Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (26 page)

While it might not have been his intention, the question
gave birth to a
very
wanton image.

“Yea, so it is,”
Yvette breathlessly murmured.

“I am particular
ly fond of red juicy fruits.”

Holding her gaze,
Iain took a sip of his cider. As he lowered his goblet to the table, his arm brushed against the outer curve of her breast. Rather than apologize, his lips curved in a sinfully seductive smile, the man well aware of what he’d just done.

Yvette convulsively swallowed, her breast burning,
nay,
aching,
for his touch.

Iain leaned toward her
; so close she could see the pulse throbbing in his neck. “Soon, wife of mine . . . verra soon,” he whispered, his heated breath grazing Yvette’s lips.

All of a sudden, a hush
fell over the great hall when, in the next instant, Robert the Bruce rose to his feet and turned toward them. Goblet in hand, he said in a booming voice, “All assembled here do look with favor on your courage, strength and conviction. Mayhap if there had been more such wedded alliances, there would not be so much discord between England and Scotland. To a long, fruitful and prosperous union!”

Given the loud banging of fists and tankards that came on the heels of the king’s well wishes,
the sentiment clearly met with the exuberant approval of the assembled throng.

When the furor
finally died down and the king was once again seated at the table, Diarmid pushed back his stool and stood upright. Almost immediately, the smile that had been on Iain’s lips disappeared, Yvette able to feel a wave of tension roll over him, the two men having yet to make their peace.

As with the king, Diarmid held his gobl
et aloft as he turned to them and said, “Love as elusive as the moon doth shimmer brightly. And like the morning sun may it warm yer hearts and souls alike. To the MacKinnon and his lady love!”

Another choru
s of shouts and cheers ensued. Acknowledging his cousin’s congenial wishes with a lopsided grin, Iain gladly accepted the olive branch.

Somewhat wistfully,
Yvette stared at her goblet of mulled pomegranate cider. While it was true that she and Iain shared a passion of the flesh, they did not share a love, elusive or otherwise.

If only the world was mine to fashion, I would have us share both hearts and mind
s.

A
blasphemous desire, Yvette intended to keep it securely cloistered in her heart. Better that she never say those words aloud than to suffer the pang of unrequited love. Soon after she agreed to handfast with Iain, she’d made a vow to herself that she would rejoice in their passion and not seek anything more from her Scottish laird.

He is mine for a year and one day. That is all that matters.

The banquet that followed proved to be a perfectly orchestrated, elaborate and succulent feast.
Almond and parsley omelet. Spiced capon with strawberry cream sauce. Veal and currant dumplings. Gingered carp.
As each dish was brought to the table, it incited a torrent of shouts and clanging tankards.

Throughout the interminably long revel, Iain ate heart
ily, Yvette barely touched her trencher, and between them they shared many a furtive glance.

When
, at long last, the simnel wedding cake was placed before them, Iain appreciatively sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring as he caught a whiff of the fragrant scents of cinnamon and almond.

Using his bone-handled dirk,
Iain sliced a piece of cake and held it to Yvette’s mouth. “I would have ye eat from my hand, wife.”

Obediently
opening her mouth, she took a bite of the proffered cake. Having also taken a bite from the same slice, Iain closed his eyes as he chewed, a look of pure bliss upon his face.

“
’Tis like the sweetest passion,” he mused as he opened his eyes and gazed at her.

Yvette w
ordlessly returned his stare, her heart furiously beating against her chest as Iain’s eyes slowly traveled downward to the rounded curve of her breasts.

“The ti
me has come to make ye my wife,” he said bluntly.

“But the meal
is not yet concluded,” Yvette informed him, aghast. “There is still a spiced wine to be served; and I ordered a special dessert prepared especially for you. Made with Valencia oranges,” she hastily added.

Unswayed,
her new husband rose from the table.

With a
proprietary gleam in his eyes, Iain grabbed hold of Yvette’s elbow as he urged her to her feet. Then, before she even had time to object, he swung her into his arms.

Sheer pandemon
ium instantly erupted in the great hall.

“I can think of no sweeter morsel than yer plump teats and no more potent wine than yer womanly juices,” Iain brazenly murmured in
Yvette’s ear as he carried her toward the stairs.

“’Tis unseemly!
The sun still shines brightly!”

Ignoring
Yvette’s protest, Iain kicked his bedchamber door closed.

“The better to see
yer beautiful body,” he retorted as he lowered Yvette to her feet. “And I dinna recall hearing any complaints about the sunshine yesterday when we escaped to the bower for a bit of loveplay. In fact, ye seemed to take a great delight in parading yer naked radiance.”

Having already
removed the apple blossom garland from her head, Iain tossed it onto the nearby table. He then proceeded to remove the bone hairpins that anchored her coiled plaits. Slowly, his fingers weaving through the glossy strands, he unraveled each long braid.

“Yer hair is like spun silk and I would ha
ve ye clothed in little else.”

“I am glad that my hair pleases you,”
Yvette warbled, her gaze darting to the open window.

Smiling, Iain moved his hands down her backside.
“Believe me when I say that everything about ye pleases me.” Cupping a buttock in each palm, he hoisted her upward, his belt pressing into her belly.

As he held
her aloft, Iain kissed the curve of Yvette’s shoulder, her neck, her earlobe. As his lips roamed at will, she closed her eyes, trying to block out the incriminating light that streamed through the nearby window.

While she
wanted
to return every kiss, wrap her legs around his waist, and lift her breast to Iain’s mouth, she could not, rendered diffident by the copious sunlight that filled the chamber. And by the fact that everyone at Castle Maoil – from the laird’s disapproving sister to the kitchen spit boy – knew what they were about.

Forsooth, even the king of Scotland
knows that we commenced our wedding night at midday!

As
the lady of the castle, how was she going to face king, kinsmen and vassals come the morrow?

And
while it was true that she’d gone with Iain to the bower in broad daylight, no one had been privy to their loveplay. None save for Diarmid. And Yvette knew that her scarlet sin was safe with him.

H
is movements slow as thick honey, Iain eased Yvette down the front of him. “I would have ye undress for me now.”

At hearing
that lordly command, Yvette gulped.

Stepping away from her, Iain sat on the edge of the bed, leaving her standin
g in the middle of the chamber. Very much on display.

Again,
Yvette furtively glanced at the open window.

God’s heart! There
is so much sunlight!
Streams, rivers, oceans of sunlight.

Thinking it
a wicked sin that Iain intended to consummate their handfast under such conditions, Yvette turned away from the window. Nervously licking her lips, she unpinned her brooch and removed the swath of red and black fabric. With fumbling fingers, she unfastened her girdle. Garters, stockings and shoes came next, Yvette carefully placing each article of clothing on the table. About to remove her kirtle, she surreptitiously glanced at Iain.

T
he man appears utterly transfixed.
As if he’d just seen something marvelous. Mayhap even miraculous.

And perhaps it was miraculous
, for her husband’s impassioned gaze unexpectedly imbued Yvette with what she’d previously lacked – a wanton’s courage. Undoubtedly, the Cyprians, those ancient worshippers of Aphrodite, were the most courageous of women, bravely taking delight in their own bodies. Proud and unabashed. Sunlight. Moonlight. No light. It mattered naught to them.

Can I not emulate them?

Her movements more confident, Yvette unlaced her kirtle, giving a full measure of attention to each fold of fabric as she bunched the wool in her hands and pulled it over her head.

With an unconcerned shrug, she discard
ed the garment onto the floor. As she did, she stole another glance at Iain. Avidly watching her every move, his hands tightly gripped the tops of his thighs.

Yvette
smiled at him . . . just before she touched her breasts through her chemise.

She then ski
mmed her hands over her belly. Her hips. The juncture between her thighs. She’d never before given her body a moment’s consideration other than taking notice if she suffered an ache or a pain. Even when she bathed, she paid no heed to the shape of her breasts or the texture of her skin.

Before
the day ended, she intended to take heed of all those things. And more. For very soon she would know how it felt to take a man into her body. To experience the ultimate intrusion. One that would be accompanied by tender sighs. Fevered caresses. Tortured groans.
And sweet release.

Yvette pulled the linen
chemise over her head, letting the sheer garment slip through her fingers in a rippling cascade. Tilting her chin toward her chest, she gazed at her breasts, intrigued by the play of light on her skin. Her nipples, drawn into tight buds, made her feel tense.
Achy
. The feeling akin to an awakening.
Nay, an epiphany
. Light after years of darkness.

Unafraid,
Yvette raised her head and peered at Iain.

I am lightness
, she suddenly realized. A wondrous creation. God’s creation. Made beautiful by the ardent reflection in her husband’s gaze, she knew that she was lustrous skin. Shimmering hair. Hot flesh. Moist vessel. Poised. Quivering.
Melting.
Fashioned especially for this man. This moment.

“Do I please you?” she asked even though she knew the answer.

“Aye, ye do for ye’re so verra lovely and—” Iain stopped. In the next instant, a tortured groan passed between his lips.

Yvette walked toward him. Smiling, s
he knelt between his legs.

“My heart is made glad knowing that I please you, husband.”

Iain yanked his kilt to his waist. “I would be even more pleased if ye touched me,” he rasped as his new wife wedged her naked torso between his legs. Because he ached so intensely, he wanted nothing more than to fill Yvette’s hands with that throbbing swell of flesh.

No shy maiden,
Yvette stroked him, brazenly wrapping her fingers around his engorged cock. Iain shuddered with need. With anticipation. One moment, Yvette had been standing statue-like. And in the next, she’d knelt before him, transformed into an alabaster goddess, enlivened by his gaze, animated with his breath.

When
Yvette unexpectedly pulled her hand away from him, Iain reflexively grabbed her wrist and shoved her hand back to his crotch.

“Don’t stop,” he growled.

The smile she bestowed upon him was seduction incarnate. “Would you not prefer that I use my mouth?”

“Christ’s blood! I coul
dna bear it . . . not now. Not unless ye want me to spill my seed before I even take yer maidenhead.”

Yvette plied soft kisses along
the length of his inner thigh. “Then tomorrow night,” she whispered against his leg.

“I dinna think I can wait tha
t long. Mayhap tomorrow morning.”

Iain
laughed at that. A man’s laugh. Deep. Wry. Bawdy. A laugh that quickly turned into a groan when Yvette smoothed her hands over his chest.

Pressing
her palms against his pectoral muscles, she said, “You’re very strong.”

A
t that moment, he was glad of it, wanting
his wife to look on him with favor. To find him appealing.

“Which do men remove first . . . their kilts or their boots?”

“Er, boots come first,” he said with a chortle.

Like the
previous laugh, this one also caught in his throat as Yvette placed his leather-clad foot between her bare breasts and commenced to unlace his boot.

Iain leaned back on his hands and watched, arrested by the sight of his wife removing his boot
. As she caressed his bare calf, he thought it a lurid sight – his bare foot bracketed between her plump, creamy breasts.

Impulsively, he pressed his bi
g toe against a turgid nipple.

Yvette
mewled softly before she reached for the other foot.

When she finished unlacing
the second boot, Iain shoved himself to his feet. Unbuckling his belt, he yanked his kilt off his hips. Then, careful not rip the seams, he pulled the blue tunic over his head.

Naked, h
e ran a hand over his chest as he glanced at the hairy cods that dangled at the base of his sex.

Sweet Jesu,
but I am ready to rut.

And h
ad been since the first moment he’d laid eyes upon Yvette. If not for the fact that his kinsmen had been present that day at Glencova, he might very well have taken her. On the glen. In the mist.

‘Tis b
etter that I waited
, he acknowledged in the next instant.

Had he savaged her, Yvette
would have fought him tooth and nail. Moreover, she would have grown to hate him. He would rather have her compliance. Her passion. Her breathless whimpers when he sheathed himself in her wet warmth. Because he waited, she now truly belonged to him.

Mine for a year and a day.

Yvette placed a hand on either side of Iain’s waist, bracing herself as she slowly rose to her feet.

“You are the most fiercely beautiful man
that I have ever seen.”

The compliment, heady and unexpected, hit Iain wit
h the force of a summer storm.

As Yvette
boldly appraised him, he could see that a banked fire smoldered behind her umber-eyed gaze.

He intended to
ignite those embers into a blazing conflagration. A fiery burst of warm flesh. Entwined limbs. Guttural moans.

From
that moment until the next dawn, the world would cease to exist beyond the four walls of his bed chamber. During those stolen hours, each would become the other’s universe.

King, country, clan
– for the time being, they would matter naught.

Placing
a hand on the back of Yvette’s head, Iain pulled her close to him. As he did, her lips parted. ’Twas all the invitation he needed.

With a
groan, he joined his lips to hers, stroking and exploring the roof of her mouth, her teeth, every moist crevice and ridge. Suckling the grainy velvet of her tongue, he slanted his head to one side, enabling him to more fully claim her lips. He wanted only one thing – to know her mouth, thoroughly and intimately. Just as he would soon come to know every moist crevice and ridge of her woman’s body.

The ardent
kiss quickly reduced Iain to pure mindlessness; all that made him civilized having been shed. Until all that remained was the same driving force at the core of every man – pure animal instinct.

Hoisting
Yvette into his arms, Iain fell backward with her onto the bed, nestling her against his loins. As he rolled them to one side, he slid a hand over her woman’s mound, snuggling his fingers between her legs. To his delight, the crinkly ringlets were already damp with her womanly dew.

“I think
ye’ve been too long a virgin,” he rasped.

“Methinks you are right,” Yvette answered, never having seen
Iain so wild, or manly, or breathtakingly potent.

A dream made manifest,
his fiercely-drawn features were tempered by eyes that glimmered as brightly as sunshine on the sea.

As the two of them scooted toward the head of the bed,
she noticed a sprig of greenery in plain sight on top of the pillow. Frowning, she reached for it.

“
I assume this is another of Eara’s pagan traditions,” she remarked.

“
Mayhap it is, but I am the one who put the sprig on the bed,” Iain informed her.

“
You
put it there?
But why would you do such a thing?”

Iain plucked the
blossomed sprig out of her hand and replaced it on the pillow. “’Tis from the hawthorn tree. It will ensure a felicitous and happy marriage.”

“Surely you don’t believe that
a green sprig—”

Ye’re so red and juicy. I canna wait.”
Groaning, Iain pried her legs wide apart. “I need to be inside of ye.”

“I, too, cannot wait,” she breathlessly whispered
as her anticipation quickly mounted.

With a
soft whimper, Yvette gripped Iain’s shoulders. In the next instant, a burst of feverish desire exploded within her as he positioned himself between her splayed thighs.

Wanting to be possessed
by her husband, Yvette writhed beneath him, able to feel the hard planes of his body.
Saddle-hardened thighs. Sword-hardened torso. Passion-hardened rod
.