by Cathy MacRae
“I believe,” she considered carefully, “I believe I would have this constraint between us at an end. It has been a long, tiring day, and playing Fierges into the night may prove exhausting, leaving us little desire for intimacy.”
“Ye ask me to take ye to bed?” he asked, approaching slowly, his words more clarification than question. He halted an inch before Arbela’s resolve broke. She nodded.
“Aye. This will change nothing, yet it will provide the honesty our vows require.”
With a smile of confidence Arbela did not understand, Caelen reached for the belt tied about her waist. “Will ye trust me?”
“Of the two of us, ye alone know what we are about,” Arbela commented. She managed a halting half step at his gentle tug on her sash. The knot in the thick silken cord unraveled almost magically in his hand. Denied the belt’s firm support, the robe slid over her skin, trailing sensuously across her bosom as it drifted open. Arbela felt every warp and weft of the heavy fabric across her strangely sensitive skin and she shivered.
“Cold?” Caelen asked, his eyebrows flicking upward.
“Nae. Unused to being stared at by a man without my sword at his throat,” she quipped.
Faint amusement flickered in his eyes, and a corner of his mouth twitched. “I should have insisted the bedding take place without weapons. Would ye be opposed to the amendment?”
Something akin to pleasure at his responding humor washed over her, easing her breathing once more. “Are ye prone to mutationes sine causa?”
Caelen’s startled gaze leapt from her partially-exposed chest to her eyes. Arbela hid her smile.
“Changes without cause. Och, I forgot ye speak Latin. Enough to challenge the priest at our wedding. Ye will have to forgive a poor Highlander his labitur in lingua.”
“Your grasp of Latin seems fine,” Arbela said. “I hear no slip of the tongue.”
Caelen closed the distance between them, his body warm through the narrow opening in Arbela’s velvet robe. The luxurious fabric slid from one shoulder and she scarcely caught it before it completely exposed her. Her skin heated. Caelen loomed over her, yet his only hold on her was the robe’s cord, which hung all but useless at her waist, and the two fingers he chucked beneath her chin.
“My command of Gaelic, Inglis, and Latin are fine,” he murmured. “As is my understanding of Norn.” He dropped his lips to hers, only a fraction of space between them. “’Tis this slip I am referencing.”
His tongue rode the crests and valleys of her lips, the unexpected move betraying Arbela into a shocked gasp. Instantly, he plunged inside her mouth, teasing her, coaxing her to his seductive dance. Her hand shot up to fist the front of his tunic, twisting in the fabric as she fought to keep her balance.
Obligingly, he crooked an arm around her, pulling her against him, supporting her. Every hard, muscular inch of him blazed hot against her thighs, her belly, her breast, crushed against him as though she no longer belonged to herself.
She didn’t. She belonged to him.
Sparks of heat fluttered low in her belly, welcoming the hard ridge of flesh pressed at the juncture of her thighs. Arbela had heard enough gossip in the women’s quarters at Batroun and other places to know the rudiments of what passed between a man and a woman, but the innuendoes and sly looks canted her direction by the gossiping women did nothing to reassure her of the surge of desire sapping the strength from her limbs, clouding her brain, leaving her befuddled as the first time she’d taken a direct hit from an opponent on the training field.
Only now there was no shocking pain as a prelude. Only the breathless sensation and grasping recall of thought.
This is what other women sigh over? Losing control in a man’s arms?
It wasn’t unpleasant, but it went completely against her nature. Arbela struggled to relax, fought the urge to crook a foot behind his heel and dump him to the ground. He swept his arm beneath her knees, lifting her against his chest and carried her across the room, tangling them briefly in the beaded fringe of the doorway to her private chamber. Kneeling against the mattress, Caelen deposited her onto the bed and stepped back to strip away his clothing.
Arbela slid across the bed, her back against the thick pillows at the head, barely noticing the rose petals scattered across the cover someone—Zora?—had placed there. Their bruised scent wafted upward. Caelen dropped his tunic and trousers to the floor.
The mattress sagged with his weight, bobbing Arbela as though she were a small boat in a choppy sea. Caelen advanced, stripping the covers back, revealing the white sheets—pale gold in the firelight. Arbela bounced her bottom obligingly, allowing the bedclothes to shift beneath her. The sight of his naked form startled her and she clenched her jaw to keep from voicing her thoughts.
Firelight played bronze and shadows along his limbs, emphasizing his muscles, glowing warmly against his skin. She wanted to touch him, but held back, uncertain how he would respond. Unlike the languid dalliances she’d heard gossiped about, Caelen was direct and confident, his desire for her evident. Bold and hungry.
He settled next to her, half on his side to face her. With a gentle move, he swept the robe from her other shoulder. Cold air rushed over her, banished in an instant beneath his heated gaze. He dropped a kiss to her shoulders, slowly moving from one to the other. His hand slid inside her languishing robe to cup her breast, his thumb flicking across her taut nipple.
Excited, frightened, Arbela no longer knew what she desired. Her breast throbbed in his hand and she leaned forward to place it more firmly in his grasp, seeking to assuage the troubling ache. Caelen pushed her robe aside, sliding it from her arms, and Arbela slipped free. Nuzzling her neck, Caelen pulled her beneath him, and she gave herself over to his kisses.
Her legs quivered as he slid between them, and she drew her knees up, daring to touch her core against his heated length. Caelen groaned and rubbed his cock against her, and she quickly caught his rhythm. A thrum of pleasure tingled and Arbela did not object as he pulled back slightly, positioning the head of his cock at her opening. He hesitated, then pushed.
Arbela’s knees tightened against his flanks at the unwelcome sensation. All pleasure fled as he broke through her maidenhead. He thrust back and forth, panting, suddenly a stranger to her. She willed away her tension and the burst of pain eased.
Her vows. It was but this once. She could do anything once.
Caelen shouted, his body stiffening over her. He groaned, bucked his hips and stilled. After a moment, his head dropped to her shoulder and he lay atop her, breath slowing to a more normal pace. He moaned.
“I know it is uncomfortable for ye—the first time,” he muttered. “I should have gone slower. Eased ye more.”
Arbela firmly shoved his head off her shoulder, and he rolled to his side, slipping easily from her body.
“As ye are finished, do not worry yourself. ’Twas my burden to bear.”
Caelen rolled to an elbow, eyebrows plunged together in alarm. “Yer burden? Ye call this,” he swept a hand over their naked bodies, “a burden?”
“What do ye think, Caelen?” she asked, tears stinging her eyes. “No matter the how or the why of it, the consummation is complete.” She sat, grabbing her discarded robe and wrapping it about her. “Or is one of this,” she mocked his earlier movement, “not enough? Should I have stipulated a number?”
Caelen rolled to his feet and stalked across the room, snatching his clothing from the floor. “Nae. Henceforth, ye may wear yer weapons to bed. ’Twill be no concern of mine.”
* * *
Caelen threw a cushion from a chair to the floor and rolled himself in the woolen expanse of his cloak. It was warm and scratchy, but he’d take its known discomforts over his wife’s rejection.
Shite! He didn’t know how to woo a wife. His first marriage was proof of that. Why, by St. Andrew’s mismatched ballocks, did he think this marriage would be different?
Because Arbela was different. The problem, then, was him. He
’d suggested a business arrangement, never dreaming she would allow him to touch her this night. At the time, given her exotic boldness, and the memories of Ruthie he knew better than to dredge up, keeping Arbela at arm’s length seemed a brilliant idea. He’d gotten more than he hoped for in help for his clan, and taking her to wife, yet not a wife, was a good fit.
But for a short time this evening, he’d enjoyed himself. And it wasn’t only the bedding. Conversation with Arbela was intriguing. The game of Fierges had been of interest to him, even if his eyes had strayed more to the delicate tracery on her hands and the nearly blue glimmer of light on her hair. To the generous curves of her hip and breast beneath the fanciful attire. And the bedding had been very good—for him. Even Alesta, for all her willingness and knowledge, hadn’t sparked the sensations in him Arbela had. Spending time with his wife hadn’t been the burden he’d imagined.
Burden.
Her word for lovemaking. Her word for him. The word—God help him—for the rest of their life together.
Chapter 17
Bram twisted on the mattress, eyes too bright for a child ready for sleep. Arbela perched on the edge of the narrow bed, aware of the long hours ahead of her before her own rest.
“Are ye not sleepy, Bram-jan?” she asked, brushing a stray lock of hair back from his forehead.
“The lad will drift off,” Ilene snapped, her voice and manner brusque. The old nurse busied about the room, tidying the small mess the lad had created in an effort to show Arbela everything as soon as they entered his chamber. “Ye needn’t stay,” she added over her shoulder as she slammed the lid of Bram’s clothing trunk. “Dinnae fash yerself.”
“He’s no bother,” Arbela murmured, wondering how many times she’d say the words before others—and Bram—believed it. She’d heard Ilene fuss over Bram’s care one time too many.
She gave the boy a smile. “I believe I promised ye a bedtime tale, did I not?”
Bram beamed, nodding his head vigorously.
“Ye must prepare for sleep, then. After the tale, ye will find your rest.” Arbela dragged a wooden chair close and moved onto its wickerwork seat, making a mental note to add a cushion to give it comfort. “Let us see how ye like my tale of St. George and the dragon.”
“’Tis a short tale,” Bram objected.
“Not as I tell it,” she assured him. Taking a deep breath, she laced her fingers in her lap and began.
“St. George was a very brave knight, born in Cappadocia, in the mountains to the west of Armenia. One day in his travels, he came to a city with a small lake where the people obtained their water. But an enormous dragon had taken up residence there, poisoning the water and the entire surrounding region.”
Bram’s eyes widened with excitement and he clutched his bedclothes to his chest.
“Da says a hermit told him about the dragon.”
“Mayhap he did,” Arbela agreed. She paused, waiting for his nod to continue.
“More fearful was he than any monster anyone had ever seen, and upon his back were roughened scales harder than iron or steel. His teeth and nails were like the sharpest swords, and his breath stank of char and death. Everything he touched withered and died, and the area around the lake, his new home, reeked of decay. None dared approach. Indeed, the townspeople had begun feeding the fell creature two sheep daily, and in return, the dragon pledged not to poison the water in the pond. But soon, the dragon insisted on a villager each day to eat, in addition to the sheep, and the king submitted to the foul dragon’s demand.”
Bram furrowed his brow. “Yer dragon is meaner than da’s.”
Arbela smiled. “People were chosen by lots to feed the dragon, and every day, another was chosen to meet a terrible end. Days passed with no recourse, until the king’s own daughter was chosen. The king offered much silver and gold for someone to change places with his beloved child, but the townspeople insisted her fate would be no different than any among them.”
Bram scrambled to a seated position, knees tucked beneath his chin, but this time he did not interrupt.
“Greatly saddened, the king dressed his daughter in her finest clothing, kissed her, and led her to the lake near the dragon’s lair where he left her to await her doom, alone and frightened. St. George rode up and, spying the beautiful princess, asked her why she tarried alone so far from town. She told him of the dragon and the terrible price he exacted from her people.
“And St. George said, Fear not, fair maiden, for I shall help ye in the name of Jesus Christus.”
“Yay, St. George!” Bram shouted. He kicked at his covers but settled quickly beneath Arbela’s calm stare.
“The princess wept and pleaded with him to flee, for she was convinced none could save her from the evil dragon and she did not wish St. George to be eaten as well. As they spoke, the dragon appeared and swooped down from the skies, plumes of smoke befouling the air. The princess fell to the ground in fear, but St. George held his horse firm against their foe, drew his sword and, making the sign of the cross, rode hard against the dragon. He smote him with his sword, throwing the beast to the ground where he lay, dead, at St. George’s feet.”
“’Cause he had no scales beneath his wing, and St. George knew where to stab him!” Bram shouted, the light of a warrior in his eyes. Arbela gave a nod of agreement.
“St. George drew the princess to her feet, lifted her onto his horse, and delivered her to her father, the king. After hearing St. George’s tale, the king was baptized, followed by all his people. The king erected a church of Our Lady and Saint George, and a fountain sprang up before it, and all who drank of its water were healed of their infirmities. The king offered St. George as much money as he could carry, but the noble knight refused the reward, giving it instead to the poor. Then St. George requested the king honor the priests, hear their services diligently, and have pity on the poor and sick of his town.”
“I dinnae know about the money or the fountain,” Bram mused. “He really was a good knight, wasn’t he?”
“Aye, he was. Do ye know the rest of the story?”
Bram shook his head, eyes wide with interest.
“Many years later, in the history of Antioch, when the Christians set out to conquer Jerusalem and wrest it from the Saracens, a young man appeared to a priest and advised him to carry some of the relics of St. George. During the siege of Jerusalem, a man wearing the white armor and red cross of St. George, led them all to victory.”
Bram tilted his head. “St. George killed the bad people who captured Jerusalem?”
“He certainly helped,” Arbela said. “He was a knight of renown whose fame brought victory to those who honored his ways. Shall ye tell me the story as your father does next time?”
“Mayhap,” Bram said. “I’ll think about it.”
Arbela rose. “Sleep well, Bram-jan. I will find other stories and interesting things to do on the morrow.”
“Will ye stay with me?” he asked, grabbing her hand. She squeezed his fingers gently and drew away.
“I have yet to find my bed,” she told him. She sent a glance to his nurse. “Mind Ilene, and go to sleep.”
His little body fairly bristled with objection, but Arbela placed a light kiss on his forehead and padded from the room, closing the door softly behind her, ignoring Ilene’s glare.
Agnes rose from a bench against the wall in the passage. “I will help ye prepare for the night,” she said, falling into step at Arbela’s side. Arbela hesitated.
“The laird’s room is here,” Agnes said, gesturing to a door only a few feet away. “There are few private bedrooms in a tower house,” she added.
“Laird MacKern is still below stairs—I’ve been watching,” Agnes giggled as she pushed open the door. She bustled inside. “I made certain the fire was stoked and the room warm for ye. And here’s a tub waiting. I’ll add the hot water to it now if ye are ready for yer bath.”
Fighting back the overwhelming sense of events spinning out of control, as though
Agnes pushed her into a new life she wasn’t certain she was ready for, Arbela reminded herself of the arrangement between herself and Caelen. She would allow Agnes to see to her evening routine, and then, once Agnes retired for the night, consult Caelen for other sleeping arrangements.
“I thank ye, Agnes,” she said, forcing calmness into her words. “A bath sounds lovely. Ye may seek your rest once I am in the tub.”
Agnes’ eyes danced, her demeanor merry as she helped Arbela disrobe. “I know Dunfaileas isnae what ye are accustomed to,” Agnes whispered. “But ’tis neat enough, and the laird is grand to look upon.”
Arbela sank into the heated water, allowing it to soothe her. “The size of the keep is fine. It reminds me of Batroun. Howbeit, there are many things to be done.”
Agnes handed her a linen square and a chunk of soap she’d brought with her. “Oh? What will ye do?”
Lathering the soap into the linen, Arbela reflected on her initial thoughts as she entered the Dunfaileas keep. “Alex and my father have already sent men who have begun work on the walls, and ’tis apparent the privies need attention. I will put those on a regular maintenance schedule. The keep appears to have been recently scrubbed, and I will see to it someone is in charge of that as well. Once I have viewed the pantry, kitchen and such, I will know more about what I should implement, improve on, or learn from.” A wry smile caught the corner of her lips. “There will be much to do on the morrow.”
“A new bride should enjoy a few days with her husband before settling into such things,” Agnes chided gently.
“This new bride will get a good night’s rest and set about learning her new home after the morning meal,” Arbela corrected.
“I wish ye’d had more time to know Laird MacKern,” Agnes said, wringing out the linen cloth. “When ye dinnae know each other well, it can take time for ye to become comfortable with one another and enjoy spending time together.” She patted Arbela’s shoulder. “I will say no more. Except, I dinnae think ye will have a full night’s rest this night!”
