Chapter Five #5
Cullen frowned, his features darkening. Most people didn’t think he had a temper but Brodick knew better. Light hair aside, his brother was pure McJames—fierce and unrelenting.
“Now why would she be wanting an inspection?” Suspicion coated Cullen’s words. “Inspections are done for the groom’s family interests. She has nothing to gain from it and much more to lose.”
“Except time or the possibility that I’ll send her back after hearing what the midwife has to say.”
“Will ye?”
“No.” Firm and resolute, Brodick shot his brother a determined look. “She stays.”
“But at what cost? I’ll nae see ye stuck with a wife who isn’t going to honor yer union.”
“Suspicion’s an ugly thing, Cullen. Be wary of it.” Brodick kept his voice low to hide the uncertainty in it. He was unsure of his bride and her attempts to leave him, but he was also very intent on keeping her.
“Does she love another?” Cullen stroked his chin with one hand. “I hear that the English ladies are marrying for love with the queen too old to keep them from running amuck.”
“I dinnae know.” Yet he should have considered it. His bride had been at the English court for many years. “She wanted me to return her to her father at court.”
“Maybe you should.” Cullen sounded dangerous. “Ye dinnae need a discontented wife. She’ll turn against ye. Possibly be barren.”
Many men would agree with Cullen. A sullen wife often didn’t conceive just to spite her spouse.
Everyone knew that a woman controlled her fertility.
Still, the taste of her sweet kiss clung to his lips.
He’d touched something inside of her that was beautiful.
She hadn’t complained even once on the journey home, never muttered a cross word for sleeping on the ground.
“She’s nae a spoilt lass.”
Cullen nodded, some of his temper fading. “She was pleasant enough on the way home. I know a few Scottish lasses who would have quarreled with sleeping on the trail with a bunch of retainers.”
“Maybe she’s truly afeared that I’ll send her back to her father, disgraced, after bedding her. I hear that happens in England now that the queen is too old to care.”
“I’d have to thrash ye if ye even thought of it.”
Brodick grinned, showing his teeth to his sibling. “That’s providing ye could. I hate to remind ye of how ye fail to measure up to my strength.”
“But I make up for it in cunning.”
“Ye’ve got that confused with blustering.” The men who’d been working the stone tugged on their hats as they recognized the earl.
“I’ve a need to fetch Agnes to Sterling.”
A moment later the midwife appeared. She still walked straight, even if her pace was a bit slower these days.
Her hair was silver but still hung in a thick braid down her back.
The McJames’ plaid was pulled proudly over her right shoulder and secured with a silver brooch that had been a gift from his own mother.
“My lord.” Her voice was sharp and only a bit graveled by age. “How may I serve you?”
Brodick swung out of his saddle, showing the woman respect by speaking to her on an equal footing. She lowered her chin as he stepped closer, acknowledging his title. When he’d been a boy, she’d swatted his ears when he got into mischief.
“I’ve come to ask ye to return to Sterling with me.” He stopped, his next words sticking in his throat.
“I heard in the market that ye’d gone to the border land to claim a wife.” Agnes paused, choosing her words with care. “Do ye have a concern with her?”
“My bride has asked to have the custom of inspection carried out.”
The two men looked at one another as Agnes took to stroking the silver brooch.
“It is her wish, my lord?”
“Aye.”
She nodded, still fingering the broach. “I didnae know that the custom was so practiced in England these days.”
“Nor did I.”
Agnes lowered her chin. “Bring out my cloak, Johnny. I’m off to Sterling.”
Brodick frowned as he headed back to his horse.
He didn’t like it. Not a bit. Agnes allowed one of his men to help her into the cart.
She sat back in the straw as her son handed her cloak in to her.
Cullen had a good point; it was possible that his bride loved another man.
He didn’t like the idea of it. In fact, he was jealous.
The surge of emotion was surprising. Never once had he been possessive of a woman.
Not even with the mistresses he’d enjoyed so well and completely.
He liked women, enjoyed the way they felt when there was nothing between them but skin and passion.
Some of them had accused him of being a demanding man.
That was a fact.
A quick fuck wasn’t his idea of fun. He’d never placed a woman’s back against a tree because his cock was hard and time short.
Well, maybe he’d been in a hurry a few times when he was a lad still trying to grow a full beard because he thought it would make him a man.
He’d left that impatience behind along with his youthful whiskers.
As long as his eyes were still sharp, he would be a clean-shaven man. He had no love for facial hair.
When he took a woman, he took the time to raise her passion.
There was nothing more intimate than being lovers.
Getting his cock inside a willing female wasn’t nearly as good as the experience of feeling his partner climaxing while he rode her.
His memory offered up the way his bride had shivered in his embrace.
Aye, that was what he was talking about.
Reaching out to touch that passion was the thing that drew his attention to a woman. Spread thighs weren’t enough.
Wanting that from his marriage was risky.
He should have expected Mary to want to be returned to her father.
He was Scottish. In spite of the coming union between the two countries, the people still harbored many ill opinions of each other.
On both sides. There were titled Scots who believed him daft for seeking the union.
Maybe he was.
Yet thinking that didn’t seem to be killing off his growing attraction to her.
Perhaps hiding behind her veil had been a crafty ploy, but it had succeeded.
Hooking his attention as completely as a well-turned ankle would have.
That first day had been a long one as he hoped the wind might give him a peek at her face, or the heat might see her raising the fabric.
Beneath his kilt, his cock was hard, his thoughts having raised it. It wasn’t his last mistress’s face he saw in his mind, it was his bride’s. It was the sound of her sigh when he kissed her neck. Looking back at the cart, he saw that Agnes was well settled.
Raising a fist into the air, he commanded his men.
“Sterling.”
His wife would have her assurances and then she would learn that he kept what was his.
By tonight, she would be installed in his bed so that he might begin teaching her exactly how much he wanted her.
His erection kept him company as they rode back towards Sterling.
He enjoyed the burn, savoring the need before he appeased it.
He was a lucky man to harbor passion for his bride.
She would not be returning to her father.
Brodick McJames never surrendered. No, it would be his little English bride who cried quarter. That was going to be his personal pledge and his pleasure to see done.