Nervous excitement wound through his veins as she drew closer. He felt as impatient as a green lad whenever he looked at her. Yet he was no untried lad, nor a bridegroom for the first time. He was a seasoned warrior, well versed in the ways of pleasuring a woman.
And he longed to pleasure Ciara.
God, she was lovely. The curve of her cheek, the shape of her jaw, the demure glance of her eyes. She was innocence just begging to be probed, and he was the man for the task.
His blood stirred in the pit of his belly. If he allowed his thoughts to stray overmuch, he would be hard-pressed to keep his yearnings at bay.
"I wish you would not call me that," she said as she slid into the chair he held for her.
Alastair had no idea to what she referred. "Call you what?" he asked and seated himself beside her.
His gaze transfixed on her. The tiny lines at the corner of her eyes and the tension in her jaw defined how ill at ease she was. A smile tugged at his lips and he eased an arm across the back of her chair. This was going to be enjoyable.
Ciara glanced at him and frowned. "Wife. It unsettles me to hear the word."
Alastair couldn't help himself. His fingers strayed to the nape of her exposed neck. The moment he touched her, a quiet gasp fell from her lips.
He leaned close to her ear and whispered, "I only speak the truth."
She visibly trembled, yet refused to look his way.
"Cease this at once, MacDonell. Your clan watches."
He turned a brief glance on the room. A few people looked their way, but the moment his gaze met theirs, they turned away.
"Let them. I am not ashamed of my bride." His fingers teased an errant curl. "My only prayer is that you do not resist me overlong."
Ciara shivered and stared across the sea of people before them. "You promised to give me time."
"Och, aye, and I intend to keep my vow." He placed a tender kiss on the sensitive area below her ear and lowered his voice a notch. "Virtutis gloria merces."
She said nothing, but he did not miss the gooseflesh that slid over her skin. Alastair smiled and pressed a kiss against her ear. "'Tis Gaelic. The words mean, glory is the reward of valor."
Ciara scrambled to her feet. Alastair grabbed her arm to keep her still.
"Where are you going, wife? You look quite ravenous to me."
A fidgety scowl turned down the corners of her tempting mouth. She tugged at her arm. "You have succeeded in spoiling my appetite, MacDonell, with this shameful public display."
He released her with a chuckle. "Sit yourself down, woman. I promise not to tease you for the duration of this meal."
"I do not believe you." She gathered her patched skirt in her hands and turned away. Not more than two steps from the chair, she paused and turned a scowl on him. "Do you offer me a challenge with your words, MacDonell?"
His gaze swept over her and he nodded. "Aye. 'Tis a dare I long to win."
Ciara approached his chair and leaned toward his ear. The rush of her breath against his skin sent Alastair's pulse twisting straight through his loins.
"Since you are fluent in Gaelic, MacDonell, you will understand this. Disce pati." She gifted him with a tender smile, then turned on her heel and walked away.
Alastair leaned back in his chair. A slow grin curled his lips.
Ciara told him to learn to suffer.
* * *
The man was an incorrigible lout!
Ciara slammed the door to her room and paced the floor in an effort to dispel her aggravation. For all his noble talk the night before, 'twas plain by his actions in the hall that he meant to lure her with a contest of words.
He had no intention of playing fair.
Her gaze fell to her trunk. She must get word to her brothers, and soon. Not that she felt she would fall for MacDonell's ploy; nay, that was not it at all. 'Twas the man himself she did not trust.
Deftly, she removed the items she needed from her trunk and placed them on the table. Within minutes, she began composing the missive to her brothers.
If MacDonell longed for a battle, then she would not disappoint him. Now that she knew his intent, 'twould be simple to foil his plan.
Ciara finished her message, dusted the ink with sand, then applied her seal. Now all she had to do was convince MacDonell to dispatch it.
Memories of the last missive she attempted to send drifted through her mind. Did she truly wish to test his temper again? She bit her lip and climbed to her feet.
This time would be different, she told herself as she walked toward the door. She had something MacDonell wanted, something he could never have. That, she determined, made all the difference in the world.
Her courage attempted to flee as she descended the stairs. Clansmen occupied the foyer, talking amongst themselves as they donned their cloaks in preparation to face the weather. Among them stood the giant named Torquil. The moment he saw her, his displeasure became clear.
Ciara decided she would rather face MacDonell alone in his chambers than attempt to cross this beast. She ignored his scowl and went in search of her husband. The mental acknowledgment of MacDonell as her mate made her heart trip in her chest. She chastised herself for the errant thought and continued her quest.
In the small room that held his desk, she found her prey seated and staring out at the storm.
Her heart sank. The storm. He would never send a man into such weather simply to deliver a missive. She tucked the parchment in her pocket and turned to leave before he noticed her.
"Did you wish a word with me, wife?"
Irritation pricked her spine. She stopped in the threshold and turned a frown on him. "I asked you not to call me that, MacDonell."
The dusk of his eyes swept over her and a smile tugged at his lips. Damn the man to hell and back. He had no right to look at her like that, no right at all.
"I will make a deal with you, wife. I will cease calling you by that endearing term the moment you call me by my Christian name."
Ciara's jaw fell open. His smile grew and she snapped her mouth closed. She'd rot first.
His laughter stirred the frustration he planted in her veins. "Why did I know you would sooner kiss the devil than speak my name?"
"'Tis plain you are not a dull-witted man, MacDonell," she said and crossed her arms beneath her bosom. "You should rejoice that I do not call you scoundrel."
Again, a nettlesome smile touched his seductive lips. Ciara longed to knock it off his face.
"I dare say I have been called worse." He pushed himself out of his chair and moved toward her.
Despite her irritation, Ciara trembled, powerless to move away from his lethal approach. The tumble of hair over his brow, the enchantment of his eyes, the alluring sway of his body -- he was a difficult man to resist.
Somehow, Ciara found her voice. "I dare say I could think of worse names for you."
Too late she realized the small confines of the room. No one else occupied the space, and she suddenly wished to be in the midst of the entire clan.
MacDonell paused before her, a mere touch away. "Why do you fear me?"
Ciara swallowed hard and, despite her resolve to stand firm, retreated a step. "The sun has yet to rise on the day when I would fear a MacDonell."
One dark eyebrow rose. "Indeed? You truly do not fear me?"
Again, Ciara swallowed and met his bold gaze. "I do not fear you."
"I do not believe you." He lifted a hand to her cheek. The moment his fingers touched her, Ciara shivered. "I require proof."
The icy feel of terror tickled her spine. She had to think, and fast. "My very presence in this keep is all the proof I plan to give."
His hand slid with forethought along her jaw and eased her toward him. "You challenge me to validate your claim."
Dear Lord, how had she placed herself in such a position? His lips lowered toward hers and, desperate, she turned away.
"MacDonell, release me." Her whisper sounded weak even to her own ears.
"Och, nay," he murmured and turned her face back to his.
Nestled in the dark recesses of his eyes was a force so powerful, it frightened her. What that energy was, she had no idea, but knew that once unleashed, it would destroy her.
The delicate brush of his lips stroked her cheek. Ciara's breath lodged in her throat and her eyes fluttered closed. Her hands covered his wrists.
"MacDonell, please --"
His teeth nibbled her lower lip. The highly seductive gesture stole Ciara's thoughts as well as her words.
The moist tip of his tongue teased her lips. A bolt akin to lightening jolted through her belly. Ciara's knees weakened and she sagged against his hard chest. His arms slipped around her at the same moment he swept into the depths of her mouth.
Stars spun through her brain and the warmth of the moon spiraled through her soul. Heaven spread before her and coaxed her toward its gates.
MacDonell's arms tightened and cradled her firmly against the length of his body. The warmth of his lips strayed to her ear.
"I want you, Ciara," MacDonell groaned.
His words sliced through the fog that surrounded her brain. In the recesses of her mind, she felt his hands move over her body. Her breast filled his palm and the slightest pressure pulled a moan from her heart.
"Methinks ye should move this shameless display upstairs."
MacDonell tensed and lifted his head. "Get the hell out of here, Torquil, before I toss you out!"
Pulled from a place she should never have ventured, Ciara slowly returned to her senses. Mortified, she realized her fingers were tangled in MacDonell's hair.
The disgusted snort of MacDonell's guard nestled shame and embarrassment deep into her heart. She tried to push away from MacDonell, yet he refused to yield.
"If I were ye I would get good and drunk, toss up her skirts tae hide her homely face, take my fill and leave."
Tension of another kind filled MacDonell's limbs. He shoved her aside and lunged for Torquil.
Ciara stumbled and turned in time to see MacDonell plunge a fist into his clansman's face. The giant staggered back, yet did nothing to defend himself.
"Remove yourself from my presence until my temper has had time to cool," MacDonell hissed. "Once that is accomplished, you will beg pardon from me and my lady."
Torquil shot her a loathing glance. Ciara began to tremble. At that moment, she longed for the stones to open and swallow her whole.
The giant rubbed a knuckle over his split lip, turned on his heel and left.
MacDonell expelled a breath through his teeth, shoved his fingers through his hair, and glanced at her. She must have looked a fright, for the transformation that touched his face resembled remorse.
"Ciara, I apologize --"
"There is no need, MacDonell." Ciara lowered her gaze. "I have been called everything from frightful to repulsive. The words no longer offend me."
"They do offend me."
His words drew her gaze. Mirrored in his eyes she saw concern.
"Why? Your man only spoke the truth."
"Nay, he did not."
Again she lowered her gaze. "There is naught wrong with my eyes, MacDonell. Now, stand aside and let me pass."
"Look at me, wife."
Ciara trembled and twined her fingers before her. "I prefer the view of the floor at the moment."
His sigh filled the room. With a gentle nudge, he raised her chin with his fingers.
"Beauty comes in many forms, Ciara. Some possess it where all can admire the creation."
Tears stung her eyes and she turned her head. What was the use of him telling her what she already knew? The stroke of his fingers against her cheek returned her gaze to his.
"Others hide their beauty behind a shield. Only those with the intelligence to explore the hidden are gifted with the prize."
A sad chuckle escaped her lips. "Now you tell me I am a prize? You truly are a master at deception, MacDonell."
She tried to move away. MacDonell refused.
"Honesty is what I speak, Ciara. There is more to you than you care to admit."
Ciara shook her head. "I know I am unsightly, MacDonell, yet I never considered myself a strumpet. I had no intention of kissing you, much less letting things go as far as they did. I am ashamed of myself and my shortcomings."
"Naught that transpired between us in this room was wrong." He sighed and stroked her cheek. "We are married. 'Tis not a sin to be intimate with your spouse."
Aye, it was, yet she could never tell him that. A few moments ago, she had nearly ruined her chance for an annulment.
"I am a mean-spirited woman with the face of a crone. How you managed to kiss me without spewing is beyond my grasp."
"God's blood, Ciara. Cease this torture you inflict upon yourself."
"I am weary, MacDonell. Let me pass."
"Not until you vow never to speak ill of yourself again."
She looked into his eyes and nearly wept. He looked so forthright, she almost believed he cared. "'Twould be a false promise."
MacDonell shook his head. "What sort of people raised you? To place a seed such as this in a young mind, then allow it to fester seems beyond cruel."
Ciara bit her lip to keep her tears at bay. "I was raised in a loving home, MacDonell. My father adored me and I would have died to save my mother." Damn the man. How he must enjoy seeing her so weak! "Never speak ill of them again."
She pushed him aside and fled the room. His call for her to halt went unheeded as she escaped to the sanctuary of her room. Then, and only then, could she vent the grief, fury and shame that raced through her soul.
Ciara ran up the stairs two at a time, not bothering to apologize to clansmen she bumped into along the way. Once she reached her door, Ciara closed the barrier against the world and turned the key in the lock.
The moment the task was complete, she crumpled to the floor. Her tears fell and she did not try to stop them.
She deserved the torment raging through her heart. The spell MacDonell wove was a feeble excuse for her wanton behavior. Husband or not, the man belonged to an enemy clan. Yet, placed alone with him, she fell into his arms and all but begged him to ravage her.
Ciara lay upon the cold stones. Eneas was right; she was a worthless woman who would follow any man who did not look upon her in disgust.
She reached into her pocket for a linen to blow her nose. Her fingers brushed against the missive. Ciara sniffed, pushed herself upright and withdrew the stiff paper. She gazed at the parchment and dread coiled through her heart.
Should she return to her clan, she knew what fate awaited her. Eneas would wed her to MacLean, or the first dilapidated man blind enough to ask. Revulsion rose in her throat. Despite her looks and lack of grace, that was one future she could not abide.
The paper crumpled in her grasp. A fresh wave of misery overwhelmed her. What other choice did she have? To stay here and fulfill Valerie's wish was not feasible.
Ciara tossed the parchment across the room and raised her face to the ceiling.
"Mother, I am so confused." A sob tore from her throat. She lowered her head and wiped a hand over her eyes. "I am at a loss, and I don't know what to do. Please help me."
Chapter Ten
Alastair tossed against his mattress and tried once more to find a position of comfort. 'Twas a useless task as long as Ciara occupied his mind.
The memory of her passion haunted him. For a brief moment, she had set aside her inhibitions and let herself enjoy his touch.
Then, Torquil shattered the moment and stole the ground Alastair worked so hard to acquire.
The hurt planted in Ciara's eyes by his clansman's thoughtless words stirred his anger.
If Torquil or any other of his clan disapproved of his choice, then so be it. They would have to learn to keep their opinions to themselves. Alastair would be damned if he would allow them to cause his bride harm.
His bride.
The familiar tingle of desire s
kittered along his spine. Wed he was, and to a lass he longed to teach the art of carnal knowledge. Yet, aside from the spot he occupied, his bed remained cold.
He had to gain Ciara's trust. Nothing short of a complete surrender would suffice. But how? After what transpired earlier, Alastair doubted she would place herself alone with him again.
A frustrated sigh escaped his lips. Again, he tossed within the confines of his bed.
Her taste lingered on his lips. The palm of his hand still felt the weight of her breast. How he had longed to free her bosom and suckle her with the warmth of his mouth. The echo of her passionate cry throbbed through his brain and nestled in his loins.
God's blood! He wanted his wife, and he wanted her now.
Alastair tossed back the covers and pulled on his robe. The cold stones beneath his feet did little to dispel the urgency of his lust.
In the dying glow of a banked fire, the door beckoned him. Across the hall, nestled in a lonely bed, lay his wife.
And he yearned for her to a depth he never knew existed in his soul.
Two paces from the barrier, he paused. Time. He had given a vow to Ciara. Alastair always honored his vows, no matter how bitter they grew.
He closed his eyes and cursed. If this marriage had not followed so closely after Valerie's death, he would have never uttered such a foolish oath.
Alastair turned and approached the windows. The storm had subsided, yet snow continued to fall from the heavens.
Do you know why she hates MacDonells?
The echo of Valerie's voice in his mind chilled his soul. Dread tumbled through his gut. Once Ciara discovered he was among the men who slew her father, she would despise him forever.
Did he have to reveal that sin to her? Could he live with himself if he kept silent?
He closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. Why had his father forced him to kill?
Ye are a MacDonell warrior. Lift yer sword, or I will strike ye down.
Bitterness rose in Alastair's throat. He fought that day, as he had done before. Yet the difference rested in the foe. In all battles he engaged in prior to then, Alastair had known and agreed with the cause.
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