Chapter 26
Clara gaped at her husband, who put his hands on his hips, eyes amused. “It’s called a ‘cock’ or a ‘tool.’”
“No,”
she breathed.
“‘Bagpipe’?”
he offered. “‘Trumpet’?”
“That’s not what I saw before,”
Clara said, putting her own hands on her hips as well.
“Really?”
“It was small and chubby and . . . and not . . . that.”
Caelan started howling with laughter, but his cock stayed big and upright.
“We were here,”
she said. “Right here. You were in the water, and that part of you was not frightening.”
He was laughing in an unhinged way, joyful glee that practically echoed off the mountains behind them.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,”
Clara said crossly. “There’s no need to make fun. How should I know that you were capable of such transformation?” She felt so filled up with irritation that she could have burst. “I wouldn’t have married you!”
His laughter stopped. “Do you find me repulsive?”
Something went through his eyes that she didn’t care for.
She made herself look at his body. That part was standing up, away from his stomach. It was strangely appealing, the size between what she’d seen that day in the loch and the curved monstrosities on Roman vases. It looked warm and eager.
Her heart was thumping and her fingers trembling, because she would have liked to touch him, shameful as that was.
“No,”
she said finally. “I had thought you and I would easily fit. I was mistaken. But no, you’re not revolting. Not at all.” Between her legs she felt soft and uncertain. Vulnerable. She forced herself to look away, because she could stand there for an hour, gaping at him like a boy at a puppet show. “I was surprised.”
Whatever that expression had been in Caelan’s eyes, it disappeared. He took a step toward her. “This is what a man looks like when he desires a woman. There’ll never be a time in my life when I don’t get a cock-rise from holding you in my arms, Clara. I promise we’ll fit.”
She swallowed, aware she’d begun trembling again, and not from fear.
“Time to bathe,”
he said, taking another step. “May I remove your chemise? I promise not to jump on you like a ravening wolf.” He laughed. “Nor a yearning wolf.”
“How can we bathe without soap?”
Her brain was taken up with the difference between yearning and need, which was so much more graceless and embarrassing than yearning.
Yearning sounded almost romantic. Need sounded like desperation, a humiliating word.
Caelan took a few more steps, and then his cock brushed against her chemise, against her stomach, against her body.
She looked down. “Impossible,”
she told him, trying to be polite as well as resolute. “I married you thinking that you were—you had—one thing, and you have another. It’s not your fault. Or mine,” she added. “No one tells girls anything.”
“Nor men,”
Caelan said. “No one told me the world held an Englishwoman with wild hair, with curves like the sides of a violin, and a giggle that would melt me. I would have moved to London years ago.” He smiled at her, the devil in his eyes. “Your chemise?”
She fidgeted. “I thought we’d do this in the dark under the sheets.”
“We will,”
he said, perfectly agreeable. “I’m not consummating our marriage in the loch.”
“Our bodies don’t look the same,”
she said, blurting it out. “I’m not—” She veered away from thinking of willowy Isla. She probably pranced naked around the room, whereas Clara had curves and rolls and shaky bits.
“Moladh an Tighearn,”
Caelan said in a rumble. “‘Thank the gud lord,’ in Gaelic,” he added. “Lass, I wouldn’t want you to look like anything but yourself.”
Clara gave him an uncertain smile. Was she—a woman who came to the Highlands by herself—such a frightened ninny?
The answer was yes, but she took off her chemise and tossed it toward a bush as Caelan had done with his kilt. Naturally it fell to the ground. She ignored the shrinking knot in her stomach that told her to run back down the path and all the way to London, steeling herself because if she saw a hint of disappointment in Caelan’s face, it would be awful.
His eyes were wild and dark, and they weren’t merely focused on her breasts. He rubbed a thumb over his mouth as his gaze jumped here and there, as if all parts of her were pleasing. Not merely her body, either. Her hair and her face.
“Losa Crìosd,”
he breathed.
“You have to speak English,”
she said, her voice ragged and breathy.
“May I touch you?”
“We are married,”
Clara said, dimpling at him. Who would have thought that taking her clothing off would make her feel comfortable?
She’d always known that Prince George would grab her breasts if he had the chance, but Caelan put his hands on her cheeks and tilted her head up. “I’ll never get used to your mouth,”
he muttered.
Their lips clung until Clara swiped his lips with her tongue, as he had taught her. After that, the kiss was deep and wet and hungry. At first his hands stayed on her face, slanting her to the angle he wanted so he could take her mouth and her breath. But slowly his hands slid into her hair.
“I don’t want you to wear that cap ever again,”
he said, guttural and low. “You’ll wear your hair loose. You’re not my housekeeper. You’re my wild huntress.”
Even in the midst of a rush of desire, Clara found herself giggling. “Will I sail away on the midnight wind, then?”
His hands left her hair and swept down her back, pressing above her arse until she curved into his body. “Fuck, no. You’ll never leave me, Clara. Do you hear?”
The rough note in his voice made her blink at him.
“Never leave me,”
he repeated.
“All right,”
Clara agreed. “I won’t. I love—the castle, Caelan.” Just in time, she stopped herself from blurting out that she loved him. “Where would I go?” She started rubbing his arms in an entirely ineffectual wish to take away that ferocity in his eyes. He must be thinking of Isla.
“You’ll go nowhere without me.”
One of his hands pressed her close, while the other wound into the mass of her hair and gently tugged her head back so he could lick his way into her mouth again.
“I’ll be damned if I consummate my marriage on a bare rock,”
Caelan muttered, long minutes later.
“I need a bath before . . . before,”
Clara said. How was she supposed to refer to the act? Making love wouldn’t be the right phrase, but inquiring about a different label might make it sound as if she were begging for love.
She cleared her throat, her toes curling on the smooth rock. “Does one walk right into the pool?”
Caelan was frowning at her, trying to figure something out. “Yes.”
She nodded and turned to the water.
She heard a choked noise and looked back over her shoulder. Caelan’s eyes were on her arse. A flush had come up in his cheeks. Clara gave him a saucy smile and flipped her hair over her shoulder. It drifted down, tickling the small of her back.
“An’ aren’t you as lovely as the morning star,”
he muttered, covetous and happy at once. He shook himself and strode to the water’s edge, taking her hand.
“I’ve never bathed like this,”
Clara confided, words rushing out of her mouth because she was in the grip of overwhelming new emotions. That wasn’t what she truly meant. She meant: I’ve never been looked at by a man. I’ve never been touched by a man. I’ve never had my clothes off before a man.
And:
I’ve never felt such a potent sensation between my legs, and I’m not sure I like it.
A big hand wrapped around hers, and Caelan tugged her gently into water that splashed over her ankles.
“Trust me?”
“That’s a monumental question,”
she said, smiling a bit.
“No,”
he said. Then: “Yes?”
“I trust you,”
she said, fast and true.
Of course one of his arms curled under her knees, and she found herself against his naked chest. While her husband walked steadily into the water, Clara inspected the plated muscles that made up the upper half of his body. “May I?”
Her fingers hovered over his shoulder.
“Clara.”
“Yes?”
“I’m yours. My body is yours. Whatever you want or desire or dream about, I’ll do my damnedest to give it to you.”
She barely caught back a nervous Even though I’m not . . . “Thank you!”
she said instead, summoning up a smile.
“What did I say wrong?”
He stopped walking, frowning. “I don’t mean that I’ll treat your body like a plaything, Clara. I won’t disrespect you.” Then he grinned. “But you can treat mine that way. I don’t mind.”
She liked that—but he kept going. “It’s not my first time, after all.”
True.
“Have you made love to many women other than . . .”
She faltered, because she did want to keep to his edict and not speak Isla’s name aloud.
Caelan was up to his waist in the water; he waded to one side and sat on a flat rock. Water splashed over Clara’s belly, and her legs dipped into the water. It wasn’t horribly cold. She’d become used to chilly baths on her trip to Scotland.
“Before my betrothal to Isla. But afterwards, no.”
“You were grieving.”
“I did have an offer or two.”
“Let me guess,”
Clara said with a giggle. “Young Ross’s wife before she ran off with the knife sharpener? I heard all about her last night.”
Caelan scooped up some water and poured it onto her thigh. “Aye, she tripped and fell into my arms.”
“But you didn’t?”
“Nay.”
Of course he hadn’t. He was grieving.
His palm was rubbing circles on her thigh, warming her skin. “You might be thinking it was because of a broken heart, but that’s not the truth of it.”
Clara’s heart thumped. “Oh?”
she said, trying not to pry.
“I didn’t want her,”
he said, his fingers sliding up her thigh. “She only wanted me because I was the laird.”
Clara didn’t believe that for a moment. Women would desire Caelan if he was a chimney sweep. “Stop touching me like that. I can’t think straight.”
“Aye.”
Clara reached up and tugged on a lock of his hair. “Look at me.”
“Always.”
She could feel the lingering caress of each of his fingers, cool against her flesh. “I love that I married a writer.”
“Not that I married a laird?”
“My mother thought the word was ‘lard,’”
Clara said. She put an arm around his neck and smiled. “The title wasn’t something I dreamed about.”
He cleared his throat. “I should get into the pool and cool down, Clara.”
“Are there fish?”
She peered down, but up close the water looked like melted pearls.
“Only small ones,”
Caelan said.
“Right,”
Clara said. Adventure, she reminded herself, sliding off his knees and yelping because the water splashed as high as her breasts. Caelan went straight under and came up shaking his hair, scattering drops through the air.
“Now what’s funny?” he asked.
“You could be a shaggy dog who strayed into the Round Pond in Hyde Park.”
“You could be a mermaid who strayed into my loch.”
Clara took a breath and dropped under the surface. From below, the water was foggy green. Her hair floated out and then slapped back against her shoulders when she came up for a breath. Water sluiced off her breasts. They didn’t feel heavy and unfashionable now; all the depictions of mermaids she’d seen gave them curves and breasts.
Her husband was standing, his chest glistening wet. The whole of him, the flow of muscle from his big arms to his chest, to the way it narrowed to his hips . . . It was all glorious.
“A ravishing mermaid,”
Caelan said, the English words rolling with a Gaelic intonation.
Clara smiled. “Have you soap to spare for a wayward sea creature who happened into your pool?”
“Aye.”
He splashed back to the flat rock and flipped open a tin box, tossing her a pale pink ball.
Clara raised it to her nose. It smelled like honey. Surely it wasn’t Isla’s.
“My mother used to make these from iris root and the nectar of Highland bees,”
Caelan said. “There’s a fellow in the market who sells them. May I?”
Not Isla’s. Clara felt a pulse of relief as she placed the ball in his outstretched hand. He rolled it in his palms and set it back on the rock. It didn’t foam like English soap; instead, his fingers spread a light paste down the back of her neck to her shoulders and down her back. He picked up the ball again and washed the front of her neck, then paused.
“Would you prefer to wash your breasts yourself?”
Clara took a deep breath, but his eyes didn’t stray from her face. “It’s fine,”
she said awkwardly.
His hands slid down her breasts and over her nipples. She could see his breath coming quickly, but he looked at her face. She shivered . . . but the memory of the prince’s fingers was gone. Not merely retreated in the face of Caelan’s caress, but truly gone.
“You’re grinning again,”
he observed.
“I don’t feel the pigeon droppings any longer. I finally washed it off.”
He nodded. “Excellent. Sometime you’ll have to tell me what happened.”
Clara shrugged. “You know it all. Does Scotland have pigeons? I haven’t seen any.”
“Yup.”
Caelan’s hands were on her waist now, sliding around to her back. More soap, and his hands slid underwater, shaping the globes of her bottom. Clara squeaked and nearly jumped away.
“There’s my good girl,”
he murmured, leaning down to kiss her. Clara almost bristled at being praised like a child for something unchildish—but his hands had slid down and around, and she gasped instead.
When he knelt in the shallow water, it put his chin just above the surface. Even while his hands were rubbing her legs, his lips slipped over her belly, stubble sparking her skin to life. Clara twisted in his caress, gasping something incoherent.
Something that sounded unnervingly like “Please.”
Caelan stood up a moment later, grabbing the soap and rubbing his body.
“Don’t I get to wash you?”
Clara asked.
“Next time. Let’s go back to the castle.”
“I have to wash my hair.”
“Later.”
Clara bit her lip.
“Do you wash your hair every day?”
“Yes.”
“You are a lady,”
he groaned.
Keen desire receded from his eyes, thankfully, because it was making Clara anxious. She didn’t want to fail at making love. But she had no idea what to do.
In bed, that is. With him.
His soapy hands began working over her scalp; it felt so wonderful that she gasped and leaned against him. “I can’t work through your hair,”
he said a while later. “Was it tangled by the water?”
“It got tangled on the journey,”
Clara confessed. “Elsbeth has been combing through a portion every day, but I’m thinking of cutting it off.”
“No,”
Caelan said firmly.
He splashed back to the bank and the tin box, pulling out a small bottle.
“What’s that?”
Clara asked.
“An oil made from cloudberries. Close your eyes in case it drips.”
His hands stroked over her scalp—and then hit the tangles. On the trip to Scotland, Clara had soaped, rinsed, and hoped for the best, but now Caelan began effortlessly teasing the strands free.
Five minutes later he was halfway down her back, but Clara was shivering. “Perhaps we could finish later?”
“Sorry,”
he said, startled. In one smooth gesture, he lifted her up onto the bank and jumped after. “What if we dry in the sun?” He moved behind her.
“Do you think anyone from the household will come looking for us? Perhaps I should put on my chemise.”
“No one will come here unless I give permission.”
She nodded, hoping that was the case. “What do you do when you’re not writing?”
“Manage the crofters, the whisky, fishing,”
he said absent-mindedly. “Franchise court once a month.”
She had the feeling he did far more, but he interrupted the thought by stroking his finger down a long, untangled strand of her hair. “You did it!”
she cried, looking over her shoulder.
“Not all of it yet.”
He dropped a kiss on her lips.
It took another half hour or even more, but finally Clara’s hair was sleek and tangle-free. “Thank you!”
She ran her fingers through her hair. It didn’t feel too oily. “I love this scent. I’ll let it dry like this. Could we take the bottle back to the castle with us?”
She lifted her arms and ran her hands back from her forehead. Her hair was already drying, turning to sleek waves.
“Of course,”
Caelan said, sounding strangled.
Clara stood up, grabbed her chemise, and put it on. “Why on earth did you have oil in that box, anyway?”
She glanced at his waist. “Do you truly call that your bagpipes?”
“Don’t dimple at me, lass,”
Caelan said. “It might be the straw that breaks my self-control. I don’t call it ‘bagpipes,’ no. I can’t say I talk about it much. ‘Cock,’ I suppose.”
“Very Shakespearean,”
Clara said, giggling. “I don’t suppose you swear ‘by cock’?”
“We’ve no need for Englishmen to tell us our body parts,”
Caelan said. “Our own Robert Burns wrote a whole song encouraging Johnnie to ‘cock up your beaver.’”
Clara frowned.
“There’s some that think Robbie was talking about furry hats,”
Caelan said. “But we in the Highlands know where a cock likes to go.”
Despite herself, Clara glanced down at her legs. “You’re talking about my cunny, I take it.”
“I am. I had the oil here because I use it to satisfy myself,”
he said bluntly.
She opened her mouth and closed it again.
“Want to see?”