Perilous Pleasures (17 page)

When, at last, all the servants and villagers had been greeted, he took her hand and led her toward the formal entryway, framed in oak so old it had turned nearly black. As one of the servants sprang forward to open the door, Zoe got a hazy impression of the dark wood and musty hangings awaiting them inside. Then, before she had time to realize what he intended, Adam bent over and placed one strong arm beneath her knees, and after wrapping the other around her shoulders, picked her up and carried her over the threshold.

There was a scatter of applause from the servants, and several of them raised a cheer. She was glad the denizens of the manor couldn't see her face. It must be the color of a well-boiled beet. Until this moment, her wedding and all it entailed had been something private, shared only with strangers who would never see them again, meaningful only to her and her new husband, and fragile because, despite his reassurances, she feared he would eventually set it aside.

But with this simple, traditional gesture her husband had made it public. He'd acknowledged her as his bride before his people. He'd told them this was to be her new home. Perhaps he really did want her to remain his wife.

Still holding her in his arms, he carried her to the center of the large, paneled reception room and set her down on her feet once again, but even then he didn't let her go. “They will expect this, too.”

He leaned over and planted a kiss on her lips—a long and lingering kiss that made her go limp in his arms. Only when the last echo of the kiss had finished resonating through the most distant reaches of her body did he release her and stand back. Then he turned to face his dependents. His features betrayed only the slightest tinge of the distant, haughty look that had filled them earlier.

His eyes were warm and glowing as he said, in that rich, resonant voice of his that totally undid her, “Welcome to Strathrimmon, my dearest bride.”

T
he rest of the evening passed in a blur. After their things were brought in, the servants saw to it that Zoe was made comfortable and given a chance to rest after the tiring journey. She napped while Adam reacquainted himself with his bailiff and his affairs. When she awakened hours later, it was to find that her dinner had been brought up to her on a tray.

She stayed awake, hoping to see her husband when he was done with his many new responsibilities, but Adam didn't come to her bed that night, though she lay awake for a long time, hoping to see him. It was only after the moon had set and all lay still in the night around her that she conceded that she was to spend her first night as the lady of the manor still a virgin.

She wondered. Despite the public way he'd claimed her, had Adam had second thoughts, after seeing her here in his childhood home?

She told herself to stop seeing trouble where there was none. They'd made a hard journey today, traveling faster than usual, and her leg, which had felt almost normal in the morning, had started to ache. He'd noticed her limping as she'd mounted the main staircase and had commented upon it. Perhaps it was chivalry that kept him from coming to her bed, out of a fear of hurting her.

Or perhaps there was some old Scottish custom to be followed here, too—village maidens decking her out in traditional bridal robes while aged retainers muttered hoary Scots blessings. It was all so new to her. She must resist jumping to conclusions. She should be glad to have a bit of time to get some rest, alone, without the disturbing presence of her new husband to send her all aflutter.

But an untroubled rest was the last thing she wanted, for everything
was
so unsettled! Once he'd taken that last, irrevocable step that would make her fully his wife, perhaps her life would sink back into some kind of regular pattern. She would settle into her new role as mistress of Strathrimmon—as strange as it seemed now—and move on. But she couldn't relax now, not stuck as she was here, on the threshold, wife and not wife, her future still so uncertain.

But for tonight, she had no choice. Whatever his reasons, her new husband had left her alone with her thoughts, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Chapter 12

Z
oe was awakened the next morning by a rap on her door. Her heart lifted.
Adam had come at last
. But a moment later she realized it couldn't be her husband. He would have come through the adjoining door that led to his bedchamber, but whoever was knocking was outside in the hallway. It must be a servant.

She called out a sleepy “Come in.” At her command, the door cracked open and a small, wizened old woman entered and, without waiting for an invitation, made her way slowly toward the bed. Only when she was so close that Zoe could have touched the faded blue wool of her gown did she come to a halt and peer into Zoe's face with eyes almost as faded.

“So you are the puir wee lassie he has brought back with him.” The woman shook her head. “Puir bairn.”

“Who are you?”
And what gives you the right to speak so frankly with your mistress?

“Annie MacTavish,” the crone replied with an air that suggested there should be no need for her to explain something so obvious. “I was their nurse, the twa bairns, so many years ago.” She leaned so close that Zoe could smell her unwashed body. “Who were
ye
before he made ye his?”

Zoe's insides constricted. Aside from the woman's rudeness, hers was not an unnatural question to ask, and they must all of them here be wondering the same thing. She must take care to answer it in a way that wouldn't lower her standing with the servants.

“I was the Laird of Iskeny's ward.”

“Iskeny? Aye, that explains it then. Who else would marry one who bore such a curse as our maister?” The woman turned her head and spat over her shoulder, making a strange gesture with the fingers on one hand.

A chill ran through Zoe at the old woman's words. Adam had called himself accursed more than once, but she'd assumed he meant it figuratively. Still, the Scots
were
steeped in old traditions—superstitions, Mrs. Endicott would have called them. She must make allowances. But before she could demand an explanation, the door to her husband's chamber burst open and Adam entered. Upon seeing him, the old woman made a deep curtsy.

“Annie!” Adam cried when he recognized her. “No need to stand on ceremony with me.” He came over and gently enfolded her in an embrace. “Auld Annie was my nurse,” he explained before turning back to the old woman. “It's been so long since I last saw you. Too long.”

“Ye had yer reasons and at least ye
did
come home, not like yer father afore ye. Anyroad, I'm still the same,” the old woman shrugged. “I came to see yer bride. She's a bonny lass, though she could use some fattening up. She'll nae make it through the cold winter with so little meat on her bones.”

He smiled. “I'll speak to Cook directly. I wouldn't want to lose her through such carelessness.”

“Nae, I ween you wudna,” the old woman agreed with no hint of a smile. “There's troubles enough awaitin' the puir lassie without that. But I'll be on my way, then, Adam, though I s'pose you being all grown I must call you my lord.” Then without giving him any chance to reply she curtseyed again, very slowly, as if her joints pained her, and as she turned away Zoe thought she saw her again make that gesture with her fingers.

When Auld Annie was gone, Zoe said, “What a strange woman! Was she really your nurse?”

He nodded.

“She was quite rude. Is that the custom among servants here in Scotland?”

“No. But it's Auld Annie's custom, and she's been here too long to cure her of it.”

“She seems to be full of superstition, too. Has she become that way with age?”

“No, she was always like that. She always liked to while away the long winter nights frightening young children with tales of the faerie folk and goblins who steal bad children. It kept us on our best behavior. When she tended us, I spent many a night with my eyes wide open, cowering in my bed fearing they'd soon be coming for me.”

She was tempted to ask him if the curse that the old woman had mentioned was just such a fairy tale, told to keep her master's new bride out of mischief, but thought better of it. There had been something about the way the old woman had spoken of it that made her want to learn more before she confronted him about it.

He walked over to the bed. He was dressed, as usual, in a clean white homespun shirt open at the collar and in breeches of the old-fashioned sort, buttoned at the knee, which showed off the firm muscles of his long calves. The morning sun brought out the red highlights in his russet hair while deepening the hue of his gold-flecked gray eyes to a color not much different from that of the slates that covered the roof outside her window.

How handsome he was! She fought down the desire to run her fingers through his hair and explore the tempting arch of his high cheekbone. But she reined it in. It was for him to make that kind of move. She was his wife, not a woman to be taken for pleasure.

Still, she longed to put to an end the uncertainty that still hung over their marriage. He'd acknowledged her to his people. It must be time to take the final step, if only so that she need no longer torment herself wondering if he would set her aside. Their marriage must be consummated.

She felt downright brazen, so strongly did she long for it to happen right now, despite the voice within that counseled caution. Even if he didn't love her as some innocent young miss might wish to be loved, what of it? She'd never been innocent, and she couldn't remember ever feeling young. He'd acknowledged her as his bride in front of all his people. That was worth something. And even if he never learned to love her, when the marriage was consummated she would have children who would—cherished children, on whom she could lavish her adoration, children who would have a father and a name.

But perhaps it was the thought of those children that explained why Adam hesitated as he approached her bed. Despite his newfound resolution to find a way to accept her parentage, he could have no wish to father Isabelle's grandchild, especially not here, in the home he'd last shared with Charlotte. Zoe could only imagine the memories he must have had to contend with on his return here yesterday. They must have driven home, again, how high a price he paid for doing his teacher's will.

But even so, he'd done it, and if she was willing to make the best of it, so must he. She couldn't bear to spend much longer playing the role of his wife here in front of his retainers, while knowing he could still have their marriage annulled. If he wouldn't take the next step, perhaps she must be the one to help him do it.

She cast her mind back to what she'd heard her mother say on the subject of encouraging the growth of a man's passion, but all that came to mind was her insistence that a woman must never let a man see her first thing in the morning—not until she'd washed herself, arranged her hair, and reapplied her paint.

If that was the case, Zoe was already doomed. Adam had already seen her in her rumpled nightgown with her long tresses lying in knotted tangles around her shoulders. Suddenly self-conscious, she sat up and gathered up a few handfuls of hair to wind back into a bun, looking for her hairpins, which she remembered putting on the table beside the bed before sleep. But Adam reached out a hand to stop her.

“Leave it down” he said softly. “It's so beautiful that way. I didn't know it was so long and thick. You've always worn it up.”

“I must, otherwise it becomes a rat's nest. It's far too curly.”

“I think not.” He reached out and stroked one long tress, beginning at her ear and then following it down past her shoulder onto her bosom. As his hand brushed by her nipple, which was covered only by the thin lawn of her nightgown, Zoe felt a wave of longing surge through her body, but she steeled herself to give no sign of it. She was to be his wife, not a woman of pleasure, and she must be careful to start as she meant to go on.

As she controlled herself, she saw uncertainty flicker in his eyes. Then he drew his hand away. Had he been disappointed with what he found? Her bosom
was
so very small, though that couldn't have come as much of a surprise, to him. He must have noticed it by now.

“Perhaps they'll grow as I get older.”

“Your hair? Hair always grows.” He sounded confused.

She could feel herself blushing. “I thought perhaps you found my figure disappointing. There's so little there.”

He laughed. “There's more than enough. Why did you think me disappointed?”

The blush she'd felt before was nothing to the burning she felt spread across her face now. Did he really expect her to speak with him of such things? “You took your hand away.”

“And you thought that meant I didn't like to touch you?”

She nodded.

He sat beside her on the bed. The mattress sagged as he put his weight onto it and she couldn't help but lean in toward him.

“I like touching you, Zoe, very much. But the situation is daunting.”

“It is for me, too. I don't know how a wife is supposed to behave with her husband. Everything I've learned about such matters was taught me by my mother and her friends, and they had no wish to act like wives. The things they did were meant to captivate and enslave their men. I shouldn't think you'd want that from me.”

He grinned. “I can't say. I've never been captivated or enslaved before. I might enjoy it. What does it entail?”

She pondered this. “Well, their art was mostly a matter of letting you see what you might have, while holding it back at the same time—to make you want it more.”

“I'm not sure I understand. Could you could give me an example?”

She cast her mind back for some example that would not be too embarrassing. Not the tale of how Paulette had restored the admiral's ardor by dressing in a midshipman's uniform. But what? At last she said, “Well, there's that thing they would do with their bosoms—they all have such lovely ones. My mother would let her décolletage drop down like this.” She pulled down the neckline of her nightgown, opening up the top buttons so that the gentle curve of her own small bosom was revealed. “Then she'd move so.” She thrust out her chest and moved her shoulder in a seductive wiggle. “Then the man would reach for it and she'd laugh and slap at his hand saying, ‘Foolish man' or something like that. The men always loved that, though I could never see why.”

“Did your mother enjoy it?” His tone made her think he really wanted to know.

“I can't say for sure, but I think she did.”

“How come?”

“Because it made the men want her more.”

“But you wouldn't like it, would you?”

“No. I don't see the point of it.”

“Then you must have been relieved when I removed my hand just now.”

She felt herself blush again and her nipples hardened at the memory of how she'd felt when he'd touched her. “That was different.”

“Why?”

She dropped her head, too embarrassed to reply. What would he think of her if he knew the truth?

He pressed on. “
Would
you have slapped my hand away, if I'd let it linger?”

Her nipples were on fire with need of him by now, but all she said was “No.”

His lip turned up with mischief. “Because you'd have enjoyed it?”

Again she nodded dumbly, awash in embarrassment, wishing she had her mother's ability to lie, just this once, so he wouldn't know how unsuited she was to responding as befit a wife. “I suppose I'm very shameless.”

“No.” The golden sparkles in his gray eyes danced with amusement. “Just very honest. Your mother was right. You would have been a complete failure as a courtesan.”

Her heart sank. “I can't help being the way I am,” she said stiffly. “It was you who wanted to marry me.”

“Yes. And it has long been a principle with me to only marry women who fail utterly at being courtesans.”

Without another word, he reached out and pressed his long, tapered fingers where her nipple lay hidden below the thin fabric of her gown. Then he drew a languid circle around it, dragging the tip of his fingernail along the rim. When she thought she couldn't bear the sensation a moment longer, his hand dropped lower and cupped her breast. His fingers closed tightly around it for a moment, kneading the firm flesh, and then relaxed, before returning to her nipple and stroking it gently, making small circles spread out through her body like the ripples a pebble made when dropped into a pond.

She drew in a sharp breath.

“Does that please you?” he asked quietly.

“Oh yes. But why would anyone want to slap a hand away when it could give them such pleasure?”

“Because it would strengthen the man's desire if you treated him that way. You mother is right. A woman can get power over a man by denying him what he wants.”

“Then I must learn to do so.”

“Why?” His eyes darkened.

She wanted to stay silent, but his steady gaze forced her to speak, though her voice was barely a whisper. “So you will finally want me.”

“I want you now,” he said, so softly that she could barely hear him. “I'm wild with longing for you. But I mustn't give in to that longing, not yet.”

“Why not?”

“We have a lifetime to spend together. There's no rush—and I don't want to frighten you.”

He had let his hand drop again, leaving her taut with longing. But he wouldn't meet her eye. He was telling the truth. But not all of it. Carefully she said, “You could frighten me, still, with your anger, but not with your touch.” She reached for his hand and brought it back to where it had been, on her breast.

As if her words had freed something in him, he stretched out beside her on the bed. Releasing her breast, he took her hand in his and pulled it toward him. She let him guide it toward his shirt as he pulled it up with his other hand before placing her fingers on his chest. She felt the wiry hair that guarded his nipples and let his hand guide her toward the tiny nubs that crowned them. She stroked one experimentally, wondering if it felt to him the way her nipple had when he'd touched her there.