Twelfth Knight's Bride

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  He shed his mantle from her shoulders once more, letting it slip through his fingers to drop to the straw, easing her back down upon it. She lay beneath him, and he sank to his knees, straddling her, wanting her, and eased her bodice back down over her bosom.

  “So beautiful,” he murmured with appreciation, caressing a callused finger over the mounds and down the valley between them. “Curse the souls whoever told ye ye were plain.”

  She shivered but arched toward his touch. So bold. So confident. So Aileana, to seize the moment instead of shying from it.

  He lifted her hands and placed them upon his knees, skin to skin, sliding them upward. “Have yer way, lass. As I would with ye.”

  At this, she turned her head away with embarrassment. He held still, waiting for her curiosity to get the better of her. He guided her face back with his finger, and she swallowed, then trailed her hands over the hair upon his thighs, the sensation both tickling and agitating in the most delightful way, inching closer, closer, to the mark. His breath caught. His bollocks tightened. It had been so long since he’d been touched so, and to feel Aileana now, to have won her stubborn heart, made this moment so delectable, he couldn’t imagine thinking of another—

  “Jesu,” he hissed as she grazed over his bollocks, and he looked down to see sheer fascination on her face as she explored this unknown, the veil of his kilt obstructing her view, turning this into a game of touch and exploration.

  He tightened at the base of his spine, within his bollocks, and blast it! He was about to finish like a green lad! He ripped her hands away, dropping down atop her, and fought to drag up her mass of skirts.

  “I want a union with ye, before ye make me so pleasured, I end this before I can even start it,” he growled, nipping at her ear, her cheek, her chin, returning his lips to hers.

  He found her core with an urgent finger, felt along her seam, swallowed the hitch in her breath such a touch induced, and positioned his helm at her entrance. Plunging with barely harnessed control, she cried out, arching, and tensed beneath him, and God above, he fought to remain still, fought to regain his patience so that her untouched flesh might soften to him.

  He kissed her idly, plied her breasts gently, as he held the union, sheathed to the hilt, waiting, as she relaxed, as her tight warmth gripped him and caused him to tremble with need.

  “There,” he whispered against her ear, clenching her tightly, feeling his heart open farther in ways he never knew it could. “Ye’re mine, as I’m yers. I want it no other way.”

  She nodded against him, clinging hard to him, her nails biting through his tunic to clench his back, her legs cinched tightly around his rear. “Aye, Jamie, my…l—”

  He froze, then his pride, like a strong wind, soared away with his heart. Was she about to say what he thought she was? Surely it was much too soon, as she’d concluded by silencing herself. But as he tried hard not to grin a lopsided grin, he sank into slow, gliding thrusts, easing himself upon his woman and basking in this Yuletide miracle binding their people, and their hearts, together.

  Yet her ankles came around his legs, clinging to him, as soft cries welled from her throat at the new sensation of loving, encouraging him to give more. Try as he might to be gentle, her encouragement teased him. He felt her fingers glide up his abdomen, around his rear, clenching him, pulling him more forcefully to her as if she needed him, and as his thighs and arms trembled from holding himself steady, he relented to the wildness he felt.

  He pulled back on his haunches, gripped each of her creamy thighs, and dropped back his head as his cock thrust harder and faster, galloping his way home. She cried out, a seductive, pleasured sound that rolled over his ears and infused him with energy. A groan, low and rumbling, vibrated in his throat, the primal pride a man felt when he pleased the woman who seized his heart, bubbling over his lips, where it had been brimming. With a thread of control, he gazed down at her, his eyes hooded with hot lust. Her face was tossed to one side, eyes pinched closed, sweet moans of pleasure encouraging him from her delicious lips as her fingers moved frantically upon him to grasp hold.

  “Jamie, Jamie,” she murmured, though there was no direction to the utterance, and he dropped down upon her to capture her lips in his as the tingling of release throbbed low in his spine, tightened his bollocks, hastened his pace…

  “Lass, I…”

  He pinched her lips in his teeth, staving off his release as her moans grew into a whine, gripping him, as his pace increased and his skin smarted hers. She tossed her head and tipped it back and gripped him tightly around the waist and rear as her whole body shook. Her legs tightened upon him. She froze, clinging to him, and a delightful moan welled from her throat, her nails biting through his tunic.

  Warmth coated him. Her thighs trembled. Ah, there it was: his woman’s pleasure, sweeter than fine sugar. He was the lucky bastard to claim this cherished prize, and he drove himself once more, a swift, hard, desperate thrust.

  A roar tore up his throat, and he kissed her hard, forcing the guttural exclamation into her mouth, spilling his seed within her in pulsing surges as he released and flexed helplessly, at her mercy. Panting, his body tingling as if he’d just sprinted an entire league, he finally opened his eyes—which had at some point, fallen shut—and noticed Aileana gazing into his face, such softness and wonder on her brow as she idly twisted his braid in her fingertips, a languid smile shimmering over her lips.

  Their lips met—soft pecks, no words spoken—as he pulled free his tartan and shook it out to lay atop them. Cocooned together, he held their union while he softened. Lazily, his lips roved over her nose, her cheeks, as she continued to toy with his braids.

  There would be time for their affection to grow and blossom into that love that James felt in his heart and knew that Aileana felt, too. Now, as he basked in the warmth of her flesh tangled with his, there was all the time in the world. He couldn’t be happier.

  Chapter Thirteen

  4th of January

  Aileana had floated through the night and all through another day. Who knew such an act as the scullery maids oft tittered about was really as amazing as they’d said? She smiled idly as she glided down the corridor toward Jamie’s chambers, for he’d asked her to join him tonight, and every night hereafter. His Allie. Goodness, she could scarcely keep her feet anchored to the ground, as if her heart had grown wings and was carrying her away. Would her brother ever approve? It was too late now. Her body shivered with happy afterthoughts, memories of how her husband’s body had felt upon hers, within hers, how reverent his hands had been, how sweet his tongue had been, whispering encouragement to her all through the night and into the wee hours of morn, together entwined in warm bliss beneath his tartan in that byre.

  She approached his door, wrapped in her robe, and was lifting her fist to knock when she noticed his solar door beside it ajar, flickering light coming from within. Soft talking could be heard through the crevice. Was he conducting business so late?

  “But, brother, why have ye no’ written the abbot yet?”

  Brighde? The festivities in the hall had long since died down, and yet the lady wasnae abed?

  Jamie sounded as if he’d sighed. “I will, in time. The festivities and the MacLeods have taken much of my attention. I’ll send an emissary to Laird Grant on the morrow, informing him of…” His voice murmured inaudibly, and compelled by curiosity, Aileana moved closer. “And I’ll ask him to put his mark upon the formal agreements of the marriage date, which I’ll need as proof for the abbot to approve.”

  “But why did ye nay sign the formal agreement when ye married?” Brighde pressed. “Ye knew ye would need it.”

  More silence. Another inaudible utterance from Jamie.

  “This is all such good news. I’m so fond of Aileana. She’s strong, like Marjorie couldnae be. She gives me a sister again. I trust in time she’ll truly accept me as one.”
<
br />   Aileana smiled. Brighde had been nothing short of kind. What a blessing it was to find such companionship at Tioram.

  “But I cannae understand why ye didnae write to Fearn Abbey the moment ye brought her home as yer bride.”

  “As I said, I’ve been busy,” James replied, an air of annoyance accompanying it.

  “Too busy to claim yer money? Sakes, brother, but it’s near four hundred pound.”

  Aileana’s smile fell. What did Brighde mean?

  “Is that nay what ye intended when ye took a Grant to wife?”

  He sighed with exasperation. “Aye, in the beginning, but… Shite.”

  The latter sentiment was nearly spat from his mouth, like the taste of rancid meat. Aileana could picture him, raking his hand through his hair in frustration.

  “Who would have thought marriage to a Grant would work so well? It was a brilliant plan,” Brighde said.

  “I sense Faither tried to achieve a similar union with Marjorie’s marriage,” James replied, and Aileana peered through the crevice in the door to see James swig a dram of whiskybae in nothing but his sleeping braies slouched around his hips, as if he’d been prepared for bed and Brighde had interrupted him.

  The long, toned planes of his muscles, bronzed in the firelight, sent reminders skittering through Aileana’s belly as she remembered the strength and stability they’d exuded as he’d held her and enveloped her in his warmth while his body made love to hers. But wariness prickled now as she took in his agitated state, as he paced and took uncomfortable swigs from his dram.

  “Aye, but our mither never put such conditions upon Marjorie, that she must gain the submission of an enemy’s lands and be married to them by a certain age,” his sister replied. “She did that to ye out of spite at Faither. And it’s done nothing but delegitimize ye and cause incessant competition for yer earldom and inheritance.”

  “Brighde, nay now.” He pinched the bridge of his nose the way Seamus often did when he was burdened. “I need no reminders of the past.”

  What on earth are they talking of?

  “True, the past was oft dismal, but that ends now.” His sister took his hand affectionately. “Ye’ve achieved the conditions placed upon ye and get to claim that money. Aren’t ye pleased, James? Who knew ye would succeed at it?”

  “I’d given up thinking much on it,” he said dismissively, tossing back another swallow.

  “How could ye nay think on it every day?”

  James shrugged, sipped, and said nothing.

  “However did ye manage to twist Laird Grant’s arm into giving her to ye, anyway? Ye’ve never told us. Ye merely showed up with her and have refused to give anyone yer reasons.”

  A fist of dread tightened upon Aileana’s throat. Whatever they spoke of, it wasn’t good, at least, not for her. Straining to hear, she felt her fingers migrate up to her throat to clutch her robe shut. Vulnerability infiltrated the happiness that had soared since the night before, when they’d both finally been spent and she’d lain in the warmth of his embrace, tracing idle circles upon the hair sprinkled upon the ridges of his stomach muscles littered with olden scars.

  “I admit, I forced his hand. ’Twas before I knew Aileana—”

  Aileana pushed the door open, unable to continue eavesdropping.

  “What are ye talking about? Yer inheritance?”

  Was this what Brighde had gossiped about before the Yule log? James froze like a deer sensing danger.

  Brighde’s face dropped in surprise. “Lady, I had no idea ye were here.”

  “Allie, I’m nay sure what ye heard, but—”

  “Was this all a design?” Aileana asked, illness roiling in the pit of her stomach. “Subduing the Grants? Through marriage? Just as yer men once jested?”

  “It’s nay like that,” James replied, coming to her to take her hands. She clutched her robe harder, refusing to accept the gesture.

  “Then what is it like? What are yer reasons for forcing my brother to give ye one of his sisters? Why did ye have to marry me to gain yer inheritance?”

  “Let us retire, wife,” James replied, his lips flattening into a firm line and worry in his voice. “So I might explain.”

  “I would have ye tell me now. I ken ye wished to humiliate me when ye first demanded a wife. I just thought…” Her tongue failed her, as did her intellect, for no more words came out.

  She turned away, trying to make sense of her jumbled thoughts. The remarks of the man as they’d hunted for the Yule log swirled with Brighde’s slips of the tongue during the celebration the night before. James took hold of her shoulders, attempting to ease her distress.

  In sooth, attempting to placate me so that I nay learn the truth.

  She turned around, refusing to fall victim to the panic in his blue depths. “Was I a wager?”

  “Nay,” he growled. “I was petty when I forced Seamus to give ye to me. And I regretted it almost instantly.”

  “Then why did ye nay sever the handfast right then? Why be kind and good to me and try to win my trust? Ye gain something from marriage to me. I can sense it.”

  He looked down and stepped away, and his face went ashen. “In sooth, I’d forgotten much about my original purpose…” He glanced back up, a furrow to his brow. “As I fell for ye.”

  “About what, James?”

  At her quiet but unyielding enunciation, Brighde slipped through the door, clutching her stomach. “I’m so sorry, Aileana,” she whispered, disappearing.

  Aileana clenched her trembling hands. Sakes, but could she not master the nerves chewing through her stomach?

  He rested his hands at his waist wearily and took a deep breath.

  “When my faither died, I learned that he’d ordered my personal inheritance be kept in trust at Fearn Abbey until the end of my twenty-fourth year. He did this because my stepmither was furious at him for taking a lover and getting a bairn on her—me. She wanted me to get nothing and instead see my money donated to the church, as his penance for straying from her. After years of arguing, he finally agreed to her terms, with a condition of his own.”

  James sighed. Swallowed. Took a deep breath as if giving his last apology before an executioner dropped the hatch to send him swinging.

  “He wrote that if I could unite our ancestral lands once more or negotiate a marriage with the Grants, I would be able to inherit, as it would prove my ability to fulfill the role of laird and solidify our holdings in spite of my bastardy.” His eyes dropped. “My twenty-fourth year ends on Epiphany. This year.”

  “That’s in two days,” Aileana croaked, shaking her head. “So my thieving gave ye opportunity to… All of this was, in sooth, an effort to gain my brother’s lands and put a Grant in yer marriage bed. For a purse of coin?”

  “Aye—nay.” Nearly pleading, he came to her and pried her hand free to hold in his broad ones, though there was no mistaking his shaking fingers and tremoring lips. “At first, I was irritated that ye got the better of me, stealing from me, but I saw how scared ye were at Urquhart. I knew I couldnae trick ye the moment the demand left my lips. When yer brother requested that ye have the right to leave me, I knew my claim on the money would be foiled. But I agreed anyway.”

  “And proceeded to sweeten me to ye this whole time so as to convince me to make it permanent? Make me like ye? Mayhap grow to l—” She cut herself short as a lump rose to her throat and thickened painfully. “Ye buttered me to ye so I’d agree to stay. So ye could get yer money.” She nodded. “’Tis grand ye’d get everything ye wanted, James. But that’s the MacDonald way, no? Reave what ye will, claim whatever and whoever ye want.”

  “A lie,” he practically snarled, but she gave him no mercy.

  “I’m sure ye saw giving up some paltry cows and home goods to my brother as a small price to pay for the coffer awaiting ye. Four hundred pound gained if ye give
up three hundred pound of cattle? Why, that’s a one-hundred-pound profit—”

  “It’s no’ like that, Allie—”

  “My name is Aileana. Aileana Grant.” Her rising voice couldn’t be calmed. “’Tis a proud name, and one that isnae owned or used. My people got what they finally deserved from ye, and—” Blast it all, but tears were spilling down her cheeks as her words lodged in her throat. She brought her kerchief—dammit! The white kerchief of truce he’d gifted her upon a jest—to hold at her mouth. “I suppose my maidenhead was a small price to pay for that.”

  He exhaled as if she’d gutted him. As if she’d accused him of high crimes and gouged him with a sword.

  “Ye promised to return me home on Twelfth Night,” she whispered, catching the ridiculous cry with the back of her trembling hand before it could become a sob, turning away.

  James loomed at her back, and she took a deep breath, pinching her cheeks and drying her eyes.

  “I never anticipated wanting ye, but it’s the honest truth, lass. I need ye to believe me. I came to dread the thought of Twelfth Night, when ye’d leave.”

  “How much was I worth?” she lifted her chin, turning back to him. “Is there more at stake than just yer four hundred pounds? How much more do ye gain from subduing a Grant abed?”

  “Stop,” he growled, distaste so thick in his voice, it was nearly chewable.

  “We had an accord, and I want to go home.”

  “Lass, hear reason,” he croaked so gruffly, she almost believed his convincing charade.

  “Ye’ve played me like a lute. I feel so foolish.” The tears flowed again, with no cork to stem them.

  “God, lass—”

  “Surely ye’ll complain to the king now over, what was it? A bundle of vegetables?”

  She shook her head. He grabbed her hand, his voice so gruff. Aye, gruff, because he kens ye’re ruining his scheme.