Chapter Nineteen
She loved him? Cameron wanted to shout it from the battlements.
His chest felt full and heavy. He struggled to find words to respond, but his heart was too full.
He found himself saying gruffly, "It's neither foolish nor premature, Jeannie, but a proper thing in a bride.
" Sounding like an ancient gray-beard, not a man whose heart was fit to bursting.
He knew she loved poetry, but there were no pretty words in him, just . . . feelings, too fierce and joyous and new to name. So all he could do was haul her into his arms and kiss her.
She slipped her hands under his shirt, over his chest, caressing his skin with small, work-roughened hands, finer to him than any lady's soft, pampered hands. And all the time kissing, kissing him hungrily, eagerly, as if she couldn't get enough of him.
He unfastened her dressing gown and slipped it off her shoulders. It slithered to the floor with a soft hush. Outside the rain was drumming on the roof and battering the window.
He felt her legs tremble and sag. His pulse leapt at this evidence of her arousal, but he reined himself in, and eased her over to the bed. He deepened the kiss, running his hands over her slender, lissome body, caressing her through the soft, fine fabric of her night rail.
She lay back on the bed, pulling him with her, and he couldn't resist, though he knew he should, but oh, she was so sweet, so eager and loving .
. . He lay on top of her, kissing, caressing, feeling the agony of her softness positioned between his thighs, his bare thighs—and bare everything else beneath the kilt.
The only barrier stopping them from joining was the frail gossamer of her night-rail and the heavy fabric of the kilt.
She pressed herself against him like a small eager cat, writhing in innocent eroticism, her limbs embracing him. She tasted of firelight and honey and rain and salt and sweet, warm woman. His sweet, warm woman, his Jeannie.
His kilt was riding up and as she moved she brushed against him. Cameron groaned. He was hard and throbbing and it was all he could do not to shove her nightgown up and take her.
But he'd given her his word.
She brushed against him again. Dammit, he was ready to spill. He pulled away abruptly and put some space between them. He sat on the edge of the bed, panting, trying to lash into obedience the wild horses of his control.
"Cameron?" She touched him tentatively on the shoulder.
He didn't reply. What the hell had happened? He was as out of control as a young boy with his first woman.
"Cameron?" She trailed her hand softly down his spine.
He shuddered and arched beneath her touch. "Don't do that!" There was a short, hurt silence and he added in a quieter voice, "It's all right, lass. Just . . . don't touch me."
"Do you no' like me touching you?"
"I like it fine." Too fine.
"Then why?"
Och, the innocence of her. He closed his eyes a moment, then turned to explain. "Because it's stretching my control to its limits, that's why."
Her eyes dropped to where his sporran usually sat. "Your control?" There was almost a purr to the way she said it.
"Aye, touch me again and I'll be in danger of breaking my promise to you. And I don't break my word."
"I see." She tucked her legs beneath her, and knelt on the bed, watching him with those wide, considering blue eyes. It fair killed him the way she looked at him, and him not able to act on it.
The only sound in the room then was the crackling of the fire and Cameron's own heavy breathing.
He tried to concentrate on pure thoughts, but the scent of her skin, of roses and warm, aroused woman teased his nostrils.
Coals shifted in the fireplace and all he could think of was the way she would look clad in nothing but firelight.
He gritted his teeth, willing his rampant body to obedience.
"What if I want you to?" The words came soft, wrapped in darkness.
His stomach lurched. Did she just say what he thought she'd said?
She leaned forward, her hands moved at his hips, there was the click of buckles and he felt his kilt begin to slide away. He grabbed it, clutching it against him. "What the hell?"
"I . . . I've changed my mind. I canna wait any longer." She tugged gently at his kilt. "I want you now."
"But . . . I promised you a fortnight. It's only been eight days." And eight interminable nights.
Her eyes were luminous as she said, "I release you from your promise, husband."
He said nothing, just stared down at her, trying to breathe.
"The courtship is over, it's time to start the honeymoon." In one movement she pulled her nightgown over her head and knelt there, naked on the bed, her heart in her eyes.
His kilt fell away unnoticed as, with a groan, he pulled her to him. He lavished her with kisses, loving every inch of her skin with hands and mouth and body. She was warm satin, fragrant as petals and her hair flowed over her pale skin like the silky dark waters of a peaty burn.
She shuddered and gasped and pressed herself against him, wrapping her long silky legs around him, plastering him with hot, fervent kisses that drove him purely wild.
He'd planned to wait, to take it slow and gentle but she was wild and eager and impatient and so greedy for him he couldn't hold himself back.
"I love you, Cameron." There, she'd said it again, and again, his heart was fair to bursting.
He entered her with one long, slow thrust. He felt the barrier of her virginity, and checked as she gasped. But before he could say a word, her eyes met his. "Now, Cameron." And with a determined expression she lifted her body, thrusting against him, and he was in. And moving. And lost.
She cried out, arching and shuddering, clutching him with hard little fingers, her thighs trembling and closing around him as her body accepted him deep inside. Welcoming him.
Ancient rhythms pounded through him and at the spiraling edge of his awareness he heard a high, tremulous cry, and felt her shudder deeply as she shattered with him.
* * *
CAMERON WOKE FIRST in the morning. Usually he sprang out of bed, raring to meet the day. Now he lay quietly, listening to the soft sound of her breathing, examining the unaccustomed feelings that lay heavy and full in his chest.
This was how he'd wake every morning for the rest of his life. In bed with his wife, with Jeannie. Who loved him.
He felt . . . He tasted the feelings floating inside him. Happy. Humbled. Awed.
A little over a week ago he'd sworn a mad, rash vow and performed the most reckless act of a somewhat reckless life. It could have been the greatest mistake of his life.
He glanced at the girl curled up against him, her silky dark chestnut hair spilling over her shoulder, half hiding her face.
Instead she was the greatest gift.
He lay there, breathing her in, the scent of her; roses and woman. His woman, his bride. His . . . love.
The realization burst on him. Aye, she was his love. He loved her. Loved Jeannie. His Jeannie.
Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled sleepily. "Cameron," she breathed, and he couldn't help it, he had to kiss her, and then, well, he couldn't help himself again. He had no self-restraint, and apparently, neither had she.
Afterward they lay entwined, their breathing slowing, skin to skin, gazing into each other's eyes.
After a while she gave a shivery sigh. "That was the loveliest way to wake up." She stretched and gave him a rueful smile. "I suppose this means the courtship is over."
And she looked at him with that damned look in her eyes that shattered him every time.
He had to tell her. The feelings were like to burst out of him. But he had no words. And then he remembered . . .
Cameron took a deep breath and began.
“‘My love is like a red, red rose
That's sweetly sprung in June.
My love is like a melody
That's sweetly sung in tune—’” He broke off. She had tears in her eyes.
"What is it?" he said. "What's the matter?"
"Rabbie Burns," she whispered. "You're quoting Rabbie Burns to me." Great crystal tears glittered on her lashes. What the hell had he done wrong?
"You said you liked poetry."
"You said you didn't."
"Aye, well, I promised you a courtship. And you do smell like a rose, and so I thought . . ." He swallowed. "They fit. The words, I mean. They all fit. All the words." He scanned her face anxiously. Did she not see what he was trying to tell her?
He took a deep breath and broached the next verse.
“‘So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I,
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.’"
Her mouth quivered. "In love, Cameron? Truly?"
"Deep in love."
"Is it Rabbie Burns speaking, or do you have words of your own?" She gave him that look and waited. Och, he was gone, he was truly gone.
"Perhaps one day I'll come to rue the day I plucked a wee bog sprite from the mud and married her, but I doubt it. Right now I think it's the cleverest thing I've done in all my life."
She tried to frown. "A bog sprite?"
Cameron grinned and kissed her. “Aye, a wee bog sprite who smells like a rose.
" He kissed her again. "My bonnie lass." And again.
"My red, red rose." And then because she might not have understood what the poem meant, he cupped her face in his hands and, drowning in her blue, blue eyes, the words finally spilled out of him.
"I love you, Jeannie McLeay Fraser, with all my heart.
You're my blessing, and my gift, and my dearest, most beloved love.
And och, you're no' in tears again, are you? "
"Happy tears," she wept, and he bent to kiss them away.
* * * The End * * *