"Will you give your consent this day?"
His voice filled the room with the question he asked each day of her confinement. Tears stung Ciara's eyes. She no longer had the will to fight him, or Valerie's memory.
MacDonell sighed. "I take your silence as a nay."
"Please," she whispered, her voice weak from lack of use. Her gaze turned to him. He paused at the threshold, his hand poised on the latch. "I can stand no more."
A furrow creased his brow and he stepped into the room. "Do you give your consent?"
Anger at herself for being weak surged through her veins. Despite her efforts, a tear seeped from the corner of her eye.
"Aye," she whispered and turned away from him. She would perish before allowing him to see her weep.
A moment of silence passed. Ciara wished he would depart so she could grieve in seclusion.
"I will send for the priest. We can fulfill our promise to Valerie by dusk."
Ciara nodded. What more could be said? She had tried in vain to make him see reason. Despite her dislike for MacDonell, the damnation of Valerie's dying wish could not be ignored. There was naught left to do but get the matter over with.
"I will return your trunk. Do you need assistance to prepare for this eve?"
His false consideration mocked her and wore her nerves thin. She bit her lip to keep from turning on him. Instead, she shook her head.
He sighed, and through the stillness of the room she heard his steps take him to the door. The click of the latch rang in her ears. Deep in her heart, she felt as if her life had just drawn to a close. She was as good as dead.
Ciara buried her face in her pillows and cried.
* * *
The clan assembled at the given time. Despite the reason for the gathering, the atmosphere of a funeral prevailed.
Alastair couldn't blame them. He held no emotions toward the forthcoming union. Across the room, Ciara stood in a patched gown of worn peach silk. He frowned. Was this the best the woman had to wear on the day of her wedding? An image of her on that first fateful day flashed through his mind. Were rags all she owned? From the weight of her trunk, he presumed her possessions were many, yet she continued to appear in one of three mended gowns.
His gaze moved to her face. She looked bereaved, as if the ceremony she was about to endure was a sentence of death.
Alastair grimaced. 'Twas his fault she looked upon this as such. In an effort to gain his way, he used intimidation to his advantage. After what transpired in the hall a fortnight past, followed by seclusion, 'twas no wonder Ciara gazed upon him with doom in her eyes.
Through the pages of his mind, the unwanted image of a battle in a glen sprang forth. Dread coiled through his veins. Her opinion of him would plummet even more if she ever found out the truth. Perhaps he should tell her.
One look into her troubled eyes and he shoved the thought aside. Time will show what should be said and what truths are best left to their fitful slumber.
"I still say ye should forget the irrational wish of a dying woman and simply toss the viper from the keep."
Pulled from his troublesome thoughts, Alastair looked up at Torquil who now stood beside him. He frowned and shook his head. "I cannot do that. Valerie had her reasons for making the request."
Torquil snorted and scowled across the room to where Ciara stood staring out the window. "Yer love for yer wife must have been deep tae face a future with that lass."
Love? The words shook Alastair to the very core of his soul. Had his clansmen known what he did not until the final breath had passed from Valerie's lungs?
"Love has naught to do with what is about to transpire. A dying wish, as well you know, cannot be denied."
The priest entered the room and took his position before the hearth. 'Twas time to see this through. With a sigh, Alastair approached Ciara and placed a hand on her shoulder. Her gaze met his. In the depths of her eyes he saw surrender.
"'Tis time," he said and moved his fingers to her elbow.
Ciara resisted. Her gaze scanned the room. She moved closer and whispered, "I beg you to reconsider. This is wrong."
Alastair tightened his hold and forced aside the irritation her words evoked. "The priest awaits."
With as much joy as a person facing the gallows, Ciara turned and approached the hearth. Alastair was at a loss how to handle the situation with her. He had never forced himself upon a woman in his life, and he disliked the thought of having to do so now.
Yet Valerie had left him no choice. She knew he would honor her wish, no matter what his feelings. Through aggression, he had gained Ciara's consent.
That, he resolved, was as far as he would carry his threats. When he took Ciara to their bed for the first time, it would be because she wished it.
The ceremony concluded amid silence. How different this service was, compared to his union with Valerie. Then the clan had gathered with wishes of health and happiness falling from their lips. Music had played, and merriment filled the air.
Naught but dread hovered over them now. Alastair turned to the room. Anger climbed up his spine at the forlorn faces that greeted him.
"Do none wish to welcome my bride?"
His question met with a mixture of clearing throats and gazes locked to the floor. A few women murmured a welcome.
Alastair slipped an arm around Ciara's waist and guided her through the room. He paused at each clansman and introduced them to his wife. The looks bestowed upon him told him they would rather stone Ciara than greet her. Yet his position as laird prevented them from acting on their urges.
As the last couple was introduced, the voices of those gathered began to blend. The icy reception had been dispelled and Alastair felt relief that the ordeal was over.
Ciara did not wish to be part of this clan, yet she saw the oath through. Perhaps now she would feel more at ease with him and his clan. Surely she knew that by presenting her at his side, he ensured her safety.
None would dare harm the laird's lady.
* * *
Ciara was going to vomit. Bile rose in her throat and a chilled sweat dampened her brow.
Dear Lord, she had fulfilled Valerie's wish and married a MacDonell. A MacDonell! God forgive her.
She closed her eyes and leaned over the basin tucked before the windows of her room. Deep breaths filled her lungs as she fought the urge to spew.
Clearly MacDonell possessed a bit of decorum, for after the nightmare of the ceremony, he escorted her here and left her alone. For that, at least, she could thank him.
She held little memory of what transpired below, save the brush of his hand against her back as he moved her through a clan who would just as soon rejoice at her wake than her wedding. At one point the room began to spin and, despite her intentions, she clutched MacDonell's arm to keep from falling into a swoon.
A sad chuckle escaped her lips at the memory. The concern he pretended almost convinced her he truly cared for her well-being. 'Twas then he brought her above stairs and begged her to rest.
Rest, indeed. Most likely he would return and demand his rights over her body.
Another wave of nausea consumed her. It rose no further than her throat before it subsided, yet it left a bitter taste in her mouth.
She could not think of the night to come. Aside from the kiss she shared with Bryan McDermott so long ago, Ciara had been quite chaste. This was no surprise for, based upon her looks, none would wish to steal a kiss from her.
"'Tis foolishness," she muttered and dared open her eyes. MacDonell was her husband now, and there was naught she could do to prevent him from taking what was rightfully his.
With trembling hands, she poured water into the basin and splashed it over her clammy face. She rinsed her mouth, then buried her face in the softness of a towel.
"Are you feeling better now?"
Ciara froze. Dear Lord, he had come already. If she did not know better, she would think him eager to bed his new wife. Her stomach churned at the thoug
ht.
With a swallow for courage, she removed the linen from her face. "Aye," she whispered and twisted the fabric held tightly in her hands.
"Good. Would you care for something to eat?"
Suspicion edged into her brain. He was being nice to her. Why? She turned and immediately wished she hadn't.
One look into his sensuous eyes and Ciara knew she would vomit all over him if he so much as touched her.
He raised his eyebrows. "Well, would you?"
What the devil was he talking about? It took a fair amount of effort on her part to remember he had asked about food.
Ciara avoided his gaze and moved to the table. "Nay. I fear I will disgrace myself should I dare let food pass my lips."
The door closed and her gaze snapped to his. Her heart lodged in her throat as she watched him approach the table.
God, he was handsome. 'Twas a sin for one man to hold so much appeal. Comely or not, it did not ease the tension from her body. Any man who thought to do to her what she imagined a husband does to a wife scared the life out of her.
"Does my presence cause you grief?"
Nervous laughter tumbled from her throat. "That is an understatement, MacDonell." She looked away from his haunting gaze and tried to still the rapid beat of her heart. "This entire situation causes me grief."
His weary sigh drew her gaze. Strong fingers shoved through his tousled hair before his gaze met hers.
"I believe I can dispel some of your unease," he said, and moved around the table toward her.
Ciara's heart increased its rhythm as she backed away from his imposing form.
MacDonell paused and frowned. "Cease backing away from me, woman. I give you my word I will not toss you upon the table and ravish you."
His words halted her steps. They also stirred her anger. 'Twas clear she was too nightmarish for any man to lose his senses over and devour. If he dared speak her thoughts, she would kill him where he stood.
Again he sighed and rubbed his brow. "Listen to me, Ciara, and hear me well." He lowered his hand and stared at her. "I have no intention of bedding you this night."
Ciara's anger hardened her heart. His response should be no surprise. She raised her chin and crossed her arms over her belly.
"'Tis difficult to see yourself wed to a crone, is it not, MacDonell? It must be quite repulsive to envision me in your bed."
A vein in his neck twitched. "Woman, I am trying to be noble. You make the effort difficult."
"Noble?" She nodded. "Aye, I suppose it took a bit of plotting to find a way to tell your bride that she stirs no desire in your veins."
MacDonell shook his head and muttered a curse. "Och, I will have you in my bed. However, addlebrained as I am, I thought it best if we spend time together first to acquaint ourselves with one another before taking that step."
Ciara felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. Did he truly wish to be noble? This had to be a ploy. Without consummation, the union could be challenged.
"Yet, if you prefer a ravishment, I assure you I can comply."
He jerked off the brooch that held his tartan over his shoulder. The metal clattered over the stones and lured Ciara's heart to her throat. He pulled the hem of his shirt from the waist of his kilt and her nerves coiled in her belly.
"Nay!" she said, instantly halting his disrobement. His eyes met hers. Ciara swallowed hard. "That is, I prefer to avoid the issue as long as possible."
Lord, it was difficult to speak with him looking at her like he actually desired her. She averted her gaze and clasped her hands before her.
"I mean to say. . . that is, I have not so much as kissed a man before." She moistened her lips and swallowed hard. "I would favor the wait."
The scuff of his boots moving toward her heightened her fear. She took a step back before forcing herself to stop. If he wanted her dead, he would have carried it through long before now. Something about him assured her he would cause her no harm.
He stopped before her. Ciara stared at his shoes and willed her pulse to cease its erratic beat. His hands moved with care toward her face. Despite her urge to retreat, Ciara stood her ground.
The gentle brush of his fingers against her cheeks sent shivers down her spine. He lifted her head until her eyes met his.
The pads of his thumbs caressed the corners of her mouth, then followed the curve of her lips. Ciara closed her eyes against the sensations such a simple act caused.
His breath brushed her skin moments before his lips met hers. Such tenderness in a man his size and strength surprised her.
The softness of his lips moved over hers. In her breast, her heart beat so fiercely, she was certain he could feel it.
"I will not hurt you," he murmured and eased a hand to the nape of her neck. "I promise."
The next thing Ciara knew, she was pressed against his chest. As if they had a mind of their own, her lips parted.
In the back of her mind, she heard MacDonell groan. The intoxicating sweetness of his mouth invaded her. He tasted like ambrosia and she wanted more. The tip of his tongue touched hers. The jolt of unexpected pleasure it caused made her tremble in his arms.
Her knees threatened to give way and she clutched his shirt for support.
Dear Lord. If she had known this was what it was like to kiss a man, she'd have dared it long before now.
His tongue lured hers to respond. The moment she did, she felt a shudder stab his body. He deepened the kiss and Ciara knew she would swoon.
Through the seductive fog that surrounded her brain, she felt something hard press against her belly. MacDonell must have felt it, too, for he withdrew his lips from hers.
Ciara's eyes drifted open. Why was it so hard to breathe? 'Twas as if MacDonell sucked all the air from her lungs.
His hands rested on her shoulders. They were so very warm, for she felt the heat through the thickness of her clothes. MacDonell expelled a breath through his teeth and raised his gaze to the ceiling. Had she done something wrong?
Doubt pierced her heart and she lowered her eyes. 'Twas then she saw the source of her earlier discomfort. MacDonell was clearly ready to move to the next stage.
"Now, wife, you have been properly kissed by a man."
Her gaze moved to his. A teasing smile curled his lips. Heat rushed to her cheeks. The man knew what she had stared at.
He chuckled, placed a chaste kiss upon her cheek and moved toward the door. "I bid you goodnight, Ciara MacDonell."
The moment the door closed, Ciara staggered and sat upon the bed. She closed her eyes and pressed her cool palms against her heated cheeks.
He had left his mark upon her. She still felt the touch of his lips and the caress of his arms. More alarming than that, the press of his. . . um, manhood against her womb did very strange things to her body. It stirred something in her she had never felt before, or dreamed possible.
Whatever the feeling was, it had to remain unexplored. Now that she was his wife, she could get word to her brothers.
Once they arrived, the marriage could be annulled and both she and MacDonell would be free of Valerie's curse.
The solution seemed simple enough. All Ciara had to do was keep the union chaste. Her eyes drifted open and she glanced toward the door.
She could not allow MacDonell to touch her again. If she failed, she would soon find herself in his bed.
Ciara lay back on her mattress and tried to summon memories of her father. Yet, despite her efforts, the only image that came forth was of MacDonell pulling her into his arms. MacDonell showing her what it was liked to be kissed.
She closed her eyes and tried to push away the feelings the memory of his kiss evoked. Ciara knew then that keeping him at bay would be harder than she ever imagined.
Chapter Nine
Alastair sat before the hearth in the dining hall. Beyond the windows of the keep, snow descended upon the earth and blocked out the kiss of dawn.
His gaze flicked over the clan gathered for their mornin
g repast, and focused on the doorway. What was keeping Ciara?
The mere thought of his bride sent shivers through his soul. He had a difficult time last eve restraining himself. The simple kiss he bestowed upon her was meant to do no more than gain an ounce of her trust and prove his honor.
His departure haunted him the remainder of the night.
Ciara had unknowingly given him a taste of her passion. Her response to his gentle encouragement was more seductive than he ever dreamed.
Alastair briefly closed his eyes and willed his blood to cool. Walking the keep with an erection stabbing his kilt was one thing he could do without.
He had been celibate for nearly half a year. Now that he had a healthy wife, he longed to ease the discomfort in his loins. But, not until she was ready.
Ciara chose that moment to enter the hall. His gaze slid over her and his tempered passion stirred. A mended gown covered the body he longed to explore. She wore the length of her flame-kissed hair swept up off her shoulders, leaving her neck exposed. The smudges beneath her eyes bespoke the sleep that had eluded her.
Alastair smiled. At least he was not the only one who lay awake all night. Again his gaze moved over her. Without question, once he unleashed her desire, the fire of their union would consume them both.
The murmurs of the clan died away and all eyes turned to Ciara. No doubt she felt the iciness of their welcome. He would put a stop to that.
The scrape of his chair against the floor as he stood drew not only Ciara's gaze, but those of his clan. No words were needed to relay his displeasure. The clansmen avoided his gaze and resumed their meals.
"Come sate your appetite, wife."
The blush that crept into her cheeks tugged a smile to his lips. She avoided his gaze and slowly approached the table.
Each step aroused his imagination. The tips of his fingers ached with the memory of touching her. His arms felt hollow without her in their embrace. Alastair suppressed a shudder and tried to force away his troublesome thoughts.
He failed miserably.
Perhaps the seduction of Ciara wouldn't be as complicated as he assumed. Done properly, he could gain her consent to share his bed before a week lapsed.
Paper Roses Page 7