Welling eyes and trembles aside, he believed she would make a satisfactory wife, this woman he hadn’t known even an hour ago. Malcolm was a man of honor and he’d maintain this alliance they were striking in the name of peace. He’d dress Lady Holly in his plaid, English or no, and provide her a safe and comfortable existence at the Cochrane holding, in the ancient stronghold that bore his name. Cochrane, that was the castle’s modern name, the one word that represented the towers and walls and bricks, and the sparkling lake beyond the eastern fields. In more ancient language, they called it MacEacharna.
Someday, perhaps, she would feel at home there and Cochrane would be more than some stranger’s name. He hoped so, for that would be best.
He took her hand as the cleric blessed them in both their languages. A shame, that they were so different—and so disparate in size. Her fingers disappeared within his, along with the gold band he’d given her to mark her as his property, his partner to guard and protect. It was inscribed with the name MacEacharna, the ancient family name of his Scottish ancestors. He wished she wouldn’t tremble so much. He wished he could reassure her with some Gaelic niceties, but she wouldn’t understand.
Damned borders and the upheaval they wrought. He didn’t want a wife who was afraid of him. That wasn’t the Scottish way. Scots didn’t beat their wives like the English and banish them to sleep in separate rooms, even on cold winter nights. Ah, well, the English were a cowardly race. That wasn’t Lady Holly’s fault. He’d train away her trembling cowardice in time.
But God’s blood, she was so pale and frightened for now. It wasn’t the best way to begin a marriage, but it was early minutes, with years ahead of them. After the ceremony, he walked with her to the Great Hall amid mostly silent throngs of English. A few of them murmured good tidings and congratulations, which he pretended not to understand. It suited him and his men to pretend they couldn’t speak their host’s language, so the English would speak more freely amongst themselves.
His bride gave him mute looks as they sat together at the bridal table, the pristine white tablecloth strewn with herbs symbolizing faith and fertility. They did the same thing in the Lowlands. At least the English had done something right. The hall was bright with holiday decoration and redolent with the scent of spiced drink and food.
As soon as his bride looked over at him, she’d look away, seemingly confused to be wed so suddenly to one such as he. He poured her mulled holiday wine, which she drank sparingly.
Mortimer threw an impressive celebratory feast with roasts and pies, puddings and sweetmeats seasoned with Yuletide flavor, and Malcolm found himself beginning to relax. While some unlawful border barons might enjoy raiding the English for the sake of mayhem, he preferred the stability of peace. The English might cleave to one side of the hall, and his men to the other, but his bride sat beside him in a show of solidarity. Her elbow even touched his now and again before she wrenched hers away.
Brave lass, even if she was frightened. He hoped she’d continue brave when they retired for the night to consummate their new union.
Yes, she was very pretty, even if she smelled of those blasted English roses. He very much looked forward to their time alone.
Chapter 3
Afraid
The wedding feast ran deep into the night. Men made speeches, people danced and ate, and Holly sat very straight in her chair, trying not to lean into her hulking husband’s shoulder as servants bustled by. There was no thought of conversing together. The laird spoke only Gaelic, she spoke only English, and those who spoke both languages had long since become too soused to help either of them.
As the guest’s hilarity grew, Holly began to blink in exhaustion. The massive Yule log sparked and burned; it would burn for many days now and after Yule, days she wouldn’t even be here. She was leaving Mortimer’s keep tomorrow to take up residence as Lady Cochrane some distance north, in Scottish territory.
And before then...
Well, there was an interesting night ahead of them, if the increasingly bawdy songs and toasts were any indication. She wouldn’t meet the laird’s gaze even when she felt him turn to her, for she’d remember her mother’s awkward gesturing, and think about her husband’s “male part.”
How had her life changed so much in a matter of hours? She’d be leaving her home to start a whole new existence as a stranger’s wife. How long would it take to come to terms with that?
Looking around, there were so many things she’d miss from her familiar surroundings here at Mortimer—but many people she would not. Her cousins had come to visit her at her high wedding table. June had bid her a good journey and Emma had teased her that the laird was really very handsome, if one liked the rough and tumble sort. Tessa shared news that he and his men had bathed in the west meadow’s lake before the ceremony, diving into the ice-cold water in the rain and laughing with gusto rather than bathing indoors like the English.
“Holly,” she whispered, her eyes going wide as she glanced at the laird. “Lady Chipstow’s maid saw them, and she said there was a lot to see.”
“A lot to see?” Holly frowned. “What does that mean?”
But Emma and Tessa only looked at each other and giggled, and Holly felt more miserable than before.
When her mother bade her to rise and retire so she might await her husband, Holly did not look at her cousins. Nor did she smile and laugh like the coarse Scots and her drunken English countrymen. The wedding, for the moment, had brought merriment and peace between the feuding factions.
It had brought peace to everyone except her.
She held her head high and hurried from the room, and flew up the stairs to the west tower. If she must spend the night with her new husband, it would be best to get it over with. She shooed away the maidservants and refused the wine her mother offered.
“I wish to be alone,” she said, not hiding the anger that simmered within.
“You’ll not disrespect him?” her mother asked. “This isn’t a night for being cross—or alone.”
“I wish to be alone until I can’t be anymore.”
Her mother seemed about to reprove her for her tone, then thought better of it. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said instead, giving her one last, stilted kiss. Holly thought she saw tears in her eyes as she left, but those were no help now. Her own tears had changed nothing.
She took off her gown and tunic and tossed them aside, then picked the wilted ivy sprigs from her hair. She dressed in her bridal shift by pure willpower. When that was done, she went to the window and saw it had finally stopped raining. Instead, a thick mist had settled over the moors, adding to her anxious mood.
How long would he make her wait here for him? She turned from the window and stared at the bed, then glared at it and decided she preferred not to wait there. She moved to the wall farthest from it and crossed her arms over her chest. If she tried hard and tensed her legs, her knees didn’t tremble quite so much.
Moments later he arrived, and she wished he’d made her wait a little longer. Some of his men were with him, cheering in gruff voices, saying words she didn’t understand. He sent them away with good-natured irritation and turned to her in the dim tower room. She didn’t wish to cower, but she probably did. He gazed at her a long moment, then lit a few more candles to chase away the shadows. Seeing him in the added light was more frightening than being in the dark.
He seemed so big to her, and so odd. His features were carved and rugged, and utterly unreadable because she didn’t know him. He might do anything to her now that they were alone together for the first time. She readied her arms as if she might be able to fight a beast like him.
He didn’t come to her though, not right away. Instead he crossed to his riding pouch of worn leather and unbuckled it, then drew out a folded square of wool dyed in the dark Cochrane plaid, with black, hunter green, and scarlet lines. He studied her reaction as he unfolded it. Again, fixing her with that unreadable gaze.
And what was her reactio
n? What did he see?
She didn’t know, for her mind ran amok with thoughts and fears, the two of them tumbling over each other. How did she appear to him? Panicked? Worried? He was utterly boggling to her. His great size, the assertive way he moved, even his incisive gray eyes, which were both hard and soft at once. His hair was so long, like a savage’s. The auburn color deepened by candlelight, for their room was not as well-lit as the Great Hall. She had pictured him black-haired as a devil, but now she wondered what he looked like in the sunlight. Did his hair turn copper? Ginger red?
As she wondered, he gestured her to come to him. She considered refusing, because he stood quite near the bed and she felt safest where she was. But that would surely anger him, and she didn’t know yet how foul his temper might be. As she walked slowly to stand before him, he watched her every step with cool authority. She tried not to show the fear that roiled within her.
When she stood before him, his gaze traveled down the front of her shift. The lacy, embroidered garment had been made for Lorna to wear on her wedding night. If only it was Lorna here instead of her, but it was too late to wish for that, for this was her cross to bear now. The laird shook out the wool plaid he held, parting the folds with a flick of his fingers. It had looked small in his big hands, but she saw now that it was a great length of material.
He held her gaze as he draped it across her shoulders like a shawl, twitching it into place here and there. She’d expected the heavy wool to feel coarse, but it was warm and soft, almost soothing.
He murmured something she didn’t understand, low and guttural, a bit threatening. Was it a question? A declaration of ownership? She gripped the edge of the plaid and pulled it closer around her, not because she was pleased to be dressed as a Cochrane, but because it covered her, hiding her from his intensifying gaze.
He reached out then, reached right toward her, and she flinched before she could stop herself. He pretended not to notice although she was sure he did. He touched her shoulder and she braced for it to hurt, but he only ran his fingers over the plaid, caressing her through the dense, warm material. When she stiffened, he took a lock of her hair instead, twirling the light blonde curls between his fingers. It surprised her. She wouldn’t have thought a man like him could be capable of a gentle touch.
“We’ll have blond bairns then, won’t we, lass?”
He smiled, a small, teasing smile unlike any she’d seen that day. It transformed his face, made him look almost...handsome. When the shock of that realization passed, another occurred to her. She understood him. She blinked a moment before narrowing her eyes.
“What—what did you say?”
“I said, we’ll have blond bairns, don’t you think?” He tugged the curl he fondled. “With you such a blondie.”
She gaped at him. “I thought you— I thought you couldn’t—”
“Speak English? Well, lass.” He dropped her curl and smoothed a hand over her hair. “I know your language better than I let on, for it suits me to keep that a secret among your kind.”
Her kind? She forgot, in her indignation, that she was afraid of him. “So all this time, all this day, you’ve only been pretending you didn’t understand anything? There was an interpreter—”
“About that interpreter,” the laird interrupted darkly, “he took some liberties with his translations. But yes, I’ve been ‘pretending’ as you say. Secrets are secrets.”
“Now that I know, it’s not a secret anymore, is it?”
Had she gone too far, saying that? His eyes glinted as he regarded her, then his lips spread again in that transforming smile.
“You’re wearing my plaid, lass.” He rearranged it again about her shoulders with an expression of arrogant affection. “You’re my wife, my family. Now that we’re wed, we’ll share secrets you’ll never tell anyone else.”
He emphasized the never, his deep brogue sounding warm and frightening at once, like the plaid that enveloped her. Both the plaid and his voice seemed to mark her as his possession. What secrets did he mean? She shifted a glance toward the bed, then regretted it.
“When did you...” She paused, trying to steady her voice. “How long have you known English?”
“I learned it as a boy. I hated the lessons—and my tutor—but my father insisted on it, and most of my men speak it as well. It’s good to know the tongue of your enemy.” He glanced down at her hands, where she held the plaid closed over her revealing gown, and muttered some words she didn’t understand.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re saying. We’re not taught our...our enemy’s language.”
“Strange, that you wouldn’t learn Gaelic when you’re living so close to our border. Ah, that will be remedied over time. You’ll be speaking like a native within a year, love, and singing Scots lullabies to the babe at your breast.”
She could feel her cheeks go red. He called her love, but it sounded like loove in his broad accent. He spoke so easily of a baby when she could hardly bear to meet his unfamiliar gaze.
He will put his man part inside you...it is how children are made.
Her flush deepened. Was it the plaid making her so hot? She didn’t dare take it off. He might think it an invitation, and they were standing so close to the bed.
“Well,” he said, adding an “ah” onto the end, so it sounded like Wellah. “It’s been a long day. Are you ready for bed, Holly?”
It startled her to hear her name so casually upon his lips. She went from flushed heat to a panicked shudder. She could not refuse him. That had been made plain by her mother.
“If you wish, I’m ready.” She said it briskly, pretending an ease she didn’t feel. “Should I... Must I...undress?”
He paused and scratched the side of his face, watching her.
“Not yet,” he said. “Leave on the plaid if you’re cold, for it pleases me to see you wear it. Come sit beside me on the bed.”
The bed frame groaned at his weight when he sat. English men weren’t built in such a way, even the strongest ones. She sat on the edge of the bed too, as far from him as she dared, watching as he unfastened the plaid spanning his broad chest. He folded it and set it aside, then turned to study her again with his strange gray eyes.
She didn’t know what she ought to do. She held to her plaid shawl as if it might save her. Did he expect her to say something? Do something?
Oh, she was so lost.
She bowed her head, then half lay down. She felt too stiff with fear to lie all the way down. Terror rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. What would he do now? Would he be rough? How on earth was he to come inside her, as her mother had said? Why, he would smother her if he put his body on top of hers. She dared a look at him but couldn’t read his expression.
“Are you all right?” he asked, when the silence grew too deep. “Troubled, are ya, lass?”
“A little.” She sounded out of breath. “A little...” She’d been about to say scared.
I’m a little scared. A lot scared. But she didn’t want to confess her cowardice for fear he’d mock her. Scots were cruel. Scots were brutish.
He’s not being cruel or brutish at the moment, said a voice within her. None of this was going as she’d expected. She’d thought it would be quick, like a battle strike. She’d expected him to exert his power and strength.
“Hm.” He let out a sigh. “Would you mind terribly...” He turned away from her in the middle of his question. “Would you mind rubbing my back, Lady Cochrane? I was up early this morning, riding here to wed you.” He tugged off his linen shirt, baring tanned, muscled skin. “I don’t begrudge the journey, you understand, but my shoulders ache terribly and my spine feels like it could use a right crack.”
“A right crack?” She pulled herself up from her awkward, half-reclining position, staring at his broad back. “You want me to crack your spine?”
“I doubt you’d be strong enough, but rub my shoulders if you wouldn’t mind. The warmth will relax me.”
/> She wasn’t sure she could do anything with her pitiful fingers to help such a large man relax, but he’d asked her kindly enough, so she set to, kneeling behind him to begin on the shoulder closest to her.
It unsettled her to open her palms against his skin, because she’d never touched any man of his stature. His back seemed to go on forever, all golden and freckled. His skin was softer than she expected. When she looked closer, scars gleamed by candlelight, scratches and scrapes one might expect a savage to have.
“Hard as you’re able, lass,” he said, his low voice breaking into her musings. “You won’t hurt me.”
He made a soft sound of satisfaction as she pressed harder, massaging the muscles. They seemed to respond to her touch, flexing beneath her fingertips.
“Yes, that’s the way. Keep going.”
She supposed as long as she kept going, he wouldn’t do the other thing her mother had talked about, so she kept on even though it felt too intimate to touch him this way. When he shifted, even a little, his muscles hardened and moved, and she would freeze in alarm.
Then he’d say something like, “Och, lass, you’ve a talent for this,” and she’d begin again, her tentative touches growing more assured. How bizarre it was to explore a man’s muscles this way. They were so firm, so defined, yet the skin covering them was velvety smooth. Slowly, she moved along his shoulder muscles to his nape, growing in confidence as she kneaded the tension there.
“Ah, that feels lovely,” he murmured. “Thank you for this.”
For a beast, he could be very complimentary and polite.
“You’re welcome,” she replied, moved by the pleasure in his tone. For the first time since her uncle had decided she’d marry the Scotsman, she felt calmer and less afraid of him. Perhaps this was only a temporary respite, but she’d take it, for she needed the relief. It was better than having him on top of her, squashing her beneath his oversized physique.
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