Chapter 31
All too soon, time had run out. Agnes found herself alone in her room, staring at her wedding dress, sick with the thought that tomorrow she would walk down the aisle to a man she adored, a man she longed to be near to, who could never offer her more than what they had initially agreed to.
It would, in essence, be a lifetime betrothal that just happened to be an ordained marriage.
“Is that truly so bad?” she asked no one at all, for Lizzy was fast asleep in the nursery, Iona had retired hours ago, and Gordon had been keeping his distance.
Or, rather, Agnes had been keeping her distance from him, to avoid the pain and panic that might set in if they spoke again.
“We would have companionship,” she reasoned. “That is not nothing. And we could still kiss and… do other things. And do I really want children of my own?”
She was in the novel situation of having already acted like a mother, so she knew how hard it was: the sleepless nights, the feeds, the piercing sound of a baby’s cries, the dirt and chaos of it all, as well as the loveliness of seeing a child grow and doting on that child with all of her heart.
“It is a beautiful dress,” she murmured.
The scarlet gown for the cèilidh had been set aside for now. The poor seamstress was probably at her wit’s end, having been forced to make two elaborate dresses in as many weeks. And not just two, but the countless others that Iona had insisted on so that Agnes could try on as many as possible.
But for her wedding gown, she had chosen a buttery yellow silk.
Not muted but not ostentatious like the cèilidh gown, just an elegant fabric and an elegant design that fitted her like a glove.
The hems were edged with gold lace, and tiny flowers were embroidered across the surface, the spangles glittering when she moved.
What is the use of a pretty wedding dress if the marriage is doomed to be a sham?
She puffed out a strained breath, turned away from the gown, and began to pace.
Tonight was the last night she had a say in how her life proceeded, and she still couldn’t come to a clear conclusion. Her thoughts were conflicted, her head and her heart at war with one another.
She was so lost in her confusion that she did not notice the figure in the doorway, not at first. It was only when she glanced across at the clock on the dresser that she saw him leaning against the doorjamb, watching her intently.
Her heart jumped, but she did not.
“Have you never heard that it is bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?” she said curtly.
Gordon smirked. “I was more concerned with ye ruinin’ me floors with all that pacin’.”
She didn’t smile at his jest. She didn’t have it in her, not with her entire being in utter turmoil.
Instead, she halted her pacing and looked hard at him. “Should I be your bride at all?”
“What?” He frowned.
“Tell me what to do, Gordon, because I haven’t the faintest notion, and it is ripping my mind apart,” she croaked. “Should I go back to England? Should I accept that I will never be married and be a spinster at my father’s house, raising my niece? Or do I stay?”
He didn’t answer her. Perhaps he couldn’t.
“I cannot bear this anymore,” she insisted, her hand settling on her hip as she drew in a shaky breath.
“One moment, everything is perfect, and I think I know where I stand; the next, it all disintegrates, and I am left feeling… adrift. I would never begrudge you your grief and your promises, but… Oh, I don’t even know what I am saying.
It is just that… we haven’t spoken in days, and we are supposed to get married tomorrow? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Despite the loose fabric of her nightdress, she felt as if it were suffocating her, her ribs squeezing, her chest tightening as though she had on the most constricting corset ever made.
Gordon pushed off the doorjamb and gestured to the gown that hung from the armoire. “Is that what ye mean to wear tomorrow?”
She nodded.
“Wear it,” he demanded.
“What?”
He moved closer. “Wear it for me, Sunshine. I ken ye’re strugglin’, and I ken I cannae give ye what ye want, but… put the dress on for me. An experiment, if ye will.”
“An experiment?” she rasped.
She might have thought he was toying with her if his expression had not been deadly serious, no hint of a smirk or a jest on his face.
“Put it on, lass,” he urged.
Wary of the logic in all of this, she slowly began to unbutton her nightdress, transporting herself back to the night she had lost at cards. All the while, she held his gaze and watched as hunger gleamed in his eyes, his teeth grazing his lower lip as he took in her naked body.
But he made no move to touch her, as he had done that night. He didn’t come any closer, his distance as disappointing as it was poignant. Was this his way of telling her that she could not expect a repeat of that blissful encounter?
Is this castle to be my convent?
She took down the wedding dress and began to put it on.
It was not a style she was accustomed to, rather tighter and more flattering to her curves than her dresses back in England, so it proved rather difficult to get into it by herself.
Indeed, if he wanted to see her wear it properly, then he was going to have to come closer to her.
“Can you help me?” she asked, turning.
The back of the gown was open, the laces loose and ready to be tightened into place, to cinch her at the waist.
She hadn’t meant to position herself in front of the mirror, but she was rather glad that she had as she watched him walk toward her.
The first touch of his fingertips on her bare skin was an electric thrill that shivered through her, firing up furnaces of passion that she had assumed would remain forever cold.
Diligently, and with a little too much strength, he laced up the back of her gown, every accidental brush of his fingertips squeezing the air out of her lungs. She was burning for him; could he not feel it?
As if reading her thoughts, Gordon dipped his head and brushed a kiss against her neck.
She gasped, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment, her back arching so she might press closer against him, but he was just that little bit too far from her.
“See that?” he murmured, and her eyes opened again.
She stared at her reflection, meeting his gaze.
“That’s me bride,” he told her. “Fake or real, it never mattered. Ye were always mine. From the moment ye crept through me window, ye belonged to me.”
“Yet you keep your distance,” she whispered breathily, her body ablaze with desire. “You kiss me, and you touch me, and then you withdraw from me. How do I know I am yours when you act that way?”
Rather than reply, he kissed her neck again, his arm slipping around her waist and pulling her hard against him.
A moan slipped past her lips as she felt his arousal press against her, her heart thundering as his kiss traced a line down her neck and across her shoulder.
Had he changed his mind? Would he claim her after all?
Catching her eye in the mirror, he let his hand slide over the firm bodice of her dress and down to the folds of her skirts.
With deft fingers, he grasped the fabric and began to lift it bit by taunting bit, revealing her legs slowly.
And as he kissed his way along her jaw, his hand slipped between her thighs, his fingertips teasing her bundle of nerves.
She cried out, arching into him, melting into the warmth and power of him.
“Daenae look away,” he whispered, strumming her.
Breathing raggedly, she made herself look, watching in awe and longing as his hand moved in a steady rhythm, each brush sending a fresh ripple of bliss through her entire body.
Just then, his other hand hitched up the back of her skirts, pushing them into the hard edge of her stays to keep them in place. Her breath quickened, her desperation rising, her hunger for him reaching a feverish peak as she reached behind her, daring to touch him.
“I want you,” she moaned. “I know I shouldn’t, I know you can’t, but I want you.”
He growled close to her ear, his hand grasping her backside as if to anchor himself so he wouldn’t lose control. The trouble was, she wanted him to. After all, they would be husband and wife tomorrow. What did it matter if they lay together a little earlier?
“Ye’re right, I cannae, but…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to, as she felt him for the first time, freed from the barrier of his woolen kilt. Smooth, silky flesh, hot and hard against her hand.
But just as she was about to explore that tempting part of him, he lowered himself slightly, and she felt his hot flesh slipping along her slick folds.
It was almost more than she could bear, as his hard length teased her entrance, gliding further until it brushed over her sensitive bud.
The sound of his torment stirred her up into a frenzy that she feared she would never recover from, certainly not if she had to spend every night of her life with this exquisite man, unable to feel everything that he had to offer. Everything she desired.
He turned her head and kissed her, hot and fierce and furious, while he drew his hips back and pushed forward again. An echo, she suspected, of what they could have done if he had not vowed against it.
“Fuck,” he moaned, his teeth raking across her lower lip.
Never had such a coarse word sparked such a blaze of passion, yet it was as arousing as poetry to her ears.
He wants me too.
It was there in the pained furrow of his brow as he let his cock glide through her slick folds, pushing her closer and closer toward the brink of either a climax or madness. Perhaps both.
Just for a moment, his discipline faltered, and she felt him at her pulsing entrance. Instinctively, she tilted her hips back, hoping to draw him into her depths, to give them both the satisfaction they were clearly craving.
The pressure built, and for an exquisite second, he almost entered her. But then he drew back, leaving her gasping, frustration crackling alongside the rush of her ecstasy.