by Pamela Clare
Then his tongue touched hers, his lungs stealing her surprised gasp as he sealed her mouth with his. Her body seemed to melt, and she sank boneless against him, her hands sliding up the smooth skin of his chest, her lips parting to accommodate him, her tongue meeting his. She felt something pound against her palm and realized that his heart was beating every bit as hard as hers.
Slowly, his kiss stilled, his lips brushing her cheek, her temple. “My lady.”
Breathless and amazed, she looked up into his eyes.
He drew back slightly, his arm still encircling her. “Now you ken the taste of my kiss. Think on that, and dinnae be afraid of what is to come, aye?”
* * *
Connor couldn’t stop Katakwa’s sisters from taking Lady Sarah from him when they arrived a few minutes later. But he did give them fair warning, speaking in their tongue. “If you pinch her, strike her, or harm her in any way, I will cut you open from throat to womb.”
After forcing a promise from them that Lady Sarah would be allowed to wear his shirt during the ceremony, he followed Joseph through the village to where the big drum sat surrounded by singers. And there he waited, trading jests with the other men without truly hearing a word that was spoken, his mind bent on the lady.
Connor did not want this to be a night she remembered in sorrow for the rest of her days. He did not want to be the man who haunted her nightmares or the reason she shied from her true husband’s touch. He did not want to hurt her—no easy thing, given that she was almost certainly a virgin. As far as he could see, there was only one answer.
He would have to seduce her.
But it would be a seduction like no other, for the bride was not truly willing. He would have to take his time with her. He would have to stir her passion until it carried her beyond fear, beyond shame, beyond reticence to a place where she was aware only of him and how he made her feel. Then, perhaps, he could give her pleasure.
He’d managed it earlier when he’d kissed her. But that had been nothing more than a kiss—and he’d caught her by surprise. Tonight would be very different.
His stomach knotted, and he realized with astonishment that he was nervish. Aye, he was nervish. About bedding a lass!
For God’s sake, laddie, she’s no’ the first virgin you’ve tupped.
Nay, she wasn’t. A few young Mahican lasses, eager for a man’s sexual embrace, had chosen him to be their first. He’d made them come with his hands and his tongue until they were so drenched with their own pleasure that his cock had slid easily inside them, opening them to womanhood with little pain. He would try to do the same for Lady Sarah—if she would let him.
Joseph glanced around. “Katakwa is not here. I do not see his men either.”
“Perhaps they’re showin’ their disapproval of the match. Or maybe they’re scoutin’ out a place to ambush us come the morn.”
Joseph nodded. “Either is possible. But look—she comes to you.”
As the drums began to beat, the women appeared leading Lady Sarah. An English noblewoman she might be, but she made a bonnie Shawnee, a band of wampum encircling her slender throat, the doeskin of her skirt clinging to her hips. Chanting a fertility song, the women led her around the bonfire four times. She carried herself with dignity and moved with grace, and Connor’s respect for her grew, just as it had in the lodge earlier this even when she’d given him her decision, refusing to risk lives to protect her maidenhead.
Still, he knew she was afraid. He could see it on her face.
What woman wouldn’t be afraid? Brides were often skittish on their wedding nights, but this was no ordinary wedding night. Lady Sarah was surrounded by strangers who’d killed before her eyes, who’d kidnapped and beaten her, and who were now forcing her to marry and lie with a man she scarcely knew.
She sought out his gaze, her vulnerability tugging at him.
He gave her a reassuring smile and saw relief on her face.
After their final circle around the fire, the women walked toward him, stepping in time to the beating drum, bringing Lady Sarah to stand before him.
“My lady.” He took her hand, found it cold and trembling. “You willna leave my side again so long as we are here, I promise.”
“I am glad to know it, Major.” And suddenly she seemed so young, too young. “Wh-what must I do now?”
“There is naugh’ to fear, lass.” He gave her hand a squeeze and smiled. “Just look into my eyes—and dance wi’ me.”
Chapter 7
“Dance?”
“Aye, dance.” Major MacKinnon grinned, released her hand, and took a few steps backward.
Sarah watched as the young men and women of the village lined up across from one another, many of the women bare-breasted. Stepping in time to the beat, they began to move toward one another, meeting in the middle, then drawing apart again.
“Come toward me, my lady.” Major MacKinnon moved forward, his feet moving in time to the drumming, his body possessed of a masculine grace.
She met him in the center, mimicking the steps of the other women.
“Aye, just like that. Now step away again. That’s all there is.”
Four steps out. Four steps in. It was a very simple dance—less complicated by far than a gavotte or passacaille and driven entirely by the deep beating of the drum, a simple four-four rhythm that broke into syncopation every eight measures.
“You’ve an inborn sense of rhythm, my lady.” He seemed pleased by this.
“I have always loved music.” It never failed to stir her blood, even a simple, repetitive beat such as this. And as she settled in to the steps of the dance, lulled by the beat, the knot of dread in her chest began to loosen.
It was then she noticed a facet of the dance she hadn’t before—men and women leaning close when they reached the center, whispering and smiling to each other, as if engaged in flirtation. Some even pressed up against each other, the women’s bare breasts caressing the men’s exposed chests. She had never seen anything more lewd—or more sensual.
The major must have noticed her staring. “’Tis a wedding dance, aye? The entire village shares in the joy of that bonding. See how the man says something sweet to his lady, and she speaks kind words to him in return? Let us try it.”
He wanted her to do what the others were doing?
She glanced beside her, watched the woman rub her nipples over the man’s bare chest, both of them with their hands on their hips, their chests jutting out, their eyes closed. “Oh, no, Major, I could never—”
The major’s grin widened. “Words only, lass.”
They drew apart.
When they came together again, the major’s gaze was fixed on hers. He leaned in, his scent surrounding her. “You are bonnie beyond a man’s dreams, my lady.”
The sincerity in his voice and in his eyes made her face grow warm, and all she could do was stare at him as they drew apart again. But what was she to say to him? She’d never played at coquetry before.
Four steps out. Four steps in.
She looked up at him—and the words came easily. “You are the most courageous man I know, Major.”
It was the simple truth.
Four steps out. Four steps in.
He touched a knuckle to her cheek. “A man could lose himself in your eyes.”
But it was Sarah who felt lost, the drumbeat and the heat in his gaze driving her on. “I…I’ve never met a man like you.”
He chuckled, a broad grin on his face. “Of that, my lady, I’m certain.”
Four steps out. Four steps in.
His gaze seemed to pierce her. “Your lips were meant for a man’s kisses, my lady. I willna lie. When I kissed you today, I found pleasure in it.”
Her heart seemed to miss a beat—her feet, as well. “Y-you did?”
“Aye. And I’ve a mind to kiss you again.” He slipped an arm around her, drew her against him, and took her mouth with his.
His lips pressed hard and hot against hers, his tongue see
king hers more forcefully this time, coaxing it to life with velvet flicks, luring it into his mouth. Her knees went weak, and she heard herself whimper, her fears about what was to come momentarily forgotten as her hands found their way over the hard muscles of his shoulders and into his hair, her pulse thrumming in her ears like a heartbeat, like a drumbeat.
It took a long moment after the kiss ended for her to notice the dance was over, too, her gaze locked with Major MacKinnon’s, her lips tingling, aching.
He ran his thumb over her lower lip, his voice deep. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, my lady, you find pleasure in kissin’ me, too.”
“Yes.” It was an admission she would never have made at home in London.
Then again, if she’d been at home in London, she would never have kissed a man, nor would she have been alone with one. Nor would she be about to endure a sham wedding and a forced wedding night. And the fears his kiss had banished came rushing back to her.
She glanced around. The drum had fallen silent, the people of the village drifting toward the council house. “What happens now?”
The major smiled and threaded his fingers through hers. “We feast.”
He led her into the council house and sat where he’d sat this afternoon—across the fire from the woman chief. Wooden bowls were placed before them holding strips of roasted meat, cakes made of corn, nuts, and dried berries. Then the hall fell silent.
The old chief said something, then all eyes turned toward Sarah and the major.
“You eat from my hand, then I eat from yours to show that we shall take care of one another in years to come.” He picked up a sliver of venison, raised it to her lips. “Take it, lass.”
She caught the strip of meat on her tongue, drew it into her mouth, chewed. It was delicious, the meat tender and juicy.
“Now you feed me.”
She chose a strip of meat from the bowl, raised it to his lips.
“Mmm.” He caught her wrist, took the meat, and chewed, then licked the juices from her fingers. “My thanks, lass.”
Around them, people shouted and whooped.
“Now we are married, my lady.”
Connor watched as the villagers, their bellies full, rose in small groups and left the council house until the hall was all but empty, the people waiting outside to greet him and Sarah and walk them to their lodge.
“Come, lass.” He stood, reached down for Lady Sarah’s hand. “It is time.”
She looked up at him, the brave mask she’d worn throughout the meal slipping, naked fear in her eyes. She took his hand, got to her feet. “Now we go to the lodge?”
“Aye. Hold my hand, and walk beside me.” He led her around the fire pit and out the door, where they were greeted with whoops, cheers, and ululations.
Lady Sarah gasped and drew close against him, her hand holding his tight.
He set his arm around her, raised his voice so she could hear him. “’Tis nothin’ to fear, my lady. They’re merely wishin’ us well.”
“I do not mean to be so timid. It’s only that…The sound…It reminded me for a moment of the cries they made when they attacked us by the river.”
“You’ve naugh’ to explain, lass. I understand.” He led her past the bonfire and through the maze of lodges, the villagers following a few steps behind, their whoops and cheers enough to wake the dead.
There, by the door to the guest lodge, stood an older woman who was so alike to Grannie Clear Water that she could only be her sister. A sour look on her face, she ducked inside the moment she saw them draw near.
Crow Mother—the midwife.
Connor felt his anger at this indignity rekindle. Still, he would do Lady Sarah no good by becoming enraged. He stopped at the lodge door, then turned to face the crowd, forcing a smile onto his face and speaking in Shawnee. “We thank you for your prayers and good thoughts. Now seek your beds as we do ours.”
The villagers laughed, a few men calling out crude suggestions as to what Connor should do in his bed tonight.
“Split her with your hatchet!”
“Push her onto her hands and knees, and take her like a bull elk in rut!”
“Fill her sweet hive with your honey—or let me do it for you!”
He ignored their vulgar words, then shocked Lady Sarah by scooping her into his arms, her weight settling easily. He looked into her startled eyes. “Though this marriage is a sham, what we share tonight will be real, my lady. I said I’d treat you wi’ the same respect I’d show my own true bride, and I meant it. I’d no’ be able to call myself a Scotsman if I let you walk across this threshold.”
He shouldered the door of woven mats aside and stepped inside to find Crow Mother sitting near a fire that had all but burned to embers. He set Lady Sarah on her feet. “Rest, my lady, while I build up the fire.”
He turned toward the woodpile, grabbed a fistful of kindling together with several larger pieces of wood, then turned back toward the fire only to find Crow Mother reaching for the buttons on Lady Sarah’s shirt—his shirt. He dropped the wood and started forward.
But before he could intervene, Lady Sarah smacked Crow Mother’s hands away. “Don’t touch me!”
Crow Mother drew her hand back as if to strike Lady Sarah, but Connor caught the old woman’s wrist and leaned in close, speaking in Shawnee. “From this moment, only my hand shall touch her. You are here to watch, and I will permit nothing more. Sit down, and keep silent. Do nothing to remind me you are here.”
He knew he took a risk by speaking to the chief’s sister with such disrespect, but he couldn’t hold it back. Her presence here was ill-intentioned and spiteful, and he would not abide her abusing or further frightening Lady Sarah.
Crow Mother glared at him but wisely said nothing, settling her girth on a sleeping platform against the far wall.
As the shouting and laughter died down outside the lodge, Connor gathered the wood he’d dropped and squatted down next to the fire, feeding it first the kindling and then the larger pieces of firewood until embers flared into flames. Still nervish, he looked up to see Lady Sarah sitting on a sleeping platform, watching him. “Come sit by the fire, my lady. Warm yourself.”
She lay down, flat and stiff on her back, her hands balled into little fists at her sides. “Pl-please, Major, do what must be done. Let this night be over.”
She was offering herself to him, trying to be brave.
The poor lass!
Painfully aware that whatever happened tonight would color her feelings about men forever, Connor walked over to sit beside her, pity for her swelling inside him. He took her hand and drew her up into his arms. And for a time he did naught but hold her.
“I ken you are afraid, my lady, but you must trust me. I willna simply climb atop you and have done wi’ it. Lyin’ back and offerin’ yourself to me like a sacrifice took courage, but only an animal would take a woman in such a fashion. Whatever else I may be, I’m no’ an animal. Come. Sit wi’ me by the fire.”
Feeling as if she were made of wood, Sarah followed the major, sitting beside him on the reed mats, the midwife watching her.
The major caught her cheek, turned her face toward him. “Pay no heed to that old crow. Forget she is there. Keep your eyes on me, lass.”
Then he drew a leather-wrapped flask and a tin cup out of his gear, poured amber liquid into the cup, and placed it in her hands. “Drink. It will help to calm you.”
She did as he asked, shuddering at the strong taste. “What is it?”
He chuckled. “Rum—a soldier’s drink.”
She took another, bigger swallow, grimacing as what felt like liquid fire burnt its way down her throat.
“Let us take out these braids, for I dinnae think you care for them. I saw you tuggin’ at them earlier.”
“They’re too tight. They pull at my hair.” She watched as he untied the leather thongs at the end of the braids, surprised that he had noticed her discomfort. Given all they were facing, it was but a small thing.
He shifted to sit behind her, his voice deep and soft. “Tell me, my lady, what do you ken of the pleasures of men and women?”
The unexpected question sent a rush of heat into her cheeks, and she stammered. “I…My…M-my mother said my husband would tell me what he wished me to know on our wedding night.”
“Then that duty falls to me, aye?” He slowly unbraided her hair, bringing her relief. “As I’ve said, this marriage is a sham, but what we’re doin’ tonight will be real. I wish only to ease your fears. You must understand what is happenin’.”
His words set off butterflies in her stomach, and she wondered if she dared tell him that she already did know much about the marital act. Margaret had shared the ordeal of her wedding night, even showing Sarah sketches of ancient Greek sculptures she’d made when on holiday to answer Sarah questions about how men and women’s bodies were joined.
“It was my mother’s wish that we remain chaste in mind and body, but…Lady Margaret told me…She said that a man lies atop his wife and pushes his…his membrum virile—”
“His what?” The major gave a chuckle. “I’ve no’ heard it called that afore.”
“It’s Latin and means…penis.”
“I ken what it means. I may be a Ranger and simple compared to the men in your family, but I was raised in my grandfather’s keep until the age of twelve and can read and speak both French and Latin. But never you mind, lass. Tell me what Lady Margaret said.”
Sarah was too discomfited by the subject to take in this surprising revelation. “He pushes…his penis…inside his wife again and again until his seed spills. Margaret said this gives the man great pleasure but causes the woman pain.”
Face burning with embarrassment, Sarah took another sip of rum.