She put her back to Moiré and allowed the other woman to help undress her and slide the sark on. It was a thin garment that showed the hardness of Faye’s nipples against the white fabric and only came halfway down her calves. She immediately crossed her arms over her chest, but it did little to make her feel any less exposed.
Moiré set to work on Faye’s hair next, quickly brushing the blonde tresses and carefully arranging them down Faye’s shoulders to cover the peaks of her nipples. Once done, Ewan’s cousin peeked around the screen and nodded to Faye.
It was time.
Faye hesitated a long moment, drawing a breath and whatever strength she could scrape up from the dregs of her courage.
She stepped around the flimsy screen, and cheers rose up. It was one thing to entice a man into conversation with the swell of her bosom over the neckline of her gown, and quite another to be put on display in such a manner. Her face blossomed with heat, and she averted her eyes from the crowd to avoid their stares sliding over her. Not that it mattered. She could feel them. Like ants creeping over her skin, crawling over every inch of her, until she wanted to hide in a corner and scream.
Across the room, Sutherland wore only his trews, his chest bare. Though Faye’s nerves vibrated with an onslaught of anxiety and fear and humiliation, she was not blind. Her husband was a finely built man. Thanks be to God that he was not old and fat.
She kept her footsteps slow as she made her way toward the bed under the weight of so many viewers, her head held high.
The priest who had wed them began to pray, his words a drone beneath bawdy jests and laughter. Faye lifted the heavy coverlet and slid into bed as Sutherland did too. She covered herself high enough to shield her breasts from view but still could not relax. The priest finished his prayer and made the sign of the cross over their bed.
Not much longer.
Or so she hoped.
Servants moved on either side of the bed, drawing the curtains around them until the light outside was snuffed out. Footsteps exited the room, and silence took its place, filled only with the steady, gentle breath of the stranger beside her.
She blinked back the sudden threat of tears at her relief and swallowed. “Are they gone?” Her voice was small in the overbearing darkness. She winced.
Would he roll over onto her and press his husbandly rights upon her?
She gripped the blanket tighter, wishing she were home in her shared room with her sisters instead of here. With this man. In this horrible situation.
A crack of light appeared, and the ropes creaked as Sutherland left the bed. A heavy thunk of wood sliding on wood interrupted the quiet—a door being barred.
Faye started at the sound in spite of herself.
The curtains drew back on all sides, letting in the light once more. Sutherland stood beside the bed, now wearing a fresh leine over his trews, covering his naked torso. He offered her an apologetic smile that bordered on sheepish. “I’m glad that’s done with.”
“As am I,” she said softly.
He held up a heavy robe in his hands in an invitation for her. “I noticed ye dinna eat much at supper and had Monroe bring some food. I thought mayhap we might share it and become reacquainted.”
Faye hesitated at his kindness. She didn’t desire to become reacquainted. He seemed to be a good man. But good men were oftentimes a disappointment.
More than a disappointment, they had been a source of great pain, an opportunity for incredible hurt. Still, as much as she loathed the idea, the thought of being blanketed in a heavier garment was too tempting an offer to refuse.
She slid from the bed and allowed him to wrap her in the heavy robe. The layer of clothing might be a small thing, but to her at that moment, it was a reminder of her own awareness. Of whom she was and what she was capable of. It put her back in control of her senses.
She would do what she must as a wife, but she would not allow herself to trust this man. And most certainly, she would bar her heart from even considering the notion of caring for him, let alone loving him.
Ewan couldn’t tamp down the protective urge that rose inside him. Faye had looked so vulnerable at the bedding ceremony, her eyes wide in her pale face, even as her back had remained straight and proud.
He led her to the table by the hearth and retrieved the platter of food Monroe had smuggled behind Ewan’s screen. It was only a bit of meat and cheese with two loaves of bread, but it was better than the few bites of vegetables he’d seen her eat earlier.
He led her to the small table and set the food in front of her, then poured a goblet of wine for each of them. His actions were loud in the quiet of the room, compensating for all the things he had no idea how to say. When at last, the table was properly set, the silence became oppressive. Music and the hum of indiscernible chatter from the Great Hall floated in, muffled by the thick door.
Ewan cleared his throat and scrambled for something to say. “’Tis a lot of years to cover.” He took a loaf of bread, broke it in half and gave her one of the pieces.
“We don’t have to.” She plucked off a small chunk and slid it into her mouth, the movement slow and carrying an unexpected sensuality.
“I’m sure ye’ve changed from the lass I knew.” He bit into his bread.
“How do ye think I have?” She lifted the goblet to her mouth and took a delicate sip of wine that left her lower lip glossy.
“I dinna recall ye sounding so English,” he offered.
She gave a little laugh at that, though it appeared without mirth. “The English think I sound Scottish.”
“Ye live near the border, aye? On the English or the Scottish side?”
She lifted a sardonic brow. “Scottish.”
“I take it ye no longer do as ye’re told,” he said.
He’d meant it as a jest, but her mouth lifted at the corner in a half-smile as she eyed him coyly. “Nay.”
She said it like a challenge she wanted him to try. His cock stirred with interest.
“Do ye prefer biddable women?” she asked in a throaty voice that put heat into his blood.
He swallowed. “I prefer a woman who knows her own mind,” he stammered, feeling foolish for the genuine response to the flirtatious question.
He tried again to put Lara from his mind, but it was nearly impossible to keep from comparing them when the two were so different. Lara would never have played with words in such a way with him, each of her replies open and honest.
“Why did ye agree to marry me, Sutherland?” Faye asked. “Ye hadn’t seen me in years.”
He smiled at her use of his surname, which was also now hers. “Call me Ewan.”
“Ewan.” Her lips moved around his name, making it far more alluring than it had ever been before.
“We’ve been at war with the Ross clan for well over a century,” Ewan said, forcing his thoughts from her mouth and what he’d like to do with it. “From the story I’ve been told, a Sutherland chieftain and his brother stole the hearts of women promised to sons of a Ross chieftain. The battle of wits soon became a battle of blades, and lives were lost.”
“’Tis a high cost for love.” Faye tilted her head back in thought and put the long column of her slender throat on display. Her skin was as flawless as cream and left him with a sudden desire to kiss the length of it all the way down to the generous swell of her breasts.
Ewan drank a sip of wine to wet his suddenly dry throat. “I imagine if the love was true, it was a worthy sacrifice.”
“Over a century of war?” Faye pressed her lips together, as though to still her words.
“I dinna like war, nor do I like how ye were treated.” His gaze lowered to her hands, where the sleeve of the large robe had fallen back to reveal the chaffed skin along her slender wrists. “I hope this marriage changes all that.”
She regarded her damaged flesh.
“I’ll never hurt ye,” he vowed. “I would no’ ever have allowed ye to be brought to me like this if given a choice. Yer grand
da reminded me of the betrothal and considered it legitimate though yer mum had no’ signed it. He invited me to Balnagown to meet ye, to go over the original agreement.”
She tilted her head. “And ye came.”
“Before I knew ye’d been dragged here.” He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice.
“Why did ye go?” The way she asked the question was with a gentle sweetness that set him at ease.
He allowed himself a moment to openly admire how the firelight played off her flawless complexion and gleaming blonde hair. “I was curious.”
“Curious?”
“When I was a lad, ye were the bonniest lass I’d ever seen.” His shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I wanted to see what ye looked like now.”
“And?” She raised a brow.
His face heated to say aloud what he actually thought. It was not something he often did. However, it was something he should have done, especially with Lara. He wouldn’t make a similar mistake again. “Yer beauty as a lass doesna compare to yer loveliness as a woman.”
He leaned forward over the small table and settled his hand over hers. Her skin was smooth and warm. As soft as he’d anticipated.
“Tell me about yer siblings,” he said. “Ye have an older brother. Drake, aye?”
She nodded.
“And at least one sister.”
“Aye, two,” she replied. “Have ye any siblings?”
“Only Moiré, who is more sister to me than cousin,” he replied. “I had an older brother who died before my da. ’Twas only several months before. The healer suspects the blow of Ragnall’s death is what killed my da.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” There was a quiet sadness to her tone when she spoke, as though she were mourning the men as Ewan did still, after almost a decade since he’d lost them.
“Do ye remember them?” he asked.
She shook her head, her face grave. It was then he realized it wasn’t that she knew them, but that she knew loss.
“I was sorry to hear of yer da’s passing as well.” Ewan wrapped his hand around hers in a gentle show of support.
Her fingers moved over the back of his hand, featherlight, a caress that traveled through him like a jolt of lightning. Her touch continued to play over his skin, shifting the sleeve of his leine up as the delicate scrape of her nails whispered up his forearm. It was hardly an intimate gesture, but it set his blood on fire.
She hesitated over the scar just past his wrist. “What was this from?”
“If I tell ye what every scar is from, ’twill be a long night.”
Her forefinger traced the outline of the scar, following the teeth marks from the wolf all those years ago.
“I anticipate a long night.” Her gaze met his and seared straight to his groin.
His prick swelled at her suggestion.
“What is this one from?” she asked again.
“Do ye remember it?”
She shook her head.
“We got lost trying to find a fae glen.” He shifted in his seat, an attempt to be more comfortable despite his hardening cock. “A pack of wolves came upon us, one bolder than the rest. He got my forearm, but I had my dirk on me, and the beast dinna live out the night.”
Her lips parted. “Was this my fault?”
Before he could try to set her mind to ease, she slid from her chair, so she was on her knees before him and bent over his forearm with her eyes locked on his. She lowered her plump, red mouth to the scar, bestowing upon it the most tender of kisses.
“Forgive me.” Her sweet breath fanned over his skin and made a shudder of desire tease down his back.
His cock was fully aroused now, teased into the full staff of lust by the innocent suggestion of her kiss. Her stare settled on his trews, and her lips fell open, her expression impossibly innocent.
He cleared his throat. “I…”
She didn’t move from where she kneeled by his legs. “Did ye like my kiss?”
He’d liked her kiss too much. It made him want more, but not chaste ones like what she had delivered to his scar. Nay, he longed to unfasten the ties of his trews and let his prick spring free. To feel the brush of her breath over his hot skin, the flick of her tongue—
He swallowed and helped her to her feet. “Ye’re a maiden.”
“I’m yer wife.” She tucked her full lower lip into her mouth and slowly let it pop free. “I’m yers to take.”
God help him. His heartbeat came faster at the thought of stripping the robe from her body, revealing those hard, pink nipples he’d been able to make out through the thin fabric of her nightrail.
She bent over him and slid her hands up the back of his neck. “Kiss me,” she whispered.
With a groan, he lifted his head to do as she’d asked. Their lips touched and ignited like blades that clashed and sparked against one another in the heat of combat. Her lips were pillowy soft and warm. He moved his mouth over hers, tasting the ambrosia of her kiss as his tongue brushed the seam of her mouth.
A little moan sounded in the back of her throat and she opened for him, tentatively caressing the tip of her tongue to his.
He gripped the thick wool robe she wore as if it might aid him in holding onto his control. She was so damn lovely, so supple in his hands, beneath his mouth.
His woman. His wife. His to bed. Soon. So very soon.
6
Faye had kissed several men before. Most were chaste kisses, a brief touching of lips, or upon a scruffy cheek for a better price on eggs or other goods that helped keep her family alive and fed.
Once it had been with a man she’d found attractive, a baker’s son who had a honeyed tongue and elicited genuine blushes. It was with him that she’d discovered she enjoyed kissing. Mayhap too much. The rush of desire had frightened her, and she’d never returned.
It was one thing to play a coquette, and quite another to be one.
Now though…
She slanted her mouth over Ewan’s, their tongues mating with eagerness as a sensual fire coursed through her veins like winding silk. She let it consume her and luxuriated in its allure.
This time, she would not have to force herself to stop. This time, that thundering insistence between her thighs could be slaked by more than her hand.
He grabbed her to him with a growl of desire that made her toes curl. This. She wanted this rather than the previous conversation. He was handsome and considerate. Knowing how good he was might pull down the defenses she was not ready to release.
Nay, this was far better. No emotional feeling, only physical lust.
She deepened her kiss with a determination to push the man he was from her thoughts and focus only on how her body responded. In her eagerness, she tilted forward and hovered for a precarious moment before tipping into a fall.
He caught her, his hands at her hips. He guided her downward into his lap. She parted her legs over his chair to avoid kneeing him in the stomach, and the short nightrail rode up over her knees.
The hardness of his arousal pressed into the sensitive place between her thighs, spread open by the way she sat on him. It was brazen and wanton and glorious.
She caught his face between her palms and kissed him hungrily, not bothering to hide the force of her passion, of her need. His hands were still on her hips and now he pulled her forward, so their pelvises bumped against one another. The hardness of him ground against the softness of her.
She gasped in pleasure and moved of her own volition, squirming in his lap to get closer to him, her hands braced on his torso to steady herself. He groaned, and the vibration hummed against her palm. He explored her body, gliding over her robe at first, then under it as he cupped her breast with only the thin linen separating them.
His thumb swept over her nipple, sending a ripple of pleasure over her sensitive skin. He kissed her neck, his breath warm and spicy.
“Do ye like that?” his voice rumbled in her ear.
She swallowed and nodded.
“I want t
o learn everything about ye.” He caught her earlobe between his teeth in a gentle nip. “What ye like.” He trailed his mouth over her collarbone as his finger curled around the ribbon at her neckline. “What ye want.”
He pulled the ribbon, and the nightrail fell open. “What pleases ye.” He brushed aside the thin cloth and cradled one naked breast in his palm.
“That.” Faye pressed her chest forward, toward his touch.
He lowered his head and drew her nipple into the heat of his mouth.
She closed her eyes against the intensity of such pleasure. “That,” she said again, her voice husky with lust.
His hips lifted as he suckled her breast, so his arousal ground against her. Her eyes flew open with delight.
“Ye please me,” she whispered. “Like this, touching me, kissing me.”
His large hand hovered over her knee, and his blunt fingers swept over her skin as gentle as a breeze. “I want to touch all of ye.”
His fingers slowly crept up her inner thigh, higher and higher. Her breath caught as her muscles trembled with the effort of straining toward him.
Her hem rose up her thighs as he ascended her legs, revealing more and more of her to him until he reached the apex. His gaze lowered to the thatch of blonde hair covering her most intimate place.
Mayhap another would feel ashamed to be so on display, but Faye had never been like other women. She knew the power women held over men came from their bodies, and there was no part of a woman with greater allure than what no one ever saw.
And though she hated to admit it to even herself, she was helpless to its power as well, to the thrum of lust so great, it nearly consumed her. Gaze fixed on his task, Ewan swept his thumb over her center, a light graze that made her hips instinctively flex forward.
His attention flicked back to her face, where he watched her with an appreciative concentration in his heavy-lidded eyes. His fingers moved again, tracing the slit of her sex.
Faye gasped and widened her legs, eager for more.
“Ye’re verra wet,” he groaned. “Ready for me.”
“Aye.” Faye grabbed his shoulders to hold herself upright.
Faye's Sacrifice (Borderland Rebels Book 1) Page 5
