Bride for a Knight (22 page)

“By the Rood!” Jamie gathered her into his arms, holding her as tightly as he dared. “Have I no’ kissed you with enough passion for you to know how much I want you? How much you delight me?”

He began stroking her back, soothingly he hoped. “Have you forgotten how much I enjoyed that one sweet glimpse of your breast?” he reminded her, his voice deep, growing husky with need. “Surely you know I’d love to see such beauty again.”

“You want to see my breast again?” The words came so faint Jamie wasn’t sure he heard her.

He pulled back a bit to look at her. “Perhaps with both nipples visible this time?”

She stiffened at that, so he slipped a hand between them, allowing himself the pleasure of cupping her breast and rubbing a single finger gently to and fro across her delicate swells. Touching her exactly as he had in her father’s solar, only this time through the cloth of her gown.

“M’mmm . . . ,” she sighed, melting against him. But she caught herself almost as quickly and reached circling fingers around his wrist, lowering his hand with astonishing strength.

“My breasts are small,” she said, her eyes glittering suspiciously again. “That is the reason I fretted so much about the Glenelg joy woman. Gelis described her in great detail and I saw her in my mind, imagining her lush welling curves and huge ripe breasts.”

Pulling away from him, she looked down, bunched her hands in her lap. “Nipples the size of my fists—”

“Hah! And so they are!” Jamie threw back his head and laughed, a quick image of the widow’s large dark-hued nipples flashing across his mind.

Ah, the hours he’d spent licking and sucking them. Or simply plucking and pulling on them, rubbing and toying, circling a fingertip endlessly around the wonderfully crinkled flesh of her large aureoles.

Memories and images that stirred him not a whit.

His man parts, usually so responsive when thinking of the joy woman’s bountiful charms, didn’t even twitch.

Aveline touched his thigh. “So her breasts really are large and ripe.”

“And yours are straight from heaven,” Jamie owned, meaning it. “Do you know, sweetness, that since seeing you in the wood, a thousand full-breasted, well-curved females could come flouncing their wares into this room and I would still see only you?”

She looked aside, the color in her cheeks giving away her doubt.

“’Tis true.” He leaned close to brush a feather-light kiss across her temple. “I am quite besotted.”

Reaching for her braid, he began undoing it, letting the shimmering flaxen strands spill through his fingers until the whole gleaming mass cascaded about her shoulders, a riot of moon-spun silver tumbling down past her hips.

Looking at her sitting on Kendrick’s bed, her unbound hair making such a bold statement of accepted intimacy, Jamie’s heart began a slow, hard thumping and his loins tightened.

Not that he intended to touch her.

Not in
that
way.

He still had serious reservations about the like. But he could give her a soft, lingering kiss.

“You are a prize beyond measure,” he vowed, finally releasing her.

Holding her gaze, he scooped up a thick handful of her hair, looping the luxuriant strands around his wrist and then bringing his hand to his lips, burying his face in the glossy, fragrant skeins.

“You take my breath,” he vowed, kissing her hair, rubbing his cheek against its silkiness.

“And you please me.” She traced a finger along his jaw, the wonder in her eyes stopping Jamie’s heart.

She was watching him kiss and nuzzle her hair, her lower lip caught between her teeth as he let his fingers glide over the laces of her gown.

“You are lovely,” he told her, his hands aching to undo her bodice. “I have ne’er seen a more beautiful maid and will ne’er tire of looking on you.”

Smiling now, she brought her own hands to her bodice, her slender fingers deftly working the ties. “If I please you, you can look upon me all you wish,” she said, the color in her cheeks deepening even though her words rang bold.

“But I would see you, too,” she added, glancing downward.

“Me?” Jamie drew a tight breath, more aware of her than was good for him.

Aware of how much he wanted her.

How easily she could make him lose control.

Especially with the not-so-discreet direction of her gaze letting him know exactly what part of him appeared to interest her.

Proving it, she reached out to touch him. Not
there,
only on his chest. But her fingers warmed him clear through his plaid, the pleasure of her touch stirring him even if her hand hovered well above his sword belt.

“You tell me you’re worried you’ll hurt me,” she said, challenge thrumming behind every word. “Why not let me decide if I am afeared of your touch or nay?”

Jamie frowned.

“You do not know what you are saying,” he argued.

She only smiled and reached again for her bodice laces, untying them until the top of her gown gaped wide and her naked breasts winked in the firelight, all creamy white, her rosy nipples already puckering.

“Well?” She looked at him, waiting.

“Well, indeed.” Jamie could only stare at her.

Truth be told, he couldn’t even move.

Ne’er had he seen a vision more lovely.

And ne’er had he run hard so swiftly.

So granite-hard, he was certain the slightest touch or movement would cause his shaft to snap in two. But then, he had hoped to begin acquainting her with his body tonight. He’d just envisioned an entirely different situation, had thought they’d progress slowly.

He’d certainly thought to remain fully at ease and then perhaps brush casually against her, letting her feel for herself why such worries plagued him.

Perhaps, too, he might have simply flipped aside his plaid, easing down his hose and braies just enough for her to have a wee peek. Then later, if the sight of him didn’t frighten her, he’d hoped to encourage her to touch and explore him—if she’d shown herself so inclined.

Having her sit before him on a bed with her naked breasts all agleam and then expecting him to show himself to her, that was an entirely different kettle of fish.

An unexpected turn of events that set him to reeling and made him want to clutch her to him so fiercely he feared he really would break her.

“I am not fragile. Nor am I afraid of things that are natural,” she declared, moistening her lips in a way that only increased his discomfort. “If you find pleasure in looking at me,” she added with a quick glance at her breasts, “then why would I not enjoy seeing you?”

Jamie pressed his lips together and took a deep breath.

She turned a look on him filled with more self-possession than he would have e’er dreamed in such a teeny lassie. But he could see it all over her, and she wore it well. So beautifully that just watching her proved a temptation he’d not be able to resist much longer.

“I will touch you if you wish,” she said, as if she knew. “Anywhere it pleases you.”

That did it.

Like a man possessed, Jamie sprang from the bed and unlatched his sword belt, tossing it aside to clunk to the rushes somewhere behind him.

His heart thundering, he kept his gaze fastened to the sweetness of her creamy, perfectly formed breasts and undid the great plaid brooch at his shoulder, swiftly sending it and his plaid sailing after his blade.

Grinning now, he reached for the bottom of his tunic and began pulling it over his head. But before he could wrest it fully off, or even think about shoving down his hose, a rude hammering sounded on the door.

“Hellfire and damnation!” He yanked down his tunic and glared across the room. “We need naught,” he roared, his brows snapping together when the pounding only increased. “Come back in the morn!”

“’Tis your da,” Morag called anyway, her voice loud and unrelenting. “You’d best come. Now!”

Jamie froze, the old woman’s tone icing his blood.

“Go!” Aveline gave him a shove toward the door, began hastily redoing her bodice. “Morag would not be calling for you if aught wasn’t seriously amiss.”

“That I ken,” Jamie swore, already striding across the room to unbolt the door and fling it wide.

“Merciful saints!” he demanded of Morag, glaring down at her. The old woman’s eyes blazed and her hair looked wild, its straggly ends poking up in all different directions as if she’d been standing in a fierce winter gale.

Jamie shot a look at Aveline, then turned back to Morag. “Lucifer’s knees,” he swore, “what has happened?”

“Aye, the Horned One will have had his hand in this!” Morag grabbed Jamie’s arm, her gnarled fingers closing on him like talons. “Make haste! And bring your sword and ax,” she urged, glancing at his discarded sword belt and blade, the Norseman’s ax propped against the far wall. “We’re under attack.”

Jamie eyes flew wide. “Under attack?”

Morag nodded. “So everyone thinks,” she said, turning to hasten back down the dimly lit passage, making for the stair tower as fast as her spindly legs would carry her.

Jamie and Aveline exchanged glances.

“God’s bones,” Jamie swore again, running back across the room to fetch his brand and the ax.

“Morag—hold you!” he yelled, grabbing Aveline’s hand and pulling her with him from the room. “Wait!” he called again, amazed the old woman could move so quickly. “You said it was my da? What of him? Has he been hurt?”

But Morag was already far ahead of them, her tiny form swallowed by the shadows of the turnpike stair, the bobbing, wildly flickering flame of her rush light the only sign they’d even seen her at all.

Until her voice floated back up to them, her words echoing in the stair tower.

“I dinna ken how he is. Only that he’s been shot by a crossbow.”

Chapter Eleven

O
-o-oh, nay!”

“I dinna care how many wounds you’ve stitched, lassie, you willna be a-sticking that needle in my arm!”

Munro’s protests echoed off the walls of the great hall, his bellowing rising above the din and catching Jamie’s ear even before he and Aveline reached the bottom of the stair tower and burst into the crowded hall’s chaos and turmoil.

A quick glance showed that the entirety of the MacKenzie guardsmen and at least half of Jamie’s father’s men appeared to have vanished, though he strongly suspected they’d hastened away to man the wall walks.

Those remaining dashed about shouting orders and cursing, some stoking the already blazing fires and heating great cauldrons of water, useful on the walls, Jamie knew.

“Dear saints, Morag spoke true. They’re readying for a siege,” Aveline gasped beside him, her gaze on a group of garrison men who stood nearby strapping on sword belts and other war gear.

Jamie frowned. “If so, I doubt our attackers hail from the Otherworld,” he observed, certain of it.

Everywhere men rushed about snatching up more assorted, wicked-looking weapons than he’d realized his da’s men possessed. Some had already taken defensive positions at the windows and doors, and still more were running for the stair towers, their clattering footfalls loud and echoing as they hurried to the battlements.

Aveline glanced at him. “I know you don’t believe Neill and Kendrick—”

Jamie snorted. “Ghosts dinna shoot crossbows—or wear wet plaids,” he said, tightening his grip on her hand as they pushed through the chaos, heading for the hall’s crowded dais end.

Nor did they mix fish bones into harmless porridge he added in silence, not about to frighten her by revealing that particular incident.

A threat that had come to naught but just the kind of nonsense he was determined not to let happen again.

As for shooting old men with crossbows . . .

Jamie set his jaw, his blood heating as they neared the raised dais.

“Wench, be gone with you—you, and your devil’s needle!” his da roared again, and Jamie spotted him at once.

He stood behind the high table, his left arm bright with fresh, streaming red blood, his hands in a white-knuckled grip on the back of his laird’s chair.

Wild-eyed and furious, he was glowering at anyone who attempted to approach him.

At present, that seemed to be Lady Juliana.

“’Tis only a scrape, I tell you!” Munro insisted, glaring at her. “I’ll heal just fine—without you jabbing new holes into me!”

Ignoring his wrath, Lady Juliana took two steps closer to the dais. “This is only a very thin bone needle,” she said, holding it up for him to see.

White-faced, Gelis and Arabella trailed after her, both girls in their bed robes, a pile of clean-looking linens clutched in Arabella’s arms, while Gelis carried a bucket of steaming water.

Munro raked them with an equally black-browed stare. “Go back to your bed, lassies!” he yelled at them. “I’ve no need o’ your nursing.”

“Or yours.” He rounded on Jamie and Aveline, agitation rolling off him. “I like you fine,” he said, his gaze latching on to Aveline, “so dinna tempt me to change my opinion. Just stay where you are and leave me be.”

“But, sir, your arm must be treated.” Aveline started forward. “Like Lady Juliana, I, too, can—”

“You can stop right there and no’ be a-joining up with this devil’s besom and her needle,” Munro exploded, glowering.

“Come you, Sir Munro,” Lady Juliana tried to soothe him, her voice calm and low. “My stitches are so fine and quick, you’ll ne’er know I’ve even touched you.”

“So spoke the wolf before he ate the lamb!” Munro pulled his dirk from beneath his belt, brandishing it in her direction. “I’ll poke any one o’ you who sets foot on this dais. Including women!”

He threw an especial glare at Morag. “And no quarter given for age!”

Undaunted, she frowned back at him, her hands planted firmly on her scrawny hips. “I’m thinking that
scrape
will be needing more than stitching,” she said, sliding a glance to the hall’s massive central hearth where a stable youth held a broad-bladed dagger to the flames.

“Lady Juliana means well, but the wound is too deep and jagged, the blood spilling too swiftly for her dainty stitches to do much good,” she added. “More the pity as sealing the wound with a hot blade will hurt far worse than being sewn up!”