Page 41 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

“Ye intoxicate me, lass,” he muttered, delving in for another helping of her lips.

She squirmed and trembled in his grip, holding him tightly and arching by instinct against his touch. Saints, take me now. She liked this. It had been so long since last he’d slaked his lust with someone other than his fist, but this wasn’t just lust. He was growing to know her, growing to understand how his clan’s aggression against hers had tainted her. This lust was deeper. Because he wanted to do this again. And again. Not just with anyone. But with her.

And it’s forbidden, man. Ye gave yer word to Lady Peigi that ye would return her untouched.

A groan worked its way up his throat to be absorbed in their tangling of tongues. This was wrong, but he didn’t want to stop. How he would love to see her body, laid bare in the firelight, her limbs languid and sated from his rutting, his fingers swirling indolent patterns upon her skin as they basked in the glow of the hearth. Christ, she was slight, featherlight against him. Could his thoughts not keep course in one direction? For he felt as if his mind jumped from thought to thought like hens dodging a running mongrel.

“Aileana Grant, ye’re a devil, ye are…” he breathed, deep and low, and nudged his hips, desperate to rut, against her, held her head tightly to his, anxious for the connection to gain more strength. “I want ye to be happy here with me. I nay want ye to leave. And I hope that my people and I can convince ye.”

She froze.

He paused. Why?

Growing rigid in his arms, she dropped her grip upon him and palmed the wall behind her. He pulled back, cradling her face, examining her.

“What’s wrong, lass?”

She looked askance and chewed her delectable lip, and slowly, the sounds from below filtered into his thoughts. What had he done? Then she wriggled for freedom. He stepped away, lest she feel ensnared.

“Speak to me, Allie.” He swallowed hard at his throat, twisting in knots.

Instead, she scrambled away as if he were a leper, putting distance between them. Cool air enveloped him now, an unwelcome sensation considering the warmth he’d felt against her.

“Goodness, I’m shamed,” she whispered, turning away from him.

The sharpness of her claim stabbed his pride, and he stood to full height, looming over her. No, Aileana was brash, and she threw her passion into whatever she wanted to do. How could she feel such maidenly shame? His hands hung awkwardly. He clenched and unclenched his fists to occupy them.

“We’re man and wife,” he said, tamping down the grumble to his words for fear they would sound angry. “Even if only for a fortnight. There’s no shame in what we do.”

She whirled around to face him, and hell, tears brimmed in her eyes, making them glisten.

“Aye, there is. I’m shamed. Because whilst my people suffer, I sit here in the lair of a man who they consider to be our gravest enemy, indulging in rich foods aplenty and kisses and basking in the desires of my flesh. Whilst my people go hungry from yer and yer men’s attack on us. I ken now that there’s more to it, that the Grants have wronged ye, too. I do nay blame ye in the same way I used to. But how can I ignore their suffering and indulge in such sweet desires? How will my people ever understand that this feud betwixt us all is more complicated than a game of pointing fingers? If I decided to stay, to let this union flourish instead of end it at Epiphany, how could they ever forgive me?”

Was she considering staying with him?

“That is why I’m shamed. For forgetting their suffering.”

A tear succeeded in leaking down her cheek, clinging to her chin, and dripping onto her bosom.

“Allie—”

He tried to touch her again, but she was already hastening down the corridor, pushing into her chamber, closing the door. An unfamiliar ache lodged in his chest, and he took a deep breath to try and ease the tightness. Was this heartache? Whatever the wretched sentiment, it didn’t dissipate. She had every reason to be angry at him. But was he supposed to let his ancestral lands surrounding Loch Ness go? All his life, he’d been tasked with the burden of reunifying the MacDonald birthright. Those lands had been wrongfully seized by a spiteful Crown. But Aileana had been right. It had been long ago, more than two hundred years, and the king who had stolen the land parcel was long since dead. Was it really MacDonald land anymore?

He thumped his chest with his fist, hoping to loosen the knot forming there, but the vision of pain on her face and the hurt in her voice wouldn’t show him mercy; instead, it paraded across his thoughts. He’d done this to her. He’d put her and her people in such a desperate position that she’d thieved from him, nay to gain riches and wealth but to gain a night’s meal—and a pathetic one, at that.

He strode down the corridor and shoved inside his solar, toeing shut the door to block out the sounds of celebratory music. His hearth was stacked with wood and ready for a fire. He pulled the flint and striker off the mantel and soon ignited a flame, then lumbered to his desk, where a fresh decanter of wine was laid out. He snagged it in his fingers and brought it to his lips. He inhaled deeply, taking another swig and letting the decanter dangle at his side.

He thought on Marjorie and his stepmother, and he realized that he’d gone a whole day without sparing them much thought at all when normally, they were always lurking in his mind like shadows that refused to be banished. Neither had he thought much about his inheritance—the impetus of this whole marriage. But Aileana’s withdrawal now had been as powerful as a slap to the cheek.

He dropped into the chair and took another swallow of wine. The night wore on, and the wine in the decanter slowly emptied, leaving his thoughts blurred. He nodded off, slouching backward, staring at the dying fire and embers rolling in the hearth. If he didn’t do his best to make things right with her and her clan, his marriage would end soon enough, and his inheritance would forever rest in donation to the church. If he didn’t find a way to make her feel fully accepted here, then he might lose Aileana, after just beginning to realize how deeply he wanted her.

Chapter Nine

28th of December

Eejit.

James stretched and flexed his neck to rid it of the pinched muscles from sleeping in his chair when a perfectly good bed sat nearby in the next chamber. He shivered. His hearth was cold, and the chamber was as frigid as the edges of Loch Moidart. Feeble light rimmed his window shutters. What time was it? He shoved to standing, rubbing his arms through his tunic as gooseflesh prickled his skin, and unpinned his mantle to drape around his shoulders, shrouding himself in the wool. Contemplating taking a short nap before calling his soldiers for morning drills, he moved to the window to see how light it was. His head pounded. He’d drunk too much wine the night before as he wallowed in Aileana’s rejection, considering what to do about his desire for her.