Bride of Lochbarr

by Margaret Moore

  “Dearshul, then.”

  Lachlann shrugged. “If you want her, she’s yours,” he answered before he opened the door and slipped out into the night. “It makes no difference to me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WARM UNDER THE COVERS on the morning of the harvest, Marianne lay on her side and studied her husband’s slumbering face in the dawning light. His face relaxed, Adair looked as he must have when he was a boy.

  She wished she’d seen him then. He’d probably been an imp, getting into mischief, yet getting out of trouble just as easily with an explanation and a grin.

  Smiling dreamily, she rested a hand on her stomach. If their firstborn was a son, he’d probably be just the same. If their firstborn was a daughter, she’d likely have a stubborn, fiery temper, too. How could she help it, with two such parents?

  But if their son was like his father, she’d be happy and proud, for Adair was as her father-in-law had said—there was no guile, no deceit, in him. He was as you saw him.

  He was a man you could trust.

  Her husband’s eyelids fluttered and he reached out and pulled her to him. She snuggled against his warm, powerful body. “You’re awake?” she asked.

  “No, I’m still sleeping,” he answered, his eyelids closed, “and I’m having a wonderful dream about having an angel in my arms, so please don’t wake me.”

  She couldn’t resist the urge to kiss his cheek. “An angel in your bed? That sounds like a very earthly sort of angel.”

  “For which I’m very glad.” Skimming his palm over her thigh, he slowly opened his eyes. “I think I know this body.”

  “I should think you do,” Marianne replied pertly, even as desire blossomed within her.

  Adair moved her so that she lay prone upon him, his arms wrapped about her, holding her close. She realized he was very wide awake. All over.

  So was she.

  As a familiar, delightful excitement surged through her, she moved so that she was straddling his chest, her shift riding high on her thighs.

  “What are you doing, my golden-haired wife?”

  “I suspect you’re still weary after last night. And the night before that. And the night before that.”

  “I feel full of vitality at the moment.”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t want you to wear yourself out.”

  His breathing quickened. “No?”

  “Absolutely not. Now are you going to be quiet, or would you rather get out of bed?”

  His eyes dancing in a way that made her whole body feel like it was melting, he firmly pressed his lips together and shook his head.

  “Good,” she murmured as she slowly reached down and then—even more slowly—lifted off her shift.

  His eyes widened as she tossed it aside. She leaned forward so that her breasts brushed his naked chest.

  He raised himself to kiss her, but she caught hold of his wrists and held them. “I think you need to rest,” she said. “Save your strength…for now.”

  His only answer was a strangled gasp as she shifted slightly back, his erection against her buttocks. He most definitely wasn’t exhausted, yet this morning would be for his pleasure, not hers, she decided.

  Keeping hold of his wrists, she tongued his nipple at her leisure, sucking it between her teeth and nipping gently. He made little noises in his throat and began to shift, his legs moving as if he had to do something to keep from rolling her over and taking her swiftly.

  Thrilling thought. Arousing motion.

  She went to his other nipple and suckled it, too, making him gasp. He bucked, raising his hips and lowering them, exciting her more. “This is torture, Marianne!”

  “Is it?” she lazily replied and without any sympathy. He would be begging for more “torture” before she was done.

  She moved lower, letting her hair trail over his body. She moved up and over his erection, so that she was sitting on his hips. “The girls at the convent talked about making love. They could be quite…specific.”

  She slid a little further backward.

  “What are you—?” He gasped when she kissed the soft skin of the head of his penis. Then she put her mouth over the head and sucked him inside.

  He groaned as if it was both the most exquisite agony and the most incredibly stimulating act. Encouraged and excited by his enjoyment, she did it again.

  His hands gripped the sheets and his whole body rose as if offering itself to her. Once more, and his moans filled the air.

  Aroused herself, she simply had to have him inside her, so she guided his glistening shaft to her, then slowly lowered herself. A low growl sounded in his throat and his whole body tensed, while she reveled in the sensation of his hardness within her.

  Grinding herself against him, she leaned forward again to lick and suck his skin, while he took hold of her shoulders. His mouth found her breasts, and her nipples. With quick, light movements, like the beating wings of a bird, he pleasured her with his tongue. She couldn’t keep silent as she raised herself again, but she didn’t care if she roused the entire fortress.

  She had her magnificent husband inside her, loving her. Arousing her, filling her. And she was going to inflame him as he’d never imagined.

  She grabbed his shoulders, pushing him back down. Splaying her hands beside his head, determined to excite him, she begin to lever herself up and then down, varying the rhythm, letting his breathing be her guide. Her hair flowed over his chest and she moved her head from side to side, letting that inflame him, too.

  She increased the tempo and watched the cords in his neck tighten. That delicious tension began to build in her own body, until it was like being on the brink of a warm river. One more step would immerse her. One step, and she would be over the edge. One push…and with a cry, she was there, and so was he, his hips bucking wildly, his back arching.

  The pulsing continued, then slowed, as she fell against him.

  Breathing as hard as she, he stroked her hair. “I wonder if those nuns had any idea what you were learning in that convent.”

  She laughed softly. “I doubt it, or they would never have given us any time to talk alone.”

  His eyes twinkling, he brushed a lock of hair from her face. “So, what else did you learn?”

  Pulling away, she moved to lie beside him. “Patience, my love, patience. I don’t want to share all my surprises so quickly.”

  He chuckled, the low rumble of amusement wonderfully intimate. “I’ll try.”

  She toyed with the narrow braid at the side of his face, realizing he wouldn’t be nearly so attractive with his hair cut like a Norman. “I think you’ve probably got a few surprises of your own.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” he mused aloud. “Those girls seemed to know quite a bit. But perhaps there are one or two things they never learned.”

  “Maybe now would be a good time for you to show me.”

  “God help me, the woman’s insatiable!” he cried to the ceiling before looking at to her with real regret. “Unfortunately, I can’t lie abed with my lovely wife, no matter how much I want to. I don’t want to give those who don’t approve of our marriage more cause for complaining.”

  Marianne sighed, for he was right. “At least Cormag is gone.”

  “Aye, for a bit, but he’ll be back,” Adair answered as he got out of bed, unabashedly naked. “I’ll have to try harder not to let him goad me.”

  She was sorry she’d mentioned Cormag, and sought a return to their happy mood. “If you’re going to parade about like that, it’s not my fault if I want to make love with you all day.”

  He gave her a lascivious wink. “But we’ll have tonight, and plenty of nights afterward.”

  Yes. Yes, they would.

  He went to his chest and threw it open. “There should be a clean—”

  He hesitated, then pulled out the breeches she’d been working on lately. Usually she hid them underneath her gowns, since she’d intended them for a surprise. She’d thought he should have such a ga
rment for when he went to parlay with Normans. Now, she suddenly realized, that would be as much a mistake as cutting his hair.

  “Losh, what are these?” he asked, holding them up.

  “They’re breeches,” she answered, feeling rather foolish. “I made them for you, but never mind. I doubt they’d fit anyway.”

  “I appreciate the thought,” Adair muttered, turning them from side to side.

  “Put them back, Adair. Dearshul probably put your shirt in the other—What are you doing?”

  “Trying them on. It’s the least I can do after you went to so much trouble.”

  She scrambled out of bed and tried to snatch them from his hands. “No, really, you don’t have to bother. It was a mistake.”

  He held them away from her. “I want to try them on.” He ran a wolfish gaze over her. “Aren’t you cold, Marianne?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m freezing. Now give them back to me. Perhaps I can make something else with the fabric, or give them to one of the servants.”

  His gaze was fastened on her breasts. “I can tell you’re cold. I think you’d better get dressed yourself.”

  She stopped trying to snatch the breeches. She went back to bed and found her shift.

  “What, you’re giving up?” he asked as he pulled on the woolen garment.

  “Yes. If you want to wear them, I won’t stop you. Besides, you’re right. I should get dressed. I don’t want to catch a chill.”

  After putting on her shift, she reached under the pillow and took out what she’d hidden beneath it the night before. “I’m not good with a needle, but I’ve been trying to improve, and not just by making clothes for you and me, Adair,” she said, hiding the little garment behind her back.

  Adair regarded her quizzically. “You’ve made something for my father?”

  She shook her head. “Not exactly, but I think he’ll like it.”

  She held out the little baby’s nightgown, embroidered around the neck. “It’s for our child.”

  He blinked. “Child?”

  “Yes. Our child.”

  “Losh, Marianne, truly?” he cried as he rushed to embrace her, holding her so tight, she could scarcely draw breath. “A bairn! Are ye sure?”

  He said a lot of other things in Gaelic, too, speaking so quickly, she couldn’t make sense of it.

  She pushed him back a little, just so she could breathe. “I’m fairly certain.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just did.” She smiled, suddenly feeling shy and girlish and delightfully happy, too. “I wanted to surprise you with the garment.”

  Adair laughed and kissed her on the forehead. “Well, that you did. I was expecting a shirt.” He took the gown in his strong, powerful hands and held as if it envisioning the baby wearing it. “Wait till my father hears!”

  “Do you have to tell him right away?”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I want it to be our secret, at least for a little while, before people start gossiping about it and speculating when it’ll be born and watching me for signs to know if it’s a boy or girl.”

  He nodded as he delicately folded the little gown and put it on the bed. “All right, I’ll try, but I’m no good at keeping secrets and this one’s going to be harder than most. I feel like shouting it from the roof of the hall.”

  “You can do that in a little while, if you truly feel the need. I promise.”

  He hugged her again. “A child! And so soon! I can hardly believe it!”

  “Do you mean to say you doubt your virility?” she teased.

  His eyes sparkled with laughter. “No, yet I’m happy to know I can father a child just the same.”

  She smiled. “So am I.”

  His grin dissolved as he scratched his thigh. “I appreciate the thought and the work, Marianne, but these damn things itch something fierce,” he said, starting to remove the breeches. “They’re likely doing a mischief to my body, too. I don’t want this child to be our last.”

  “I don’t, either,” she replied as she put the little gown away under her clothes. She didn’t want Dearshul to find out their secret just yet, either.

  “It’s a fine morning,” Adair noted, peering out of the shuttered window as he put on his feileadh. “Not a cloud in the sky, and only a bit of a breeze.” He looked back at her with a warm smile that made her heart leap with happiness. “A fine day for fine news.”

  “When I first came here, I was sure Scotland never had a sunny day,” she said as she began to dress. “Dearshul’s since explained that you had a very wet spring and summer.”

  “Aye, that we did. I thought we’d never be able to get the seed in the ground. And I’ll not deny we have a lot of rain most of the time. And fog. And mist. And drizzle. But that only makes the sunny days more special. If tomorrow’s fair, we’ll go to the site my father’s chosen for the watchtower. You can see the whole valley and the loch spread out below you. It’s quite a sight.”

  She heard the pleasure and pride in her husband’s voice. He loved this land, even when it was wet. It was too early yet for her to share his love for his country, yet when the sun did shine, she could see a certain rugged beauty to it.

  As for the wet days, staying inside the cozy teach or the hall, working companionably with Dearshul, or being with Adair, provided much in the way of compensation.

  Tugging on his shirt, Adair slid her a questioning glance. “Are you intending to go about in your shift all day? I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t think my people would approve, especially since it’s a special day.”

  “No, we couldn’t have that,” Marianne agreed. “Fionnaghal would likely accuse me of trying to tempt the men.”

  Adair paused in the process of putting on his boots. “Would you like me to speak to her?”

  “No,” Marianne answered as she lifted her lovely new scarlet gown from her chest. Dearshul had finished it a few days ago, and it truly did seem fit for a queen. Dearshul’s overtunic had turned out well, too, for they’d bought some bright green and gold thread to embroider a border around the hem. “Dearshul and I have a plan for Fionnaghal that we’ve been saving for today.”

  “A plan?”

  “Yes, a plan. And no, you can’t know what it is,” she finished in response to his silent query. She put the gown over her head and wiggled it on.

  “You are a stubborn, insolent woman,” he said as he stuck his dirk through his belt. He raised his eyes and saw her in her new gown. “By all the saints in Scotland,” he gasped. “I’m going to be the envy of every man in Lochbarr.”

  “Then you like it?” she asked, turning in a circle, although it hadn’t yet been laced.

  “Like it? I like it so much, it’s all I can do not to come over there and tear it off you.”

  She gave him a seductive smile. “Come over here anyway, and help me with the laces. Of course later, you can undo them.”

  “Later, I’ll do more than undo your laces.”

  “Is that a promise, husband?” she asked as he came toward her, a passionate gleam in his eye.

  “Aye, it is, wife,” he whispered as he took hold of the laces.

  She could hardly wait.

  HIS BACK WARMED BY THE SUN, Adair stood beside Roban and Lachlann, watching the farmers work their scythes with the speed and skill that came from years of practice. If necessary, they could take down a man with the same sweeping motion, just as Adair could cut grain, if they were shorthanded. Fortunately, this year they weren’t, which meant he could watch Marianne.

  Seamus, Barra and several of the older clansmen were at the far end of the field, where the farmers would finish. Marianne, with Dearshul beside her, was on the opposite side with the women of the household, several of whom were braiding straw to make the bands to bind the sheaves. His bold, passionate wife and Dearshul were very easy to spot in their red dresses, and Adair’s gaze often strayed that way.

  He smiled to himself, pleased that his wife had
found a friend in Dearshul, whose gaze kept drifting to the oblivious Lachlann as if her eyes were connected to him by a string. Why his brother didn’t like Dearshul, he could never figure out. The young woman was pretty, and clever, and got along with everyone—except Fionnaghal—and it was clear she doted on the chieftain’s younger son.

  Perhaps the last was the reason. Maybe her obvious yearning created the opposite result in Lachlann. Or maybe Lachlann was simply too busy thinking about the Normans and the state of the country to realize a pretty young woman was besotted with him—the way some stubborn fools tried to overlook their wives.

  He’d learned the error of that. Never again would he ignore Marianne, or pretend she wasn’t important to him. She was more important to him than he’d ever imagined a wife could be.

  “Dearshul’s looking very lovely this morning,” he remarked, deciding to make Lachlann take a little notice of Dearshul.

  Lachlann glanced at the young woman and shrugged. “It’s the red tunic she’s wearing, I expect.”

  “Not as lovely as your wife, though,” Roban noted. “She looks like a queen.”

  “Aye, that she does,” Adair agreed. He desperately wanted to tell them his wonderful news; however, he’d promised Marianne he wouldn’t, so he bit his tongue and kept their secret to himself. “But Dearshul’s looking very pretty these days. She’s been a great help to Marianne, too.”

  “Has she now?”

  Somewhat to Adair’s chagrin, that question—and a look of interest—came from Roban.

  On the other hand, he reasoned, if his brother wasn’t interested in Dearshul, she could do worse than Roban, who was generous and loyal and the man Adair wanted nearest him in a fight. “Aye. She’s clever, too.”

  Even that didn’t merit so much as a nod from Lachlann. He seemed more interested in watching their father and Barra strolling across the top of the field.

  Before Adair could say anything more about Dearshul, Fionnaghal sauntered up to them. “So, Adair, I should have got myself a red dress to get you to notice me, is that it? Or maybe I should have been born a Norman.”