The air in her chest squeezed in sharp delight as the naked, honed length of him pressed into her, his hard angles against her softer curves. The vibrant blue of his eyes darkened to black, fired with a quick, intense energy, a yearning to have, to possess. He found her mouth once more, the damp tendrils of her hair teasing his cheek, then his lips worked downwards, lower and lower, to the dip between her breasts...
‘Lachlan, I...?’ Excitement consumed her, ripped through her with lightning force, striking at the very core of her. Her body tripped and thrummed in a state of nervous anticipation. A slow-burning intensity flared through her belly, her groin, until she thought she would scream aloud with the piercing ache of longing. She quivered with need, her ribcage flexing with sweet awareness, the knowledge of what was about to happen.
Winding his leg across both of hers, he hitched her beneath him, moving with infinite slowness. His heavy limbs splayed over her, sinking into her soft frame. The short hairs on his legs tickled her calves and she pressed her fingers to his chest, in awe at the beautiful man above her. His longing seared into her, yet he waited, claiming her lips once more, teasing and tantalising as his hand slid along the silken length of her thigh.
Reason fled, torn away by raging desire, left in tatters. Her mind was not her own now, swept up in a whirlpool of desire from which she had no hope of escape. The fiery seduction of his searching hands drove her out into the wilderness, to a place she had never been, to a place where she would truly lose herself. His scorching touch stripped her soul down to the very nub of her being, yet she wanted to yell and shout out her delight at the way he made her feel. Every fibre of her muscles stretched tight with tortuous anticipation; she wobbled on the brink, feet slipping on the loose stones, about to plunge into the unknown abyss.
Carefully, inch by inch, Lachlan slid into her warm, velvet folds, gritting his teeth savagely to bridle the eagerness in his body, the thrusting urge to possess. Shocked at the sudden intimacy, Cecily gasped out in surprise, her eyes enormous, unfocused. Braced above her on his thick arms, Lachlan hesitated. Had he hurt her? ‘Cecily...?’ he breathed. ‘Shall I stop?’
‘No!’ she cried out forcefully. ‘Don’t you dare!’ Her arms flew around him, drawing him down, closer to her, clinging to the possessive glitter in his eyes.
He chuckled, despite himself. He heard the plea of desire in her voice, the need. Senses inflamed, he reminded himself to go slowly, gradually, yet he seemed unable to hold back, seized by a wildness that he had never known before. An unknown force possessed his flesh, an enchantment. He surged forward in delight, with an abandonment that astonished him, driving into her completely, wholly, utterly. Shifting within her, he began to move more slowly, building his possession of her with gradual movements. Unable to hold back any more, his speed quickened, moving faster and faster, driving into her on the shining sable pelt.
She welcomed the abrupt change in tempo, matching his powerful thrusts with a joyful hunger of her own. The strict, censorious part of her brain, the part that told her what to do and how to behave, ceased to work, flattening out to nothing. Her breath emerged in short little gasps, her slight frame barely able to contain the wave after wave of pleasure that rolled through her limbs. Her eyelashes fluttered down, her belly and groin tightening in heady anticipation. Then she moaned, her body clamouring for a high point, climbing and climbing. The air ripped from her lungs. A white-hot heat surged through her, needles of light slashing across the dark innards of her eyes, a pounding frenzy of sparkling stars crashing through her.
She cried out then, waves of tumultuous passion ricocheting through her at hurtling pace, leaving her collapsed, spent. Reaching his own climax, Lachlan shuddered, throwing his head back to shout out loud. Then his big body sprawled heavily over her naked body, sated and, for the first time in a long time, fully alive.
* * *
They lay there for a long time, twined into each other, their panting breaths gradually subsiding. The sweat cooled on their naked limbs. Shifting his weight to one side, Lachlan pulled the bed furs over them, Cecily curling in to his right flank, her softness melding to the hard, muscled angles of his body. Her hair straggled across the curving bloom of her cheek and he smoothed it back, tucking the silky length behind her ear. She gave a small sound of satisfaction, stretching her slim arm across his broad chest, but her eyes remained closed, her dark lashes casting tiny shadows on her cheeks.
What in Christ’s name had he done? His eyes searched the linen canopy above the bed, tracing along the many pleats and creases as if he could find the answer written in the fabric. The candlelight flickered on the cloth, wavering. Shame spilled through him, dark and coruscating, a bitter liquid that scoured his veins with distaste. He had behaved like an oaf, like his Viking forefathers, running roughshod over her refined sensibilities; rolling in the bed with her like a man possessed. A savage. He had not even possessed the grace to go slowly, to take his time; nay, he had barrelled into her without so much as a by your leave.
Cecily opened her eyes slowly, reluctantly, not wanting to break the spell, the magic of this enchanted time. The skin of Lachlan’s chest warmed her cheek. Her hand lay flat, her fingers splayed across his ribs, the fine hairs covering his skin tickling her palm. In the candlelight, his bare chest gleamed with golden light, burnished by the flame. Her limbs felt exhausted, replete, muscles sapped of strength and yet strangely enervated, renewed. The experience had been so completely different from the time when she had been married to Peter that it was almost incomparable.
She shifted, wriggling her back against the linen sheets. The soft fabric slid magnificently against her bare skin. Hope flickered through her mind, singing with possibilities for the future. Maybe, just maybe, this marriage with Lachlan might work. How wonderful it would be to share his life, to share his bed and have his children. Was it truly possible that by committing a crime, she had unwittingly found real love? Had Fortune smiled on her, after all?
‘I’m sorry.’ Lachlan’s voice ground out, bleak and raw. Lifting his arm from around her shoulders, he rolled away from her, across to the side of the bed.
Cecily failed to hear the chill note in his tone. ‘Oh, am I squashing you?’ Her laughter blossomed out, a delicate trill across the chamber. A spark jumped from the charcoal brazier, falling back down into the coals with a crackling hiss.
He stared over to the glow of red from the brazier. His heart compressed, tight with wretchedness. ‘No, Cecily, you’re not squashing me. Far from it.’ Sitting up, Lachlan slid his bare feet down to the wooden floorboards, his back towards her. His spine bent forward; resting his elbows on his knees, he pressed his forehead into his hands. His powerful fingers dug into his hair. ‘I meant that I’m sorry for what just happened... I... I lost control of myself.’
Shock rattled through her. What was he saying? That it should not have happened? She wanted to scream at him to take his apology back, to acknowledge that their lying together had been a thing of beauty, not something to be ashamed of!
‘I don’t understand.’ Covering her naked breasts with the sheet, she edged over to him on her knees, grazing the powerful line of his shoulders lightly with her fingertips. He flinched away from her, hunkering down. Rejection sloshed over her. The jointed line of his spine faced her mutely, a rigid shield of defence. Against her.
‘What have I done?’ Her voice emerged, a muted note of despair. Her hand fell away from him. Desperation clawed at her. She remembered her husband, rolling away from her body with a derisory grunt, leaving her sore and shivering in the marital bed. The splatters of blood on the sheets.
‘You have done nothing, Cecily. Nothing! What we did...it should not have happened. It’s my fault.’ His voice rolled over her, harsh, angry.
‘I am as culpable as you, Lachlan,’ she pointed out miserably. ‘You asked me, you warned me. I had time to say “no”.’
‘Christ, I wish
you had, Cecily. I wish you had pushed me away,’ Lachlan mumbled, scrubbing violently at his face with his hands.
His voice stung. Cecily sat up, yanking the sheet up to her throat to shield her nakedness. ‘Well, I am sorry you had such an awful time,’ she spat back bitterly, anger rising in her chest.
He twisted around, a muscle jumping in his jaw. ‘Oh, believe me, I enjoyed it.’ His voice was cold. ‘But it should not have happened.’
‘Why not?’ Her heart contracted. ‘We are to be married, after all.’
‘We are,’ he said slowly. ‘But I offered to marry you to protect you.’ Standing up, he pulled on his braies. The tangled heap of his clothes on the floor, discarded in haste, mocked him, taunting him for his lack of self-control. ‘I cannot offer you anything else. Our marriage will be “in name only”.’
She supposed she should be thankful, yet his words tore the beauty of what they had shared; pulled it apart with icy dissection. She hated him for that. ‘In name only,’ she repeated quietly.
Lachlan secured the buckle on his belt. ‘Aye. Marriage to me will give you protection, Cecily, but that’s all I can give you. Nothing more.’ He shoved his feet into his leather boots. After what had happened to his family, he could never risk loving anyone every again. The frozen lump of his heart was testament to that.
‘So you used me for your own physical release.’ Her voice was sour, acerbic.
His lips curled savagely as he traced the downward turn of her mouth, the dulling sparkle of her eyes. Let her think the worst of him. If she hated him, then it would be easier for him to keep his distance. Easier for him to not fall in love with her. ‘Don’t attach too much importance to...’ his hand swept over the bed disparagingly, the rumpled sheets and bed furs ‘...all this. We both enjoyed it, but it means very little.’
Cecily flinched beneath his cheerless speech. He belittled the experience, making her feel like she had done something sordid, underhand. Sadness welled up, spreading out beneath her ribcage, a huge chasm of loneliness at what could never be, at what she could never have: a proper marriage with the man she could love, a marriage with Lachlan. Aye, she admitted. That was right. She could love Lachlan. Maybe she even loved him already. For a fleeting moment, it had been within her grasp, but now it was gone, shattered to a million pieces. If she married him now, then every day would be like torture, unable to touch him, unable to kiss him. She would always be thinking of what might have been, if he had been able to love her. What a shame that he could not.
Beneath the sheet, Cecily dragged her knees up, wrapping her arms around her legs. ‘Then I don’t want it,’ she replied, her voice beginning to rise. ‘I don’t want your stupid marriage. I prefer to marry someone else!’
He laughed, a harsh grating sound. ‘You can’t marry someone like the Lord of Colcombe. He is twice your age and would use you ill.’
Her mouth twisted petulantly; she slumped back against the pillows. He was right and she knew it. ‘But you’re sacrificing your own life to help me, Lachlan. That’s what I don’t understand. Why tie yourself with me?’
Because I don’t want anyone else to have you, he thought. Because you brighten my days with your quick mind and sweet smile. Your beauty. ‘There is no one else, Cecily. No one suitable, anyway. Annoying as it may seem to you, I am your only way out of this situation.’ His reasons were purely selfish: he had leapt at the chance of keeping Cecily by his side.
‘There is someone, actually,’ Cecily said slowly. ‘I was going to discuss it with you...earlier.’ Her cheeks reddened, but she ploughed onwards. ‘He’s a friend of mine.’ Excitement tinged her voice. This was a way out of this untenable situation. ‘It seems pointless that you have offered to marry me if we are both going to be miserable.’ She clutched the bed furs closer to her throat. ‘I know someone who will marry me, if the King would agree.’
Lachlan pulled his white linen shirt over his head. ‘Who?’
‘My childhood friend, William. He would marry me.’
Jealousy, hot and unbidden, rolled through Lachlan. He scowled, turning away to scoop up his cloak. ‘Why did you not mention him to the King?’
Cecily spread her palm across the bed covers, brushing at a small fleck of dust. ‘I’m hardly in a position to dictate my own terms, am I?’
Lachlan raised his fiery eyebrows. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘But you could go down now and suggest him. You would be free, Lachlan. You’ve just told me you never intended to marry, so why do it? It would only make you sad. This is a way out for you, if you would take it.’
But I don’t want to take it, he thought roughly. Who was this William she kept gabbling on about? Possession flicked through him; he doused it quickly. This should be what he wanted. If that was so, then why did his heart feel as if it had been split in two?
‘Get some sleep now, Cecily. It’s late. I will go and tell the King about what you have said.’ He crouched down on the floor, his fingers looping around the iron key, the errant key that had dropped from his fingers before. In another lifetime. ‘I shall return in the morning with his answer.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. The door clicked shut behind him and she heard the heavy key turn in the lock. Then she pressed her face into the feather pillow and wept.
* * *
It was early when Lachlan walked, stripped to his shirt and braies, out into the bailey. Streaks of pink and orange streaked the sky to the east. A solitary star winked out from the luminous blue on the horizon, the moon a silver fingernail of light. His breath puffed out into the icy air, clouds of white mist. The cobbled yard was deserted, save for a few horses tied up to an iron ring in the curtain wall and a single guard at the gatehouse who raised his arm in greeting. Lachlan waved back, heading for the well in the middle of the yard.
Turning the handle on the rope, Lachlan followed the descent of the wooden bucket until it disappeared into the shadows. He heard the splash as it hit the mirrored circle far below. He stared down into the well, down at the widening ripples of water.
After leaving Cecily, he had sought out Henry in the great hall and told him of her request to marry this William instead. The King had been in a garrulous mood, florid cheeks beaming from red wine, smiling as he listened to Lachlan. He had told Lachlan that he trusted his judgement implicitly: if there was another man who would marry her whom Lachlan thought suitable, then that was fine.
Lachlan had found a place to sleep in the great hall, a wooden pallet with a thin straw mattress crammed in among other people: knights and their squires, peasants, their wives and screaming babies. Piles of chainmail had been heaped up in every available space, swords and helmets stacked on top. Stale sweat soured the air, mingling with the smell of mead, of grease. He had cared not; his mind was in turmoil, churning incessantly. Busy with the upcoming parliament, the King had effectively passed the decision of Cecily’s marriage to Lachlan.
Lachlan dumped the full bucket on to the cobbles. Water sloshed over the side, wetting the leather of his boots. Cursing out loud, he seized the bucket, pouring the chill contents over his head. He gasped in shock at the cold. Water ran through his hair, over his sleep-stained face, down his neck beneath his shirt, dampening the material so that it stuck, like a glaucous skin, to his muscled chest. The gash on the back of his head throbbed and stung beneath the onslaught of water. Would he tell her what the King had said? That she could marry this... William, after all?
He shook the water from his hair, the droplets spinning out from his fiery head. The first rays of sunlight, creeping over the square-cut battlements, touched them, turned them to spinning crystals of gold. He straightened up, pushing the wet hair from his eyes, raking the short strands back.
A noise from the gatehouse made him narrow his eyes and look over in that direction. He heard the sound of the portcullis being raised, the slow clanking of metal chains. Horseshoes rang against th
e cobbles; the close confines of the gatehouse amplified the sound of men’s voices as they rode through.
A group of knights entered the inner bailey, faces covered by steel helmets, their red and gold tunics creased and muddy. Beneath their surcoats they wore chainmail; every man carried a shield and sword. Watching them intently, Lachlan pulled off his wet shirt over his head, irritated by its clamminess next to his skin. He wadded it into a pad, using the cloth to dry the last drops of water from his neck and chest.
Was it only a few weeks ago that he had ridden in a posse of knights like that? Wielded a sword, circling the weapon around and around his head as he dug his knees into the flanks of his horse? Charged into battles without a care in the world? Because he hadn’t cared, not really. He hadn’t cared whether he lived or died. There was nothing to live for. Not then.
But now?
Now there was Cecily.
He took a deep unsteady breath, nodding a greeting as the knights rode past him towards the stables. He kneaded the damp shirt between his hands. He had vowed never to marry and now Henry had given him a way out. But he did not want to take it.
Chapter Fourteen
Lachlan walked slowly across the bailey. His long-legged strides covered the ground easily now, with no trace of a limp. The wound in his leg was fully healed. In the great hall, he rummaged in his leather satchel for a dry shirt, pulling his tunic over the top. Strapping his leather belt around his trim waist, he searched for his sword from habit, twisting his mouth ruefully as he remembered. With his cloak swung around his shoulders, carrying his leather satchel, he climbed the stairs to Cecily’s chamber.
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