The Laird’s Vow #8
His anger slowly died. She was in earnest. And he had, after all, only known her for less than a day. He’d taken one look at her in the kirk and was ripe to tup her then and there, minister be damned.
But women were different, he knew.
“And what would this courtship entail?” He knew. Flowers, little gifts. Pretty speeches. And poetry, he thought gloomily. He hated poetry.
She bit her lip and considered it a moment. “Talking mainly,” she said at last. “Getting to know each other. Perhaps a few walks.”
It wasn’t much to ask. “No poetry then?” he said, cheering up.
Her eyes lit. “Do you like poetry? My father was a poet.”
“No,” he said hastily. “I don’t know any poems.” Mainly dirty ones. “But I could teach you to ride.”
“That would be lovely,” she said in the kind of voice that told him she’d prefer he spouted poetry. And she waited, with that hopeful look in her eyes that unmanned him every damned time.
Capitulation loomed. “How long would this courting period last?” He didn’t like the idea, didn’t want to wait for what his body hungered for, but she was his wife and he owed her respect. And he couldn’t withstand that damned appealing look.
“A week?”
He sighed. A week of waiting would probably kill him, especially if he had to look at those legs of hers much longer. But it wasn’t an unreasonable request.
“All right, a week,” he agreed. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“We both sleep in the same bed – this bed. I give you my word I’ll do nothing you don’t want,” he added before she could argue.
Courting couples did a great deal more than talking. Kissing, rolling around in the hay, all kinds of intimate exploration. He’d court her in bed with soft words and caresses. By the end of the week when they came to do the deed she’d be aching for him as he ached for her now.
She gave him a wary look, sensing a trap.
“I don’t want people gossiping about our marriage,” he explained, and that did the trick.
She nodded. “Very well, I agree.”
“Right then.” Cameron strode to the bed, flipped the covers back, pulled out his sgian dhu and cut his arm.
Seven
“What are you doing?” Jeannie gasped and flew across the room to him
He let a few drops of blood fall on the sheets before he allowed her to examine the cut.
“What on earth were you thinking of? Why would you do such a thing to yourself?” She grabbed a clean handkerchief and pressed it to the small cut. It was nothing, but he rather liked her fussing over him.
“I won’t have the maids spreading rumours about your virginity. Or lack of it.”
“I don’t lack – oh.” She broke off in blushing comprehension and stared at the stains on the sheet. “You cut yourself for me, for my honour,” she whispered.
Cameron tried to look noble and brave. “It’s noth—”
She flung her arms around him and kissed him, full on the mouth. He gathered her against him.
He’d cut himself for her, to protect her from gossip and unkindness. What husband would do that for a bride who’d just refused him her bed?
Jeannie lifted her mouth to his and a kiss started in gratitude ended in passion. The taste of him entered her blood like hot strong whisky, wild and dark and thrilling, dissolving her doubts, her fears.
He grabbed the hem of the pullover and dragged it up. She hesitated. “It’s scratchy,” he murmured, and staring at his mouth, his beautiful, damp, wicked mouth, and his steady hazel eyes, she lifted her arms and let him drag the pullover over her head.
Even before he’d tossed it aside she was kissing him again. The taste of him was like wildfire in her blood.
Wanting poetry? Was she mad?
She didn’t want poetry. She wanted Cameron. Her husband.
The salt-clean scent of his skin was so right, so familiar to her. Desperate to touch him she slipped her hands under his shirt, over his chest, caressing the smooth, hard planes, and all the time kissing, kissing …
He bent her back over the bed, half lying, grasping her by the hips and positioning her between his long brawny thighs, bare thighs, covered only by the kilt.
Her hands dropped to his waist. She could feel the buckles of his kilt.
Cameron eased her down on the bed, running his hands over her slender, lissome body, caressing her through the soft fine fabric of her nightdress. She pressed herself against him like a small eager cat, writhing in innocent eroticism, her limbs embracing him.
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 and he abruptly pulled away and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there, panting, trying to lash into obedience the wild horses of his control.
“What’s wrong?” 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, “Don’t touch me.”