Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (7 page)

* * *

L
ike any good warrior
, he met her challenge the only way he knew how: head on. In the span of three fluttering heartbeats, Ian had his arms wrapped around her waist. Without permission or warning, he pressed his lips to hers.

He took soft and tender possession of lips he’d kissed before, but not with the fervor and intensity of this moment. Languid. Slow. Treasuring every ragged breath she was trying so desperately to conceal. He reveled in her soft moans of pleasure.

Surrender was inevitable.

Whether he surrendered to her or she to him, ’twas not important. What was important was that he had decided he would never set her aside, would never let her go. He was going to make her his, for now and forever. She was his wife, and soon they would consummate their marriage, sealing their fate, their destiny to one another for all eternity.

The kiss left her breathless, with legs as sturdy as hot honey. Every square inch of her felt warm with thrilling anticipation. And he’d only begun to kiss her.

His hands spanned her dainty waist before he began to gently caress her back. She swore she could feel how hot his fingertips were, even through her chemise and gown. Shivers of delight trailed up and down her spine, spread to her stomach, her chest.

Unable to deny the need to touch him, she wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him closer, wanting with desperation to feel every square inch of his body with her palms, her fingertips, and her tongue.

Ian’s hands found their way to her braid and made quick work of unbinding it. ’Twasn’t until she felt his long fingers combing through her locks that it even registered in her mind he’d done it. Those wonderfully hot lips of his soon left hers and began an exploration of her cheek, her chin, and next, her earlobe.

Grabbing her hair tightly betwixt his fingers, he pulled her head back so he could leave hot kisses along the length of her neck. There was no denying the immense pleasure he was deriving from making her mad with desire, just as she would not deny she took great pleasure from those fiery kisses.

Everything she knew about loving a man she had learned from her first husband. Though she might not have had as much experience as Ian, she was not without her own knowledge from which to pull. Though her first husband had been much older than she and not built anywhere near as nicely as Ian, she felt confident in herself.

But this kiss, these kisses? Nay, Almer had never kissed her like this. These were far different, far more passionate, more intense.

“Wife,” Ian whispered against her neck, “I dare say I shall never grow tired of kissin’ ye.”

* * *

W
ife
.

He had called her
wife.

He believed they were well and duly married.

For a brief moment, she was tempted to remain quiet and not correct him, for she was fearful that if she did tell him the truth, he might be so thankful he’d leave her.

But she knew she could not lie to him, not now. The moment was too important. She could very well have him thinking they were about to consummate their marriage, only to have him learn the truth later. How would he look at her then? Nay, she could not stand the thought of his disgust or doubt or skepticism.

“Ian,” she whispered in a voice she barely recognized as her own, “though I wish nothin’ more than for you to continue, I fear we can no’.”

His lips were on her neck, his tongue making slow, circular motions that were driving her to the point of madness.

“Pray tell, wife, are ye no’ enjoyin’ me kisses?”

She sucked in a sharp breath when he blew a hot breath against her tender skin. “Oh, Ian, I am.”

“Then why must we stop?” he asked as he took her earlobe betwixt his teeth and nibbled.

“Because we are no’ exactly married.”

An interminable, painfully long moment passed as she felt him grow rigid with confusion. “What do ye mean,
we’re no’ exactly married?
” She could feel his breath against her neck.

Unable to speak at first, she had to clear her throat before she could answer. “I mean,” she paused, searching for the best way to describe exactly what had happened the night before. “Well, ye see, ye were verra into yer cups. And ye kept demandin’ that someone find a priest to marry us. And, well, ye see, ye
were
verra drunk…” she trailed off, for she could feel his spine stiffen, and was certain he would be as angry as a poked bear.

Another long moment of silence passed between them before he let her go, stood taller, and looked her in the eye. “Were we married or no’?”

“No’ exactly,” she said, diverting her eyes to his chest, for she could not bear to look at him. Shame and humiliation built.

“Ye said that. Now explain yerself.”

There was no easy way to explain it, so like any good woman, she decided to confront the issue head on. “Ye were verra drunk,” she began.

“Ye said that and I ken I was drunk,” he reminded her. He sounded perturbed and she knew he was going to be downright furious by the time she explained it all.

“Ye were
verra
drunk and yellin’ fer someone to fetch Father MacBrodie. Well, he was no’ here, ye see, so ye demanded we wake yer da. As chief he can marry a couple, ye ken.”

“I ken,” he said.

Chancing a glance at his face, she could see a tic begin to form in his jaw. “Well, we did no’ want to wake yer da, so Frederick said that as chief of Clan McLaren, he could marry us.” That much was true. “Well, ye started sayin’ vows, that ye’d love me until ye took yer last breath on this earth and then beyond. Ye promised to cherish me all the rest of yer days.”

“And?” he asked with a skeptical tone and raised brow.

“Well, before I could make ye any promises, ye sort of passed out.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. Unable to form the words, his mouth opened and closed repeatedly.

“We carried ye up here and put ye to bed. But ye would no’ let me leave. Ye kept professin’ yer love fer me and begged me to no’ leave ye.” She was speaking so rapidly it was difficult for him to keep up. “And then when ye woke this morn, I thought only to jest with ye fer a moment. But then ye got so angry and said ye regretted marryin’ me, and I was so hurt, I was no’ goin’ to tell ye.”

Finally, he moved. He took a few tentative steps away, a look of utter disbelief etched on his face. Agitated, he ran a hand through his blond locks. “So we be no’ married?” he asked, still unable to believe what he’d just heard.

“Nay,” she whispered. “We be no’ married.”

* * *

T
here was no mistaking
her pain, for her blue eyes grew damp, her bottom lip trembled. Ian knew her sorrow was real. It had not been easy for her to admit the truth. Valiantly, she held the tears back as she stared at her feet and worriedly worked her fingers together.

He had two choices.

One, he could use this moment as an excuse to walk away now and forever. Let her go so she might make a life of her own, with someone else who could give her all the things he felt certain she deserved.

Or two, he could swallow his bloody pride and do as she suggested; use his current lack of financial stability to propel himself forward. Work from sunup to sundown every day for the rest of his life to give her all those things he wanted her to have.

Letting loose a frustrated breath, he found a plaid on the back of a chair, wrapped it around his waist and shoulder. Next, he grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the room.

Astonished, she hurried behind him. “What are ye doin’? Where are ye takin’ me?” She sounded afraid.

“To find the bloody priest!”

* * *

D
ragging
his soon-to-be-wife down the stairs and into the grand gathering room, he began shouting, “Where be Father MacBrodie?”

Several sets of fearful eyes looked back at him. Uncertain as to why Ian seemed so angry, people began flurrying about like leaves in the wind, unwilling to find out.

“Ian, slow down!” Rose demanded. “Ye’re scarin’ people!”

“Where be Father MacBrodie?” His voice boomed through the room, echoed off the beams and walls with ferocity.

No one answered. Instead, they fled for safety.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath as he headed toward the door.

He was about to pull it open when his father called to them from behind. “What in the name of God is goin’ on?”

If Rose had thought Ian sounded furious, ’twas nothing compared to John Mackintosh’s thundering voice. The man was taller than Ian, broad as a barn and as strong as an ox. When Rose first met him, he had scared the daylights out of her. But she soon learned that he was a kind and gentle man. Unless he was angry. Then ’twas best the rest of the world get out of his way. That must have been where Ian got his temper from.

Ian spun around, still holding on to Rose’s hand. “I need Father MacBrodie. Now.”

John’s scrutinizing gaze made Rose’s legs quake with fear while Ian seemed unbothered by it.

As if he understood everything that was happening, John gave an approving nod before answering. “He be at Seamus’s givin’ him last rites.”

Rose’s heart felt heavy at that news. Seamus was a sweet old man who had lost his wife years before. “We can no’ bother Father MacBrodie
now,
” Rose politely informed them. ’Twould be shameful to interrupt a priest while he was giving last rites.

Both turned to look at her as if she’d lost her mind. She began to shrink under their gazes.

“What kind of man do ye think I am?” Ian asked.

“I imagine he’ll be done by the time ye make yer way to Seamus’s cottage,” John said. “Ye’ll no’ be interruptin’ anythin’. I’ll get Elsbeth and we’ll meet ye there.”

Before she could utter a response or argument against seeking out the priest at this most sorrowful time, Ian was hauling her out the door.

With legs as long as his, it was quite easy for him to thunder across the courtyard quickly. Rose, however, was not thus blessed and had to run to keep up with him.

Out of the courtyard, they turned left to head for Seamus’s cottage. Clutching her skirts in one hand, Rose did her best to keep up with this man she loved but could not say
why
she did. As far as she was concerned, he was as foolish as he was handsome, as hot-headed as he was generous. ’Twas enough to make her question her own soundness of mind.

“Ian, please slow down!”

“Why?” he asked without bothering to look back at her.

“Because I can no’ keep up with ye, ye big lummox!”

Beyond frustrated with him at the moment, she tried yanking her hand from his tight grip. While she could guess why he was in such a hurry, she was not certain she was equally enthusiastic about the idea. This was not how she had imagined her wedding day: hauled through mud puddles by an angry groom, who still wore no boots.

“Ian, please!” she pleaded with him.

Reluctantly, he stopped and turned to face her.

Och! Those big blue eyes of his were enough to melt her heart like butter left in the sun. But when they were filled with intense anger, as they were now, ’twas enough to make her want to run screaming and hie herself off for safety.