Highland Groom

by Hannah Howell

  “Nay? Mayhap I doubt your tale of what occured between us a year ago, but I dinnae doubt that ye are now my wife.” He started to move toward her. “We did kneel before a priest mere hours ago and say our vows.”

  “And ye expect me to play the dutiful wife to a mon who thinks me a liar?”

  “Since when does what a mon think or feel about his wife keep her from giving him his husbandly rights?” Diarmot gave in to the strong urge to stroke her hair, finding it soft to the touch.

  That was a sad fact Ilsa could not argue with. Another sad fact she had to face was how his nearness, his touch upon her hair, was heating her blood. Although she could hide a great deal of what she felt, it was obvious she could not easily control her desire for him. Having him so close, smelling the clean, crisp scent of him, and knowing he was undoubtedly naked beneath the heavy robe he wore was rapidly stirring her desire for him to a near-feverish level.

  “Ye dinnae believe I am your wife despite Father Goudie’s blessing,” she said. “Ye think I am trying to trick ye in some way, although I cannae understand why ye would.”

  “Nay? We were supposedly lovers, then handfasted, a year ago. A year ago I put my name to papers that give ye and your children claim to all that is mine. A year ago someone tried to kill me. Such great coincidence has to raise a doubt or two even in the most feeble of minds.”

  “I see. So, ye dinnae just think me a liar, ye think me a threat to your verra life. I am surprised ye wish to be alone with me,” she snapped as she took several steps away from him and turned to glare at him. “Are ye sure ye dare to slip beneath the sheets with such a dangerous lass?”

  “Nay so dangerous when ye are unarmed and naked.”

  “Unarmed, naked, and nay the wife ye intended to bed this night, either.”

  Diarmot shrugged as he walked toward her, undeterred by how she retreated before his advance, for she was backing up toward the bed. “I wanted a woman in my bed and a mother for my bairns. Aye, I also sought a sweet, biddable lass.”

  “Of course. Instead, ye got one ye dinnae trust as far as ye can spit.”

  “Probably nay e’en that far. Howbeit, until the truth is revealed, ye will do for what I seek.”

  “Ye have a true skill at wooing a lass, dinnae ye.”

  “I dinnae need to woo ye. Ye took vows afore a priest. Those vows say ye will share my bed when I wish it. Shall we leave the marriage unconsummated then?”

  She frowned. “It has been consummated. A year ago.”

  “Nay in the church’s eyes.”

  Ilsa felt the bed against the back of her legs and tensed. She had thought she would be given time to consider the best way to deal with Diarmot, with this marriage he so clearly resented. During the tense evening meal in the great hall, he had not revealed any inclination to be her husband in even the smallest way. Now he was demanding his husbandly rights. He might not have had a change of heart, but he had obviously had a change of mind.

  If he truly had lost his memory, he had a right to be suspicious and act as if he were the one wronged, but that fact did not make his attitude any less irritating. Nor did it soften the pain she felt. Since he did not believe her, he was insensitive to her own turmoil and sense of injury. She had been deserted, had had to hunt him down, and had found him about to pledge his troth to another woman. Unfortunately, since he was in no mood to even consider the possibility that she told the truth, he had no understanding of how hurtful he was being now.

  It was unfair, but Ilsa realized she was going to have to prove her trustworthiness. Since Diarmot claimed to have no memory of their time together, she was now a stranger to him. Instinct told her he would do his best to keep a wary distance between them. If she did the same, their marriage would quickly be doomed. Here, in the marital bed, there might be some chance of reaching him, of softening his bitter mistrust. Yet, to lie with a man who thought her a liar and a threat seemed wrong, would surely leave her feeling used, even shamed and humiliated.

  Suddenly, she realized one reason she hesitated was because she was afraid. What if his passion for her had died along with his memory? What if he had truly loved the woman he had been about to marry? She had seen little sign of any true affection between them, but conceded that she could easily have blinded herself to such a thing. It was difficult enough to accept that he no longer cared for her, whatever the reason was for that change.

  What to do? she thought, struggling to keep her mind clear as he began to toy with her hair again, his fingers brushing against her neck, shoulders, and face. Beneath all the pain and sense of insult she suffered, she still loved him. Her passion for him seemed undimmed by his rejection. Her desires and needs were oblivious to his lack of trust, his suspicions, and the fact that he intended to use her to satisfy his manly needs without love, without even much hint of liking. He was not using sweet words to get her into bed, but the dictates of the church and his rights as her husband.

  “Ye simply mean to use me as ye would use some whore,” she protested, placing her hands upon his chest in a vain attempt to push him back at least a step or two.

  “As my lawful wife. There is a difference.”

  “Nay in your mind.”

  She suddenly realized that he had partly unlaced the front of her shift. She clutched the opening tightly shut with one hand and glared at him. It was time to decide aye or nay, to join him in bed or find some other place to sleep.

  There was no denying that the vows she had just exchanged with him meant he had rights to her body. She desired him and suspected he desired her. There was a look in his fine eyes that she recognized from when he had been wooing her. So why not indulge herself, why not feed the hunger that had knotted her insides for far too long?

  Hastily, she reviewed the reasons why sharing his bed would be a good idea. It would legalize the marriage in the eyes of the church. Here, in this bedchamber, there could be a chance for a truce, a chance for her to prove herself to him and ease his suspicions. If they still shared the fierce passion they had enjoyed a year ago, it could help her to inch her way back into his heart and mind. This marriage was important to the future of her sons and to the six children sleeping so soundly in the nursery. She had come here demanding that Diarmot marry her as he had promised to do. He had, and it was time for her to accept her responsibilites as his wife. She just hoped he did not use her desire and willingness to prove herself against her.

  “Fine, Sir Diarmot,” she snapped as she climbed onto the bed and flopped down onto her back. “I will do my duty. Have at it, then.”

  Diarmot was both surprised and a little annoyed when he had to bite back a smile. He did not want to be amused. That hinted at a softness within him, one she might be able to turn against him. He had placed her in his bedchamber intending to see just how far she would take this game. Since she was so obviously going to allow him into her bed, he would not turn away from what was offered, no matter how reluctantly. He would feed a need left untended for too long, no more. Diarmot shed his robe and climbed onto the bed.

  Ilsa nearly groaned when he cast off his robe revealing that he was, indeed, naked beneath it. It was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to give him only duty if he was going to flaunt himself like that. Praying that she looked as calm as she was trying to be, she allowed herself to look him over. He was all lean, hard muscle. A broad chest, narrow hips, and long well-shaped legs. There was a feathering of gold hair on his chest. A narrow line of tiny curls that began just beneath his navel, thickened around his groin, and then lightly dusted those handsome legs. His feet were long and narrow. There were a few new scars upon his body, giving the touch of truth to his tale of a vicious beating. His manhood rose stout and proud from its nest of curls, indicating that he did desire her, and looking a lot bigger than she recalled it being.

  Tearing her gaze from his groin, Ilsa quickly scolded herself for that sudden flicker of unease. She was no virgin. Except for the first time they had made love, she recalled no
pain, only pleasure. Since she doubted a man could become more impressively endowed in just a year, she had obviously accommodated him well in the past and could do so again.

  She tensed when he crouched over her and began to remove her shift. A protest formed upon her tongue, but she bit it back. This, too, was his right. If he was planning to do more than rut on her, however, it would certainly be impossible to pretend she was giving him only reluctant duty. She blushed when he tossed her shift aside and stared at her bared body. He looked at her as if he had never seen her before. Obviously the sight of her stirred no memory, but, if she judged his expression correctly, it did stir his lust. She could make that be enough for now.

  Diarmot told himself to cease dawdling and get about the business of easing his needs. He then told himself that enjoying the sight of such loveliness revealed no more than any man’s natural interest in the female form. Ilsa’s breasts were round and full, the nipples a dusky rose. Her waist was tiny, her stomach taut with only a few faint scars from when pregnant with her sons, and her legs were long and strong. Her skin was smooth, soft, and without blemish. Between her pale, slender thighs was a neat little triangle of copper curls that had him aching, his mind rapidly filling with thoughts of all the ways he wished to enjoy that treasure.

  And why not enjoy himself?, he thought. Even the slowest of wits knew passion had nothing to do with any of the deeper emotions a man might feel for his wife. This beauty was his by the laws of the land and the church, so why not savor it? And, if he roused a little passion in Ilsa as he satisfied his own needs, so be it. She owed him some recompense for so thoroughly disrupting his plans.

  He watched her eyes widen as he lowered his head to touch his mouth to hers. The soft fullness of her mouth was too great a temptation to ignore. For a brief moment, she held herself tautly, silently rejecting his kiss, but only for a moment. She then slowly curled her strong, slender arms around his neck as she responded to the gentle prod of his tongue and parted her lips. Diarmot suspected his body echoed the faint tremors that went through her as he stroked the inside of her mouth with his tongue, but he did not care. She was sweet to the taste, her body soft and welcoming as he settled himself on top of her. Passion had been missing from his life for too long and he was greedy for a taste of it.

  Ilsa recognized her swift surrender, regretted that weakness, then ceased to worry about it. There was evidently no chance she could feign being no more than a dutiful wife in his bed. So be it, she decided. If this was all he had to give her, she would take it. If nothing else, lovemaking would allow her to express all the love she now had to keep hidden. And, since men rarely believed strong passion came from the heart, Diarmot would never guess how very vulnerable she was.

  She tilted her head back as he moved his kisses to her throat. A soft groan of pleasure escaped her when he slid one hand up her ribcage to caress her breast, teasing her nipples to an almost painful hardness with his fingers. When his kisses finally reached her breasts, she was almost as much relieved as she was enflamed. She threaded her fingers into his thick hair as he feasted upon her breasts, laving, suckling, and even giving her the occasional gentle nip. By the time he slid his hand between her legs she was desperate for his touch. It only took a few strokes of his long fingers to make her desperate for all of him.

  “Jesu, ye already weep for me,” he muttered as he prepared himself to possess her.

  When he thrust into her, she cried out, and he paused, afraid he had been too rough. Diarmot started to retreat only to have her wrap her strong legs around him and push him back deep inside. As he began to move, the feel of her tight heat surrounding him, the way she so perfectly matched his every thrust, and the feel of her strong lithe body wrapped around him, quickly robbed him of all control.

  She cried out his name as she bowed slightly off the bed with the strength of her release. Diarmot wrapped his arm around her slim hips and held her close as he buried himself as deeply within her as possible and joined her in that blind fall. When he slumped against her, he was not sure who was trembling more, him or her.

  The moment he felt he had gained enough strength to do so, Diarmot flopped onto his back at her side. He felt almost boneless. A glance at Ilsa revealed her sprawled on her back obviously suffering from the same affliction. That offered him some comfort.

  There had been a sense of familiarity to it all, he realized. He not only had not been surprised by that moment of passionate oblivion, he had anticipated it from the moment he had kissed her. The feel of her, even the taste of her, had felt right. Diarmot realized he had not even been surprised by her passion, had been anticipating that as well.

  That implied that buried in his memory was knowledge of this woman. It would explain his immediate desire for her despite the lack of the lush feminine curves he had always preferred before. She enflamed him, which was both intoxicating and dangerous. Diarmot knew he would not be able to turn away from the pleasure he could find in her arms, however. He would just have to make certain he did not allow it to blind him to the threat she might pose or any tricks she might play. After the hard lessons he had learned from his marriage to Anabelle, Diarmot felt confident that he could keep this madness a thing apart.

  “Weel, I now believe we may have once been lovers,” he said, watching her closely.

  “Ah, how generous of ye,” drawled Ilsa as she turned her head to look at him. “So, in addition to believing me a liar, and a possible murderess, ye also think me a whore.”

  “Just because ye have spread your legs for your husband, doesnae allow—mmmphf.” He stared at her in shock when she clapped her delicate hand over his mouth, then he scowled at her.

  Ilsa slowly lifted her hand from his mouth. “Were your monly needs adequately satisfied?”

  Adequately satisfied was a paltry description of what he had felt, but he would not argue with her. “Aye.”

  “And, so, ye may consider demanding your husbandly rights again from time to time?”

  Several times a night and probably in the morning as well, he mused, but simply replied, “Aye, I may.”

  “Then might I suggest ye temper your words when ye are in here with me? Despite my anger earlier—”

  “When ye tried to kill me with the jug?”

  She ignored that and continued, “I am able to control my temper more often than not. I ken what ye think and ye ken what I think, and I suspect we will feel inclined to voice our opinions again in the coming days. Howbeit, here wouldnae be a good place to do so. My anger might grow hot, but I suspect the rest of me would quickly grow cold.”

  That sounded very much like a threat, but it also made sense. If nothing else, he would put her on the defensive and that wariness would certainly dim her passion. Agreeing to a truce here meant he could not use her desire against her. There would be no trying to trick her into revealing some truth while muddled with passion. It was a loss, but not a big one. Considering what flared between them, Diarmot suspected he would have found such subtlety and deviousness very difficult.

  “Ye seek a truce here, do ye?” he asked.

  “Aye,” she replied as she tugged the sheet up to cover herself. She tossed a corner of it over him as well, and ignored the wry look he cast her. “A truce. The battle stops at that door. I doubt we can follow that rule precisely, but, if tis set, we will at least try.”

  “A truce then.” He was faintly amused when she stuck out her hand, but he shook it. “Does that mean ye willnae try any tricks here? Willnae be a threat?”

  Ilsa rolled her eyes and bent over the side of the bed to retrieve her shift. “That was a short truce. Nay, I willnae try any tricks or assault your poor wee body with my superior strength and skill at arms.”

  She certainly had a true skill with sarcasm, he mused. Worse, it carried the sting of truth as well. He watched in surprise and growing amusement when she disappeared beneath the sheet. The wriggling and soft curses that ensued told him she was attempting to don her shift under there. Wh
en she reappeared above the sheet she looked tousled and flushed.

  “Such modesty is unnecessary,” he said. “After all, but moments ago—”

  “Weel, I dinnae feel as I did but moments ago,” Ilsa quickly interrupted him. “Nay, I willnae be a threat here,” she said, “not that I e’er was. And, since ye dinnae trust me as far as ye can spit, I dinnae understand why ye e’en ask for my word on that. Ye willnae believe it.”

  “Give it anyway and then our truce can begin.”

  “Do I have your word to try no tricks or attempt to harm me then?”

  “Of course.”

  “Weel enough, then ye have mine.” She shook hands with him again then got out of bed.

  “Where are ye going?”

  “Behind that screen set in the corner which should have told me that I had been put into your bedchamber. Ye would have no need of a privacy screen in your own room, nor I in mine.” She slipped behind the screen and began to wash. “I hadnae looked about much, either, so hadnae noticed any signs that this was your bedchamber.” She peeked around the screen and frowned at him. “Tis a verra plain bedchamber. Thought it was one kept ready for guests.” She returned to the chore of washing. “Ye have made no mark upon the room.”

  Diarmot looked around his bedchamber and realized she was right. There was nothing to mark it as his unless one opened his clothes chests. Although he was not sure what he could do to change that, it was strange that he had not yet done so. Considering the many long months he had spent in the room recovering from the beating, there should have been some clear sign of his presence. Diarmot was not sure he wanted to think about the reason for that too deeply.

  When Ilsa started back to the bed, Diarmot got up and strode past her to disappear behind the screen. She caught her breath so quickly at the sight of his naked form, she coughed. Inwardly cursing her weakness for the man, she climbed back into bed. If the mere sight of him affected her so, it was going to be impossible to resist him in even the smallest of ways.