A Pirate's Wife for Me (17 page)

She knew he didn't love her. But he wanted her. Once their bodies had joined, his heart would change. Instead of that look that so often of late had flattened the color of his gray eyes to muddy despair, he would gaze at her as she gazed at him — with adoration. He'd smile … more than once a month. With her love, she would cure all his unhappiness, and he'd stay on Mull with her forever. She knew it. She did.

When he arrived, he would take her in his arms. They would undress and press themselves together … she shivered and fingered the buttons on her blue-flowered muslin frock. Whatever pain her virgin body might experience would be worth it, to be with him.

Opening the door to the hut, she raced to open the shutters. Sunshine streamed in, lighting the single room. In Granny Aileen's time, the place had been spotless. Now dust covered the tiny table, the benches, the bed covers.

This called for action — and action would cure Cate's attack of silly nerves. She discarded her bonnet and with the supplies she found in the tiny cupboard, she dusted, she swept, she shook out the blankets. She went down to the spring and filled the pitcher with water. She plucked daisies out of the overgrown garden and arranged them in Granny's tin cup, and put them on the table. Then she stood back and admired her handiwork … and allowed herself a moment of worry.

Where was Taran? The marriage had been hasty, almost dreamlike, and nothing like she'd ever imagined for herself.

Had he changed his mind?

She placed her hand on her chest and took a breath. If he had, he would be the fool, for what she had to give him would be the greatest gift of his life. She nodded her head decidedly.

Of course, her mother declared men were fools.

Opening her bag, Cate brought out her change of clothes, shook them out and hung them on the nails pounded into the wall. She brought out the food: a loaf of bread, yellow cheese, last years' dried apples, oat scones baked this morning and two bottles of stout red wine. A thought struck her, and she hurried out to the tiny orchard. The cherries were red and luscious, hanging from the towering tree in bunches. She plucked them into a basket, and somehow, every other one found its way to her mouth.

When Taran drawled, "Charming," she swung around in surprise.

He stood, framed by tall granite boulders on either side of him and the mountain looming behind him. He wore a sturdy, dark traveling suit, his newest boots and a broad-brimmed hat that hid his features in shadow. He'd grown since he first came to Mull; his shoulders had broadened and he'd shot up so quickly Lady Bess had jokingly complained he split his shoe leather on a regular basis. But he still had the same black hair and gray eyes with which Cate had fallen in love. His full lips still settled in that adorable pout, and when he moved, she watched him and sighed with what Kiernan called "silly lass longing."

But Cate was no silly lass. She knew what she liked, and she liked Taran. His every movement pleasured the eye. Grace tempered his strength, and the coil and uncoil of his muscles as he exercised, or fought, or simply walked, made her think of a wild stallion. She tried always to walk behind him so she could watch his bum; of course, all the other girls did the same. But none of the other girls had Taran with them now. He was hers. Her husband.

"You're here!" She laughed from the pure joy of seeing him and, dropping the basket, she ran to him and jumped into his arms. He was the only man tall enough and strong enough to catch her and not stagger backward. She loved that, and loved the way his arms wrapped around her and hugged her to him as he swung in a broad circle.

Now everything would be all right.

She kissed him, mashing her mouth on his, and he kissed her back with a lad's enthusiasm for his own dear lass. Then he put her down, and he looked as happy as she'd imagined. "You taste of cherries." Wiping his finger at the corner of her mouth, he showed her the stain.

She grinned up at him. "Do you want some?"

They collected cherries, eating as many as they put in the basket. They had spitting contests, seeing who could get the cherry pit over the top of the largest boulder. When she succeeded, he declared her the best spitter the isle of Mull had ever produced and gave her a kiss in reward.

That kiss … he held her head in both his hands and tilted it just so. Their lips met at the perfect angle, without a single nose bump. He caressed her mouth with his, brushing it, until her eyes closed, her breath came faster, and she wanted more. But still he held her back, forcing her to withhold her eagerness, seemingly happy to explore the lightest touch. Her puppy-like eagerness faded as she relaxed, content to follow his lead, to concentrate on the dark thrill that shivered along her nerves as he kissed her, lips closed. Only their mouths touched; his hands held her head, but he kept their bodies separate. She hadn't known so many experiences could occur from the touch of lip to lip, nor had she realized that, after an acquaintance with that simple pleasure, that she would want more.

To hold him in place, she grasped his wrists in hers. Thick wrists, with muscles built up from swinging the claymore, from riding, from lifting a heavy pistol time and again, aiming it at a target, and shooting until he hit dead center.

But he kissed her more and more lightly, then eased away. He touched her mouth with one finger, and as he gazed at her, his chest rose and fell as if he'd been running. He sounded slightly out of breath when he said, "In Oban, I bought a roast chicken, and I've smelled it all the way up here. Shall we eat?"

"That sounds wonderful." She wasn't at all disappointed to have him draw back. Everything sounded wonderful today. Taking his hand, she led him along the path. "Did you go to the hut already?"

"I went looking for you. I thought you'd changed your mind."

Stopping, she faced him. "I could never change my mind about you."

"Back on Mull, you claimed you loved me." He watched her tautly.

"I do." She said it as fervently as she had said their wedding vows.

"Forever?"

"Until the day I die."

He nodded as if satisfied. "No matter what I do?"

She grinned and walked backward. "No matter how much you tease me, or nag me, or fight with me. I'll always love you."

"Even if I …" He hesitated as if searching for the right phrase.

"What?" She hopped along, trying to watch him and behind her at the same time.

"Even if I tickle you?"

That hadn't been what he was going to say. She was sure of it.

But he started toward her, fingers outstretched.

She shrieked, turned and ran for the hut.

He caught her, of course. She let him. She struggled, but not too hard, as he ran his fingers over her ribs, and she didn't struggle at all when his knuckles brushed against her nipples.

Taran and Cate stopped laughing. They stared at each other, and Cate thought she could fall into his gray eyes. They were deep, intense, yet at the same time, like fog, impossible to see through. His soul was well hidden from her.

Breaking away, she said in an unsteady voice, "You wanted to eat."

"Aye. I want to eat." His soft, guttural voice made her think he meant something else entirely.

But they went into the hut and gathered the scones, the wine, and the chicken. The rich odor of rosemary and garlic rose from the brown-paper wrapped fowl, and her stomach growled.

That embarrassed her, too. What if she broke wind?

This love-making business was more fraught with difficulties than she realized.

Back out into the afternoon sunshine, they spread a blanket on the grass under the giant fir. The spicy scent of crushed needles rose as they seated themselves, one on each side of the blanket.

The silence turned awkward, and she couldn't think of any clever way to break it. So she said, "It smells fabulously good."

"A feast fit for a king." His voice held utter satisfaction, and she looked up to see him staring at her.

He looked almost dangerous, like a starving brigand presented with a meal — and she was the main course.

She blushed. Silly, really. She'd lived with him for three years now, longed for this moment absolutely forever, but now that the time was upon her, she suffered tiny, quibbling fear, a mere virginal bit of silliness. A fear of the unknown.

Not a warning from her conscience. Not good sense rather than emotion. She was a wild lass. Everyone said so. So she had proved all the nasty gossips right, and eloped. When the truth came out, she would be the envy of every female in Scotland.

He interrupted her reverie. "Can I take off my boots? They're new and they rub on my heels."

He sounded so prosaic, so normal, that she laughed. "You'll do anything to try and avoid serving. Very well, but you'll have to clean up."

Grasping his boot, he struggled to pull it free. "I promise."

She snorted. All the men said things like that to get their way. They never actually did a bit of cleaning, although they were perfectly capable.

The fat from the roasted chicken had soaked through the paper, so she peeled it free and placed it on one of Granny's tin plates in the middle of the blanket. She laid out the scones. She filled one bowl with cherries and one with last fall's walnuts in the shell, and laughed when at once Taran cracked a nut with his boot heel. He cracked one for her, too, and fed it to her. The touch of his fingers on her lips gave her a thrill she didn't expect. There seemed something symbolic about the act. He acted as if he was doing more than simply feeding her, as if he had taken responsibility for her well-being, her hunger, her thirst, her body and her mind.

Did she want that?

Yes. Of course. As long as it was Taran.

But … but she had fought all her life to be independent.

She tried to put her thoughts together.

Would Taran demand so much of her? Did he want to possess her completely?

More important, did she want to give herself completely?

Of course she did. She was Cate MacLean. For her, it was all or nothing.

His thumb sketched her lower lip.

And she forgot her qualms.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Instinct brought Cate's tongue curling out to brush the callused whorls of Taran's fingers.

He sucked in his breath. His gray eyes glowed almost blue, as if coals burned within. Hastily, he drew his hand back and stared at his fingers as if they were scorched, then looked at her, and she could have sworn they communicated without words. He would provide for her. He would feed her, clothe her, make her his mate.

Her chest rose and fell, and life pulsed through her veins.

They drew apart.

They looked down at the food.

And as if such transcendent moments were commonplace, they filled their plates and ate while chatting about their friends, the upcoming Johnsmas bonfire, and whether Lady Bess would ever wear clothing which didn't embarrass her daughter to death.

Taran said no.

Cate was inclined to agree. Cate was convinced her mother lived to embarrass her.

All the while she cast him tiny, amazed glances. All her dreams fulfilled.

The chicken was tough and juicy, and he finished it off, ate three scones, cleaned up the cherries and cracked more of the walnuts and put them on her plate. Then he actually did as he said he would. He cleaned up.

She helped him balance the plates on the way to the hut, and as he wrapped the food, she looked at the meager remnants of the feast. "What will we eat tomorrow?"

With gravelly finality, he said, "Darlin', we'll be lucky if we have a tomorrow."

"Yes, we will." She flung her arms around his waist. "We're young. We're married. We'll have a thousand tomorrows. A million!"

He stared down at her, his eyes in shadow. Finally he said, "Go on back out to the blanket. When I come out, we'll talk about tonight, instead."

She glanced at the bed with its wooden frame and its straw mattress. Tonight. He meant they would make love tonight.

She caught her breath on an unconscious sigh of relief.

Taking her hand, he kissed the back, and all the warmth of his mouth flooded her with happiness. That, and the fact he was putting the food away.

With a skip, she hurried back outside, shook the crumbs off the blanket, and spread it out once more. Seating herself in the middle, she wondered how best to entice Taran. She pinched her cheeks to make them pink. She unbuttoned the two top buttons on her bodice. No, she would unbutton three. She slipped off her boots and neatly placed them off the edge of the blanket, then pulled off her hose and stuffed them into the boots. In a rush of wickedness, she pulled the pins from her hair, let it drape over her shoulders, and tossed her locks until they looked artfully tousled.

At last she was ready, or as ready as she could be, so she looked around at the valley, slung like a hammock between mighty granite mountains. The wind sang softly through the narrow crevasses in the rocks, and over her head, the pines creaked. Flopping onto her back, she stared at the hypnotically swaying branches. The clear, blue sky was garnished with the occasional clouds floating past to build white pillow castles in the air. In the stillness, nature's splendor sang to her soul, and the peace — and the wine — tamed her restless spirit.