Page 41 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

She shook her head, pulling the edges of the plaid tighter to cover herself.

“Let me see,” he said, even as he strode to a shelf and selected a small pot of dock leaf salve, which Mrs. Kynoch had given him when he’d been attacked by midges after tramping in the forest the first night of his return.

He guided Ellen—or Len as she’d called herself in her first letter to Mac—to sit back upon the bed.

“Please?” he said.

Unable to meet his gaze, she opened the plaid to show him.

Silas began at her neck, smoothing the salve into her ravaged skin with two fingers, and she closed her eyes as if in relief, so he worked his way down between her breasts and along the curve of her ribs and belly. She trembled at his touch, her breaths coming in tremulous little gasps like she was swallowing tears before she could cry them.

“Does it hurt?” he whispered.

She jerked her head once to indicate no.

“The truth, milady. You needn’t fear me,” he begged. She opened and closed her mouth as if trying to speak with the voice that had been frightened away. Could he coax it back with tenderness? Lord, how he wanted to try.

Si leaned forward and kissed her throat, as he had been longing to kiss her for days, the throat that worked so hard to speak.

Her breathing sped up but seemed less labored, and so he kissed her cheek and then her lips, which parted, welcoming him and sucking on his own bottom lip until he drew away. Studying her face closely for any sign of distress, he dipped his fingers into the pot of salve once more, spreading the remedy across her breast, caressing it as gently as he knew how. Though he’d never dared to touch a woman, he’d heard plenty of boastful talk and knew the mechanics of most things.

Si allowed himself to circle her cherrilet with his thumb and then smooth the salve across it as well. Her mouth fell open, breaths coming in faint whimpers, her eyes wide with wonder.

He brushed his lips across hers, then drew back and forced himself to ask in a thick, heavy voice, “D’you wish me to stop?”

Len shook her head, and he pressed his forehead to hers before kissing her again, deeply, as he continued to caress her broken skin.

He was consumed with a hunger to taste every inch of her. Would she taste like lavender and honey all the way through? He kissed along her jaw and beside her ears, then dropped to his knees upon the floor, drawing her to the edge of the bed where he could trail kisses along the inside of her thighs where the skin was unbroken, flushed from the hot water, but not marred by any rash.

Si kissed down to each knee and back up again, to the patch of skin between her belly and her fine blonde curls, while his bride squirmed deliciously upon the bed, propped up on her elbows to watch him.

“D’you wish me to stop?” he rasped again, fairly certain that to do so would cleave him in two.

“No,” she gasped once above a whisper, and so Si loosed himself to apply all of his Aberdeen learning, the stuff of books and bawdy tavern talk from his most experienced classmates. He allowed himself to test the tongue which had never seemed meant for speaking but finally found its purpose between her legs as he kissed and lapped and tormented her.

It had only briefly occurred to him to try the Ancient Greek technique since their wedding night—too afraid she’d think him depraved, too afraid he’d perform poorly, too afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop there. Now he pushed all of those insidious doubts from his mind and gave himself over to the sweet, salty essence of her, the soft hairs tickling his lips and nose, the wetness that flowed for him like honey, and the tiny squeaks of her voice trying to break free.

Len’s panting turned to high-pitched little moans, encouraging him to continue each delicate flick, and Si smiled against her, pausing only long enough to take hold of himself, working his shaft in rhythm with her soft gasps, as he continued to pleasure her, and when finally she cried out, clenching his head between her knees as she bucked against him, Si spent himself into a corner of his plaid and then collapsed onto the bed beside her, flushed with the realization that perhaps this would be enough to live as man and wife and completely avoid the possibility of pregnancy, and the certain dread that although he would gladly prostrate himself before her day and night, she might be content with it for a time, but not forever.

* * *

Holy merciful mother. The walls of Ellen’s chamber were a shade of pink she’d never seen before, and she wondered for a moment if something inside her head had broken, seeping behind her eyes, permanently altering her vision, for surely she’d just seen stars. Her upper lip was damp, but when she dabbed at it anxiously, there was only the sheen of perspiration, not blood.

What in the name of all that was good and holy had just happened to her?

Was that what her mother had warned might hurt? For she could see how a less tender man might have made it painful, perhaps if teeth were involved. She shuddered. Or was it simply as Jory had said, about being ready?

There are many ways of enjoying your husband in the bedroom. Ellen had never imagined she could possibly be ready, but if that was what Jory referred to, she was already eager for more.

Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the wee bloody donkey.

For once in her life, Ellen grew entirely still, her mind completely blank, afraid of nothing.

He was lying next to her with the weight of an anchor, his breaths heavy but even, and Ellen wanted to see him up close like she had that day atop Buttercup, so she rolled onto her side, wrapping the plaid around her.

The hot spring had given his dark hair a slight curl and made his skin soft, and his eyes were a calm heather honey.

“Your eyes,” he whispered, like a man unraveling the mystery of the universe. “They’re the most amazing hue.”