Hannah and the Highlander (12 page)

Hannah should have been elated. She should have been thrilled. She should have had an appetite, but she did not.

All through the dinner, her husband sat silent at her side. She tried to engage him in conversation several times, but his responses were confined to a smile, a nod, or a stare. She had to turn to his brother for reprieve. Andrew was in good spirits, but that might have been the whisky, which was flowing freely. He chattered gaily about the lands and the clan and the history of the Lochlannach family—all of which should have come from her husband.

As for Dunnet, he didn't drink much, only a sip with each new toast, and barely that, but it hardly mollified her. When he met her gaze and then looked away, Hannah lifted her finger for another glass of wine.

She'd had no intention of partaking as much as she did, but she found it useful to abate her brittle mood. She could only hope being married to such a stone would not drive her to drink.

By the time the wedding cake arrived, she was feeling somewhat mellow and had arrived at a resolution. So he didn't want to talk to her? She wouldn't talk to him.

It would make for a peaceful union. A quiet one, at least.

It would be a challenge for her, holding her tongue, but she could do it. She was certain that burn in her belly was determination and not the desire for reprisal.

Morag, the cook, beaming with pride, bustled in after the footmen carrying her cake. Indeed, it was a stunning creation of fruitcake steeped in brandy, and quite large. Though it would need to be, to accommodate the crowd. The first piece was served to Hannah's husband with two forks—apparently, they would share, while the rest of the top tier was pieced out to the guests. The bottom tier would be saved to celebrate the birth of their firstborn child.

She tried to ignore Dunnet's heated gaze as he fed her the first bite of cake but couldn't. There seemed to be a wealth of meaning in that look, in the slight quirk of his lips, but Hannah couldn't interpret it. Obediently, like a baby bird, she opened her mouth and allowed him to feed her.

As delectable as the confection probably was, it tasted like dust in her mouth. She chewed and swallowed and then fed him a bite as well.

She had thought they would finish their cake, or at least make an attempt to, but as soon as he'd swallowed his morsel he stood and tugged her up by his side.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Andrew cried. “The Laird and Lady of Dunnet!” The assemblage cheered.

When Dunnet whipped her up into his arms, the crowd went wild. Hannah's
eep
was swallowed in the roar. She shot a panicked glance at Lana, but she responded with a delighted grin.

There would be no respite from that quarter. Nor any other. As Hannah's husband carried her from the room the denizens of Dunnet crowded around them, and the throng stood at the bottom of the steps calling out their good wishes as he bounded up the stairs and down the long, long hall to his chambers. As their cheers faded, Hannah's trepidation rose.

She was beset by a welter of sensation. Not the least of which was the flurry of his movements as he strode with great speed, whisking her away from the party. Then there was the feel of his arms around her, cradling her. The warmth of his chest. The tang of his scent as it curled around her.

Oh dear.
She really shouldn't have had so much wine. At the very least, she should have eaten more.

He leaned down to open the door to his bedchamber and then carried her over the threshold. Gently, he set her to her feet, kicking the door closed with his heel. She could feel his gaze on her face, but she couldn't meet his eyes. Heat walked up her cheeks.

They were alone. Absolutely alone.

In his bedchamber.

She glanced at the bed.

It was enormous. Four thick posters flanked the corners. It was rafted with fat pillows. The sheets were turned back.

Egads.

She opened her mouth to speak—to state her unwavering assertion that this would be an excellent opportunity to continue their chat—when he lifted her hand. His lips were warm, his breath damp, as he tenderly kissed the ring he had placed on her finger.

And then he knelt before her.

She had to look at him then. Had to stare at him, and once she did her consciousness was ensnared by the vision. In the traditional Highland dress, he was heartbreakingly handsome and there, on his knees before her, irresistible.

Holding her gaze, he lifted her hem. And kissed it.

No words could express what that simple gesture conveyed. It shafted through her soul, truer than any arrow.

My wife,
he'd said.
I am your servant.

In a flash her aggravation with him crumbled, like a sand castle consumed by a rushing tide. In a flash her hunger for him rose again. It filled her veins with a scorching heat. Uncomfortable prickles throbbed throughout her body.

Maybe it was the wine she'd had or the fact that she hadn't been able to eat much, but her head spun. Her heart raced. A mad, dizzying rush engulfed her.

To hell with conversation.

She wanted him and she wanted him now.

 

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Beautiful.

She was absolutely beautiful. With her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, her lips parted.

Alexander trembled as he stared up at her. He could hardly believe the time was here. Finally. Finally they were husband and wife. Finally they were alone. He'd barely been able to contain himself throughout the Ceilidh. The speeches, the endless toasts, shaking countless hands. When it had been time to sweep her into his arms and carry her away, a great welling elation had encompassed him.

And now they were here. He wasn't sure how to proceed. Making love to a wife was a new thing for him, but he knew what he wanted to do.

He wanted to worship her.

Every inch.

With knocking knees, he stood and stepped behind her, releasing her hair from its knot. It tumbled over her shoulders in a silken fall. He spread it out, sifting his fingers through the soft strands.

Then he unfastened the rosette and removed the plaid his brother had bestowed upon her, folding it carefully and setting it on a chair. Next, he unfastened the white heather from her lapel and set it aside, next to his.

He should have kept going. He should have slowly unbuttoned her bodice and removed her dress, but he couldn't. Nae. He needed to taste her. It had been far too long since he had.

When he tipped up her chin, it trembled. There was a hint of apprehension in her eyes. He knew he was large and she was small, but he didn't want her to fear him. He would be gentle with her, always. This he vowed.

So as he set his mouth on hers, he murmured the words in his heart. “Hannah.
Mo bhean. Mo ghraidh.
”
My wife. My love.
Though the last of it might have been muffled as their lips touched.

Then again, his brain might have been muffled.

Because as he touched her, tasted her, all thoughts flew asunder.

Heat rose in him and he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer and delving in. She moaned and pressed into him, which enflamed him. This was their first true kiss as husband and wife. She was warm and fragrant and he ached to have her.

Though she responded sweetly, kissing him back, threading her fingers through his hair, he stepped away.

He would worship her, he reminded himself.

Not pounce upon her like a savage.

He would show her with his body that which he found so difficult to say.

Though she frowned at him, he led her to the chair by the fire and sat her down. Then he knelt once more and removed her slippers. Her eyes widened, but she didn't demur. In fact, she didn't make a peep.

She did peep, though, when he stroked the delicate arc of her instep. And she peeped again—well, more of a squawk—when he kissed her there. A laugh bubbled from her lips and she tried to squirm away, but he didn't allow it. Rather, he continued tracing the lines of her foot, her toes, her ankle, relishing each touch.

And each touch he followed with a buss.

Her eyes widened when he pushed up her hem and began exploring her calves.

“Oh dear,” she murmured.

He put a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

She nibbled her lip—a sight that poleaxed him, but he forced himself to continue, paying special attention to the backsides of her knees, because it caused her to moan and wriggle and he did enjoy that very much.

By the time he reached her thighs, he was hard as a rock. His cock thrummed with every beat of his heart. Hunger for her, his wife, rolled through him in waves. Slowly, he eased up her skirt until it pooled in her lap, then drew his fingers over the silky skin, amazed at how creamy and flawless it was.

It humbled him that she—this exquisite creature—would deign to allow him to touch her. To hold her. To have her. He expected that at any moment she might leap to her feet and stop him, but she did not.

When he raised her hem the final bit and a downy triangle of jet-black curls came into view, his breath stalled. He nearly swallowed his tongue when her thighs shifted apart. Only an infinitesimal bit, but it was enough to enrage his senses.

Her heat, her scent, her soft sighs, surrounded him like a swirling fog.

He scudded his palm over the tops of her thighs, inching closer and closer. Her breasts rose as she sucked in a breath.

When he touched her there, every nerve in his body sizzled. Easing through the down, he found her pearl.

It was damp.

She was damp.

His vision blurred.

Worship her
, he reminded himself, repeating it like a mantra in his head.

The urge to take her, wildly, brutally, savagely raked him. But he could not. Would not.

He had vowed. And a Lochlannach never broke a vow.

Though he might die trying to keep it.

His tongue dabbed out to wet his lips and she gasped, drawing his attention to her face. It stalled there.

Had he thought her beautiful before?

Was he mad?

Nothing was as enthralling as her expression as he stroked her most intimate center. Her eyes were glazed; her lips parted, her breath came in small pants.

When he stilled—only for a second, but it didn't matter to her—she sank her nails into his scalp and gripped him tightly. “Doona stop.” A guttural command. One with which he was delighted to comply.

He opened her with his thumbs and stared at her.
God. God in heaven above.
He could gaze at this sight forever—

But no.

When she lifted her hips and tightened her grip, he knew he couldn't gaze at that sight forever.

He was not a patient enough man.

He wanted, needed, to
taste
her.

Now.

*   *   *

Hanna's body clenched as Alexander lowered his head. Her chest ached until she remembered to breathe. Every muscle quivered. How was it that such a simple touch, the mere skim of his hand, could cause such havoc?

Feelings she'd never known raced through her. A tightness at her core, a welling dampness between her thighs, and an emptiness, a restlessness that lashed at her body and mind.

The matrons of Ciaran Reay had certainly never mentioned
this
.

She wanted to push closer but dared not. She couldn't bear to miss a second of this—whatever he was doing. It was far too heavenly.

When he lapped her, she nearly swooned. And she was not a swooning kind of girl. Pleasure, intense and delicious, shot through her as he drew his velvety tongue along her tender crease and dabbed at the bundle of nerves at the center of her being. He made a sound, a strangled groan, one that rumbled through her with a heady hum. The vibration sent new delights dancing over her skin, through her flesh.

She couldn't stop herself. She closed her thighs on his head and arched into the bliss.

Thank God he didn't stop.
Thank God.
Instead his lips closed around her and—dear heavens—he sucked.

Something took her. She wasn't certain what it was, but it was wondrous. Lights danced before her eyes; a great tide welled within her; a series of mindless quivers and quakes shook her.

As marvelous as it was, it engendered within her only a desire for more.

Nae, more than a desire. A raging need.

She took hold of his ears—ignoring his yelp—and wrenched his face to hers, and she kissed him. She knew that strange taste was the flavor of her own arousal, which only excited her more. That he leaned into the kiss, that he covered her mouth with his and consumed her, thrilled her to the core.

The weight of his broad chest against hers was a delight. The scrape of him as he moved over her, brushing against the swollen tips of her breasts, was nearly unbearable.

But ah, she would bear it.

Especially when he closed a hand on one sensitive mound and squeezed.

Rivulets of pleasure spread out, fomenting new flames of passion.

It frustrated her that she didn't know what she wanted, didn't know what she needed. But he seemed to know. As he toyed with her breast, he continued to stroke between her legs, bringing her to higher and higher glory until the peaks melded together into one long ripple of unending sweetness.

He leaned back to gaze at her. The hint of regret made clear his intention to retreat, to stop. She nearly wailed.

“Not … here.” His voice was gruff, harsh.

“Aye. Here.” She didn't want this to stop. Couldn't bear for it to stop. Not even to move over to the bed.

She tugged him back, taking his mouth with hers and raking his neck with her nails. Unable to still her restless hands, she stroked his shoulders, ran her fingers through his hair. As she scraped her palms over the great slabs of his back, unexpected ripples captured her attention. Curiosity scoured her. She traced one and then another. And then, fascinated, she began exploring them all.