The Scot Beds His Wife

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “Trust me, lass. All yer parts work just fine.” The bed compressed behind her, but still she sat staring at the fire, unwilling to be charmed by him just yet. “Better than fine.” His breath tickled her neck from behind, as he gathered her still-wet hair from her ear. “In fact, I’d hazard to say yer parts are fast becoming my favorite parts. Even the crippled ones.”

  That elicited a bashful smile she was glad he couldn’t see as he pressed a kiss to her jaw.

  A slight tug on her hair brought her scowl back. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve got to work these snarls out, lass, or there’ll be no fixing this in the morn.”

  He was … brushing her hair?

  She turned to whisk the brush from him. “You don’t have to—”

  “But I’m going to.” He used the leverage of her hair to gently but firmly direct her head back toward the fire.

  Dumbfounded, almost horrified, Samantha sat, stiff shouldered, as he groomed her. She might not have been a virgin, hell, this was even her second marriage.

  But tonight was definitely the night of a thousand firsts.

  He obviously knew what he was doing, starting at the bottom of her thick mane, holding it away from her nightgown so as to not wring the water against it. Working the difficult tangles with deft and clever fingers instead of yanking on the brush. A green-tinged misery stole over her, ruining her enjoyment of the unexpected intimacy. Was this some kind of seductive ritual for him? Did he have a proclivity for hair?

  “How many women have you played lady’s maid to?” she asked with forced nonchalance.

  “One,” he answered blithely.

  Oh God, that somehow made it worse.

  “My mother.”

  Stunned, she froze. “Your … what?”

  “My mother wasna always blind, ye ken. That was my father’s doing.”

  Samantha pressed her lips together as her blood raced. She’d suspected as much, but it had never seemed her place to ask.

  “When we first came to Inverthorne after she lost her sight, we had no money for staff. It was only Callum, Eammon, and I. And my mother, of course. There were many things she couldna do for herself like arrange her hair.”

  “I see,” she murmured. This was not at all in keeping with the Earl of Thorne that she thought she knew.

  “That’s all I’ll say about it.”

  She nodded, letting the rhythm of his brush strokes calm a mind that wanted to race. What an enigma her husband was. Ruthless, relentless, cunning, manipulative …

  Generous, honorable, and … kind.

  “Thank you,” she whispered around a sudden lump in her throat. How could he know that no one had ever done anything like this for her? Had ever done anything for her. She’d never been bathed. Never been dressed, tended to, or groomed.

  She came from a hard place where self-reliance was the primary virtue. She’d never considered that a bad thing.

  But … neither was this.

  Her husband was a hard man, a lethal hunter, they said. And somehow that made this moment that much more disarming and alarming at the exact same time. Somehow, it made him more dangerous, because in one night he’d melted her multiple times. Not just her body.

  But her heart, too.

  Once the brush ran smoothly through her hair, he plaited it expertly. That accomplished, he pulled back the covers, snaked a thick arm around her middle and dragged her down to the pillow.

  “Don’t husbands and wives sleep apart in this country?” she queried, trying not to appreciate that he slept naked. She’d been afraid he’d don one of those ridiculous nightshirts Bennett used to wear when it wasn’t cold enough for the equally unimpressive long johns.

  “Stop confusing Highlanders with the British,” he mumbled, slumber already walking alongside the playful note in his voice.

  “I’m just saying, you don’t have to give up your bachelor’s chamber for me, it’s not like we’re…” It had been a private worry of hers, that he’d resent sharing his space. That he’d push her out into a smaller, less comfortable room. It was within his right. And maybe he would eventually.

  The longer he waited … the harder it would be.

  “If ye think ye’re escaping me now, bonny, ye’ve gone daft. Now go to sleep.”

  Samantha had never been one to obey, not really. But this once couldn’t hurt.

  He’d left the window cracked, she noticed, but it only served to pull the warmth of the fire closer, without making it stifling.

  As she listened to the storm toss the forest about, and felt the lift and fall of the big chest behind her become slow and even, she allowed one tear to escape so as to hold back its multitude of threatening compatriots.

  This. This was all she’d ever asked for. What she’d wanted since she could remember. It was what Bennett had promised for her, but had never delivered.

  A home by the sea, surrounded by a lush forest. A warm fire by which to make love beneath the thunderstorms.

  Okay, so it wasn’t lovemaking, because Gavin St. James didn’t make love.

  He fucked.

  She gave a lithe stretch and felt his arm tighten about her middle, pulling her deeper into the cradle of his body, until the hairs of his muscled thighs abraded the backs of hers even through her nightgown.

  Well, she decided. He fucked. She lied. Either way, she was safe and warm and they were both pleased with each other.

  For the moment, that was enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Finally, Gavin thought, as he checked Demetrius’s saddle and adjusted the cinch. Finally he would set foot on Erradale for the first time this morn as its proprietor.

  He glanced around the empty stables, noting the hastily discarded tack and what-not that bespoke an early mass exodus. He’d hired a few hands in Strathcarron, and they were to meet him and Callum here at dawn.

  He grimaced. Then grinned. Morning had dawned maybe two hours ago.

  Callum had left a hastily scrawled note saying they’d tired of waiting on him, and no one dared disturb the wedding bower, so they’d gone on ahead.

  It amazed none more than he that he’d slept the dawn away with his wee wife tucked next to him.

  Gavin never slept past dawn. Why would he?

  Especially today when Erradale—his Erradale—awaited him.

  Even after he’d roused, a disquieting reluctance to leave her had kept him abed longer than it should have. He’d convinced himself that it wouldn’t have been so difficult had she not turned to him in the night, and clung to him in her sleep with all the desperate strength of a lass being chased by a nightmare.

  Her arm still draped over him this morn, and her leg—the injured one—had been thrown over his thigh. When he’d moved, she’d gripped him fiercely, though she’d yet to wake, and suddenly he found he’d rather chew off his own limbs than disturb her.

  She looked peaceful for once, and awfully young. The wrinkle of perpetual cynicism smoothed from her forehead. The parentheses caused by the determined set of her mouth disappeared. In the morning light, he’d had the absurd notion to wake her by kissing every freckle sprinkled like golden fae dust over her cheeks and across the adorable bridge of her nose.

  He didn’t, though, for if she’d awakened, he’d have been much tardier than he was now.

  It was possible he’d not even have made it out of bed, and what would his men have to say about that?

  Nothing. If they valued their jobs … and their limbs.

  Everyone understood that theirs was a wedding of convenience, but that didn’t mean two young, attractive people wouldn’t thoroughly consummate such a contract.

  There were heirs to beget, after all.

  The thought summoned another pleased tilt to his lips. If he had his way, his wee wife would be pregnant by Christmas. And if not, he’d be happy to keep trying.

  Gods, but he’d never—

  “Just what the hell is this?” The furious feminine demand turned his secretly pleas
ed smile into a broad smirk. Ye gods, he’d have to stop grinning like an idiot all day, or people might get the wrong idea … That he was actually falling for his wife.

  “Bonny!” he greeted. “Ye’re awake.” A swift spurt of pleasure at seeing her framed in the stable doorway was followed by an unexpected bloom of heat.

  “You’re goddamn right I’m awake, no thanks to you.” Had she not required the use of a cane, Gavin had no doubt she’d have made quite the entrance. She’d hastily donned a simple blouse, a dark woolen skirt, and the wide belt she’d been married in. Somehow, she’d gotten her hands on a weathered long coat that threatened to drown her. The flyaway tendrils of hair escaping the long plait revealed that she’d not even checked a mirror before coming after him. And still, she managed to look fresh as an early-summer bloom, even in the wan gray light of a winter morn.

  “You left me asleep with nothing more than a note!” she accused.

  “Ye’re welcome, lass.” He beamed at her. “Not so many newly wedded husbands would be so thoughtful. Had I had my way, ye’d have woken up with me inside of ye.”

  She blinked at him for a stunned moment, and then made the obvious decision to ignore him, brandishing the scrap of paper in her hand. Though he didn’t miss the pink blush that crept above the collar of that ridiculous coat. “It says here you were going to Erradale without me.”

  “And I still am.” He checked the saddle once again, more for effect this time than anything else. “Now give yer husband a farewell kiss to hold me over until I return for supper.” He ducked around Demetrius just in time to catch a balled-up letter to the chest.

  Och, but she had excellent aim on all accounts.

  “If you think you’re leaving me behind, you can think again. Erradale is still mine, too. Now saddle me a horse and let’s be off.” She limped over to the stalls, inspecting the few horses that were left, her cane making an audible thunk on the wide planks.

  “It’s a mighty cold day out there, bonny. It’s like to start storming again any moment, and ye canna ride.”

  She whirled on him, almost upsetting herself, using the cane to catch her in time. “Don’t think that just because we’re married, you get to tell me what I can and canna do. Didn’t you notice that your brother left the word ‘obey’ out of the wedding vows?”

  Lord, but he loved it when her azure eyes flashed with temper.

  “Och.” He chuckled, scratching at his morning shadow-beard. “More than a slight oversight on his part. Tell ye what, if ye prove to me that ye can ride, then ye can go.”

  “Fine.” She shot him a triumphant smirk. “I think that bay mare would do nicely.”

  “I find it charming, lass…” He let his thought trail away as he sidled closer to her, a wicked intent heating his blood and already pulsing in his loins.

  “Find what charming?” She shied away, but not fast enough.

  “That ye thought I meant for ye to ride a horse.” He snaked an arm around her, pulling her full against him, letting her feel the press of his hard erection, even through her skirts.

  “Let me go, you big, stupid ox!” she huffed, though a playful sparkle in her eyes belied her scowl. “Riding you doesn’t just prove I’m capable, it proves you’re lazy.”

  “All right, ye sharp-tongued banshee, ye talked me into it. I’ll mount ye, instead.” He cut off her protest with his lips, and reveled in masculine triumph when her outrage melted into something else, entirely.

  Not surrender, not his bonny, but something like it.

  Suddenly he couldn’t wait another minute to be back inside of her. The memory of her silken flesh clamped around him seared along his veins until he was certain he was made of both hard steel and molten desire.

  His tongue thrust past her lips, tasting, circling, claiming as he tossed her cane aside, ripped her coat off, spread it over a mound of straw, and pulled her down, trapping her beneath him. He kept her busy with his mouth as he split her legs with his knees and settled in between them, pressing his arousal against the beckoning heat he could feel even through the layers of their clothing.

  Gavin tried to breathe, willed his galloping heart to slow. So much of his blood now raced to his cock, he was afraid there was none left for the rest of his bits. Christ, but a hundred thousand trained and perfumed courtesans couldn’t hope to elicit such instantaneous, ferocious desire as his wounded, unkempt wife.

  Later, when he was able to form a coherent thought, he’d let that fact trouble him.

  She pulled back and their eyes locked. The force of her defiant, Baltic gaze hit him with the strength of last night’s sea gale.

  “I can ride,” she declared. “I’ll ride you witless, Gavin St. James.”

  Just when he’d thought he couldn’t get any harder—she had to go and prove him wrong.

  “By all fucking means,” he growled. Seizing both her mouth and her lean hips, he controlled their roll, levering her above him even as he sucked her tongue deep into his mouth.

  Bunching her skirts in his fists, he burrowed his hands beneath them, sliding his fingers over the silken flesh of her thighs until he found the soft hair between. Cleaving her folds apart, he found the slippery cove of her body already wet and ready for him.

  They both sucked in a harsh breath. “I’m delighted to see that ye never found undergarments, bonny,” he purred against her lips.

  “Hold your wished.” She sealed her mouth over his threatening smile at her horrid mispronunciation of his native tongue, all the while fumbling with his trousers.

  His breath deserted him completely as her hand closed around his pulsing shaft, freeing it to fit against her.

  Holy Mother of God. He cursed—or prayed—as she lifted slightly, positioned him, and lowered her small, sweet sex down around the head of his cock.

  She didn’t make it very far, and had to sit tall, writhing and rolling her hips a bit to gain any ground. Gavin flushed with each wriggle and flex she made, every inch of his flesh prickling with ever-intensifying lust.

  Unable to take it anymore, he put his hand to his mouth, licked the tips of his fingers, and brought them to where their bodies joined—to where he’d become a part of her—and slicked the moisture over both of them.

  Quickly, he found the tight bud exposed by her position and thrummed it softly, delighting in the satisfied gasp she made just as much as the ground he gained within her.

  “Aye,” he breathed. “Take all of me.” He stroked her again, and again, feeling the answering clench of her inner muscles with each sensitive glide of his fingertip, and the subsequent release that came in slow, wondrous gives until he was seated deep within her.

  Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she began to roll her hips in careful, concentrated motions.

  Ye gods, but she was exquisite, perched above him, her hair wild, her swollen lips parted, her eyes wide with equal parts wonder and determination.

  Instantly, he could tell she was favoring her leg, and that her thighs trembled. Determined or no, her strength wasn’t what she wanted it to be.

  But he also knew his wee wife wouldn’t forgive him if she lost this battle.

  Gripping her hip with one hand, he anchored and supported her weight, using his strength to thrust up inside of her. His other hand remained trained on the throbbing little pearl above where they were joined, teasing it in time to his desperate, increasing rhythm.

  He watched a pink flush overtake her golden skin as he surged up and up, increasing his penetration with such force, she bounced above him with shocked little ohs of pleasure.

  Stroked and gripped by her tight, wet depths, Gavin bared his teeth as his breath began to hiss out of him, dragged from his struggling lungs by unbridled pleasure.

  With any other woman, fucking had always been about one thing, the burning, throbbing, climax at the end.

  But with her, with his wife, the climb was equally as satisfying as the peak. Even as he drilled into her, a single-minded beast, he marveled at the pleasur
e he found just being inside of her. At the tenderness she evoked that underscored the ferocious lust.

  “Kiss me,” he demanded in a guttural whisper, surging up to meet her as she fell against him, rocked by the relentless movements of his hips. Their kiss didn’t last long. It was interrupted by her hoarse cry as a wet release flooded around his rock-hard shaft, her sex pulsing and milking at him, bearing down greedily, and then curling away.

  She ripped his own orgasm from deep beneath his spine, her body clenching around him so tightly his shoulders dropped back to the hay. His fingers dug into her hips as though they’d save him from a long fall into the void. Holding her still as the voluptuous rhythmic pulls and grips of her own release were all that was needed for his sex to pulse liquid warmth inside of her in a few final, ecstatic jerks.

  She collapsed on top of him, and his arms instinctively encircled her, his fingers toying with the long rope of hair he’d braided the night before. Their chests heaved against one another’s with uncontrolled breaths, their bodies still joined beneath the spread pool of her skirts.

  “All right, lass, ye win,” he panted. “Ye can ride.”

  Her reply was muffled against his shoulder, but it sounded something like “You’re goddamned right.”

  “Who knew being married was such fun,” he panted, pressing a kiss to her temple and swatting her backside simultaneously.

  She pulled back to look at him, one of her rare, reluctant smiles tugging at the corner of her kiss-reddened mouth. “You probably should have done it years ago.”

  “Nay, lass,” he said, suddenly feeling very serious. “Then it wouldna have been ye.”

  Encouraged by the shy lashes that spread down across her cheek, he lifted his neck to kiss her, gently this time, and her response was unlike anything he’d ever experienced with her.

  Soft. Tentative. Uncertain.

  A protective tenderness bloomed inside of him, intensifying as she shaped her small fingers to his rough jaw, cupping his face in her hands.