Chapter Seventeen
The sky was leaden, and bruised-looking clouds were building as Cameron arrived home. It would rain soon. So much for his planned evening walk with his bride.
The expectant looks of his servants when he stepped inside each day had prompted Cameron to notice the changes in his home, the rearranged furniture, the well beaten rugs.
And if he didn't notice, someone always managed to tell him, discreetly, so he could comment.
He appreciated it. His wife had been working hard, he knew.
But though the place seemed fresher and brighter, that wasn't what drew him. Knowing Jeannie was here, waiting for him at the end of each day, it gave him a feeling in his heart, made him feel more welcome, somehow, as if the castle was more of a home, even though he'd lived here all his life.
"My wife?" he asked a servant as he handed over his coat.
"Up away yonder." The man indicated the direction with his chin.
Cameron took the stairs two at a time. He was glad now he'd stopped to gather a bunch of heather. He'd felt a bit silly riding home with the flowers clutched in his hand. His cousins Jimmy and Donald had split their sides laughing when they'd seen him.
They'd learn. A man changed when he took a wife.
He opened the door to their bedchamber quietly, hoping to surprise her, but it was Cameron who got the surprise.
In front of the fire sat Jeannie in the enamel bathtub, humming softly as she soaped herself. His mouth dried. Her hair was pinned up, exposing the lovely line of her neck and spine. Damp curls clustered around her ears and caressed her nape. Flames from the fire danced, gilding her skin.
He must have made some sort of noise, for she turned suddenly.
Slender body, all ribs, topped with lush little breasts.
"Cameron!" She snatched up the washcloth and made an attempt to cover herself. It didn't cover nearly as much as she'd hoped.
He didn't move. She was his wife.
"Cameron!" she said again, blushing furiously. "A little privacy if you please."
He shut the door, doing his best to hide a grin. Lord, but she looked good enough to eat, all pink and cream and slick and soft. "There now, we're alone." Her blush went all the way down, he was interested to see.
"Go away!" She was half flustered, half cross. Her nipples, beneath the inadequate washcloth were hard and pointed. Aye, she was as aroused as he was. But not wanting to admit it.
He put the flowers down, leaned against the door jamb, and waited. That water was going to get cold, eventually. She was his wife of more than a week and he hadn't yet seen her fully naked.
She glared at him. "Cameron Fraser, you're no' going to stand there watching me in my bath!"
He didn't move. His smile grew.
"It's . . . it's indecent."
He shrugged. "We're married."
She made a small annoyed sound, and turned her back on him in a watery flounce. Water sloshed onto the floor.
"Och, you want me to wash your back, do ye? Why didn't ye say so?"
"No, I don't—don't come any—" she began, but it was too late.
In two strides he crossed the room and squatted down behind her. She smelled delicious, like roses and vanilla. He held out his hand. "Going to pass me the soap and washcloth, or am I going to have to fish around for them?"
She turned her head to stare at him. "You wouldn't."
He grinned and rolled up his sleeves.
"Here then." She tossed the wet wash cloth at his face.
He caught it with a laugh. "Soap?"
She squirmed around, trying to find the soap with one hand while at the same time keeping her breasts covered. An altogether impossible task, Cameron was pleased to note. Lord, but she was pretty.
He soaped up the wash cloth—it smelled of roses—and began to rub her back, firm, long strokes that reached from her nape to her small soft bottom.
For the first few minute she sat stiffly, hunched over, embarrassed and resistant, but he kept up the steady soothing strokes and slowly he felt her begin to unwind under his touch.
After a few minutes he unobtrusively dropped the washcloth, soaped up his hands and smoothed them over her silky skin, kneading and caressing.
He was going to have to feed her up; she was so thin he could feel every bone. That wretched grandfather of hers . . . He should have been looking after her, not sending her out on the hills to work like a man, and keeping her half-starved.
He massaged her neck and shoulders and before long she was arching against his hands, letting out small sighs and moans of pleasure, like a little cat purring. He swallowed a groan.
It was all he could do not to snatch her out of the water, toss her on the bed and have his way with her.
"Ohh, that's lovely. We worked hard today," she murmured. "I decided to clean out the cellars this afternoon. I'm a little stiff."
Cameron blinked. He was a lot stiff. But her words jerked him back to reality. He'd promised her two weeks. Dammit. His fingers moved automatically, kneading, stroking, unknotting her muscles.
He wished she would unknot his.
But he'd given his word. Like a fool. And now. . . What the hell was he going to do when she finally stood up, naked and sweet, her skin all pink and gold and gleaming wet in the firelight? Testing his control to the limit.
He should have shut himself on the outside of the door when she'd asked.
He could only think of one possible ending to this scene: in bed. And not sleeping.
"The water's getting cold," she said quietly. "I'm getting out now."
Cameron swallowed. He straightened, wiped his hands on his breeks, and only then noticed a towel draped over the chair. He handed it to her.
She didn't move. "Cameron, please."
Aye, he was embarrassing her. He strode to the window and gazed out, giving her space to stand and dry herself and hide all those sweet curves from him. His innocent, flustered little bride.
He stared out into the darkening sky, seeing nothing, imagining a slender creamy nymph rising naked from her bath.
"No weather for walking in tonight." He jumped as she spoke, almost in his ear.
She was dressed in her nightgown, with a robe wrapped around her, covered from top to small bare toes, except for a small vee of creamy skin at the neck. All he could think of was how he wanted to peel that clothing off her and take her to bed.
He swallowed hard, battling with his insistent desire. She was looking past him out of the window, and he belatedly noticed the rain pelting against the window. "No."
She rose on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "Thank you for respecting me, Cameron."
He blinked and mumbled something.
She smiled. "And for the massage." She rose on her toes again and this time kissed him on the mouth. Warm. Lush. Open-mouthed and welcoming. Twining her arms around his neck.
He pulled her against him, hard, and sank into the kiss, deepening it, tasting her, claiming her, relishing the sweet, heady intoxication of her, his blood roaring.
She pulled away. "Cameron," she whispered, smiling and flustered. "The door."
"Eh?"
She slipped from his embrace. "There's someone at the door. To take away the bath and bathwater." He blinked, and she added, "I rang for them when I got out of the bath. I didn't know we'd . . ." She gestured with vague and endearing self-consciousness. "You know."
He knew all right. He strode to the door, and jerked it open.
Two menservants and his wife's maid, Mairie entered.
He waited as they carried the bath—still full—carefully away.
Mairie fluttered around tidying things until he said, "That's enough.
Tell Cook we'll tak' our supper up here this evening. "
Mairie's eyes widened. She glanced at her mistress and blushed. "Oh, aye, Laird. " She backed out of the room, hiding a smile.
"Eat it here? But what about the others?" Jeannie said when the maid had gone. "Your cousins and your uncle, for instance?"
He shrugged. He fancied a little private conversation with his bride, and could do without the distraction of his relatives. "They can eat wherever they like."
She gave him a doubtful glance, then her gaze fell on the flowers.
"Oh, are they for me?" She hurried over and picked them up.
"You brought me heather. I didn't think there'd be any still in flower.
Thank you, Cameron." Quite as if it was some grand expensive gift he'd brought her, and not some common flower off the hillside.
She inhaled the perfume with a blissful expression. "Such a beautiful, delicate fragrance. Smell it." She held it out to him, as if he'd never in his life smelled the flowers that bloomed in the hills all around his home. He sniffed dutifully. It smelled the same as always.
"And oh, look! There's a wee sprig of white heather." She showed it to him, her eyes shining.
"Aye, well, it's said to be good luck for a bride," he muttered, a little embarrassed by her open delight. It had been spotting the white heather that had inspired him to gather the rest.
She found a glass to hold the flowers and arranged them to her satisfaction, then took the little sprig of white heather and tucked it into her hair. Against her shining chestnut locks it looked prettier than any hair ornament.
"I used to wear a sprig of dried white heather when I was a lad," he began, then broke off, hearing a knock at the door.
A couple of servants brought supper in on a large tray, along with a bottle of wine and two glasses. They placed them on a side table, then, at a jerk of the head from Cameron, left quickly, closing the door behind them.