Page 39 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

“Did I do something wrong, mi laird?” the child asked, bobbing in a curtsy.

Sakes, Aileana hadn’t intended to frighten her, but James scooped Maudie up onto his forearm.

“Nay, lassie,” he said. “Quite the opposite. My bride is pleased with ye, which pleases me that ye would bring her joy. And we are all glad ye’re well.” He turned to the crowd again. “Lady Aileana has dubbed Maudie the Abbot of Unreason!” he boomed. “Or should I say, Abbess!”

Exclamations ran through the bailey and reverberated off the stone walls, as did clapping at the novelty of a girl wearing the title. Maudie’s face split into a wide, surprised grin, and James lowered her back to the rushes as Aileana took the woven crown and placed it upon the child’s bonnet.

“Per tradition, Yer Grace,” James continued, teasing Maudie with a courtly bow as the people laughed, “ye must demand yer first ruling before ordering the Yule log lit. What be yer wish? A new dress? Sweets?”

Maudie beamed and clasped her hands in front of her, twisting from side to side as those gathered around her volleyed suggestions for her first command. She stared at the crowd, overwhelmed by the onslaught of demands, then glanced up at Aileana, a grin lighting her face.

“As the Abbot—Abbess of Unreason,” she began with uncertainty, giggling, and everyone fell silent so as to hear, “my very first ruling is…that his lairdship…”

The silence, so deafening when the noise had moments ago been vociferous, gripped Aileana, too, as the girl covered her mouth to quell her giggles. What would the child request? Perhaps it would be enjoyable to see this warlord so humbled, toting trays of food to the child’s bed pallet with a towel draped over his arm.

“That he kiss his new bride so that she kens he fancies her as much as Lady Brighde gossips he does!” Maudie called.

The cheeky lass! Aileana’s stomach dropped. She’d thought wee Maudie was a sweet innocent, nay an urchin. James stiffened beside her, if only for a moment, then stood tall once more. A glance toward Brighde’s smiling face, just returned to the hall, further defeated Aileana, for her sister-of-marriage seemed pleased.

“Kiss the lass, mi laird!” came the heckling.

Still, James did nothing. These folk knew nothing of the conditions of their handfast.

“Is the laird afraid?”

“We ken ye never flaunt yer women, cousin!” taunted Angus. “But is it because ye’ve never kissed one?”

Oh God. Attacking a man’s prowess, especially one as purely masculine as Jamie, would never do. Aileana looked down as rows of laughter mixed with further heckling. Confusion churned with curiosity in her heart. Only Angus could get away with such a remark since he, too, was noble born and a close relation.

James turned toward her, dipping his head to her ear. “I promised yer brother I’d no’ take liberties with ye.” He squeezed her hands in his. “But hell if I havenae wanted to kiss ye since yer tongue first lashed me at Urquhart.”

Her stare shot up to his.

He waited for her response, but her voice failed her. All she could muster was a nod.

“Are ye certain?” he whispered, his thumb rubbing nervous caresses across her clutched fingers.

Again, she nodded, a frantic gesture mirroring the excitement in her gut and the dryness that suddenly afflicted her mouth.

James relinquished her hand. A finger touched her chin, tipping up her face. His twinkling blue eyes held hers captive while his people laughed and goaded him to claim the prize. Such concentration.

He seemed intent and focused, then with a handsome smile that creased his cheeks and made nervous wings beat across her skin, said much louder now, “It’s been so ordered. One cannae disregard the Abbess of Unreason’s ruling, for it’s akin to defying the king!”

And he dropped his lips to hers.

She stood frozen as the ruckus roared in her ears at the laird’s audacity. How did one kiss? How did one breathe? How did one think? What was he thinking? The noise faded to the periphery of her thoughts. Her lips tingled where his touched hers, and—goodness, she needed to breathe. She sucked in a lungful, and God above, this enemy smelled so…good. Nay just like leather and wine and sweat, but like fire smoke and soap made of almond powder and marjoram mixed with the scent of his skin, a male musk all his own.

Her pulse raced away like Devil’s galloping hooves. And then she felt his hands slide onto her waist, holding her hips, as if to anchor her. As if she needed an anchor! Her body felt rooted, leaden, her mind unable to communicate to her feet whether to stand, wobble, or dash away.

At some point, she became aware of his tongue, running across the seam of her lips as if seeking for her to part for him. A hand snaked up her back to hold her at the nape, to fondle her hair netting tethering down her wild hair. His thumb raked up her other arm, across her collarbone to her jaw, where he rested it upon her chin. Fire lapped through her blood, pulsing hard in her ears, roaring at the sensation of such an intimate embrace. Was he finding amusement in fulfilling the bairn’s order? Blast her for choosing the wee lass! She ought to have picked a nice old peasant man, perhaps a page or squire intent on personal gains instead.

Yet James’s touch upon her chin and tongue upon her lips was persistent. And experienced. He’d kissed others, but as he’d admitted by accident, he used care and discretion—the only time he’d bragged being when he’d wanted to get under her skin at Urquhart, the infernal man. Her treacherous mouth opened without her permission, which was all he needed. His tongue pressed inside, bringing with it warmth, wetness, and the taste of wine. His hand now cradled her cheek, the other still bracing her neck, and a sigh escaped her throat of its own volition.

James pulled back at the sigh, his eyes furrowed in stern concentration and his lips damp, determined to understand what it meant. But she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, his hold still strong upon her nape and his hand still cupping her cheek. Vaguely, the presence of others, cheering and laughing, filtered into her mind, foggy from his kiss. And then he leaned down to her ear, his breath a silky caress; his words, a balmy encouragement.

“I lied when I met ye at Urquhart.” He cleared his throat, then whispered while his fingers caressed a path up and down her cheek, as if a mindless idle, “I’d say yer tongue is quite agreeable, as are these lips when they’re no’ slinging insults at me. With a bonny smile as my boon. My lady is without a doubt nay plain and every bit as beautiful as the wild Highlands.”

Her breath hitched. She couldn’t string a single thought together. In the face of her crippled tongue, he stood tall again, looking out into the crowd, and smiled, though it seemed forced, like an act, for it was too measured. Was he feeling as uncertain as she was?