by Terry Spear
His mouth curved up slightly, but then he did the unexpected, flicked his tongue over her lips, and she moaned, not believing how exciting and decadent that felt. She couldn't have moaned in the kirk, of all places. Her reaction seemed to please him, and he slipped his tongue quickly between her parted lips, stroking her tongue, shocking her. Thrilling her. She wasn't sure what to do, but touched his tongue back tentatively with hers, and this time he groaned, pulled her into a hard embrace and kissed her gently on the mouth, declaring she was his. That she was what he needed.
Murmurs began then, whispers growing until she could hear some of the bits of conversation. They were husband and wife. They had agreed to the union. They would make it work.
She barely remembered being escorted to the great hall where the feasting and drinking and dancing began. She only remembered Dougald's kissing her in the kirk, and she felt she would melt into the floor like heated candlewax. Now, his hand held hers beneath the table, his thumb gently caressing the top of her hand, soothing but also titillating. She'd never been touched in such a way by a man. The sensation was making her body tighten with a warm need she'd never known before.
"You have made me proud, my lady," Dougald said, smiling down at her.
She tried to summon a smile, but everything had happened so quickly, she couldn't adjust to the idea that she was married to Dougald MacNeill.
He fed her bites of his bannock cake, a spoonful of his cullen sink, the finnan haddie smoked and immersed in a thick soup filled with onions, and flavored with rosemary, fennel, mint, and parsley, chopped, and cooked kale, and shared his ale with her. Mayhap because she wouldn't have eaten had she been left alone, her stomach was unsettled from the reality of the situation as it was sinking in.
The hall was filled with conversation and laughing, of tankards clanking as they were set down roughly on the tables. The fragrance of mint in the soup and of the smoky peat burning at the great stone fireplace in the great hall filled the air. She tasted the rosemary and mint in the soup, trying to get her mind off what would come to pass.
All she could think of was Dougald bedding her this very eve, the way his warm touch made her feel connected to him, cared for. She was not a member of his clan, and she was far from home. Her uncle would not even know what had happened to her. She should have been worried about how her uncle would feel about what had occurred. None of that took her concentration as much as what the man, her husband, seated beside her was doing to her deep inside.
"You have naught to worry about, lass," Dougald reassured her, and she loved the way he seemed concerned about her silence, and inability to eat much.
Her body tingled, tensed with the fluttery feelings pooling in her belly. She wanted to draw closer to him, show she liked his attentions, wished he'd continue to want her after he'd bedded her. Just her, no other woman.
But what if she did not meet with his expectations? She was afraid to show him affection in front of all his kin.
Raucous laughter and shouts of ribald humor startled her to attention, but Dougald looked down at her, smiling sweetly, as if the man could look sweet in the least. He was the seducer of maids, and something decidedly wicked stirred beneath that smile that made her believe he knew she was thinking about their wedding night.
She was afraid he'd be sorely disappointed. She could barely stay awake because of not having slept last night. Now with the excitement and anticipation of what was to come, the early morning hour and the late one this eve, the food and drink that she'd managed to partake in, all of it was taking a toll on her ability to stay awake, focused.
Except for his touch.
Chapter 16
Dougald thought Alana looked exhausted, dark circles beneath her eyes, her posture stiff when they had first taken seats at the high table, and then slumping slightly. He imagined she'd had barely any sleep last night, though she was holding up remarkably well. He could tell she was tired beyond what a body could normally endure. He admired the way she had come into the kirk, head held high, her gaze softening when she'd looked into his eyes, and he knew then the question in her gaze—would he be a good husband to her? Stay with her? Give up the other lasses?
He wanted to be that man for her and more. He'd given her a small smile to encourage her, attempting not to look at her like a man who was ready to bed the lass, when he couldn't help but think of such. Pleased at how beautiful she looked, how graceful, that she had not fought coming to the kirk, he knew he had won the bet. She would agree to be his wife as much as he would agree to be her husband.
The idea pleased him. He'd given it considerable thought all night long and had decided that wedding her for the good of the clan was the right thing to do. The notion that she would have to live with another man who did not make allowances for her gift and might even use this against her at some future date should he tire of her, had occurred to him. And concerned him.
He listened to the men talk of what they would do if they had such a bonny lass to take to the wedding bed, then much more laughter ensued.
He pulled a brooch out and leaned over to pin it on her brat. "My wedding gift to you, bonny lass."
Tears filled her eyes as she looked from the pearl brooch set in silver to him. "I have no gift for you."
"You are the greatest gift a man could have," he simply said.
She smiled up at him. "You, sir, are a poet." And he hoped she did not imagine him plying the lasses with such sentiments, but he felt moved that she would say such a thing. "Is it from your family?"
"Aye, lass. My grandmother's. She would have loved you."
***
It was already very late when the ladies came to take Alana away from Dougald to get her ready for the marriage bed, then much more laughter and the comments grew even more ribald.
He'd wanted to dispense with all the tradition and just slip away with her alone following the service in the kirk.
James smiled at Dougald. "Seems you won the bet."
"Did you place a bet against me?" Dougald asked.
"Aye. I wasna certain if one or both of you might back out at the last."
"Nay, no' me," Dougald said. "I did as you bade and I did this for the good of the clan."
"Then there was the wager that she would faint before you wed her. She did look a wee bit pale," James said.
"'Twas the lighting in the kirk." Dougald thought her cheeks were quite rosy, especially after he kissed her. He still couldn't believe how she'd nearly unmanned him when she'd played with his tongue in a tentative way.
"Ah. I wouldna wait too long to see your lass, Dougald. I imagine she didna sleep well last eve."
"If she is asleep, I will wake her," Dougald said grinning, then took his leave.
Several wanted to walk with him, but he waved them away.
And then he climbed the stairs to his chamber where the lass would be waiting for him.
When he reached the chamber, he smiled to hear the married ladies giving advice to Alana, and he was certain if any unmarried maids were in the room besides his bride, they would be soaking up all of the ladies' pearls of wisdom.
He knocked at the chamber door, and the women's voices within grew silent.
Light footfalls headed for the door and his mother opened it and frowned at him. "We would have sent for you when we were ready."
"I am ready," Dougald said simply, as if that was all that mattered. His being ready. Forget about the lass!
In truth, he wanted to see his bride before she collapsed from exhaustion. He moved out of the doorway, indicating the ladies were to make a fast exit.
"Really, Dougald, you have always been the most unruly of my sons."
He recalled a time or two when she'd said the same thing to his other brothers and his cousin Niall when they had done what she felt they shouldn't have, failing to measure up to her lofty expectations.
His mother kissed him on the cheek. "Be gentle with the lass." She and the other ladies left, all with smiles and bac
kward glances before he entered the chamber and shut the door.
Alana was a goddess in her chemise, so sheer he could see the silhouette of her long legs, the blond curls nestled between them, her small waist and her very pleasing breasts, the nipples dusty rose in contrast.
"Alana," he said, his breath taken away. Her hair drifted over her shoulders like shafts of sunlight and her green eyes were wide with expectation. She licked her lips and swallowed hard.
He closed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. Like he'd kissed her in the kirk, he would kiss her and have her melting to his touch once more.
"So beautiful," he whispered to her and ran his fingers down the soft slope of her throat until he held a delectable breast in his hand. His mouth was on hers, brushing a gentle kiss. As he stroked her breast, she parted her lips on a sigh, her nipple hardening between his fingers.
She arched her back slightly, appearing to revel in his touch, and he wanted to pull off her chemise and dispense with it, then take her to bed. It was her first time, he reminded himself. He had to make this initial time as pleasurable as he could or he feared she'd be afraid the sex would only satisfy his needs and not her own.
"Tell me what you want, lass," he whispered against her ear, both his hands feeling her bountiful breasts as he listened to her heartbeat quicken, heard her raspy breath, felt her tentative touch as she rested her fingers at his hips.
"I dinna know," she managed to say, looking enraptured in what he was doing to her.
"Help me remove my plaid," he said.
He guided her hands to his belt. She was trembling as she unbuckled it. He cupped her face and said, "We dinna have to remove our clothes if you dinna want to this time."
Her gaze shot up from his belt to his eyes. He couldn't tell if this pleased or displeased her. But in truth, he liked the notion. "I would be willing," he said, winking.
Then she visibly relaxed and backed toward the bed. He reminded himself he had to take this slow, but he believed making this the perfect night of wedded bliss might be the death of him.
***
Exasperated with herself for being so anxious but unable to help herself because Dougald was so big, so feral looking, so ready for this and she was so new at what it meant to be a wife and a lover, Alana bumped her backside up against the high bed. Oh, aye, she'd seen Dougald naked already at the loch, but he'd been way down the hill. And she'd felt him prodding her with his rigid staff when she'd ridden with him, but they'd been fully clothed and nothing more would have come of it. This was entirely different.
He would be on top of her, inside of her, and would she be urging him to go faster? Mayhap the woman would say such a thing because she wished him to get it over more quickly. Yet Alana loved the way Dougald kissed her, and she didn't want that to end.
When he suggested they keep their clothes on, she had at first worried he was dissatisfied with the way she looked, or mayhap disappointed because she seemed so shy. The others he had been with probably had not behaved thusly.
She worried that she had displeased him, that she was not being the kind of wife he would wish in his bed.
Then she saw the wicked gleam in his eye and believed the idea fascinated him, and she liked the plan very much indeed. At least for the first time.
He lifted her onto the bed, then joined her.
The way he touched her made her feel as though she didn't have anything on, the chemise so soft as though it was transparent as his hands molded to her breasts, his body pressed against her leg, his mouth on hers.
She'd never felt anything so wickedly heavenly and wanted so much more.
His rough hands skated over her breasts, making her nipples sensitive beneath the light chemise, so needy. He stoked a blazing hot fire deep within, and she arched up against him, making him pause and smile oh so wickedly at her. But then his mouth was on hers again, possessive, commandeering, taking charge. She loved the way he made her feel—wanted, desirable, adored.
She wished to open up to him in every way possible, her lips parting to feel his wicked tongue between her teeth, to feel him stroking with the sensuous sweetened taste of it. She moved her thighs apart, wanting him to fill her with his rigid staff.
His eyes had darkened to midnight as he lifted his head to look at her, his hand still on her breast, his thumb kneading the taut nipple. She was wet between her legs, aching, desiring him to enter her and show her why the lasses all wanted him to share their beds with him.
But this—the way he touched her, caressed her, watched her to see how she was feeling, this she loved and couldn't believe it could get any better. If this was what making love was all about, she was glad he took her for his wife as she didn't believe anyone could make her feel like he did now.
"I am ready," she whispered, unsure why he was waiting. Was he afraid she would faint? Or push him away?
He only smiled, his wicked grin so devilish, she frowned at him and began to push him away. Her whole body heated with a wash of embarrassment. She was too new at this, not knowing what she should say or not say, or do or not do.
But he was all solid Highland warrior, muscle, bone, and heated skin, and her efforts to push him aside only seemed to amuse him more. The skin beneath his eyes crinkled and his mouth curved just a hint, as she couldn't budge him in the least.
"Nay," he whispered against her ear, "'Tis only the beginning, lass." And then his sweet warm and insistent mouth kissed her mouth again, but he slowly moved downward, caressing her jaw with his lips, her throat, and before she knew what he was up to, he had pulled her chemise down to expose both breasts. With a hand on one, he kissed the other, licked her nipple, teased it with his tongue, then took her breast in his mouth and sucked.
She cried out, swallowed up in a world beyond. Inside her, the storm had built into a roaring frenzy, and she shattered with the strength of it.
He looked a little surprised, she thought. And at first she again felt mortified. She shouldn't have been so vocal, shouldn't have reacted the way she had to his touching her. It was too much, too soon.
He grinned and kissed her mouth again. "You were made for me," he said, his voice ragged with desire as his hand swept down, snagged her chemise and jerked it up. His large fingers brushed up her naked thigh, moving higher, making her tense with anticipation.
She thought she was ready for this. But she wasn't.
His hand was on her mound and she stifled a gasp, trying not to make any sound, afraid she'd displease him, barely breathing. She felt lightheaded, concentrating on the way his wicked fingers moved against her womanly folds, pressing into her, and she gave a gasp this time, unable to stop herself.
Deeper, he pushed, and then he withdrew his fingers and stroked a part of her that she hadn't known could give her such tantalizing pleasure. She couldn't take it. "Hurry," she said, her voice high and hushed and begging.
And he did. Stroked her, though that's not what she meant. She meant for him to plunge his staff inside her before she fainted from his powerful touch. But he didn't stop pleasuring her, ignoring his own needs until she'd felt the rush again of a firestorm spreading through her, taking her over the edge of the precipice.
"Oh," she cried out, unable to silence the word.
This time, he yanked up his plaid, pressed himself against her, and entered her woman's passage. She tensed and felt a pinch of pain as he breached her virginal barrier. He must have read her face, the way she winced, and he stopped. She loved him for it—loved how he was so aware of her feelings.
He watched her, then leaned down to kiss her and gently brushed his lips against hers. When she was ready for him, she nodded and he moved slowly, waiting for her to adjust to his size, his own body tense.
He was so big she wasn't sure she could accommodate him as she closed her eyes and reveled in the wonder of their joining.
Wanting to explore him, she touched his waist, her hands sliding over his hard muscles, felt the strength and tightness, but he
stopped. She opened her eyes and saw him observing her, his jaw rigid, his gaze filled with lust. Had he not wanted her to touch him? Did it make him lose his concentration?
"I love it when you stroke me like that, lass."
Then she smiled and began to touch him again, sliding her hands over his warrior body. And then he moved into her all the way, or at least it seemed he had done so. She realized then, he had a long way to go before he filled her completely.
He slowly began to pull out of her, and she believed he was done, though she was surprised as she thought that a man pushed in more than once. And…went faster.
But still, she had loved the way he had made her feel, cherished and even now she felt lightheaded and in heaven.
How Dougald loved the woman who had sat upon her horse, so boldly eyeing his nakedness at first, then challenging him to race after her in the heather. He'd wanted this of her, to feel her beneath him, to burrow deep inside her soft willing flesh, to take her as a man takes a woman ever since he'd pulled her onto his horse and felt her arse pressed against him. And then again, when she'd been naked in the bed at the tavern when her ghostly brother had frightened her.
She couldn't imagine how much seeing her buried underneath the furs and covers had tortured Douglad's vivid imagination. When they'd touched over the meal, he couldn't help thinking what it would be like to join her in that bed, his staff tenting his plaid so much, he couldn't have moved quickly out of the room if he'd wanted to.
But this was different, more so than he'd ever experienced with any other woman. To see the way she came for him when he'd only suckled on her breast. To feel her come again just from his pressing his fingers into her soft woman's core. To watch the emotions playing across her face—worried that she was doing everything right—she had nothing to concern herself there. He'd witnessed the joy in her expression, and he'd felt it, too, at seeing her delight in the pleasure of lovemaking, so oft faked by the women he'd known. He hadn't known why they had wanted to see him again, if he couldn't make them feel the pleasure in the act like he could. Except mayhap those lasses wished to say that he had been their conquest because no matter how many thought he bedded every lass he chanced to meet, he had not.
