Page 38 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

But knowing groans ensued, drowning out his blunder. James hushed them with an open palm.

“Lady Aileana tonight has reminded us of this very thing. To protect each other.” She felt his eyes fall sidelong upon her, and she felt him squeeze her hand in his arm. “The maid Anag is nay doubt indebted to ye, for having the presence of mind to act, and so am I.”

“I suppose that we can overlook the fact our lady is a Grant!” called a jest, which was met with good-natured laughter.

That familiar distaste nipped, but this time, Aileana quelled it. The faces looking upon her were expectant, as if they hoped she might return the ribbing.

“We feast tonight!” James boomed, and a boyish grin split his lips open, revealing a peek at his teeth and a divot in his cheek where a dimple had once dotted his face. The innocence of the smile, so unexpected, was wondrously beautiful, as copper light danced upon his skin from the hearth fire. “But first, it’s my honor to announce the Abbot of Unreason! The laird to preside over the castle for the remainder of Christmastide!”

The people cheered, filling the hall with such vociferousness, Aileana had a mind to plug her ears. The tradition of selecting a layman to rule over the holiday festivities was an old one—a Lord of Misrule, as the Sassenachs south of the Scottish border called it. Nostalgia for times gone by afflicted her again. She gripped her stomach with her other hand to quell the unease it induced. That she should still stand here, enjoying the rich foods that her brother would be proud to provide for their clan, to rest in the security of these fortified walls each night, feeling safe and warm when her people did not…

James pulled her closer to his side amid the cheers, with the comfort and unconsciousness of a true husband accustomed to doing so, then slid his arm around her waist to secure his hold. She took a deep breath. What liberty he took! Nay, ye’re his wife. He handles ye as a husband would to convince his people. But the reminder did nothing to calm her nerves. What a picture they must make, for his hand was grasping her hip as if he really did have ownership, and his smell, so intoxicating—riding leathers and wine and the faint scent of sweat. What would such skin taste like beneath her kisses—

She clapped a hand over her mouth at the thought.

“Are ye well?” James muttered discreetly, eyeing her.

Sunbursts flamed upon her cheeks. But just the thought, so close to his body heat, set free those butterflies in her stomach once more. Would she ever be rid of these girlish butterflies? Excitement skittered across her skin like flickering feathers. Still, she nodded—for words failed her at the revelation of how deep her attraction was growing—and rested against his chest.

Her hand, moments ago holding her stomach, migrated to sit upon his belly to brace herself. His breath hitched. She felt the intake of air beneath her palm, rather than heard it over the din. Felt his arm tighten in response to her touch. Warm. Secure. Security was something she hadn’t experienced in so long. What harm was there in enjoying it? Her brother had sanctioned this arrangement in the span of an afternoon. Why feel guilty about finding a moment’s pleasure? Goodness, such pleasure now was the same burning that had afflicted her in the woods as James had braced her playfully to the tree, as he’d pushed back her hair while they sat fireside on their trek to Tioram. It was the same pleasure she’d felt when he’d helped her dress and caressed her lips and kissed her knuckles. Feeling his eyes upon her again, she glanced up and held his gaze. He chewed the corner of his lower lip as if chewing upon words he wished to say, or perhaps uncertainty at how to say them.

“And as my bride is new here,” he continued, finally looking up, though his voice was rough and husky, “I’ll allow her to do the crowning!”

Aileana’s eyes shot wide at the novelty as hushed gossip overtook the hall. “Pick the Abbot of Unreason?”

James nodded, that boyish smile teasing the edges of his mouth again.

She surveyed the expectant faces, then him again.

“It appears I’ve rendered my sweet-tongued wife speechless.” He nodded with a satisfied smirk, looking down his arrogant nose at the jest only they understood. Damn the man. Sweet-tongued, indeed. She’d spent the whole of their first meeting slicing him with cutting words. “The honor is yers. Who would ye select? Some advice, though.” He cupped his hand around his mouth. “Never select Smithy. He abuses his power!”

Rows of guffaws ensued—such a change from last night and the tension surrounding the bean cakes. “Made the laird wait on him hand and foot, he did!” a maid exclaimed.

“Aye, and I might be sore about it, still!” James added with a grin.

Aileana giggled. “It might be nice, Jamie, to make ye run at my command for a fortnight. Mayhap I’d reconsider Twelfth Night if—”

Blast it. She jested. But a look of wanting so deep overtook James’s face, his eyes glittering mysteriously, and she felt her stomach drop for having led him astray.

He wants me. Truly wants me. The revelation—that to him, this wasn’t a farce—rocked her. And I’ve gotten his hopes up. Did she wish to stay? It was much too soon to tell. And besides, how could she abandon her people and take up residence as this man’s legitimate wife?

He forced a strained smile that didn’t meet his eyes, and she glanced over the expectant faces, the boys and men posturing to be seen, and the women…laughing and cheering their top choice on.

“Must I choose a man?” she whispered up to him.

James’s brow knitted as he comprehended her meaning. “I suppose nay. I never laid out terms, now did I? I will say it must be a person.”

“Nay a fox or a horse?” she added, her lips lifting in that smile of truce.

His eyes dipped down to her mouth, as if transfixed, and he brought his thumb up to caress across her lower lip. Sakes. Her smile fell at the sweep of his skin, the pad of his thumb roughened and snagging as he pushed the flesh out of shape. She’d burned for a kiss the last time he’d done this. And now he did it in front of all to see.

He cleared his throat. Dropped his hand.

“Who do ye choose?” he asked, relinquishing her waist, too. He took up her hand once more and tucked it in the crook of his arm, his throat bobbing hard. So formal a pose after their close hold a moment ago. Why was he putting distance between them when the closeness of their embrace had felt so good?

Knowing her choice, she leaned up to his ear and cupped her hand around her mouth. He leaned down to listen, furrowed his brow, then grinned. He nodded once, then looked around at the celebrants.

“I told my wife she may select anyone of her choosing! Mistress Maudie, come hither!” At first, no one came forth. “The wee lassie, Maudie!” he called again, and this time, the lass crept shyly from the shadows, circumventing the crowd, and padded across the rushes, shock paling her face.