by M. J. Scott
“I’m not nervous,” she snapped. “What do I have to be nervous about? After all, we’ve already done what we’re here to do tonight.”
“That’s true,” he said in a suddenly careful tone. Apparently, it might have been beginning to sink through his Iska-soaked head that she was less than happy. He crossed the room and put the bottle he held down on the table beside the open one. He didn’t pour himself a glass, though. Instead, he moved closer to the fire, shrugged out of his jacket, and draped it over the nearest chair, leaving him dressed in a blindingly white shirt, black breeches, and tall boots that outlined every inch of his body in annoying detail.
Men’s fashion was stupid, too, she decided, and took another mouthful of wine.
“If you’re not nervous,” he said after a long moment of silence, “perhaps you could do me the courtesy of explaining to me what is driving you to drink on our wedding night?”
“There’s nothing wrong with drinking,” she said. She drained the glass defiantly and reached for the bottle. His hand snatched it away before she touched it.
“No, there’s nothing wrong with drinking,” he said. “But you’re not the biggest creature the goddess put on the earth, and you’ll regret it in the morning. Hellebride red has kick to it like an angry mule despite the sweet face it shows your tongue.”
“I’ve drunk Hellebride red before,” she said.
“Then you know what I’m talking about. So, again, I’ll ask you, what has you bristling like one of Lucy’s barn cats?” He kept a firm hold on the bottle.
“Did you just call me a barn cat?” she demanded.
“I—”
“Though I suppose,” she continued, “it makes sense that that would be your choice of insults, given that you have the morals of a wild tomcat yourself.”
He went very still. She couldn’t quite see clearly in the flickering firelight, but she thought his knuckles had turned white where he gripped the bottle. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“What exactly are you accusing me of, Sophie?” His voice was controlled rather than calm. And somewhat lower than usual.
Against the warmth of the red in her stomach, she felt the faintest chill. She lifted her chin, not caring. “Not accusing. Just stating facts. A man with morals, after all, with honor, would have told his future wife that he had bedded the fucking queen of the country. Particularly when said future wife is one of her ladies-in-waiting. One of her friends.” Rage spilled over now, and she hurled the glass toward the fire, where it shattered against the wall, shards glittering as they fell to the carpet.
Cameron didn’t so much as flinch. Nor did his eyes move from her face. “Eloisa told you,” he said flatly.
“Yes. She did.”
“When?”
“After the coronation ball. She thought it only fair to warn me that royal witches were to your taste. Forewarned is forearmed, after all.”
“And you waited until now to speak to me about it?”
She made an exasperated gesture. “It didn’t seem to matter when we had this conversation. It’s not like they would let us call off the wedding.”
“So you stood there and made vows to me this morning, thinking I was marrying you only so I could bed another witch? Put another notch in some tally board? Despite everything else that has happened?”
“You were the queen’s lover,” she spat.
“Yes,” he retorted. “I was. Before you and I had any inkling that any of this would happen. Before I had spent any time with you at all that didn’t involve guard duty, to be blunt. I’m not a monk, Sophie. I won’t apologize because it’s unfair that men get to do things before marriage that women cannot. And I won’t apologize for having a lover before you had any claim on me whatsoever.”
“You should have told me,” she said, hearing her voice go shrill. She couldn’t entirely dispute his point, but that didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t told her the truth. That he’d kept her in the dark. She was growing very tired of being kept ignorant.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, where stubble was beginning to darken his jaw. “Perhaps. Honestly, I thought it was better if you never knew, given that you are one of her ladies and her friend. I never dreamed that she would tell you herself.”
“She’s the queen. She wanted me to be clear on that fact. On my position in this situation. On the fact that she had you first and that she could have you back anytime she chooses to crook her finger at you. After all, a royal witch and a queen has to be even more exciting than just a witch, doesn’t it?”
“She might think that,” Cameron said. “That doesn’t make it true.”
“She’s the queen.”
“So she is. And she’s beautiful. And she’s a witch. But she’s not my wife. She’s not the one I’m standing here with. She’s not the one I made vows to in the temple today. She’s not you,” he growled. “And I’ll thank you, wife, to have more respect for my honor than you appear to.”
“You expect me to believe that you’d rather have me in your bed than her?” She swept her hand down, gesturing at her body, which had nothing like Eloisa’s curves or grace.
This time it was Cameron who threw something at the fire. The bottle shattered rather more loudly, and red splashed against the wall and ran in streams over the mantel, hissing into the fire and making it flare wildly as the alcohol burned. “Yes,” he ground out.
“Why?”
“Because of this,” he growled. And he yanked her hard against him and kissed her. Kissed her hard. Savagely almost. It should have hurt, but instead, delight roared through her, sparking as wildly as the fire. She buried her hands in his hair, pulling him closer. His hands tightened at her waist, and he picked her up and carried her over to the bed.
Yes. Every fiber of her being shrieked it.
But then reason reared its ugly head. This was the power again. Magic. Not her.
“Wait,” she said, breaking their kiss with a gasp. “This isn’t real.”
He looked confused. “What are you talking about?”
“This. This is what she said. That it’s just the magic. Making us want each other. Admit it. You never would have touched me that first time if I hadn’t stepped into the ley line.”
He shook his head. “That may be true. But that doesn’t explain every other time we touched. And doesn’t explain why I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Did you think about her?”
“Did no one ever tell you it’s impolite to bring up such things on your wedding night?” he said, sounding half exasperated. “Yes. Sometimes I thought about Eloisa. But not the way it is with you.” He looked at her a moment, then set her down on her feet again, though he didn’t let go of her. His hands rested at her waist, heavy and warm. He stared down at her. “I’m not sure there’s anything I can say to convince you, is there?”
She shrugged, feeling a sudden sting of tears. Eloisa had been right. This was never going to work.
“All right, then,” he said, and this time he did step back. “Tell me to go and I’ll go. And I won’t come back into your bed until you ask me to. I can’t unmarry you, but I’m not going to force myself on you. So, wife, if you can stand there and honestly tell me you don’t want me, then I’ll go.”
She stared up at him, wondering if he really would go. Just like that? Just because she asked?
“Say it,” he said, reaching out to touch her cheek. “Say ‘Go away, Cameron.’ Say ‘I don’t want you, Cameron.”
Part of her wanted to. Wanted to keep her heart safe, as Eloisa had warned her. But a larger part knew that it was already too late for that. And that, magic or not, she didn’t want to let go of him. She shook her head. “I won’t lie to you.”
He breathed out a very relieved-sounding sigh. “Good. That’s one thing settled.” He moved closer again. “Now we’ll deal with the other part of the problem.”
“I don’t see how,” she said.
His hand
settled on her hip. “Eloisa put nonsense in your head. Whatever her reasons—and believe me, if she weren’t queen, I would be informing her of the error of her tactics—she convinced you that this is just magic. Just fucking, driven by fire and fury and fever. All flash and speed until it burns out. Like it was by the ley line. That is what she told you, isn’t it?”
She nodded, mouth drying as she remembered, with unrelenting clarity, with him so close, with him touching her, how it had felt when he had slid into her. She swallowed. “Something like that.”
“Well, then, I believe I can prove her wrong.” He smiled at her, and this time the smile was intoxicating rather than infuriating.
“How?”
“By showing you there’s more than fire and fury here.” His other hand lifted, and he ran a thumb over her lower lip.
“How?” she repeated as her knees went distinctly wobbly at the touch.
“Well, firstly, I intend to take you out of that dress,” he said, voice rough again. “And then I’ll take you out of whatever you’re wearing under it. Then I’ll take you to bed and show you what it’s like when we go slowly.” He pushed her hair back, pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. Drew back with a smile when she shuddered.
“So slowly you’ll think you’re going to die. But you won’t.”
“I won’t?” She felt as though she were floating. Or melting. Perhaps both. Lost in the heat his words were rousing.
“No, my little wildcat,” he said. “You won’t die. You’ll just come, screaming my name.”
Heat flared through her even brighter, and she swayed. “Merciful goddess.”
“Too late for mercy,” he said. “Now turn around. Put your hands around the bedpost.”
She managed to do as he asked. The wood was cool beneath her fingers, and she leaned forward to rest her forehead on it as well, helpless to fight the longing pulsing through her, the heat of it and the throb between her legs.
“Good girl,” he said softly. He pushed her hair forward so the length of it fell forward over her shoulders. “I was looking forward to taking this down,” he said. “To seeing it all around you. But I guess we’ll save that for next time.” His lips pressed against the nape of her neck, and he blew softly, the warm air brushing her neck, lighting her skin.
“Look at all these buttons,” he said, and she felt his fingers move to the first one. “I think this is going to take a very long time.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It did take a very long time.
He started with the sleeves, which had their own rows of tiny buttons. Between each button, Cam ran his fingers over her wrists, wherever the skin was bare, and followed the touch with kisses that became a slow kind of divine torture as each nerve his lips passed over flared to life. Then he straightened and reached for the next button whilst he whispered in her ear exactly what he wanted to do to her. Delicious, wicked-sounding things. Things she wasn’t even sure were truly things that men and women did together.
With each button the process grew slower because there was more skin to cover, more for his lips to worship. It took an eternity for him to finish each sleeve, and she was panting softly by the time he moved his fingers back to the button at the top of the scoop of fabric that cut across her back. She was suddenly devoutly thankful that the seamstress had insisted on converting the high-collared neckline her mother had worn to this more daring one front and back. That had to have cut out at least ten or fifteen buttons. But fewer buttons didn’t stop her from having to bite her lip to keep from begging him to just take her already by the time he’d worked his way down the length of her back. She’d never imagined that a man’s hands on her back could make her ache so. By the time he finally slid the dress off her shoulders and down onto the floor, she was trembling with need.
She managed—with a supreme effort and a death grip on the bedpost—to stay upright when she lifted each foot at his bidding so he could pull the dress free. She was fairly certain her knees would have given out on her without the bedpost to hold on to. She was almost sure they would give out on her if he took much longer.
She wore only a chemise and corset under the dress. The chemise was a mere whisper of lace and silk, scandalous in its transparency. Another reason to bless the seamstress. Cameron skimmed a hand down her side, and the silk might as well have not been there, the heat of his skin searing her. She thought she heard him swear softly as she moaned, but then he reached for her laces and began teasing her all over again.
“Please,” she said. She didn’t even know what she was asking for.
Cameron paused. He hadn’t even loosened the first lace. “Please, what?”
She turned her head. “I need—”
“So impatient.” He shook his head at her. Then his dimple flashed as he smiled. “Well, as to that, I guess there’s no reason why you can’t scream my name more than once. Turn around, then.”
She managed to obey. His eyes were dark and hungry in the firelight, the blue obscured to a nameless shade that seemed made of wanting.
“Now, there’s a pretty sight,” he said softly as he studied her. She glanced down. The chemise hid very little, and she was bare to his gaze except where the satin and bone corset still covered her, pushing her breasts up into a semblance of curves. “Very pretty,” he said, and ran his finger along the upper edge of the corset, tracing the skin across her breasts, slowing even more when his fingers touched the very edge of the skin surrounding her nipples. If she could have lifted her arms, she would have ripped the corset off with her bare hands so he could touch her bare flesh, but she couldn’t. Instead she just gasped and arched her back.
“I want you to know that this is hurting me more than it’s hurting you,” he said fervently, and then he dropped to his knees, pushed her legs apart, and buried his head in the thatch of hair between her legs. His tongue slid against her, two fingers slipped inside her, and she convulsed around him, gasping his name as he licked and stroked through the shudders until they quieted.
Then he climbed to his feet. “That’s once. Now turn around and we’ll do this damned corset.”
“I hate corsets,” she said, not sure she could move.
“I’d rather look at one than have to wear one,” he agreed cheerfully. “They do look very nice though. Especially pretty ones like this. Like a present all wrapped up to be undone. So turn around and let me open my present.”
Sophie leaned back against the bedpost. “If I move, I might just fall down.”
“I’ll catch you,” he said, and bent to kiss her. She could taste herself on his mouth, beneath the taste of Cameron and the faint woody smoke of the Iska he’d drunk. It was strangely intoxicating. Then he lifted her, turned her, and put her hands back around the bedpost.
“Now, where were we?” he asked as he started all over again.
The corset didn’t take as long as the dress, and he must have been starting to feel impatient, too, because the chemise vanished with one long stroke of a knife—she had no idea where the knife had come from—after the corset fell from her body. Then his arms came around her and lifted her onto the bed. She was burning with need again as he settled beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. He still wore his shirt and breeches. The boots were gone. She hadn’t noticed that part of the process, which, given how long it took a man to remove tall boots, only told her how lost she was in the haze of longing he was creating.
“I want to see you,” she said.
Cameron shook his head. “Not just yet. After all, there are whole parts of you I haven’t even touched yet.” To demonstrate his point, he brushed one finger across one of her puckered nipples and she arched up off the bed with another moan.
“Goddess,” he said fervently. “I do like the noises you make.” Then he set himself to exploring her breast with the same excruciating leisurely pace. First with fingers, then with tongue and teeth until she was writhing beneath him and begging again, legs falling open. This time his fingers f
ound her and stroked just right until she came a second time, even harder than the first time, the room dissolving in a wave of pleasure.
It took a few minutes for her to open her eyes. To remember exactly who she was. And who the man next to her was. Her husband. Who was looking very pleased with himself.
“That’s two,” he said.
She rolled onto her side and fisted her hand around the front of his shirt. “Cameron Aled Mackenzie, if you do not exert your husbandly rights very soon, I might just have to kill you.”
“Wildcat.” He grinned widely as he said the word. “But who am I to deny a lady?”
“You seem to be doing pretty well denying me,” she said.
“Nonsense. You’re the one who’s already screamed my name twice. I’m the one being denied.”
“No denial here,” she said. She lay back on the pillows. “Take off your clothes.” She let a hand drift down to her breast, wondering idly if it felt the same if she did to herself what he had been doing to her. Not exactly, she decided. But it was still pleasant. She sighed, and this time it was Cameron who groaned. He pulled his shirt over his head with remarkable speed. The breeches took a little longer, but they soon joined the shirt on the floor.
He came back to her then. Naked. His cock was hard, straining, jutting toward her. She’d never seen a grown man fully naked before. Never thought a man would be beautiful. But he was. Lined with muscle and furred here and there with dark hair but still beautiful. Her hand reached for his cock, curiosity overriding need for a moment.
He let her wrap her hand around it, let her fingers explore, but only for a few seconds. Then his hand closed over hers.
“If you keep that up, then you’ll spoil the next part of the process for both of us.”
“You got to touch me,” she protested.
“And I promise you can touch me all you want after this,” he said, rolling on top of her. She went still. His cock has hard and warm against her, where she was wet and soft and aching. Cameron moved slightly, settling his position, and the slide of him against her made her see stars. Still, he felt much larger than she remembered, and for an instant she froze.