Amanda Scott (23 page)

“Later,” he said, casting the cloth aside and standing.

“But what about the rest of this food?”

“Leave it.” He held out his hand, and she took it, unusually aware of its warmth as it closed around hers. That warmth seemed to spread from his hand all through her as they walked the short distance to their tent.

The tent was little more than a low, rough shelter, but Michael had angled it so that the shrubbery around it would protect their privacy. And inside, he had spread furs to lie on and thick plaids to cover them. But Isobel could not imagine how he expected her to undress in such a tiny space.

Isobel looked wide-eyed as she said, “I am not accustomed to undressing with anyone about but our women. Do you expect me to do so here in the open, sir?”

He smiled reassuringly at her. “No one will bother us, sweetheart, and I want to see my bride, as much of her as I can see, that is, in this dim light. I’ll gladly help you undress and do my best to block anyone else’s view.”

She licked her lips again, clearly having no notion that each time she did, a jolt of lust shot through his body that stirred base, primeval instincts, reminding him that in the past men had been less civil than they were expected to be now in more chivalrous times. He wanted to rip her clothes from her, throw her down on the furs, and ravish her. But even as that thought stirred, he knew he wanted much more from his spirited bride than base conquest. He wanted to watch her respond, to see her pleasure, and to learn what would please her. And he wanted to teach her to please him and show her how to enjoy herself in the pleasing.

Exerting iron control over his desire, he set out to stir hers.

Chapter 14

I
sobel was tense, and as Michael reached for her bodice laces, his fingers brushed the side of her left breast, making her gasp. She could not believe how quickly her body had come alive at so light a touch. Every nerve tingled and grew hot, lighting rivers of unfamiliar heat all through her.

She looked up into his eyes, trying to see if he felt what she felt, but before she could discern anything other than his smile and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, he caught her hard against him and his lips crushed down on hers.

She responded at once, pressing close to him, savoring the warmth of his lips on hers, welcoming his tongue when he thrust it into her mouth, teasing him with her own as he explored inside.

One hand held her close, but the other worked swiftly to untie her laces and free her breasts from their confinement. He made small work of her shift, untying the bow at the front and spreading the gathered cambric off her shoulders, out of his way.

“Ah, sweetheart,” he murmured as he bent to kiss her breasts, “you cannot know what being so near you does to me.”

“Sakes, sir, you make it sound as if I’m torturing you.”

“That’s it exactly.” He looked up with a grin. “Can we push all this material off you and just let it fall to the ground?”

“Aye, sure,” she said, “but if you get these clothes dirty, you’ll have to order new ones made for me.”

“I’ll order you anything you like if you let me choose the patterns,” he said.

Chuckling at the thought of any man choosing a woman’s dress pattern, or knowing the least thing about such matters, she opened her mouth to make a flippant retort, but his lips claimed hers again before she could. The next thing she knew, her skirts and shift lay in a tangle on the ground, and the breeze was caressing her bare body.

She reached for the top fastening of his doublet. “If I must stand bare in this dusky moonlight, sir, you must do likewise.”

He laughed then and patted her bare backside. “Go inside the tent, sweetheart. Suddenly, I don’t want to take the smallest risk of sharing this time with anyone else, unlikely as the possibility is that anyone would dare watch us.”

She went willingly, glad to be out of sight, and when she lay down on the furs, she discovered they were even softer than she had expected, and stirred her already heightened senses more. Then he stood at the opening, watching her, his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped body outlined against the darkening sky, making her wish for the first time for more light so that she could see him more clearly.

Then he was inside, stretched beside her, his skin cool against hers until he gathered her close to him and pulled one of the plaids up to cover them. As his lips sought hers, his free hand cupped one breast, and his thumb brushed its nipple.

She kissed him hungrily, stirred to greater passion as he stroked her breasts and body, stiffening only when his hand crept lower to the joining of her legs, and cupped her gently there.

“Easy, lass,” he murmured. “I’ve no wish to hurt you, but as I told you, the first time may be painful. I would do what I can to make it less so.”

“You seem to know much more about this than I do,” she said.

He chuckled. “I promise, I’ll teach you all I know.”

The hand cupping her moved, and she lost interest in sparring with him, devoting all her energy to savoring the wonderful feelings his touch stirred in her.

His body felt hard against hers, even more muscular than she had known it to be, but his fingers and lips were gentle and tender, his sensual voice even more entrancing to her ears than the songs of the sea that she had always loved so.

The plaid had slipped away, leaving them both exposed to the night air, but Isobel barely noticed. Every sense and sensitivity concentrated on what he was doing to her, and when one warm finger slipped inside her, teasing and exploring parts of her that she had never touched herself, she moaned softly and wondered if she were somehow being wicked to care only for the wonders he stirred. Surely some people would believe behavior that gave her such pleasure must be wicked.

She gasped again when he slid lower and took one taut nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking it as if it wore a coating of nectar.

Her hand found his hair surprisingly springy to the touch, its soft curls twining round her fingers as if even the hair on his head would possess her. Her body began to writhe beneath his, feeling an urgency that she did not understand until he moved again, this time shifting himself so that she could feel his tumescence beside his busy hand and know what he meant to do next.

Her heart seemed to stop beating, and although he still murmured softly to her, she could not take in the words, having no thought or understanding of anything save the movement of his body against hers, particularly that portion of it that now was seeking entrance to hers.

His lips claimed hers again, and his tongue thrust deep inside her mouth as, below, he eased himself inside her. The ache that his entrance caused radiated through her from top to toe, a feeling unlike any she had felt before, overpowering, all-consuming, speeding passion to the wayside as her body struggled to adjust to his.

Her gasping moans sounded different now to her, but at least she could hear him again and could make out his words.

“This is the only time it will feel painful, sweetheart, and the pain will pass quickly,” he said softly. “Or so I’m told.”

The obvious afterthought made her smile, but then he moved again, easing himself almost out of her before thrusting into her again, making her cry out. The pain was greater, but he did not stop. She could see that his eyes had shut, and he seemed somehow more distant from her, because he said nothing more but moved faster and faster until he seemed frenzied, pounding into her, until at last, with a soft moan of release, he relaxed heavily atop her.

Although his weight seemed as if it would crush her, he remained so for only a moment or two before he eased himself aside, holding her as he did, so that she turned with him onto her side.

“Don’t pull away, love,” he said as she moved to do so. “I want to stay inside you, to enjoy your velvet softness a wee bit longer.”

The aching had eased as soon as he stopped moving, and the feeling that came now was pleasant and more comfortable. She felt safe with him, and protected in a way she did not remember feeling before, except perhaps when she was small, before her mother died and she learned that her world could change drastically overnight. A niggling thought stirred that perhaps such contentment was dangerous, that perhaps it was how husbands controlled wives, but she pushed the thought away, curious to learn what he would do next.

In that instant she learned something new about her body, that it could go from painful aching to an aching for pleasure in a very short span of time. She stirred beside him and put a hand on his bare chest, enjoying the feeling of the soft, curly hairs there against her palm.

He hugged her and kissed the lobe of her right ear. “Say something, love,” he murmured. “I would know what you are thinking.”

She smiled. “I’m thinking there are many things about myself that I did not know and wondering how many more I will discover with you.”

The sound he made was half chuckle, half sleepy murmur, but he said only, “I look forward to that journey.”

A moment later, she realized he was asleep.

She lay still for what seemed a very long time, not wanting to waken him but uncertain what to do. The stickiness between her legs was beginning to itch and feel most uncomfortable, and she vaguely remembered a conversation she had overheard once between Cristina and a new bride. The bride had talked of blood from her first coupling, and how it had frightened her nearly witless, thinking she was dying. Cristina had laughed but admitted that she had been glad her husband had explained matters to her, else she might well have feared the same.

Doubtless mothers explained such things, Isobel thought, glad that she had overheard the two women, although she had risked punishment to do so. Hector Reaganach took as dim a view as Michael did of people who listened at doors.

Surely Michael, who seemed to know all there was to know about coupling, had known about this, since he had known to leave blood on their sheets at Ardtornish. Did he expect her to lie there all night suffering sticky discomfort?

He snored softly, and she felt a sudden, almost maternal sense of amusement that made her next decision easy. She had no reason to stay there, after all. She was a married woman who had never had trouble making decisions for herself before. Admittedly others had often disapproved of them, and doubtless Michael would dislike many of them, too, but in fairness to him, he had already shown a respect for her ability to think for herself that was greater than even Hector’s.

On that thought, she eased herself gently away from him and out of the tent, gathering up her shift and underskirt from the ground outside. Donning both, she found her shoes and pulled them on as well, wincing at their roughness without her hose but determined to attend to the more urgent problem without further ado.

The night had darkened, and stars dotted the sky. The moon peeked over the horizon, so she could see easily enough to make her way to the stream that trickled down the hillside, pausing only to collect several of the cloths that had covered their mugs and trenchers for supper. Bracing herself against the icy chill of the stream’s swift-flowing water, she dampened a cloth and began carefully to clean herself.

A night bird’s call sounded in the distance, and below her the tide was running again, its waves against the shore making more noise than the bubbling water beside her. Had she not chosen to turn her head just then and look up at the sky, and had the watchers below her not chosen that moment to shift their positions to the other side of the stream, she would have missed seeing them.

“Michael, wake up!”

He heard Isobel’s voice as if from a great distance, and his struggle to waken felt much as if he had to dig his way from deep inside the earth to its surface, but then her voice came again, more urgently.

That urgency hastened his wakening as every instinct for danger stirred.

“What is it, lass?” he demanded, sitting bolt upright.

“Men below on the hill, in the streambed. They were looking down at the others, so I doubt they saw me, but they are creeping downhill, and I saw none of our guards. I didn’t know whether to shout an alarm, or what to do, so I came to get you.”

“Good lass,” he said, getting up and grabbing his breeks. “Find my jerkin, will you?” As she turned to obey, he reached for the sword and dirk that had lain near him, beneath the furs. Shrugging on his leather jerkin as soon as she handed it to him, and without bothering to find shirt or doublet, he shoved his feet into his boots, slung the sword strap over his head, and shifted the weapon into place at his hip.

“Don’t follow me, lass, and don’t wait here for me. Climb higher, and take care that no one sees you before you find a place of safety. Under no circumstance are you to show yourself until I call for you to come to me.”

He made sure his tone left no room for argument, and she was wise enough to say only, “I will, sir, but what do you mean to do?”

“To determine exactly what the threat is, and then I will decide,” he said. “But I’ll be safer if I need not worry about you.”

“I know,” she said. “Go now, and hurry!”

But he was already gone, like a wraith, moving as he always did, so quietly that he seemed to vanish into the darkness. It was odd that she could see one of the watchers darting from shrub to shrub but could no longer see Michael.

As the thought crossed her mind, Isobel realized that if the watcher had taken that moment to look up at her, he would doubtless have seen her as plainly as she saw him. Having no wish to draw such attention, she snatched up a plaid to cover herself, then followed the stream up the hill, taking care to walk only on grass or mud, and keeping far enough from the water to avoid slipping on loose stones or a damp rock.

Even as she congratulated herself for being an obedient wife, her curiosity threatened to undo that obedience, because she had heard no sound from below, and she could not bear the suspense.

By following the stream, she had perforce been in a declivity of the sort coastal Scots called a combe. In order to see more, she would have to climb to the flanking ridge on one side of the stream or the other. Noting thick shrubbery on the far bank, she chose to stay on her own side and scrambled up the little hill, keeping low as she did and taking cover behind a huge boulder at the top.

To her relief, she had a clear view of the landscape below, could see even the reflection of the moon on waves in the Sound, but she could see nothing else moving and could hear nothing. The fear that whoever was creeping up on the sleeping men must have seen Michael, and somehow had overpowered him before he could give the alarm, sent a chill through her that stirred an impulse to dash down the hill herself, or at least scream a warning to the men sleeping below.

All that held her silent was the fact that she had no idea how many invaders there were, or how well armed they were, or even where they were—that and a strong if inexplicable instinct that she could trust Michael. And if she screamed, she might precipitate matters before time, and make everything worse for everyone.

She would count slowly to one hundred, she decided. If naught had occurred before then, she would ease her way down the hill and find Hector or Lachlan.

She had reached eighty-seven when the hillside erupted with noise and activity. Seeking frantically for Michael, she saw Hector first, recognizing him because of the great battle-axe that he held aloft, its blade gleaming silver in the moonlight. Lady Axe was famous, for she had been with Clan Gillean for over a hundred years, an ancestor having first wielded her to legendary effect at the Battle of Largs when, with the help of God and four stormy days, the Islesmen had kicked the invading Norsemen out of the Isles forever.