The gentle movement of his hand eased the last bit of fear from her, and Caroline snuggled closer. “What is she like?” she murmured, trying without success to envision a feminine version of her fiercely masculine husband.
“Who? Aunt Egidia?” Although she couldn’t see his face Caroline could tell from his warm tone that he was smiling. “A proper scold she is, with a tongue that will flay you alive, and a disposition that would make vinegar seem sweet as honey.”
Caroline’s lips curved at the telling description. “She sounds delightful,” she drawled, a warm sense of contentment filling her. “But as it happens, I was speaking of your sister. Is she younger than you? Older?”
“Younger,” he said, and now there was no doubting the deep affection in his voice. “She was a child when I went away, and now she’s a woman grown. She’s your age, I think, and the image of our mother. She’ll be surprised to learn I’ve wed, and will no doubt make my life a misery for not telling her of it sooner.”
The rueful remark shattered Caroline’s fragile peace. Until this moment, she’d never given Hugh’s family and their possible reaction to their marriage a single thought. Indeed, it hadn’t even occurred to her he was possessed of a family. He seemed so solitary, so completely self-sufficient, that she assumed him to be as alone in the world as was she. The revelation was vaguely disturbing, as was the sudden concern for what her new sister-in-law might think of her.
“Will it bother her that I am not Scottish?” she asked, raising her head to gaze into his eyes.
A shuttered look stole into his eyes, and he glanced away, visibly uneasy. “I don’t know,” he confessed, his gaze fixed on the front of her nightgown. “It will shock her, to be sure, and hurt her as well. But she has a warm heart and a sweet nature, and she will welcome you as my wife, if I tell her to do so.”
Caroline was about to remark that ordering his sister to make her welcome would hardly endear her to the other woman, when another consideration struck her. “What of our marriage?” she asked curiously. “Will you tell her the truth of it?”
“That is another reason I needed to speak with you,” he said, stroking a finger across her shoulder. “Aunt Egidia’s home is a small one, with scarce ten rooms to it, and if we stay with her we will need to share a bedchamber, and a bed,” he added, raising his head to meet her stunned gaze.
Caroline’s mind went abruptly blank. “I see,” she said, trying her best not to blush as images of their first night together filled her head.
“Will it distress you?” he demanded bluntly, his brows meeting in a worried scowl. “If it does, I would that you will tell me that I might begin making other arrangements—”
“No!” she interrupted, and then flushed at how abrupt she sounded. “That is,” she added, making a desperate grab for her dignity, “it won’t be necessary to make other arrangements. I—I have no objections to sharing a b-bed with you.” Despite her best efforts she stumbled over the words.
“Are you certain?” he asked, sounding far from convinced. “I’ll not force myself on you, if that’s what you’re fearing.”
“Of course I never thought you would force me!” she denied indignantly. “You certainly didn’t force me the first time!”
Her vehemence seemed to give him pause, and it was several seconds before he spoke. “Then you enjoyed what we shared that night?” he queried, his hands sliding down her back to lightly cup her hips. “It pleased you?”
Caroline tilted her head back, her breath catching as he feathered a kiss down her neck. “Very much,” she admitted, her limbs turning deliciously to water. “It was wonderful.”
His tongue flicked out to tease her sensitized flesh. “And you’ve no objections if we do it again?”
Her hands lifted to settle on his broad shoulders, her mind already hazing with pleasure. Did she have any objections? It took her less than a second to reach her decision. She opened her eyes and met his heated gaze. “No, Hugh,” she said softly, “I have no objections whatsoever.” Then, taking her courage in both hands, she reached up to untie his cravat.
At her touch he stilled, only the narrowing of his eyes and the quickening of his breath betraying his passion. The cravat was soon dangling from her fingers, and she waited for him to gather her in his arms and press her down against the pillows. When he remained where he was she cast him an uncertain glance, fearing she may have misunderstood his intentions.
He was watching her, his face dark with desire. “Remove my jacket,” he ordered, his deep voice making her shiver.
The command both shocked and intrigued her, and her fingers trembled as she reached for the gilded buttons holding the jacket closed. It took a few fumbling tries, but at last she managed to unfasten the double row of buttons, and the jacket hung open. Having never acted as a valet, the most expedient way of removing his coat stymied her at first, but she solved the puzzle by leaning forward and pushing it from his shoulders. The movement brought her close against him, and for a moment their bodies were perfectly aligned. She could feel his arousal in the pounding of his heart and the hardening of his masculine flesh, and she choked back a soft moan.
“My waistcoat,” he said, his breath hissing between clenched teeth. His whole body was quivering, and his fingers were as hard as steel as they dug into her hips.
She complied, her fingers more sure as she dealt with the remaining buttons. The waistcoat was soon discarded, leaving him in his shirtsleeves. Her hands rested on his chest, and through the soft cambric she could feel the heat of his skin searing her palms. She could also feel the rapid thudding of his heart, and its strong rhythm echoed the frantic beating of her own. She held his gaze and with his assistance, lifted the shirt over his head.
The sight of his muscular, hair-dusted chest had the breath catching in her throat. The first time they’d made love it had been too dark for her to truly see him, and now she was dazzled by the strength and beauty of him. It was odd to think of a man as beautiful, she mused, shyly stroking her hand across the strong swell of his breast, yet she could think of no other word to describe the perfection of him. His shoulders were broad and roped with heavy muscles, and not an ounce of softness to be found on him. Her gaze came to rest on the small, star-shaped scar just below his left shoulder, and she raised her head to find him watching her.
“Is this where you were shot?” she asked, gently running her finger across the puckered flesh.
“Aye,” he said, his eyes glinting silver in the light of the candle. “A small price to pay for not having the sense to better keep my wits about me.”
“It must have pained you,” she murmured, recalling the lighthearted way he and Captain Dupres had spoken of it. She stroked the scar again, realizing that a few inches either way and the bullet he could make such sport of might have cost him his arm … or his life. The horrifying thought brought the sting of tears to her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away. Without pausing to consider her actions, she placed her lips on the wound and gently kissed the damaged flesh.
“Caroline!” Hugh gave a tortured cry and pressed her closer. “Christ, woman, you’re killing me!”
Caroline responded by sliding her mouth down his broad chest to the masculine nipple peeking through the cloud of dark-brown hair. Remembering the pleasure he had given her, she lowered her head and gently flicked it with her tongue. Hugh’s reaction was immediate; in a flash she was on her back, blinking up in surprise as he loomed over her.
“My tum, I think,” he drawled, a wolfish smile curving his mouth as he slid the gown from her shoulders. “If you wish to play love games, cairdeas, I shall be happy to oblige you.”
He treated each breast in turn to the sweet suckling, the play of his lips and tongue making her writhe with mindless pleasure. His clever hands soon had the gown off her, and the brush of his legs, still clad in satin breeches, against her softest flesh was almost unbearably erotic. When his fingers began teasing her as well, she gave a keening cry.
“Hugh! Oh, Hugh, please!” she pleaded, her head moving restlessly on the pillows. She could feel the wondrous tension building in her once more, but this time she knew where it led, and she was eager for the wild release to take her.
“Please what, my angel?” he demanded, biting her neck and brushing his thumb over her moist folds. “Tell me, Caroline, tell me how to please you. I want to please you, to pleasure you until you are wild with it.”
She opened her lips to tell him he was already doing just that when the tension inside of her was unleashed in a flash of white-hot desire. The strength of the explosion left her drained of reason, even as it filled her with a sense of glorious power. As he plunged deep inside her, she was hurled once more into the heart of the storm. There seemed to be no beginning or end to the glorious sensations tearing through her. There was only pleasure greater than anything she had ever known; pleasure, and the feel of Hugh’s arms holding her close as he took them once more into madness.
The candle was still burning bright when Hugh managed to open his eyes. He was laying half on and half off the bed, with a drowsing Caroline draped once more across his chest. This time there was none of the deep remorse and troubling doubts he had experienced the last time, and Hugh let himself bask in the warm aftermath of loving.
Aye, but the wench was a passionate one, he thought smugly, letting his fingers tangle in the blonde curls rioting down her back. He’d suspected as much, but having it proven had been glorious indeed.
He was wondering if he might interest her in another demonstration of her sensual nature when she asked, “How did you come to be shot?”
The question caught him unawares, and he stared at the top of her head in confusion. “What?”
“You said you were shot because you weren’t paying attention,” she said, stroking her finger across the old wound. “Were you with my grandfather when it happened?”
Since she genuinely seemed to want to know, he could see no harm in relating the story. “No, I was in Dupres’s command,” he said, settling back against his pillows. “We were a day’s march from the fort when a band of Indians attacked us. I lost two men before we even knew they were there, and I was shot before I could even aim my rifle. Once Dupres knew I’d recover, he put me in the stockade for three days.”
“He arrested you?” Her head shot up, her eyes flashing with outrage. “But that is infamous! I thought he was your friend!”
“And so he was,” he told her, amused at the way she leaped to his defense. “But he was an officer first, and I had bungled things badly. I knew bands of rebels had slipped into the country and were agitating the local tribes, but I didn’t post guards. I had let myself relax, and because of that two men died. I was lucky not to have been court-martialed. Or hung,” he added, knowing the likely outcome of such a court-martial.
“How did you get this?” Her fingers brushed over a ridge of angry pink flesh that snaked around his waist.
“A close-quarter engagement just outside of Charleston,” he said, recalling the pain of the saber slash, and his terror as he’d fought grimly for his life. “I was carrying orders to your grandfather and a rebel group ambushed us.”
“And this?” A small horseshoe-shaped scar on his thigh was next treated to her tender examination.
Her touch distracted him, and it was a moment before he could remember. “A piece of grapeshot from Cowpens,” he said at last. “The fire was murderous that day.”
“What about this?” A scar on the other side of his waist drew her attention.
“More grapeshot, from King’s Mountain, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, becoming more than a little aroused by her solicitous inspection. He hadn’t spent his fourteen years in the fusiliers prancing about a parade ground, and his body was well-marked from the active service he had given the English king. If she kissed and cooed over every scar he possessed, he’d be a raving maniac before the night was half over.
She was leaning over him, tracing a thin scar along his ribs. “What about … oh, my God!” Her words ended in a cry of horror.
“What?” he asked, and then too late understood what had so appalled her.
“Your back!” she cried, her eyes filling with tears as she gazed at the network of white scars laced across his tanned flesh. “Oh, Hugh, your back!”
Embarrassed and uneasy, he tried to shift away from her touch. “ ’Tis nothing,” he said, wishing he’d stopped her while it had still been a game. “Don’t concern yourself.”
“Nothing! There must be a dozen or more such scars here!” she exclaimed, her hands gently stroking and soothing the torn flesh. “They’re everywhere! What happened to you?”
“I’ve already told you ’Tis nothing,” he said, sexual contentment giving way to a rising tide of memories too bitter to contain. “Leave it be, Caroline, I’m warning you.”
“Were you in a fire?” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Oh, Hugh, how awful to have been burned. It must have been so painful for you! Do they hurt still? I have some salve—”
Abruptly he’d had enough, and caught her hands in his, his face twisting with bitter anger as he glared at her. “I wasna burned!” he exclaimed, fury buried deep for ten years spilling out of him. “I wasna burned, do you hear? I was flogged.”
The color fled from her face. “Flogged?” she whispered.
“Aye, flogged,” he said, his accent growing thicker with his temper. “Tied to a post in front of the entire company and beaten like a disobedient dog. And do you know why?” he added, giving her an angry shake. “Do you know what terrible crime I committed to be given twenty lashes?”
“Twenty lashes?” She trembled in his grip, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Hugh, I don’t—”
“I was slow in saluting some wet-nosed officer, that was my crime,” he said, even now infuriated by the injustice of it all. “And when they discovered I was Scots they called it dissention, and added another ten lashes to the total. They wanted to make an example of me, you see, to show the rest of my traitorous race what happens to impudent young Scotsmen who think themselves the equal to one of the lofty English.
“Well, I took their flogging,” he said, tossing back his head, his eyes shining with bitter pride. “I took every one of those thirty lashes, and not once did I cry out. Not once,” he added, thrusting her away. “There is the truth you were so eager to have; I hope you are satisfied with it.”
He expected her to burst into tears, or perhaps slap his face and rage at him for daring to handle her so roughly. He expected anything except for her to throw herself back in his arms, her arms closing tightly about his neck.
“I’m sorry, Hugh,” she whispered in a broken voice, pressing her tear-dampened face against his throat. “I am so sorry.”
Her response stunned him, destroying the last vestiges of the old anger and hatred he had carried with him for the last decade. The loss of his overwhelming emotions left him feeling oddly hollow, and for a moment he simply lay there, unable to think. His arms shook as he folded them gently around her.
“It’s all right,” he soothed, pressing a kiss on the top of her head. “I am the one who should be sorry. Sorry for raging at you, and for making you pay for something that was none of your doing. Sorry for taking out an anger on you that should have ceased to matter a long time ago.”
She drew back to gaze up at him, her blue eyes luminous with tears. “No wonder you seem to hate us English,” she said, a profound sadness stealing into her soft voice. “How you must have suffered because of us.”
He felt his own eyes beginning to smart with tears. “Caroline, I do not know what to say,” he whispered rawly, cupping her face with hands that weren’t quite steady. He felt as if something inside him was raging to be set free, and he feared that if whatever it was succeeded in escaping, he would never be completely whole again.
“You seem so angry,” she said, touching his cheek and studying his face as if searching for some deep truth. “There
are times when I would almost swear you hate me as well.”
“Not you, mo cridhe,” he told her, using his thumbs to brush the tears from her cheeks. “I could never hate you.”
He saw hope flare in her sapphire-colored eyes. “Are you certain of that, Hugh?” she asked wistfully. “Are you certain you do not hate me because of this marriage we have made? A marriage that is more farce than fact?”
Hugh didn’t answer. He could think of no words to explain his tangled emotions regarding their marriage. He only knew that he didn’t hate her, that he cared for her in ways he had never cared for another woman. He wanted to tell her as much, but he could not. Instead he showed her, lowering her to the bed once more and demonstrating his feelings for her in the only way he could.
Chapter 11
The journey north to Edinburgh was an arduous one, made all the more difficult by the haste with which it was conducted. Because he feared her uncle might be in pursuit, Hugh insisted upon keeping a brutal pace, driving himself and her as hard as he drove the teams of horses. Harder, in fact, Caroline corrected wearily, for at the least the horses were changed several times daily, while she was afforded no such opportunity for respite.
If there was any consolation to be found in the situation, it was that the forced confinement afforded her and Hugh the chance to become better acquainted. However intimate they might have become, they were still strangers in many ways, and as the miles flew past Caroline did her best to understand the complex and often difficult man who was her husband.
She learned that while he would speak openly of many matters, there were other topics that were strictly forbidden. He would never refuse to answer, precisely, but his eyes would grow more silver than green, and his voice would take on a clipped, cold edge that had her eager to turn the conversation to other subjects. Among the forbidden topics, she was quick to discover, were his father and brother, and Loch Haven.
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