by Caroline Lee
Her eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted, and even from there, he could see her breasts rising and falling faster than usual. He glanced down at himself, wondering if there was a scar he’d somehow forgotten to cover, but no. She wasn’t staring at his cheek or his hands. She was staring at his chest.
As he watched, she swallowed and took a step closer, and the realization slammed into him, she wasn’t staring at him in horror or pity, but pleasure. She liked what she was looking at.
He found himself standing straighter, prouder… and was awed by his reaction to her stare. It’d been years since he’d felt this way.
“Ye’re…” She cleared her throat and raised her eyes to his. “Ye’re looking better, husband. I’m glad fer Cook’s pottage and bread.” She stepped closer. “’Tis filled ye out.”
She was right. In the last weeks, he’d been eating better—and drinking less—and it was beginning to show. His muscles ached from disuse, but he’d vowed to begin training with his brother’s men once more.
But ’twould be a shame to give the cook all the credit. “Nay, lass,” he forced past a dry throat. “’Tis thanks to ye, no’ Cook. Ye’re the one who helped me fight.”
Did it make him a weak man to admit he’d needed his wife’s help? His wife, who was always so sure and in control? Then mayhap he was a weak man.
And mayhap that didn’t matter.
She blushed becomingly, but didn’t drop her gaze. “I did naught but encourage ye.”
“And harangue me. And nag me into eating.” With a slight grin, he closed the distance between them. “And refuse to let me die, even when I begged ye to.”
“Jaimie,” she whispered, a note of yearning in her voice as she held up her hand… and hesitated just as her fingers would have brushed against his chest.
He swallowed, knowing what she wanted. Knowing what he wanted. Could he give it to her? To them both?
He could do this. He could accept her touch.
“Aye, lass?” he all but croaked as he raised his hand and pressed his palm to hers.
He watched her shudder slightly as she laced her fingers through his, and felt like matching it. His fingers were ruined, aye, but he’d long ago regained feeling in the skin covering the tips. And now he could feel her warmth and life under his touch, as well as see the flutter of the pulse at the base of her throat.
What would she taste like there?
They stood there a long moment, neither moving, her hand in his, as they both concentrated on just breathing. After their disaster of a wedding night, when he’d taken her without seeing to her pleasure, and after the necessities of the last weeks, this was their most intimate touch.
Just holding her hand.
He closed his eyes on the sensation, knowing that despite the lovers he’d had in the past, despite what he thought he’d missed, this was the touch he’d been yearning for.
And that knowledge sent him pulling away, unsure if he should’ve forced his touch upon her again. She resisted momentarily before letting him go and running her hand across her honey-blonde braid with a nervous smile.
“I’ll let ye prepare for bed, Jaimie.”
“Nay.” The denial slipped out before he could stop it, and he shook his head ruefully. “I mean, this is David’s chamber, and I’ve been here long enough.” He cleared his throat and looked toward the bed he’d been in more often than not over the last days. “I’ll return to my own room.”
When she frowned in confusion, Jaimie was struck by how sweet her lips looked.
“But this is the laird’s chambers.”
“Aye, and Callan will be the laird. I’m just his regent.”
She glanced toward the door to her chambers, and seemed to come to some decision. Straightening her shoulders, she offered him a small nod. “Truthfully, I kenned yer brother less than a year, and I didnae care for this room either. ’Tis too… hard.”
She understood.
He felt the right side of his mouth—the undamaged side—pull up in a wry grin, or as close as he could manage these days. “Aye.”
Still, he made no move to exit the chamber, to cross the hall to the room which had been his since birth. And maybe that was the sign she’d been waiting for, because suddenly, she darted forward again and took his hand.
But this time, instead of standing there holding him, she tugged him through the door to her chambers. He followed, holding the cloth around his waist with his free hand, for there was naught else to do.
Once in her smaller room—the room she’d occupied when she’d been his brother’s wife, the room where he’d taken her on their wedding night—she took a deep breath and seemed to be in control once more.
“Are ye hungry? I can have supper sent up.”
Not sure what her plan was, Jaimie just shook his head. “Ye’re all feeding me more’n I can stand. I’m still full from the chicken pottage.” Although it had been good, and he’d had a second helping for the first time in… well, it’d been a long time since he’d cared enough about aught besides ale to reach for a second serving.
Nodding, she murmured, “Good,” as she tugged him toward the bed.
And right then and there, Jaimie decided he didn’t mind his wife taking control.
She pulled back the covers and nudged him down onto the mattress, then turned away. She stepped behind the screen to do whatever she needed, and Jaimie tugged the cloth from around his hips. He tossed it toward a nearby chair and swung his bare feet—and his bare arse—into her bed.
As he pulled the linen up around his waist, he realized he was already semi-erect. It was hard to imagine being able to spill again so soon, but if that’s what his strong, in-control wife wanted, he’d give it to her as best as he could.
Wouldn’t he?
He listened to her moving behind the screen, and swallowed thickly. What he’d done to her on their wedding night, that hadn’t been what was proper between a husband and wife. He’d been angry, and more than a little drunk, and had treated her like a whore.
And she’d treated him like a husband.
Swallowing a groan, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillow, shame for his actions flowing through his veins. Aye, what he’d done had been wrong, and if she ever showed any interest in having him bed her again, he’d do it properly.
But it would be her choice. He’d wait until he knew what she wanted.
When the bed dipped, he knew she’d slid in beside him. Steeling his heart—and reminding his cock to behave—Jaimie opened his eyes. With the shutters still open, there was just enough of the fading light to see her lying beside him, staring at the ceiling.
Taking a deep breath, he rolled over on his side to face her. This position meant his good cheek was pressed into the pillow, and with his dark hair spread out behind him, he felt on display to his wife.
This is who I am. Half man, half monster, weak and incapable of leading.
Let her decide if she still wanted him.
In one movement, Agate rolled over as well, mirroring his pose. His hands itched to reach for her, to pull her closer. But he laid there, holding his breath and wondering why she’d led him to her bed.
With a small smile, she reached up and placed her hand to his ruined cheek, the one on full view now. When he didn’t flinch away, she pressed her palm against his skin, and inhaled deeply.
And damn him, but he did as well, reveling in her sweet scent.
Reveling in the sensation of being here in her bed with her.
The hot bath and the earlier release had taken their toll on him. So, too, the days of fighting the drink, of the fever as his strong wife helped him to victory. As the heartbeats ticked by, Jaimie felt his eyelids sinking.
He blinked them open once, to see her fighting exhaustion as well. The realization made him smile, as much as he could. When she saw that, her answering smile was sweet.
And as his eyes closed again, he knew that no bedding would feel better than lying here while h
is wife, who’d fought for him, touched him so gently.
He remembered what she’d said that day after their wedding. They’d been speaking of the hold the drink had over him, and she’d said he must find something to replace it in his heart. When he’d asked what, she’d said, “Mayhap his new wife.”
As sleep claimed him, Jaimie realized she was right. For the first time in years, he didn’t want a drink. But his whole body yearned for the woman lying beside him.
His whole body… and—he was beginning to suspect—his whole heart.
Chapter Six
Agata’s eyes flew open with a gasp she only just managed to muffle. There was a large, warm body behind her, and she froze, hoping she hadn’t woken him. When a long moment went by, and Jaimie’s breathing remained even, she slowly relaxed again into his hold.
One of his arms was around her, his hand pressing against her belly and tucking her into the curve of his pelvis. It felt… right. This was the first time she’d ever woken in a man’s arms, and she couldn’t deny how comforting it was.
And as his warm breath stirred the hairs on the back of her neck, Agata slowly smiled.
Goodness, this certainly was different from sharing a bed with her sisters, wasn’t it?
Word had arrived from home with news of Pearl’s safe return—exactly as Citrine predicted—and marriage to the Sinclair Hound… again, exactly as Citrine predicted. Agata had written back to update her sisters on her search for hints on the location of the jewels—futile, at this point—husband’s progress, and how proud she was of him.
Aye, she couldn’t be more pleased with the changes in her husband in the last two weeks. The man she’d married had been only half-there, really; the drink had controlled his actions and thoughts. While she knew Jaimie was still hurting over whatever had turned him to spirits all those years ago, but at least he was fully here with her. Now that he was no longer reliant on ale to dull the pain, she could help him heal from that suffering.
Of course, I have nae idea how to do that.
Behind her, Jaimie made a noise between a mumble and a sigh. His arm tightened around her, pulling her rear end more snugly against his member. Her eyes widened as she felt it nestle against her, just slightly harder than it had been a moment before.
The knowledge left her with a strange sort of ache in the center of her body.
In the weeks since their wedding, she’d thought of the way Jaimie had bedded her. It had been cold, aye, but not controlled. When he’d entered her, she could sense his barely contained emotions and reactions, and had marveled at their power. What would their mating be like once he allowed himself to let go, to fully feel?
Experimentally, she shifted against him. When she felt the length of him grow against her backside, her lips curved up in a small, triumphant smile. She did that. Her husband might try to hide his feelings—why?—but here and now, she could influence him.
Curious now, she slowly moved her hand toward his, where it rested right below her breasts. Remembering the way it had felt last night to twine her fingers through his, she wondered why he’d been so adamant about not liking to be touched. After the time spent washing his hair and holding his hand, and waking up pressed against him like this… it was clear he didn’t mind being touched all that much.
So, she brushed her fingertips across the back of his hand, and when he made no sound of objection, did it again. Then, gently, she rested her hand against his. His hand would be much larger than hers, but with a third of his fingers missing, they were of a similar length.
What had sent him out into the cold all those years ago? Had it been worth it, to lose a part of himself like this? She suspected, not for the first time, that some fingertips hadn’t been all he’d lost that day.
And how had he learned to adapt in the years since? In the time she’d known him, she hadn’t seen Jaimie do much with his hands. Even the food he’d eaten had been simple to hold. He said he rode—and that she could accompany him!—so he must be able to hold the reins. Could he hold a stylus? Wield a sword? A paint brush?
On their wedding night, these hands had stroked himself, then prepared her for his entry. What would they feel like on her breasts? On her hips?
On her… there?
She realized she’d tightened her hold on his hand as her breathing had gotten shallower. The thought of him caressing her, of bedding her again… it made her skin feel all tingly. She squirmed against him again, and was gratified to feel him exhale and mumble against the back of her neck as his member hardened further.
He was naked. She was wearing only her shift. He was obviously interested in her as a woman, and judging from the ache between her legs, Agata was ready to explore her physical relationship with her husband.
But just like last night, she held herself back, stopped herself from rolling over and demanding he bed her again.
Aye, it may have worked on their wedding night, when her future hung in the balance and she desperately needed to be accepted as Lady Mackenzie. But now…? Now, she knew she had to tread gently and allow him to make the decision to bed her. Whatever his issues with touch and allowing himself to feel, she knew they were tied with his longtime dependence on the drink.
He was changing, this husband of hers, and although she was used to being in control, she needed to wait and have faith that he was changing for the better. All she could do was continue to stand beside him and help, and pray he’d eventually want to reach for her in the night.
Of course, there was nothing to say she couldn’t hurry things along.
With another small smile, she wriggled her rear end against him again. At the same time, she gently coaxed his hand higher, until the edges of his fingers brushed against the bottom swell of her breast. When she shifted yet again, she was rewarded with a small groan.
The hitch in his breathing told her he was waking up, and when he tightened his hold and pulled her firmly against him, she felt like gloating. He was awake, and he was touching her!
He hummed, a sleepy, satisfied sort of sound which made her smile.
“Lass, ye’re causing all sorts of—”
She was already halfway turned in his arms, delighted to discover whatever it was she was causing, when the door to her chamber burst open.
“Aunt Agata! Aunt Agata! I found another one!”
She swallowed down her sigh of disappointment, but beside her, Jaimie wasn’t so restrained. He rolled onto his back and threw his forearm across his eyes with a heartfelt groan. She wasn’t sure if he was more irritated at the early-morning visit or being interrupted as things were being caused. But either way, she was smiling as she turned to the boy.
Usually, Callan had no compulsions against throwing himself onto her bed and bouncing until she woke fully, today he skidded to a stop when he saw she wasn’t alone. His wide-eyed gaze snapped to Jaimie, and his mouth dropped open.
“Uncle Jaimie! What are ye doing here?”
“Nothing,” the man mumbled from under his arm, and he sounded so disgruntled that Agata’s smile grew.
Determined to foster a sense of normalcy in the boy, Agata sat up nonchalantly, tugging her shift into place. “Jaimie and I are married, Callan,” she reminded him in a gentle voice. “’Tis no’ uncommon for a husband to spend the night with his wife.”
The boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Father never spent the night with ye.”
And she’d never wanted him to. She nodded. “Yer Uncle Jaimie isnae yer father.”
That seemed to satisfy the boy. Callan shrugged and climbed up on the bed. He threw himself across her legs and cradled his chin in his hands. “He doesnae look sick anymore,” he critiqued thoughtfully, kicking his heels.
“I think he’s feeling better.” Then she whispered conspiratorially, “He said we might go riding together today.”
“What?” The lad jerked upright. “Even me? He said that?”
“I’m right here,” Jaimie growled. “Stop talking about me as if I�
��m a pile of bedding.”
Agata pressed her lips together to hide her smile as Callan rolled in between the adults and loomed over Jaimie.
“Can I go with ye, Uncle Jaimie? Please?”
It warmed her heart to see how the lad had taken his uncle’s instructions to heart. Almost immediately following their talk, Callan had started referring to his relatives much less formally. His father’s legacy was slowly being erased, and she was thrilled to be helping. Now this precious stepson of hers—or was he now her nephew?—felt fully comfortable bouncing on her bed with an eager expression.
Just in case Jaimie didn’t understand the significance of the boy’s actions, she nudged her husband’s shin, which was still sprawled near hers. He grunted in response and moved his forearm just enough to peer up at his nephew.
“Has yer riding improved aught?” he asked.
Callan frowned. “I didnae fall that time, and ye ken it! I was jumping.”
“Fair enough.” As Jaimie sighed and removed his arm completely from his face, the covers fell enough to reveal his chest. “Ye can catch me if I fall off.”
The lad giggled and poked his uncle in the shoulder. “I remember ye’re a good rider, Uncle Jaimie. Ye used to let me sit in front of ye when ye’d come home from court to visit. Father said it was a waste of time, but I remember Mother laughing.”
Her husband’s gaze darted away from the boy’s and fixed on the ceiling… but Agata could tell he wasn’t seeing it.
“Aye, she laughed whenever I spent time with ye,” he finally said in a rough whisper. “But that was a long time ago.”
Before his injury? Certainly before his dependency on ale. What else had happened in that time? And why did he close up whenever David’s first wife was mentioned?
She tugged on Callan’s leg to make him back up. “Why did ye burst in on us this morning, ye wee hellion?”