Charming the Chieftain

by Deanie Roman

  With her anger intact, she wanted nothing more than to throw a barrage of insults at his head. Fortunately for him, her curses dried up like rain puddles in the heat when her conscience reared itself to remind her she still owed him gratitude for risking his life and that of his men to come to her aid.

  “Aeden, I — ”

  Shaking his head, he brushed a finger across her lips. “Come, ’tis time.”

  Marked, she could do nothing except wait while Father Pollock and his men preceded them. Aeden followed, and escorted her along the footpath, ducking beneath a hampered rose bower. She gasped, her misery briefly suspended, as her eyes drank in the tangle of cadmium-hued flowers that bloomed in and around a tumble-down rockery. The sweet briar imbued the air with its distinctive honeyed fragrance. Diverted, she picked her way through the high grass, leaned in close, and buried her nose in a delicate bloom. For the moment, she ignored her list of worries and immersed her senses in the beauty before her. She could not say how long she stood there. The unexpected grotto seemed a place out of time — a sumptuous pleasure in a week of volatile events.

  Aeden laid his hands on her shoulders, his gesture possessive. She leaned into his touch, wishing the moment could go on forever. When he gently turned her to face him, a sad smile played across her lips. He captured her gaze with those beautiful, bright eyes and his large, warm hand smoothed down her arm. She trembled as he slowly lifted her hand and examined an angry scratch left on her palm by a thorn. Surprised by the mark, she examined her hand. He dabbed at the scrape with the corner of his plaid.

  “You should take better care.”

  Then to her astonishment, he kissed the back of her fingers before returning her hand to her side. She felt the kiss down to the tips of her toes. He plucked a flower and stripped the stem of its spiny thorns. The task accomplished, he came back to stand in front of her, toe to toe and placed the silky blossom behind her left ear. Captivated by his tender nature, she didn’t dare move for fear of breaking the spell.

  “The color suits you, lass, changes your eyes to gold,” he rasped.

  He crooked his elbow and waited. Her mouth slackened.

  God above, he is giving me away.

  It was all she could do to hold on to her composure as she set a shaky hand atop his forearm. A wretchedness of mind twisted her emotions into peaks of anguish, and unable to control the tears any longer, she let the tears fall. Bereft, she hung her head, thankful her heavy hair created a shroud to veil her face and hide her shame. She tripped over her feet all down the narrow dirt path, although Aeden kept her upright, his arm solid beneath her trembling fingers, his steps steady and assured. He did nothing to comfort her, and for that, she was truly grateful. As they came to a standstill, he wrested her hand from his forearm, the physical withdrawal like a dagger to her heart.

  Speaking over the din, Father Pollock began the ceremony. Entrenched in misery, she believed she heard Ronan explain her behavior as “tears of joy.” Humiliated by Ronan’s need to lie, she fought against a fresh onslaught of tears, and inwardly berated herself though it did nothing to quell the noise.

  “The lady might like to pipe down a wee bit … at least enough to make her responses clear,” Father Pollock suggested.

  “The church will be satisfied, just start the mass,” Aeden snapped.

  “If that’s the way it’s going to be then — ”

  “Tha’s the way it is,” Aeden finished.

  Elisande almost smiled at the surly tone in Aeden’s voice. However, the knowledge he wished to hurry her marriage to Fergal yielded a chain reaction of compulsive sobs that jerked her shoulders.

  “My lady, I must have your full name,” Father Pollock yelled.

  Hanging her head to conceal her face had landed her a giant-sized headache. However much she wanted to sweep her hair from her face, she refrained. There was little doubt her features were swollen and red. Add a bulbous nose and she’d resemble her father after a night of drink. Unaware Father Pollock repeated the question, she startled when Aeden’s low voice disturbed her miserable contemplation.

  “You will make yourself sick, lass.”

  He ran his palm lightly over her back. She shrank from his touch and he dropped his hand. She could not abide his pity.

  “My lady?” the priest urged.

  “Elisande Catriona Cadby,” she intoned between sniffles.

  “Lovely, we may finally proceed.” He cleared his throat.

  “Now, do you, Elisande Catriona Cadby, take this man to husband — promising obedience, loyalty, and welcoming as many bairns as the good Lord sees fit to saddle you with, until death parts you?”

  At the mention of children, a hot tear rolled down her cheek. She would never know the joy of being round with Aeden’s child. After a tense moment, she mumbled into her thick veil of hair those three words that would forever bind her to a man she could never love.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I will.” Tears clogged her throat and garbled her words.

  The relief at her answer was tangible.

  “All right, there’s a good lass. So, it appears we will get this done before the sun drops over the hills.”

  A murmur rippled around the onlookers.

  “Get on with it and keep your opinions to yourself, priest.”

  The old man shot a beady-eyed glare at Aeden. “I might remind you, Chief Maxwell, that I am a man of God.”

  “Then act like his emissary and display some compassion,” he snarled.

  The priest sniffed in disapproval, yet wisely held his tongue. Regardless of her misery-induced state, it penetrated Elisande’s mind that Fergal should be the one to speak up. After all, he was to be her husband.

  “Now then, do you, Aeden Gavirael Maxwell, take this mighty upset woman to wife, promising provisions, protection and a healthy seed to beget as many bairns as God sees fit to give, until death parts you?”

  “I will.”

  At the mention of Aeden’s name, Elisande’s head snapped up, the neck crack audible. It took her a full moment until she comprehended the priest married her to Aeden and not Fergal. Afraid to blink for fear her eyes played tricks on her mind, she gaped in dumbfounded silence. Staring straight ahead, Aeden delivered his vow in a clear, concise voice, and his confident tone kick-started a forceful reaction.

  “I-you-he — ” She stopped and tried to take it in.

  Father Pollock shook his head. “Tis a shame you weren’t able to find a woman of quicker wit. Might have saved the woman a shiny, red nose.”

  Gasps arose from the onlookers, and Aeden’s eyes narrowed at the affront.

  “Insult my woman again, priest, and you’ll be carrying your teeth around in a sack.”

  The priest stiffened at the threat and wisely chose not to answer. Shaken, confused, and ready to keel over, the clergyman’s rudeness was the least of her concerns. What just happened, and why did he not tell her that he intended to wed with her? While a war of emotions raged within, Aeden reached down and interwove his fingers with hers and gave her a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

  “Continue.” Aeden’s voice rang harsh.

  “By the power of the three — the Father, and the son and the Holy Ghost, I now proclaim you two as man and wife.”

  Elisande heard the words plain as day. Nevertheless, her heart refused to believe what her mind knew to be truth. A shadow faded in and out as the priest replicated the sign of the cross over them and snapped his book shut.

  “Seal the vows and kiss your woman, Chief Maxwell.”

  Aeden stared hard at the priest and then transferred all that intensity to her. She watched him as if from another body. A faint thread of hysteria bubbled up in the back of her throat. All the disturbing emotions and desires from the past and present week melded together in one upsurge of wild longing.

  He lowered his head, pressed his lips against hers, and then gently covered her mouth. His lips moved over hers in a deliberate manner. The kiss was not the same as
before. She sensed a deeper significance to his actions, as if he put his brand on her. Just then, he pulled back a hairsbreadth, stared into her eyes and spoke against her mouth.

  “You belong to me now.”

  In spite of his territorial behavior, or maybe because of it, Elisande was shocked by her eager response to Aeden’s possessiveness. Little licks of desire ignited her senses, setting every nerve afire, and she melted against him to seal their covenant for an eternity. Inflamed, she craved more of the delights he initiated, as a white-hot shiver of wanting vibrated throughout her body. She let her jaw slip a notch in an innocent invitation to explore her mouth.

  Aeden’s knees almost buckled. The last thing he wanted was to end the kiss. What began as a simple need to mark her as his quickly spun out of control. If he did not check himself, and soon, he would toss up her skirt and take her at the priest’s feet. At least that is what his common sense screamed. Unfortunately, his brain disengaged the moment Father Pollock pronounced Elisande his wife. He gathered her close until she flattened against his chest. The woman made him forget himself, no small feat, that, and never before accomplished by another woman. It worried him. He wanted Elisande in his bed, not seared into every corner of his mind. He set her from him and gave the barest nod in Ronan’s direction.

  Boneless, Elisande slumped forward against him. Her lips still warm and moist from his kiss, she had not intended to create a spectacle of herself, but Aeden’s lips were more persuasive than she thought possible. Winded, the blood pounded in her veins as if she had skipped her way across England. She noticed Aeden seemed more composed than she, although when she observed again, his pulse jumped wildly at the base of his throat.

  Father Pollock cleared his throat loudly.

  Whether he meant to sanction them for their display she knew not. She only just realized the tinny noise in the background had been the priest all along. Thank goodness Aeden’s body shielded her from view. After nearly drowning the clergyman in her tears, he must think her unbalanced.

  Once she regained her equilibrium, he kept her by his side, and then retrieved a dirk from his worn knee-high boot. She tensed, certain she had seen that same ornate design somewhere else, but it was impossible. Certain her memory played her false, she discounted the recollection.

  Curious, she observed with interest as Aeden sliced a three-inch wide strip from the bottom of his plaid.

  “Look at me, wife,” he commanded.

  He called her wife.

  It had really happened. He stood before a priest, recited vows and claimed her as his woman. Her heart swelled ready to burst with suppressed emotion. She straightened her spine and faced him.

  A somber expression replaced his smile when he draped the plaid strip over her right shoulder covering her heart. From the inside of his white linen shirt, he unpinned a broach fashioned in silver that was inscribed in Latin.

  “I flourish again?”

  He secured the jewelry above her breast on the left. His fingers covered the words, and then he slowly dropped his hand back to his side.

  “’Tis the Maxwell motto.”

  Aeden held out his hand and she placed hers atop his. As one, they turned and he led her down the aisle.

  From behind them, Father Pollock’s voice rose over the chatter of the men and the few villagers in attendance.

  “In honor of his marriage, Chief Maxwell requests you make merry at his expense. Follow old Kirkwall there and he’ll show you the way.”

  Once the revelers were on their way, Aeden guided her to the front of the cottage.

  Nervous, she gazed at him with wide eyes. “Are we going in?”

  “You are. Never fear, Mrs. Kirkwall will see to your comfort.”

  When he started to leave, she placed a hand on his forearm and swallowed hard unable to believe what she was about to ask.

  “You will stay somewhere else?”

  Slowly he pivoted and stared at her. “I will sleep with the men.”

  Confused, she tried to make sense of his actions.

  “Will you not stay with me?”

  She didn’t understand much, if anything, about the intimacies of the marriage bed, but she knew enough to comprehend he had to be in proximity of her to accomplish the consummation.

  “We have a day’s ride on the morrow, and I do not wish to cause you any discomfort.”

  She bit her lip, uncertain to what he referenced.

  His gaze softened as he said, “Elisande, when we couple for the first time, your maiden’s veil will be torn. Although I’m told the pain is fleeting, the after effects will leave you too sore to ride the next day.”

  Her face burned with each word he uttered. Still, he was her husband and she would rather start out their marriage in the traditional manner. Besides, the idea of anticipating pain made her more afraid than the actual deed. Determined to have her way, she looked him in the eye.

  “I believe it is my body, therefore, should it not be my choice?”

  His look of stunned surprise almost forced a laugh from her. “Elisande, you do no’ know what you say.”

  “No.” She thrust her hand in the air to halt his speech.

  “I would arrive at your home as man and wife in truth.”

  The expression in his eyes was too obvious to mistake. He brought his hand up and traced a finger down her cheek. A brief shiver rippled through her, as an invisible web of desire wove around them. He lowered his head and took her lips in a tender kiss.

  He pulled back to cup her cheek. “A local woman named Mrs. Kirkwall shall attend you. She was a great friend of my mother.”

  She laid her hand over his. “Thank you. I … ” She cleared her throat. “I shall await your pleasure.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mrs. Kirkwall accomplished much in the short time she tidied the room. Her steady prattle helped to settle Elisande’s jittery stomach. She offered to help, but, instead was led to a snug chair near the snapping fire. She learned that the croft belonged to her widowed sister, who had given it up to the exalted chieftain of clan Maxwell. Uncomfortable with the idea that an old woman was made to leave her own home, Elisande protested.

  “Please, we shall stay elsewhere this eve.”

  Scandalized by the suggestion, Mrs. Kirkwall waved her off.

  “It is happy she is to be of use to her chief. After seeing to her comforts these many years, it is a small thing to give up the house. Besides, it’s not as if she’s out in the cold. She’ll stay with me.”

  “Oh, well, all right then. I must confess it shall be a treat to sleep in a bed after many days of rough travel.”

  The older woman gave her a knowing smile as she tightened the ropes on the bed. “I’m guessin’ not much in the way of sleepin’ will be goin’ on this night.”

  At the mention of the marriage bed, Elisande blanched.

  Realizing her mistake, Mrs. Kirkwall hurried to sit beside her on the stool.

  “Forgive my crude tongue, milady. It has been many years since me own wedding. Of course, you’re nervous.”

  Mrs. Kirkwall seemed to weigh her words with care and then asked, “I’ve noticed you’ve no other woman to attend you. Is your mother dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “A long time?”

  “Quite.”

  “And there are no other female relatives in whom you may confide?” she pressed.

  “No, not here.” Lord, her life sounded bleak.

  While Mrs. Kirkwall took a moment to frame her next question, Elisande breathed in the apple-scented wood fire. The embers cracked and popped as she waited for the Scotswoman to speak her mind.

  “I beg your pardon, milady, but do you understand the intimacies between a man and woman?”

  Elisande thought a moment and a long buried memory revealed itself. Apparently, she harbored a vague notion of coupling. She looked at Mrs. Kirkwall’s open countenance and decided the woman was a godsend.

  She nodded her encouragement, her springy gra
y curls bobbed up and down.

  Elisande shifted in her seat.

  “I happened upon one of the chambermaids in the horse stable when I was a child of ten and one. I did not follow her,” she made that detail clear.

  “I understand. Please, go on, milady.”

  “I often played in one of the empty stalls. ’Twas the repeated thumps that lured me to the loft, you see. When I caught site of a skirt, curiosity won out over caution, so up the ladder I went. Once I reached the top rung, I noticed the maidservant bent over from the waist, her hands wrapped around a pole, and her skirts piled atop her back whilst a stable-hand stood close behind her. Maeve, that was her name, was writhing and moaning one moment, and laughing the next. Suddenly, she started to chant the Lord’s name, and the stableman let loose with a great shout. I nearly broke my ankle sliding down the ladder rungs.”

  Although Mrs. Kirkwall had a smile in her voice, she refrained from laughing outright.

  “Did you have no one to speak to about what you witnessed?”

  “Shaken, I had not stopped running until I found my nurse Bessie.”

  She gave Mrs. Kirkwall a meaningful look.

  “Bessie was such a mean old stick, but explained that men oftentimes fell upon women with nothing in mind except to gain their beastly pleasure, and if the woman was lucky it wouldn’t last more than the effort it took to spit. I told her that Maeve was giggling and insisted Bessie tells the truth.”

  Mrs. Kirkwall prompted, “And what did the old stick say?”

  “She said, ‘If God wanted women to enjoy such a sordid ordeal, He would have ‘seen fit to make them men.’”