He glanced pointedly at the clothes she was carrying and Muira finally seemed to pull herself together.
“I went to get you these,” she said in a rush thrusting the garments in his direction, her eyes growing ever wider as he walked closer to take them from her.
He started to thank her, but then scowled at the kilt she was offering him. “Is that the Cameron tartan?” he sneered.
“I’m sorry!” she gasped. She did look flushed, Lachlan decided, daring to lean just a little closer to judge the effect it had. She babbled some hardly coherent apology and Lachlan had to turn away to hide a smile.
“I’ll just change then,” he murmured softly, retreating back into the little washroom.
..ooOOoo..
Muira sat down on the trunk that she had just been to collect. Hard. In fact, her legs practically gave way. Oh Lord, he had looked-had looked-Muira didn’t that think there was a word to describe how Lachlan had looked! Or if there was, then she certainly didn’t know it!
He had been all hard lines and sculpted sinew, bulging muscle and raw power. She should have been appalled, terrified even, but she hadn’t been, and she couldn’t understand why not. He had seemed, to her most feminine core, to be… male perfection personified? It hadn’t mattered that his poor skin had been bruised and broken; he’d still looked magnificent.
Muira shivered, and found that she was remembering how the beads of water that had dripped from his head to his shoulders had then run down into the dark spattering of hair on his chest.
She had been shocked by her desire to reach out and touch him, and then, Muira burned scarlet as she remembered what else she’d thought of doing – of pressing her lips to his skin and lapping up every droplet of water with her tongue. She couldn’t imagine where she’d got such a wicked idea! She couldn’t imagine what the heavy, aching throb in the pit of her stomach meant either.
Muira felt restless-compelled to move, but she didn’t know how. So she stood up, trying her hardest to forget what she’d just seen, and determined to begin packing for her new life as a MacRae. Her aunt had offered her the use of one of the maids to help, but Muira wanted to pack everything herself. It felt right somehow.
She was sorting through her winter wardrobe when she felt the prickly sensation of someone watching her. Lachlan. Did she dare turn around and look at him? She was humiliated to feel the heat already rising to her face.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said from where he was standing across the room.
He didn’t sound sorry, Muira noted, he sounded thoughtful, but not sorry.
And that was when a belated tick of fear kicked in. She didn’t know if it was naivety or denial that had kept her from thinking about her wedding night up until this point, but now she was thinking about it, and with a definite surge of panic.
Lachlan’s body suddenly became threatening. Muira remembered with breathless panic how it had felt to be pinned beneath Tavish, and this time there could be no hope of escaping, they was no hope of ever escaping the new cage that she’d crafted for herself.
“Muira?” Lachlan pressed when she didn’t speak.
“It’s fine,” she whispered quickly.
“I assume the Laird will allow us a carriage?” Lachlan asked, after a brief pause. He glanced around at everything that Muira was packing.
“I assume so,” she murmured, trying to keep her distance. If Lachlan noticed then he didn’t comment on the fact.
“I should go and speak to him” he frowned. “I am permitted to do so?” he sneered.
Muira finally turned around to face her husband. She glanced up at him timidly, and almost thought that a tiny fraction of his aggressive demeanour softened.
“You’re permitted to do as you choose now I’m sure,” she whispered nervously.
Lachlan looked at her oddly, but if he found the statement strange then he didn’t comment on it. “I’m be back later,” he murmured, walking across the room and leaving his wife to her own devices.
Muira hadn’t anticipated how much later ‘later’ would be. She’d finished her packing, and had her trunks sent down to be loaded onto one of her uncle’s carriages, and there had still been no sign of Lachlan. She’d waited for as long as she could, and then rung for a light supper, which she ate, miserable and alone, in front of the fireplace.
Maybe he had already abandoned her, and really who could blame him? She had been such a naïve fool to think that she could trick and trap Lachlan MacRae into marriage! Muira sighed deeply, and stared into the flickering fire, trying to find something to be positive about-she supposed, if he had really gone, that she would escape the duty of her wedding night at least.
She was still sitting there, watching the flames, when the bedroom door opened late that night. It had just past ten, Muira had heard one of the clocks in the hall chime the hour.
“You came back?” she blurted without thinking, staring in surprise at her husband, she had all but given him up for lost at this point.
“Aye, I came back to my bonnie wee wife,” he said, his voice unreadable as he reached for an apple from the fruit bowl. His ‘bonnie wee wife’ blushed crimson.
“Where did you go?” Muira asked without thinking. She bit her lip-worried that Lachlan would be angry with her for prying. He took a bite of his apple and regarded her careful.
“I needed some time to think, and I thought you might like some privacy,” he said with a careless shrug.
“Oh,” Muira breathed, thoughtful now herself. “And what did you-”
“You should get some rest, we’ve got a long road to travel tomorrow,” Lachlan interrupted firmly. “Go to bed, Muira,” he instructed.
Bed? Muira felt her heat trip, her stomach flutter. This was it then, she’d finally know what it was to know a man. She wouldn’t cry, she told herself, she would be strong… except-Lachlan had just sat down in the chair opposite her. She tried not to look as though she was surprised by this development, and evidently failed.
“I’ll join you in a moment,” he said gently.
“Oh,” Muira squeaked. “Of course.” She jumped up from her chair and dashed behind her dressing screen, snatching up her nightgown as she went.
Without a maid’s help, it took a lot longer than usual for Muira to change. She didn’t know if she was allowed to summon one for help however, and she was too embarrassed to ask. She felt so hopelessly out of her depth!
When she crept out from behind the screen, finally finished, Muira wasn’t surprised to see Lachlan’s head turn to regard her. She was surprised by the way his eyebrows raised, by the way he unashamedly stared however. A part of her had expected him to pounce on her, in much the same way as Tavish. It was even more unnerving therefore for him to keep his distance, and undress her with his eyes.
She might be an innocent, but Lachlan’s regard was so obvious that Muira knew what he was doing. She didn’t understand her sudden need to know what he was thinking though… did she please him, did he like what he saw or was she a disappointment? Her reaction to his gaze was equally alarming. The ache in her stomach had returned, and a tingling in her breasts, neither of which lessened when Lachlan finally dragged his eyes away.
Muira stood still, waiting for further instructs, when none appeared to be forth coming she bowed her head and crept over to the bed. She slipping beneath the blanket, her heart hammering in her chest, and waited for her husband to come and join her.
..ooOOoo..
Lachlan had no intention of joining her… at least not in the way that Muira anticipated. It had been one of the things he had decided while sitting up alone on the roof of Castle Cameron, although his resolve had been tested when he his young wife appeared before him in a nightdress that was virtually transparent and did nothing to conceal the generous curves that she possessed.
Muira’s breasts were large and full, almost too big for her delicate little frame, her waist was tiny, but her hips flared out to balance the portrait. Lachlan shifted unc
omfortable, embarrassed by his body’s enthusiastic reaction to her appearance. He ached to touch her, but he couldn’t, not yet.
He listened to her shifting in the bed, or rather he didn’t-her stillness was telling, the way she hardly dared breathe. Her fear, more than anything, kept Lachlan’s unsatisfied body rooted in his seat until, over an hour later, he heard the deep, steady rhythm of Muira’s breathing as she finally slept.
Lachlan pushed himself up out of the chair he’d been sitting in and wandered over to the bed. He supposed that he could have stayed in his fireside seat and dozed there for the night, but it wasn’t the most comfortable of resting places for his large frame and his battered body craved the soft comfort of a proper mattress. Besides, he didn’t see why he should make further allowances for his wife-she hadn’t made any for him.
However, he caught himself smiling as he watched her sleep. He couldn’t deny that her beauty was entrancing, but Lachlan vowed that he was not going to be duped by a pretty face! He moved back to the fire and put on a couple more logs to keep it burning until morning. He extinguished the candles in the bedroom and padded back over to the other side of the bed, stripping off his clothes as he walked.
Muira hadn’t proved him with a nightshirt, and his kilt was too awkward to sleep in, so, after only the briefest pause, Lachlan dispensed with this last piece of clothing and crawled into bed, completely naked. He sank bank against the pillows and yawned, but his eyes remained open, drifting lazily around the room, taking in the shadowy pieces of furniture until he was familiar with everything.
Lachlan glanced across the pillows at the back of his wife’s head. The bed wasn’t overly large. If he just turned onto his side it would be all too easy to spoon her back against his body. Lachlan frowned in the dark and wondered from where that thought had crept. He shut his eyes determinedly and willed himself to fall asleep.
He was prepared to toss and turn for hours, but the day’s events had apparently exhausted him more than he’d realised. He fell asleep in a matter of moments, and didn’t wake again until he felt something warm brush against his foot.
“Morag,” Lachlan murmured sleepily, reaching out an arm to hook around the curvy, female body lying by his side. He rolled onto his back, and pulled the woman tight against his naked chest, buried his nose in the softness of her hair and breathed in deeply. Heather… but that wasn’t right…
Lachlan cracked open an eye, and choked as everything that had happened the previous day came flooding back to him, memory after memory resurfaced, triggered by the sight of Muira Cameron’s-MacRae’s peaceful face pressed snugly against his chest as she continued to sleep.
Lachlan took a great gulping breath and tried to ease his body out from underneath hers, only to find that he was perilously close to the edge of the bed, and that Muira whimpered and cling tighter to him whenever he tried to disentangle their limbs.
She was draped over him in the most provocative manner, lying atop him, her legs entwined with his, her breasts crushed against him, her hips pressing down on his own-and she kept wriggling. Sweat beaded almost instantly on Lachlan’s naked skin as Muira subtly shifted her weight, trying to settle into the most comfortable position on top of his body. He swallowed a groan as his cock stirred eagerly to life, challenging Muira further as she tried to arrange herself around his stiffening shaft.
Oh God, this was torture, Lachlan was nearly panting. Muira’s thin nightdress was all that separated their flesh. She felt so hot. He wondered madly, if he was to dip a hand under the fabric, if he would find her slick and wet? His cock was keening towards her, twitching and pulsing… and then Muira’s leg slipped over the side of his hip, opening her body to him, and if he just shifted slightly, just hiked up her nightdress, then he could have her…
However, as desperately as his body begged for release at Muira’s hands, Lachlan found that there was still a functioning portion of his brain-of his morality-that refused to take her in such a deceitful manner. He clearly had to do something however. Not being terribly mindful if he woke her now, Lachlan prised Muira off his body, and made an awkward dash for the little room where he had bathed the previous afternoon.
He shut the door behind him and sagged against it in relief, instantly grasping his painfully aroused cock and stroking to soothe his ragged need. His skin was damp with sweat and a dribble of pre-cum as he bucked frantically into his hand, not even trying to restrain himself. He wanted to lose himself in sensation only - the tightness of his gut, the huge pulsing rod of his cock, to keep Muria firmly out of his mind.
He couldn’t do it though, as his eyes rolled back in his head and breath came in quicker, shallower pants, she was all he could think about. And he didn’t know why! But the thought of her small, soft hands replacing his own, of having her milk his sex until he exploded seared through his brain, and that image was followed oh-so-closely but the imagined bliss of burying himself between her legs, he wanted to fuck her until he came.
Lachlan couldn’t keep from groaning. He wanted her. He wanted to take her hard and furiously. He wanted to snatch back ever scrap of control that she’d stolen from him. He wanted her writhing beneath him. He wanted her to beg. His thighs started to tremble as he feverishly thought about it - filling her cunt with his cock, fucking her again and again, until she was sore, until she was brimming with his seed, until she understood that she belonged to him, and not the other way another…
She belonged to him.
White-hot bliss sizzled through Lachlan’s veins at that thought, and he finally exploded, jetting his seed up against the opposite wall in pale, stringy spurts. A low cry fled his lips and he milked every last morsel of pleasure from his release that he could, wanting to savour the pleasure, rather than reflect on the troubling thoughts that had raced through his intoxicated mind…
..ooOOoo..
Muira stretched and slowly came awake. She’d been having the most delicious dream, although now that she tried to recall it, she couldn’t quite remember what it had been about. She sighed deeply burying her head in the pillows, too warm and comfy to care much about a half forgotten dream.
She cared a little more about the low groan that suddenly met her ears however.
Lachlan!
Awaking more fully, and with a slight start, Muira quickly sat up. She caught sight of Lachlan’s clothes, where they had been tossed over the back of a chair. All of his clothes, she gulped nervously and sank down under the bedcovers again, and then also became aware that both sides of the bed were wrinkled and warm.
“Oh my,” she squeaked breathlessly. Had she-had he-?
Muira hid deeper under the covers as she heard a second, louder groan coming from the little washroom. What was he all right? What was he doing in there? She wondered, but she didn’t have terribly long to dwell on it, because the door creaked open a few minutes later.
Muira knew that it was cowardly, but she lay very still and feigned sleep anyway. It was before dawn, so perhaps, if Lachlan thought her still asleep, he would leave her alone, and she could pretend for a few more hours that she wasn’t really married, that she wasn’t really leaving?
She took heart when Lachlan didn’t say anything to show that he knew she was awake, but then her heart seemed to clatter to stop when the mattress shifted and the blankets lifted. Her eyes burst open, though fortunately she was turned away from Lachlan so he didn’t see. His wasn’t going to-not with her-not naked!
But he most certainly was getting into bed beside her.
Lachlan gave a deep, contented sounding, sigh, and then shifted until he appeared to be comfortable. Muira held her breath waiting to see wait would happen next. She couldn’t understand the twinge of disappointed she felt when absolutely nothing happened next. No hands reached for her, no body brushed against her own, she might have been in bed alone, but for the steady breathing she could hear behind her.
Nearly half an hour had past before Muira dared to believe that her husband was really asleep.
She moved slowly, afraid of waking him, but twisted to face Lachlan nonetheless. In the growing light she could make out the relaxed characteristics of his face: the strong lines and chiselled features that were quickly growing to be so familiar to her. Muira wriggled just a tiny fraction closer. She could see the bruises too, and bit her line with a guilty pang. Why had she thought that he deserved to suffer to save her?
She lay her head down on her pillow and continued to stare at Lachlan until her eyes were hot and achy. A slow trickle of tears rolled down Muira’s cheeks until she drifted into a light slumber of her own. It was only light however, so when she felt the brush of fingers against her cheek her eyes fluttered open, and she found herself looking directly into Lachlan’s foamy green eyes.
Muira would have jumped away from him, but she felt like she’d been frozen to the spot. Lachlan’s fingertips were tracing the dry trail of her tears, while his face worn an expression of thoughtful seriousness that Muira somehow found out of place given his state of undress. The blankets had fallen sufficiently low to reveal a generous portion of his chest, his left arm was bent at the elbow and his head was resting against his hand as he watched her carefully.
He was far too close, and far too male, and-and Muira didn’t understand why she was locked in place, letting him caress her as if she were a frightened colt!
“Crying again, lass?” he murmured, his voice husky from sleep.
There was no point denying what he already knew, so Muira dipped her head in a timid nod. Lachlan frowned, and then, before Muira knew what was happening, he lent towards her and brushed his mouth against hers, in a warm, gentle kiss.
It was over in a heartbeat, nothing more that the briefest flutter of his lips against her own, but it sent shivers tingling to the very tips of Muira’s fingers and toes. She sighed softly when Lachlan drew away again, earning herself a curious glance from her new husband.
A Beautiful Lie (The Camaraes) Page 5
