Chapter Sixteen #2
Declan pretended to misstep, jostling him. Marcus grasped Declan's shoulder.
“Don't make me fetch my sword and deal with you,” Marcus laughed.
The procession of men stopped before the new lady's bedchambers.
Declan kicked open the door. It hit the wall with a resounding bang and Elise bolted upright with a small cry.
She blinked against the soft light of the candle illuminating her nightstand.
At the sight of disheveled brown locks cascading down her shoulders and over the creamy rise of her breasts, Marcus's groin tightened.
She looked from him to Declan. When her gaze came to Kiernan, her eyes widened and she snatched the sheet up to her chin.
Probably best, Marcus realized. Kiernan was no threat, but a band of drunken Highlanders barred the only exit.
He bit back a laugh when her attention shifted to the top of his head where, earlier, had sat the now-missing bonnet.
Her gaze traveled downward, her eyes narrowing when they reached the missing shirt buttons—a shirt open to his navel and only half tucked into a kilt, which looked as though it might come unpleated with a brisk sneeze.
Her gaze lifted to his face. “Is there something you want, milord?”
Guffaws followed, along with several straightforward answers to her query.
Marcus noted her chagrin in the form of pink cheeks.
He patted Kiernan's and Declan's shoulders.
They lowered him to the floor while Declan added his compliments upon Marcus's wisdom if he heeded their advice.
The request they be allowed to remain followed as Elise's attention settled on Declan.
Marcus glanced at Declan, who winked at her, and Marcus knew Declan was extracting a bit of revenge for the cuff with the frying pan.
“We have brought your new lord to you, lass,” Declan said, his deep voice resonating above the general commotion. “He's a wee bit worn, but you need not worry. He'll have no trouble wielding his sword for you tonight.”
The men fairly shook with raucous laughter. Elise gave a ladylike sniff, but Declan gave no evidence of noticing the cool look she sent his way.
She gave Marcus an appraising glance, then addressed Declan. “He looks worse for the wear. I suggest you put him in his own chambers. I have no need of a husband who is useless.”
The men succumbed to more uproarious laughter. All, that is, except Marcus. He stepped forward and, heedless of her sudden cry and valiant attempt to keep the sheet wrapped around herself, pulled her to him.
“I assure you, sweet, I am quite fit for tonight's activities.”
Whoops of approval went up as he kissed her quick and hard.
With a jerk of his head, he cleared the room, never breaking eye contact with his wife.
Finally, when everyone had gone and the last of the suggestions and general advice had faded from the room, Marcus released her.
He stepped back and appraised her. She kneeled half naked on the bed, hair tousled as he remembered it on those occasions she had allowed him into her bed.
He wondered if she thought he wouldn't come to her, then noticed the sleeves of the filmy pale robe and night shift she wore.
A gift from Sophie, no doubt. Did the wearing of the gift indicate his new wife anticipated his coming?
She had uttered not a word about the discovery of his title, but she had married him. Was that enough? Had she forgiven him?
Marcus hadn't pressed her, fearing he would further tip the scales in his disfavor.
She had gone about the business of the wedding as any bride might—any bride who considered marriage a business, that is.
She had surprised him, unexpectedly joining him and his men yesterday when they went to the village.
She had, when he'd made the mistake of addressing her familiarly, looked as though she would bolt for the castle.
The look on her face then, he realized, wasn't so dissimilar from the look she wore now.
“Have you come to fear me so?” he asked. When she made no reply, he added, “You married me, Elise, knowing who I am.”
She tilted her head as though to read his thoughts. His body pulsed. A wary look entered her eyes and he could have sworn she had read his mind.
“I have spent many nights in your bed,” he said, adding in a husky voice, “Though, not nearly enough. Tonight and every night hereafter, you will be in my bed.”
He waited for no response—needed no response—other than the reaction he would get when her body responded to his—and scooped her into his arms. She gave a surprised cry.
So, she was no mind reader, after all.
Marcus strode through the connecting closet into his room. He stopped before the massive bed. Her gaze shifted to the bed, then moved across her new surroundings. Her attention lingered on the fire burning in the hearth, then flicked upward to the sword which hung over the mantel.
Elise abruptly looked at him, seeming to have forgotten she lay in his arms. He kissed her.
She wriggled as if to slip through the miniscule space between his arms and chest. Marcus flicked his tongue into her mouth, mimicking the motion he would soon replicate inside her body.
She stilled, and he wondered if she was envisioning the same action.
At last, he broke the kiss. He scrutinized her face until her gaze fell to his chest. Slowly, he lowered her feet to the carpeted floor. He pushed the robe and night rail from her shoulders. His gaze followed the slither of their descent until they struck the floor.
Marcus tipped her head up until she faced him and whispered, “Touch me.”
Elise didn't move, didn't blink, and he held his breath.
She shifted, only minutely at first, then lifted a hand to finger the topmost button still intact on his shirt.
She reached with the other hand and unbuttoned the button, then the next, then the last. Her gaze remained focused on his chest. Marcus stifled heavy breaths when she slipped her hands inside his shirt and slid them up and over his shoulders.
He dropped his arms to his sides, allowing the shirt to fall to the floor.
Her hands glided down his chest. Ripples of pleasure radiated through him.
He hardened more with each inch she descended.
She stopped with her fingers clasped around his belt.
She slipped the leather from its loop. The clasp clinked in the silence of the room as she unfastened it.
The plaid loosened and dropped into a pile at his feet.
She didn't move, and he realized her gaze was fixed on the jutting, hard length of him.
He didn't move—wasn't about to move. She could stare at him all night and, knowing her eyes were on him, he could maintain his arousal until she tired of the sight.
Her gaze did move, though, back to his chest where she placed her palms.
“You're so hard,” she said, as though marveling at something she hadn't the slightest notion could have been.
Marcus choked back a groan. He backed her against the bed and she fell onto the mattress.
He scooted her farther up onto the bed, then rose over her, holding his body inches above her.
He gently kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, her eyelids, cheeks, mouth.
Here he lingered, rocking his hips against her in light motions as he drew the kiss out.
Elise ran her hands along his back, hesitating at the curve of his buttocks.
“Aye, love,” he whispered, placing small kisses at the corner of her mouth, then along her neck. “Touch me as you like.”
He rocked again and, this time, her hands continued around and over the curve of his buttocks.
Marcus groaned as he took a nipple between his lips.
He gently parted her legs with a knee, then eased into her.
He moved slowly, drawing out her pleasure.
He suckled one breast, then the other until, at last, her fingers tightened on the tensed muscles of his buttocks.
He quickened his movements. An instant later, she cried out softly and lifted her hips to meet his movements.
Another instant, and he emptied into her.
He waited until the throb of his body ceased, then hugged her close and slid to her side.
* * *
Elise relaxed against the carriage's cushion.
She closed her eyes, allowing the motion of the carriage to lull her.
The journey from Brahan Seer to the lowlands had been easier than expected.
The stop at the Green Lady Inn earlier that morning had divided a tedious eight-hour ride into two, more comfortable, four-hour portions.
Now, less than two hours from Ashlund, they would first stop at Sophie's estate.
She opened her eyes and looked out the window at Marcus, who rode alongside the carriage.
He sat, as always, easy in the saddle. There had been little time to think of him today.
Sophie had kept her distracted with plans for Ashlund and the visits they would make to the modiste, as well as a number of other merchants, who were sure to provide what Sophie said she needed to fulfill her role as the new Marchioness of Ashlund.
A tremor ran through her. She shifted her attention to him.
Without Sophie's monologue filling her head with visions of jewels and bolts of rich fabrics, and without Mary's enthusiastic contributions as to which dresses and jewelry Elise should wear to the parties, she couldn't deny she was, completely and fully, Elise MacGregor, Marchioness of Ashlund.