Poor Holly, with only her mother and father to say goodbye. At this time of year, with the Yuletide festivities nigh, one would have expected some small show of kindness and generosity, but this was the English. He made a gruff sound of disgust and Holly turned to look up at him.
His sweet, brave Holly. He smiled to put her at ease. Truth be told, she was the reason he watched so urgently for trouble. He and his men could take on an army through belligerence alone, but if Holly got in the middle of things and was kidnapped or injured...
Well, that couldn’t happen. His arms tightened about her waist and she turned back around, settling against his front. She’d told him she could ride her own horse, but he’d insisted she share his mount because that was safest.
Against all odds, he was growing attached to his wife. English or no, she compelled him, for she was braver than any of the courtiers she’d grown up with. There was an inquisitive spark when she met his gaze, an increasing confidence that he would protect her rather than hurt her. When she’d looked up at him just now, he’d thought how familiar two people could become in a short time, when circumstances threw them together.
And her pert little English nose, her blue eyes... Such charming innocence. He wanted to corrupt her in a thousand carnal ways, and he would when their journey was over.
If he could survive that long.
They made it well past the Scottish border by afternoon, with no trouble to speak of, save looming clouds and intermittent sprinklings of rain. Their party had decreased by half, some of the men staying back at the MacDavie keep to go west in the morning, and others setting off for nearby homes. It was no matter that their guard decreased. They were safe now, surrounded by the forests and fields of their own land.
They stopped to make camp as dusk turned to dark, the stars obscured by clouds. They hurried to build a fire and set up shelter amidst the thick forest’s branches before the impending storm arrived. When Holly looked worriedly toward the distance, Malcolm winked at her.
“It’ll be fine, lass. What rain comes through the trees, we’ll ward off with skins.” As for the cold, the men would huddle beneath their plaids and blankets for warmth, and he would hold Holly close, warming her with the fierce heat of his unrelieved lust.
Not yet, you can’t take her yet. Not out here in the dark and cold, and poor weather.
The winter storm arrived just as they finished the roasted meat and bread they’d brought for dinner. The skies opened, half rain, half slivers of ice, the downpour snuffing out the fire as the men retired to their woodland shelter. Malcolm guided Holly along next to him, making sure she was wrapped in her sturdy cloak. The low shelter of branches and animal skins was smartly built, for Scots prized comfort as much as anyone, and no rain came through to chill them once they ducked inside.
His bride was shy, and still intimidated by the other men. She was the lone woman of their party, since none of her English women would come along to Scotland as her lady’s maid, but it was no matter. He had a perfect lass in mind for the position once they reached the Cochrane keep. In the meantime, he kept his wife near, offering frequent, reassuring contact.
“Will you lie down here?” he asked, indicating the pallet reserved for them amongst the others.
She looked nervously about.
“No one will hurt you,” he promised. “Sit down, then, and let me braid your hair.”
Scots women braided their long locks before bed so they wouldn’t tangle as they slept. He didn’t know if English women were the same, but he’d wanted to touch her hair ever since they’d stood at the altar with her blonde curls trailing over her shoulders, and this seemed a good enough excuse. He guided her down upon the blanketed shelter floor and set about his work.
How soft her hair was, and how much there was. He split it into sections as she made herself more comfortable, as comfortable as was possible in a mean shelter in the woods. She was not the wilting, whining, rose-scented Englishwoman he’d feared. She’d endured their long day of travel without complaint, and she’d eaten well as they sat about the fire, instead of quailing or refusing her portion. She pulled her plaid shawl about her often, an unintentional compliment, he was sure, but a compliment nonetheless.
She will make a fine Scotswoman.
The thought came to him with pleasure, and a frisson of lust. He’d thought he must make do with some vexatious English lady as wife, someone cowardly and poorly behaved like the missing Lorna. Instead, he’d gotten cousin Holly, who was made of sterner stuff.
“How fine they are, these curls,” he said, separating the strands as he worked. What he meant was, I like you a lot. I’m glad you’re my wife.
“I’m sorry my curls get so tangled.” She turned her head, as if she knew he was avoiding the knots.
“No matter. You’ll have ladies to help you bathe and comb your hair once we arrive home.” And make you ready to come to my bed. He would bathe and groom himself too, and come to her as a virile man, ready to plunder her virginity.
No, take her virginity gently. Then plunder her. Perhaps.
There was no way to tell how she’d react to his hungers when they took each other to bed. At the start, he’d imagined she would be stiff and distant in the ways of love, but now...
As he worked at her hair, he could feel her relax, grow softer. He wondered if it gave her pleasure to feel him plaiting her hair. He worked slowly, in darkness, stroking each skein of silken blonde as he crossed it over the other. Some part of him wished he could undo all of it just to begin again. Another part of him wished to twist her hair into his fist and pull her head back for a voracious kiss.
He wished to lick her neck. He wished to bite and kiss her lips until they were bruised, then soothe the hurt away with more, gentler kisses. He wished to spread her thighs and drive between them until they both lost themselves, then drive in her harder still. As if to mimic his thoughts, the rain outside came down harder, faster. The storm’s power was nothing to the rigid need of his cock.
God, these thoughts. If the weather held, they’d reach Cochrane on the morrow. It could not happen soon enough.
He came to the end of her braid and fashioned a knot with a slip of her hair wound about the thick plait.
“I’ve never had a man braid my hair,” she said, reaching back to touch his neat handiwork. “You’ve good skill at the art.”
“Scots have skill at plenty of things.”
A thump of thunder shook the ground as he thought of all the skilled ways he might pleasure his new wife. Another crash followed, bringing sparks of lightning to split the darkness. God was sending him a warning. Not now, you uncontrolled lecher. You mustn’t seduce her now, in the midst of this shelter, surrounded by your men.
“Come, we must get some sleep.” Or I’ll lose this composure I’m barely hanging on to, he added to himself.
She lay on the blankets beside him and he pulled another blanket over them. She wore her own plaid but he also offered his, drawing it over her for extra warmth. The rain had brought wind and cold to the shelter even with the men’s bodies ranged around them, so he drew her near despite his cock’s unfortunate stiffness. She made no reaction when she felt it pressed to her backside. She was doubtless too innocent to understand the peril she was in.
No, not peril. He was a man known for his iron control. He hadn’t become Laird Cochrane through weak, reckless behavior, and he wouldn’t begin now with his wife. Still, he waited for each flash of lightning so he could admire her reclining form in his arms. He held her close and drowsy against him, her womanly body slowly untensing as she fell into sleep.
“It’s like sunlight,” he whispered in Gaelic as her breathing evened. “Your hair’s the color of sunlight in a broad summer sky.” He rested his head beside hers as the men about him settled into slumber, snoring loudly or softly. As the thunder rumbled on, he pressed a kiss against his wife’s sweet-smelling hair, dreaming of all the places he might kiss her when they were safe within her ne
w home’s walls.
Chapter 5
Pleasurable Things
Holly didn’t want to sleep. It wasn’t out of fear, even though she was lying under a cramped shelter with a couple dozen Scotsmen around her, and their restless steeds stamping outside.
No, it was because she felt safer and more protected at the moment than she’d ever felt in her life.
Oh, she’d been safe and protected enough growing up in Mortimer’s household. Between her parents, her uncles, aunts, and cousins, and all the courtiers watching her behavior for missteps, she’d barely been able to breathe without someone taking note. But this sort of safety...lying in a man’s strong arms with the rain overhead, and the cold held at bay by his embrace...it was an entirely new feeling.
There was a tiny amount of fear, but only that the laird might leave her or decide he didn’t wish to be married to her after all. Perhaps when the sun finally shone bright enough, he’d see the light freckles on her face. Perhaps she’d not be able to master Gaelic in a reasonable time. Perhaps when he lay with her as husbands did their wives, she would not bleed enough, or she’d bleed too much...
Oh, the blood on the bed. She wouldn’t think of that now when she was content and comfortable. She thought of his eyes instead, so wide and gray when he gave her his intent, protective looks. She thought of his soft auburn hair that even now tickled her cheek, and his great, distinctive nose that seemed less hawkish now and more...handsome.
The man who had seemed a monstrous beast on first sight had come to be rather handsome in her regard. How did such change happen? When she saw him in the full, strong sun, would she like him more or less?
She didn’t know. There was no sun now, only a storm going on and on in this forest’s darkness. Even the occasional crack of thunder couldn’t keep her lids open, not with Malcolm’s arms so cozy around her.
When she blinked awake, it was morning already, with Malcolm’s vassals stirring around her, breaking the camp and preparing the horses. They breakfasted on cold oatcakes and honey, not even attempting to build a fire in the dampness. Soon the blankets and skins were rolled up, the shelter struck, and the party on their way.
Again, the weather cooperated, the storm having blown so stridently the night before that there was no rain left to fall, only a chilly mist which her new plaid repelled with ease. Her husband sheltered her as well. Riding in his arms was nearly as comforting as sleeping in them, and today, the forests began to open into greater vistas of hills and fields, so she had plenty of beauty to look at to pass the time.
“We’ll be at Castle Cochrane today, lass,” he told her after they stopped for a quick luncheon. She imagined the break was for her benefit, as the horses seemed eager to continue, and the men who remained with their party didn’t eat much. More of them had set off for their own manors and houses, pledging goodwill and fealty to the laird and, strangely, to her before they departed. She never imagined she’d feel honored rather than threatened by Scottish landowners.
Their journey’s last hours passed without trouble, the weather clearing into a hazy sun that soon sank into the horizon. Not long after, Malcolm told her they were on Cochrane land. The horses perked up as they traveled the winding pathway to the keep. They must be safe now, for them to ride in such darkness with only a half moon casting light above them. There were stars too, now that the clouds had cleared, more stars than she’d ever remembered seeing in England. Could the stars be brighter here? The days were at their shortest around the Yuletide holidays, so perhaps the stars were closer too.
“There it is, lass.” His lips brushed her ear and his thumb turned her head in the direction of an imposing keep set atop a hill, overlooking the shadowed land in all directions. “MacEacharna.”
He said the name with pride and reverence, and she realized she was coming to recognize the Gaelic syllables more easily than she had before. Perhaps hearing the men call back and forth to each other over the past two days had accustomed her to the language’s sounds a bit more. The words...
Well, that would take a while longer. But this word she knew. MacEacharna. Her new home, grand and intimidatingly foreign.
“It’s so large,” she said. By the moon’s light, she could see the castle rose two stories higher than her uncle’s keep, and looked twice as wide.
“Castle Cochrane has always been the stronghold for this entire area of the Lowlands. It’s seen a few sieges in its day, but it’s comfortable inside. They’ll have rooms made up for our arrival and a hot meal waiting beside a roaring fire once we’ve settled in. There will be ladies to tend to you and see to your comforts.” He paused a moment, his arms tightening around her. “I wouldn’t have you regretting this courageous thing you’ve done.”
Beneath the plaids and cloaks that surrounded them, she sought his hand and laid hers atop it. “I trust you will take care of me here.” She traced her fingers over the backs of his fingers, so broad and rough, just like the rest of him. “Indeed, I look forward to a hot meal, a bath, and dry, warm clothes.”
“You shall have all of that and more.”
In fact, a lookout must have seen them arriving long before they rode into the keep’s courtyard, for two dozen or more attendants were assembled to greet them. Grooms saw to the horses while servants swarmed Holly’s baggage cart, taking out her trunks and baggage to carry everything inside. She heard a cacophony of Gaelic speech as more Scots emptied from the heavy iron door, greeting their laird and his friends. After he lifted her from the horse, Malcolm kept hold of her hand and turned her to the assembled company.
The only part of her introduction that she understood was her name. She saw a few mouths screw down into frowns. At first she was alarmed, then she realized he must be telling them about Lorna. They smiled again when he took her in his arms. Was he telling them she was brave? This was the first time her courage really faltered, as she stood beneath the regard of so many strangers. Smiling or no, they must think of her as an outsider.
She was relieved when Malcolm guided her inside. Passing under the great carved lintel felt like a step into a new world, for the smells were different, and the furniture was darker and sparser. The walls were covered with large tapestries of battle scenes and woodland vistas. There were so many ornate tapestries that they must have represented decades of work. She tried to take it all in as the laird’s servants guided them into a Great Hall alight with the roaring fire the laird had promised.
It was also alight with candles and holiday decorations unlike any she’d ever seen. Giant fir boughs lined the walls, broken up with sprays of holly berries and festive woven ribbons. The boughs’ piney smell mixed with the fire’s scent and something else. Cinnamon? Gingerbread?
“Come along, lass,” Malcolm said, as she paused to take in the lovely smells and decoration. “They’ve got a hearty stew on the table for us, and spiced mead to warm your stomach. If you’re ready to eat, let’s sit. If you’d like to go to your rooms first, the maids can show you the way.”
“I’d like to eat, please,” she said.
He laughed at her quick answer, but oh, how hungry she was, and she didn’t want to leave this richly decorated hall yet. She felt safe with her husband at her side, and none of the strangers around her were frowning anymore. She thought she’d be afraid at this moment, terrified to be surrounded by so many Scots, but all she could think about was how delicious and hearty the thick stew was.
After dinner, Malcolm delivered his satiated wife into the arms of her ladyservants. He’d chosen the brightest and most patient of the bunch since they’d be communicating in hand signals until Holly learned the rudiments of the Gaelic tongue.
He was pleased that she left his side easily, with no trepidation. His brave Englishwoman, who didn’t smell much of roses anymore. The ladies would bathe her in lavender and rosemary oils instead, wrap her in a fresh plaid, and deliver her to his bedroom.
And then...
Then he would come inside her and well and trul
y make her his wife. He wanted so badly to possess her. He’d held her in his arms across so many long miles, her warm, feminine curves snuggled against him.
His attendant offered a bath, but Malcolm declined and took himself instead to the clear, cold pond beyond the back garden. He needed to wash away the smell and grit of travel, but more than that, he needed to cool his lustful urges before he took his wife to bed, or he might frighten her with the force of his seduction.
After twenty minutes of vigorous swimming—and bathing—he felt calm enough to seduce Holly without tearing her apart. No, he would go slowly and gently, and make her want more and more until she was the one begging for completion.
Well, that was his plan.
He donned a fresh plaid and stopped in the kitchen to ask that some warm milk and gingerbread be sent to his room. It arrived at the same time as his bride. Excellent timing, because she looked rather nervous in her frilly nightshift until she smelled the fragrant treat.
“It smells like heaven,” she said, crossing to the bedside table. “Oh.” She stopped midway across the worn wooden floor to glance about. “What a beautiful room this is.”
“It’s my bedroom. Our bedroom now.”
He slept in a grand carved bed, like the Cochrane lairds before him, and the ceiling rose higher than anywhere else in the keep. He had shelves of books that seemed to draw her attention, until the gingerbread tempted her back to his side.
“You must eat it while it’s warm,” he said. As she bit into the sweet, crumbly bread, he taught her the words for both gingerbread and warm.
I’ll teach you more than that, he thought. Very soon, I’ll teach you a great deal.
But first he urged her to eat her fill and have some of the warm milk flavored with holiday spices. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent and letting out a sigh. “It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever smelled or tasted.”
“Don’t they have such concoctions in England?”
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