Chapter Seven #2
She’d never seen a man with mannerisms such as his. He was large, formidable, and though it looked as if he pushed against the wall it felt as if in some way the wall gave him some support.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked though she wasn’t truly paying attention. Rather, she avidly watched him drum his fingers against the plaster.
‘You mentioned that this won’t work,’ he said.
Ah, yes. ‘I meant our talking wasn’t going to work.’
He turned his head to look at her and a lock of his brown hair fell across his forehead. ‘I admit this conversation is confusing despite the number of words we’re using, but it does appear we’re conversing.’
‘I meant the ones we will have in the future.’ She wanted to put her hands on her hips. ‘Do you intend to get used to my bluntness?’
More drumming of his fingers before he huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh or annoyance, she didn’t know him well enough to know the difference.
With a shove against the wall, he stood. Then with his eyes on her, he seemed to come to a decision.
Something in her braced for it. Would he accept the way she talked, or had she married an intolerant man? Would there at least be some understanding between them even if trust was tenuous? Or would he—reach behind him and yank his tunic over his head.
Rory revelled in his wife’s slight gasp. Her blunt words were none that he ever heard from a woman. As the Chief’s son and heir, he was used to women catering to his words. If he did give them notice, they minced and blushed. Even his own mother was soft, gentle.
This woman, this wife of his, did nothing he’d ever encountered.
She wanted to speak her mind, but it seemed her stunning eyes wanted to take their fill of him as well.
And just as he heard every word she spoke regardless of whether he agreed with them, he felt every brush of her gaze against his bare skin.
He couldn’t explain his rash action of taking off his tunic. He had entered this marriage knowing what was expected and needed of his role. He said his vows and closed the door to this bedroom understanding precisely what needed to be done tonight to honour his vows and protect his clansmen.
For though he’d bargained to marry her, he knew he could not, should not, consummate the marriage.
How could he when a betrayer was in their midst?
For Paiden’s sake, for his own, he had to leave a way out.
For though the McCrieffs dangled a bright future for him, they also took it away when Paiden collapsed to the floor.
More the fool he if he blithely denied that traitorous fact.
But facts blurred when he was in the same room with Ailsa.
He had not expected her and whatever it was between them.
In the end, it seemed his reaction to this woman was also traitorous.
Being in this room shook whatever convictions he’d intended.
Who was he fooling? Nothing had gone according to plan since he’d stepped across the stream bordering the lands. And all his intentions seemed foolish as he stood in this room and faced his wife.
He wanted, and though his friend could be dying in another room, he still wanted her.
The sounds of revelry were quieter now, the candle flames lower in their wax.
The room’s shadows thickened around them, cocooning them.
He felt the quietness, felt the air in the room against his skin.
It changed the longer they stood there staring at each other.
Heavier, thicker, and harder to pull into his lungs.
He knew what this was becoming and what it shouldn’t be. Where were her words now? ‘You’re quiet.’
She gave a wave in his general direction. ‘I didn’t expect—’
‘A man?’
‘That isn’t what I meant. I mean...’
The longer she looked, the longer desire coiled around them. His own skin felt branded by her few words, by the gasp of breath she took.
This wouldn’t do. He agreed to marry her, he didn’t agree to trust her.
It was a betrayal of his friend who still did not wake.
Of his clan until he found the coward who poisoned him.
And those were the truths she was aware of.
There were more untruths he never intended to say because a wife should not have been his future.
Yet here she was and he didn’t need to notice the flush along her cheekbones or the elegant way she turned her hands. ‘Surely in all your help with life and death you’ve seen a man’s bared back?’
Ailsa went quiet before her whisper. ‘Not like this.’
‘No, I imagine not like this.’ She was his wife and he her husband.
Politics. Paiden. He felt the pressure of both fade as Ailsa’s eyes took in every contour.
He might never have battled, but he trained for it, he’d been born for it.
It was his right as a Highlander and ruler to brandish a sword, to take a life before it was taken from him.
His body bore proof to his perseverance and training.
His body, however, wasn’t thinking of battle or politics, it wanted something else entirely. And even that was mired with other layers that should be heeded, but were also ignored.
Despite her demand, despite her words, Rory knew Ailsa was inexperienced. A knowledgeable woman would never look at him the way Ailsa was, with a greedy innocence that caused his heart to thump in his chest and his blood to pool hot and fast in his groin.
Her eyes didn’t stroke his chest in a blatant perusal, but flitted, darted, dashed from the curve of his shoulders to the tapering of his waist. Her eyes, her parted lips, were friction to the flames that made the heat between them erupt.
‘Your clothes,’ he ordered, his voice rough; his words cut short. He was amazed he could say that much.
‘Are you saying it’s my turn?’ Ailsa replied, her tongue folding along the seam of her lips before pulling her full lower lip deeper in her mouth.
Tracking that move, he could not say a word, so gave a curt nod.
She walked slowly to the bed and sat, and his mind blanked.
Her hair, her gown against the contrast of the bedding was mesmerising.
He’d not intended to undress at all this evening.
Resolved to make this marriage in name only until justice was met, he’d counted on her innocence to make that plan easy.
Instead, he found an experienced virgin. An innocent siren. How was he to give her pleasure only when she demanded his tunic so those eyes of hers could caress him?
Her beauty and grace affected him as no other woman. If they kept silent and he knew nothing else of her, perhaps with heroic effort, he could gaze and touch without losing himself.
But he knew her spirit. Her strength. He’d held a blade to her neck and she’d still ordered him about so she could tend Paiden. Now she sat on her bed covered in the softest of white and green linen to unlace her shoe.
Her movements were quick, efficient, and she looked every inch the Chief of her own clan or a goddess from tales past. He was a fool to think he could control this wedding night. He hadn’t been able to control watching her in the courtyard or as they’d dined on supper.
And far worse than that, he hadn’t been able to control how his hands had trembled just that bit, just enough, when he’d taken her hands in his and said his marriage vows.
Her flaming hair bound, her green eyes searing him as she’d whispered her vows in turn. He might not understand her, his mind fighting against hers at every turn, but his body...
His body resented that he stood still, that he didn’t take the few steps towards her and press her back against the bed. It took every ounce of will to merely watch her toss her shoes in the corner and roll down her hose with fingers he wanted on his own skin.
When she stood, he swore he lost his breath as he waited for her to take off the rest. He’d never wanted this much, desired like this before. It was that lack of patience, that forced him to say the words. ‘Your gown?’
She tilted her head. ‘You want my gown off?’
‘Is that not what I asked from the very beginning?’
‘I asked something as well.’
Did she mean for him to accept her words? No man would accept such bluntness in a wife. He wasn’t about to start. He’d been raised to believe that men were the providers, rulers, leaders, and women had different priorities. Of home and hearth. His mother was soft spoken, delicate, frail.
Ailsa, however, could be a warrior on the battlefield.
She surprised him to the point he didn’t know if he wanted to get his bearings or be left reeling.
Agreeing with her demands for him to remove his clothing was mistake.
He knew it, yet he leaned against the wall, shoved off his shoes and kicked them to same corner she did hers.
She glanced at his feet and looked back up. ‘I’ve taken off more clothing than you.’
His skin was bare to her eyes and though her shoes and hose were more clothes than he’d shed, that cursed gown covered all of her. ‘But not nearly enough.’
He took in the hem of her gown to the curve of her waist to the flush of her cheeks. Her eyes were equal parts ire and heat.
She knew what he wanted, but still defied him.
She asked him for clothing as well, but didn’t know what was at stake.
Even if his doubts on his past were no more, there was Paiden.
There was an enemy about and this alliance was for politics only.
As such he needed to remain in control. Removing his breeches wouldn’t happen. He’d stand here all night if need be.
‘You want more,’ she said as bluntly as ever. To him the words were a siren’s call.
He closed his eyes on that. Always. He always wanted more and how was he to say he did and still deny himself? Apparently, he didn’t need to, for he heard the tug of fabric and an impatient huff of breath.
Ailsa was struggling with her laces.
‘I know I said I have troubles,’ she said, ‘but usually not this much.’