Her Scottish Groom (6 page)

Unable to meet his eyes, she stared at his feet again. Loose trousers of pale silk peeped from under his long robe of claret-colored brocade. Unable to bear the silence any longer, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“You’re not wearing a nightshirt.” Horrified at her own indelicacy, she tried to stutter an apology.

“I prefer pyjamas.” He did not sound angry, and when she dared raise her eyes to his face, he regarded her with a kinder expression than she had ever seen before. “I trust you don’t mind?”

She shook her head, afraid she could not speak without squeaking. He indicated a small chair at his side, one of a pair set in front of a curtained window. “May I?”

She nodded. He seated himself and invited her to join him with a wave of his hand. Gingerly taking a place opposite him, she rubbed her arms restlessly. When he cleared his throat, she jumped.

“You’re quite nervous aren’t you?” She shrugged. He could hardly think otherwise.

“I was thinking that perhaps it would be best to delay, er, physical intimacy until we both get to know one another better.”

“Oh, thank God!” She winced again; her poise had completely abandoned her this evening. “Unless your lordship would prefer not to.” Mama had made clear that she must accommodate her husband’s wishes, at least as long as they did not involve disgracing the Quinn name.

A wide grin burst across his face. “With that response, I’d be a brute to insist on visiting your bed.”

“Are you quite sure, my lord?” She felt her face heating with acute embarrassment. Staring down at the patterned rug, she forged ahead. “My married friends lead one to believe that men are excessively fond of engaging in conjugal duties. I would hate to be remiss. Of course, you may prefer not to engage in them with me,” she finished in a suffocated voice.

“Diantha, look at me.” He leaned forward and enveloped one of her hands in both of his large ones. “I am quite fond of—of conjugal duties, as you call them.” For some reason, a chuckle escaped
him. “And you are quite a pretty girl, especially in that rig you wore here.”

He sobered. “But neither of us will gain any satisfaction if you’re frightened or uncomfortable. So we’ll wait a few days.”

“Oh.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Does my satisfaction matter too, then?”

“It does to me.” She found herself blushing under his scrutiny. When he squeezed her hands and released them, she automatically rubbed them together, feeling inexplicably chilly. He stood. “Shall I ring for a maid before I go?”

“Please, no! They act like they know something I don’t. Which is probably true.” Glumly, she arose and faced him.

A quizzical smile played about his mouth. “We could remedy some of your ignorance tonight.” Her eyes opened wide as he slid his hands around her waist to pull her closer. Before she could protest, he brushed his lips over hers.

She gasped as a shiver ran down her spine. Taking advantage of it, he pressed his mouth gently but firmly onto hers. Vague awareness of the textured embroidery of his robe entered her mind as her fingers kneaded his shoulders. Heavy muscles shifted under her hands as he pulled her closer.

As he deepened the kiss, her focus centered on the sensation of their mouths slanting over each other. When his tongue slid between her lips, she opened farther, seeking to explore his with her own. He gave a muffled sigh that aroused a warm tingle in her nipples and between her legs.

Then she was free. Fearing her legs would give way, she clung to his arms and stared up at him.
Finding her voice, she asked, “Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” He seemed as shaken as she. His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, and his eyes had darkened to green. He stared down at her with frightening intensity. “You’ve never kissed before?”

She shook her head, not understanding why he asked. He did not enlighten her. Instead he gently stroked her cheek. “You did nothing wrong at all, sweetheart. But I must say good night now if you want those few days.”

With another caress, he let her go and walked to the door.

“Kieran?”

He turned back to her eagerly.

“Thank you for giving me time.” A wry laugh escaped him as though someone had played a joke on him.

“Only a few days, remember.” His eyes darkened again as they swept over her body. “I’m holding you to that.”

He left then. After standing in place for a long minute, Diantha crawled back between the sheets. Compared to her husband’s warm body, the sheets felt cold. As she twisted and turned to get comfortable, Diantha realized that she regretted being in bed alone.

   Curling onto his side between lavender-scented sheets, Kieran sleepily reflected on the kiss he had just experienced. Intending only to discover her reaction to basic physical contact, both their reactions surprised him. When she had addressed him
by name, he had hoped for an invitation to her bed after all.

He shifted restlessly. His sense of the ridiculous appreciated the irony of being thoroughly aroused by a virgin, but that did not ease the ache between his thighs.

Part of his response had to stem from months of near-abstinence. His engagement had necessitated only a few discreet meetings with tactful professionals.

Most men did not take such care to keep their liaisons hidden, of course, but he had no wish to make himself the subject of gossip. Besides, to flaunt a mistress during one’s engagement was the height of bad manners.

Before drifting off to sleep, he congratulated himself on such foresight. His bride demonstrated more passion than he had dreamed possible in a sheltered girl. He looked forward to introducing her to more sensual delights, ones that would provide both of them with a great deal of pleasure.

Kieran put his plan into action the next morning. An habitual early riser, he enjoyed a cup of tea and read the
New York Times
front to back before hearing anything through the door to her room.

He tapped lightly before entering, to see his bride grab her robe and hold it in front of her with one hand. The other brushed her loose hair out of her eyes. “Your lordship! What are you doing in here?”

He stifled a sigh. These nervous starts of hers made him jumpy. Hiding his exasperation, he gave her the smile that usually coaxed women into doing as he wished. “I thought we might enjoy breakfast together.”

An expression of confusion crossed her face. “I expected we would, sir. Breakfast will be laid out downstairs by the time we’re dressed.”

“I meant up here. And I thought we were on a Christian name basis after last night.” He added a mournful note to the last sentence. She rewarded him by coloring a little.

“If you would prefer it, sir—Kieran.” Her shy manner disappeared the next moment. “But Mama and Papa do not allow trays in our rooms. We must go down to breakfast.”

“My dear girl, I have no intention of permitting your parents to run my life.” He strode to the bellpull and tugged. A maid scurried in a few minutes later. When he ordered two breakfast trays brought up, she gulped and nodded weakly before hurrying back out.

“That should take care of that.” He turned to his wife.

“I’ve only been allowed to eat in my room when I was too ill to stand. Mama will be furious.” Having shrugged into her robe, she observed him with a mixture of glee and apprehension.

“Really? My aunt does so on a regular basis, and, of course, my mother seldom comes down to the table.” He prowled the room, taking in the overdone decoration.

“Perhaps because they are married ladies.” She shrugged, absently rearranging a bouquet of lilacs. “Mama does so occasionally, as well.”

“You are married yourself, now.” He chuckled at her dazzled expression as he paused near the dressing table.

“So I am!” The morning sun picked out a few caramel highlights in her brown hair as she faced him.

The table held a display of silver-backed brushes arranged on top of an embroidered cover. Moiré fell in stiff folds below the protective cloth. He traced the scrolled monogram on the back of the brushes and slanted a glance at the mirror above the cloth.

Its reflection showed his bride eyeing him nervously. He gestured to the chair at his side. “Would you like me to brush your hair?” She looked as shocked as if he had suggested they swing from the chandelier overhead. “Come, surely I can’t be that frightening!”

She shook her head and bit her lip, gazing at the chair longingly. “You’re not.”

Triumph at so simple a beginning to his wife’s seduction pulsed through him. He picked up a brush.

The next instant, she rushed toward him as if he handled a poisonous snake. “Please, sir—Kieran—put that down! Mama intensely dislikes having her things touched.” She twitched it out of his hands and replaced it with a care all out of proportion to the act. “I’ll be sure and let the housekeeper know.” The soft murmur barely reached his ears. “None of the maids will get in trouble that way.”

She followed the words with a deep breath which did wonderful things to the lace-covered breasts visible under her wrapper. As she addressed him, he wrested his attention away from them to focus on her face.

“I’ll get my own things.”

He nodded, still bemused by her outburst. She moved across the room and bent over a leather-covered case. Turning back, she held out a brush and comb of similar quality on the table, but simpler in design.

Taking them, he seated himself on the bed. She took a half step back, but he patted the tousled bedclothes invitingly. “Perhaps it would be best to avoid the dressing table altogether?”

Slowly approaching, she climbed up and settled herself as though braced for instant flight.

Careful to move slowly, he smoothed the heavy strands down her back before running the bristles through them. She tensed under his palms, but did not move. He had learned long ago that most women enjoyed the rhythmic sensation of having their hair brushed. Judging from the smile he saw reflected in the vanity mirror, Diantha was no exception.

The thick mass flowed under his hands like satin as he carefully worked his way through it. He became aware of a rich rose scent rising from her hair. He inhaled appreciatively. Unlike the cloying floral perfumes worn by so many women, this one did not make him want to throw open the windows for air. To make conversation, he asked about it.

“Attar of rose and cedar. Granny swears by a drop of cedar oil for hair.” She shivered a little as his fingertips whispered against the silken skin at the nape of her neck. His body tightened at such sensitivity. His bride would require careful handling, just the kind he excelled at.

Seeing her slightly closed eyes in the mirror, he scooted himself closer to her, so that his thighs lay on either side of her hips. To distract her, he talked of their plans for the day, when they would return to New York harbor for the start of their honeymoon trip to Paris. “Do you know much about the
Columbia?”

After an initial intake of breath, she stayed still, hands resting in her lap. “Papa’s flagship? I’ve only been on board once, a few days before Mama christened her. It seemed to be quite comfortable, from what I remember.” She twisted around to see his face. “The rooms looked cramped at the time, but Papa ordered alterations combining four staterooms into one suite for us.”

“I’m sure our quarters will be most comfortable.” Without breaking the rhythm of brushstrokes, he maneuvered her hair to one side.

She shrugged. “They should be. From the plans, I think the additional square footage will make the voyage quite tolerable.”

He had never heard her speak with such assurance. “Oh? Do you often read building plans, dear wife?” She flushed hotly then and fell silent.

Just as he bent forward to graze the nape of her neck with his lips, the door opened to admit two maids laden with their breakfast trays, and a third bearing coffee and tea.

Either in embarrassment at his teasing or alarmed at his attempted intimacy, she slid off the bed and breathlessly ordered the food to be set down on a table under the window. Mentally cursing prudish
brides, Kieran caught himself on his hands to keep from tumbling off after her.

   Diantha wanted to sink with humiliation as the maids set down the trays and scurried out of the room. How could she have been so remiss as to sit on the bed with her husband, clad only in her nightgown and robe? The smirks on their faces indicated that the servants’ hall would soon buzz with that juicy tidbit. Shutting the door firmly after them, she turned back to Kieran.

She met his glare squarely as he balanced on all fours. The sight affected her strangely. For a moment she could not breathe as his robe loosened to expose an expanse of muscular chest and dark hair. On his hands and knees like that, he reminded her of a painting she had once seen of a panther stalking a jackrabbit. Her knees buckled for a second at the image.

Recovering, she gestured weakly to the trays with their covered dishes. “I fear we shall have to serve ourselves.”

The spell broke at her words. Leaving the bed, he padded over to investigate their breakfast, once again the well-mannered aristocrat. Seating themselves, they enjoyed an unexceptional meal.

She found his vivid aqua eyes resting on her frequently as they ate. Alarmed at the way his regard set her heart pounding, she heaved a sigh of relief when he finally tossed down his napkin and excused himself to dress.

She wasted no time summoning her maid to do the same, for their ship left early that afternoon. As
she sat in front of Mama’s three-sided mirror, she could not help reflect on how much nicer her husband’s hands felt in her hair than the servant’s.

She grimaced as the woman fastened up the buttons on a coral twill driving dress with old gold trim.

The maid frowned. “I’m sorry, your ladyship. Have I laced you too tightly?”

Diantha wondered if she would ever get used to having a title. “No, my stays are quite comfortable.”

In fact, they squeezed tightly, but she ignored the discomfort. “I have never thought this color flattering on me. Why my mother insists that I wear it so often is a mystery.” She crammed the matching hat on her head. “I would rather have worn yesterday’s dress again.”