Chapter Twelve
His hand lifted to knock on the connecting door late that night, Evan exhaled, then tapped. Though it was their wedding night and he was not the sort to claim rights, he had to see her, wanted to know how she felt, what she wanted. Hearing her answer, he entered.
Enthroned in the big four-poster bed, sunk deep in pillows under quilts, Catriona glanced up from a book in her hands. She looked lush and beautiful, swathed in a prim white nightgown with a high neck and flounced sleeves.
She looked vulnerable, he noticed, and yet he saw too the touch of wildness she subdued—the spark in her eyes, the set of her chin and shoulders, the fiery gold of her hair flowing over her shoulders. The sight of her stole away his breath, made his body clench with desire. He moved toward her.
“Good evening, madam,” he murmured.
“Lord Kildonan.” She closed the book, fingers trembling on its cover.
Clearing his throat, shoving hands in the pockets of his robe of burgundy satin, he glanced around. This had been his parents’ shared room when he was very young. He remembered tracing his small fingers over the floral design in the rug, long ago, in happier times.
“I trust you are—please, go ahead,” he said as she began to speak too.
“I just wanted to say what a lovely room. Thank you for it.”
“My parents used this suite. And no thanks are needed. It is rightfully yours now.” His private room was small and cozy in deep green and dark wood. He liked its cave-like feel.
“But you did not expect to install a wife here.”
“Not so soon, true.” Lord, he was not sure what note to strike with her.
She had come into his arms so sweetly in the shieling, when two strangers needing one another were surprised by poignant intimacy.
He wanted that natural magic again for both of them.
Yet the opinions of others, tensions, the marriage itself, made that dreamlike connection a challenge to recapture, he realized.
He came closer. “What are you reading?”
She peeked at the spine as if she was not sure. “I found it on the bookshelf. Sir Hugh MacBride, The Enchanted Briar. It must be your copy. It is inscribed by the author.” She opened to the flyleaf. ‘To Master Evan. Yours affectionately, H. MacBride. 1840.’
“I turned twelve just before Christmas that year. Sir Hugh gave me the book as a gift. He was a family friend.”
“I see. How nice. I have enjoyed his poetry—even in the Highlands we read what is current.” She sounded defensive. “I have read nearly everything by Sir Walter Scott and Miss Austen from years back. Mr. Dickens too, some.”
“I do not doubt that you do,” he said quietly.
“So you’ll turn thirty-one this December?”
He nodded. “Might I ask? I don’t even know your age or your birthday.”
“I was twenty-seven in late September. Quite the spinster.”
“No longer.” He knew they were using the conversation to either edge closer or dance around the moment. He did not like feeling tentative. He preferred action and quick, uncomplicated truths.
In the shieling hut, he had followed heart and instinct, passion too in the moment, when the girl expressed the same need that compelled him.
Now he tiptoed in polite chatter, though he burned to hold her, make love to her fully and fervently, sincerely and legitimately.
He wanted her to know he honored the marriage, wanted to know she did too.
But this dance was delicate. One wrong step could shatter hearts and hope.
“How lovely that you knew Sir Hugh. I loved his tale of the Briar Maiden.”
He did not want to talk about poems and legends. He wanted to toss the book across the room and take her into his arms. Instead, he sat on the foot of the bed, his weight sinking the mattress a little.
“Catriona,” he began.
She raised her knees as if to draw away from him. “Did you know Sir Hugh well?” She turned more pages, clearly not ready to address the matter at hand.
“His son, Aedan MacBride, is a good friend. I sometimes stayed at his home at Dundrennan on school holidays. So did his cousin, Dougal Stewart. All three of us became engineers, and we’ve even worked together. You will meet them someday, I am sure.”
“How very nice. I look forward to it. So you saw Sir Hugh at work, writing?”
“A little. I liked it there at Dundrennan, and I confess I yearned rather pitifully after the lasses, sisters and cousins who were there too. I tried to share romantic poetry with them and no doubt made a fool of myself at twelve and thirteen.” He grinned sheepishly.
She laughed. “But well done for trying.”
He smiled, loving the music of her laughter, sweet notes up and down a scale. She gave him a mischievous look and slipped out of bed to cross the room and replace the book on a bookshelf, then turned back.
Golden lamplight shone through the creamy translucence of her nightgown to halo her tall, beautifully shaped form, long legs, sultry curves, slender waist. His body surged at the sight. He lifted a brow, folded his hands, held still.
He knew her curves, her tender lips and baby-soft skin, the whisper of her breathing as she lay in his arms. He knew the magic of her, and was caught fast, though she might not know her effect on him.
“My dear,” he said, “we should talk about—our arrangement here.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “Arrangement? If you mean living arrangements, you should know I will not move to the city.”
“I guessed that without asking,” he said. “I know our meeting and now this marriage has been a shock—for both of us. I imagine you are not entirely content to be here.”
“We scarcely know each other,” she agreed.
“Marriages have been made from less.”
“I do wonder why you agreed to it. Do you need a countess so very much here?”
“What do you mean?”
“A wife who knows the glen and can look after things in your absence, perhaps even smooth the way with the locals.”
He frowned with a stir of temper. “Is that what you think? It never occurred to me. I did what I thought was right, and what I wanted. I mean to give this a fair chance. If you have doubts, may I say it is a beastly business to undo a marriage.” His parents had lived separately for twenty years to avoid the ordeal and scandal of divorce.
“I know. If we wait a few weeks, then annul—”
He felt the unexpected hurt of that. “Do you want to go back to your father’s house?”
“I do not. Not after this.” She sighed.
“What is it you want?” He spoke softly, opened his hands.
“I do not know.” She shrugged. The gown shimmered around her. “I want—something good for both of us. I want this to be—real. But…” She stopped.
“But what? We got along very well in that shieling hut, lass. That felt real.”
“There, aye. But you were just Mr. Mackenzie. I trusted you.”
“You can trust me by any name you choose.”
“You did not tell me.”
“That I am the gentleman you loathe most in the world, and ask you to share a blanket against the cold?”
“I would have appreciated the choice,” she snapped.
“Then we would both have frozen separately.”
“Why do you want this marriage?” she asked bluntly.
He paused, exhaled hard, wondering how to explain that he simply felt compelled to be with her in a mingling of desire, respect, kinship with a lonely soul, and more? With her, he’d need never feel lonely—nor would she.
Fierce craving warred within him—physical desire and something deeper, akin to love.
His inner logic cautioned him to go slowly, keep his counsel close.
The choice as he saw it was either to delve into marriage or slow down to courtship.
Walking away from the marriage seemed untenable.
But the lass did not know what she wanted.
He had closed off his heart and his hopes for two years, perhaps more. Yet in Catriona’s company, he felt at ease, understood, healed. He wanted to be with her.
But his natural reserve made him shrug. “I am willing to take a chance. Are you?”
“Not if it is just a convenient arrangement,” she said crisply. “I want—” She held up her hands as if looking for the word.
“Love?” he asked brusquely.
She tucked her brows. A little light seemed to go out of her eyes. He cursed himself for speaking too quickly.
“You do not expect to love your wife?”
He hesitated. “Fate took a hand with us for some reason. Let us see what else it brings.” It sounded distant, but he was not ready to name his yearning for her.
“Fate played with us. With our need to survive.”
“It was pleasant helping each other survive.”
She twisted that tender mouth. He glanced away, feeling its tug. “What if we are not compatible in ordinary situations? We do not have much in common.”
“We do. The glen, the Highlands.” He waved a hand toward the window, where the moon was a clean slice of light over the dark, primeval mountains.
“The shieling hut and all we shared there. Our wedding. The bride was lovely,” he added.
His glance slid down the length of her body, where the candlelit translucence of her gown attracted his gaze.
She seemed to realize that, and reached for the plaid shawl draped over a chair, sweeping it around her shoulders. Its long folds did not obscure her pretty feet and ankles.
She crossed her arms. “What if we could start over?”
“I have no desire to fall off a mountain again,” he drawled.
“I meant with introductions, and, and courting, and … all. We began backward, sir.”
He nodded slowly. Whether a path, a climb, a marriage—one should take things step by step. “We could try that, without the mountain or the ice storm.”
She smiled, eyes sparkling, and came forward to hold out her hand. “I am Catriona MacConn. The minister’s daughter.”
An elusive dimple appeared in one cheek when she smiled. For a moment, she was more than lovely. She was extraordinary. He smiled.
“Evan Mackenzie,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Lord Kildonan.”
“My lord.” Her fingers were slim and cool in the cage of his. In that finespun gown, with her hair wild as golden fire around her shoulders, she was more than enchanting. She was like a flame of passion made into a lass.
A lass he could love. He felt a rolling punch to heart and core. Love forever.
He had climbed mountains, gone deep into the ocean, risked his life countless times.
Nor had he quailed to make an impulsive marriage to change a disastrous situation.
But the power and responsibility of love, long and devoted and complex, suddenly made him quake, even though he realized he leaned toward it.
Heart thundering, he rose from his seat on the bed, keeping her hand in his, and slowly drew her toward him. He burned for her, wanting to move beyond this wee game, even if it was a remedy.
“We can start again,” he murmured somberly. “But I wonder if we have already gone too far beyond an innocent friendship.”
“If we had been introduced properly somewhere—”
“But we were not.” He pulled her closer. She did not resist. “What would you have thought if we met outside your father’s kirk or in some matron’s drawing room for tea?” He slipped his hand along the side of her face, cupping her delicate, stubborn jaw.
“I would have wondered if you were like your father, I admit. And—I would have felt something more, I think.”
“Do you feel something now?” he murmured, dipping his head low.
“I do,” she whispered. “But what would you have thought of me?”
“That the reverend has a beautiful daughter,” he murmured. “Brave and smart and perhaps too good for the new earl.”
She laughed softly, leaning her head back as he spoke. He kissed her.
Her lips moved sweetly under his without hesitation, and he pulled her close into his arms for a kiss they both knew, deep and familiar. Sliding his fingers through the soft cascade of her hair, he felt himself tremble from the subtle force that poured through him.
Sweeping her full into his arms, he soothed his hands along her back, her lush curves, the blessed warmth of her through gauzy cotton.
He knew how intimately she fit to him, and she knew it too, for she arched her back in his bracing arms. His body hardened for her, hot and insistent, impossible to hide. He shifted away, held back.
Desire thrummed fast and strong through him, but he could not let himself appear needy or forceful. Deep within, where he kept his secrets close, he needed to love, wanted to be loved, but could not show that easily.
Then her lips opened under his, and his tongue slipped over hers, so that she sighed and softened and curved in his arms. When he traced his lips away to nuzzle her ear, then her throat, she arched and moaned, shifting in natural invitation.
As he slid his hand along to find the high slope of her breast, she moaned and leaned so that his fingers cupped, felt her pearling nipple through soft fabric.
Teasing there, kissing along her throat, he felt her sink, give way in his arms. Felt himself tighten so that he caught his breath, and lifted his head to capture her lips in a hungry, seeking kiss.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, her body yielding to his.
His heart slammed like an engine. Soon he would scarcely be able to control himself, knowing too well how luscious she was. “Catriona—” he growled. “Tell me what you want.”
She pulled away to gaze at him, chest heaving, lips rosy with kissing, breasts taut through the fabric of her nightgown.
“Not yet,” she said hoarsely. “What I want—not yet. We agreed to see where this goes—”
“We both know where this would go now.” He released her, stepped back, felt cool air slice between them. His body burned, honey and fire cloaked in satin. He took another step back. “As you wish,” he said, mastering his breath, willing the urge to cool like the air.
“Shall we court? Learn more about each other?”
Then he realized something. “You do not trust me.”
“I do not know Lord Kildonan,” she clarified.
“We can take some time. But I will not mince about playing games. You know I am willing. You need to decide if you are.” He reached out, stroked her arm, let his thumb brush the side of her breast. His need for her was like a fine shivering of flame within.
She half closed her eyes as if she felt the same.
He was determined to earn her trust again. He had held back the truth when he should have spoken up, and he bore the burden of his father’s deeds in this glen.
“Give me a little time,” she whispered. “To think. To know—what I want to do.”
He felt again that she had some secret, as keenly as if it stood between them. He had his secrets too. “We both need a little time. Will you be Countess of Kildonan, or Miss Catriona MacConn?” he asked. “Will you trust me or not?”
She was silent, her eyes searching his, vivid blue, cheeks flushed, lips moist, hair rich as flame. His body pulsed, protested. He exhaled, hard and fast.
“Good night, then.” He stepped past her.
She reached out to touch his arm. “Evan, I—”
“Later,” he said. “It is what you want.”