the food so much, I felt oddly subdued and compliant. Upon his encouragement, I opened my mouth again, as he fed me another slice of the sweet pear. This slice was bigger than the last, so I had to open my mouth slightly wider. His thumb lingered, brushing against my slippery lower lip, sending another twinge of warmth to my nipples, which hardened further against the soft cotton of my shift. A blush warmed my cheeks at the thought that he might detect my unwanted response. His lurking amusement played across his face, calming me further. I ate the fruit slowly, savoring the syrupy flavor, and I felt more relaxed at that moment than I ever had in his presence. “What happens after a month?”

  “We will consummate this marriage properly, and with your willing participation. You will give me whatever I ask of you.”

  I looked at his face, the roguish bristle of his day-old beard, the dangerous aura of his wicked eyes, rimmed by long, dark lashes.

  “I will give you my body, in other words,” I said, “to do with as you please.”

  His skewering gaze was, alarmingly, feeding the soft warmth in my breasts, which funneled deeper and lower, settling into the low pit of my stomach. “Aye, and your willingness.”

  “My willingness,” I repeated.

  “Aye.”

  “What would I have to...do?”

  “Not a damn thing, lass. I will do everything that needs doing. I ask only that you allow it.”

  I watched him as he cut another slice of pear. How strange, that my battle-scarred, muscle-bound husband would make such a concession. I have thought about how I might ease your fear. I would hope that you might trust me. These were not at all the words I was expecting. He didn’t, after all, need my permission. He could do with me as he pleased now, and as often as he liked.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then we might attend to the consummation right now, if you prefer. ’Tis my right, after all, as your husband, to take of you anything I want. And my want, I can assure you, at this very moment, is threatening to overtake my well developed practices of both discipline and control.”

  I glared at him, and my brief sense of composure fled, replaced by stirrings of the recurring fear that crept with featherlike stealth up the tiny hairs on my arms.

  “I would prefer, however,” he said, “not to force you, which is why I am proposing this month—or more, if absolutely necessary—for you to get used to me. I am confident that I can win your invitation, in time.”

  Despite my unease, my body continued with its peculiar reaction. He did unspeakable things. His words, and all he referred to, had a physical, seeping effect. I will do everything that needs doing. Shockingly, my nipples were now painfully beaded and the warm throb in my stomach had spread lower, tingling and aching. My better judgment warred against his controlling, dominating manner, yet an unmistakable excitement glowed deep within me that I neither understood nor wanted there.

  “You appear to be warming to the idea,” he said.

  The fact that he could clearly detect my body’s reaction to him only frustrated me further. “I am warming to nothing you have to offer,” I said with hesitant defiance.

  “Then why is it,” he purred, touching his thumb once again to the stickiness on my lips, the light, gliding touch causing another flare of heat deep inside me, “that your body is unfailingly receptive to me, at even the slightest hint of provocation?”

  “I—” I was grasping, my face hot with embarrassment.

  “When I told you I found you captivating, wife, I meant it. For two weeks, I have thought of nothing else but the sound of your voice, the perfect, bowed shape of your lips, the unusual golden tips of your long hair, your shining, amber eyes, like jewels from an ancient hidden treasure. And this the little furrow between your eyebrows as you look at me with terror in your eyes that I want to ease away.” He touched his thumb lightly to my forehead, smoothing away the outward signs of my anxiety, tracing a line down the side of my face with his finger. “Why do you look at me that way?”

  His confession, shockingly heartfelt, especially considering the rough rasp of its delivery, astounded me. That there might be more to his intention that duty, and more to this marriage than military considerations, made me feel light-headed with something close to relief. And hope.

  And warm, coiling anticipation.

  “What do you think would happen...” he said, letting his finger drop lower, to trace the silk cord of my shift, drawing a line that snaked lower. I gasped as his finger lightly circled the outline of my beaded nipple that was clearly jutting against the fabric of my clothing. His long fingers were graceful in their movement, his hands brown and strong-looking. I remembered the touch of those fingers silkily prodding into my most intimate flesh, inspiring blooming sensation that my body was recalling, and reigniting now. “If I touched you...very, very softly...right here.” His thumb and finger skimmed the peak of my nipple in a brief, pinching caress. The touch was so vibrantly intense, I tried in vain to lean back, to evade this scalding intimacy—it was too new, too overwhelming. As soon as he sensed my withdrawal, the touch was immediately removed.

  My nipple pulsed with echoing heat. I felt as though hot wax had been poured upon the intimate points of my body and the sensation was sinfully exquisite.

  Kade was smiling thoughtfully. “Would you like,” he said slowly, “for me to do that again?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I managed to say.

  His hand once again eased closer, so close I could detect the heat of him through the thin layer of my shift. His eyes held mine with their sultry power. “I’ll only touch you if you ask me to,” he said softly.

  Nay, don’t touch me! my mind was screaming. You’ll hurt me and humiliate me. Like they do. You’re a brute and a scoundrel, like all the rest of them. Leave me.

  But his hand was not raised in anger. His touch caused no pain. Only hot, delightful promise. And I heard myself whisper, “Aye.”

  A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth and his hand withdrew an inch, as though he was reconsidering. My breasts felt rounded and swollen, the taut tips hot and flushed. My thighs, too, were overheated and my delicate, swollen flesh throbbed lightly. Muddled thoughts flashed through my mind, reminding me of a dark, secluded garden and an uncontrollable yearning. Don’t pull away. Put your hands on me. Touch me. There, there. Anywhere. My husband, the devil, smiled slowly and his face took on a hint of the rugged beauty that lurked behind his fiercene
ss, when he smiled and when he slept.

  As though reading my mind, he said in a low chuckle, “All right, then.”

  And his fingers began their slow ascent, touching me, rubbing slow circles around the outline of my nipples. His hot touch was viciously potent, painting my body with raw, ripe need. I arched, wanting more pressure, more contact. He was maddeningly restrained, taking his time, lingering with casual deliberation, rubbing and pinching until I was awash with molten desire.

  Kade raised his knife, which he still held in his left hand. I felt my eyes round at the sight of it. Had I misread him? Would he hurt me as I was so accustomed to? He moved slowly, slipping the tip of it under the corded tie of my shift. The coolness of the blunt metallic blade against my skin provided a stark relief to the sudden heat of my body. “And what do you think would happen, then, if I cut the cloth from your skin to touch you with my fingers, here?” His thumb pressed gently, swirling, teasing.

  He challenged me with his eyes, and I squirmed under his touch, my body lit with melting sensitivity.

  “Nay?” he mused lightly, when I did not immediately respond. “You would prefer that I leave it on?”

  Through my shift, he squeezed the sensitive tips of my breasts more roughly, sending sharp rivers of desire to my center.

  Against my will, I moaned, “Please. Do it.” My voice sounded low and hushed.