by Rose Gordon
He lifted his right leg and flexed his calf for her, eliciting another peal of laughter. He shook his head ruefully. Was it possible Laura had consumed more wine than she'd claimed earlier? No matter. She might be a bit tipsy, but she wasn't foxed. There was a difference, and he didn't mind her silliness so much; he rather liked it.
He walked over to her and was pleasantly surprised when she didn't back away. He leaned forward, and for the first time since they'd left Bath, he allowed himself to kiss her. She tasted sweet, of wine. Her lips were soft and moved against his.
A throat cleared and a tongue clucked behind them and Henry pulled away from Laura, silently promising that soon he'd resume right where they'd left off. Beside them, the Campbells stood. Mr. Campbell holding an instrument he immediately recognized as bagpipes and Mrs. Campbell held a prayer book with a long piece of twine coming out of the top, presumably to mark the page.
Henry offered Laura his arm, “Shall we?”
Her delicate hand found the crook of his arm and together they followed the Campbells to the place Laura had earlier deemed perfect for their wedding.
“Aye, ye stan' here,” Mr. Campbell instructed Henry.
Henry did as he was told and stood still as Laura moved to stand opposite him. Instinctively, he reached for her hands. Neither was wearing gloves, and he couldn't help but notice the softness of her satin skin. He idly ran the pads of his thumbs over the back of her hands as Mr. Campbell began a tune on his bagpipes.
Five minutes later, the man was still blowing out a song; but Henry didn't mind. Not even when the man screeched or missed a note. That didn't matter. He was too drawn to Laura and the way the soft wind moved her hair.
Another couple of moments passed, then with the longest note Henry had ever heard, the song came to an end.
Mr. Campbell handed the instrument to his wife and took the prayer book from her, then went to stand right next to Henry and Laura.
The older man cleared his throat. Twice. Then spoke in a voice that sounded as if he were speaking over a deep well. “Frien's, Romans, Coun'rymen, len' me yer ears—”
At that precise moment, Henry and Laura locked eyes and then both nearly dissolved into laughter.
“—fer there's a'out ta be a weddin'!” Mr. Campbell continued, stamping his foot to emphasize his point. “Nau' jus' any weddin'; nay, one betix two youn' lo'ers on de run!”
Laura's lips twitched, as did Henry's, he was certain. Henry tightened his hold on her hands a fraction.
“Now frien's and fam'y—” he shot a loving look to his wife— “remem'er we's not to ju'ge ner condemn. But ruther cele'ra'te the occasion. Anuther song, eh?”
Mrs. Campbell wiped a tear from her eye and traded the bagpipes for the prayer book.
Thankfully, this song was shorter.
Or so it seemed.
Mr. Campbell pulled the mouthpiece from his lips after a few bars and said, “To love yer lass is a shew of class.” He put the mouthpiece back to his lips and played a few more notes. “If she loves ye too, then she's not a shrew.”
Henry and Laura exchanged looks while Mr. Campbell continued to play.
“To pledge young love—” he played another bar “is as fet'ing as a dove.”
Laura's lips quivered with laughter.
“Cherish her deep, an' yer love shall keep.” He played a few more measures. “Ne'er call her a hag, nor a nag.”
Henry's shoulders shook with mirth.
“If yer temp'ed to stray be'ause she grows quite trite, remem'er without her, life was shi—”
“I think that's quite 'nuff, Liam,” Mrs. Campbell intoned, sparing Henry and Laura any further torture.
Mr. Campbell grumbled but handed his bagpipes back to his wife. He flipped open the prayer book and scanned the first page, then the second, then he flipped to the middle and frowned. He turned the next page and frowned again; then repeated the gesture. “Aye,” he said, finding a page that must have been what he'd been looking for. “Love is as gen'le as the hair of a foal. It donna shout or nag. Ner falsely accuse. It lis'ens—though it has no ears. It ne'er thin's the wors', but es quick ta believe da bes'. Love...and love alone will mek de bad ti'es good and the good ti'es be'er. It's the only thing wor't havin'.”
Though the last words were clearly meant as a renewal of a declaration between Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, Henry couldn't quite staunch the small kernel within him that perhaps one day he and Laura would feel that way for each other. His parents had an arranged marriage and somehow found love, perhaps their situation would end up the same. And if not, at least she was amiable. Far different than how he'd thought of her at first. He momentarily squeezed her hands, an unspoken apology for undeserved judgments he'd made about her in the past and a vow to never think of her that way again.
“Henry,” Mr. Campbell said abruptly, his already rough voice becoming even rougher. “Do ye prom'se ta keep Laura as yer wif'?”
Henry locked gazes with Laura. “Yes.”
“Do ye prom'se to be kin' do her?”
“Yes.”
“Do ye promise to slay her dra'ons fer her?”
“Yes,” he said, grinning.
“Do ye prom'se to give her yer portion of dinner when she's heavy wit yer child?”
As absurd as it was to agree to such a thing, he murmured his agreement.
“Very good,” Mr. Campbell said, his eyes narrowing on Henry. “An' do ye prom'se to be faithful and keep yer pri—”
“Yes,” Henry cut in.
Mr. Campbell pursed his lips and nodded stiffly. “A'ight, I 'pose we'll accept yer troth.” He turned to Laura. “Are ye sure ye wish ta marry him?”
Henry's heart skipped a beat. He'd never considered it before now, but what if she truly didn't wish to marry him? “This is what you want, isn't it?” he asked before he could think to stop himself. Please, don't let her say she'd prefer to marry his brother.
“Yes.” Her response, while so quiet and simple, had the strangest affect on him. She wanted this. She wanted him. Henry. Not Elijah. Henry.
Mr. Campbell continued on, asking her a string of odd questions about promising to let Henry have the first—and last—waltz at every ball they attended; confirming she intended to never speak ill of Henry's mother and she would be patient and remember he was only a gentleman when he was being indelicate with her. Strangely enough, Laura readily agreed to all of the old man's nonsense. Then immediately afterwards, Mr. Campbell started playing another song on his bagpipe and Mrs. Campbell sang along to it in Gaelic.
“Dance,” Mrs. Campbell shouted.
“Dance?” Laura and Henry said in unison.
Mrs. Campbell bobbed her head, grabbed their hands and tried to pull in a circle.
Sensing that refusing would be futile, Henry moved to her goading, and trying not to think of how it appeared, frolicked in a circle with the two ladies. Mrs. Campbell let go and Henry clasped Laura's hand again.
“Keep dancin',” Mrs. Campbell said between bars.
As childish as it might seem, they continued on. This had to be the most bizarre wedding ever. But seeing the way his new wife looked at him, it didn't matter. He'd do anything to see her happy—even dance around a large field in a green plaid kilt three inches shy of his knees.
The music ended and Henry and Laura pulled to a halt.
“Mr. Campbell, Mrs. Campbell, I do thank you both so much for marrying us, but—”
“We're not done,” Mrs. Campbell interjected.
“Pardon?” What could there possibly be left to do?
“Ye still need to tie the knot,” Mr. Campbell said, pulling out that long chord from the middle of his prayer book. “Now, give me yer left hand, Mr. Banks, an' I'll take yer right, Mrs. Banks.”
“Why?”
“So I can bind ye together fer life.”
~Chapter Twenty-One~
That had to be the strangest wedding ceremony ever, Laura thought as she looked down to where her right hand was still tether
ed to Henry's. The only reason she'd allowed such a bizarre display to continue was because of the expression on Henry's face.
He was really quite handsome.
Actually, that wasn't fair.
He was always handsome, even when scowling, frowning or expressionless. But the way his face lit up when he grinned was irresistible. Not to mention, the wide-eyed look that came over his face when he was stunned or just couldn't believe the nonsense coming out of Mr. Campbell's mouth. It also didn't hurt that wearing that kilt offered Laura a very generous view of Henry's muscular legs!
“Now fer yer weddin' dinner,” Mrs. Campbell announced.
Henry reached down between them to untie the twine that held their wrists together only to still his fingers when Mrs. Campbell swatted his hand with the prayer book.
“It stays,” the older woman informed him.
“Then how is she to eat?” He lifted their hands to show the woman that Laura's right hand was unusable.
“Ye'll fin' a way, I reckon,” Mr. Campbell said easily. Then he crossed his arms. “But tha' chord donna come off while yer still at my house.”
“The chord,” Mrs. Campbell started, “is tradition. It shews the man an' woman are boun' together. An' it's his lef' han', so his righ' han' can be free to figh' and defen' his lass.”
Henry mumbled something about how it would be easier to defend her if he wasn't tied to her, making her grin.
“Oh, stop fussing; we both know you're enjoying it,” Laura said.
“Only because you seem to be,” he whispered.
A queer feeling stirred in her stomach. Hunger. Yes, that's what it was. Or that's what she planned to claim that it was, because anything else, such as desire, was unthinkable.
Henry and Laura sat down at the table in a pair of chairs that practically touched. But it had to be that way since they were still tied together.
Humming, Mrs. Campbell brought the food to the table while Mr. Campbell took a seat.
Meanwhile, Laura and Henry had a silent war about where their hands would reside. Laura preferred the table, but a mere second after their hands were on the table, Henry brought them to his lap.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I forgot...”
How that was possible, she didn't know, but didn't question it and tried to move their hands back to the table.
Henry complied, but only momentarily, and then he lifted their bound hands to his left temple, where he proceeded to scratch his head.
“Sorry, again,” he murmured, dropping their hands to her lap. He spread his hand over her thigh and leaned in close. “This way I won't forget that my left hand is otherwise engaged and won't lift it.” He inched his hand inside her thigh and winked.
Laura's mouth went dry, and mindlessly, she reached for the wine glass in front of her. She took a deep swig. When he squeezed her thigh again, she took another. This had the potential to be a very interesting meal.
And it was.
Laura lost count of how many glasses of wine she drank—all in the name of celebrating her new union, of course—as Henry's touch and teasing smile stirred unfamiliar feelings in her. By the end of the meal, she was sure that at least some of those uneasy feelings were created by the wine. But it hadn't helped that he'd been running his palm up and down her thigh as he fed them both shepherd's pie from the same plate and fork, claiming it was the only way he saw possible for them both to complete their meal.
And now that the meal was over, it was time to go. Which required another, long, deep sip. For when they left, she'd be alone with Henry and he'd expect—he'd expect— On second thought, it might not hurt to finish the rest of her glass.
She put it down with a tap and met his blue eyes.
“Are you ready?”
She wasn't sure if he'd truly whispered those words or if it just seemed that way as a result of the number of glasses of wine she'd consumed. Laura nodded.
Henry reached for her and helped her gain her feet, then turned to the Campbells. “If we can have a moment to change—”
“No need,” Mrs. Campbell said, waving her hand in the air. “Wear dis tonigh', den on yer way back to En'land t'morrow, ye can come get yer clo'es. I'll warsh them for ye.”
Henry murmured their thanks and gave them both a quick bow. Laura didn't dare attempt a curtsey, lest she end up on the floor with Henry on top of her.
“We'll stop in the first village,” Henry said when they were inside the carriage.
She dropped her eyes down to where their hands were still tied together. His arm was very thick—muscular. So were his legs. This wasn't new. She'd taken note of how sturdy he was before and had even shuddered at the thought of him on top of her. For the truth was, he'd likely crush her slender frame. Her first husband hadn't been especially thick or heavy, and lying under him had been extremely painful—and so had the rest of the activity. She swallowed. Hard. Perhaps she should have had a wee bit more wine.
Only a short time later, or perhaps it might have been a long while, Laura didn't know, she'd been too busy dreading what was next, they arrived at a little grey brick inn.
“Come along, wifey,” Henry said thickly.
Tentatively, Laura allowed him to clumsily guide them both out of the carriage and into the inn where he booked their room.
Unease spread over her with each step as they neared the room they'd share.
She swallowed convulsively. She could do this. She'd done it before. She could do it again. Besides, there was something she could do to help move things along. It might not be so pleasant, but it'd be far easier for her than enduring his roughness.
***
“Would you like a few minutes to get ready?” Henry forced himself to ask, reaching for the twine that bound their hands and slipping the knot. He set the strand of twine on the table, not quite ready to toss it into the fire.
Laura pulled her hand away and idly rubbed her wrist. “Would you mind?”
“No, not at all,” he lied, ready to have her now. “I'll go make arrangements with the innkeeper about our breakfast.”
She nodded, and he took that as her dismissal.
A touch disappointed, but mostly unsure, he tamped down his excitement at getting back to their room. He afforded her a few minutes by taking his time talking to the innkeeper about things that didn't even need discussing. He glanced at the clock. Ten minutes had passed. That was plenty of time for her to have used the necessary and pinch her cheeks until they were pink, if she so desired.
Whistling, he returned to their room.
“Laura?”
“Good evening, Mr. Banks,” she practically purred from where she lounged on the bed.
His throat went dry. She'd undone the bodice of her gown just enough to give him an adequate glimpse of the tops of her luscious breasts. He was afforded a bit more by the way they pressed together as she lay on her side on the bed. He hardened instantly. Wordlessly, he kicked the door shut with his foot and walked over to her.
She came to stand on her knees on the edge of the low bed, and when he came within arm's length of her, she grabbed hold of the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, a seductive smile playing on her lips.
Henry reached down and placed his hand on her hip, then skimmed it up her ribs and brushed the lower part of her breast with his fingers. He murmured her name and brought his lips against hers. She returned his kiss but not as softly as she'd kissed him last time. Perhaps that was because she was preoccupied, he reasoned in his spinning mind a moment later, when her hand began sliding along his bare thigh under his kilt.
He pulled away from her and reached down to stop her wandering hand, murmuring an incoherent promise that there was no need to rush.
As if she hadn't heard him, she looped her free arm around his neck and closed the space between their upper bodies, pressing her full breasts against his chest. He groaned. How unfortunate he hadn't thought to remove his shirt before walking over to her. Keeping her full breasts against his chest,
she slipped her hand out from his grip and continued moving it with torturous slowness up his thigh toward his hard-as-steel erection. He'd have never thought she'd be such a seductress, but rather a stiff and unyielding bed partner. It felt good to be proved wrong.
She broke their kiss and moved her lips to his neck, her hand resuming its path toward his groin until her delicate fingers collided with his thick erection. She wrapped her hand around it and gave a gentle squeeze, stealing the breath straight from his lungs. They both swallowed uncomfortably as she slid her hand from the bottom all the way to the top.
She gave him another squeeze and rested her head against his shoulder. Henry reached his left hand down to cup her warm face. She pulled away and moved down his body.
“Laura?”
She didn't answer or look up, just continued to move.
Henry put both of his hands on her shoulders and looked down to see what she was doing.
Without removing her right hand from his rod, she sank down so that she was no longer standing on her knees, but rather had her folded legs to the side and was resting her hip in the low mattress. He moved his head to the side to get a better look at her downcast face, which had been pink when she'd started and was now dozens of shades darker as she gripped the flap of his kilt and began to move it to the side.
Heat crept up Henry's face. Perhaps Mr. Campbell had been correct in his suggestion that she'd had—and missed—a satisfactory intimate relationship with her first husband. He pressed his lips together and lowered his lashes, intrigued.
His intrigue, however, soon faded to concern when all she did was slide her hand back down his length and stare at his tool.
“Laura?” he said again after what felt like moments.
What he could see of her face grew taut and he could hear her throat as she swallowed convulsively, then she leaned forward—
“What the devil are you doing?” he burst out before he could stop himself.
Her body froze just inches from him and her hand tightened its hold on him.
“Laura,” he repeated, much softer this time.
Her shoulders trembled beneath his touch, leading shame and guilt to come over him like a rogue wave.