Bride for a Knight (9 page)

Unable to help himself, he angled his head, deepening the kiss he’d been burning to give her ever since glimpsing her in the wood. He let his tongue tease hers, his heart hammering when she slid her arms around him, holding fast to his shoulders and tangling her fingers in his hair.

Hair just as thick, rich, and silky as she’d imagined. Falling free to his shoulders, the cool, smooth strands spilled through her fingers as seductively as the slow, sensual glides of his tongue against hers. Fine, liquid heat began streaming through her, making her feel dizzy and yet wondrously alive.

Shivery and breathless.

Her heart began to pound and she pressed closer, welcoming his kiss, her own greedy woman’s need reveling in how she could feel every thundering beat of his heart echoing through her entire body.

Her nipples tightened against his chest and her knees quivered, the hot strokings of his tongue unleashing a maddeningly delicious swirl of fluttery sensation deep inside her.

A wicked, incredibly pleasurable pulsing she was quite certain she shouldn’t be enjoying.

Not here, in her father’s privy solar and the door not even bolted.

But he was her plight-trothed husband and his sapphire ring did wink on the fourth finger of her left hand. So she took courage from that ring and gave in to the wonderment, letting her tongue tease and tangle with his, again and again until such white-hot fire raced through her she was certain she’d find herself singed when the kiss ended.

There could be no harm in allowing him to kiss her.

Or in kissing him back.

After all, wasn’t this what she’d yearned for when she’d slipped away to St. Bride’s Well the other night? Hadn’t she stripped naked in the wood? Bathed in sacred water and moonbeams just to ensure a pleasing, passionate match?

And hadn’t St. Bride rewarded her with a glimpse of him?

Though, at the time, she’d thought the handsome, strapping knight she’d seen sitting on his horse and staring at her had been a figment of Highland magic.

A moonlit whim of St. Bride to console her lonely, aching heart.

Indeed, garbed in naught but the night mist, his wind-tossed plaid, and gleaming mail, he’d looked too resplendent for her to mistake him for aught else.

Yet now he was here and kissing her. Aveline sighed into his mouth, opening her own wider, silently willing him not to stop, to keep up his bone-melting assault of her senses until she could no longer bear the exquisite friction of her naked breasts rubbing against the rough warmth of his plaid.

Her naked breasts?

Her eyes popped open, the languorous heat that had been pulsing through her gone in a flash. “Oh, no,” she gasped, looking down to see her left breast peeking over the top edge of her bodice.

Not the whole of her left breast, but her nipple was fully exposed.

Dusky pink, tightly ruched, and pressed flush against James Macpherson’s chest.

“Ach, dia!” She reached to adjust her gown, but he moved with lightning speed, gently capturing her wrist and lowering her hand to her side.

“Dinna fash yourself,” he said, touching just the tip of his finger to her thrusting nipple. “I have ne’er seen a more fetching sight and willna have this day end with you distressed. I want you e’er certain in the knowledge of how beautiful I find you.”

Holding her gaze, he brought his hand to his mouth and licked his fingers. He returned them to her breast, toying so lightly with her still-puckered nipple that the sensations stirred by his touch almost made her swoon.

Her knees were certainly weakening.

But she was so small. Her breasts nothing at all like the swelling globes her sisters flaunted so proudly. Or the even larger, great-nippled teats she’d seen on a few of the kitchen wenches.

She knew how often the garrison knights begged those kitchen bawds to pull down their bodices. And she knew, too, the kind of slack-jawed, glazed-eyed letch that always overcame the men in the hall when, with a bold wink and a smile, the kitchen maids complied.

Men favored large breasts.

Big, well-fleshed women. Curvaceous and buxom.

Hot-eyed, robust creatures whose hips swayed when they walked, their bosoms all a-jiggle, and who were wont to throw back their heads and laugh heartily. Brazens who drew manly eyes, inspired lust, and were everything she was not.

Imagining those women now, Aveline swallowed, her pulse racing. But Jamie only smiled at her, so much appreciation shining in his twinkling blue eyes that for a moment she would’ve sworn he stood not in the fire-lit solar, but in the midst of a grassy summer meadow with bright sunlight glancing off his coppery-red hair.

A stiff breeze coming in the windows riffled that hair, lifting the red-gold strands about his brow and Aveline moistened her lips as she looked at him, certain she’d never seen a man who appealed to her more.

With surety she couldn’t imagine anyone rivaling his great height. And the width of his shoulders stole her breath. But it was his warmth and natural exuberance that undid her. The irresistible sparkle of humor that lit his whole face when he smiled.

Even so, she flushed, knew intense relief when he eased up her bodice, smoothing the cloth over her breast until her decency was fully restored.

“You do not believe me,” he said, his smile fading. “You doubt me when I say how beautiful you are.”

“I am—”

“You are lovely,” Jamie declared, seeking to soothe her.

He may not have been blessed with sisters, but he’d spent enough years squiring beneath Duncan MacKenzie’s roof to observe that puissant laird’s two daughters at their best and at their worst.

If his wee sweet bride hadn’t been about to bemoan the smallness of her breasts, he’d eat a brick of peat.

Jamie leaned down, dropping a light kiss to the top of her head. “You have enchanted me and I’ve meant every word I’ve said to you. I do want you.”

But she continued to look unconvinced. “You have ties to the MacKenzies,” she argued, her chin lifting. “They have broad connections and influence. You could have had a maid of higher blood. The Black Stag of Kintail would have done you proud.”

“Done me proud?” Jamie could only gape at her.

Her hair alone would be the pride of any husband. Adorned with silver ribbons and reaching to her hips, her thick braid could well be plaited of moonbeams, so fair and bright were the strands.

The privilege of being the man allowed to undo such fine tresses, then run his fingers through the rippling, silken mass, swelled his heart with a feeling so close to wonder, he’d almost believe she really did possess a touch of the
Sithe
.

“Sweet lass, you do me proud,” he vowed, lifting her braid to his lips. “If you do not believe me, then I must ask if you have ne’er peered into a looking glass?”

Her blush deepened, but she held his gaze. “Considering how I was foisted on you, I am pleased if you are content.”

Frowning, Jamie scooped her up into his arms and carried her across the room, lowering her onto the settle by the door.

“Precious lass,” he began, pulling up a stool for himself, “I am more than content—I am ensorcelled, and I have been since I first set eyes on you. And I dinna mean belowstairs in your father’s hall.”

She considered. “You mean when you saw me in the wood.”

Jamie nodded. “I thought you were a faery. And I lost my heart to you there and then, thought you were the most beautiful creature I’d e’er seen.”

“But you were frowning.” She leaned back and looked at him. “I could see your face in the moonlight.”

Jamie grinned. “Lady, I can see I shall not be able to hide much from you!” Leaning forward, he brushed a light kiss across her lips. “I’ve said you enchanted me, and that is the truth of it. But I did hold you for a
Sithe
maid. And, as such,” he added, lowering his voice to make her smile, “I feared the wrath of a handsome faery prince. An outraged soul ready to leap out of the heather, fiery sword to hand and swinging.”

She pulled a cushion onto her lap, her fingers curling into its tasseled edge. “Why did you think a faery prince would be wroth with you?”

“Because everyone knows the fey can see into the hearts of men and he would have known how smitten I was with you.”

“And now that you know I am not of the fair folk?” she pressed. “Now that you have seen—”

“Your loveliness?” Jamie’s brow shot upward. “What I saw just now only proved that you are even more beautiful than I’d thought. For certes, finer than any faery!”

Her eyes widened at that, but she looked pleased.

And seeing her face brighten pleased him. Truth be told, everything about her was pleasing.

In his mind, he could still see her nipple, was even tempted to tell her so, likening its sweetness to a pink rosebud. But he didn’t want to frighten her so he simply twisted around on the stool, taking the wine jug and filling two chalices with the bloodred wine.

She angled her head, appraising him through her lashes. “I am thinking you could make a crone believe she was a sight to fill manly eyes, but I am aware of my limitations,” she challenged, now meeting his gaze directly. “There are some who might say you would be better served by a stout maid of the north. A wide-hipped lass able to bear you fine, strapping sons!”

Jamie almost choked.

And promptly downed the wine he’d just poured for her.

“I ken many a warring mates whose wives are just as wee as you and who’ve birthed scores of braw and healthy bairns,” he lied, now certain beyond all doubt that he’d spouted enough falsehoods to spend eternity just there where he didn’t wish to land.

“I am glad.” She reached to touch his face, letting her fingers glide down his cheek and along his jaw, across the curve of his lips. “Other suitors have objected to a match because of my size and I’d feared you’d wished time alone with me to discuss similar concerns.”

Jamie bristled. His fist itched to smash the nose of any lout who’d so insulted or hurt her.

“That was ne’er my intent,” he began, seeking the best words. “I wanted us to speak privately because I wished to tell you I’d seen you in the wood. I wanted to reassure you that I desired this match because of you and not because of any alliance arranged between our fathers.”

She lifted a brow. “But you would have agreed to the union all the same.”

Jamie nodded, unable to lie.

“Such is the way of things,” he reminded her, pleased when she took a sip of the wine. “I would have done my duty. Now, I am eager for the match.”

“I am pleased, too.” She looked at him, her words stroking dark places in his heart, soothing hurts he’d forgotten plagued him. “If you thought I was a faery, I would have sworn you were one of the great Fingal’s mythical Celtic warriors. Ne’er would I have believed such a fine, braw man would ride up out o’ the mist!” She finished her wine, but kept her fingers tightened around the stem of the chalice. “See you, I thought St. Bride of the Waters had summoned you. That she’d sent an ancient Gaelic hero to—”

“St. Bride of the Waters?” Jamie stood, began pacing.

He knew better than most who St. Bride was. And it cost him all his strength to keep from crossing himself. Not to see ill omens in Aveline’s mention of the Celtic saint’s name.

His mother’s brow had been rinsed with water from St. Bride’s well on the night of his birth.

And one of his earliest memories was of his da’s rantings about the saint. His threats to single-handedly dismantle the well and sink so many stones into its spring that nary a trickle e’er again saw the light of day.

Tobar na Slainte was the well’s true name.

The Well of Health.

A chill shot through Jamie and he stopped in front of the settle to look down at his bride, remembering now how close the well was to Hughie Mac’s cottage.

“What made you think St. Bride sent me? Had you been to fetch water from the well that night?”

“I’d been to bathe in the well,” Aveline admitted, not liking the way his face had lost color. “I—

“You bathed in it?”

She nodded. “I bathed and washed my hair. Why else would I have been hurrying through the wood of a night? Half-dressed and my hair unbound?”

“Why else indeed?” He stared at her, his face even more pale than before. “But that still does not tell me why you mistook me for a Fingalian hero.”

“A Fingalian warrior or . . . Highland magic,” Aveline said in a rush, watching him.

She stood, squaring her shoulders. “See you, I’d asked St. Bride to bless our union. I knew you were coming and feared you’d be displeased. So I took her an offering of oatcakes and honey and asked for harmony in return.”

“Naught else?”

“You must appreciate the suitors I’ve been presented with,” she tried again, not quite able to suppress a shudder. “Whether they withdrew their offers or nay, I would ne’er have consented to wedding them!”

Jamie hid a smile. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

“Yet you agreed to the match with me?”

She looked down, flicking her skirts as she dropped back onto the settle. “I am no longer so young as I was,” she said, looking up again, a spark of defiance in her eyes. “And I’d grown weary of waiting for a hearth and family of my own.”

Jamie sat back onto the stool. “I have ne’er seen the wish for hearth and home put such fire in a maid’s eyes,” he observed, taking her hands between his own. “What are you keeping from me?”

He wasn’t surprised when she pressed her lips together.

Truth be told, he would’ve sworn she put back her shoulders as well. But wee and delicate as she was, it was difficult to tell.

So he did what he could, lacing his fingers with hers and leaning forward, one brow raised until the resistance went out of her and she blew out a hasty breath.

“That’s better,” Jamie approved, sitting back and smiling at her. “No shame and no secrets.”

“As you wish,” she agreed, her cheeks glowing.

Jamie released her hands and topped their wine, clinking his chalice against hers. “So, lass, what other favors did you ask of St. Bride?”

“Only one,” she supplied, taking a sip of wine. “Something I suspect all maids yearn for if they are bold enough to admit it.”