Pride of the Clan (25 page)

“Come, my beautiful bride. Help me take off these
trouzes
.”

She laughed. Life with Rheade held much promise. How could she fail with such a good-natured and giving man? She eyed the bulge at his groin. “I see what ye mean.”

He slowly smoothed his warm hands over the silk, from the sides of her breasts to her hips, then cupped her bottom, pressing her to his body. “By the saints, Queen Joan has devised a torture for me after all.”

She’d shivered when the cold silk first slid over her body; now it was like molten liquid. “’Tis too low in the front,” she complained, thrusting out her breasts.

He rose to the bait. “Nay,” he breathed, taking a step back as he slid his hands inside the front of the gown. He stared into her eyes and gently lifted her breasts out of the silk. “Beautiful,” he rasped, brushing his thumbs over her nipples.

She couldn’t help it. She whimpered.

“Ye like that,” he teased, lowering his head. “And I recall ye like this too.”

She gasped when he swirled his tongue over first one nipple, then the other. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, arching her back as a wave of pleasure sparked by his wet mouth raced down her spine to her woman’s place. Her knees trembled.

The desire flooding her veins kindled an awareness of her power as a woman. Her hips took on a life of their own as she ground her mons against his arousal.

“Ye are magnificent, wife,” he rasped, nibbling her lower lip, “I feel weak in the knees.”

She pressed her hand to his arousal. “But there’s naught weak about what’s between yer legs, husband.”

He arched his brows and scooped her up. “Ye are a minx, Margaret Robertson.”

He set her on her feet beside the bed, raking his eyes over her from head to toe, his gaze lingering on her exposed breasts. “I love this shift, but it has to come off.”

“’Tis nearly off anyway,” she laughed as he lifted the garment over her head and tossed it away.

He had seen her naked before, but now she was a married woman, and she was aroused. She cupped her breasts, lifting them seductively. “Will ye take the rest of yer clothes off?”

“I thought ye would enjoy stripping me,” he growled with a smile.

BEDDING

Nothing in Rheade’s life had mattered as much as joining with this woman. It was the beginning of an exciting journey that promised happiness and fulfillment. He prayed it would forever be thus.
 

Margaret fired his blood as no other had. He wanted to stare at her nakedness forever, but conceded the need pulsing in his shaft and loins would render it impossible. Not to mention his heart was ready to burst.

The memory of the ecstasy on her face had sustained him since the first time his touch had brought her release. The candlelight flickered in the blue depths of her eyes. He conjured a vision of wrapping himself in the silvery gold strands of her unbound hair. She smiled seductively as she pulled down his
trouzes
to reveal his manhood standing to attention.

“There ye are,” she whispered as he stepped out of the garment.

His heart hammered when she dropped to her knees and took him into her warm mouth. He was in heaven, an angel kneeling at his feet. He glanced over at the lacquered screen. There was something strangely erotic about the elegant oriental women depicted on it he’d never noticed before. Maybe he’d keep it in the chamber.

He gripped the edge of the mattress, feeling light headed as the urge to mate with his bride consumed him. “Lie on the bed,” he rasped, “and open yer legs.”

She obeyed, her face reddening as he stared at her most intimate place. “Ye’re wet for me,” he growled, kissing the inside of her thighs, elated when the pink folds darkened slightly.
 

The sweet aroma of female arousal drifted into his nostrils. Taking his time was killing him, but his life depended on it.
 

She fixed her gaze on his manhood as he kissed his way up her body. “Yer skin is soft,” he told her.

She whimpered in reply and needed no coaxing to open her mouth when he arrived at her lips. Their tongues swirled and mated. He tasted the tang of Fion’s fine ale, and himself.

She pouted when he pulled away to kneel between her legs, but the frown left her face quickly when he put his lips to her womanhood and licked. Her hips arched off the bed. He curled his toes into the mattress and his arms around her thighs.

He suckled her, drinking in the sweet, hot juices, flicking his tongue over the swelling nub until she writhed, calling his name over and over. Her cries of fulfillment echoed in his shaft. She stopped breathing as he slid one finger inside her pulsing sheath, then choked out, “More, I need more.”

He loomed over her, plunging his swollen manhood inside her silky heat as she opened her eyes and smiled. His hips pumped. She was tight, tight, tight. It was glorious. He was probably squeezing her too hard, thrusting too vigorously. He felt her maidenhead tear and knew he was hurting her. But his fevered brain told him it was supposed to hurt. If it didn’t he wasn’t doing it right. He had to do it right.

He prayed she relished the discomfort as a rite of passage. Elation surged through him when she wrapped her legs around his hips. “
Garg‘nuair dhùisgear,”
he yelled
as his essence erupted inside her and he fell into an abyss of bliss, collapsing on top of his panting bride.

He had come home.

~~~

Margaret’s fear it might prove impossible for Rheade’s rather prodigious manhood to fit inside her had been for naught. Once the pain of her maidenhead tearing had subsided the sensation of his maleness filling her had been wonderful.

He must have enjoyed the bedding because she was sure he’d fallen asleep atop her, though his shaft still pulsed inside, or mayhap it was her own muscles causing the lovely feeling. She seemed to have lost control of them.

She savored the softness of the bed and the utter joy of being one with the man she loved. She was a woman now, Rheade’s woman. The awesome notion had her stretching like a contented cat.

Then she wished she hadn’t as Rheade stirred. Her neck was wet. He must be drooling. His manhood slid from her and curled up at her opening, warm and sticky.

He flipped his body and lay on his back next to her. “Sorry. Too heavy,” he said hoarsely.

She cuddled into him, savoring the warmth of his big body. “Nay, I liked ye covering me.”

He put his arms around her and held her tightly. “Was it verra painful?”

His question took her by surprise. “Only for a moment. Then it was wonderful.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Only wonderful?” he teased. “Not magnificent, thrilling?”

“It was, and more,” she agreed with a smile. “
Fierce when roused
, as ye declared.”

He laughed. “Did I shout the Robertson war-cry?”

“Is that what it was?” she asked. “Did ye win the battle?”

He smoothed a hand over her breast, sparking renewed desire in her suddenly sensitive nipple. “Aye, lass, victory was mine,” he quipped.

“And mine,” she whispered, curling her hand around his shaft. “How often can we do this?”

His manhood responded to her touch.

“Keep that up, wench and we can do it as often as ye like,” he growled.

“I like it a lot,” she confessed, licking the tip of his shaft. “Am I a wanton?”

He raised up on one elbow, his face serious. “Margaret, how can I explain this to ye? It’s every man’s dream to marry a passionate woman. Ye can be as wanton as ye like in our bed.”

“I can do whatever I like to pleasure ye, and ye willna mind?”

He rolled his eyes to the rafters as he lay back and spread his arms wide. “I’ve died and gone to heaven. Have yer way wi’ me, woman.”

DISCOVERY

“Wait,” Margaret exclaimed.

Rheade might have known it was too good to be true. Women were unpredictable creatures. He peeled open one eye to see what had come between him and whatever erotic fancies Margaret had in mind.

She still gripped his shaft, but her gaze was on his chest, her eyes wide.

“I ken I’m a braw laddie,” he quipped. “But—”

To his disappointment she let go of his manhood and leaned forward to smooth her fingertips over the inside of his upper arm. “Ah! Ye like the feel of my muscles,” he said, reaching for the tempting globes hanging like lush pears before his eyes.

She sank back on her haunches. “Nay,” she replied, then blushed. “I mean, I do, but I just noticed this mottled patch of skin under yer arm.”

He turned his arm to get a better view. Some of the candles had burned out and there wasn’t much light. “I’d forgotten it,” he admitted. “I was born with it. Logan has the same mark.”

She gaped at him. His gut knotted. Surely a slightly discolored, scarcely visible bit of skin wouldn’t render him unlovable. He needed to explain. “We discovered Da had the same mark when we were swimming in Loch Bhac. I suppose we inherited it from him.”

Margaret looked like she might swoon. His mind raced. Some people believed such marks to be the handiwork of the devil. “What ails ye, wife? Can ye not love me because of it?” he asked desperately.

She shook her head vigorously. “Nay, nay. I’ll always love ye. But ’tis the map of Loch Tay,” she babbled.

He worried mayhap she’d fallen under some enchantment. “I dinna ken—”

She put a finger to his lips. “Tannoch has the same mark,” she whispered.

~~~

Rheade frowned then leapt from the bed. He retrieved her nightgown and yanked it over her head, then swirled the plaid around her shoulders.

Her heart broke. Was her husband banishing her from their bridal chamber because she’d looked upon his brother’s arm? Surely not. He’d given leave for her to tend Tannoch.

Did he believe she was lying? Why would she?

She watched, afraid to speak as he hastily pulled on his
trouzes
.

Then he put his hands on her shoulders, and smiled, a strange glint in his eye.

Her fears melted away, but still the words refused to come.

Suddenly he grasped her hand and led her into the corridor where he took a torch from a wall sconce.

Her head had earlier swum with fanciful notions of what might happen on her wedding night, but she’d never considered she’d be traipsing around the castle barefoot with a madman.

They reached Logan’s chamber. Rheade barged in, dragging Margaret with him.

“Mayhap he’s still in the Hall,” she protested.

Rheade raised the torch.

Logan’s head appeared from behind the closed draperies of the four poster, his normally well groomed hair completely awry. He blinked rapidly, shielding his eyes against the light.

A female squealed.

Logan stumbled from the bed, completely naked. “What the
fyke?
Is this my reward for controlling yer bawdy friends?”

Sweating under the weight of the plaid and the embarrassment of the situation, Margaret had averted her eyes, but Logan seemed to now notice her. He picked up a
léine
from the floor and shucked it over his head. “I was busy, brother, as I foolishly imagined you would be this night.”

Rheade ignored him. “Come with me,” he shouted, heading for the door.

Margaret cast a backward glance at Logan as he followed them down the hallway to Tannoch’s chamber.
 

“What’s going on, Margaret?” her brother-by-marriage hissed between gritted teeth. “This isn’t like Rheade.”

She had an inkling of what was about to happen, but there wasn’t time to explain matters to Logan. And it wasn’t her right.

They burst into the laird’s chamber. Glenna almost fell out of the armchair where she was sewing by candlelight. She shrieked, then seemed to realize who had entered. She threw her needlework to the floor, struggling to her feet. “By the saints, ye scared me half to death. What’s amiss?”

“Where’s Tannoch?” Rheade demanded to know.

Margaret privately deemed this an unnecessary question since the sounds of loud snoring were coming from inside the drawn draperies of the bed.

“He’s sleeping,” Glenna replied, her face tight with annoyance. “The wretch is exhausted and I dinna want—”

Rheade threw back the drapes and shook Tannoch’s good arm. “Wake up, brother.”

Glenna flew at him. “What are ye doing? Leave him be.”

Margaret understood nothing would deter Rheade. She gently drew a protesting Glenna away. “He has something to tell Tannoch. Something that canna wait,” she murmured.

Glenna stared at her as if she were an apparition. “Why aren’t ye abed? ’Tis yer wedding night.”

Before Margaret had a chance to explain why she was wandering around in an indecent nightgown and plaid, Tannoch sat up in bed with a loud roar.
 

Fion rushed into the chamber, flanked by several men-at-arms. Time stood still. The
auld
servant’s gaze travelled from the wild-eyed Tannoch to the half dressed individuals who had invaded his chamber. “What’s happening? I feared our laird was under attack.”

“I am under attack,” Tannoch bellowed. “Can a man nay get some sleep?”

Rheade took a deep breath. “My laird, I apologise for disturbing yer rest, but there’s something I must tell ye. Now.”

REVELATION

A grumbling Tannoch allowed Rheade and Logan to assist him from the bed to the armchair, where Glenna fussed, heaping plaids on him.
 

Scowling, Logan stood beside Tannoch, arms folded across his chest.

The guards lingered near the doorway, evidently unsure if their presence was still required, and obviously uncomfortable at being in a chamber with the chieftain’s family in varying states of undress.
 

Fion stared hard at Rheade, who suddenly teetered on the edge of a precipice. He’d deliberately left off his shirt, but now felt naked. He wished the guards hadn’t arrived with enough torches to light up the chamber. Mayhap the skin mark meant nothing. Many people had such markings on their bodies. Simply because—

Margaret squeezed his hand and leaned into him. “Yer doing the right thing,” she whispered. “For all of yer sakes.”

He thanked God for the intelligent, giving woman he’d married, then strode over to Tannoch. He stretched his arms wide. “I’ve a birthmark on my upper arm.” He leaned close to his brother to make sure he could see the discoloration.