Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] (7 page)

“What is it?” he asked as he reached the bed.

She shook her head, feeling heat in her cheeks and knowing she blushed because she had been evaluating him and did not want to tell him so.

“It is nothing,” she said when he continued to gaze at her.

She was already coming to know that look. When he asked a question, he did not repeat it. He just waited for her to answer it.

Realizing that she was biting her lower lip, she focused on the last few twists of her hair before she said, “You are being very kind to me. I was wondering why.”

He shrugged and pulled back the quilt. “This marriage is none of your doing, my lady. I’d be a brute to visit my feelings about it on you.”

Remembering her conversation with Amalie, she said, “You would not be the first man to take out his anger on his wife.”

“Perhaps not,” he said. “But in troth, I’ve no wish to become such a man.”

The words were reassuring, but experience with Simon and her father warned her that one ought never to trust words. She would reserve her judgment.

Then there was no more time to think, because he had climbed into the bed as stark naked as she was and with a look of intent that told her better than words that the time had come. She could not help seeing, even in the faint glow of just one candle, that the part of him intended for the task did not look like much to fear.

“Should I lie flat?” she asked.

“Stay as you are for a few moments. You have very nice bubbies, lass.”

“Do I?” She had thought them ordinary.

“Aye,” he said, reaching to stroke the one nearest him. The touch of his fingertips sent a shiver through her although she was not at all cold.

“These marks,” he said, stroking one. “Do you always get them?”

“Not always. That kirtle is loose fitting and the bodice very tight. My mother says a tight fit is more becoming and a lady should ignore the discomfort it creates.”

“Properly fitted, though, should clothing not be comfortable?”

She thought for a moment, then admitted, “I don’t know. My sister and I usually wear clothes that my mother’s seamstress has cut from her old ones. Her knowledge of fashion—the seamstress’s—does seem limited. Then, too, my mother travels less frequently these days than she did in the past. In days before the last invasion she visited her kinsmen in Northumberland whenever opportunity arose.”

“Your father told me she was English and had powerful kinsmen but not who those kinsmen are,” he said, still lightly stroking her breast.

Meg tensed. She had believed he knew, that everyone knew her mother’s connections, that just mentioning Northumberland ought to have reminded him.

She saw that his eyes had narrowed.

“What is it?” he asked her.

“I warrant you won’t like it,” she said with a sigh.

“Faith, don’t tell me she’s a Percy or a Neville, or—” He broke off, then shook his head. “You jumped half a foot then, I swear, so it must be one of those. Sakes, you said Northumberland, so it could be both, since Northumberland’s earl married a Neville. Still, it must be Percy. Just tell me she is not Hotspur’s sister.”

Meg nearly laughed, except that it was no laughing matter. But the stiff look on his face sobered her quickly. “She is indeed kin to the Percies, but you must know she cannot be his sister,” she said. “Sir Harry is much nearer your age than hers, sir, although he is already one of England’s finest warriors. Sir Harry and the English king are nearly the same age and were knighted on the same day.”

“Are you such an expert on England and the English then, my lady?”

His hand had stopped stroking, and the hard note in his voice caused her to say hastily, “No, sir. I do apologize if I spoke of things I ought not.”

“You may speak of whatever you like to me,” he said. “But I do not recommend praising the English, especially Hotspur, to just anyone.”

His fingers began to move again, causing her to gasp when one drifted idly across her left nipple.

“Do you like that?” he asked, doing it again.

“I . . . I have never felt such a feeling before.” As she spoke, she stiffened, but not because of anything he did. “Did you hear a noise just then?”

“Aye,” he said, his tone grim. “Someone is outside the door. I’d have no fear in wagering good money that it is your father.”

“I’m sure you are right,” she said. “I wish you were not, though. It makes me most uncomfortable to think he may be out there.”

“Believe me, lass, it is doing nothing good for me, either,” he said. He drew a deep breath. “Look here, what do you say we continue this . . . ah . . . discussion of ours when we reach Scott’s Hall?”

“Scott’s Hall? I don’t understand. Is your home not called Rankilburn?”

“We do call that part of Ettrick Forest Rankilburn, but my home is nowt but a rough peel tower in a cleuch off Rankilburn Glen and is no place for one lady, let alone for two of you. I’ve no time to do much about it, either, because I’ll be joining the Douglas soon to go after your cousin Hotspur before he can come after us. So meantime, I shall leave you with my lady mother at Scott’s Hall in the glen.”

“Just your mother?”

“Aye, plus dozens of servants and men-at-arms to look after and protect you. Sithee, my father will likewise be with the Douglas. But you’ll get on well with my mother. Doubtless you’ll meet my sister Jenny, too, and I know you’ll like her. I hope the two of you will become good friends.”

“I should like very much to be friends with your sister,” she said. “But do you truly mean for us to leave here today?”

“As soon as we can get dressed and mount our horses.”

“What about . . .” She hesitated, suddenly shy, then said, “What of the sheets?”

“Aye, the sheets.” He had clearly forgotten, because he frowned, then said, “The evidence your father will seek is the blood from your maidenhead.”

“Blood?”

“Aye, for a maiden bleeds when she is first taken, but although I am not sure I can do my part properly with your father standing impatiently outside the door, I could do much the same thing with my fingers and—I believe—at the very least, produce such evidence as he will demand.”

“Then, pray do so, sir, for I can hear him pacing. Before long, he will push the door open and demand to know what we are doing.”

Wat could hear the old devil pacing, too. In other circumstances he might have gone out and demanded to know what Murray meant by such behavior. As it was, he just wanted to put Elishaw Castle behind him as soon as he could.

Accordingly, he moved his hand to the juncture of her legs and, feeling her stiffen, cupped her mound gently to acquaint her with the touch of his hand.

Sir Iagan coughed just outside the door.

“I’ll kill him,” Wat muttered.

“I hope not,” Meg whispered, clearly worried that he might. “Just do what you must, and quickly.”

“If I insert my fingers too hastily, I’m likely to hurt you,” he said. “They are not made as well for the purpose as . . . as other parts of a man’s body. But with that part of mine as useless as it presently seems to be . . .”

“Is there naught I might do to help?”

“Aye, you could, but one does not expect maidens to know much about such things. On the contrary, one expects them to be hesitant to—”

“Pray, sir, he will be upon us at any minute,” she murmured more urgently. “If there is aught I can do, tell me!”

“Touch me.” Catching her hand in his, he slid up next to her on his side. “Here,” he said, showing her. “Use your fingers lightly, even your lips or tongue—”

Feeling her tense and hearing her gasp, he said, “Never mind that. Just grasp me and stroke me gently until you feel me begin to swell in your hand.”

As soon as her warm fingers embraced him, he felt himself stir and begin to harden. She must have felt it, too, because he heard her indrawn breath again, but she did not take her hand away.

He shut his eyes, focusing on the sensations she stirred and trying to shut out increasingly intrusive noises from the landing.

He would kill the old bastard, so help— A moan escaped him when her gentle ministrations produced an unexpected wave of pleasure.

She released him, drawing a second moan—this time of protest.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Nay, lassie, nowt of the sort. Don’t stop!”

“But it’s getting so swollen! I didn’t know!”

He wanted to beg her again to continue. But he realized he was in a condition now that would allow him to do what needed doing—if he could just ignore the increasingly impatient noises beyond the door.

“I can do what I must, but we’ll have these pillows out to make it easier for both of us,” he said pulling pillows from behind her to let her lie flat.

“What must I do?”

“Just lie still. I’ll try not to hurt you, but there is bound to be discomfort.”

“Just do it, sir. I
don’t
want him to come in.”

“I don’t think he will,” Wat said. “More likely, he’ll pound on the door first and bellow. But that would put me right off, so we’d best get on with it.”

He slid into position atop her, gripping himself now to ease his way in.

In the dim light, he could barely see her expression, but she had her lips pressed tightly together, which told him she had no intention of protesting anything he did. The thought made him exert himself more to avoid hurting her.

As he pressed gently into her, the hot dampness of her passage enclosing him did more to stimulate him than her fingers had. Rigid and heavily swollen now, he pressed harder, eliciting a mew of protest.

“Sorry, lass.”

She was small, and he was not, and when she squeaked again, he knew he was hurting her, but he dared not stop. He had never taken a maiden before, but he had heard other men talk of such experiences. So, when he met the expected resistance, he pushed harder. Resistance gave way, and the damp warmth increased as her passageway gripped softly, tightly around him.

He shifted his weight, letting instinct take over as he thrust firmly into her, feeling her contract tightly, the heat of her body burning his as if to challenge him to conquer her. Shifting to gain purchase on the sheets, he raised his hips and thrust again, faster, harder, gasping until release came at last and he collapsed atop her.

She made no sound, but he felt her soft breath against his cheek, telling him he hadn’t killed her. Knowing they had succeeded brought a new sense of release.

Another cough sounded from the landing.

“He ought to do something about that cough,” Wat muttered.

“He does not need to cough,” she said. “He suffers only from impatience.”

“I’d happily put him out of his misery.”

“I don’t doubt it, sir, but just now, perhaps you might be so kind as to shift your weight so that I may breathe more easily.”

He obliged her but felt so limp and sated that he wanted only to sleep.

“We might also think about getting up,” she said a moment later. “I’m all sticky, and I’d like to clean myself. Also, if we are going to reach Rankilburn . . .”

He sighed when she paused. “I hope you are not going to be one of those wives always threaping at a man to do this and do that,” he said.

“No, sir, it shall be as you please. If you prefer to stay here another night . . .”

Her ready submission irritated him, and for no reason that he could fathom. But he could hardly say so without sounding daft, so he exerted himself to get up.

“My mother put some washcloths yonder on the stand,” she said. “And there is water in the ewer, although I doubt it can still be warm.”

“Shall I fetch you a cloth?” he asked, uncertain what the rules were for this part of the business. “Do you need assistance?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “If you will tend to your own needs and then grant me some privacy to attend to mine, I shall be most grateful.”

“Aye, sure,” he said, relieved. He took care of himself swiftly and competently, and when he was dressed, he went to the door and jerked it open.

Murray stood facing him expectantly. “Are ye done?” he asked cheerfully.

“Aye, we are, no thanks to you,” Wat said grimly.

“Well, then, I’ll just be going inside now to—”

“No, sir, you will not,” Wat said, gripping him by a shoulder and pushing him toward the stairway. “The evidence is there for you to see, but you will have the goodness now to allow my wife the privacy to look after herself. Indeed, if you would be of real use, send a maidservant up to help her dress. I want to be away from this place as soon as I can.”

Murray glowered at him for a long, blessedly silent moment. But then, with a sharp nod, he headed down the winding stairs.

Satisfied, Wat glanced at the closed door to the bedchamber.

Everything had gone well enough in the end, he decided, so perhaps this unintended bride of his would not trouble him overmuch after all.

His father-in-law reinforced that belief by being so pleased with himself and the success of the forced marriage that he returned Wat’s two sleuthhounds, declaring them to be his wedding present to the bride and groom.

Thus reassured, Wat spent much of the long journey to Scott’s Hall imagining conversational gambits that might persuade Buccleuch that this marriage could prove useful to them.

His bride spoke little, but she sat her horse well and made no complaint. Her sister, too, was well behaved, and both seemed to take interest in the passing countryside. They followed a track through Wauchope Forest, skirting the fells, then passed through Liddesdale north of Hermitage Castle and into Ewesdale.

The weather was fine and springlike with the sun shining so brightly that entering the deep shade of Ettrick Forest came as a relief. They still had an hour more to ride, and by the time they reached the Hall, the Forest was growing dusky.

Sym Elliot had chosen to walk or run with the dogs more than he rode, and Wat did not blame him. He doubted the lad found sitting a saddle at all comfortable.

The reality of his own situation evaded his notice right up to the moment that he and his lady and the rest of their party rode through the gates of the Hall and into the graveled courtyard.

“What a lot of horses your father keeps in his yard,” Margaret said then.