She was beautiful. God’s teeth, but she was.
Strikingly so.
Her honey-gold hair — with tiny little flowers tucked here and there — hung in waves, cascading down her back, all the way to her waist. The dress, made of silk, clung to every wonderful curve. The silver belt showed off her tiny waist. For once, she did not wear an apron. Instead the bodice showed all too well the swell of her breasts.
In her hands she carried a small bouquet of flowers whose names he couldn’t recollect. Were she not so stunning, he might have been able to think more clearly.
’Tis dangerous ground upon which ye trod, he warned his pounding heart. She is to be yer wife. Nothing more.
Cursing his traitorous heart, he forced his smile away, and chose an air of indifference. He would not allow himself to have any kind of tender regard toward this woman who was to be his wife. ’Twould be his downfall if he succumbed to such feelings. Nay, he needed to be firm and indefatigable when it came to her. No matter how gloriously beautiful he found her to be.
He could appreciate her beauty, even her body and her mind. But that was as far as he was willing to go.
“Do ye, Alec Bowie, take this woman, Leona Macdowall, to be yer wife? To have her and hold her and cherish her all the rest of yer days?”
He was so lost in his own thoughts – thoughts of later when he would divest her of that yellow gown and take his pleasure with her – he hadn’t heard the priest ask the question. Dougall, his best man, had to elbow him in the ribs to remind him where he was.
“I do,” Alec answered firmly.
“And do ye, Leona MacDowall, take this man, Alec Bowie, as yer husband? To have him and hold him and cherish him all the rest of yer days?”
“I do,” she answered before the priest had even finished the question. Apparently his betrothed and soon-to-be wife was not as distracted as he.
He made more promises that day, promises he would never be able to recall. ’Twas all necessary, of course, according to the law and the church, for him to make these promises. All of this, the wedding, the marriage contract, the celebration that would be held afterward, was nothing more than a means to an end.
He was doing it for peace. Peace for his clan. To cement a future for them that did not involve reiving, horse thieving, or any other criminal activity.
The fact that Leona was voluptuous and beautiful was merely a bonus.
Every word of her vows would be forever burned into her memory. Every moment, every look Alec gave her, every breath she took. She would never forget any of it. Not ever.
The more she thought on it, the more she began to believe he was an extraordinary man with an extraordinarily kind and generous heart. He had, after all, signed their private agreement. Only a decent man would have done such. Only a man with a generous and caring heart would have agreed to her terms.
With their oaths taken and promises made, the priest gave Alec permission to kiss his bride.
Oh, how she hoped she would not make a mess of this first…
He gave her no time to think any further on the matter. He had her chin cupped in his hand, his lips pressed to hers, before the priest could even finish speaking.
His lips were warm, oh so very warm. His callused hand felt as soft as silk against her skin. Tiny fissures of excitement and wonder tickled at her spine, her toes, her stomach.
There was no way to think clearly, no way to think at all. All she could do was feel his lips against hers, his fingers touching her chin, his other hand at the small of her back, pulling her in closer.
Then, ’twas done. Just like that, he stopped, smiled down at her and turned away. She stood there with lips parted, her eyes wide as trenchers. That kiss, that sweet blissful kiss, was but a promise of things to come.
The crowd behind her cheered. Well, mostly ’twas Rose and Ian and Brogan doing the cheering. The rest of her people were not so summarily thrilled about the union. She did not care.
She was now the Bowie bride.
Chapter 4
With the ceremony long over and a feast that would most assuredly last until dawn, the only thing Alec could think of was getting his new wife back to their tent.
She was a quiet thing, this wee sprite. Occasionally, he caught her glimpsing at him out of the corner of her eye. She barely touched her food or her wine. Hardly said two words to him during the celebration.
That was fine with him. He didn’t want a talkative wife, one who would burn his ears off with inane questions or stories or what have you. Nay, quiet was good.
The large tent was filled with McLarens and Mackintoshes. The only people he’d brung were Gylys, Kyth, and Dougall. The three men stood unfalteringly behind him the entire day, and now through the evening. While he knew each of them agreed with this union, they were not quite as trusting of these people as he.
Lively music, laughter, and chatter filled the space, making it nearly impossible to hear himself think. Some people had taken to the dance floor earlier. All in all it was a festive affair.
Few people, however, came to congratulate the couple. Alec believed ’twas Dougall, Gylys, and Kyth who kept any well-wishers away. Who could blame them? They didn’t exactly reflect the countenance of friendly men, what with their scowls and piercing glares and all the swords, dirks, and sgian dubhs affixed to their persons.
Leona’s father had walked by the table earlier. He said not a word. Instead, he glowered angrily at his daughter, before casting a look akin to pity at Alec. That was it. No congratulations, no please treat me daughter well, no nothing. Just clear, unadulterated anger. Alec despised the man.
Dougall leaned in to whisper something into Alec’s ear. He could barely hear him. Finally, he stood, excused himself to his wife as well and Ian and Rose, so that he and Dougall could go outside to talk. Gylys and Kyth stayed behind to watch over their new mistress.
Stars dotted the inky night sky. A cool breeze drew in from the east, lifting plaids and firelight the same.
“I want to have a word with ye,” Dougall said. “Since yer da be dead, and really no one else to rely on at times like these, it falls to me.”
Alec could not begin to guess exactly what his cousin referred to.
“I have been married fer twelve years now, ye ken?” Dougall said with a most serious expression. “I do no’ pretend to know what kind of experience ye’ve had with the opposite sex.”
Alec rolled his eyes and crossed arms over chest. “Dougall, I have been with plenty of women. I do no’ need ye to speak to me like a lad on the cusp of manhood.”
Nonplussed, Dougall gave a slow shake of his head. “I ken ye know how to join with a woman, ye eejit. That be no’ what I am speakin’ of. There be a tremendous difference between a whore and yer wife.”
Alec waited for him to expand on that. And he waited. Exasperated, he said, “And yer point?”
“What do ye mean, and yer point? That is the point.”
Alec looked at him with a blank expression. He knew his cousin meant well, but really. Did the man think him a fool?
“There be also a difference with beddin’ a whore and beddin’ yer wife.”
Of course there was.
“I like the lass. She has a strong character. So go easy with her.”
He was almost afraid to ask the question. “Go easy with her?”
“Aye,” Dougall replied with a comfortable smile.
As if it made all the sense in the world.
When Dougall realized his cousin and laird sincerely did not understand his meaning, he thrust his hands onto his hips. “What I be sayin’ is, ye can no’ go at her like a ruttin’ bull. She be a fine lady. Be kind to her. She’ll likely be quite terrified of what will happen tonight.”
“Good, lord, man! Do ye think me so ignorant? So cruel?”
“Nay,” he replied. “I think ye be that inexperienced with women of no more refinement than an Edinburgh whore. Ye may have bed a fair number of wenches and whores. But again,
there be a grand difference between a whore and a wife.”
Wanting to be done with the topic, Alec gave him a firm pat on his shoulder. “Rest easy, cousin. I will no’ go at me wee wife like a ruttin’ bull. I shall show her every care and mercy.”
After returning to the celebration, Alec took the time to study his wife more closely. Seldom did she look anywhere but her lap, her hands, or the occasional furtive glance toward him. Was she, as Dougall suggested, nervous about consummating their marriage? Mayhap. And seldom did she look him in the eyes.
Another hour passed by, the revelry growing louder as the people partook of ale, wine and whisky. If they were to leave at dawn as he planned, they would need rest. He remembered the journey he’d taken with Leona that spring, back to his keep to rescue Rose. The lass had no experience riding so they had kept what he considered a reasonable pace.
But he needed to return to his lands, to his people, as soon as possible. There was still much work to be done.
Leaning in, he whispered, “I think it be time we retire, lass.”
She sat as still as a stone for a long moment. He began to wonder if she’d even heard him. Finally, she gave a curt nod, stuffed her eating knife into the leather pouch that sat on the table next to her, and began to push away from the table.
All three of his men stepped forward to offer assistance. Though quite chivalrous, ’twas highly unnecessary. He could bloody well help his wife, thank you kindly. The glare he shot them said as much.
“Good night, Ian. Rose. We thank ye kindly for the lovely feast,” Leona said, to which Alec added, “Aye, we do thank ye.”
Ian smiled at the two of them, while Rose winked at Leona. “’Twas our pleasure,” she said.
Taking Leona’s hand, Alec placed it in the crook of his arm. She was trembling. He hoped ’twas not out of fear.
The revelry quieted somewhat as they made their way through the rows of tables. Dougall led the way, whilst Kyth and Gylys brought up the rear.
There were no bawdy jests asking him if he knew what he was doing. No whistles. No tawdry calls to offer assistance. He’d been to weddings before and all those things seemed to be customary.
Mayhap ’twas because he was the Bowie, the chief of a clan that had, until very recently, been their sworn enemies. Mayhap ’twas the fear instilled by his men. Who could know?
As soon as they stepped out into the dark night, the party-goers returned to the festivities. The music picked up again, the laughter and noise went back to nearly deafening levels.
“Ian said they have prepared a tent for us,” Alec said.
In a barely audible whisper, she replied, “Aye, ’tis this way.”
The tent sat near the wood wall, several feet away from the armory. Away from the little huts and tents where the McLarens lived. Alec was thankful for the attempt at privacy.
With her hand still in the crook of his arm, for reasons he could not explain, he felt an odd need arise. Not in his groin, but in is gut. To protect her, to make her feel safe. Gently, he placed his free hand on top of hers.
Whether her sharp intake of breath was born out of fear or excitement or trepidation, he couldn’t be certain. He felt her fingers tremble, but she made no attempt to pull away. ’Twas a good sign, or at least he hoped.
Once they reached the tent, Dougall opened the flap, stuck his head inside, undoubtedly to look for any would-be assassins. Always on guard, that one.
Apparently no one awaited them inside, for he stepped away, holding the flap open. “Good night to ye, mistress,” Dougall said as Alec led her through.
Really, his men were behaving as if she were the queen of Scotia. Alec gave an inward roll of his eyes as he followed his wife inside.
’Twas by no means palatial, but it would serve its purpose. A nice sized bed sat at the far wall, flanked on either side with small tables. Candles were lit, bathing the tent in warm light.
A low fire had been set in the brazier that stood in the center of the space. A small table held a bottle of wine and two cups. There was even a vase of fresh flowers next to the wine.
All in all, the attempt to make this tent presentable was successful.
Leona stood between the wall and the bed, her eyes firmly planted on her slippered feet.
“Will yer men be standin’ out there all night?” she asked, her voice still but a whisper.
“Nay,” he lied. They would be acting as sentries all the night long. ’Twas their way, these Bowie men. Oh, they would not stand so close that they could hear everything that might — or might not — be taking place. But they would be close enough to make sure their laird and his new wife were well guarded.
“Would ye like wine?” he asked, holding up the flagon.
A slight shake of her head was her only answer.
He let out a long, slow breath. Dougall was right, the bloody bastard. His wife was nervous. Probably frightened out of her mind. He thought back to that ridiculous contract she had sent him earlier that morn. I’ll never take ye against yer will. Of course he wouldn’t. No matter how hard he ached, no matter how badly he wanted to see her hair tumbling around her shoulders, no matter …
Reining in his lust, he stepped closer to her. “Lass, if ye do no’ wish to consummate our marriage this night, if ye wish to wait until we ken each other better, I will no’ argue against it.”
He thought he was being quite honorable, border-line chivalrous, offering her an out, trying to set her mind at ease.
For the first time since he’d kissed her at the altar hours ago, she looked at him, straight into his eyes. If he didn’t know any better, he would swear she was angry.
“M’laird, I think ye should have thought about joinin’ with me before ye proposed.”
“But I did no’ propose. Ye volunteered,” he pointed out as politely as he could.
“Then ye should have thought about it before we took our vows.”
Aye, she was angry, but for what reason, he could not begin to guess.
“If ye find the thought of joinin’ with me,” she paused briefly, searching for the right word, “repulsive!” she said, as if she’d just found a king’s ransom worth of gold. “If ye find the thought of joinin’ with me so repulsive, then mayhap ye should find the priest and ask fer an annulment.”
He tried to interject but she was speaking so rapidly, ’twas impossible.
“The only boon I ask is that when ye set me aside and ask fer an annulment, ye’ll send me to the convent at St. Agnes’.”
Was she insane? He dare not ask that question.
“Lass, I do no’ find the thought of joinin’ with ye repulsive. In fact, I find the notion quite pleasin’.” He’d been thinking about this night for weeks. Often to the point of needing to jump into the cold loch in order to cool his ardor.
She stood in stunned silence.
“I do no’ want an annulment and I be no’ settin’ ye aside.” He took one step closer. “And ye bloody well are no’ goin’ to a convent.”
Perish the thought! That beautiful face, those glorious curves? In a convent?
Her mouth formed into a little ‘o’. Seductive, and yet she had no idea ’twas so.
“So ye do want to join with me?” she asked for clarity’s sake.
“Aye, I do. I was merely bein’ kind, lettin’ ye ken we could wait if it was what ye wished.”
She studied him closely for a time. “Nay, I do no’ wish to wait.”
His relief was palpable. Save for the rising need in his groin. There was no relief there, but soon…
She grabbed her pouch from the bed and riffled through it. “Because me mother died long ago, I could no’ go to her fer advice on joinin’. So I went to the women of me clan.”
She pulled a hand sewn leather-bound book from the pouch and began to riffle through it. “Now, accordin’ to the women, I can no’ get with child unless I find me woman’s release. I do no’ quite understand what that is. Do ye?”
He was so take
n aback by her sudden shift in mood, her asking the women folk for advice, he was at a loss for words. “Do I what?” he stammered to ask.
“Do ye ken what that be? A woman’s release?”
All he could do was nod his dumbfounded noggin.
She nodded back and said, “Good,” then immediately returned to her book. Using her index finger, she ran down the uneven parchment page until she found what she was looking for. “Now, accordin’ to Rose, if ye’re doin’ things the right way, I am supposed to find my release before ye find yers. And if yer exceptionally good at it, I might find it twice. Though I really do no’ understand what any of this means.”
Flabbergasted, he could only stand there like a fool whilst she gave him instructions on the act of loving.
“Some of the women folk, they talked about tongues. Quite frequently actually. Apparently, there is a good measure of pleasure to be found usin’ yer tongue, though again, I fear I do no’ understand completely.”
“Ye took notes?” he asked. He was as curious as he was dumbfounded.
“Aye,” she answered distractedly. “’Twas all quite fascinatin’, ye ken?” She turned back to the book.
Like a lion going in for the kill, he was on her in a heartbeat. Unable to bear waiting, or listening to her go on and on about releases and tongues and heaven knows what else because frankly, he’d stopped listening.
Tenderly, he lifted her chin with his knuckles, drawing her attention away from the tome. Without permission, he pressed his lips to hers. He’d fully intended for it to be a chaste kiss, like the one he’d given her at the altar. But in a matter of a few rapid heartbeats, it turned from chaste to something quite passionate. Moments later, he heard the book fall to the floor.
Just why his fingers trembled when he untied the laces of her dress, he could not say. Anticipation? Desire? He’d felt such things with other women in the past. But now? With Leona? Nay, ’twas an entirely different experience.
The Bowie Bride: Book Two of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 4