Chapter 17 #2
While he did not understand the delicate rules of the titled and wealthy, he knew above all else he would do nothing to bring his Marin to shame, regardless of his station or hers.
It had been difficult to sit beside her and not caress the length of her arm encased in sumptuous silk or touch her skin that looked like rose petals and cream.
He couldn't draw the veil of hair from her face to better see her loveliness.
Not when one touch would lead to more, and the rush of his driving need to have her would leave him overwhelmed.
He had contented himself to sit and watch Marin dance with her sisters, their hair fanning about them in gold and onyx, their matching blue eyes bright with joy.
The people of Werrick castle danced as well as the reivers, the two oftentimes coming together. Even Drake had appeared tempted when Lady Anice had tried to draw him into a dance. In the end, he’d resolutely shook his head and refrained.
The evening had been enjoyable, but it had been long, and Bran’s patience was drawing to a close.
He could no longer be on display on the dais as he fumbled through dainty eating and frivolous customs. Ones that were apparently created to establish a distinct line between men of his station and the otherwise wealthy and overly educated.
The time to claim his bride without restraint was nigh.
He got to his feet and the room hushed. “The hour grows late.”
“That isna all that's growing,” a voice jeered from the back. Laughter followed as well as several more ribald jests.
Bran turned to where Marin had just taken a seat once more after dancing with her sisters, her cheeks flushed from her exertions.
He held out his hand to her. “My lady, shall we retire?”
She smiled up at him with the reserved affection she'd afforded him since they'd spoken their vows. Another few bawdy calls rose above the din, and she placed her hand in his. It did not escape his notice how her fingers trembled.
“Ye dinna need to walk us to the bed chamber,” he called to the waiting crowd as he aided Marin to her feet. “I'm sure enough in my abilities to see the task done without the lot of ye.”
The people laughed at that and settled back to their drinking and dancing. Better to appeal to their tawdry humor than to subject Marin to the humiliation of the barbaric old custom.
His wife moved without thought, the way a warrior does in battle when their body reacts independently from their mind. Her fragile smile continued to hover on her lips as they made their way across the hall. It stayed through the long walk up the stone stairs and into Marin’s room.
It had been Bran’s idea to occupy the earl’s former rooms, but Marin had asked that they share hers instead. A consideration Bran had agreed to.
Once the door was completely closed, her pleasant expression wilted. The performance was over.
Whatever was left was what lay between them, cold and foreign, a yawning gap of discomforting silence. Not what Bran had been anticipating.
An unexpected awkwardness seized Bran.
He'd had plenty of women in his life, but never had he needed to work to woo them. None of those women had been ones of noble birth. And certainly, never had they been his wife, nor a maiden for that matter.
The women who had lain with him were lusty, experienced, and eager to sate his passions.
He made his way to the wine flagon and poured a cup. The liquid splashed into the chalice like a wave of blood and obliterated the quiet.
He turned to her. “Ye look lovely.” And she did, like a pagan goddess with her loose flowing hair gleaming like spun gold and her eyes sparkling with the excitement of the feast.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. The intensity of her shrewd stare darted briefly to the bed before returning to him.
He followed her gaze with a forced languid ease, pausing to take in the fresh linens and creamy white bed clothes as well as the pink rose petals scattered over its surface. A bed made for consummation.
He lifted the goblet and approached her. His footsteps were thunderous on the hard floor and he swore he could hear the tapping of her rapid heartbeat.
“I told ye before, ye dinna have to be afraid of me.” He dipped his finger into the wine. “I willna force ye. I told ye as much in the beginning.”
She nodded.
“I want to give ye pleasure, lass.” He stepped closer to her and welcomed the sweet tease of her lavender scent. “I want ye to want this as I do.”
He drew his finger from the cup and slowly brought it close to her mouth. When she did not move away, he traced his digit over her lower lip, painting her rouged flesh with rich wine. Her breath drew in and she watched him with wide eyes as she tucked her lower lip into her mouth to suck it clean.
Heat fired through him, singeing away the foreign awkwardness.
“Do ye know I willna hurt ye?” He dipped his finger into the wine again and drew it over both lips this time.
The lower first, then the sensual shape of her upper lip.
A dark red droplet beaded and threatened to run down her chin.
He caught it with his thumb before it could drip and licked it from his skin.
Marin ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, so they glistened with temptation. “I know.” She said it with such conviction, it cleared the lingering vestiges of his discomfort.
“I've thought about ye, Marin.” He touched his forefinger to the wine and brought it to her once more. “More than I ought to have.”
Her lips parted and she drew his finger into the moist heat of her mouth with a little suck.
His cock tensed with eagerness. “Have ye thought of me?” He set the wine aside. “How I kissed ye, how I touched ye?”
Her gaze darted away, and her cheeks flushed darker than the rouge.
He leaned to whisper in her ear, his voice intentionally sensual. “Be honest.”
Her breathing hitched, and her eyes brightened. “Aye.” She closed her eyes as she whispered the solitary word, as if she were confessing a sin.
God's teeth, he could not stay himself any longer. He held her face in one of his hands, while curling the other around to the back of her head, threading his fingers through the glossy wealth of her hair, and pressed his mouth to hers.
She parted her lips and the tip of her tongue grazed his with an innocent's eagerness. She tasted richly of wine and sexual hunger. He groaned and deepened their kiss, eager to experience her once more, eager to claim the woman who had become his wife.