The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Suddenly a hush fell. The crowd parted and a tall, white haired courtier came slowly forwards. It was a wig, she saw as he came closer: Uncle Charles still affected the fashions of a bygone era.

  Cameron introduced them stiffly, poised, Jeannie saw, to defend her from any insult his uncle might make her. The realization warmed her.

  Uncle Charles, however was the perfect courtier. He bowed gracefully over Jeannie’s hand and murmured everything that was correct, then shook his nephew’s hand and congratulated him.

  The watching household waited, but it soon became clear there would be no dramatic scene, and disappointed, people slowly drifted back to their duties.

  Six

  Dinner was almost ready. Jeannie was given time to wash and tidy herself, and a maidservant to assist her. While the maid did her best to neaten the crumpled, travel-stained dress, Jeannie washed her face and hands and brushed her hair and wound it into a neat coronet, but she had no fresh gown to change into and she felt very self-conscious when Cameron came to escort her to dinner. He was dressed formally in the kilt, though this time with no lace jabot. He still took her breath away.

  “I’ll need more clothes,” she told him. “I have just this one dress to my name.”

  He nodded. “Wear this tonight.” He dug into his sporran and pulled out a worn, flat box. She opened it to find a rope of lustrous, shimmering pearls. “My mother had a lot of jewels, but I’m told pearls are the most suitable for a bride.”

  He helped her twine them about her neck. They felt cool and heavy and magnificent against her skin, armour against the feelings of inadequacy that intensified as he led her down the staircase to the great hall, where they were to dine.

  A piper sounded, piping the laird and his new bride in to dinner. The sound shivered down Jeannie’s spine. She was now part of an ancient tradition.

  Cameron’s uncle sat at Jeannie’s right hand and from the moment she was seated, began to engage her in light, polite conversation.

  Bemused, Jeannie responded to his questions as best she could, but far from the personal interrogation she dreaded, she soon found he was entirely uninterested in herself and passionate about his plans for silk hangings for the great hall. He’d designed the hangings himself, was sorely disappointed with the cancellation of the order and clearly aimed to enlist her support in changing Cameron’s mind.

  “Such a barren and gloomy room, is it not? My nephew, lacking the refinement to appreciate such things, has already cancelled the order—”

  On the other side of her, Cameron bristled.

  “But I can see you’re a lady of taste. Do you not think …”

  “Mr Sinclair—”

  He patted her hand. “Call me Uncle Charles, my dear. We’re family now.”

  “Uncle Charles, then. I’m sorry but it’s been a long day. Perhaps we could discuss this at a later date?” It wasn’t a lie. She was exhausted. So much had happened. And there was still her wedding night ahead.

  The older man acquiesced gracefully. She’d say this for him, he was a courtier to his beautifully manicured fingertips. Perhaps they could have the hangings locally woven out of wool, she thought. He was right, the hall could use some brightening, and it didn’t have to be expensive. But she wasn’t going to be drawn into a family quarrel in her first day.

  “Are you ready?” Cameron asked her. He stood beside her chair, his hand out, ready to escort her upstairs.

  Jeannie’s heart beat a rapid tattoo. Her wedding night. She’d thought about it all afternoon, planned exactly what she was going to say …

  The wine she’d been drinking at dinner tasted suddenly sour in her mouth. She’d find out now what kind of man she’d married.

  At the door of her bedchamber – their bedchamber – he raised her hand and kissed it. “I’ll leave you to get ready. I’ll return in half an hour.”

  She nodded numbly, dread pooling in her stomach at the delay.

  A maid waited inside. There was hot water in the jug and a fire blazed in the hearth. A wine decanter and two glasses stood on the table beside the bed. The very large bed. The sheets were turned down, the pillows plumped and waiting.

  On the bed lay the brown paper parcel that the minister’s wife had given her. She’d forgotten all about it. Someone must have found it in Cameron’s saddlebags and brought it up.

  She opened it and found a pretty nightgown, a soft white woollen shawl, a cake of the rose soap and a small china pot containing face cream. The nightgown was made of fine, soft lawn, narrowly pintucked and embroidered at the neck with tiny pink roses.

  Jeannie hadn’t worn anything so pretty to bed in her life. It would be a waste to wear it tonight but she couldn’t resist.

  The maid helped her off with her dress and brushed out her hair, then she sent the girl away. She washed with the rose soap, creamed her skin from the little china pot, then put on the dainty nightgown. It slipped over her skin like feathers. So light. So insubstantial. Thank goodness for the fire.

  She glanced at her reflection in the looking glass and her eyes widened. The nightdress was so fine it was practically transparent. She arranged the shawl around her, but though warm, it was fine and soft and clung lovingly to her shape. Too lovingly.

  It would not do at all.

  Through the doorway on the right of the room lay Cameron’s dressing room. She hurried in and searched through it rapidly until she found the perfect thing, an old woollen fishing pullover, slightly unravelled at the neck. She pulled it on. It fell halfway to her knees. Perfect.

  There was a knock on the door. He was here. She ran back into the bedchamber and took a flying leap on to the bed, landing just as the door opened.

  Cameron took a deep breath and opened the door. He was about to take his bride and make a wife of her. He couldn’t wait. Ever since he’d seen her walking down the aisle of the kirk, since he’d smelled the scent of her and tasted her mouth, his body had throbbed with the knowledge that this was his woman, and that tonight she’d be his.

  He smiled. She sat cross-legged on the bed. Under his gaze she dragged the bedclothes up like a shield, covering her bare legs. And what the hell was she wearing his old pullover for? The room was perfectly warm – he’d ordered the fire himself.

  Mind, he had no complaint; she looked very fetching in the shapeless old thing, one shoulder sliding out of the loose ravelled neck.

  He couldn’t wait to strip it off her.

  She also looked pale and wary and a wee bit nervous. That was as it should be. Brides were nervous. Grooms were not.

  Cameron shrugged off his coat. He wasn’t the least bit nervous. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, well primed and raring for action. Well, his body was. But tonight, at least, his desires would have to take second place to hers.

  He unbuttoned his waistcoat, placed it on top of his coat and loosened the ties at the neck of his shirt. Her eyes were on him, big and wide.

  Cameron knew his way around a woman’s body. He knew fine how to pleasure a woman. He’d gentle his bride and take her slow and easy, bringing her to the business with all the finesse at his fingertips – and that, he flattered himself, was considerable. She’d find pleasure in her marriage bed, he was determined on it. It would make her a more malleable, contented and obedient wife.

  He pulled off his boots and in his stockinged feet walked towards the bed, smiling.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she warned, her hands held up ready to ward him off.

  Aye, she was nervous, all right. “Don’t worry, lass, I’ll be gentle—”

  “I said stop!” she repeated. “There’s something I need to say to you first.”

  Cameron shrugged and sat down on the end of the bed. “Go ahead.”

  She scooted back, about as far away from him as she could be and still be on the same bed. “I’m no’ going to lie down with you tonight,” she told him. “Not as a bride.”

  Bridal jitters. “Why not?” Cameron folded his arms and waite
d.

  She nervously ran her tongue across her lips. His gaze followed the movement hungrily.

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Och, you do. I’m your husband,” he said with a glimmer of amusement.

  “I ken that fine,” she flashed, “But we don’t know each other and I won’t – I can’t lie down wi’ a man I don’t … I’ve only just … You don’t know me at all.”

  “I know enough,” he said, “and in the lying down together we will come to know each other.”

  She flushed, a wild rose colour that set his blood pounding. “What exactly do you know about me?”

  Ah, so that was it. She had a past, some secret she was afeared he’d discover. “I don’t care what you’ve done in the past, Jeannie. Our marriage starts fresh tonight.” He slid along the bed towards her.

  She shot off the bed. “Not tonight it doesn’t. You will listen to me on this, Cameron Fraser!” She stood near the fire, her arms folded across the swell of her breasts, her blue eyes sparking. “I’m not ashamed of anything in my past if that’s what you’re implying – but you’ve proved my point. You know nothing about me. I’m not just some female body you pulled from a bog and wed to get your hands on an inheritance. I’m a person, with hopes and dreams and plans of my own. Aye, we’re married, but it’s not enough.”

  He frowned. What the devil was she on about? Of course she was a person. He could see that fine through the thin fabric of her nightdress,, her long, slender legs silhouetted by the firelight. The blood pooled in his groin.

  But she was saying no, dammit. “I don’t understand. I’ve given you my name, brought you to my home, introduced you to my family in all honour. What the hell else do you want?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t curse at me, Cameron Fraser.” Her voice softened. “I know we’re wed and I appreciate the honour you’ve done me, indeed I do. But if I’m to be a true wife to you, I want … I want …”

  He flung himself off the bed and prowled slowly towards her, his temper on a knife edge. He’d got her measure now. He’d put a stop to this nonsense. “More jewels? Money? What?”

  She swallowed. “I want the same as other brides.”

  “Clothes? A trousseau? I said I’d buy you—”

  “I want to be courted.”

  He came to an abrupt halt. “Courted?” She wanted to be courted? By her husband?

  She nodded. “Just for a wee while. Just until we know each other better. And then I’ll feel more comfortable when we … you know.” She glanced at the bed.

  His anger slowly died. She was in earnest. And he had, after all, only known her for less than a day. He’d taken one look at her in the kirk and was ripe to tup her then and there, minister be damned.

  But women were different, he knew.

  “And what would this courtship entail?” He knew. Flowers, little gifts. Pretty speeches. And poetry, he thought gloomily. He hated poetry.

  She bit her lip and considered it a moment. “Talking mainly,” she said at last. “Getting to know each other. Perhaps a few walks.”

  It wasn’t much to ask. “No poetry then?” he said, cheering up.

  Her eyes lit. “Do you like poetry? My father was a poet.”

  “No,” he said hastily. “I don’t know any poems.” Mainly dirty ones. “But I could teach you to ride.”

  “That would be lovely,” she said in the kind of voice that told him she’d prefer he spouted poetry. And she waited, with that hopeful look in her eyes that unmanned him every damned time.

  Capitulation loomed. “How long would this courting period last?” He didn’t like the idea, didn’t want to wait for what his body hungered for, but she was his wife and he owed her respect. And he couldn’t withstand that damned appealing look.

  “A week?”

  He sighed. A week of waiting would probably kill him, especially if he had to look at those legs of hers much longer. But it wasn’t an unreasonable request.

  “All right, a week,” he agreed. “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We both sleep in the same bed – this bed. I give you my word I’ll do nothing you don’t want,” he added before she could argue.

  Courting couples did a great deal more than talking. Kissing, rolling around in the hay, all kinds of intimate exploration. He’d court her in bed with soft words and caresses. By the end of the week when they came to do the deed she’d be aching for him as he ached for her now.

  She gave him a wary look, sensing a trap.

  “I don’t want people gossiping about our marriage,” he explained, and that did the trick.

  She nodded. “Very well, I agree.”

  “Right then.” Cameron strode to the bed, flipped the covers back, pulled out his sgian dhu and cut his arm.

  Seven

  “What are you doing?” Jeannie gasped and flew across the room to him

  He let a few drops of blood fall on the sheets before he allowed her to examine the cut.

  “What on earth were you thinking of? Why would you do such a thing to yourself?” She grabbed a clean handkerchief and pressed it to the small cut. It was nothing, but he rather liked her fussing over him.

  “I won’t have the maids spreading rumours about your virginity. Or lack of it.”

  “I don’t lack – oh.” She broke off in blushing comprehension and stared at the stains on the sheet. “You cut yourself for me, for my honour,” she whispered.

  Cameron tried to look noble and brave. “It’s noth—”

  She flung her arms around him and kissed him, full on the mouth. He gathered her against him.

  He’d cut himself for her, to protect her from gossip and unkindness. What husband would do that for a bride who’d just refused him her bed?

  Jeannie lifted her mouth to his and a kiss started in gratitude ended in passion. The taste of him entered her blood like hot strong whisky, wild and dark and thrilling, dissolving her doubts, her fears.

  He grabbed the hem of the pullover and dragged it up. She hesitated. “It’s scratchy,” he murmured, and staring at his mouth, his beautiful, damp, wicked mouth, and his steady hazel eyes, she lifted her arms and let him drag the pullover over her head.

  Even before he’d tossed it aside she was kissing him again. The taste of him was like wildfire in her blood.

  Wanting poetry? Was she mad?

  She didn’t want poetry. She wanted Cameron. Her husband.

  The salt-clean scent of his skin was so right, so familiar to her. Desperate to touch him she slipped her hands under his shirt, over his chest, caressing the smooth, hard planes, and all the time kissing, kissing …

  He bent her back over the bed, half lying, grasping her by the hips and positioning her between his long brawny thighs, bare thighs, covered only by the kilt.

  Her hands dropped to his waist. She could feel the buckles of his kilt.

  Cameron eased her down on the bed, running his hands over her slender, lissome body, caressing her through the soft fine fabric of her nightdress. She pressed herself against him like a small eager cat, writhing in innocent eroticism, her limbs embracing him.

  His kilt was riding up and as she moved she brushed against him. Cameron groaned. He was hard and throbbing and it was all he could do not to shove her nightgown up and take her.

  But he’d given her his word.

  She brushed against him again and he abruptly pulled away and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there, panting, trying to lash into obedience the wild horses of his control.

  “What’s wrong?” She touched him tentatively on the shoulder.

  He didn’t reply. What the hell had happened? He was as out of control as a young boy with his first woman.

  “Cameron?” She trailed her hand softly down his spine.

  He shuddered and arched beneath her touch. “Don’t do that!” There was a short, hurt silence and he added in a quieter voice, “Don’t touch me.”

  “Don’t you like
it?”

  “I like it fine.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because it’s stretching my control to its limits, that’s why.”

  “Your control?” There was almost a purr to the way she said it.

  “Aye, touch me again and I might not be able to keep my promise to you. And I don’t break my word.”

  “I see.”

  The only sound in the room then was the crackling of the fire and Cameron’s own heavy breathing. He tried to concentrate on pure thoughts, but the scent of her skin, of roses and warm, aroused woman teased his nostrils. Coals shifted in the fireplace and all he could think of was the way she would look clad in nothing but firelight. He gritted his teeth willing his rampant body to obedience.

  “What if I want you to?”

  His stomach lurched. Did she just say what he thought she’d said?

  Her hands moved at his hips, there was the click of buckles and he felt his kilt begin to slide away. He turned around to face her. “What the hell?”

  “I … I’ve changed my mind.” In one movement she pulled her nightgown over her head and knelt there, naked, her heart in her eyes.

  With a groan he pulled her to him. He lavished her with kisses, loving every inch of her skin with hands and mouth and body. She was warm satin, fragrant as petals and her hair flowed over her like the silky dark water of the peaty burn.

  She shuddered and gasped and pressed herself against him, wrapping her long silky legs around him, plastering him with hot, slightly clumsy kisses that drove him purely wild.

  He’d planned to wait, to take it slow and gentle but she was wild and eager and impatient and so greedy for him he couldn’t hold himself back.

  As he entered her she cried out, arching and shuddered, clutching him with hard little fingers, her thighs trembling and closing around him as her body accepted him deep inside. Welcoming him.

  Ancient rhythms pounded through him and he shattered then, and at the spiralling edge of his awareness felt her shattering with him.

  Eight

  Cameron woke first in the morning. Usually after a night of love-making he sprang out of bed, raring to meet the day. Now he lay quietly, listening to the soft sound of her breathing, examining the unaccustomed feelings that lay heavy and full in his chest.