12
Nicholas led Gillian back to his chambers, her small, pale hand engulfed in his. He did not know why he’d shown her the portraits. She’d have seen them eventually and would have noted the difference. He supposed he couldn’t stand the idea of her looking at him and wondering. As for her reaction, it had been most unexpected. He’d expected horror, revulsion, even resigned acceptance, but not her sweetness. His parents had kept his mother’s misadventure with the corsairs a secret and had severely punished any servant caught gossiping about it, or about Nicholas’s presumed parentage.
Alasdair Lyon, Nicholas’s father, had loved him anyway, had always been good and fair, had never blamed any of his boyhood escapades on the heathen side of his nature. The late earl had, in fact, behaved as though Nicholas had been no different from anyone else. His mother, however, had been distant. She’d died when Nicholas was a child, so he only had misty memories ofher, but he imagined he’d been an unsavory reminder of the nightmare she’d lived through.
Now, in the privacy of his chambers, Nicholas gazed down at his bride and began to hope. The fire burned low, and only the candles from their abandoned dinner illuminated the room. Desire flushed the velvet skin of her neck and chest. Her lashes fluttered open and closed, watching him dazedly as he undressed her, and resting like dark fans against her cheeks. He adored her eyes, large and dove-gray, and so expressive, showing everything she thought and felt, even when she thought she hid it.
He moved behind her. She tried to turn with him, but his hands on her shoulders kept her still. Her hair was pulled away from her face, plaited and packed into a silk-lined mesh caul. He pulled the ribbon that ran through the top of the caul and removed it. Two thick braids tumbled out. He took his time unbraiding her hair, running his hands through the sable silk, watching in fascination as it curled and waved over his fingers.
“So much hair,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her neck through the thick curtain, breathing in the scent of her. He could still smell the rose water she’d rinsed it with, overlaid with heather and the faint sultry scent of woman. It fired him, set his blood simmering.
She stood motionless, letting him do what he wished. She was a contradiction, and it twisted him in knots. He might have been trusting and comparatively inexperienced when he’d married Catriona, but he was something of a cynic in the bedchamber now. He knewwhen a woman was eager and when she was going through the motions. Gillian was neither. She emanated innocent excitement. Her breath came in short gasps, as if suspended in the moment, savoring each new experience as it came, and breathlessly anticipating the next.
It made him hot and hard to know he did this to her, to watch her flutter with passion beneath his hands. He reached around her, his hands sliding into the top of her skirts. The muscles of her belly tensed and quivered beneath his hands. He found the points and hooks that secured her skirt and made short work of them. Her skirts puddled around her feet.
He smoothed his hands over the swell of her hips, her skin beneath warming and perfuming the linen, and the excitement nearly overwhelmed him. He was torn between a primitive urge to ravish her, claiming her as his, and wanting to worship her for her unbearable sweetness. Since he’d already done the former the night before, she deserved the latter, however difficult it might prove. He turned her to face him. Her eyes were closed, her hands clenching and unclenching in her shift. Her breasts strained against the thin material as she breathed. He would not be able to keep this up much longer. Already the thrumming pressure built inside him, begging for release, but he would see his bride.
“Look at me,” he ordered, gathering her shift in his hands and pulling it up and over her head. She raised her arms for him, and then lowered them, trying to cover herself self-consciously, gazing at him beneath theveil of dark lashes. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, partially obscuring her body. Narrow white shoulders shone through the parted sable. It hung in thick waves down her back, brushing the curve of her bottom. She tried to maneuver her hair so it covered her breasts, but the rosy nipples peeked through. She still wore her hose, gartered at the knee, and her slippers.
She charmed him, so prim and luscious, trying to modestly hide her voluptuous figure behind her hair and stance. He sat back on the bed and gazed at her.
“Nicholas!” she pleaded, moving restlessly, arms crossed over her breasts, but unable to hide their luxuriant weight.
“Are you embarrassed?” he asked.
“Aye.” She moved closer to the bed, white teeth worrying her bottom lip, cheeks stained pink.
“You’re my wife. I want to look at you.” His gaze traveled slowly over her. He wanted to drag her down on the bed with him, but he restrained himself, wanting to look a bit longer.
“You’re my husband,” she said, her voice soft. “I want to look at you.” She closed the small distance between them and reached toward him hesitantly. “If I may, my lord?”
Nicholas froze, his mouth dry. He managed a nod, never tearing his gaze from her as she pulled at the ties on his shirt, then, with his help, drew it over his head. She studied him for a long moment, her lips curved in a half smile. Then she touched him, trailing her fingers from the base of his neck, over his shoulder and down his arm. Bone-deep tremors wrenched through him.
“You are beautiful,” she whispered, her hand retracing its journey, bolder now, fingers drifting lower to tangle through the hair on his chest.
Nicholas seized her wrist and pulled her between his thighs. She made a soft sound of surprise but offered no resistance. Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders, and her hair fell all around him. He rubbed his face against the firm skin of her breasts, filling his senses with the scent of her. His blood rushed, hot and thick. He thought he might die if he didn’t take her now. He tried to think of other things, mundane things, to prolong the moment, but she still touched him, making thought impossible. Her hands sifted through the hair at his temples, brushing it back, tentative at first, then with sensuous purpose, so that shudders of want rendered him weak.
He anchored himself by grabbing handfuls of her bottom and pulling her close, nuzzling her breasts through her softly scented hair. She squeaked and wriggled against his erection, and that was enough for him. He quickly divested them both of their remaining garments, then tumbled her back onto the bed, his thigh pushing between hers. He set his mouth on hers. She arched up into his kiss, already an expert at driving him mad, licking and sucking eagerly at his mouth and tongue.
Nothing separated them now. Her bare skin pressed against his. The hair on his chest brushed her breasts, and lower down, he pressed inexorably against her damp curls. Her languid passion vanished instantly, and she stiffened in his arms.
He remembered her tears the night before and regretted his urgency. “I’ll not hurt you, Gillian.”
She nodded, trying to look brave for him, his sweet little countess. He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, a surge of affection setting him momentarily off balance. He drew back from her. She blinked up at him, flushed and beautiful with her hair fanned around her, waiting for him. Lust possessed him again.
He kissed her and whispered against her lips, “Fash not another moment, love. It’ll not hurt at all. I promise.”
She nodded, swallowing nervously. He sat back between her thighs, hands trailing over her breasts and hips. Her body was gilded in candlelight, the soft light turning her skin dusky rose. The skin beneath one breast was stained an ugly purple from Scott MacGregor. He leaned forward, kissing the bruise, openmouthed, his heart in his throat again as he relived those terrible moments on the foggy moor. His hand slid down her belly, open palmed, stopping as he covered her thatch of dark hair. She bit her lip and made a soft, agitated sound, her hips pressing upward.
Her sweet eagerness drove him insane. He reined in the urge to fold her legs over his shoulders and just take her.Slow.He rubbed his thumb through her damp hair, teasing the sensitive nub within and causing her to gasp reflexively. He lowered his head, his hands sliding under her hips, lifting her to his mouth.
She cried out in surprise and alarm and tried to squirm away, legs kicking. He laughed softly and got a better grip on her thighs. Once he got started, she quitfighting him and writhed, pressing herself fretfully against his mouth, twisting her fists in the bedsheets. He slid his finger inside her, and her gasps and moans escalated, her body contracting around his finger. She cried out as her release seized her, her body twisting beautifully in the candlelight. He released her and leaned over her. She lay boneless beneath him, gazing up at him through sultry, half-lidded eyes. He smiled as he pressed inside her. He did it slowly, carefully, watching her face for signs of discomfort.
She arched against him, her body tight and hot and perfect. She whispered his name and he moved inside her, arms braced on the bed. He went slowly at first, but she kissed him, licking his ears and neck, spurring him faster and harder, until he was mindless, lost in her body. Her thighs tightened, her body squeezing his, wringing the pleasure from him, drawing it out until he was weak from it. His crushed her in his arms. The air left him in an explosion, and he swore, clasping her tightly.
He pressed his forehead to hers, waiting for his thundering heart to calm, wrung out and infinitely satisfied. She pushed the damp hair back from his face, stroked his shoulders and back. He basked in the attention she lavished. He kissed her again, then moved off her and lay beside her, one leg still hooked over her thighs, one arm draped around her waist.
He closed his eyes but didn’t sleep. After a time he sensed her watching him, and he opened his eyes. She leaned on an elbow, hair artfully arranged to hide her breasts again. His mouth curled lazily, endlesslycharmed by her. She returned his smile, then bit her lip shyly and toyed with the ends of her hair. Marriage to her would be sheer bliss, if only . . .
