The Fraser Bride

by Lois Greiman

  “So ‘twas against her will that you took her, MacGowan?”

  “I—” Nay. She had come to him, seeming so sweet, so soft and innocent, with whispered words that made his young blood run hot and wild in his veins. “It matters little if she wanted me or nay. Only that I failed in the end.”

  “Even if she created a child to lure you into wedlock.”

  There it was. That terrible possibility back again to haunt him, but he did not want it. “Is it so hard to believe that she lay with me merely because she desired me, Notmary?”

  She stood very still, her hands clasped before her. “Things are not always as they seem, MacGowan. You would not be the first man to be fooled by a bonny face and a tearful word. You can take my word on that.”

  The possibilities stared at him like grinning gargoyles, demanding that he look them square in the face. “In truth,” he murmured, ” ‘tis bad enough to know I failed without knowing that I am also a fool.”

  “You are no fool,” she whispered. “You are only tenderhearted.”

  “I am many things, but I am not tenderhearted. I am jaded and hardened and—”

  “Is that why you’ve told no one of Lorna’s horrid deeds? Is that why you’ve left her in peace with her fat marquis? Is that why she could be certain you would do just that?”

  He deepened his scowl.

  “Is that why you accompanied me here? Is that why you claimed the babe?”

  “I claimed the bairn to assuage me own guilt, and you damn well know it.”

  She took a single step toward him. “So I should be adding selfish to your lists of undesirable attributes, should I?”

  “I am selfish,” he said.

  “Are you?” she asked, and closed the small distance between them.

  “Aye.” It was difficult to speak with her so close, for raw memories made him long for solace, made him ache to pull her against him, to lose himself in her softness. “Aye,” he said again, “for even now, with all that is behind me …” ‘Twas the devil’s own task to face his weaknesses. “I long to bury me sins in your purity.”

  He waited for her to turn and run, but she didn’t.

  “I am not pure,” she whispered. “I lost that long ago.

  “Nay. You have not lost it, lass. You shall always be pure, for ‘tis in your very soul, and none can take that from you.”

  For a moment all was still, then her palm was a soft atonement against his cheek, and her voice was as gentle as a psalm.

  “How can you be so kind, MacGowan?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “I am not kind, lass. No matter what other lies you choose to believe, do not trust that one.”

  “Ahh, I remember,” she whispered. “You are selfish.”

  God, yes—for even now he ached to hold her, to kiss her, to claim her for his own, when ‘twas that very act that had caused such pain before.

  “And you are not cunning,” she murmured and slipped her fingers ever so gently across his lips.

  He swallowed hard and tightened his hands into fists.

  “Nor are you powerful,” she said, and slid her fingers across the bunched muscles of his shoulder. “Nor peaceable.” Her hand skimmed the bandages that covered his chest. From the cradle, the baby sighed. “Nor loving,” she whispered. “And yet …” She drew closer, and he ceased to breath, to think, to function. All he could do was wait, to watch her move nearer. “I still want you,” she whispered, and pressed her lips to his.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Lass.” Ramsay’s voice was low and raspy, shivering up her spine as he pushed himself away. “You have forgotten one attribute: I am damnably weak.”

  “Are you?”

  “Aye.”

  Her heart was pounding like a rounding hammer in her chest. ” ‘Tis good, then. A fine match. You are weak and I am a coward.”

  “You are many things, lass. But a coward—”

  “I am afraid of men.”

  “You have challenged the Munro.”

  “I have challenged every man, for I cannot wed. I cannot allow them to touch me, to see what I truly am. But when I am near you, I find I long to …” She stopped, frozen by fears so old they had etched themselves into her very soul. “Mayhap this one night we could help each other.”

  “I cannot help you.”

  “Because you are weak?”

  “Aye.”

  “And you would … hurt me?”

  For a moment she thought he would lie, would say that yes, he would harm her, but his expression twisted into one of deepest regret.

  “Do you not see the problem? Yonder lies a babe, unwanted and uncherished—”

  “You cherish her,” she whispered.

  He shoved splayed fingers through his hair with frustrated impatience. ” ‘Tis not the point and you well know it, lass. I dare not bring another unwanted life into being.”

  “Is there no means of …” She swallowed, chilled with fear, yet hot with an indefinable longing. “Of coupling without creating a child?”

  “Anora …” It was the first time he’d spoken her Christian name, and the sound traveled through her like mulled wine.

  “I need your help,” she whispered, and wondered, quite suddenly, if perhaps he needed, just as much, to be needed. “I cannot rule Evermyst alone forever. That I see, now. I must take a husband. But how can I, when I am afraid to …” She stepped cautiously forward, feeling as if the earth might crumble beneath her very feet. “To do this,” she said, and raising her face, kissed him again.

  Feelings as hot as sunlight rushed through her. For a moment she feared he would draw back, but he did not. Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly and returned her kiss with slow, aching tenderness. It was she who drew back, trembling, though not for fear. Nay, ‘twas because the feelings were so strong, so intense, that she felt she would surely burn to ash if she did not stop.

  “You have come to your senses and decided against such foolishness?” His voice was deeper than the shadows beyond the window.

  Her own was the smallest of whispers. “Aye. I have come to my senses.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. The shadow of his braid fell across his lean cheek, and his eyes were intense. “Then you have changed your mind?”

  “Nay,” she murmured.

  “Then I will do as you ask.”

  The breath froze in her throat. She managed a nod and reached for his hand. It felt unearthly strong and warm beneath her fingers, but when she tugged him toward the bed, he resisted.

  “It has been …” He cleared his throat. “… A long while for me, lass.”

  Her mind scrambled. “Then you and Ailsa did not … couple?”

  “Is that what you thought? That I could take another when you are …”

  “When I am what?”

  “In the world.” He said the words with weary resignation. “Still, being with the milk maid might have made this situation simpler.”

  She forced herself not to wince. “It will be difficult with me?”

  “To wait,” he said. ” ‘Twill be difficult to wait, lass. Thus, I think it best if we begin here.”

  “Here?” Her heart kicked back into gear.

  “You might disrobe me,” he suggested, and her heart threatened to leap from her chest.

  “I do not think—”

  “Control,” he said. A muscle bunched in his jaw again as if every fiber of his being was already straining. ” ‘Tis what the bastard took from you those years ago, lass. He could not take your virtue, nor tame your wilding spirit. Thus he took your control. ‘Tis what I would give back to you.”

  “But I have never … I do not know how.”

  “It takes no scholar,” he said, and lifted his own hands to his chest as if to begin the process, but the cat pin was not there.

  “Your brooch,” she murmured. ” ‘Tis gone.”

  ” ‘Twas a good exchange,” he said, and reaching out, took her hand in his.

  “Ailsa has
—” she began, but in that instant he drew her palm to his lips. Desire arced like summer lightning up her arm. “… It?” she breathed.

  “Lass, I do not think I can discuss the milk maid just now,” he said huskily, and kissed the heel of her hand.

  She jerked beneath the onslaught of unknown feelings, already breathing hard. “MacGowan!”

  “Aye, lass?” He raised his head slowly, and in the candlelight his eyes tore at her very soul.

  “I feel … strangely unbalanced.”

  “Do you?”

  “Aye.”

  ” ‘Tis a good thing,” he said, and kissed her wrist.

  She yanked her hand away, ready to flee, but he made no move to follow, no move to stop her. He stood as still as stone with his back against the wall.

  She worried at her lip. “Where do I begin?”

  He shrugged, the movement slow. ” ‘Tis your choice, lass. I merely wait.”

  ” ‘Twould be easier if you … did more.”

  He nodded. “Aye.”

  “But you will not.”

  “I have before,” he said, and she could not help but remember the inn—the rush of hot feelings, the need, the consuming panic. “It did little but grant you a reason to hate me.”

  She winced. ” ‘Twas not my plan.”

  “I believe it was, lass. A simple way to keep yourself safe from men. From me.”

  She considered denying his words, but his gaze was steady and sure. “How is it that you know me so well?”

  “I do not. Not half so well as I would. Time wears on, lass.”

  She wanted to reach for his belt but she could not, so she knelt and untied his garters from below his knees. It should have been a simple task—mundane, even—but her fingers faltered, so he nudged off his boots himself.

  She stood finally, glanced briefly at his face, then lowered her eyes. Best to get this over with quickly, like any onerous task, she told herself. But the trembling in her hands was not from loathing. Still, it took all her will power to reach for his belt. She tugged at it, felt it loosen, and pulled it away. She dropped the belt and reached cautiously for his plaid. It eased away from his hips, its great length falling to the floor until he stood in naught but his tunic. Although his shirt nearly reached his knees, she dared not look down. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. ‘Twas foolishness, she told herself. Then she noticed that his hands were clenched to fists, causing the corded muscles of his forearms to stand out in hardened ridges beneath his sun browned flesh.

  “Are you …” She raised her gaze fleetingly to his. “Nervous?”

  “Nervous! Nay!” he began, but then their gazes met and melded and he let out his air in one hard breath. “I am bloody terrified.”

  “You?” The word trembled when she said it. Don’t talk! Just act. Get it done with. But he fascinated her, entranced her. “Why?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. “Me brother Gilmour, ‘tis he who gained our da’s smooth ways.”

  She stared at him without understanding.

  “With the lassies,” he finished.

  “You’re afraid of being unable to … couple?”

  “Will you cease calling it that? Like two boars in rut! Nay,” he said, and relaxed a smidgen. ” ‘Tis not me fear, for just looking at you, with your hair all aglow and … there is not a man alive who would not be moved. ‘Tis simply that …” He exhaled slowly and loosened his fists. “I would have you enjoy this.”

  “Enjoy it! I’m but hoping to survive it.”

  He chuckled. The sound was full and low and somehow made her stomach flip foolishly. ” ‘Tis good to know you expect so little of me, but I had rather hoped for more.”

  She had no idea why she felt like crying, but suddenly she did, so much so that she had to bite her lip in an attempt to hold back the tears. “You’re afraid of disappointing me?”

  He winced. “It sounds worse when said aloud.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. ” ‘Tis simpler to ignore one’s weaknesses if they are not spoken.”

  “I mean … why do you care?”

  “Surely you know, lass.”

  “Nay,” she whispered. “I do not.”

  “If we do not hurry, we shall surely be found out. Or is that your hope?”

  It should be, of course. She should be searching for an excuse to stop this lunacy, but … he was so beautiful, so bonny and manly and powerfully alluring. Her hand reached out of its own accord to touch his cheek. His eyes closed. Muscles coiled beneath her fingers, as if it took all his considerable control to keep himself from reaching back, and somehow that knowledge was more sensuous than all his other enticing attributes. So enticing, in fact, that she could not help but rise on her toes to kiss him. Their lips met in trembling intimacy. Her hand slipped over the taut muscle of his shoulder, then down the tight mound of chest. A gravelly noise issued from his throat, but he did nothing, not until her fingers slipped with tremulous curiosity onto his abdomen.

  The muscles jumped beneath her hand. Startled, Anora almost fled, but again he made no move to seize her. She tightened her resolve and sidled closer until their bodies were nearly touching. Fascinated, she placed her palm against the hard muscles of his belly. Craning up on her toes, she kissed his chin, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

  He turned to her like a starving man, kissing her with a hunger so ferocious that it almost drove her away, but somehow the fear was not enough to drown the desire that raged through her. His tongue brushed her lips, seeking entry, and she gave way, letting him in. Hot longing scorched her. She drew back, breathless and dizzy, and found to her surprise that her fist was bunched in his tunic near one lean hip. Their gazes met in a flash of scalding desire, and then, like an amateur’s marionette, she lifted the tunic.

  Beneath her bent fingers, she felt his muscles coil, but he made no move toward her. Finally, with breathless anticipation, she raised the shirt farther. His every muscle was frozen to rock hard immobility as the fabric slipped up his body. She didn’t look down. Indeed, she couldn’t. Instead, she held his gaze, watched the expressions mirror her own—desire, impatience, and maybe, if she let herself admit the truth—fear.

  Nearing his chest, the tunic’s hem scraped his bandage. Anora slipped her left hand beneath the bunched cloth.

  His flesh was warm, firm, crisscrossed with undulating muscle that stretched from his belly to his throat, and suddenly she wanted to feel every inch of it. Her fingers skimmed over the lean ridges of his ribs, up the sloping underside of his mounded pectorals and onto his nipple.

  “Sweet Almighty!”

  Anora jumped, but he remained where he was, breathing hard, his shoulders pressed against the wall behind.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “Nay.”

  His voice was raspy, low, little more than a rough whisper of sound.

  “Then why—” she began. He leaned forward and kissed her.

  His longing seared her like a flame, and when he drew back, her knees felt weak and her lungs overtaxed.

  She took a steadying breath and leaned into him. “Oh,” she said.

  “I long to love you,” he murmured. “To fill you with my desire and feel you climb the summit of pleasure.”

  “Oh!” Against her hip she could feel the hard evidence of his longing, but suddenly it held no fear for her, only an aching kind of indescribable need. Her hands moved slowly but surely over the sculpted ridges of his belly, up his mounded chest. He raised his arms without taking his gaze from hers, and she slid her hands breathlessly over the dancing muscles of his triceps. His throat corded as he bent his head, and finally the shirt dropped from her tingling fingers to the floor.

  He was naked. Bigger than life. Powerful as a destrier, he stood before her, and finally fear coiled in her belly.

  She took a step back and skimmed his body with her gaze. His chest was broad, sweeping down to a narrow waist and hips only the slightest bit wider. And between those hips …r />
  Her breath caught in her throat, for despite his immobility, his manhood was intimidating. It rose bold and restless from a nest of dark hair, as if reaching for her.

  She backed away. His muscles bunched as if he would follow her, but he did not. Instead, he reached up to grasp the bed frame with one hand and the window shutter with the other. The muscles in his chest and arms coiled as if he held himself there by hard-won will power alone.

  Candlelight flickered across his bare skin, casting shadows beneath his powerful arms and thighs, and at the apex of his legs, his desire stirred again.

  Her lungs felt strangely tight within her chest and desire hung heavy in her gut, but she dared not step forward. She longed for a word of comfort, of assurance, of admiration. ‘Twas what other men would do: coax, cajole. But he said nothing, as if challenging her courage with his very reticence. It disturbed her somehow, irritated her.

  “You will not …” She let her gaze slide downward again, felt the breath halt in her lungs, and sprinted her attention back to his face. “You’ll not hurt me?”

  It seemed like forever before he spoke, and when he did his chest swelled slightly. She could not help but notice every flex of muscle, every lift of a limb. “What I say matters little, lass. ”Tis what you believe that counts.”

  “I believe …” What—that he would sooner die than harm her? ‘Twas foolishness. Men were cruel, hard, undisciplined. Life had taught her that. “You are a man,” she said, lifting her chin.

  He raised one brow. “Had you decided the opposite, I would be sorely wounded, lass.” Good Lord, he was conversing with her as if he had just met her on the streets of Edinburgh, instead of standing spread before her like a pagan gift of war. “Indeed, I am a man. ‘Tis your choice now what you will do with me.”

  “I do not trust men,” she whispered.

  “So I have noticed.”

  “For they are cruel.”

  “I cannot deny it.”

  Frustration exploded within her. “Not even to say that you are different?”