by Arnette Lamb
He came closer, his eyes compelling, his voice rich with meaning. “If fat partridge be her desire, then he must string a bow and walk the fields at harvest’s end. If memorable conversation rouses her mind, then he must sharpen his wits to match her keen thoughts.” His voice dropped, and he was almost close enough to whisper. “If sweet words and tender touches nourish her soul, then he must tell her that her mouth is like a delicious flower and that her skin is the softest of God’s textures.” He clutched her shoulders. “Should she crave nearness as much as this, then her husband is bound to take her in his arms.”
Her mind became a still lake yearning for the touch of the wind. His breath fanned her face, and she drew him down for a kiss that emptied her soul. Then he was giving back, filling her with a desire so real that even her fingertips tingled with it. She clutched his tunic until her hands were knotted and cramped in the velvet.
Seeming to know, he pulled her hands free and threaded his fingers in hers, taking care with the bandaged hand she had forgotten. Both of his palms were rough from labor, but his skin felt oddly tender next to hers. The tension flowed from her, leaving a lassitude and a need to cling.
As if warming up to a dance, he moved his hips from side to side, brushing against her, urging her to join him. She did, and as passion worked its way up her spine and down her legs, she began to sway.
He understood and moved their clasped hands behind her, supporting her, enabling her to sway as she would. But she couldn’t quite find the ideal movement or gain her balance. For better footing, she parted her legs, and he stepped into the void. Her breath caught at the sheer perfection of the fit. Then he bent her back, over their clasped hands, and kissed away her senses, save those that yearned for him.
“Forget vows and allegiances. You are all that I desire.”
After breathing the words into her mouth, he took her lips in a kiss that set her on fire for him. She pulled her fingers free of his and cradled his cheeks, feeling the kiss with her hands, sealing the union with her touch.
He felt it, too, for his hips bumped gently against hers. She cried out in surprise and pleasure at the movement, and his tongue plunged into her mouth even as he nudged her again.
Begging proved to be her next option, for she wanted him with a need beyond pride and past reason. This, too, did he know, for he worked at the lacings on her gown, but never broke the kiss or the rhythm.
She heard the patter of shells striking the wall, felt the rending of precious woollen cloth. “Yes,” she said, willing him to take off the dress.
He did. And swept her up and carried her to the bed. Tearing his lips from hers, he drew off her bliaud. She stood before him, naked but for her stockings. His hungry gaze fell on her breasts, and his arms floated upward, until his fingers grazed her nipples.
She understood that he wanted to indulge himself in touching her, so she covered his hands with her own and pressed him closer. His head tipped back and his throat worked, as if he were savoring the taste of a fine wine. Her own thirst for him grew, and she tunneled her hands beneath his tunic to the laces of his hose.
He jerked away, then moved so close that she felt his desire straining at the fabric that bound him. Knowing what he wanted, she curled both hands around him and languished in the extent of his need for her—for Meridene Macgillivray, a woman who treasured a good loom and hated Scotland.
On a soft groan, he ripped his mouth from hers and drew her down onto the bed. Then he fastened his lips onto one of her nipples and suckled a soft moan out of her. That done, he moved to the other breast and teased and laved until she reached for his manhood again.
He knew, and stripped off his tunic and hose. Chest heaving, his eyes wild with desire, he stood beside the bed. With gentle insistence, he parted her legs and walked his fingers up her inner thighs. Her pulse hammered in a rapid thud, and anticipation robbed her of speech.
As if peering at a gift, he admired her most intimate place. A flush warmed her skin, but she did not feel shame. She felt adored, cherished, and eager for what he would do next.
His arms grew lax, and he lowered himself until she felt his breath on her private desire.
“So bonny,” he whispered, and kissed her there.
Her head went blank, and her back arched like a bow. Sweet Saint Mary, she should tell him to cease, but a drum had begun to beat beneath his lips and the pounding was sweet with the promise of glory.
“Bonny mine, bonny mine,” he said, again and again, until she sensed that he wanted her to give to him, which was odd, since she was near to exploding with pleasure. When it did come, she felt like a bird flung to freedom and caught up on the currents of a hot summer wind.
“For me,” he said between devilish licks that prolonged her pleasure. “For me.”
Through a haze of blissful oblivion, his meaning became clear: A wife’s happiness was a husband’s responsibility, and Revas Macduff took up his office with zeal. But what of his joy? What of the empty ache that throbbed deep inside her?
“Let me give you pleasure, too, Revas.” She grasped his shoulders and pulled him up, her gaze fastened on the magnificence of his desire. Of their own accord, her legs parted and her hips rose to meet him.
The powerful muscles of his shoulders and arms strained with the weight of his need, and he stared as if entranced at the sight of his flesh poised so near her own.
She said his name in a yearning whisper.
His head came up, and his eyes were dazed, his chest heaving. She gave him a smile that trembled with uncertainty.
Awareness flashed in his eyes, and she knew what he was thinking. If he took her innocence, he would forfeit the sword of Chapling.
To thwart him, she lifted her hips. He grimaced and sucked in a breath. Take my innocence, she silently willed him, and prove you love me, not a legend.
He hesitated, obligation pulling him from the clutches of passion.
“It is not me you want, Revas. I’m not the passion in your life.”
He blinked, and his eyes went out of focus again. Seizing the moment, she grasped his hips. Beneath her fingers, muscle turned to steel. She cursed his power for the punishment it dealt her. Doubting his motives was an elusive thing; the proof was like a knife in her chest.
She should have known better than to yield to a Scotsman. Her hands fell to her sides. The candle sputtered. Shadows danced on the walls. It was odd, but nothing in the room had changed, and yet everything was different. “Let me up.”
“I cannot.” His gaze fell on her. “Your sorrow has undone me, Meridene.”
We are well met, this butcher’s son and I, she thought. “Then make me yours.”
He did, and time stopped for Meridene. It was as if a bell had sounded, marking the end of what had been and, at the same moment, heralding what was to come.
The completeness of their union struck her first. They fitted together like hand to favorite glove, and the absolute peacefulness of their souls filled the very air.
She sighed in contentment. “I feel wonderful.”
“Hum. For this pleasure,” he said, “I would lie comfortless and hungry in the heather.”
A flutter of pride made her smile. “I would bring you sustenance.”
He moved inside her.
A twitch of pleasure almost ended it for Revas. Passion squeezed his loins, but he’d waited over a decade to bind this woman to him. He’d not have it end in a quick quenching of lust. He’d make a banquet of their desire, a feast of their loving.
Her innocence surrounded him, new and yielding. The joy or lack of it that she received tonight would set the pace for their intimacy. He’d succumbed and taken her innocence. They would go on from here as man and wife. Politics be damned.
Now he intended to love her until the memory of this night never left either of them, and when next she expressed displeasure, he’d spirit her away to a quiet place and remind her of the bliss they could enjoy.
On that glorious thought, he p
ulled back, then thrust deeper, a little at a time, until he could go no farther. She moaned in delight and ground her loins against his. Her eagerness drove him to finesse, for he was very close to spending his seed.
A gentle challenge in his eyes, he said, “You are the passion of my life, Meridene Macgillivray.”
She blossomed like the finest flower in Scotland. “I know not what comes next.”
“Then allow me to show you.”
CHAPTER
11
Revas grasped her hips to hold her still while he dragged himself from her warmth, then plunged in again. Her eyes fluttered shut, and with the ease of a woman who’d lain in his arms a thousand times, she lifted herself to him and followed his lead.
When he asked her to wrap her legs around him, she did, and her slender thighs were surprisingly strong, gripping and urging him at once. Sweat dampened his skin, and lust pooled, hot and heavy, in his loins. She smelled of heather and contented woman—dangerous scents to a man as close to climax as he.
To master his passion, he thought of trivial things: his new chain mail, the dwindling supply of flint stone. He even pondered the latest nick in his favorite broadsword.
“Have you lost interest in me, Revas?”
At the sound of her voice, he blinked. Her eyes gleamed with sated desire, and her luxurious hair fanned the linens. He’d pictured her just so, but the reality made dull work of his musings.
She pinched his waist. “Have you?”
The Maiden was his, his to hold, his to love, his to cherish, until God called them home. He swelled within her.
“Oh! I can tell you have not.”
He gave her a grin he suspected was crooked. “ ’Tis safe to say, though, that my interest is peaking and quickly.”
She raked a fingernail over his ribs. “Are you riding hotfoot to passion’s gate?”
He shivered and latched on to the diversion. “Have you been reading that randy Frenchman, de Lorris? Those words sound like his.”
She flushed prettily. “I’ve been listening to Ellen.”
He felt like a crossbow, cocked and ready to fire. “Henceforth, you should listen to me.”
Laughter vibrated in her breasts and mock defiance glittered in her eyes. “Are you commanding me—here in my own bed?”
Her casual acceptance called up the best in him, for he wanted a lifetime of just such moments with Meridene Macgillivray. “I offer only the truth. Stay very still, or we’ll both be sorry for it.”
Enlightenment gave her serenity, and she fairly glowed with feminine power. Knowing she was eager to wield it, he felt bound to say, “I warned you, Meridene.”
“Even so . . .” Her hips snuggled his loins, and a shaft of anticipation seared him. He gave up the fight.
Now dedicated to his lustful objective, he thrust quick and hard, and when his passion burst, she squeezed him sharply, over and over, until he thought she’d drained the very soul from him.
At the edge of his euphoria lurked a shadow of danger. Trouble would come, for he’d broken his word to the people of the Highlands. Curse him for a faithless Christian, but he did not care. Of all the rewards he had received, this one woman was to be his foremost prize, and the time just spent, his greatest boon. But he’d put his cart before his horse, and if the worst prevailed, he’d jeopardized Highland unity.
“Now who’s sorry, Revas?”
How did she manage to know him so well? How could he tell her the truth without spoiling the moment? Oh Scotland, he thought, you ask too much of an ordinary man.
He scooted to the head of the bed and pulled her with him. When he’d tucked her to his side, he said, “My only regret is that I did not prevent you from drinking from that poisoned cup so many years ago. Had I stayed your hand, we could have been together all this time.”
With the flat of her bandaged hand, she drew lazy circles on his chest. “What of the sword of Chapling?”
According to tradition, she could not seek it now; her father would keep the symbols of power. But Revas possessed the grand princess of the Highland folk. If he was fortunate, the Macgillivrays would follow the old ways and abandon Cutberth in favor of the Maiden, even if she did not demand the sword.
It had happened before, but the circumstances and clans had been different. Centuries ago, the father of the unwed Maiden had stayed too long on Crusade. In defiance of her greedy uncles, she had chosen her husband and together they had ruled the Highlands in relative peace. Precedents aside, Meridene Macgillivray did not think of herself as the Maiden, did not possess the devotion of her predecessors.
Would she ever? Perhaps seeing William again would rouse her loyalty. Revas would send a message to him, asking him to visit. Would her brother come? Yes, and by that time, Revas prayed she would accept her circumstances and claim her birthright.
In contradiction to his thoughts, he said, “You mustn’t think of the sword now. If I’m to reign, the sword of Chapling and the crown will find their way to me. And if you keep fondling me, you’ll find yourself calling up Saint Mary again.”
Her hand stilled, and she slid him a curious glance. “There’s no blood on the linens . . . or on you.”
Her candor charmed him. He also felt pride at the care he’d taken with her. “You looked closely at me?”
“I—You’re just there—and I couldn’t help—seeing—you.”
She flustered beautifully, which brought him quickly to life again. “You were innocent. The lack of virgin’s blood means nothing. By my oath, I swear you were pure of body.”
Vindicated, she grew brave. “You’ve had many virgins, I suppose.”
In the absence of an acceptable reply, he kept silent and prayed for a miracle.
“Have you nothing to say?”
“I was praying for divine intervention.” He took her hand and moved it to his desire. “ ’Twould appear I’ve been blessed.”
Engagingly curious, she caressed him. “That wasn’t what you were thinking, but for the moment, I’m too bewitched to quarrel with you.”
It was a far cry from I love you, but she was his now. “You’ll be sore if I make love to you again.”
Pinning him with a direct gaze, she said, “Will your regret double?”
Only a fearless woman would pose such a direct question; only a fool would answer it, but risks came easy to Revas, especially where she was concerned. “You are my wife, Meridene. I have a duty to you.”
“Did you learn that verbal trickery in the Scottish Church?”
She had an odd way of mastering bewitchment. “Tossing a man’s words of devotion in his face must surely be a sin.”
On a particularly sensitive stroke of her hand, she said, “What of lusting after worldly pleasure?”
“Enough teasing.” He drew her beneath him and settled himself between her legs. “I’d rather lust after you.”
She was a woman apart from the one he’d imagined. He hadn’t expected spontaneity and daring, and as he touched his lips to hers and pressed against her yielding form, he thought himself the most fortunate of men. When she wiggled her hips until their bodies were perfectly joined again, he couldn’t think at all.
A knock sounded on the door. “Lady Meridene?”
She gasped. “Oh, goodness. I’ve let you— Oh, my. It’s Serena. I told her—I didn’t tell her— Gibby’s waiting for us. Oh, wretched misfortune.”
Gibby would live in his home. Meridene would guide her. No misfortune there. Over his shoulder, he said. “Not now, Serena. I’m having a word with my wife.”
Giggling, Meridene undulated beneath him. “A word?” she whispered. “If she opens that door, she’ll get a very mortifying view of your fall from grace.”
“Serena,” he called out. “Ask Sim to tap a fresh keg. Meridene and I are not to be disturbed. We’ll be along when we’ve had our discussion.”
“Aye, Revas,” the girl answered.
Cursing himself for not locking the door, he moved to draw the
curtains into place around the bed. Meridene looked mysterious in the shadowy light. His wife. The future spread out before him, prosperous and satisfying.
“What if someone else comes?”
He kissed her nose, her cheeks, and her brow. Meridene Macgillivray, the wife he had waited over half of his life for, was now in his arms. “You forget that I’m laird here.”
“You’re very good at giving orders.”
Tunneling his arms beneath her shoulders, he braced himself on his elbows and wedged his loins into the nest of her womanhood. “ ’Tis my second best quality.”
She languished, smiling. “And your first?”
“Lightsome questions are disallowed.”
“You’re a devil, Revas Macduff,” she scoffed, and turned her head away.
He chuckled and took her to the edge of release.
When next she said his name, a pillow muffled the joyous sound.
An hour later, after they’d both dressed, Meridene brushed her hair and watched Revas gather seashells from the floor. She couldn’t stop picturing him naked or cease feeling him inside her still, pleasuring her out of her mind. Beneath his dark green trunk hose and leather tunic was a body she knew intimately. Her limbs relaxed at the thought.
“What shall I do with these trinkets from your gown?”
“Give them to me.” The woollen surcoat could be mended and the ornaments reattached. She folded the garment and held out her hand for the shells he’d gathered. “I’ll put it all in the clothes chest until I can mend the gown.”
He lifted the lid of the trunk. The Covenant of the Maiden rested atop her heavy cloak, and he picked up the book.
He was so close, she could see shards of golden light in his brown eyes. She hadn’t noticed the color before.
“I never meant to tear your clothing.” He rubbed his nose against hers. “But I was beset with a craving for you.”
He’d paid a high price, too, and his honesty tugged at her conscience. But she refused to feel guilty for what had just happened. She’d freed herself of the duty of demanding the sword of Chapling. In the scheme of things, he’d been the true loser; yet no sense of accomplishment swept over her. Rather a deep abiding peace thrummed in her breast. “I understand, Revas.”