A Scandalous Scot

by Karen Ranney

  “Why? We’re married. You’re not in danger of becoming a fallen woman.”

  He swung open the door and made a gesture with his arm for her to precede him. She did so, forcing herself to take a deep breath. Her fear level was now an eight and a half or perhaps a nine.

  Without being coaxed, she strode into his bedchamber, removing her cloak and throwing it on the nearest chair. Seconds later her wrapper joined the cloak.

  Again, without a word or an action on his part, she climbed up on the bed and sat on the edge, her hands clasped demurely on her lap. She stared straight ahead, wishing the mirror on the wall wasn’t aligned so she could see herself as she sat there. In the moonlight, she looked unearthly pale, except for the twin spots of color on her cheeks. Her hair, however, looked exceptionally well.

  “If women didn’t enjoy it, I doubt my wife—” He stopped himself. “—Lillian would have engaged in it.”

  She nodded, wishing he hadn’t brought up Lillian again.

  “I’m not going to ravage you,” he said.

  “Pity,” she said. “If you did ravage me, it would be over soon. We’d be done with it.”

  He didn’t say anything. When she turned her head, he was staring at her with the most interesting look on his face.

  “Are you angry?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Surprised, perhaps. Confused, of a certainty. I never expected to be urged to hurry on my wedding night.”

  “Oh, I’m not asking you to hurry,” she said, feeling the fear level rise one notch. “But it would be better if it was done with, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, coming to stand before her. “If that’s how you feel, we should perform the expurgated version of the wedding night.” He reached out and unclasped her hands, taking both of them in his larger ones.

  “You’re a virgin?” he asked solemnly.

  She nodded, just as serious.

  “And you want this done rather quickly?”

  She nodded, a little less fervently.

  He gently pulled her from the bed until she was standing in front of him, placed both hands on either side of the curved neckline of her nightgown, and ripped the garment in two.

  “You’re trembling,” he said softly.

  It would be foolish to pretend otherwise, so she only nodded.

  She was standing there naked before him, and he was looking at her with the same intensity and regard she’d once studied him.

  She forced herself to stand straight, hands down at her sides. Let him look his fill, then. She certainly had.

  A small smile graced the corners of his mouth.

  “You call yourself plain, Jean?”

  What did he expect her to say? Compared to Catriona, she was.

  “I’ve never seen a woman less plain.”

  She wanted to ask him if his experience with women was so extensive, then realized it would be a foolish question indeed. It might bring Lillian back into the room.

  Besides, Morgan was tall, strong, and handsome. Of course he had a great deal of experience.

  His hand reached out and gently cupped her breast, his thumb sliding over her nipple. Her indrawn breath made him smile.

  “I didn’t touch you,” she said.

  His laughter was disconcerting. “No, but you wanted to.”

  Her gaze flew to his face. How had he known that?

  He stepped back and began to remove his clothes. He had no hesitation in doing so, and appeared to relish her wide-eyed stare. First his shoes, then his jacket, shirt, trousers, and underclothes were removed and tossed to the other side of the room.

  Did he think to have a maid in his wife? Was she supposed to pick up after him?

  There was a great deal about marriage she needed to know, and it looked as if she was going to get an education right this moment.

  He stood in front of her, one particular physical item of interest growing as she stared.

  “Why does it do that?”

  His laughter filled the room.

  “It’s his way of greeting you,” he said.

  “Do you always refer to it as though it’s someone else?”

  He grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.

  “What a delight you are, Jean,” he said, kissing her temple.

  He’d effectively trapped her with her arms in front. She snaked her hands between them and wound them around to his back.

  His skin was so very warm. Before she had time to further muse on the different contours of their bodies, he was kissing her.

  Every thought flew out of her head.

  All she could do was feel—the soft and hard texture of his lips, the heat of his inquisitive tongue, and the sensation of the top of her head lifting up to the ceiling.

  Was this passion? Or was he right, and she’d been feeling lust all along?

  Her fingernails scored his back, and he made a sound in his throat.

  Shamed, she murmured an apology against his lips.

  He pulled back and looked at her, his eyes glittering.

  “Why?”

  She only shook her head.

  He took another step backward, and she wanted to apologize again. Was he going to leave now? Had she hurt him, or done something wrong?

  Her hands flailed in the air, coming to rest against her thighs. Her body was warm, as if he’d somehow conveyed his heat to her. Her skin felt prickly, and her breath was coming too fast.

  She wanted to do something and didn’t know what.

  “Dear God, you’re lovely,” he said, his voice sounding choked.

  He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, then trail down her left arm. The other measured the contours of her right breast.

  “You have magnificent breasts,” he said. “And that damnable uniform didn’t give a hint of you.”

  “I believe that’s the intent,” she said.

  His laughter startled her again. Was she supposed to make him laugh so often, especially on their wedding night?

  Now, one large hand cupped a buttock, while the other pressed flat against her abdomen.

  She shivered.

  “Everything about you is perfect,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

  She’d never known words could warm her from the inside out.

  Her hand reached out and pressed flat against his chest, wanting to make him feel the same.

  “You are,” she said softly.

  He was a statue come to life, Roman or Greek, did it matter? He was a warrior, and she could easily envision him holding a shield and a spear. Or perhaps it was more correct to say he already held a spear, one pressing insistently against her.

  She smiled at her own impropriety. Then he was kissing her again, but this time the room swirled around her. No, that was him as he put his arms around her.

  Suddenly, she was on her back. How had he managed that?

  Before she could comment, he was on the bed, leaning over her, kissing her again, and her hands had no place to go but trail through the hair on his chest.

  “I wish to God you weren’t a virgin,” he said, kissing her throat.

  Shocked, she drew back.

  “Do you want me experienced?”

  His expression was suddenly thunderous. “You’ll not lie with anyone else, Jean. Ever. You’re my wife. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, Your Lordship. Must you call me ‘wife’ in that tone? As if I’m vermin? Or Lillian?”

  Abruptly, he was standing beside the bed, glaring down at her.

  “You’re right, this marriage was a mistake.”

  As she watched, naked and stunned, he stalked to where he’d tossed his clothing, grabbed it and left the room.

  She fell back on the bed, staring up at the tester. Her lips were still tingly. Her body still felt his touch, but Morgan had left her.

  Surely, this wasn’t a normal wedding night? This was the second time he’d stalked off. Was that a usual r
eaction from a bridegroom?

  Should she return to her room? Should she go in search of him?

  Was the peerage so different? She couldn’t understand why he’d been so offended. All she’d done was ask a question. Was she not supposed to ask questions? Was she supposed to be docile, submissive, and subservient?

  In other words, was she supposed to behave exactly as she had as a maid?

  She sat up, looked around for her cloak, and realized she’d left it in the sitting room. Naked, she peered around the door.

  Morgan wasn’t there. She sighed heavily as she donned her cloak and left the Laird’s Tower, her destination the one place he would go in the middle of the night.

  A few moments later she stood in front of the library door. The fact it was closed indicated he was inside.

  She should retire to the Countess’s Suite. Anywhere but be here, on a wedding night that wasn’t a wedding night. What a very strange night indeed. She’d sent him away with a command, then he’d walked away on an insult. Perhaps they were destined never to come together.

  Was it a sign? An omen that she wasn’t supposed to be even his pretend wife?

  Yet he’d kissed her. He’d touched her as no man had ever touched her.

  According to her aunt, she should thank Providence circumstances had brought her any husband, even a false one.

  Slowly, she pushed open the door, to find Morgan seated at the desk in a nimbus of light from the oil lamp. His gaze was fixed on the door as if he’d expected her to arrive any moment.

  “My name is Jean,” she said, as if they’d never been introduced. “I’m not Lillian. I wish you would not confuse me with her.”

  He didn’t speak. Nor did his gaze leave her.

  A bare-chested Morgan was even more intimidating than he’d been in his kilt and jacket. Now, she could really envision him as one of the Murderous MacCraigs, especially with that look on his face.

  “Did you at least put on your shoes?” she asked.

  He frowned at her.

  She shrugged at his silence. “I didn’t wear mine, either,” she said, coming around the edge of the desk. She held out one foot and both of them stared at it. “Do you think this means I’m a hoyden?” she asked. “I’ve never gone anywhere barefoot before.”

  She sat on the corner of the desk and leaned closer to him. Should she confess she wasn’t wearing anything beneath her cloak, either?

  “I don’t know if you would take the word of a former maid,” she said. She held up her hand to forestall his comment. “But I promise never to bed another man as long as you are alive, Morgan.”

  “Do you have plans for my imminent death, madam?”

  “No,” she said. “But I don’t want to promise I would never bed another man for the rest of my life. What if you were killed?” she asked, pushing back the hideous idea of Morgan’s death. “I would have to obey that vow forever. That hardly seems fair.”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you always so rigorously honest, Jean, even to your own detriment?”

  “No,” she said, regretting it was the truth. “I’m not. But when is honesty ever detrimental?”

  “When I suspect you of plotting my death.”

  “Of course you don’t,” she said. “I don’t think you’re angry at all. I think you’re just a little bit frightened.”

  She couldn’t determine the look on his face. It wasn’t anger. Nor was it amusement. Perhaps it was confusion or bewilderment. Truly, she wasn’t adverse to confusing Morgan. He’d done that from the moment he insisted on marrying her.

  “Am I supposed to be frightened of you?” he asked.

  She considered the question for a moment. “Good heavens, wouldn’t that be something? An earl and a maid, and the earl is quivering in his boots.” She craned her neck for a view of his feet. “But you’re barefoot, too.”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you coming back to our bed?” she asked, then amended the comment. “Your bed.” She looked around the room. The library was in shadows. She liked this room and knew every cranny of it.

  “There’s a settee upstairs,” she said, “if you would prefer not to go that far.”

  “Are you suggesting I couple with you in the library?”

  “I don’t think I’d like the desk,” she said, looking at the surface. “It’s leather, but there are all those brass nail heads. And it wouldn’t be comfortable on my back.”

  He didn’t say a word.

  “What shall we do?” she asked, genuinely confused. “Shall I go back to my room? Shall we pretend not to be married? I don’t mind, except I do wish you hadn’t seen me naked.”

  “You’ve seen me naked,” he said, in a calmer voice than he’d spoken earlier.

  She nodded.

  “We could both forget,” she suggested.

  “Or we could simply dispense with this damn wedding night.”

  Abruptly, he stood, grabbed her wrist and pulled her unceremoniously from the room.

  He was muttering to himself, but she couldn’t understand the words. The very fact that he was irritated was a good sign. She could cope very well with Morgan in that state since she’d had the most practice with it. His tenderness and praise had confused her, had opened up something in her heart that swelled even now.

  She raced to keep up with him, making a mental note that whenever he dragged her somewhere it was easier when she was barefoot.

  Halfway down the corridor he stopped and backed her up to the wall. Only one lone light was illuminated, leaving the rest of the corridor in long shadows.

  He towered over her like a mountain.

  “Am I supposed to be afraid of you?” she asked, putting her hands on his shoulders.

  “God, no,” he said, leaning in to kiss her.

  Her hands reached up to bracket either side of his face, and then she didn’t know anything for some moments. His mouth was warm, his tongue insistent.

  No one told her she could become delirious with a kiss. Not one person had ever warned her a kiss could heat her body to this extent.

  “You’re naked under the cloak,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  She nodded.

  When he pulled away, she made a moan of discontent, but then her cloak was open and his mouth was on her breast.

  Surprise kept her silent. This was passion, she was certain of it. Her body felt as if it were liquefying. She would become nothing more than a puddle in a moment, a stain on the crimson runner.

  Wherever his mouth touched, her skin quivered.

  Why couldn’t she breathe?

  His lips left her breast for her mouth, a fierce, possessive, and shocking kiss, an explosion of taste and color urging her to surrender.

  He opened his mouth, inviting her in, and her tongue found his, darting in and out, teasing and daring, brave as she’d never been brave with any man.

  He made a sound in the back of his throat, and she pressed against him, wishing she didn’t have the cloak shielding her nakedness. Wishing, too, he was as naked as she.

  He pulled her closer, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, tasting her. She was suddenly dizzy, as if his kiss was a narcotic, some drug that lessened her resistance and made her compliant to Morgan’s will.

  Her breasts ached, dampness pooled between her thighs, and she felt the same tingling emptiness that had accompanied every thought of him for days now. She wanted to be touched in a shocking way. Another kiss and she’d ask him to remove his clothes. At the sight of him, she’d toss off her cloak and join him in nakedness.

  Suddenly, they were racing back to the Laird’s Tower.

  She grabbed her cloak with both hands, glancing at him as they ran. His face was bronzed, his look intent.

  A laugh caught in her throat when he took her hand at the top of the stairs. She was out of breath, feeling as if the world had turned itself upside down.

  When he kissed her again, she held onto him for balance, loving the shape of his mouth, hi
s hot breath.

  How had she lived before being kissed?

  Then he was naked and they were on his bed again, the distance from the door to his bedroom crossed in a fog of feeling. When he trailed kisses between her breasts and down to her stomach, her breath came in choppy pants.

  She felt like herself and yet more than herself. Herself times ten, perhaps, as if she were both older and wiser than she’d been this morning. Her fear level had dropped to a two or a one, or maybe it was naught.

  Instead of gasping in horror, or being shocked when his fingers slid in her intimate folds, her legs widened to give him access. When he found her slick and wet, he made a murmur of appreciation.

  Another lesson learned, passion was a good thing between husband and wife.

  She wanted, needed, to do something, so she raised up and linked her arms around his neck, bringing his head down for a kiss. She nibbled on his bottom lip, then laved it with her tongue. Breathed into his mouth and gently sucked the tip of his tongue.

  She rained kisses along his jaw, down his throat. He lifted himself over her, bracing himself on his forearms.

  “I wish you weren’t a virgin,” he said again before sliding into her, an invasion so shocking her eyes widened and her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin.

  She might have made a sound if he hadn’t kissed her at that moment.

  The delight of his kiss and his touch gave way to a pinch of discomfort, a feeling of being stretched and invaded. She wanted suddenly to stop it, to demand he leave her. Instead, he raised himself, surging back into her, unknowing or uncaring about her pain.

  Where had the passion gone? It had disappeared in an instant to be replaced by this. Tears welled in her eyes. How long was he going to do this?

  An endless time, hours, or days, or perhaps only moments later, he lifted himself off her. She rolled to her side, drawing up her legs.

  Catriona had lied to her.

  This hadn’t been pleasurable at all.

  She lay as quiet as possible, wondering when she could go back to her room.

  Suddenly, Morgan left the bed, returning in a few minutes to sit on the edge of the mattress.

  “Turn over, Jean,” he said, touching her arm.

  She shook her head.

  “Turn over,” he said again, gently pulling her to lay on her back.