by Susan Wiggs
She must have made some subtle sound or movement of distress, for he closed his hand around hers and caught her eyes. “Pax vobiscum,” he said, echoing the words Revelin had just spoken.
She closed her eyes and swayed toward him. Aye, peace. It settled around her like a golden mantle, enveloping her, comforting, healing her. All her life, she had sought the peace of knowing she was loved. Aidan O Donoghue was giving that to her. The magnitude of his gift struck her, and a tear seeped out from beneath her eyelashes.
With a touch as light as a moth’s wing, he brushed away the tear. She opened her eyes to see him looking at her with an intensity that stole her breath.
“Those had best be tears of happiness,” he whispered.
“So you should hope, or it is going to be a very long night,” she whispered back, trying to lighten the moment and resisting the urge to sniffle loudly. “I am now your wife. What more could I want?”
His smile held such promise that a wave of shivers slid over her. “That,” he said, bending to secretly trace the shape of her ear with his tongue, “is something we will explore tonight.”
The maids spoke in rapid Gaelic, but their broad winks and friendly tweaks and pats delivered a universal message of good-humored bawdiness. Pippa realized that even for the older married women, there was something inherently exciting about readying a new bride for her husband.
With much giggling and sighing, they stripped her naked and bathed her in warm spring water steeped in fragrant herbs. One girl explained, in a dense brogue, that morning dew had been added to the bathwater in order to keep her skin beautiful. Pippa luxuriated; baths were still a novelty to her and the gentle care of womenfolk even newer yet. Sibheal, the local midwife, had strong, capable, cosseting hands. With wry laughter, she told of assisting the birth of the O Donoghue Mór, pantomiming hilariously the prodigious size—in all aspects—of the future chieftain.
The merriment continued to surge and lull like a friendly breeze. When Sibheal helped her from the tub to dry her and comb her hair, Pippa sensed a soft shock of memory. Just for a moment, she felt cosseted in a way that evoked the faint bittersweetness of a distant dream. Was it the barely remembered touch of a mother? The sensation fled quickly, and Pippa smiled, but her heart pounded with the realization that she had almost recalled her mother.
The other two maids rubbed her with rose oil until her skin was soft and supple. They draped her in a gauzy garment of fine white linen. It fit loosely, sliding down over her collarbones.
Sibheal pulled it up at the neckline and clucked her tongue. “We need a jewel to fasten this.”
“I have just the thing.” Pippa fetched her bag, which looked worn and paltry in the clean, well-swept chamber. She took out the broken ornament of gold. “This will hold it.”
Sibheal pinned up the shoulder of the tunic, and Pippa sent her a grateful smile. Though plundered of its jewels, the brooch was the only link she had with a past she did not know. Even so, she drew a measure of comfort from wearing it on her wedding night.
The women fussed with her hair a little more until it was a mass of springy curls crowned by fresh marigolds. Then, curtsying and backing toward the door, the two younger maids left.
Sibheal took her to a lofty private chamber high on the main keep above the great hall. A wreath of hawthorn adorned the door. The women had decked the bridal chamber with garlands of fragrant wildflowers. The bedstead was huge and luxuriant, a carved oaken headboard and great linen swags cloaking the interior in fragrant mystery. In the hangings and bedclothes, the women had tucked small offerings—bundles of herbs and dried petals—to bring luck and bounty to the newly wedded couple.
After Sibheal had left, Pippa stood in the middle of the room and simply stared. “Bedding is a serious matter,” she said faintly.
“That it is, my dear.” With his raiments flapping loose like broken wings, Revelin stepped into the room, followed by two barefoot acolytes who tripped over their robes as they peered at the bride.
She blushed but gave them a smile of pure happiness. Let them look their fill. Let them know what a woman looked like when her dreams were finally coming true. She was the wife of the O Donoghue Mór.
One of the lads circled the room, swinging a censer that gave forth intermittent puffs of richly perfumed incense; the other held a basin of holy water. Revelin took a green rowan branch, dipped it in the water and sprinkled the bed while calling down blessings. “Our help is in Thee, O Lord, who made heaven and earth. Bless this bed, that all lying in it may rest in Thy peace, and preserve and grow old and multiply in length of days, amen.”
Then, looking sheepish, he turned to Pippa. “I suppose the rowan branch is a mite pagan.”
She drew in a nervous breath. “I’ll take all the blessings I can get.”
Revelin came and stood before her, tall and straight, his white hair and beard giving him a lordly dignity even as the twinkle in his eyes belied the severe look. “I never had a daughter,” he whispered, “but if I did, I would pray God she was like you.”
She raised herself on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I never knew my father,” she confessed, “but now I feel as if I do. Thank you, Revelin.”
He laid the palm of his hand on her forehead and murmured something in Gaelic. Then he was gone, and she stood alone in the room.
Two candles burned in holders attached to the bedstead, and a few coals glowed in a brazier. Everything looked rich and golden. She felt pampered and delicate, a princess in a charmed tower, the air heavy with promise. All was just as she had dreamed it would be, except for one minor detail.
She had never imagined that she would be afraid.
She was afraid; that much he could see right away.
Aidan stood in the doorway of the tower chamber and drank in the sight of her. Or at least what he could see of her. With her back turned, her head slightly bent, she lingered near the window.
Garbed in gauzy white fabric and intriguing shadows, she looked as slim and straight as a beechwood sapling. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and neck, and a circlet of flowers rested on the springy mass.
“You left the feast early.” His throat felt strained. “The harper dinned us for at least another hour.” A small lie, that. He had not been in the hall, either, but closeted in his office with Donal Og and Revelin, working out the documents that would govern Pippa’s future when he died. He would leave her with the Ross Castle treasure and a safe conduct to England, to Blackrose Priory in Hertfordshire, the home of Oliver and Lark de Lacey.
“Aidan?” She broke in on his musings, and he was grateful, for they were melancholy thoughts.
He had not anticipated being so aroused by her appearance, but he was. By now he should know that the unanticipated was commonplace where Pippa was concerned.
Her only reaction to the sound of his voice was a stiffening of her spine.
“It’s all right, a gradh,” he said, crossing the room to stand behind her. “You can turn around. It’s only me, remember? Aidan.”
She moved as if an opposing force held her back—slowly, painstakingly, until finally she was facing him. “Only you?” she asked. “As in, only the O Donoghue Mór, Lord of Castleross, descendant of kings? I must be out of my mind. I don’t belong here.”
Despite her challenging speech, he could not answer her right away. He was too busy staring. She was perfect. Too beautiful. It was not the remote perfection of a marble statue, but the vibrant appeal of a bride of the sidhe. She was warm and glowing, her lips full, the lower one vulnerable, her eyes wide and uncertain.
“My lord?” She folded her arms across her middle as if to shield herself. “Why do you look at me so?”
He sank down on one knee. “To God, you are lovely, lass. You look like a fairy maiden, all white and gold and pure as the rain.”
She bit her lip and gazed at him with a worried look. “And that’s supposed to put me at my ease?”
He laughed softly, coming to his feet. “
I was being honest, my love. You have a curious effect on me. It’s not often I burst out with dramatic poesies or tributes to beauty.”
“Being considered a beauty is very new to me.” A shy smile flirted about her mouth. “It didn’t happen until I met you.”
It was all he could do to hold his hands at his sides, to keep from devouring her with his eyes. “And now. May I touch you, my lady of Castleross, or are you going to make me suffer?”
Her smile widened, changing from wistful to impish. “You mean I have a choice?”
He nodded, wondering where he found the strength to endure his need. “By rights I should fling you on your back and have my way with you, regardless of your preferences. However, you bring out an honor I never knew I possessed.”
“Really?”
“Truly. I will do nothing to hurt you. I will touch when you say touch and stop when you say stop.”
She took a deep breath and moved toward the bed, halting in the pool of candlelight by the headboard. “Why would I say something so foolish as stop?”
He swallowed past a painful dryness in his throat. “It will be your prerogative. And my challenge.”
Just then, one of the fat white candles on the headboard sputtered and flared higher, brightening the room. Her gown was, in a way, more enticing than total nudity. It clung to the tips of her breasts, and the light shone through, revealing the high, rounded shapes. The draping fell to her hips, where it clung once more, outlining the shadow of her womanhood.
A groan burst from him. “Pippa, for the love of God, tell me I can touch you! You’re taking me apart.”
She stepped toward him and pressed her small, warm palms to his chest. Her eyes widened when she detected the racing cadence of his heart.
“There is something so appealing about frankness,” she said.
“I could not possibly hide my desire for you,” he admitted. Ah, God, he was hard. Hot. Aching for her. Was this her idea of torture? “Well?” His voice rasped like a rusty hinge.
She kept her hands in place. The heat radiated from there, burning him. “I do not want you to touch me.”
A groan of frustrated outrage ripped from him. “For Christ’s sake, woman—”
“Touching is not enough,” she continued with almost painful honesty. “I want more than that, more than touching. I want you around me, inside me, all through me. Do you understand?”
He could only nod. What good had he done, what marvel had he performed, that God had given him this woman?
He would be a fool to tempt his good fortune, so he left the question unanswered and slipped his arms around her. His embrace was deliberately restrained; he teased and enticed them both with what was to come. Slowly he traced his finger down the side of her cheek, ran it along her jaw, stopping under her chin to turn her mouth up for his kiss.
Like a flower in full bloom she was, her lips damp and ripe, unfolding for him, falling open to receive him. His mouth devoured her, drank from her, and she was the sweetest delight he had ever tasted.
He had kissed her before, aye, but always those kisses had been marred by creeping guilt. This was the kiss of a new husband to his new wife, of a man who adored the woman in his arms.
She pressed herself against him, making a sound of startlement when she encountered the evidence of his need. He slid one hand down her back and cupped her closer still. After long moments, his mouth left hers to trail down her throat. She arched back to give more of herself to him; she hooked one leg around him. If not for their clothes, they would be fully joined.
“Ah,” she whispered, “Aidan…”
“Are you all right? Am I…Is this uncomfortable?”
She straightened and dug her fingers into his hair. “I had no idea a man was—” She flushed and looked away.
He was intrigued now. He kissed her ear and whispered, “Was what? Go on with what you were saying.”
“Well, of course I heard bawdy jokes about it, but I simply didn’t realize your—his—you know—”
He chuckled softly, though given his present state, mirth was slightly excruciating. “You’re not making yourself clear, my sweet.”
She took a deep breath. “I was just startled to find that what I thought of as a rather benign body part could turn into such an interesting, uh, tool.”
He pulled back, all but shaking with laughter. “Tool,” he repeated.
She thrust up her chin. “I have heard it called more ridiculous names than that. Some men even christen theirs.”
“We wouldn’t want a total stranger making all our decisions for us.”
Her embarrassment dissolved into giggles, which then relaxed into a dreamy, comforted smile, this one totally devoid of the fear he had sensed in her when he had first come into the room.
Thank God, he thought. He had banished her fear. Now there was room for nothing but pleasure. Even so, he knew her state of trust was fragile. It took all his restraint to move slowly.
He touched the ugly golden brooch at her shoulder. “May I?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
Just for a moment, the meaning of the brooch stung him with guilt. He forced away the feeling and unclasped the pin. The garment slid, with a whisper of protest, to the floor. He felt a fresh blast of heat. “You may call me interesting,” he said, “but that doesn’t begin to describe what I see when I look at you.”
“It must have been the bath. Or the oil of roses.”
“Ah, love,” he said, “it’s you. Simply you.” He was surprised to hear a catch in his voice. The truth was, she moved him—to something beyond need and passion. When he looked at her, standing quietly in the candlelight, he felt an emotion so pure and sweet that his soul trembled.
With unsteady hands he removed his shirt, then stood looking at her while she looked back, and the silence, thick with desire, hung between them.
“Now what?” she whispered after a time, her gaze traveling over his scars. “Why do you hesitate?”
“Because I don’t know what to do with a woman like you.” He cradled her cheek in his palm. “You conquered your fear of this night, but it seems mine is just beginning.”
“You’re afraid?”
“Aye.” Her cheek felt like satin against his rough hand. “I want tonight to be perfect.”
Her breath caught, and he was shocked to feel the heated dampness of a tear on his hand. “Don’t you see?” she whispered. “It’s already perfect. I knew it when you said you’d never been with a woman you loved.”
A groan tore from his throat as he slid his arms around her, reveling in the warm, silky feel of her unclad body and burying his face in her hair. “You make it all so simple, a gradh.” He pushed her gently back so that she reclined upon the bed, watching him through a golden haze of candleglow while he bent to remove his boots and trews.
Ah, she did make it simple. She, who had never belonged to anyone, now belonged in his heart. And he, who had never been loved, now looked into her eyes and saw that she adored him.
So why was he still afraid?
As he lay beside her and felt the glorious length of her curl against him, the answer flashed like a spark through his mind.
He knew the truth about her past; he knew the answers she craved. Yet he dared not give Pippa her heart’s desire for fear of losing her sooner than he had to.
Then she draped her slim arms around his neck, and the spark died, and he knew only the need to bring her joy. And ah, she made it easy. Slim and supple and warm, she was like a tender sapling in springtime, drawn to him, basking in his touch as if he were the sun.
He braced himself on one elbow and settled his mouth over hers. His hand skimmed downward, circling her breasts and belly, outlining the curve of a hip and then the smoothness of her inner thigh. At his gentle pressure, her legs parted slightly, shyly, and he stifled a gasp at the excitement that singed him.
Something about her coaxed tenderness from him. Long after most men would have flung her down and plun
ged in, he loved her with his mouth and hands and endearments whispered in Gaelic. His tongue wrote love words on her skin, until she gasped with pleasure or cried out with a burst of joy.
“Ah, sweetheart,” he said, “I want to touch you so deeply. But I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It’s the wanting that hurts,” she said, “not the touching.”
He covered her with the whole hard length of his body. “How deliciously naive you are,” he whispered, nipping at her earlobe. In Gaelic he added, “And I mean to take shameless advantage of that.”
“But you are such a good teacher,” she said, and then, also in Gaelic, “And I am a fast learner.”
For a moment he was too stunned to react, and then he laughed softly into her ear. “Wench. How long have you spoken Gaelic?”
She lowered her head and licked a ridge of scars on his chest. Her mouth and tongue seared him, and he gasped with the pleasure of it. “I’ll let you wonder.”
“Then I’ll leave you to wonder…” He lapsed back into Irish, and using terms she could not possibly know, he described in explicit, loving detail exactly what he wanted to do to her.
“I haven’t a clue what you said,” she admitted, her hands drifting down, lingering over his hips, “but I wish you would hurry.”
“Nay, I’ll not hurry. We have all night.”
“But—”
“Hush. Trust me.”
“I only meant—”
He pressed his fingers to her lips. “You talked all the way through our first kiss and nearly ruined it. And wasn’t it so much better once you fell silent?”
Her mouth gaped beneath her fingers. “I cannot believe you remember our first kiss.”
“How could I not? It changed my life.”
With a choked cry, she flung her arms around his neck. “Mine, too. Ah, Aidan, I do love you so much.”
He felt no surprise to hear her say it at last. He had known for a long time that she loved him, but he had also understood why she had resisted telling him. She feared abandonment. The fact that she would confess her love now could mean only one thing. She believed that he would never leave her. And he never would, not willingly.