For an incredibly intense moment, he stared at her as if she were the queerest creature he’d ever seen. An unspoken cue rippled between them, and they both erupted into laughter, long and genuine and tinged with a bit of madness on both their parts.
“Ah, bonny.” He sighed once they’d quieted. “Any other lass would be inconsolable with tears after all that.”
“I’m not just any other lass.”
His green eyes, so vivid against the gold of his skin, softened upon her, even as the wind continued to feather his hair against its shape now that he’d turned from the window.
“Nay, I’ve never met yer like.”
Another vibration singed the air between them the moment before thunder crawled over the clouds, making its noisy way toward Inverthorne. What had started as a drizzle was fast becoming a gale to warn of winter.
Unable to stand his beauty, Samantha looked away, examining the fine stitching on the ripples of her skirts. There was only one thing left to do to make this little farce of a marriage complete.
Suddenly an extremity of exhilaration and anxiety stormed through her. She was no untried blushing bride … but this man had famously fucked more women than Casanova and Lord Byron combined.
She’d only ever had Bennett and, from her experience, sex, like everything else in her life, was a whole lot of work.
She thought back to her first wedding night with a distasteful wrinkle of her nose. They’d spent it drinking and carousing in the local inn which doubled as a saloon, and then Bennett had whisked her upstairs, much like Gavin had just done.
They’d been laughing, and her world had been spinning on its axis, more from whisky than Bennett’s kisses. He’d dropped her on the bed and tossed up her skirts. She’d been giggling and willing when he’d climbed on top of her, confused when he licked his hand and reached between them. She’d been shocked when he’d shoved inside of her. He’d been done before she caught her breath, and asleep before she’d a chance to clean away the blood and such.
It had gotten better after that, but only because she’d been the one to take the reins, as it were.
You’re such a good little horsewoman, Bennett would say as he stretched his sinuous, aroused body onto his back. You can mount me, and gallop away. It’s better for a girl, anyhow, if they’re on top. Then I don’t gotta figure out how to give you what you want, you can just take it.
He’d been right, in a way. The handful of times he’d been in control of their lovemaking had been disappointing at best and catastrophic at worst. When she was on top, she could sometimes reach that peak that eased the deep ache of arousal.
Most of the time, the whole act just made her feel put upon and empty, and she’d climb off him burning and sweating and unspent.
Samantha puffed out her cheeks. She really didn’t have that in her tonight, neither the energy nor the strength. It would hurt her leg too much. Maybe he’d take that into consideration and just let her lie there while he stood at the foot of the bed or something. Upon inspection, the bed seemed tall enough for a good tumble like that. Then neither of them would have to work that hard and her leg would remain unmolested, at least.
She glanced back up at him, ready to suggest just that, when all words died on her lips.
He was beautiful enough when applying his calculated charm. But like this, somber and dangerous and regarding her like a secret he was about to uncover …
She was in grave danger of forgetting that this marriage was a farce.
That he didn’t care for her.
That she didn’t want this. Want him.
Groping for something to break the sudden potency between them, she said, “I’m sorry your brother was such a horse’s ass.”
One shoulder lifted, and he prowled toward her, his chin dipped to his chest, low and lambent, like a stalking puma. “It matters not, he did what needed doing. The rest is up to us.”
“Still, it had to hurt. The things he said, they had to have made you angry—”
“Liam doesna hurt me, and usually I doona get angry anymore.”
“Bullshit,” she scoffed. “You get angry at me plenty.”
“Well,” he rumbled, nearing her with infinite, patient steps. “Ye’re a particular case, bonny, but believe it or not, I am a man who is usually difficult to infuriate. What does a temper get ye but enemies? What is anger but unfulfilled expectation? If ye need no one, ye fear no loss. No one truly angers ye. If ye expect nothing, no one disappoints ye.”
“If you love no one, no one can hurt you,” she whispered, her heart suddenly thumping to be free of its cage.
He stopped in front of where she sat, and Samantha did her best not to notice the ridge of his arousal against the seam of his trousers. Swallowing profusely, she arched her neck up to look at him.
“It seems we understand each other,” he said gravely.
“It seems we do.”
The flash in his eyes warned her of his hunger. Samantha knew exactly what he wanted, and how he wanted it. His lust had teeth. And darkness. The storm had made him wild. He was about to hammer her into something with his hips. Hard.
She tensed, readying herself for it. She was tough. She could take him.
Probably.
So when he turned from her, she almost allowed a sound of protestation to escape.
He whipped his suit coat off one arm at a time and threw it on the high back of the chair facing the fireplace. That finished, he went to work on the buttons of his vest.
Nearly panting with equal parts apprehension and an unexpected anticipation, Samantha lifted her fingers to her own blouse and began to do the same.
“Callum said they call ye Sam.” He discarded his vest and grappled with his cuff links.
“They do.” She undid her belt and peeled her blouse from her shoulders.
They were silent as he flicked open his cuff links and made short work of the buttons of his shirt. She, in turn, kicked away the slippers she’d been able to wear without stockings, as the pressure hurt her leg too much. She also unpinned the scrap of lace from her hair and set it next to her.
Pausing, he touched his chin to his shoulder. “Are ye afraid, Sam? Do ye have questions of me? About what I’m going to do to ye?”
“No,” she lied. On all three counts. “I already told you, I’m no virgin. And everyone knows you’ve made love to most of the maidens in Europe, and half the married women, besides.” She said this more to remind herself, than for his benefit.
“I made love to no one. I fuck. Love has nothing to do with it.”
Then his shirt was gone.
Though his back was to her, he faced the fireplace so his scars were naught but shadows. Samantha wouldn’t have noted them anyhow. In the firelight, the broad slopes of his shoulders seemed to be carved from pale pine and sanded to a perfect, smooth finish. His back was wide and long, roped with thick muscle that tapered into a lean waist.
Samantha gaped.
He was like a banquet to her eyes. She made an appeal to both the graces and the muses to grant a simple girl like her the words. Only the language of the angels could have done him justice.
All she could think was how lucky she was to have not met him before. Before her illusions about men had been shattered. When she still believed in silly, girlish things like romance, heroes, and happy endings.
She would have been counted among Lord Thorne’s many, many casualties.
Now, she could merely appreciate his unparalleled physique and pretend that he elicited no instincts of covetous possession.
He turned back to her, and instead of divesting himself of his trousers, as she expected, he reached for her. Gently, he pushed her to her back, with her legs still dangling over the edge of the bed, and through some magic wrought of experience, he peeled away her skirt and corset. Leaving her bare but for the bandages on her leg.
When he leaned down, she expected him to crawl between her knees and open his pants.
Instead, he dr
ove his hands beneath her, and lifted her once again.
“What—what are you doing? Are we not going to—”
“If ye think I’m not making this marriage completely legitimate, ye’re mad. I want no one to be able to contest my claim.”
He didn’t say his claim to Erradale, though she knew that’s what he meant.
“You don’t really have to woo me, or anything. You can just—you know—get on.”
“Get on?” He looked down at her, his perfect brow furrowed with confusion.
“Fuck. Like you said. The bed’s right there and—”
Then she saw it, and gave a moan full of more erotic yearning than she’d ever expected to utter that night.
Samantha couldn’t believe she’d not noticed it before. In her defense, the porcelain claw-footed tub had somehow blended with the marble of the fireplace. The steam rising from the water beckoned with a sinuous dance as cool air circulated around them from the partially opened window.
“I didna have time to get ye a proper ring or a wedding gift, bonny, but I thought—”
Overcome by a surge of gratitude, she threw her arms around his neck and planted her lips right on his in an enthusiastic kiss. Her exuberance in his arms drove him back a few steps in order to avoid landing on his ass, but he maintained his balance and returned her kiss through lips tight with a pleased smile.
Pulling back she said, “It’s perfect.” And wriggled a bit in his grip to get him walking in the right direction.
“Careful, lass,” he warned, as a gleam of wickedness lurked beneath his playful grin. “If ye persist in moving like that whilst naked, the bath might be cold before I’m done ravishing ye.”
“I promise to be good,” she vowed instantly, curling around herself and modestly covering her notoriously unimpressive breasts by crossing her arms.
“That makes one of us.” He strode to the tub and lowered her down, deftly positioning her injured leg upon a soft towel previously draped over the lip to keep it out of the water.
She gasped as her chilly limbs tingled with the sudden heat of the water. How strange and wondrous it felt to be submerged after so many weeks of heating just enough ice-cold river water over the fire at Erradale to rinse off the grit of the day with harsh charcoal soap.
With her calf draped over the ledge like it was, her split legs allowed the heat of the water to flow against her parted sex. The sensation was both delicious and alarming and brought every bit of her attention there. To that place suddenly swollen and throbbing and astoundingly hot.
Another moan escaped her before she could call it back.
Hovering to her left, still bent over the tub, her husband whispered in her ear. “I’ve given diamonds to a lass that elicited less effusive pleasure.”
“What the hell would I do with diamonds?” she breathed, allowing her eyes to flutter closed as she luxuriated in the masculine scent of his soap and aftershave that lingered from the bath he’d taken prior to their wedding. “Oh, I know,” she amended. “I’d buy a thousand of these baths.”
Gavin said something against her ear in his native tongue that produced shivers along every inch of her bare skin. No mean feat for one submerged in warm water.
Turning toward him, she was struck by how dangerously close their lips were. How sweet his breath felt as it cooled the moisture beaded on her cheeks by the steam. “What did those words mean?” she whispered.
“I’m not sure, myself,” he answered.
Suddenly it was all too much. The erotic golden glow of the fireplace burnishing his bare torso a celestial color. The appeal of his parted lips. The heat between her parted legs, some of which, she had to admit, had nothing to do with the water.
Samantha retreated the only way she could think of, sliding down to dunk her head.
Opening her eyes, she saw through the filter of the rippling surface that he’d stood and left her. Had she not been submerged, she’d have breathed a sigh of relief.
Resurfacing, she slicked her hair back and wiped her eyes, blinking them open to note that her husband was nowhere to be seen.
“Gavin?”
“I like it when ye say my name, bonny.” The rumble came from behind her, but before she could maneuver for a look, his hands rested on her scalp. Strong fingers quickly produced a sudsy lather in a rhythmic massage that turned her bones to hot wax and her muscles to puddles of pleasure.
“I noticed ye were right this morning,” he said conversationally, as he kneaded the tender hairline behind her ear. “Ye’d not been able to wash the soot from yer hair. Forgive me the oversight.”
In this moment she’d forgive him just about anything, and as soon as her tongue started working, she intended to tell him so.
He gently pushed her shoulders forward, so he could gather the length of her hair from behind her back and work the suds into it, as well. Then, he dipped an ewer into the water. “Look to the clouds, lass,” he prompted.
Obediently, she looked up, and noticed for the first time that a skylight had been installed over the fireplace. Of course, in the storm, no stars were visible, but his hand cupped over her forehead to protect her eyes as he poured the water over her hair, and then dipped the ewer to repeat the action until all the soap had been washed away. She could think of nothing so luscious as the slide of the water and soap over her shoulders.
“What is the skylight for?” she asked, doing her best to dispel this strange, heavy sensation building between them. Nothing like a little small talk to do just that.
“Inverthorne is older than Ravencroft by a few hundred years,” he murmured in a silken baritone, dipping the ewer a third time. “More a fortress than a manor, ye ken? They tend to be rather dreary and dark. But I like to study books here by day, and the stars at night, when I can see them.”
“Oh,” she said, rather idiotically, as he took an unbelievably fluffy towel and blotted her face with it.
Setting the ewer aside, he picked up a bar of white soap specked with what appeared to be tiny purple herbs.
Samantha reached for it, but he easily held it out of her grasp.
“Allow me,” he said with a solicitous smile.
“No. I can do it myself. It’s only my leg that’s injured. My hands work just fine.” Suddenly self-conscious, she once again covered herself as best she could, crossing one arm over her breasts, and cupping the other one between her legs.
A devious smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Glad to hear it, bonny, and we’ll test that claim in a moment, but I’ve just acquired a wife, and I believe I’d like to thoroughly inspect my acquisition.”
“And you may,” she retorted, holding out her hand for the soap. “Just as soon as she’s clean and presentable.”
“Ye might not know this about me…” He knelt by the bath, dipping the hand that held the soap dangerously beneath the calm, now opaque surface of the water. His skin was slightly flushed, even in shadow. “But I prefer my women … a wee bit dirty.”
Three successive flashes of lightning broke the darkness in the room, illuminating eyes that burned above the crests of his cheeks a more startling green than usual. It distracted her enough that she didn’t flinch when the hard surface of the soap slipped along her arm.
“I’ve imagined more than once what yer foul mouth could do to me.” The soap slid up her arm to her shoulder, and then angled back down over her clavicle and down the expanse of her chest. “I doona care if ye’re tarnished. Or filthy. All to the good, in my opinion.”
He ran the soap along the arm that covered her breasts. “Experience should have taught ye by now that denying me what I want only makes me more relentless.”
Lord, she might not know much about her new husband, but she certainly could attest to that.
“Give in to me, lass,” he purred. “I promise ye willna regret it.”
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. She just was seized by last-minute nerves. Suddenly all she could hear was Locryn and Calybrid telling he
r how unimpressive her breasts were. And the buxom Mena asking about her nonexistent accomplishments. And the myriad other voices back through the years. The ones who’d mistaken her for a boy when she was little. The others who’d made her feel small, skinny, weak, awkward, and ungainly …
“You don’t have to do this,” she reiterated, hating that her lip had started to quiver. “I’m your wife now. I’m kind of a sure wager.”
His other hand joined the first, gently prying her arm away from herself. “Something else ye’ll learn about me, wife. I rarely do anything I doona want to.”
Samantha swallowed loudly, but relaxed her arms to her sides.
With a triumphant rumble deep in his chest, he glided the soap first over one breast, then the other. His free hand followed, slipping playfully over the soap-slicked flesh. Caressing the small mound of her breast before sliding beneath to cradle first one, then the other. Gently, he touched her nipple with his thumb, sliding over and over it until it created a budded peak.
“I’m going to taste these,” he vowed, eliciting another swallow. This one infinitely more difficult.
The soap slid lower, over the ridges of her ribs and across the plane of her belly. Her womb quivered when he reached it, but he didn’t linger.
Why would he? He knew nothing of the secret she held inside.
His destination lay just below.
True to form, Gavin did what she least expected. His soap passed by the softness between her legs completely, sliding down her thigh, her knees, and her calf, washing every bit of her leg and foot with infuriating thoroughness.
Samantha narrowed her eyes at him, but he didn’t look up at her once, though a sly little smirk toyed with the corners of his mouth.
Damned arrogant man. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. It was futile to hide it.
He lingered at her feet for a while, even washing the one left out of the tub. By the time he’d finished, she’d rested her neck against the ledge, gazing up at the rhythmic drops of the rain against the skylight and enjoying the capricious crackles of the thunder.
She’d relaxed so thoroughly that when the soap returned to caress her open inner thigh, she nearly jumped. His touch suddenly became liquid fire, sliding up and up and up until it seemingly wandered into the soft hairs between her legs, and then to the bare, delicate place past it.
The Scot Beds His Wife Page 22