Bride of Lochbarr

by Margaret Moore

  She blushed to the soles of her sore feet and couldn’t meet his gaze.

  Seamus held out his hand. “Now, Lady Marianne—daughter—if you’ll give me your hand, I think Father Padraig should be sober enough for the blessing.”

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, the brief ceremony was over and Marianne was married to Adair Mac Taran.

  Nothing about Marianne’s wedding had been as she’d imagined it in days gone by. Not the groom, who’d stood stiff and still beside her in the village church, dressed in a fine white shirt and his moss-green and rusty-red plaid garment. Not herself, wearing that horrid brown gown, with only her mother’s crucifix for jewelry. And certainly not the doddering, elderly, drunken priest who had blessed their union, binding her to the Scot for life. The only person who’d looked pleased had been Adair’s father.

  Now she was alone in Adair’s teach, which was as spartan as his father’s with one notable exception: the bed. It was twice the size of the chieftain’s, and made up with linen sheets and a woolen blanket in a striped pattern of green and blue, with a thick black fur across the foot.

  There were no coverings on the wall or floor to provide some protection from the cold, and the only light came from a small oil lamp that reeked of sheep’s tallow. The rest of the furniture consisted of a table, two stools and a painted chest that probably held Adair’s clothes.

  Trying to ignore the bed, although it seemed to take up half the room, she went to the window, intending to close the shutters to drown out the muffled sounds of celebrating—the loud, boisterous singing and the Scots’ strange piped instruments that made a noise like cats screeching.

  After she shut the shutters as tightly as she could, her stomach growled.

  Her wedding feast hadn’t been as she’d imagined it, either. She could barely touch the strange, unappetizing food, and she’d been subjected to the curious looks and hostile stares of the household and clansmen, reminding her—as if she needed it!—that she was an unwelcome foreigner. It would probably be years, if ever, before she’d ever feel completely at home in this horrible, rugged, damp and uncivilized place.

  The door banged open, making her jump.

  She turned to find her husband standing on the threshold, his powerful warrior’s body silhouetted against the night sky.

  The man who owned her had come to collect his reward for saving her from Hamish Mac Glogan.

  Maybe wearing only her shift had been a mistake, but she hadn’t wanted to seem some timid girl who had second thoughts about her decision.

  “Somebody’s been in here tidying,” he remarked as he came in and closed the door. His voice was casual, almost blasé, as if nothing of any significance had happened between them. “I’m not a neat man. But generally nobody comes in here but me.”

  She didn’t believe that for a moment. Surely a man of his attributes didn’t spend many nights alone.

  Unless the women here are fools.

  She silently commanded her inner voice to hold its wayward tongue. And her heart to stop racing. And her knees to cease shaking. She must behave with pride and dignity, as befit a well-bred Norman lady.

  Her husband moved toward the bed and grinned, looking like the devil’s own minion. “Clean sheets.”

  She couldn’t help blushing, and hated herself for it. “I assume that’s so your family can inspect them in the morning, to be sure I was a virgin.”

  The amusement disappeared from his eyes. “They wouldn’t care if you weren’t. Neither would I.”

  That had to be a lie, too. “Every man wants to marry a virgin.”

  Every honorable one, anyway, and his father’s claims made Adair Mac Taran sound like the most chivalrous man in England.

  “The Normans may think a woman’s only value is her maidenhead, but Scots don’t. My father handfasted three times before my mother. Those women all married well afterward.”

  She’d forgotten about that barbaric custom. The Scots’ notion of honor and chivalry was obviously quite different from the Normans’. “Fidelity is not important to you then.”

  “Of course it is. Now that we’re married, they’ll be no other women for me.” He strolled closer, his gaze questioning. “Or are you asking if you must be faithful?”

  “Of course I will be,” she replied, determined to stand her ground and not let him intimidate her. “I’ve sworn before God.”

  His eyes seemed to bore right into her. “So, I remind you, did I. From this night on, it will be only you I take to my bed, Marianne.” His voice lowered, to a seductive purr that set her heart pounding. “At the moment, there’s no other woman I want to take to my bed.”

  Oh, sweet merciful Mary! He could probably seduce a woman without even touching her.

  But she didn’t want him to think she was a naive young woman who didn’t know the truth about men. “I may have been a long time in a convent, but I’m not a fool. I know that men may swear to be faithful, yet break those vows—even the ones before God.”

  “You may have heard a lot about Norman men, but you don’t know me.”

  He was right. She didn’t, yet she’d given herself to him in marriage.

  “I suppose I should defend my sex,” he said. He gave her a sardonic look. “There are probably even some good Normans.”

  “Several—just as there may be some exemplary Scots.”

  “There are plenty of good, decent Scots in Lochbarr.”

  “If you say so.”

  His brows lowered. “I do. Or do you intend your words to be an insult to my father, my brother, my clansmen and me?”

  Sure she’d angered him, well aware that as her husband, he was free to treat her as he liked, she backed away from him until she hit the table.

  Her husband’s eyes flared with sudden comprehension. “I’m not going to strike you. I’ve never hit a woman in my life.”

  She hoped that was true.

  He came to her and lightly took hold of her shoulders, the pressure of his hands warm and firm. “I’ve never hurt a woman and I certainly don’t plan to hurt my wife, in bed or out of it.”

  As he continued to hold her, her gaze flicked to the bed. She remembered what the girls who’d come to the convent in disgrace had said about making love for the first time, the pain and blood. “Not intentionally, perhaps, but you will. I know…things. About the first time we make love.”

  God help her, she sounded worse than naive. She sounded stupid and frightened.

  His hands slid from her shoulders down her arms, the gesture like a caress. “More things you heard from those girls in the convent?”

  “Yes.”

  Now she sounded defiant and strident. And his hands were still touching her.

  Instead of regarding her as if she were stupid, frightened, or strident, his full lips curved up in a smile that was as warm and welcome as his father’s had been. And more. “Well, my wife, you may be a virgin, but I’m not.”

  The pleasant feelings within her died. She didn’t need to hear about his experience. “I didn’t expect that you were,” she snapped, pulling away. “I’m sure you’ve seduced many women.”

  “Seduced?” he repeated, his smile gone. “You make it sound as if I sneak about with other men’s wives, or deflower virgins for sport.”

  She crossed her arms. Perhaps he did.

  He put his hands on his hips and glared at her. “I’ve known a few women in my time, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. But they were all free, and so was I, and no harm done.”

  “Just what I would expect a man to say.”

  “I only told you so you’d know that I won’t be thinking only of myself, like some lustful lad.”

  “How very kind.”

  “I suppose that’s all the gratitude I’m ever going to get from you,” he growled as he marched toward the door. “I should have expected no more, after what you said this morning.”

  “And I was right to think that by gratitude you meant—”

  She fell silent as she envisioned
him returning to the hall and telling everyone there that he refused to consummate the marriage.

  If he didn’t, they wouldn’t be really married. He could send her away. Cast her out. She’d be abandoned by her husband, just as her brother had disowned her. She’d never have children or a family. She’d be all alone. “Adair!”

  His hand on the latch, he looked back over his shoulder.

  “Adair,” she said, trying not to sound desperate, “please don’t go. I…I’m sorry.”

  He eyed her warily.

  “I don’t want you to leave.” She went toward him. “Please don’t go.”

  He turned back into the room. “You want me to stay?”

  “Yes.”

  His expression hardened. “Why?”

  “Because we’re married.” She halted in front of him, then reached up and caressed his cheek. “Because I want you.”

  And that, she knew in her heart, was no lie. “Don’t you want me?” she asked, sidling closer. She raised herself on her toes and brushed her lips across his. “Don’t you?”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then, with a low growl of desire, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her with fierce, hungry passion.

  This was the bargain she’d made—marriage and safety for passion and security.

  But as his kiss deepened, as heat and need exploded within her, she knew the passion had never been only his.

  He shifted, moving his hands slowly down her back, pressing her close, arousing incredible sensations with a kiss, with his tongue, with his touch.

  She wanted to be closer, too, to feel more of him, her husband. Leaning into him, she ran her hands over his broad, well-muscled back. A warrior’s back. Her husband’s virile, powerful body.

  She gasped as Adair picked her up and carried her to the bed.

  He was going to make love with her. He wasn’t going to leave—and she was glad. Excited. Hot with desire.

  His hands went to the broach at his shoulder. He undid the clasp and tossed it onto the table. The piece of plaid fabric that hung over his left shoulder fell to the floor. Then he started to undo his belt.

  Her breathing accelerated. She was his wife. She belonged to him. She shouldn’t look away, and yet before his feileadh came undone, she did, scrambling beneath the sheets.

  She heard the feileadh fall to the floor, then another garment. That had to be his shirt. He must be naked now. She felt the sheet rise and risked a glance as he climbed into the bed beside her.

  His body was magnificent, from his handsome head, to his broad chest, his taut belly and…she didn’t look lower. She didn’t dare.

  Not sure what to do or what was expected of her, she closed her eyes and lay still, waiting for him to make the next move.

  “Marianne?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you open your eyes?”

  She obeyed, to find him propped up on one elbow, looking down at her. “You must lead the way tonight, Marianne,” he murmured as his hand slid slowly over the chain of her crucifix and across her collarbone toward the ties at the neck of her shift. “I’ll do nothing that you do not want and I’ll do my best not to hurt you.”

  “But you’re so big.”

  His eyes widened. “I like the compliment, but how many naked men have you seen to compare me to?”

  “None!” she cried, offended, until he smiled.

  “I didn’t mean…that,” she said, suddenly bashful as she nodded toward his groin. “I meant all over.”

  “I didn’t suppose you’d had many opportunities for comparison in a convent. Are you worried I’ll crush you?”

  It sounded so silly.

  He toyed with the ends of the ties of her shift. He was going to undo the knot. She wished he’d hurry up.

  “I promise you, I won’t crush you,” he said as he bent down and brushed his lips over hers. “My arms are very strong.”

  “I can tell.”

  He pulled one tie and undid the knot. “Then have faith in me,” he whispered before he kissed her, moving his mouth with slow, intoxicating languor.

  She entwined her arms about his neck, steadying herself against the sensual onslaught. His hand slipped beneath her shift, sliding gently over her skin like a whisper of silk, barely touching. Then down to her breasts.

  This was his right, too, and she didn’t protest. How could she, when his caresses felt so…so…wonderful. Arching back, she instinctively pushed against his hand.

  “So you like that,” he murmured, his lips against her skin. “So do I.”

  Emboldened by the excitement he aroused, she lightly brushed her fingertips across the flesh of his belly, then his chest, encountering the dark hairs that spread between his nipples. She tentatively moved her hand down his chest, unsure of what to do, wondering if…

  The catch in his breath told her he liked to be touched there. She encircled him, exploring her husband by touch.

  To judge by his breathing and the increasing passion of his kiss, he liked that very much.

  As she stroked him, he ran his palm over her breast. His thumb lightly brushed the hardened nub.

  And she thought they had but one purpose.

  She’d often wondered why men had them. Perhaps…

  Her fingertips swept across his, earning a low moan from deep within his throat.

  So, for pleasure. She would never have guessed that.

  What if she kissed him there?

  She immediately gave in to the impulse, pressing her lips against his hot, salty skin, letting her tongue flick across the tip of his nipple as his thumb had hers.

  He groaned, the sound one of such seeming agony, she instantly stilled and looked up in horror at his face.

  “No, don’t stop,” he murmured, his eyes closed. “Please, Marianne, I beg you. Don’t stop.”

  He sounded aroused and yearning, not angry or in pain.

  And completely at her mercy, as if she were the commander here. A spirit of mischief, of freedom and liberty, encouraged her. She grabbed his shoulders and shifted forward, raising herself more as she swirled her tongue about the rosy brown circle.

  He was breathing as hard as if he’d run a mile.

  She switched to the other side, still gripping him tightly, his skin hot and slick.

  He insinuated his leg over hers and moved so that his body was between her limbs. She fell back and he followed, taking her mouth again with fierce hunger.

  Adair’s hand drifted to her leg and began to lift the skirt of her shift. His mouth left hers, traveling lower, resting for a moment on the throbbing pulse of her neck as she caught her breath.

  Then he continued, using his chin to nuzzle her shift lower, until her breasts were bare.

  She didn’t care if he saw her naked. That was his right. More, the shift was a nuisance, an encumbrance. She wanted to be wanton and wild, free of restraint.

  As savage as he.

  Panting, she sat up, tugged off her shift and tossed it aside.

  He sat back on his haunches, his body illuminated by the flickering, dim light of the lamp, as he slowly perused her body. “You’re so beautiful.”

  “So are you,” she whispered as she brought him to her for another kiss. He eagerly complied, his hand continuing to caress and stroke her, creating yet more excitement, and need.

  She gasped when he cupped her between her legs, surprised by his action—but only for a moment before she closed her eyes and surrendered to a new pleasure.

  His finger slid inside her. Her eyes flew open and she stared, shocked, into his handsome face.

  “To prepare you,” he said softly. “If you want me to stop, I will.”

  She shook her head. “Not if it helps.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  She was liking it so much, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out so loudly that the men in the hall could hear her.

  “You’re moist and warm, Marianne. And tight.”

  Apparently that was good.
r />   Then he leaned down and his mouth suckled her breasts, licking her nipple. Gently flicking.

  More tension grew within her, until her body felt stretched as tight and taut as a rope hauling up a stone. She grabbed the bottom sheet, bunching it in her hands.

  He moved to pleasure her other breast, and as he did, he removed his finger.

  Then he was against her, pushing gently, but inexorably, inside her. She sucked in her breath at the quick, sharp pain.

  He instantly stilled. “That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot on her ear as he held her close. “That’s what you heard about and feared. It should be just this once.”

  He moved, thrusting slowly once more, and kissed her cheek, her chin. “The pain shouldn’t last,” he said as he rocked slowly back, then forward. “Tell me if it does, and I’ll stop.”

  She opened her eyes to look at him. “You can stop?”

  “If I must. It won’t be easy, I grant you, but I can.”

  “Does it hurt you, too?”

  “No. It feels…” He pushed again. “Words can’t describe it.”

  “It doesn’t hurt so much anymore.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Kiss me.”

  He did, tenderly at first. Gently, as he’d taken her maidenhead.

  But not for long. Not when the passion returned, full force and more, to overtake them both. Then he kissed her with hungry fervor, and she responded in kind, driven by a need, a desire, older than custom and rules and tribes and language.

  His passion overwhelmed her and all conscious thought fled. He swept her off to a place of sensation and feelings, where all that mattered was pleasure.

  The pain was gone. Forgotten. She found purchase with her heels and began to meet his thrusts. An urgent longing to join with him, thrust for thrust, filled her. She took hold of his shoulders and arched, encouraging him to pleasure her breasts again.

  This was her man, and she was his woman. Completely his woman. And whether he was a Scot or not, she wouldn’t give him reason to share his magnificent body and caresses or kisses with another.