by Border Lass
First things first, he decided, reaching the steps. Before he could introduce Amalie to his family, he had a task to complete. He could not allow his thoughts to dwell on the people he must tell, or what anyone else might think of his marriage.
As he opened the door into the corridor, his senses alerted again for voice or footstep. He continued to listen warily as he bolted the door and went up the service stairs. Most servants who used them would not know that he had Isabel’s consent to be there, so any he met would point out his error. He hoped he would have a chance to explain himself before anyone raised ruckus enough to catch Fife’s attention.
So far, he realized, he had been lucky.
As he approached the door behind which his bride awaited him, all thought of duty, explanations, or possible interruption vanished, leaving only anticipation of the true first duty that awaited him. His body stirred strongly, and he realized that what lay ahead had stirred his imagination and other parts of him more than once since he had met her.
He hesitated at the door when it abruptly occurred to him that he could not be sure of his welcome. She was as capable of greeting him with a well-formed fist or a basin of icy water as with a smile. But he had told her to ready herself for bed, and after all that had occurred, perhaps she had obeyed.
Renewal of doubt surged strongly as he lifted the latch. Even so, he was unprepared to see her standing fully clothed by the window with the shutters open, gazing out at the stars. She had taken off the net that confined her hair, and it hung in soft ebony waves to her waist. The gleaming tresses reflected the orange-golden glow of the candles that lit the room, producing flame-shaped highlights.
She turned and looked soberly at him as he shut the door.
“Why are you not in bed, lass?”
“We must talk,” she said.
“We can talk later,” he said firmly. His body had definite, other intentions now—urgent ones—and it was clamoring to fulfill them.
Telling himself it was his duty to make sure that Fife would not find her a maiden if he did manage to order an examination, he moved toward her.
Amalie eyed him, trying to gauge his mood. She wanted to talk because there were more things she wanted to know. There was also the one thing she had to tell him before he learned it for himself, but she did not know if she had the courage.
“Why does Fife call you ‘Westruther’?” she asked, knowing from experience that her best course was to put him on the defensive as quickly as she could.
His grimace told her that she had succeeded, however briefly. “I don’t remember if I told you that my father died whilst I was in Danzig,” he said.
“No,” she said. “I thought he must be dead when you told me you had sworn fealty on Moot Hill for your estates. You also told me your home is at Westruther. But Fife called you Westruther rather than Sir Garth, so yours must be a powerful barony. My father is . . . was a baron also, but although his estate is large, he counted his knighthood as the greater title.”
“Many men do,” Garth said. “I’m proud of mine, too, but my father, though also a knight, took the barony name as his father had. Some do, others do not. Mayhap, everyone will behave the same someday. Such things do change.”
“Why did you not tell me before?”
“In troth, lass, I had not thought about it. It did occur to me, though, that you might think I’d deceived you if you heard someone address me as ‘my lord’ or as Westruther. I felt guilty then, so mayhap I had avoided discussing the subject. I’d told myself I kept it quiet here because a serving knight known to be a landed baron would draw unnecessary notice. That is true. Such knowledge might even give certain people notions that the princess and I . . .” He hesitated, unwilling to suggest what people were capable of suspecting.
“You need not explain that, sir,” Amalie said. “People do make unfair suggestions just because she does not live with Sir John Edmonstone.”
She felt guilty now, because she had known that he owned estates and was therefore most likely a baron, but she was not ready to talk about herself yet.
“What is Westruther like?” she asked.
“I’ll take you to see it soon,” he said. “Now that I have a wife, I expect I shall have to assume the rest of my duties and stop leaving them in my steward’s hands. He’ll be glad to have me home, but I must first finish what I began. Still, I could take you there after I meet with Douglas and we see your father buried.”
“Will you just leave me there?”
“Not alone. My mother will be happy to show you all you want to see. Do you think you will enjoy being mistress of your own household?”
Remembering what it had been like to go with Meg to Scott’s Hall, where Lady Scott had not been particularly welcoming, Amalie did not believe Lady Napier—or Westruther, if that was how she called herself—would be more so in what she would view as her own home, so she shook her head. “I’ll stay here with Isabel until you get your other business sorted out. Then we can go together.”
“So you are reconciled now to the notion of being my lady wife?”
She was sure her heart stopped beating for a moment. Was that what she had said? Whether she had or not, she knew it was what she yearned for. With that, her fear that he would reject her when he learned the truth increased tenfold, becoming so great that her certainty of his rejection brought tears to her eyes.
“Faith, sweetheart, don’t cry,” he said, reaching for her and pulling her close. “It fair makes my heart ache to see your eyes well up like that.”
“Pay them no heed then,” she muttered gruffly against his chest. “I cry if a kitten purrs or a gown gets wrinkled.” Looking up at him with a watery little smile, she said, “I can cry at will just by thinking of something sad.”
“Can you?” He raised his eyebrows, but his eyes twinkled.
“Aye, I can. It worked if my father scolded me, so it used to make my sisters want to tear out their hair to watch me. But it never fooled my mother, so I gave it up when I was about eleven. I can still do it, though, I’m sure.”
“Well, it won’t affect me any more than it did your mother. I can always tell real tears from those summoned forth on purpose.”
“Mercy, how?”
“My sister Joan mastered the art and could fool our father, just as you could fool yours. But, having watched her do it many times, I finally realized that when she cried over something real, I wanted to comfort her. When she was faking, I was just annoyed. Real emotion is the only kind that stirs a responsive emotion in me. The faking just set off my temper, so I’d advise you not to try it with me.”
“What is Joan like, apart from that?”
He still had his hands on her shoulders, and they gripped tighter as if he’d had an impulse to shake her. He said, “Enough diversion, lass. It is time we were . . . What is that wonderful aroma?” He leaned closer, sniffing.
“I . . . I put on some of Sibylla’s perfume,” she said. “She lent it to me.”
He bent nearer, his nose so near her ear that his breath blew a warm breeze across her neck.
Her gown was low cut, and when he sniffed lower, his chin touched the rise of a breast, tickling her with his chin stubble.
She caught his chin in one hand and tried to shift it, saying, “You will scrape me raw, sir. Have done!”
Instead of obeying, he grasped her hand and turned it to sniff her wrist. “We must get you more of this, sweetheart. I like it gey fine.”
“Sibylla said you would. I wonder how she knew.”
He grinned. “Don’t go making up reasons, lass. I know how women’s minds work. I’ve had nowt to do with Sibylla, so don’t be thinking I have.”
She could not resist the grin and smiled back, but her heart was not in it. She feared that neither of them would be smiling much longer.
His fingers moved to her bodice lacing, but he paused and put a hand behind her head, cupping it as he brought his lips slowly to hers.
“You have th
e most beautiful skin, Molly-lass,” he murmured, still inches away. “I want to touch you everywhere to find the softest, smoothest places.”
A fluttery sort of shiver raced through her. Her body welcomed his touch as it had from the first, and his caress soothed her mind as well.
Something about him made her feel safe, although she had not the least idea why, or if she could trust her own feelings. Remembering the past, she had a disheartening notion that she would be foolish to do so.
Still, he was her husband now. He said so, the priest had said so, and both Fife and Simon had agreed. A fleeting thought of her mother flashed into her mind. But the image faded when she remembered his estates and his connection to Buccleuch. Her mother was above all things practical, and she appreciated the value of wealth and powerful connections more than almost anything else.
His lips touched hers and her body responded strongly, suspending her thoughts and any lingering resistance she might have felt. His kiss was warm but possessive as he searched and tasted her lips, licking and sucking them as if to explore every tiny crevice and find the softest place, just as he had promised.
He had said he wanted to touch her everywhere. Her body flamed at the thought, and heat surged through it to every pore.
She savored it all, marveling at his gentleness as he sent sensation after new sensation rippling through her with kisses on her mouth, her chin, her ears, her neck, even her eyes and nose. The hand on her lacing remained at rest as he tasted her.
The fingers of his other hand laced through her hair, as if he would grip her tighter and hold her where he wanted her. Even with that thought, she felt only a fierce, powerful hunger for him coursing through her.
When her body pressed toward his as if it could melt right into him, she moaned softly and wondered for a second who had done so. Then his tongue slipped between her lips, seeking softer places within, and she tasted him back.
When the fingers at her laces stirred and tugged, and she felt them growing urgent in their task, guilt stirred rather than discomfort. Would he be able to tell?
Her mother had assured her that a husband would know instantly if he had married a maiden, but Lady Murray had not explained how he would know.
With a last tug, the lacing of her bodice was undone. Still holding her head and still penetrating her mouth with his agile tongue, he dealt deftly with the tight bodice sleeves as he pushed the garment off her shoulders and arms to the floor.
Her shift and skirt remained, but he soon found the tapes for her skirt, and it slipped off to follow the bodice, leaving her in her shift.
It was thin cambric, and she stood by the open shutters. Warm though the night was, she shivered. As if he detected it and would protect her from the elements, he eased her around so that his back was to the window.
She nearly smiled. Indeed, her lips twitched, for she could feel them do so, and then his right hand, no longer occupied with her skirt, moved to caress the side of her left breast, cupping it and pressing gently into its softness.
One finger inched around to the cambric-covered nipple, brushed across it to the lace edging of her shift, then to its ties. She barely knew what he was doing before the shift parted and his warm bare hand touched her skin.
Without releasing her mouth, he picked her up and carried her to the bed, Isabel’s bed, already turned back.
Amalie tensed, but he laid her down and said, “Don’t move, Molly-lass. Don’t move a muscle.”
She could feel air rather than cambric touching most of her upper body.
“But—”
Putting a finger to her lips, he said, “Don’t talk. Not yet.”
He slipped off his leather jack, untied his shirt, and stripped it off, casting it to the foot of the bed so carelessly she was sure it had slipped right to the floor.
His belt and boots followed, dropped where he stood.
Then he reached to open his breeks.
She shut her eyes and, as she did, realized that he was watching her and that his gaze had fixed itself on her breasts, wholly revealed now by the gaping top of her shift. Since the garment was the gathered-at-the neckline sort that opened to her waist when untied, she knew he enjoyed a view of more than just her breasts.
Opening her eyes and noting his expression, she knew he liked what he saw. He continued to look, so she watched him as closely while his breeks came off.
She stared then. She had seen a man rampant before but not such a man as this one. He was larger all around, for one thing. Her breath caught.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. “I’ll try not to hurt you. But, stay, lass. Do you even know how men and women couple? Nay, of course not,” he said, answering his own question. “Doubtless—”
“I do know some things,” she murmured.
“Ah, good, then at least the telling won’t terrify you.”
“If you mean to explain,” she said, “could you get into bed first and . . . and just hold me?”
“Aye, sure,” he said, complying at once without snuffing a single candle.
The room that had seemed so dimly lit when they came in seemed ablaze now with light, especially when he hesitated, gazing again at her breasts. Then he slipped an arm under her shoulders and drew her close to him.
She had forgotten one little, obvious, consequence of her request, though. Her bare breasts pressed now against his hard, muscular, bare chest.
He held her so for a time before his hand came gently to cup her head again, and his lips sought hers. But he kissed gently without the hungry passion she had sensed earlier when he had explored her mouth.
“Better?” he said, relaxing back against plump pillows but still holding her close, so she now lay nearly facedown and halfway atop him, with her left cheek against his chest. A few dark hairs tickled her face and lips.
“I do feel better,” she said. “But I want to ask you a question.”
“You don’t need permission. Ask me whatever you like.”
“You told me not to talk,” she reminded him.
“So I did. Dare I hope you will always be so obedient to my will?”
She swallowed. He was not making things easier, but she had known that nothing about their night together would be easy.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
She liked his voice, especially when he talked to her as he did now, as if they were friends. She did not want to lose his friendship. Not only did she have few friends of her own, but she cared about him and enjoyed his company.
He turned and eased up on an elbow so she slid off onto her side. Looking at her, he said with concern, “What is it, Molly-lass? Tell me.”
She swallowed again and sent up a silent prayer, but she would get no help from God now. She had to tell Garth, because he would soon find out for himself, and she could not let him think that she had purposely cheated him. Surely, if a man and his bride had never been . . . had never . . .
“Is it easier to get an annulment if a man and woman don’t couple?”
He stared at her, visibly checking whatever impatient or angry words had nearly burst from his lips. When he did speak, his voice and his patience were under control. “Don’t tell me you still want one,” he said. “I won’t believe you.”
“I just—” Breaking off to lick drying lips, she tried to sit up, but he held her firmly in place.
“No, Amalie, just tell me what is wrong. Why did you ask me that?”
“Because I’m sure you will want to give me back, and if it is easier without coupling, I think we should stop.”
“Not unless you tell me exactly why you think I’d want to give you back.”
“My mother said that a man can tell if his wife is a maiden or not. If she is not, the law says he can give her back. What if you should think I’m not?”
“Faith, Molly-lass, any man could tell by just looking at you that you’ve nowt in that to worry yourself. If you were the sort of lass to give favors out of wedlock, you’d not
be handmaiden to the princess. Also . . . well, one only has to know you for a short time—”
“I’m not,” she said, unable to listen to more.
“Not what?”
“Not a maiden,” she said dismally, tears welling in her eyes.
The tears sparkled, and Garth stared at them, unable to believe what she had said. He felt nothing at all, and felt that way long enough to make him think she must be lying to give him reason to abandon her. But she had willingly responded to him—and tentatively at first, innocently, not as a woman of experience would.
But perhaps, a voice in his head countered, not the way a truly virginal woman whom no one had kissed before or who had never . . .
He shook his head, clearing it, realizing he wanted to kiss her tears away and that he felt utterly stunned. Well aware that shock could numb a man’s emotions even quicker than disbelief, and feeling anger now as well, increasing anger, he said with forced calm, “Tell me what happened.”
“What do you think?”
He brushed away a tear with his thumb and said, “Sweetheart, you’ve lived for nearly two years with a woman we both know takes great care of her reputation. If any man out there could brag of having seduced you into granting him favors of any sort that could sully your name or hers, others would know. Certainly Isabel would, because someone would deem it a duty to tell her. She would also take note of any behavior on your part that encouraged men to take liberties.”
“She let you be alone with me,” Amalie said.
He frowned. He had not thought of himself as taking liberties, but of course, he had. And it was true that Isabel had encouraged him. Sakes, she had pushed him to declare the marriage. She had to have noticed before she had done it that he might be willing to marry the lass. He had scarcely had time before—or, to be truthful, the inclination—to wonder about Isabel’s reasons.
Considering them now, he shook his head again. “I don’t know how women think,” he said. “But it would take no wizard to discern my attraction to you. Nor to note your failure to rebuff me the way you did that villain Boyd.”
With a wry look that made him want to kiss her again, she said, “Sibylla said you wear your feelings on your face and in every gesture. She said that I do, too. But, although I like her, I don’t always think she knows what she’s talking about.”