Authors: Anna Markland
“I love this place,” he said to Logan as they dismounted.
Logan chuckled, eyeing Margaret as Rheade helped her down. “Aye, and ’tis clear the warmest welcome is for ye and yer bride.”
While many clustered around Tannoch, it was true most gathered to congratulate Rheade. “Welcome to Dunalastair, Lady Margaret Robertson,” he whispered as she slid from the horse into his arms.
She arched a brow, smiling her thanks at the noisy well-wishers. “Let’s hope I’m never obliged to flee this place again,” she whispered in his ear. “Nor languish in its cells.”
He pulled her to his body and kissed her deeply, giving rise to a rousing cheer from the onlookers. “The only languishing ye’ll be doing is in yer husband’s bed, saucy wench.”
He’d deliberately said it loudly enough for those near them to hear. His reward was several hearty slaps on the back.
Grinning like a fool, he scooped her up, relishing how she seductively snaked her arms around his neck. “Make way, folk of Dunalastair, and allow me to carry my bride into the keep.”
People elbowed and shoved and tripped over their own feet to clear a path quickly with shouts of
Aye! Make way!
He glanced over at his brother, not wishing to detract further from the chieftain’s homecoming. Tannoch strode boldly to pause in the doorway. Glenna stood at his side, fidgeting with the folds of the plaid covering his stump. Despite the exhaustion etched on his features, he braced his legs and addressed his people. “’Tis good to be home,” he shouted.
He raised his left hand to quieten the loud cheers. “And ’tis fitting ye welcome my brother’s new wife.”
He nodded to Rheade then disappeared inside, followed by a raucous, cheering crowd.
“He loves ye,” Margaret whispered in his ear.
It came to him suddenly he was still standing in the bailey holding his wife in his arms. The curious expressions on the faces of folk around them indicated they were wondering what he was waiting for. His brother’s acknowledgement had stunned him.
“Aye,” he replied. “Mayhap he does.”
~~~
Margaret remembered the first time she’d set eyes on Dunalastair Castle. Its sandstone walls, glowing pink in the sunlight, had warmed her heart. It had felt like home. She’d spent several pleasant days dreaming of living in the castle—with Rheade. Then the terror of Tannoch’s return had turned the daydream into a nightmare.
But this was to be her home now, the cells a place she vowed never to set foot in again.
She looked up at the sturdy structure. It was built to last, like her love for Rheade. But Tannoch and Glenna had once been in love, she was certain, yet look at them now, constantly at each other’s throat. However, Rheade wasn’t Tannoch, and she certainly wasn’t Glenna.
More than capable of dismounting alone, she bowed to decorum and welcomed the opportunity to feel the strength in her husband’s shoulders as he lifted her from the horse and pressed her needy body to his.
She was thrilled the people seemed genuinely happy to greet her. She’d been nervous, despite Rheade’s reassurances. Clan Robertson looked healthy and well fed. Rosy-cheeked children ran everywhere.
They cheered when Rheade scooped her up. She was tempted to rain kisses the length of his neck, but perhaps it wasn’t appropriate, although they’d applauded his kiss. Still she didn’t want to appear the wanton. They’d already seen his kiss light her on fire.
Such thoughts rekindled nervous thoughts of their upcoming wedding night. She hoped Rheade’s chamber looked out over the loch, but admitted inwardly she was avoiding thoughts of their lovemaking. She longed for it and knew that this very night Rheade would take her. He’d made it clear he had no intention of waiting any longer to claim his husbandly rights. They would fulfill the promise to Father Fencot—later.
Her handsome husband had likely bedded many women. But he loved her! Surely he’d be patient. She wished her mother had been more forthcoming concerning what went on in the marriage bed.
Clinging to Rheade’s neck, she glanced at Tannoch standing proudly in the doorway of the keep. The long ride had cost him dearly, and he looked none too pleased she and Rheade had stolen his thunder. She wondered how many at Dunalastair were aware he’d lied about the capture of the Stewarts. It wasn’t a secret that would stay buried for long.
It was largely thanks to her ministrations he still lived. If he’d died Rheade would have been chieftain. She doubted Glenna would be much help in arranging the celebration for the wedding. The Mistress of Dunalastair seemed to have no gumption, and Margaret sensed the woman still harbored traces of resentment. It was ironic; Margaret envied Glenna her position. She thirsted to be Mistress of Dunalastair. The things she might achieve with this castle.
But she resolved to put aside such negative thoughts. A new life awaited and she would accept the good with the bad. With Rheade anything was possible. Her role was to be a good wife and, if it pleased God, the mother of his bairns.
Her heart lightened when Tannoch bade folks welcome her. “He loves ye,” she whispered to Rheade.
But she wondered again why it seemed difficult for the chieftain to show he cared.
THE BRIDAL CHAMBER
The clan’s noisy exuberance intensified as the feasting began and the ale flowed. Fion had again worked miracles but refused credit when Rheade thanked him for the sumptuous spread. “
Och
, ’tis the cooks ye should be grateful to,” he protested, “and the hunters who brought down the deer ye’re salivating o’er.”
“Ye are too modest,” Margaret insisted. “Everything is delicious, not only the venison. The ale is strong and hearty, the onions and parsnips cooked to perfection, and the hall looks verra festive. I thank ye from the bottom of my heart for our wedding feast. Ye had scant time to prepare.”
Rheade had never seen the auld servant blush to the roots of his thinning hair before as he mumbled an unintelligible response. “Careful, Fion,” he teased. “Margaret’s
my
wife.”
He and his bride leaned into each other and chuckled as Fion rushed off to the kitchens, muttering about making sure the cooks were doing a proper job of the baked apples being prepared for the sweet.
Pride filled Rheade’s heart. He squeezed her hand. “They love ye, Margaret.”
She blushed. “They’re friendly people.”
He pressed his thigh to hers, aroused by her nearness, but he was troubled. “Aye, all but my chieftain.”
She shrugged. “Tannoch was exhausted after the journey. I didna expect him to stay long.”
“Aye, but I’m certain everyone noticed he didna wish us good night,” he complained, resolving not to dwell further on the slight.
“Dinna worry,” came the response from Logan seated to his right, “yer younger brother will make sure ye get properly escorted to yer chamber and that the bedding is memorable.”
Margaret’s eyes widened. “I dinna like the sound o’ that,” she said. “I recall my brothers’ antics at weddings.”
Rheade’s hackles rose. “I admit I’ve plagued some of my friends when they’ve wed, but it doesna have the same appeal when ye’re the groom.”
He’d addressed his words to Logan, hoping his brother would understand his meaning. Margaret had endured much over the last months. He wanted this night to be perfect. He leaned over to drive home his point. “I dinna want my wife embarrassed,” he whispered.
Logan wrinkled his nose. “Killjoy!” he sulked. “Mayhap on the morrow then.”
Rheade arched a brow.
Logan eyed him impatiently. “The sheets. The flagpole,” he hissed between gritted teeth.
Rheade wasn’t sure whether to be affronted or pleased. “Ye believe she’s still a virgin?” he growled. “We’ve been man and wife since—”
Logan clamped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Of course she’s a virgin. Why else are ye like a randy tomcat who canna find a mate?” He curled his free hand into a paw and pretended to claw at Rheade. “Meeeooow!”
Margaret burst out laughing. “Brothers are all alike, whether they’re from Oban or Loch Tay.”
Her laughter caused the usual uproar in Rheade’s balls. He pushed back from the table. “Time we retired, my lady wife.”
“But there’s still the sweet to be served,” she protested as he hauled her up.
“Ye are my sweet,” he growled, sweeping her off her feet.
~~~
It gladdened Margaret she could now speak of her brothers without feeling her heart was being torn to pieces. As Rheade carried her from the hall amid the raucous cheers of the crowd, she thought back to her dream of Braden.
It
was
only a dream, she was sure. There was no such thing as a portal to the future. Yet it somehow eased the pain to believe her brothers might have a chance at a different life. And Braden's cryptic message abut Loch Bhac had turned out to be true.
“Ye seem pensive,” Rheade said.
“I was thinking of my brothers,” she replied. “Ye canna imagine the shenanigans if they’d been here.”
He paused outside his chamber and looked back down the steps. “So far so good. Logan is keeping the rabble at bay.”
He kicked open the door. “Now, I want ye to stop thinking about yer brothers and turn yer attention to yer husband.”
She pecked a kiss on his nose. “I never stop thinking about ye, Rheade,” she breathed.
Hannah coughed as they stepped over the threshold.
Margaret had forgotten her maidservant was waiting to assist her.
“I can undress yer mistress,” Rheade said dismissively.
“Nay,” Hannah replied, wringing her hands. “The nightgown.”
Rheade laughed. “She’ll need no nightgown.”
Margaret wriggled from his arms. “I’m afraid she’s right, husband. I only found out this afternoon from this furiously blushing young lady that the Queen sent a nightgown for my wedding night.”
“Her Majesty swore me to secrecy,” Hannah pleaded, obviously nervous of Rheade’s reaction to the delay. “’Twill take but a few moments. We’ve brought a screen. Ye dinna have to leave the chamber, my lord.”
~~~
As if he’d leave his chamber when he’d just carried his bride over the threshold! He’d never hear the end of it from the men he was sure lurked nearby, eager for any opportunity to cause mayhem.
“I’ll wait,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. “No choice I suppose. I’ve waited this long.”
She looked so bereft at his disappointment he was contrite. “There’s nay many a groom whose bride comes to him robed in a nightgown gifted by a queen.”
He pressed Margaret’s hand to his arousal. “Dinna take too long,” he whispered. “As ye see, my need is great.”
She glanced warily at Hannah, but the girl had already retreated behind his mother’s treasured painted oriental screen. “I’ll be quick,” she reassured him.
Hannah had lit several beeswax candles and turned down the bedspread. He punched the bolsters then lay flat on his back, knees bent.
Behind the screen Hannah chattered away. He closed his eyes imagining the lass unpinning his wife’s brooch and removing the new plaid Fion had proudly presented. He swallowed hard, slightly irritated. He had wanted to do that.
Perhaps he should be removing his own clothes. He got to his feet and sloughed off his plaid.
He glanced over to the screen in time to see Margaret’s hands appear as she raised her arms. Hannah drew her
léine
up and over them. His mouth went dry as a vision of his wife naked danced behind his eyes. The cursed screen was going back to his mother’s dressing room on the morrow.
He threw his plaid onto the bed and reached for the hem of his own
léine
. It soon joined the plaid. He fidgeted with the laces of his
trouzes
. But mayhap he should wait. It would be pleasant if Margaret removed them—more than pleasant in fact.
He retrieved his plaid, but then decided he’d be too hot if he put it back on. He was burning up as it was. Mayhap he’d take off his boots—make it easier for her.
Crivvens! Ye’re like a green lad with his first lass.
The upraised hands appeared again and a flimsy flash of pale blue slid down. Hannah giggled. Margaret gasped. His shaft turned to rock. He definitely didn’t plan to remove his
trouzes
with the maid in the chamber. He got back on the bed and resumed his position.
“Almost ready, my lord,” Hannah called.
He cupped his hand under the swelling between his legs in an effort to ease the fullness.
I’m more than ready.
The maid chose the same moment to peek around the screen. He hastily removed his hand from his groin, and got to his feet.
~~~
Margaret had never worn anything as fine as the monarch’s gift, but it was cut too low in the front. “I might as well be naked,” she murmured.
Hannah giggled. “’Tis the same color as yer eyes,” she gushed in a hoarse whisper. “My lord Rheade will love it.”
Margaret fanned her cheeks, trying to cool the fire raging there. “My husband will think I’ve been sitting in the sun.”
Hannah eyed her blankly, peeked around the screen, smiled back at her and disappeared. Margaret heard the soft thud of the door.
She hesitated, fists clenched at her sides, heart fluttering wildly. Had Rheade taken off his clothes? When she stepped into the chamber would he be naked? Surely not, otherwise Hannah would have—
“Are ye ready, lass,” Rheade asked. “Or do I have to come get ye?”
She’d survived the tragic deaths of her loved ones, a dangerous journey from Oban, false accusations of treason, imprisonment, banishment to a nunnery, visions of a dead man, and terrifying interviews with a Queen, yet none of it seemed as daunting as stepping out from behind the screen.
If she failed at being a wife—
“I knew ye were lovely, but—”
Her heart burst forth from her chest. “Rheade!”
He’d come around the screen and taken her hand. The candlelight flickered over the muscles of his bare chest, his taut belly. He was a god hewn from the finest marble. The silk nightgown suddenly felt very provocative. She had an urge to fall to her knees and kiss his bare feet, then work her way up—