The Wedding (15 page)

“You still haven't explained what you want from me.”

“When you were younger, didn't your mother . . .”

“She's dead.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because she died. What about your father? Didn't he ever comfort you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He's dead. That's why not.”

“Connor, wasn't there anyone you could turn to when you were a little boy?”

He shrugged. “My brother, Alec.”

“Did he ever comfort you'?”

“Hell, no.” He was disgusted by the very idea.

“Wasn't there anyone who cared about you?”

He shrugged. “My stepmother, Euphemia, but she was in no condition to ever comfort me, or her own son, Raen, for that matter. My father's sudden death destroyed her, and she's been in mourning ever since. She cannot even bear to come back to my land. Her pain is still terrible.”

“She must have loved your father a great deal.”

“Of course she did,” he answered impatiently. “Does comforting take long?”

How in heaven's name was she supposed to know the answer to that question?

“I don't think so,” she decided. “Some husbands simply pat their wives on their shoulders as they walk past them to let them know they care about their feelings. My father did that very thing all the time, but now that I think about it, I must admit I'm not certain if he was offering my mother comfort or showing her affection.”

She lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. Trying to make him understand was turning out to be more complicated than she'd expected. She tried to think of another example to give him. “Perhaps other husbands put their arms around their wives and . . .

“Which do you prefer?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He repeated his question in a brisk, will-you-hurry-up tone of voice. “Do you want me to pat you or put my arms around you?”

He was hopeless. Comfort needed to come from the heart, and Connor needed to feel it before he showed it. She guessed it was also an acquired art, learned after years of being loved and cared for by family members. And if she weren't so rattled about what was going to happen to her tonight, she probably would be able to explain it all quite nicely.

She couldn't even remember her new name now. “This isn't a lesson in sword fighting. You have to be sincere, spontaneous . . . and . . .”

She didn't continue because she couldn't think of anything else to say.

“You really don't have any idea what you're talking about, do you?”

She let out a long sigh. “No, not really.”

He wasn't amused. “Then why in God's name have we been standing here?”

“I didn't realize how impatient you were, and I . . . Now what are you doing?”

“Lifting your hair up from under the plaid.”

“Why”

“I want to.”

“Do you always do what you want to do? You do, don't you?”

“You'd be flat on your back now if I always did what I wanted to do.”

She quit trying to push his hands away. There really didn't seem to be any reason for her to continue to argue with him anyway. Admittedly, she couldn't stop him from touching her—he was at least twice her size and strength, after all—but she protected the fragments of her pride by pretending she was in control of what was happening to her.

He made quick work of his task, and his hands were surprisingly gentle when he touched the sides of her neck. A shiver of pleasure raced down her back, and though it was a nice sensation, what was even more pleasing and surprising to her was that he corrected what bothered him instead of criticizing her. She had grown up constantly being told what was wrong with her—God only knew, something always did seem to be amiss—then being ordered to correct the flaw. She knew Connor wouldn't be any different. It was only a matter of time before he got the hang of it and fell into the same routine as her parents and brothers and sisters.

Connor wasn't going to wait any longer. He took hold of Brenna's hand and started walking toward the bed he'd prepared. He was a little surprised she didn't fight him now.

“I might as well warn you now that I'm rarely put together,” she suddenly blurted out.

“Your appearance doesn't matter to me.”

“It doesn't?”

“Of course not.”

She thought about that for a moment or two before realizing they were walking back toward camp.

“Where are we going?”

He heard the panic in her voice. God, he hated being patient. Were all virgins this impossible?

“What can I do to end this ridiculous fear of yours?”

“You could start by not snapping at me. It isn't ridiculous.”

“Answer me.”

“You could say something I might find . . . pleasant and hopeful about . . .”

“Mating?”

He thought of a thousand answers to give her, but all of them focused on how he would feel.

“Your hesitation worries me,” she whispered.

“It won't kill you.”

“It won't kill me? That's it?”

He smiled over the outrage in her voice. “You'll like it. Eventually.”

She gave him a look that told him she didn't believe him. She kept walking though, and that was all he cared about at the moment.

“It's messy, isn't it?”

“No, it isn't.”

“I doubt I'll like it,” she whispered, for they were getting close to where his soldiers had bedded down for the night, and she didn't wish to be overheard. “I do want children, though.”

“Exactly how did you plan to get them?”

She ignored the sarcasm in his voice. “Do you want children?”

“Of course. Why do you think I married you?”

“I don't know why. You promised to explain it all after we were wed.”

“Later,” he promised.

“Any woman could give you children. Why did you choose me?”

They stopped talking and now faced each other in the center of the clearing. She looked around, saw the other soldiers feigning sleep on their blankets, and in the center of the circle of men was an empty bed, fashioned together with yet another plaid.

She was horrified. Did he really expect her to sleep there, in the middle of the others? Yes, of course he did, she realized. Honest to God, he really didn't have any idea about the needs of women, did he?

She couldn't make a scene. His men would hear her if she started ranting at their laird, and that would only embarrass her and make him angry.

What was she going to do? She wasn't about to let him touch her with his men pretending to sleep not five feet away. Yet how could she stop him? Connor didn't look as though he would be reasonable much longer. His stance was rigid, his frown intense, and now that she thought about it, hadn't he already given her enough time to calm her worries? He had wanted to comfort her, or at least had tried to give her what she wanted, and she couldn't even imagine any other man going to such lengths to accommodate her.

The truth made her smile. Good lord, he really had comforted her, and she hadn't even realized it. She sighed. Her husband wasn't such a bad sort, after all.

It wouldn't be right for her to argue with him now. No, she would be diplomatic instead. If she was clever enough, he might not even realize she was getting her way. She reached for his hand just as he was about to take off his boots, and bent down, picked up the blanket from the ground, and then whispered, “Please come with me.”

“Now what's wrong?” he demanded in a near bellow.

“Brides always prepare the wedding bed. It's a tradition in England.”

She could tell he didn't believe her lie. She walked away before he could stop her, paused once at the edge of the clearing to give him what she hoped was a come-hither smile, and continued on.

Connor didn't move. He stood there with his legs braced apart and his hands on his hips, staring after her, his attention on the gentle sway of her hips as she moved. Then he started counting to ten. When he was finished, he was either going to let the impossible woman leave or go after her and make hard, passionate love to her.

“I've never heard of this tradition.”

Quinlan drawled out the remark. The soldier was sitting on the ground with his back against a tree trunk and his arms folded across his chest.

Connor turned his frustration on him. “If you say another word, I swear I'll kill you.”

Quinlan ignored the warning. “Don't you think you should go to bed before it's time to get up?”

Connor took a threatening step toward his friend. Quinlan immediately straightened up. “She's only wanting privacy, Connor. That's why she's moving your blankets.”

“I realize that,” he said. He hadn't realized it, of course, but he wasn't about to admit it to his friend.

He walked away without saying another word and caught up with Brenna near the lake. He wasn't at all amused that they'd come full circle and were now close to where they started.

“Were you planning to prepare our bed in England?”

T
his will do,” she answered.

The isolated spot she'd chosen was a flat piece of nothing squeezed in between the pines. There was barely enough room for him to roll over. She seemed to like it, though, and for what he vowed was going to be the very last time, he let her have her way. He stood behind her as he removed his boots, all the while trying to control his temper.

She spread the blanket out on the ground, and though he was sure she would try to make an hour-long project out of the simple task, she surprised him by being quick about it.

When she was finished, she removed her slippers and then stood up, facing him. She moved closer, until her toes were touching his, and stared into his eyes, holding her breath while she waited for him to touch her.

He didn't move. Tension filled the air between them, her anxiety building as she stared into those dark, inscrutable eyes of his, looking for the first sign of displeasure. Lord, she couldn't stand the silence long.

“I had thought to keep my clothes on.”

He slowly shook his head. “But then I thought to take them off,” she whispered.

And still he waited. She told herself she had made the decision and now it was up to her to keep her word. Her hands shook as she untied the belt at her waist, and the woolen material he'd draped around her fell in a swoosh to the ground.

She thought about moving to the side before she took her gown off, because the moonlight was blocked by the tree branches there and shadows would hide her nudity from him, but then she decided to stop being such a coward.

Should she tell him she wasn't wearing anything underneath her nightgown? No, she decided, he would find out soon enough. Her heart was pounding frantically, but her anxiety had faded a little—because he wasn't attacking her, she supposed—and somewhere in the back of her muddled thoughts was the realization that Connor wouldn't deliberately hurt her. She couldn't understand why she felt that way, but she did, and oddly, her hands weren't shaking nearly as much,

She felt she was in charge of what was happening to her, and that made all the difference.

She regarded him gravely while she gathered her courage and then slowly removed her nightgown. She kept her gaze on Connor all the while, searching for a hint of displeasure or disgust because her body was so terribly imperfect. She was fully aware of her flaws. Her breasts were too large, her hips too narrow, and her legs were too long for the rest of her body. He was bound to notice, she knew, and if he so much as frowned with displeasure, she thought she would close her eyes and die of shame.

He took his time looking at her. His gaze lingered on her parted lips, her full breasts, her narrow waist, the blond curls shielding her virginity, her long legs, all the while trying to remember how to draw a breath. Dear God, he hadn't expected such beauty. He was overwhelmed by her, for he had never imagined such a woman could exist, and if he weren't a practical man, he would have thought she wasn't English at all but a goddess sent down from heaven to reward him for the vengeance he had sought in his sainted father's name.

He was fast becoming desperate to take her into his arms and plant himself firmly inside her. He didn't give in to his body's demands yet, but stood where he was and let her take the lead once again. For some reason he didn't understand, she had gotten it into her head that she should be the one making the decisions tonight. He had come to this startling conclusion when he had hesitated instead of ordering her to remove her clothes and be damned quick about it. He had shaken his head at her to let her know he didn't care for her decision to keep her clothes on, but before he could explain exactly what he wanted her to do, she changed her mind.

And he got exactly what he wanted.

The blush covering her face reflected her embarrassment. She was trying to look defiant and not afraid, but she was worried. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she stood as straight and rigid as a spear, and in her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Oh, yes, she really was perfect.

She must have believed he would become the aggressor now, and when he didn't reach for her, she slowly began to relax.

Why didn't he take off his clothes? She worried about that for a full minute before deciding to offer her assistance.

“I had thought you would remove your own clothes, but then I considered you might want me to assist you. Sometimes wives in England help their husbands disrobe.”