by Lynsay Sands
Cathal rose up on his knees and kissed her, gently at first, but his desire for her quickly grew hot and strong. He picked her up out of the chair and stood her in front of the fire. Slowly, pausing now and then to give into the urge to kiss her again, he undressed her. Smiling faintly at her blushes when she finally stood naked before him, he looked her over. Her breasts looked just big enough to nestle sweetly into the palms of his hands. Her waist was small, her hips gently rounded, and her legs long, slender, and strong. There was a hint of gold to her beautiful skin that had him aching to touch it, taste it. His gaze settled upon the neat vee of gold between her slim thighs and he quickly began to shed his own clothes.
The embarrassment Bridget felt over standing naked before Cathal began to rapidly fade as he undressed. By the time he stood as naked as she, Bridget was nearly shaking with the need to touch him. She would never have thought that a man as beautiful as Cathal could look even more beautiful naked, but he did. He was all lean, taut muscle from his broad, smooth chest to his long, well-shaped legs. And all of it covered with that lovely fair skin. A thin line of black hair started at his navel, thickened at his groin, and thinned again to lightly coat his legs. Her gaze went to his groin again and she felt a tiny flicker of uncertainty. That particular part of him looked a lot larger than she had anticipated and she became acutely aware of how much smaller she was than Cathal.
“Twill be fine, love,” Cathal said as he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. “I cannae promise ye that there will be no pain, but I will do all I can to make it but a small one, quickly done and quickly forgotten.”
“It must be done.” She trembled with delight when he joined her on the bed and took her into his arms. “I just suddenly felt rather small.”
“Ye are rather small,” he teased. “Small but exquisite. Utterly beautiful. Trust me, sweetling. We will fit together perfectly. I kenned it almost from the start.”
Bridget wrapped her arms around his neck when he kissed her. The feel of his warm skin against her, the sensuous strokes of his tongue within her mouth, soon had her blood running hot. She cautiously teased at his tongue with her own. His low growl of approval prompted her to be even more bold. When he pulled his tongue back, but left his mouth open against hers, Bridget took it as an invitation and quickly accepted it. Bridget soon discovered that she loved the taste of him, enjoyed the fine tremors that went through his strong body with every stroke of her tongue. Just as she thought about touching those very sharp teeth with her tongue, he abruptly ended the kiss. He pressed his forehead against hers as he struggled to catch his breath. This sign that she had stirred his desire so fiercely gave Bridget a sense of pure feminine power. Something distinctly wild began to stir inside of her.
“Lass, ye learn much too quickly,” Cathal said when he finally regained some semblance of control.
“That is a bad thing, is it?”
“Nay, a verra good thing.” He began to kiss her throat. “But nay this night.” He gently nipped her soft skin at the place where he could see the rhythm of her pulse. “Tonight I need to be gentle and kisses like that dinnae make me feel verra gentle at all.”
Even as Bridget opened her mouth to speak, he covered her breasts with his elegant hands and she gasped. Beneath the light teasing caress of his long fingers her nipples grew taut and aching. When he slowly drew the hard tip of one deep into his mouth and suckled her, she buried her fingers into his thick hair and held him close. She suffered one brief moment of fear over the strength of the feelings he was stirring within her, then gave herself over to them.
Cathal was both astonished and delighted by the passion his new bride was revealing. He feasted upon her breasts, stroked her slim legs, and rubbed himself against her in a growing urgency. Every touch of her small soft hands, every slow scratch of her sharp nails, threatened to break the tight control upon his desire he struggled to maintain. He had wanted their first loving to be a slow, gentle union, but her every little purr, the soft growls that escaped her, increased his aching need to be one with her. He slid his hand down between her legs to stroke her, ready her for his possession, and her lithe little body arched off the bed at the first caress of his fingers. Cathal did not believe he had ever had a woman who was so responsive to his touch, so openly passionate.
Knowing he could not wait any longer, and beginning to think she was as desperate for their joining as he was, Cathal slowly entered her. He gritted his teeth, fighting the strong urge to thrust himself deep inside her tight heat again and again. When he reached her maidenhead, he hesitated, his whole body shaking with the strain of holding back. Taking a deep breath, he broke through that barrier and felt those sharp fingernails of hers dig into his back.
“The pain,” he began, surprised he had enough wit to speak. “Bridget, have I hurt ye too sorely?”
It had hurt, but that sharp pain was already fading away. She wrapped her legs around him, felt him go deeper within her body, and echoed his gasp. Slowly, enjoying his warm skin beneath her hands, she stroked his back.
“It was but a brief hurt,” she whispered. “Now, husband, I think ye need to show me it is worth it.”
He laughed shakily and began to move. The brief dimming of her passion was short-lived, and she was soon moving in perfect harmony with him. Her response to him was so swift, her passion so hot and inviting, he lost control. When she cried out his name and her body shuddered and clenched around his, he poured himself into her. His release was so powerful that he barely stopped himself from indulging in the full mating many a MacNachton male craved. He swiftly moved his mouth from her neck and buried his face in her breasts. It seemed a long time before he began to come to his senses again. The gentle way she ran her hands over his back smoothed away his fear that she had been aware of what he had nearly done.
“Ye bit me,” Bridget murmured, touching her neck, but finding no wound there.
Since there was no anger or alarm in her voice, Cathal relaxed. “Ye scratched me.”
Bridget peered over his shoulder, but saw only a few faint marks. “Either I didnae scratch ye verra hard or ye have healed already.” She ran her feet up and down his well shaped, strong calves as she savored the lingering tingles of passion in her body.
Cathal slipped from her grasp, dampened a cloth in the bowl of water set out on a table by the bed, and washed them both clean of the remnants of their passion. He smiled faintly at the way she blushed, charmed by the hint of modesty and heartily pleased that it was not strong enough to dim her desire when they made love. He sprawled on his back and pulled her into his arms, savoring the way she curled her body around his. Some benevolent spirit must have been smiling down on him the day Jankyn had set Bridget in his bed.
“So, lass, was it worth it?”
Bridget smiled against his shoulder. She could not believe she wanted him again, but she did. “Weel, ’tis hard to say,” she murmured as she stroked his taut stomach. “A person shouldnae make a judgment too quickly and on so little evidence. Of course, if ye are too weak and weary—” She laughed when he abruptly reversed their positions and proceeded to show her that he was more than capable of giving her more “evidence.”
Eight
Bridget caught herself humming as she strode through the village at Mora’s side and shook her head. She was so happy, she made herself uneasy. Yet it was difficult to subdue the joy warming her heart. She had a beautiful husband who made her wild with desire, there had been no sign of trouble from the Purebloods for a month, and today was a sunny, warm day. The little village she strolled through was beautiful, the narrow valley it sat in was too lovely for words, and its fertile fields were plowed, planted, and already showed signs of a growing crop. She was so pleased with herself and her life, she could easily believe she was blessed.
She knew there were problems that still needed to be solved. Despite their silence, she doubted that all the Purebloods had accepted her or Cathal’s plans for the clan’s future. Althou
gh Cathal obviously shared her passion, there was no sign yet that he returned her love. She knew there were a few secrets remaining about the MacNachtons that Cathal did not seem inclined to share with her. She still had not gained the courage to share all of her secrets with him, either, and it often made her feel painfully guilty. At times, even when they were sprawled in each other’s arms, limp, sated and sweaty, she got the feeling Cathal was not completely satisfied, that there was something he needed or wanted that she was not giving him.
“Wheesht, lass,” Mora said, “your moods change near as often as the weather. One minute ye are all smiles, the next ye look as if ye have a pain in your belly.”
Bridget was surprised into a laugh as she paused by a rough table where several bolts of cloth were displayed. “I was just thinking about how wonderful everything is. I was feeling so happy, it was nauseating.” She smiled when Mora laughed. “I must say,” she murmured as she ran her hands over some soft linen, “there are some verra fine goods for sale in this wee village.”
“Aye, the MacNachtons have a taste for fine things and the coin to buy it. We have some verra skilled people, too.” Mora frowned. “The word begins to spread. Tisnae so rare now to find people from outside the valley traveling here to buy our goods. Our weavers are much admired, ye ken.”
“Oh, dear. Good for the people of the village, but—” Bridget hesitated, not sure how to express her concern.
“Aye. But. Tis why the laird seeks a few changes.”
“Changes nay welcomed by all, although it has been verra quiet for a month.”
“Verra quiet. I would like to think ’tis all settled, but I cannae. That Scymynd has always coveted the laird’s chair and now he feels he has the cause needed to pull others to his side. He and a few others are verra prideful, e’en vain.”
“Like Edmee.” Bridget was pleased she had not even caught a glimpse of the woman since the wedding, but could not convince herself that Edmee had given up her desire to have Cathal for her own. Worse, Bridget had never garnered the courage to ask Cathal if Edmee had any good reason for thinking that she had some claim on him.
“The laird doesnae want that woman.”
Bridget was a little startled at how well Mora had guessed her thoughts. “Ye read minds, do ye?”
“Nay. Tisnae hard to guess what any woman would think or feel when a woman like Edmee eyes her mon. When the laird was a randy wee lad, just coming into his monhood and all, he and Edmee tussled about some. But, then, Edmee has tussled about with near every mon at Cambrun. It didnae last long. She couldnae be faithful if she tried and I think she made her contempt of Outsiders too sharp and clear to see. She could ne’er seem to understand how that insulted the laird’s mother, may God bless and keep her sweet soul, and the laird. And now Edmee insults ye, the laird’s chosen wife.”
“I would have thought she would be cleverer than that.”
“Ye would think so. But, nay, she has that arrogance, that blind pride of blood. She thinks the laird ought to renounce his Outsider blood, seems to think he cannae help but do so. What worries me is that she will see his choice of bride as an insult to her.”
“Aye, I suspect that she will, or already has.”
“Tis all blind pride, for she kens all is lost now that ye and the laird are mated. He willnae, probably cannae, be hers now.”
“I should like to believe that is the way of it, but, weel, she is verra beautiful.” Bridget frowned when she saw how intently Mora was staring at her. “What is it?”
“Didnae the laird explain the mating ere he did it?”
Bridget blushed. “Weel, nay, but it wasnae really necessary.”
“I dinnae think we are speaking of the same thing.” Mora grasped Bridget by the hand. “Ye and I need to have a wee, private talk, a verra private talk.” She saw the woman whose cloth they had been examining watching them from the doorway of her cottage. “Dinnae frown, Jean. We will be putting some coin in your palm ere we leave today, but I must have a wee private talk with my lady.”
Jean smiled and nodded. “A new bride needs counsel now and again, aye? Go inside. I will make sure no one troubles ye. Have yourself a wee drink, too. I have some verra fine cider.”
Mora nodded and led Bridget into the small cottage that obviously served as Jean’s shop as well as her home. She let Mora pull her along until they reached a room at the rear of the cottage which served as the family’s main living quarters. Bridget sat down at a large well-scrubbed table while Mora poured them each a tankard of cider. When Mora set a tankard in front of her, Bridget started to thank her only to be startled into silence when Mora closely examined her neck.
“Aye, I feared as much,” muttered Mora as she sat down across from Bridget and took a hearty drink of cider. “That big fool. He hasnae completed the mating. Tisnae good. Nay, ’tisnae good at all. Especially if that bitch Edmee finds out.”
“Mora, what are ye talking about? The marriage has been consummated. Quite thoroughly.”
“Ah, lass, the laird obviously waits to be sure ye have fully accepted him, accepted him for what he is, all that he is. He hasnae given ye the bite yet.”
Bridget frowned, not certain she liked the implications of that. “He does bite me.”
“Love bites, wee nips, but nay the bite. Being that he is a halfling, mayhap he doesnae have to. I hadnae considered that. Halflings are always different in some way from Purebloods.”
After taking a long drink of cider to calm her rising temper, Bridget said, “Tell me, Mora, what ye mean by the mating and the bite. Ye keep starting to tell me, then wander off the subject, and, weel, end up talking more to yourself than to me.”
“Pardon. Tis nay widely kenned. Tis one of the MacNachtons’ most closely guarded secrets. I learned of it because, weel, a wee bit o’er twenty years ago I was in love with a Pureblood. Ye ken my son David, aye?”
“David is the son of a Pureblood? But he has reddish hair. I have seen him about during the day as weel.”
“Aye, he is more our kind than theirs, but the MacNachton blood is in him. He is a strong, healthy lad, always was. And, though he can go about in the daylight, he has to be most careful, avoiding the full heat of the day and such as that. Seems way back in his father’s line one of his ancestors mated with a halfling. The wee added bit of our blood is what has made my David so blessed. The laird has seen that my lad is educated and he will be verra important to the clan. Already is in many ways.”
“Can ye tell me who his father is, or is that a secret?”
“Jankyn.” Mora laughed briefly at Bridget’s obvious shock, then sighed. “Aye, Jankyn doesnae look a day older than our son, aye? but he is my age. And that was some of the problem. Oh, I did love that lad.”
“Jankyn is easy to love, e’en when ye wish ye had a thick stick in hand to clout him o’er the head.”
Mora grinned and nodded, then grew serious. “It was both wondrous and awful, heaven and hell. Twas a delight when I was with him and a pure torment when I thought on the years ahead. I could see it as it is now all too clearly, with me as I am and him still looking like a bonnie lad of twenty. Ah, but he said he wished to marry me, and I was sorely tempted. Was near to saying aye when he told me the secret about the mating, about the bite.” Mora nodded when Bridget touched her own neck. “Aye, for ones such as us, ’tisnae just a wee thing, is it? We cannae heal as they can. We arenae as strong. Mayhap I just didnae love him enough. I couldnae do it. My heart, my body, aye. My blood? To let him feed on me, e’en just a wee bit? Nay, I couldnae. E’en when I kenned I carried David, I couldnae, and, being a Pureblood, Jankyn couldnae swear that he wouldnae do it. He couldnae be sure he would be able to stop himself from completing the mating.”
“It has to be the neck? He couldnae just take a wee sip from somewhere else?”
“Nay, I dinnae think so. Tis like this—when ye are together as mon and wife, just as he spills his seed, he bites ye and has a wee taste.”
“Ev
ery time?” Bridget asked in alarm, thinking of all the times Cathal had nipped at her neck while they made love.
“Wheesht, nay. Just the once.”
“Oh, thank God. If ’twas every time, I wouldnae last out the week.” She blushed when Mora laughed heartily.
“Aye, the laird does have the fever for ye. Nay, lass, ’tis just the once. Tis done on the wedding night. As the mon gives ye his seed, gives ye a part of him as it were, he takes a wee bit from ye. Tis a blending and ’tis what binds him to ye as a mate.”
Bridget sipped at her cider and thought over all Mora had told her. It explained Cathal’s talk of mating. It certainly explained the way he always nipped at her neck as his body shuddered with release, as well as the way he seemed to tear himself away from there. Maybe all halflings did not need to do it, but she now felt certain that Cathal had that urge. It explained that odd feeling she kept getting that she was failing him in some strange way. And, yet, to allow him to sink his teeth into her flesh, to drink her blood? Could she still think of him in the same way if she allowed him to do that? Could she still feel the same way about him?
“Despite the odd choice of food, I had decided that the MacNachtons didnae drink blood,” she said.
“They dinnae do it verra often. Many, many years ago they werenae so, weel, controlled. When they would go on a hunt, it wasnae always for animals. They fought a lot of battles, too, and were verra savage. Tis said they used to ride out at night to fight or hunt. They must have been a chilling sight with their black cloaks and black horses. They were called the Nightriders.”
“Aye, Cathal mentioned something about that once.”
“Weel, the name is still whispered from time to time, but it has been so verra long, ’tis little more than a myth now, a tale of the old, frightening times. Their laird put a halt to the harming of people save those like your thieves or enemies of the clan. The Nightriders had become too weel kenned, aye? Too many eyes had turned this way. There were hunts for them and killings done. From then ’til now, the habit of staying within these hills has held fast.”