The Warrior's Queen

by Cecelia Mecca

  “I was just trying to tell you. This is Morgan. She arrived from Lyndwood after you left, and—”

  “Ah, yes.” He remembered being told her men had arrived with Gillian’s belongings and her lady’s maid. They had apparently stayed the night and returned to Lyndwood in the morning. A pity, he’d have liked to speak to them ahead of his own visit there.

  “I thought I heard your voice, my lady. My apologies for—”

  “’Tis nothing, Morgan. You may—”

  “Return to the lady’s chamber,” Graeme finished.

  Morgan looked from him to her lady. “But surely you need my assistance?”

  “She does not,” Graeme said firmly. If he could not remove his own wife’s clothing, then he was a poor husband indeed.

  Gillian made a face at him and then gave her attention to the maid. “You may return to the lady’s chamber. It appears your assistance is not needed tonight. But thank you, Morgan.”

  The maid bobbed a courtesy, muttered, “My lord,” and left.

  Gillian crossed her arms over her chest, which only brought more attention to her ample breasts. “You scared her.”

  “Scared? I’ve done no such thing.”

  She did not appear convinced.

  “I simply informed her—”

  “In a tone well-suited to a battlefield. As you towered above the poor woman.”

  “Towered? Would you have me kneel before her?”

  To illustrate, he lowered himself to one knee.

  “Happily met, Mistress Morgan,” he said, looking up at his wife as if she were the maid.

  “It is indeed a pleasure to—”

  “Stop,” she said, laughing and trying to pull him up. “’Tis absurd.”

  When she reached for him, Graeme took advantage and pulled her onto his lap.

  “The only absurd thing here . . .” He moved her dark hair to the side to give himself better access to her neck, “is that I find myself alone with my beautiful wife, and she’s not yet unclothed.”

  He lowered his lips to the soft flesh behind her ear and kissed her there. Not stopping at one kiss, Graeme ran a trail of them down her neck and toward the front of her gown. He scooped her up into his arms, stood, and carried her toward the bed.

  Rather than lay her down, he lowered her to her feet and spun her around.

  “I’ve often wondered why a lady’s gown should be laced at the back when she clearly cannot reach there.”

  He watched her shoulders rise and fall as he unlaced the ties, her breathing becoming heavier.

  “What do they call this?” Finished with his task, Graeme reached around and ran his hand from her shoulders down the front of her gown, just barely brushing her breasts.

  “Embossed cloth,” she whispered.

  He continued to allow his hands to wander, feeling the raised gold fabric beneath his fingers, less interested in the material than he was in the woman beneath it. He stepped toward her, so close they were touching, and reached for the linked gold circles around her waist, the belt clasp the final maddening barrier before he could rid her of the surcoat.

  While he unfastened the belt, Graeme whispered, “And why do they make these so very difficult to remove?” He kissed her ear as the clasp finally came undone.

  “I do believe,” she said, her heart hammering below the hand he’d splayed across her chest, “’tis not meant to be unfastened from behind.”

  When the surcoat dropped to the floor beneath them, Graeme gave his attention to the plum-colored kirtle beneath it.

  “Such fine fabric.” He ran his hands along her arms and toward the front before bending down to grab the hem of the kirtle.

  In one swift motion, he’d pulled both the kirtle and the cotton shift beneath it up and over her head, tossing them aside. Gillian began to turn, but he stopped her, removing his own shirt and trewes as quickly as his hands would allow.

  Why did his heart hammer as if he were an untried lad? It was as if she were a queen in truth. As if she were an unobtainable beauty and not his wife, whom he’d enjoyed hours before.

  His cock stood at full attention, begging for relief, but he was determined to wait. To hold out for her pleasure. To give her every pleasure she deserved in the bedchamber.

  “Graeme?”

  He’d been about to move his hands, but at the sound of her voice, they stayed in place instead. “Aye?”

  “What are you doing?” She began to turn, and he stopped her once again.

  “Seducing you, my queen.”

  Her head still turned, the adorable pert nose that he suddenly had the desire to kiss scrunched up. He watched her expression turn from confusion to understanding to . . . that was what he waited for.

  Graeme moved closer, pulling his wife toward him. Encouraged by her gasp, and trying to ignore the feel of her buttocks against him, he reached around to tease her taut nipples.

  “I need to know,” he murmured against her neck, “what you enjoy.”

  Kissing her, Graeme lowered his hands until he found the curls that guarded her most precious treasure.

  “Tell me,” he said, slipping a finger inside, not surprised by the slick wetness there.

  “All of it,” she breathed out.

  He moved his fingers at an increasingly fast tempo that soon had her panting. Not good enough. He wanted her out of control. Wild for him. With his free hand, he caressed her breast, his chest and manhood pressing against her from behind.

  “That,” she whispered.

  “’Tis a climax you seek,” he said, “and I will give you one. In the future, you can simply ask. For my touch, for release, for anything you want. In here, I am yours.”

  To prove it, Graeme brought her to the very edge.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I—”

  He slowed. Waited.

  “I want you to—”

  “Make me come,” he helped.

  “Aye,” she said.

  Had his own desire been any less fierce, Graeme might have chuckled. She couldn’t say the word. But she would eventually. For now, it mattered not. As long as Gillian understood there was no need for pretense between them. In here, they were husband and wife in truth.

  And then she cried out his name, the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

  When she came back down from that sweet place where time and place held no meaning, he finally turned her around to face him. Kissing her with all the pent-up passion he’d felt since their first meeting at Kenshire, Graeme guided his wife to the bed. He should wait, give her time to recover. But the feel of her against him, the strain of holding back . . .

  He just couldn’t do it.

  Not bothering to pull down the coverlet, Graeme lowered himself over her. He traced a finger from her collarbone down the center of her chest, careful not to touch any sensitive parts.

  Yet.

  “How do you feel?”

  She sighed. “Relaxed.”

  She glanced down.

  “You’ve a habit of looking down there,” he teased.

  “Does it unsettle you?”

  There were plenty of things about Gillian that unsettled him. The ease with which they came together. His constant thoughts of her when they were apart. The idea that, despite himself, he might be falling for his own wife, a woman who’d been forced to wed him. Aye, those thoughts unsettled him. Her habit of staring at him? Not at all.

  “You can look.” Graeme took her hand and placed it on him. “You can touch. I will say it every day until you believe me—in here, nothing stands between us.”

  “I can do . . . anything . . . I’d like?”

  He’d been hard before, but now his arousal was almost painful. She stroked him, without knowing how, priming him for what was to come.

  “Dear God, woman.”

  That only emboldened her.

  Graeme wrapped his hand around hers, showing her, and didn’t the minx give him the biggest smile he’d seen from her.

/>   “This is fun.”

  No more.

  Graeme took her hand, and the other one as well, and lifted them both above her head. Holding them in place, he guided himself into his wife, apparently much too slowly for her pleasure. With one pump of her hips, Gillian set the pace.

  Well, if she wished for him to move more quickly, he’d not disappoint. He thrust faster and moved his hips to ensure her pleasure.

  When she tried to pull her arms down, presumably to wrap them around him, Graeme held them in place.

  “Do you want me to let you go?”

  “No,” she said. “I just want—” She met his every thrust. “More.”

  Graeme gave her everything he had to give, and when she peaked, he did so with her, the delicious release so powerful he nearly forgot to breathe. Gillian’s face was no longer serene. No longer detached. She was not his English queen, so beautiful but so proper. In here, she was his wanton goddess.

  19

  “You do that often, you know.” Graeme reached for her hair and smoothed it behind her ear.

  They had stopped to give the horses a rest, and she’d sought out a thicket of trees so she could relieve herself. After attending to nature’s call, she righted herself and began to walk back to the clearing. He must have followed her to keep watch because he was leaning against a massive oak tree along her path, his arms crossed and casual, exuding confidence and sensuality. Knowing him now as she did, both of those traits were as obvious as the age of the tree he pushed away from to approach her.

  She hadn’t even realized she’d swept her hair forward until he reached out to right it.

  “What are you trying to hide, my queen?”

  The endearment filled her heart with joy. In fact, these past two days of travel had been two of the happiest of her life. She would finally see her sister today, and it heartened her to think that she had a plan to save her.

  Granted, it was not the best of plans.

  If her father could not be talked out of the betrothal, Gillian would simply convince Allie to come to Highgate with them. She could not be allowed to marry Covington. Aye, Gillian had been prepared to sacrifice herself for her family. To appease her father. Earn his respect. But the earl was a bad man. Though she understood his motivations, her father was cruel to contemplate giving her, and now her sister, up as a sacrifice.

  After this past week with her husband, she had a new understanding of what he was asking of them. Of what her sister would be giving up if she were to wed herself to Covington. There could be more.

  Sara and Geoffrey . . . Emma and Garrick . . . these were not rare instances of married couples who loved each other. Her parents were the anomaly.

  Love was possible between husband and wife. Gillian knew it because she was falling in love with her husband. Why else would her heart thud out of its chest every time he was near? Or why would she crave his presence, seeking him out for all manner of reasons throughout the day?

  Why would a simple touch move her so deeply, making her wish to know everything about this man? So that she could understand him, help him, love him.

  “Hide. You’ve made it quite clear, my lord, there should be nothing hidden between us.”

  “In the bedchamber,” he replied, taking another step toward her.

  Though the day was just perfect—not too cold or too hot—and the sun had already begun its descent, Gillian’s cheeks reddened.

  “But not outside of it?”

  She could have bitten her tongue. What could she be thinking, taunting him in such a way? There were secrets between them outside of the bedroom—hers. Gillian had not yet told him about her father’s troubles or even Allie’s betrothal. Though she knew it needed to be done, she couldn’t stand the thought of further burdening him. Hadn’t her father already done enough? If there was a chance, however small, she could convince her parents out of their hasty actions, it behooved her to try. She wasn’t deluded enough to think it would work. But at least she could tell Graeme she’d done her part.

  One thing she knew for sure—she would not leave Allie to her fate. Surely he would agree with her on that. Would he not?

  He cleared his throat and retreated back into himself. When they were alone together, he gave all of himself to her. Pleased her beyond anything she could have imagined possible. At other times, he remained very much a stranger, as if he were purposefully holding himself back. The suspicion that her father was at fault was another reason she’d stayed silent.

  “I believe we were discussing you,” he said. He reached for her again, this time pulling her toward him. “Do not hide your face, or any other part of you.”

  “I wasn’t hiding my face. I—”

  Her words were cut off by a kiss. Not a gentle wooing one but a hard, insistent kiss that demanded an immediate response.

  Which she gave him.

  Gillian met his tongue with her own, clutching his tunic to keep her knees from buckling. How could she so quickly be pulled under his spell?

  “My lord?”

  When one of his men called to him from behind, Gillian attempted to pull away.

  “Nay,” he said, though he did take a moment to call back, “A moment.”

  They listened, heard nothing, and then Graeme laid his hand ever so gently on her cheek.

  “So lovely . . .”

  Gillian didn’t know what to say. No one had ever spoken to her in such a way before. Sure, people had called her beautiful before. Allie and Sara and Morgan and even her mother. But they all adored her, and so she’d shrugged off their praise as the bias of loved ones.

  But when Graeme said it . . .

  She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of his hand against her.

  Just as suddenly, his hand pulled back. Gillian’s eyes flew open to see the chief, not the husband.

  “What is it?”

  Graeme sighed, a painful sound she was sure held more meaning than she could unlock standing here among the oaks and pines just a few short hours from Lyndwood. But unlock it she would.

  “We’d best be getting back.”

  His hand dropped. For a moment, Gillian thought he’d kiss her again, but instead he took a step away from her, clearly intent on rejoining the men. With nothing else to do, she followed.

  Lyndwood Castle, an old motte and bailey castle, its moat long since dry, was a modest holding for a man of Lord Lyndwood’s reputation. Though Gillian rarely spoke of her father, changing the subject every time he raised it, Graeme had heard plenty of tales about the man.

  There were few secrets along the border. Some of the borderers had scattered north, moving deeper into the bosom of Scotland. Others had fled south, where the English king still cared enough to intervene. The men and women who remained all had one thing in common: pride. None wanted to admit the rising tensions might eventually be their downfall.

  For the rest of them, protected only by March Law and their own alliances, life had not gotten much easier. Raids continued, though they were less bloody than they’d been before the Days of Truce. Blackmail and bribes were part of their way of life. But despite it, those who continued, perhaps foolishly, to believe Scottish and English could live peaceably less than a half-day’s ride apart—those like Clan Scott and Clan Kerr and Kenshire and Clave—would have to work together to survive.

  And then there were traitors like Lyndwood.

  “Allie!”

  His wife dismounted more quickly than Aidan moved when he spotted a fallow buck.

  He’d seen Gillian’s sister at Kenshire but had not really noticed her then. He thought back to Gillian’s description of her. She’d called her sister “sweet and lovely.” And indeed, she was lovely, but the sisters did not share much of a likeness. Whereas his wife was beautiful and dark, proper and perfect, her sister’s gold-kissed brown hair looked more like his own and her movements were far less reserved than Gillian’s.

  “Gill, oh how I’ve missed you.”

  He tore his gaze
away from the women, allowing them their privacy, and concentrated instead on the rest of their greeting party. Namely, the man who’d betrayed him. Gillian’s father stood with his wife at the entrance to the keep. Dismounting, Graeme didn’t take his eyes off the baron who’d allowed Grace’s murderer to walk free.

  Graeme could understand why the man held a grudge against him after the events at Kenshire. But now he felt neither guilt, nor remorse, for what he’d done. Marrying Gillian had been an unexpected boon of the May Day celebration, and despite the circumstances, he didn’t regret it for a moment.

  Graeme dismounted and walked toward Gillian’s father. Neither man smiled. Indeed, it took every bit of restraint left to him not to strike the bastard down where he stood.

  “Scott.”

  Graeme stopped, surprised. He’d not have expected the man to acknowledge his position as chief of his clan. The greeting, though curt, was not without courtesy.

  “Lord Lyndwood.”

  He turned toward Gillian’s plain-looking mother, who resembled neither of her daughters. Where, indeed, had the women inherited their beauty, and each so different from the other? Certainly not from either parent.

  “My lady.”

  He took her hand, kissed it, and stood. She looked past him, at Gillian, who’d suddenly appeared at his side. And then her mother did something remarkable. She held out her hand, took Gillian’s, and squeezed it. No embrace. No words of welcome. Just a simple touch—the kind of greeting his mother would only have given him if he’d done something badly wrong.

  As he listened to their exchanged greetings, Graeme studied the older woman’s expression. There was love there, but it was tempered by restraint—so unlike the much more natural connection between the two sisters.

  “Do come inside,” her mother said, ushering the group into Lyndwood.

  Everything about it was different than Highgate End. That both halls exuded cleanliness and order was about the only thing they had in common. The servants here moved slowly, deliberately, and none talked out of turn. And where Highgate had become a castle in just the last generation or so, Lyndwood’s décor—coats of arms and elaborate tapestries reenacting the feats of various English kings—clearly announced to visitors the Lyndwood family was old, connected, and important.