Chapter Seven
They'd arrived not long before the dinner hour, and Jeannie had been taken upstairs to wash and tidy herself. She'd just removed her dress, when a knock sounded, and a young woman appeared breathlessly.
"I'm Mairie, m'lady." She bobbed a swift curtsey. "The laird said I'm to be your own personal maidservant. What would you like me to do?" She was young, a year or two younger than Jeannie from the look of her, with curly brown hair and a sweet expression.
Jeannie wasn't sure what to do with a maidservant—she'd never had anyone wait on her in her life, but at least this girl seemed friendly, and nowhere near as intimidating as the grim-faced housekeeper.
She indicated her dress. "Can you do anything with that? I'll have to wear it to dinner. It's my only dress."
The girl's eyes widened. "Your only—" She broke off, embarrassed. She picked up the dress and shook it out. "Of course, m'lady."
While the maid did her best to neaten the travel-stained dress, Jeannie washed her face and hands and brushed her hair and wound it into a neat coronet, but with no fresh gown to change into, she felt very self-conscious when Cameron came to escort her down to dinner.
When her husband arrived, Mairie slipped discreetly out, leaving them alone. He was dressed formally in the kilt again, though this time without the lace jabot. He still took her breath away.
"I'll need more clothes," she told him. "I have only this one dress to my name."
He nodded. "Wear these tonight." He dug into his sporran and pulled out a worn, flat box. She opened it to find a rope of lustrous, shimmering pearls. "My mother had a lot of jewels, but I'm told pearls are the most suitable for a bride."
He helped her twine them about her neck. They felt cool and heavy and magnificent against her skin, armor against the feelings of inadequacy that only intensified as he led her down the staircase to the great hall, where they were to dine.
A piper sounded, piping the laird and his new bride in to dinner. The sound shivered down Jeannie's spine as she walked on her husband's arm down the stairs. She was now part of an ancient tradition.
Cameron's uncle was to sit at Jeannie's left hand and from the moment she was seated, began to engage her in light, polite conversation.
Bemused, Jeannie responded to his questions as best she could, but far from the personal interrogation she dreaded about her background and upbringing, she soon found he was entirely uninterested in herself and passionate about his plans for silk hangings for the great hall.
He'd designed the hangings himself, was sorely disappointed with the cancellation of the order and clearly aimed to enlist her support in changing Cameron's mind.
"Such a barren and gloomy room, is it not? My nephew lacks the refinement to appreciate such things and has, no doubt, already cancelled the order—"
On the other side of her, she felt Cameron stiffen.
"Mr. Sinclair, I'm sorry but it's been a long day. Perhaps we could discuss this at a later date?" It wasn't a lie. She was exhausted. So much had happened. And there was still her wedding night ahead.
The older man acquiesced gracefully. She'd say this for him, he was a courtier to his beautifully manicured fingertips. She could see his point. The hall was rather bleak and gray and could use some brightening, but it didn't have to be expensive silk hangings from Paris.
And she wasn't going to be drawn into a family quarrel on her first day as a bride.
* * *
"ARE YOU READY?" CAMERON stood beside her chair, his hand out, ready to escort her upstairs.
Jeannie's heart beat a rapid tattoo. Her wedding night. She'd been thinking about it all afternoon, and now she knew exactly what she was going to say . . . He wasn't going to be happy about it.
The wine she'd been drinking at dinner tasted suddenly sour in her throat. She'd soon find out what kind of man she'd married.
At the door of her bedchamber—their bedchamber—he raised her hand and kissed it. "I'll leave you to get ready. I'll return in half an hour."
She nodded numbly, dread pooling in her stomach at the delay. She wanted it over and done with. She wanted it endlessly delayed.
Her maid waited inside. There was hot water in the jug and a fire blazing in the hearth. A wine decanter and two glasses stood on the table beside the bed. The very large bed. The sheets were turned down, the pillows plumped and waiting.
On the bed lay the brown paper parcel that the minister's wife had given her. She'd forgotten all about it. Someone must have found it in Cameron's saddlebags and brought it up.
She opened it and found a pretty nightgown, a delicate white woolen shawl, a cake of the rose soap and a small china pot.
She opened it and sniffed, then dipped a finger in to test it.
Face cream. Luscious and smelling faintly of roses.
The nightgown was made of fine soft lawn, narrowly pin-tucked and embroidered at the scooped neck with tiny pink roses.
Jeannie hadn't worn anything so pretty to bed in her life. Given what she planned, it would be a waste to wear it tonight but she couldn't resist. Not that she had anything else to wear.
The maid, Mairie, helped her off with her dress and brushed out her hair, then feeling self-conscious, Jeannie sent her away.
She washed with the rose soap, creamed her skin from the little china pot, then put on the dainty nightgown.
It slipped over her skin like feathers. So light.
So insubstantial. Thank goodness for the fire.
She glanced at her reflection in the looking glass and her eyes widened. The nightdress was so fine it was practically transparent. She arranged the shawl around her, but though warm, it was fine and soft and clung lovingly to her shape. Too lovingly.
It would not do at all.
Through the doorway on the right of the bedchamber lay another small room.
She peeked in. Clothes hanging on hooks, a chest of drawers, boots and shoes neatly lined up.
Cameron's dressing room. She searched through it rapidly until she found what she wanted, an old woolen fishing pullover, slightly unraveled at the neck, but clean.
She pulled it on. It fell halfway to her knees. Perfect.
There was a knock on the door. He was here. She ran back into the bedchamber and took a flying leap onto the bed, landing on it as the door opened.
* * *
CAMERON TOOK A DEEP breath and opened the door.
He was about to take his bride and make a wife of her.
He couldn't wait. Ever since he'd seen her walking down the aisle of the kirk, since he'd smelled the scent of her and tasted her mouth, his body had throbbed with the knowledge that this was his woman, and that tonight she'd be his.
He smiled. She sat cross legged on the bed, looking as uncertain as a new born lamb. Under his gaze she flushed, and dragged the bedclothes up like a shield, covering her bare legs. And what the hell was she wearing his old pullover for? The room was perfectly warm—he'd ordered the fire himself.
Mind, he had no complaint; she looked very fetching in the shapeless old thing, one thin, bare shoulder sliding out of the loose raveled neck.
He couldn't wait to strip it off her.
She also looked pale and wary and a wee bit nervous. That was as it should be. Brides were nervous. Grooms were not.
Cameron shrugged off his coat. He wasn't the least bit nervous. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, well primed and raring for action. Well, his body was. But tonight, at least, his desires would have to take second place to hers.
He unbuttoned his waistcoat, placed it on top of his coat and loosened the ties at the neck of his shirt. Her eyes were on him, big and wide and dark in the firelight.
Cameron knew his way around a woman's body.
He knew fine how to pleasure a woman. He'd gentle his bride and take her slow and easy, bringing her to the business with all the finesse at his fingertips—and that, he flattered himself, was considerable.
She'd find pleasure in her marriage bed, he was determined on it.
It would make her a more malleable, contented and obedient wife.
He pulled off his boots and, in his stockinged feet, walked toward the bed, smiling.
"Don't come any closer," she warned, her hands held up ready to ward him off.
Aye, she was nervous, all right. "Don't worry, lass, I'll be gentle."
"I said stop!" she repeated. "There's something I need to say to you first."
Cameron sat down on the end of the bed. "Go ahead."
She scooted back, about as far away from him as she could be and still be on the same bed. "I'm no' going to lie down with you tonight," she told him. "Not as a bride."
Bridal jitters. "And why would that be?" Cameron kept his voice quiet and easy, as he would with an unbroken filly. He folded his arms and waited.
She nervously ran her tongue across her lips. His gaze followed the movement hungrily.
"I don't know you."
"Och, you do. I'm your husband," he said with a glimmer of amusement.
"I ken that fine," she flashed, "But we don't know each other and I won't—I can't lie down wi' a man I don't . . . I've only just . . . You don't know me at all."
"I know enough," he said calmly, "and in the lying down together we will come to know each other better."
She flushed, a wild rose color that set his blood pounding. "What exactly do you know about me?"
Ah, so that was it. She had a past, some secret she was a'feared he'd discover. "I don't care what you've done in the past, Jeannie. Our marriage starts fresh tonight." He slid along the bed toward her.
She shot off the bed. "Not tonight it doesn't. You will listen to me on this, Cameron Fraser!
" She stood in front of the fire, her arms folded across the swell of her breasts, her blue eyes sparking.
"I'm not ashamed of anything in my past if that's what you're implying, but you've proved my point.
You know nothing about me. I'm not simply some female body you pulled from a bog and wed to get your hands on an inheritance.
I'm a person, with hopes and dreams and plans of my own.
Aye, we're married, but it's not enough. "
He frowned. What the devil was she on about? Of course she was a person. He could see that fine through the thin fabric of her night rail, her long, slender legs silhouetted by the firelight, that silky mane of hair gleaming. The blood pooled in his groin, fueling a growing urgency.
But she was saying no, dammit. And for what? "I don't understand. I've given you my name, brought you to my home, introduced you to my family in all honor. What the hell else do you want?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't you curse at me, Cameron Fraser." She took a breath and moderated her tone. "I know we're wed and I appreciate the honor you've done me, indeed I do. But if I'm to be a true wife to you, I want . . . I want . . ."
He flung himself off the bed and prowled slowly toward her, his temper on a knife edge. He'd got her measure now. He'd put a stop to this nonsense. "More jewels? Money? What?"
She swallowed. "I want the same as other brides."
"Clothes? A trousseau? I said I'd buy you—"
"I want to be courted."
He came to an abrupt halt. "Courted?" She wanted to be courted? By her husband?
She nodded. "Only for a wee while. Just until we know each other better. And then I'll feel more comfortable when we, you know." She glanced at the bed.
His anger slowly died. She was in earnest. And he had, after all, only known her for less than a day. He'd taken one look at her in the kirk, fresh from her bath and clad in blue that almost matched her bonny bright eyes, and he'd been ripe to tup her then and there, minister be damned.
But women were different, he knew.
"What would this courtship entail?" He thought he knew. Flowers, little gifts. Pretty speeches. And poetry, he thought gloomily. He hated poetry.
She bit her lip and considered it a moment. "Talking mainly," she said at last. "Getting to know each other. Perhaps a few walks."
It wasn't much to ask. Walking and talking? He could do that. "No poetry then?" he said, cheering up.
Her eyes lit. "Oh yes, that would be lovely. Do you like poetry?"
"No," he said hastily. "I don't know many poems." A handful of dirty ditties, not fit for her ears. "But I could teach you to ride."
"That would be very nice," she said in the kind of voice that told him she'd prefer he spouted poetry. She waited, with that hopeful look in her eyes that unmanned him every damned time.
Capitulation loomed. "How long would this courting period last?" He didn't like the idea, didn't want to wait for what his body hungered for, but she was his wife and he owed her respect. And he couldn't withstand that damned appealing look.
"A fortnight?"
He sighed. A fortnight? Two whole weeks? Fourteen nights of waiting, unfulfilled? It would probably kill him, especially if he had to look at those legs of hers much longer. But it wasn't an unreasonable request.
"Very well, a fortnight," he agreed. "On one condition."
"What's that?"
"We both sleep in the same bed—this bed. I give you my word I'll do nothing you don't want," he added before she could argue.
Courting couples did a great deal more than talking. Kissing, rolling around in the hay, all kinds of intimate exploration. He'd court her in bed with soft words and caresses. By the end of the fortnight when they came to do the deed she'd be aching for him as he ached for her now.
She gave him a wary look, sensing a trap.
"I don't want people gossiping about our marriage," he said.
"They're already gossiping about it," she pointed out.
"Aye, because it was sudden and unexpected, and because my idiot cousin spilled the beans about how we met.
But if the people of the castle learn the marriage hasna even been consummated—put it this way, they'll no' be speaking kindly of a bride who married their laird then refused to lie down wi' him. "
She flushed and in a low voice said, "Oh. I didn't think of that." She swallowed. "Very well, I agree. We sleep in the same bed."
"Right then." Cameron strode to the bed, flipped the covers back, pulled out his sgian dubh and cut his forearm. Blood spurted from the cut.