Maiden of Inverness (25 page)

He feigned bewilderment. “Have I a wife?” he growled, and flung out an arm. “Pray send her in to wash my back and pour my ale.”

“You want a servant.”

His pride rightfully nicked, he stepped back. “True. But I'll admit my mistake if you will explain what you know about being a wife.”

“After you tell me who sent my kidnapper. He did not wear Macgillivray colors.”

“ 'Tis what troubles you—the thought that he may have been one of your kinsmen. Worry not who sent him. He thought to sell a bonny lass to a sea captain in Tain.”

She felt an odd sense of relief and vindication; Scotland teemed with kidnappers. Her father had no allegiance with Clan Macleod; by marriage they were aligned with Robert Bruce. Unless that Macleod had broken with his family.

“Now,” Revas said with finality. “Define a good-wife.”

“As it applies to me?”

“Aye, and to the letter.”

He wanted a battle with words. Obliging him came easy. For effect, she poured him a glass of ale and shoved it into his hand. “First, a goodwife must choose a good husband. Since I was spared that luxury, our discussion on the subject ends there. And here. And now.”

“You learned such verbal trickery in the English church?” Shaking his head in wonder, he plopped down on the weaving stool. “That explains why their country's on the verge of civil war.”

“Scotland coined the word.”

“With your help, the Highlands will know peace, Meridene.”

She should defend herself. She couldn't find the words. Serena would appear soon. Meridene must entice Revas into a compromising position. “What know you of good husbandry?”

“Listen well. The happiness of a wife is the husband's responsibility.” He put down the ale and walked toward her. “Does the wife prefer tender lamb? Then 'tis the husband's quest to seek out the shepherd every spring.”

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 pulled 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.”

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.