The Ghost

by Greyson, Maeve

  “Ye dinna mean to break it?” She stared up at him, wide-eyed and horrified. “Ye canna break it! What will Alexander say?”

  “I dinna give a damn what Alexander says. He’d do the same if it were him.” Magnus had had enough of uncomfortable fancy clothes and barred doors. He was ready to strip down, stand in front of a good strong breeze, and drink a whisky before he settled down to the pleasurable task of consummating their vows. Shoulder lowered, he charged into the door, ramming it with a determined grunt.

  Wood split and crackled, but the door didn’t give. Magnus backed up as far as he could on the stairway landing and dropped his shoulder again.

  “Ye’re going to knock yer shoulder clear out of its joint!” she scolded. “Just run fetch the key, aye?”

  “Nay,” he growled from between clenched teeth. The locked door had become the enemy. “The locks are weak. ’Tis the bars across the door that keep out real intruders.” He hit it full force. It sprang open and sent him sprawling across the sitting room floor. He rolled up to a sitting position, rubbing his shoulder all the while. It appeared he needed to spend more time in the practice yards. Damnation, he had gone soft. Either that or feckin’ doors had gotten a great deal harder than they once were.

  Bunching up her skirts, Brenna crawled over to him. “Are ye all right? Let me see.” She moved to his side, pinching his fingers under her knee.

  Yanking his hand out from under her, he bit back a yelp and forced a chivalrous smile. “Nay, m’lady. I wish yer comfort to come first.” Ignoring the minor aching in both shoulder and hand, he pulled his sgian dhu from his boot. With a pat to the floor in front of him, he held up the knife and smiled. “Yer feet, m’love?”

  With a wiggle that made his mouth go dry, Brenna plopped down on her rear with both feet sticking out in front of her. Skirts hiked to her knees, she leaned forward and took hold of both legs. With an earnest look, she scooted closer. “Do ye think ye can cut them free without damage to the stockings? Mercy said I could keep them.”

  Her fair breasts nearly spilled out over the top of the stomacher, robbing him of all reason. “Uhm…” was all he could think to say.

  “Can ye at least try to save them?”

  “Aye,” he managed to utter. “I shall do my best.” Tearing his eyes away from what he would rather be holding, Magnus forced his attention on the too small shoes and his lady love’s tortured feet. With the tip of one finger, he found enough slack in the leather below her ankle and above her arch for the width of his blade. There was no helping it. Her feet had swollen too much, making it impossible to cut or untie the string itself without injuring her. His dagger made quick work of the thin leather, loosening the slipper enough so he could peel it aside and sever the ribbon at the eye of the shoe. He tossed the offensive thing away, then massaged her poor foot. With a reassuring wink, he dipped his head toward her legs. “Ye’ve at least got one good stocking, m’love. I didna damage this one.”

  Her eyes closed in sheer bliss. “That feels so good,” she said with a relieved groan.

  In response, his cock hardened to the point of demanding relief. Soon. He cleared his throat and held out his hand. “And now the other foot.” Dispatching that shoe the same way. He wondered how many wedding nights had ever started like this.

  With a relieved sigh, Brenna returned to her knees, shoved the yardage of her dress out of the way, and crawled back to his side. “And now yer shoulder. I saw ye rubbing it, so I know it’s hurt.” Grabbing hold of his jacket, she pulled it back with a yank that hit a tender spot that made him wince. “Ye see? I told ye to fetch the key rather than maiming yerself like ye did.”

  He took hold of her hands and gently sat her back on her heels. “Allow me, aye? I promise, it’s naught but a little soreness that a dram will chase away.”

  She gave him a look that called him a liar but remained silent.

  Determined to prove he had not done himself any harm, he took his time unpinning the brooch at his shoulder, piling the extra length of his plaid in his lap, and shucking off his jacket. Belt and sword cast aside. Waistcoat and neckcloth soon joined the jacket on the floor. As he peeled off the tunic and tossed it, a grunt escaped him. Dammit.

  Much to his surprise, Brenna didn’t say a word. Just stared at him. Her lips barely parted. Eyes wide. A rosiness tinting her fair cheeks.

  “What’s wrong, lass?” She had seen him bare-chested before but had never looked at him quite like she did now.

  “Wrong?” she repeated, as though waking from a dream.

  “Aye.” Magnus grinned, enjoying this effect he had on his new wife. He rolled his shoulder and flexed his arm. “Ye see? Not a bit hurt.”

  With an upward tilt of her chin, she blinked faster, then cleared her throat. “Bruising can take a while. Especially if the damage is deep.” She leaned closer, smoothing her hands along his back and shoulder. The coolness of her fingers across his overly warm flesh increased the aching beneath his kilt. “By morning, ye’ll most surely be black and blue. Mark my words.”

  Whisky and standing naked in the cool night air could wait ’til after. He couldn’t resist her any longer. With a gentle tug, he pulled her into his lap. “Surely, ye must be sweltering in all those clothes,” he coaxed while brushing kisses along her bare shoulder.

  “It is verra warm in here.” She trailed a finger along his collarbone, torturing him with her touch. “It’ll be a far sight easier if I’m standing, and I may need a tad bit of help.”

  “I am yer servant, m’love.” Without rising, he helped her to her feet, pleased that his words had made her cheeks glow even brighter. As he stood, his plaid fell to the floor, leaving him in nothing but his boots. He quickly dispatched those, working them loose with toe to heel, then kicking them away.

  Brenna spun around, giving him her back. With her head bowed, she spoke so softly he couldn’t make out the words.

  “Dear one?” Something had changed. He didn’t know what had gone awry, but he felt it.

  Lifting her head, she straightened her shoulders but kept her back to him. “Forgive me. I know I am nay a virgin, but I have never done what we are about to do with someone I care for. I fear ye will find me lacking because I dinna ken how it should be betwixt a husband and wife.” Head bowed, she stared at the floor. “All I had to do before was lay still and keep quiet or suffer a beating.” She spared a glance back over her shoulder but still didn’t turn. “I dinna ken what ye require of me. Ye will have to tell me what ye wish.” Pain, fear, and so much more echoed in her whisper. “I am sorry,” she added.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He had rushed her without a thought as to how her past had hurt her. Left her with scars he couldn’t see but scarred just the same. Ashamed of his callousness, he scooped up his lèine and yanked it back on, thankful that the length of it hit him mid-thigh.

  “All I require of ye, m’love, is that ye be happy.” He went to the sideboard, poured himself a whisky, and filled a goblet with wine. He carried it to her along with a tender smile. “A marriage bed should be a sanctuary for both partners—not a place of fear or dread.” Careful to keep an arm’s length of space between them, he sipped his drink, then added, “I wish to love ye, pleasure ye, make ye want my touch as much as I want yers. But I will wait as long as it takes. I willna touch ye ’til ye’re ready. The pain of yer past is because of me.” Before she could reply, he turned and strolled to the window seat and pushed open one of the tall panes.

  A cool night breeze blew into the room like a spirit bearing gifts of peace and calm. He settled on the bench, sipping his whisky and watching stars flicker into view as the sun slipped below the horizon. He had meant what he said. While he ached to bed his beloved wife, he would not touch her until she was sure and ready.

  “Ye are a rare man, Magnus de Gray.” Her skirts rustled with a quiet shushing as she joined him on the bench. “Here.” She held out the whiskey decanter. “I thought ye might like more.”

  “What abo
ut yerself?” He topped off his glass and placed the decanter on the windowsill beside them.

  After a sip, she held up her half-full glass of wine. “I still have plenty, thank ye.”

  Turning back to the view, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. He could tell she wanted to say more but hadn’t yet worked up the courage. Another breeze brushed across his face, reminding him of his promise of patience. Aye. He would wait as long as it took. She was more than worth it.

  With a nervous clearing of her throat, she rose to her feet. “Would ye wait here for me, whilst I go to the bedchamber and don my nightdress?”

  “Of course, m’love.” He remembered she had mentioned needing help but didn’t wish to make her think he might go back on his word. “Shall I fetch a maid?”

  “A maid?”

  “Aye, a maid. Ye said ye might need help with…” He made an up and down motion toward her gown. “Laces and things.” There was no telling what held that dress together or what might be layered underneath to hold its shape. He had never been with a woman dressed in such finery but remembered quite a few interesting stories from those who had.

  She shook her head while sidling toward the bedchamber door. “I’ve thought more on that. Surely, it must be easier getting out of the thing than it was getting into it.” Upon reaching the sideboard, she downed the rest of her wine and poured herself another. With a polite smile, she lifted her glass and continued on her way. “I’ll sing out should I need help, aye?”

  “Aye, lass. I’ll be right here.” He settled more comfortably into the pillows of the windowsill, hoping he had handled the situation properly. In his heart, he felt he had. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Brenna felt the same.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Damn her shaking hands.

  Brenna plucked at the satin ribbons holding the lace-covered stomacher in place. Thank heavens, the MacCoinnich women had neither had the time or materials to add additional whalebone to either it or the gown’s bodice. The pasteboard sewn inside the triangular-shaped cloth had some give to it, making it somewhat easier to escape her elaborate cocoon.

  “Thank God Almighty,” she said as the snug bodice relaxed and the gown sagged away. Bearing in mind Mercy’s warnings about fragile parts and not wishing to dishonor their loving act of kindness and hard work, she eased off the sleeves and stepped free of the silky mound. With the greatest care, she draped the lovely creation across a large leather trunk in the corner. Still encased in the lace-layered underskirt, extra petticoat, stays, and chemise, she hurried to the window beside the bed and pushed both panes open wide. Fluttering her damp neckline, she bent forward, hoping to direct the breeze to where she needed it most. She closed her eyes as the cool night air kissed her overheated body. “Saints alive, that feels so much better.”

  Her conscience tweaked her. Shame on her. Making her husband wait for that which was rightfully his. All his words came back to her. How all that mattered was her happiness. And a marriage bed should never hold fear or humiliation. As far as she was concerned, the man had earned sainthood when he had sworn he would wait as long as she needed. He had meant it, too. She had seen the truth of it in his eyes.

  Mind made up and determination stoked, she pushed away from the window and set to untying the waistbands of her underskirts and petticoat. She refused to allow those Sassenach bastards of her past to ruin this chance at happiness. They had taken all from her she would allow. “No more!” she swore from between bared teeth.

  “It will be different with Magnus,” she assured herself as she took off her stays and tossed them on top of the rest of the layers she had piled on another trunk. She peeled off the damp chemise and ever so carefully removed the finest stockings she had ever worn. A stronger breeze gusted into the room, washing across her nakedness as though blessing her intentions.

  With the washbowl filled, she soaked a cloth, wrung it out, then patted it across her heated flesh. A wry thought came to her. Her attempt at cooling down would all be for naught if her hopes and plans worked as she had played them out in her head. As she emerged from the private area, partitioned to conceal the chamber pot and washbowl stands, she clenched her hands until her nails bit into her palms. The room had far too many candles lit for her liking. While she enjoyed peeking at Magnus’s breathtaking bareness, she feared her determination and courage weren’t quite ready for him to see her in the same state. At least not in the blinding brightness of several blazing candelabras. She paused, second-guessing herself after snuffing most of them out. Would he need some light? Two candles remained lit. She moved one to the mantel and placed the other on top of the high dresser on the other side of the bed.

  The room was dim but still lit enough for safely moving around, especially with the soft light of dusk and the rising moon casting a silver-blue path across the floor.

  “My wine.” She glanced around, searching to find her glass. There. On the table beside the bed. She drank down every drop, then wished she had brought the bottle as she stared at the empty goblet, then placed it on the table. A change to her plan was needed to mend the oversight. Her stomach gurgled and churned, threatening to send the drink back out. After pulling in and blowing out several deep, calming breaths, she tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack. “M-Magnus,” she called out, cringing at her ridiculous nervous stutter. “Could ye come here?”

  “Aye, lass.”

  The deep rumble of his voice sent a rush of heat through her that no cool cloth in existence could ever ease. “And bring the wine!” she added, then clicked the door shut, vaulted across the room, and dove into bed. Wiggling her way under the sheets, she clutched them up over her breasts and scooted back into the pillows piled against the headboard. Breath held, she waited, straining to pick up the slightest sound of movement in the other room.

  The door swung open. Light from the sitting room flooded the bedchamber, its wide golden channel illuminating the bed. Brenna blinked at the sudden brightness. Fool! She had forgotten about light from the door. Scooting deeper into the pillows, she pulled the covers higher. With a nervous flick of a finger, she glanced toward her glass. “Would ye mind pouring more wine for me?” God help her, she sounded like a squeaking mouse.

  Slow and seductive, Magnus moved across the room, his expression unreadable in the shadows. The light from the sitting room outlined his muscular form through the light weave of his lèine. After he filled the glass, he set the bottle beside it. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he picked up the drink and held it to her lips. “M’love,” he said softly as he tipped the goblet so she might sip. Then he took it away and set it back on the table. He made no move to rise, just sat beside her. Silent. Motionless except for the steady rise and fall of his chest.

  Fortified by both the wine and his gentleness, Brenna risked touching his arm. “Might ye remove yer lèine again?” She swallowed hard, then held her breath.

  Without speaking, he stood and stripped it off over his head, then returned to his seat. Still watching her. Still silent.

  Pushing away from the pillows, she sat straighter with one arm clamping the bedsheet up over her breasts. Fingers outspread, she drifted her palm over the corded muscles of his arm and ridges of his chest. She didn’t touch him but held her hand close enough to draw in his heat. His strength. His very essence. Such a good man. Nothing to fear. Both her heart and her loneliness urged her on. Curling her legs beneath her, she went to her knees and leaned closer. “Will ye help me learn?” she whispered. “Help me discover the joy two people can share?”

  “Aye, dear one.” He grazed a fingertip along her jawline, then cradled her cheek in his hand. Brow furrowed, he studied her, as though trying to decide what to do next. “As long as ye are certain?”

  “I am certain.” And she was. He had set loose a hot aching inside her, a yearning for him to burn away all the years of suffering. But it was more than that—something she could never put into words. “Make me yer wife,” she said,
pulling him toward her. “Make us one.”

  With a kiss that tasted of wine, whisky, and unquenchable need, he eased her back across the bed. She laced her fingers in his hair, holding him, allowing all her doubts and fears to fall away. This was right and good. This precious man would never harm her.

  Her breath caught as he raised up and shoved the sheets out from between them. “Ye are loveliness itself, dear one.” His gaze raked across her. Sliding a finger down her arm, he took hold of her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and pressed a lingering kiss into her palm. “Ye are still certain, aye?” His head tilted over her, and she felt his encouraging smile even though she couldn’t see it in the shadows.

  “Aye, my fine husband.” She shifted and moved, aching to know the complete wonder of him. “Fear and dread are gone. Only love and yearning remains.”

  “Mo ghràdh,” he breathed as he stretched across her. “My precious love.”

  His heat became hers. Their flesh became one. She raced her hands across his back, reveling in the ripple of his muscles beneath her fingers. Moving with him, she was both amazed and thrilled at the ferocity of the building ecstasy. It raced out of control. Wave after wave of bliss crashed across her, forcing a cry from her lips.

  Magnus drove harder, spurred on by her release. “Mo chridhe!” he growled long and low, then thrust forward with the roar of a beast unleashed. Suspended together in timeless pleasure, he sank into her embrace, melted into her, touching her heart and soul with love and a rare vulnerability.

  Heartbeat pounded against heartbeat. Gasps slowed to steady breathing.

  A wholeness, centeredness she had never known filled her as she held him. Such a wonderful contentment. She couldn’t remember the last time she had known such serenity. “Ye have gifted me peacefulness, dear one,” she whispered into his hair.

  He lifted himself up and gave her a nuzzling kiss. “Ye have made me whole.” His breath tickled across her as he trailed his kisses lower. “I fear I must beg yer forgiveness, though.”