Muira bobbed in a low curtsy, and murmured: “Please to meet you, Mrs MacRae,” which earned her only a fiercer scowl from her motherin-law, and was then gently pulled along after her husband.
“I am sorry about that,” Lachlan sighed, once the doors had been opened for them and then were walking through the castle’s grand entrance hall, earning a few curious glances from the servants who were about.
“We knew it would be difficult,” Muira murmured, squeezing her husband’s hand tightly.
“I have a feeling that it may get more difficult before it gets any better,” he grumbled, running a hand through his hair.
Muira was of the opinion that it would definitely get more difficult before it got better, but wasn’t inclined to say so aloud. She was looking all around her, trying to take in the interior details of the castle, but Lachlan was walking so swiftly that she barely got a chance to turn her head from side to side as she struggled to keep up with his long strides. Indeed, she almost careened into him when he did stop, throwing open a large oak door and leading Muira into, what she took to be, his bedroom.
“Home sweet home,” he sighed, and Muira wasn’t sure whether he was being serious or not. He walked over to a chair that stool beside the unlit hearth and sat down, groaning audibly as he took the weight off his feet.
Muira felt a small tender smile tug at her lips. “Poor thing,” she breathed softly, shutting the door and then walking over to her husband, sure enough his eyes had already dipped close. “You need to sleep,” she said gently.
“I’ll be fine,” he murmured. “I need to see Graem, I don’t care what mother says, it’s not right that he doesn’t know about you being here. And I need make sure one of the servants brings up your luggage. And I-”
“Need to rest!” Muira giggled.
She crossed the room to the bed, drawing back the blankets so that Lachlan could get in, before returning to his side, intent on prodding him into action. He was already so dear to her… Muira’s heart ached with an emotion that she was too afraid to examine as she stared down at Lachlan, studying his handsome, if exhausted, face.
“Come on now,” she said gently, kneeling before her husband and going to work on his boots. Muira smiled when Lachlan dropped a hand to her hair, gently patting her head as she heaved and tugged until both of his boots were off.
“I can manage you know,” he yawned, but made no actual move to help himself when Muira’s fingers rooted for the bottom of his shirt.
“I don’t want you to manage,” Muira answered, and then surprised herself when she leant forward and dapped a kiss against his lips. Lachlan looked surprised too, his tired eyes flickered open, but he smiled warmly as Muira helped him out of his shirt and pulled him up onto his feet.
“You’ll sleep more comfortably without this on,” she murmured, hesitating finally when he was clad in nothing more than his kilt.
“Undoubtedly,” Lachlan chuckled.
He reached for the belt himself, sensitive to Muira’s embarrassment, but she reached out a hand and stilled him, intent on finishing what she’d started. She was not being ruled by passion, but by a deep desire to help Lachlan-to take care and look after him like a real wife. A wife bound to her husband by more than just carnal lust…
Of course, that didn’t stop Muira from drinking in the sight of Lachlan’s body. She had no point of reference to use as a comparison of course, but she knew instinctively that her husband was as close to physically perfection as a man could hope to be.
“Sleep now,” she whispered soothingly, taking his hand and leading him towards the bed. He went without a word of protest, which rather impressed upon his wife how exhausted he was really feeling.
Lachlan released his breath in a huge, contented sigh as he sank down onto the soft mattress. Muira smiled softly, watching his eyes shut as she straightened the sheets and fussed with the blanket. She was just started to pull away when a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.
“Where are you going?” he sighed, eyes still closed. Lachlan’s voice was heavy as if he was fighting off sleep, but he didn’t let Muira go.
“Nowhere,” she promised him, brushing his hair off of his forehead.
“Come to bed,” he murmured, patting the space beside him.
“In a minute,” she laughed quietly, kissing Lachlan’s cheek and then slipping out of his grasp. He was too tired to resist the lure of slumber any long, and in a matter of mere seconds his breathing was deep and his chest was rising and falling steadily.
Muira stood and watched him for a few minutes. She was exhausted herself, but the adrenaline (and terror) that had flooded her veins on arriving at Eilean Donan Castle was acting as a rather powerful stimulant. She didn’t know if she would be able to sleep even if she did crawl beneath the covers, but then she wondered if it really mattered. Just curling up beside Lachlan would be heavenly.
She had nothing to wear to bed though, no nightdress; her cases hadn’t been brought up to Lachlan’s room yet. She could sleep in her chemise, but she had been wearing it for days, had already slept in it once, and after her frantic coupling with Lachlan in the woods Muira thought it better if she changed out of the undergarment… which only really left one option.
Muira slipped quickly out of her clothes, tossing them over the back of the chair where she had folded Lachlan’s things. She felt a guilty little thrill as she slipped beneath the cover, revelling in the cool crisp feel of the clean sheets against her skin, and then basking in the warmth of her husband’s skin as she wriggled up against him.
She needn’t have worried about dropping off. The second that she had finished entwining her limbs with Lachlan’s and let her head touch the pillow Muira was out like a light.
..ooOOoo..
She didn’t know how long she slept, only that there was still a little daylight left seeping through the windows when she woke-to the sound of cheerful humming. Muria prised open one eye, somehow feeling more tired than she had when she lay down to sleep. Lachlan was standing in front of a mirror trimming his beard. A towel was knotted around his waist and his skin was damp from the bath that she assumed he’d just taken.
“Ah, you’re awake,” he said, without turning to look at her.
Muira wriggled back under the blankets and pretended not to be awake. If she was awake she’d have to get up, and if she got up that would undoubtedly lead to all sorts of unsavoury activities, like meeting the MacRae’s Laird, and seeing Lachlan’s mother, and-all in all the bed looked a far safer place to stay.
“There’s a fresh bath waiting for you,” Lachlan chuckled, which had the desired effect of coaxing Muira to abandon her pretence of sleep.
“A bath?” she whispered hopefully.
“Aye,” Lachlan grinned, nodding in the direction of a large brass tub that was sitting in front of the hearth. The fire had evidently been lit while Muira slept, and it now looked to be burning very merrily.
“Ooh,” Muira cooed in appreciative longing.
She sat up, and then quickly clutched the blankets around her body, suddenly realising her predicament. She was suddenly quite sure that she couldn’t walk across the room in front of her husband completely naked! What had seemed like a good idea when she’d been hopping into bed suddenly looked a lot less clever in the sober light of day, (or evening, at any rate).
What was worse, Lachlan seemed to know what was troubling her, because he’d turned away from the mirror and was leaning against the washstand, watching her, a wide grin plastered across his face.
“You will have to get out of bed, you know,” he said innocently, but Muira was sure that she could see the mischievous glint in his eyes, even from all the way across the other side of the room. “I can’t very well bring the bath over there, Muira,” he said, continuing to smile.
“I know! I am getting out of bed,” she said, more to buy herself some time than anything, because she obviously hadn’t been getting out of bed at all.
She wondered i
f Lachlan would let her wrap herself in a sheet and pad across to the bath, although just the thought of bathing in front of him caused an equally deep blush to colour Muira’s cheeks. She couldn’t understand why; after the things they’d done together she would have thought herself past the point of embarrassment!
It was different now though. Would he be as pleased with what he saw when he wasn’t blinded by passion? Would he still think her as beautiful?
She had to take that gamble. Muira took a deep breath and slid a leg out from under the bed covers, followed closely by the other. She let the sheet fall slowly from where she’d had it tucked under her chin until she was completely exposed, and then she stood up, letting her breath on in a whoosh of air, before finally daring to look at her husband.
Lachlan’s gaze reminded her of the lightning strikes that she and her brother, Ewan, had used to watch from the highest turrets of Castle Cameron as children. It held that same intensity, and caused the fine hair on her arms to stand on end in just the same manner.
Muira could feel her heart pick up a beat as Lachlan’s eyes roamed her body shamelessly. She could feel her nipples tighten-feel the dampness that was already spreading between her legs, provoked by the slightly hint that he wanted her. She sauntered across to the tub, accentuating the wiggle of her bottom, and letting her hand slide down the curve of her hip, while the outside swell of her breasts gently knocked against the inside of her arms.
She must be one of those very wicked, very wanton women she had always been warned against, Muira thought. But the trouble was, she really didn’t think that she cared.
“Minx,” Lachlan growled beneath his breath, drinking in the enticing sway of his wife’s body.
He watched as Muira glanced innocently over her shoulder at him, smiling sweetly. She dipped one toe into the warm water to test it, parting her legs to an almost obscene degree, and angling her body so that Lachlan could see the swollen pink lips of her sex. He groaned, loud enough for her to hear. Muira shot him a triumphant glance and then slid into the bathtub.
He couldn’t take her. There wasn’t time. Lachlan cursed that fact a hundred times over, but it didn’t mean that he was going to be the only one to suffer. He padded over to the tub, crouching down behind his wife so that her back was to his front.
“Someone’s been a naughty girl,” he purred.
“Ah, and is there a punishment to fit this misdemeanour?” Muira giggled, and then sighed heavily when Lachlan leant forwards and dabbed a line of kisses across her shoulder blades.
“Oh most definitely,” he breathed, letting his hands drift around her body so that he could lightly fondle her breasts. “But first I think this dirty little girl needs a thorough cleaning.”
“Little?” Muira asked coyly, thrusting her ample chest into his waiting palms. It was all Lachlan could do not to pounce on her, but he forced himself to remember his torturous plan.
“Wicked,” he corrected, licking the shell of Muira’s ear, and causing her to moan loudly. “Do you know what I want to do?” he rasped, reaching for a bar of soap and lathering it between his hands.
“I c-can imagine,” Muira gasped, as her husband’s hand started washing her.
“Can you?” Lachlan chuckled. “Can you imagine me crawling into the tub with you?” he whispered huskily, smiling at Muira’s little start of surprise. “It’s big enough you know.” He knew from past experience, but he didn’t want to think about that now. “And then, once I was in there, with you, I wonder what then? Do you know?”
A breathless shake of Muira’s head was Lachlan’s rather satisfactory answer. He dipped a hand between her legs, stroking her there, his grin widening when he felt how slick she was beneath the water.
“Maybe I’d want to kiss you?” he murmured, pressing his lips against her neck. “Only maybe I’d want to dip my head under the water and kiss you here?” he drawled, slipping a finger into her sheath.
“Lachlan!” Muira gasped, her eyes widened in disbelief and her body arched into his hand, sloshing water out over the edges of the tub.
“Mmm, I think you’d like that,” he chuckled. “I know I would. I wonder how you taste,” he murmured thickly, lapping his tongue heavily over her throat, eking what sounded like a purr to trickle from Muira’s lips. “Maybe I’d ask you do the same for me?” he panted.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, flushed with heat.
“Would you do that for me, Muira?” Lachlan rasped, beginning to wonder if he would be able to stop. He swirled his tongue into her ear again. “Would you take me in your mouth?”
“Yes!” she cried desperately. “Yes! Just-”
Lachlan kissed her, hard, on the lips, thrusting his tongue between her teeth, worshipping the sweet hollow of her mouth until she was breathless. “Later,” he promised wickedly, withdrawing his hands and causing Muria to scream.
“Lachlan!” she shrieked. “Don’t-”
“We don’t have time,” he whispered, drawing back from the tub. As if on cue there came a light knock on the door. “I send for one of the castle maids to come and help you with-” he paused and cocked an eyebrow, “-whatever it is that ladies with maids need help with.”
“Send her away?” Muira pleaded desperately, twisting so that she could try and grasp hold of her husband. “Lachlan, I need-” she gasped, but he pressed a finger against her red lips to silence her.
“Patience,” he whispered thickly. “Anticipation is a pleasure all of its own,” he murmured, dropping a kiss against the tip of her nose and then getting to his feet. Meanwhile, Muira gave another tortured whimper.
“You’re going to pay for this Lachlan MacRae!” she moaned.
He certainly hoped so, he though, as he padded across the room, towel still wrapped around his waist, and opened up the door. Lachlan smiled affably at the jolly little brunette standing in the hall.
“Liane, come in, Robert told you what I needed?”
“Aye, well he did, sir, but I can’t say I quite understood him.”
Lachlan wondered if everyone was going to display such an incredible mental block when it came to accepting that he was married. He sighed. “My wife requires a lady’s maid,” he said simply. “You helped Lady Anne’s maid when she stayed at the castle last, didn’t you?”
“Your wife, sir?” Liane’s brown eyes nearly popped out of her head.
She strained to see around her master, looking into the room for the mysterious lady. Lachlan wasn’t sure why, but he was glad that there was a screen placed between the bath and the door, saving Muira from being gawped at like a carnival attractions.
“Didn’t you?” Lachlan growled more harshly. Liane blinked up at him in question. “Help Lady Anne’s maid?” he repeated.
“Oh, aye sir, that I did,” she said, bobbing apologetically.
“Then you should be a great help to Mistress Muira,” he waved her passed him, into the room, and then proceeded to lead her around to his wife-who, Lachlan was pleased to see, still looked decided flushed and restless.
“Muira,” he drawled, “this is Liane, she will be only too pleased to help you with anything you might need,” he paused, and shot her a roughish smile. “Almost everything,” he amended, watching her blush deepen, and then with a nod of his head, Lachlan went to finish dressing himself.
He had chosen Liane for Muira’s maid with good reason. The girl was perhaps a couple of years younger than his wife (too young for Lachlan ever to have trifled with) of a sunny, hardworking disposition that made her almost instantly likable to everyone she met.
Liane was not the sharpest tack in the box. She had innocence about her that made her unfailingly trusting and excessively eager to please. She didn’t have a malicious bone in her young body, and Lachlan though it might do Muria some good to be waited on by a girl would couldn’t help but adore her. He listened to the pair of them chatting away happily and considered it a job well done.
Lachlan was dressed in a matter of minutes, using the
adjoining room, which was linked to his bedchamber, to get ready in. This room was about half the size of the first, and housed a small collection of books on military tactics and a large, sturdy wood desk that had once belonged to Lachlan’s late grandfather.
Lachlan pottered around in the study, as he called it-for want of a better title, for as long as he thought was necessary to enable a lady to dress to meet the Laird. Having three sisters, and more female conquests than he would admit to, to his wife at any rate, he thought himself a fair judge of approximating the time that it would take Muria to get ready.
He found that he had woefully underestimated.
Muria was dressed when he returned to the bedroom, but she was nowhere near ready. Liane was only just beginning to brush out the long, luxuriant curls of his wife’s hair. Lachlan wondered if this was part of his punishment. His body was already suffering its own pangs of longing after he had cut their earlier session short.
“How long is this going to take?” he grumbled, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“As long as it needs to take,” Muira said sweetly.
Which actually turned out to mean nearly an hour, but once Lachlan had gotten over his initial irritation at being made to wait, he found himself watching the whole business with barely concealable interest. Liane had tried to shoo him away, muttering something in her funny little way about it being unseemly for a husband to watch his wife in such a manner, but Lachlan refused to budge.
It was the oddest sort of torture, seeing Muira preened and polished and made up until she could have passed for a member of the Royal court. She was so exquisitely beautiful. He thought perhaps he had started to take it for granted, and then he considered that he’d never seen her quite like this, not even o their wedding day. She looked positively radiant.
“Well,” she said, as she turned to face him, dusting an imaginary speck of dust off her exquisite gown. “How do I look?”
A Beautiful Lie (The Camaraes) Page 12