Chapter Eight
"What are you doing?" Horrified, Jeannie flew across the room to him. Fending her off with one hand, he shook a few drops of blood onto the sheets then turned and allowed her to examine his arm.
She grabbed a clean handkerchief and pressed it to the cut. It didn't look serious but any cut, even a small one, could be dangerous. Da had died of a rose thorn that had festered in his flesh. "What on earth were you thinking of?" She fetched the whisky from the side table.
"It's nothing. Dinna fuss, woman." He sheathed the sgian dubh.
"Nothing? You cut yourself deliberately!" She uncorked the bottle and tipped a little whisky onto the cut.
His breath hissed in. It must have stung. Good. "Waste of good whisky," he muttered.
"Even a small wound can fester," she said severely. "Why do such a thing to yourself?"
He shrugged. "I'll not have the maids spreading rumors about your virginity. Or lack of it."
"I don't lack—oh." She broke off in blushing comprehension and stared at the bright stains on the sheet. "You cut yourself for me, to preserve my honor," she whispered.
Jeannie looked at him in wonder. This tall young bridegroom of hers, a man she barely knew—he'd cut himself for her, to protect her from gossip and unkindness.
What husband would do that for a bride who'd just refused him her bed?
A bride he hardly knew, a bride he'd lifted from a bog and raised to the finest position in the district.
He'd taken her from poverty and hardship—from misery with Grandad and the sheep—and made her his wife. The laird's wife.
Warmth flooded her. He'd given her so much.
She lifted her mouth to his and a kiss that started in gratitude ended in passion. The taste of him entered her blood like hot strong whisky, wild and dark and thrilling, dissolving her doubts, her fears.
The heated demand of his kisses, the leashed desire of his strong, lean body, the salt-clean scent of his skin—it all seemed so right, so familiar to her. How, when it had been barely a day? But time didn't seem to matter, not when she was feeling . . . this.
He grabbed the hem of the pullover and dragged it up. She hesitated.
"It's a scratchy old thing," he murmured. And then he added, "Don't be a'feard of me, lass. You have my word, I'll not do anything you don't want."
Gazing at his mouth, his beautiful, damp, clever mouth, and his steady hazel eyes, she lifted her arms and let him drag the pullover over her head. Cool air caressed her skin and from the way his eyes dropped, she knew her nipples were hard and risen. And aching.
She wanted him. She knew it, and from the look in his eyes, so did he.
Even before he'd tossed the pullover aside she was kissing him again. The taste of him was like wildfire in her blood.
Desperate to touch him she slipped her hands under his shirt, over his chest, caressing the smooth, hard planes, and all the time kissing, kissing . . .
He bent her back over the bed, half lying, grasping her by the hips and positioning her between his long brawny thighs, bare thighs, covered only by the kilt.
Her hands dropped to his waist. She could feel the buckles of his kilt. And beneath the heavy fabric, the hardness of a man, aroused, pressing against her belly in silent, heated demand. She'd never felt it before, but she knew fine what it meant.
All she had to do was say yes, and he'd make her his wife in body as well as name.
Yes? Or no? She teetered on the brink. Cameron had been everything that was kind and honorable. He'd rescued her from life with Grandad, offered her his name and a life she hadn't even dared dream of. He'd even cut his own flesh to protect her good name.
She owed him this. And she wanted him.
His big hard body pressed against her, hot and heavy with desire.
Wanting poetry and walks and flowers? Instead of this? Was she mad?
But if she gave in to him now, she knew she'd regret it in the morning.
He'd married her only to get control of his inheritance. He'd known her a bare handful of minutes before he'd proposed marriage. An hour or two later they'd stood before the minister, exchanging vows. And now he had her, as good as naked, in his bed.
Who Jeannie McLeay was, what kind of person she was, what might her fears and hopes and dreams be—none of that had mattered to him in the least. As long as she wasn't related to him and was free to marry—that's all he'd cared about.
Now in the warm, dark night, in a soft feather bed with firelight gilding their limbs, she could have been anyone, any willing girl who'd agreed to marry him and lie in his bed. It wouldn't matter to him.
But Jeannie wanted very much to matter to this man. And for that, she had to make him notice her. Not only her body, but her—a person.
I'll not do anything you don't want. He was a man with a reputation for keeping his vows. She closed her eyes briefly, hoping it was true.
"Cameron?"
"What?" He cupped her breast in his hand and thumbed the nipple gently. She shuddered helplessly.
"S-stop."
"Why? Don't you like it?" His voice was deep, soft. Knowing. His hand kept moving. Shivers of pleasure rippled through her.
"Yes—n—" She dragged in a deep breath. "Y—you said you wouldn't—" She ended on a gasp.
"I said I wouldn't do anything you didn't want." He kissed her. "Do you not want me to do this?" His fingers wandered, leaving trails of heat and desire. "Or this?" He sounded almost amused. As if he knew full well how much she liked it.
He was altogether too sure of her surrender. She took a deep breath, pushed his hand away and tried to wriggle out from under him. "I said no," she panted. "And you promised."
He sat up abruptly, staring down at her with a stunned expression. He wasn't used to being told no, she could see.
He'd given her so much. Who was she to deny him his rights? She braced herself for his reaction.
Cameron blinked at the determined scrap of femininity before him. His breaths were deep and ragged as he worked to secure the remnants of his control.
His new bride had just put him very firmly in his place. Again.
He'd almost broken his promise, he thought ruefully. So cocksure—cock-ready!—he'd been that he could seduce her, that it was only nerves that had caused her ludicrous demand for a courtship. Who did their courting after the wedding?
But apparently she meant it. He glanced again at her pale, set face. Her slender body was stiff, and braced for . . . what? Did she expect him to explode in anger? Force her?
She did.
The realization shocked him. Did she know him so little?
The truth of that hit him hard—because of course she didn't know him, had no way of knowing that he'd never forced a woman in his life. Nor had he ever raised a hand in anger to any woman or child. Or ever would.
He wanted her more than any female he'd ever encountered. Her kisses and caresses had fired his blood like the strongest whisky. His body was rampant and aching, desire thick in his blood.
But she'd known him barely a day. And women were different. Women needed time.
She was his wife, not some girl up for a tumble in the grass. They had a lifetime to get to know each other. She'd come to him when she was ready, when he'd given her her blasted courtship. He would abide by his promise.
"Aye, you're right," he said quietly. "I didn't mean it to go so far. I'm sorry."
She didn't say anything, but watched him with big, doubtful blue eyes.
"Time for sleep." He pulled back the bedclothes to let her slide into them. He caught a glimpse of the spots of his blood, dark on the white sheet. Was she even a virgin at all? She hadn't kissed like a virgin.
Not that it mattered to him now. He was committed to her, publicly and privately.
She hesitated, then slipped past him and curled up on the far side of the big bed.
She lay with her back to him, her bony little spine disappearing into her pretty nightdress.
Her hair was pulled to one side, exposing her nape, pale, soft and vulnerable.
He resisted the urge to kiss it. She was so small and delicate compared to him. But she was no weakling.
He liked that about her. Life with Jeannie would never be dull.
With a rueful smile Cameron slid in beside her. Reaching out, he pulled her towards him, tucking her securely against the curve of his body. She stiffened a moment, like a suspicious little twig.
"Only for sleep," he murmured, and slowly, achingly slowly, she relaxed against him.
Cameron lay in the dark, listening to the soft breathing of the woman in his arms. Twenty-four hours ago he'd had no thought of marrying, not until his argument with Uncle Charles. A wife then was a mere theoretical notion, to be considered at some time in the future.
Now he was a married man, with full control of his inheritance and the estate. He hadn't considered any but the legal implications, but now . . .
Now there was another person to be considered, in his life and in his bed. Perhaps the most important person in his life.
And he knew almost nothing about her.