“And no time for it now.”
“I just thought you should—” She cast a despairing look at the bed.
Dougal felt a crooked smile tug at his lips. Probably just as well, he thought through the haze that possessed his mind. The way he felt, he had little of the restraint required to pluck a tender virgin.
“I thank you for your honesty.”
She drew a breath he felt shudder through her. “It is my hope we will always be honest with each other.”
“A worthy hope.”
“So you—” Her lips worked, seeking to form the words. “You do not mean to cast me off for this reason?”
For one, sober moment Dougal gazed at her. He did not think he could cast her off now even had he learned she had been plucked by the devil himself.
His hands finished their work, pushed the green gown from her shoulders. The fabric fell to her waist, revealing all that lay beneath.
“Lady Wife,” he said, “I have many desires at this moment, but none to cast you off. Come to the bed and let me show you.”
Chapter Eleven
“Kiss me,” the Black Devil bade Isobel, and obediently she turned to him, parted her lips, and felt the languorous passion pour through her again. For many hours now she—who usually never embraced obedience—had complied with Dougal’s every request, placing her body, her lips, where he instructed, kissing, licking, biting, with the most astonishing results. She had never dreamed such acts, performed together, constituted coupling. It felt surprisingly like magic—black magic, probably—and bore absolutely no relation to what had passed between herself and he who had ruined her, back in her father’s stable.
Dougal MacRae, she decided, using what shreds of wit she still possessed, must be a master at the art of lovemaking. He had only to touch her with his long-fingered, rough-palmed hands and she lost all inhibition—all decency—and caught fire with heedless delight. His fingers wooed her body in places she barely knew existed, coaxing from her responses she had never imagined.
After many hours in the great, canopied bed, she no longer felt her body was entirely her own, but she did not mind. Were she to give herself, body and soul, to any man, it would be him.
He spoke in whispers that filled her ears, his Scots burr, in moments of intense pleasure, becoming a buzz of sensuality. The scent of him filled and seduced her, as did the feel of his glossy, black hair trailing across her bare skin when he bent to fondle her breast with his mouth. The first time he did that, Isobel nearly flew from the bed, so sharp was the pleasure.
His hands and that weapon between his legs—ever at the ready, it seemed—had claimed her, but it was into his eyes she fell: bottomless eyes the color of a wild mist, spiked with black lashes. The eyes of a devil, or a saint?
Did she care? Not at this moment. She stretched her naked limbs as he kissed her and felt his hand slide down her body and slip between her legs once again.
He broke the kiss to whisper, “I should let you sleep, Lady Wife. Are you not weary? It is nearly dawn.”
Isobel made a sound of protest deep in her throat and opened her eyes just enough to see him. By God, he was a beautiful creature, naked save for the black hair flowing over his shoulders, every muscle sculpted and defined. She now knew him to be incredibly strong, agile and skillful.
She could think of things she would rather do than sleep.
He must have seen those things in her eyes, for he gave a small, wicked smile. “Ah, ’tis that way, is it?” Gently, his fingers parted her thighs and entered her, even while his gaze held hers. “Only tell me, Isobel, what you want.”
Isobel’s thoughts stuttered. Until a few hours ago she had no idea her body could break apart at a man’s touch, fly away beyond her control, and dissolve in racking waves of pleasure. She had thought coupling a quick, ultimately painful act that resulted in shame.
She supposed she should be ashamed, now—cavorting, naked, as she was, begging inwardly for inconceivable things. But when he touched her, she lost all reason.
“I want—” But she had no words for it.
The wicked smile invaded his eyes. He needed no words. He cupped her breast, bent his mouth to it, and his fingers, inside her, played her as a master harper might his instrument.
“I wish, Wife,” he said when at last the waves of pleasure subsided, “I might always find you thus—with your beautiful breasts bare and your body ready to welcome me.”
“Do you?” she whispered, striving to regain her wits and her composure.
“Oh, aye. But I suppose such a thing would shock even my hardened warriors, or dissolve them in jealousy.” He tangled his fingers in her hair. “You are a bonny thing—for an English flower.”
“Only half English,” she confessed. “My mother was a Scotswoman.”
“Is it so? That explains much, including the beauty of your red hair.”
He calls me beautiful, Isobel thought with a rush of dazed amazement. Either he thinks it also, or he is a damn fine liar.
The door of the chamber flew open. Isobel, lying brazenly naked atop the blanket with only select parts of her husband’s body covering her, stiffened in alarm and then tried to hide herself.
A man appeared in the doorway, likely one of those rough individuals Isobel had seen the day before. He stared his fill at the scene on the bed.
Dougal, rounding on him, snarled, “What is it? Have you no more sense than to interrupt a man on his bridal night?”
“’Tis no longer night,” the man replied insolently. “And MacNab’s agent is downstairs. They are scouring the country round about for his son’s lost bride.”
Dougal laughed. “And they came to me?”
“They are asking everyone.” The man still plundered Isobel with his eyes. “A wrecked coach has been discovered and dead servants found.”
Dead? For the first time in hours, Isobel’s thoughts strayed beyond the confines of the bed.
Dougal got to his feet, utterly careless of his nakedness. He reached for his sword before his clothing, and Isobel was struck by the picture he made, wild and graceful, with the bare blade in his hand.
“They search for Mistress Catherine Maitland?” he asked, with a wicked glance at Isobel. “Certainly I shall help them search, for she is not here. Only my wife resides beneath this roof. Now, Dermott, get your filthy eyes off my woman!”
The man withdrew. Dougal dressed quickly, the smile still hovering about his lips. When he finished, he turned back to Isobel.
“Wait for me,” he bade. He leaned down, kissed her fiercely, and marched from the room.
Isobel sat where she was in the bed, her head clearing slowly. She began to shiver uncontrollably, as if with shock, and drew the blanket about herself.
What now? The man had gone from the room, apparently taking his magic spell with him. She felt released from a kind of madness. What had she been thinking these hours past—marrying a stranger, indulging in round after round of wild pleasures with him. Now she found herself clothed only in her hair, every inch of her body tingling and, were she honest, still crying out for him.
He must, truly, be some sort of devil. Only such could possess his masculine beauty, his skill, and the ability to make her forget her past and consign her future to the unknown.
She drew a breath and then scrambled from the bed, went to the washstand, and poured from the ewer of water, which was cold. She deserved cold water, she told herself, and a bed of nails. She washed and then climbed into a crumpled morning gown. She still struggled to put up her hair when another knock sounded at the door. Before she could reply, it opened.
MacRae’s sister, Meg, stood there. She bore a tray and entered the room without invitation.
“I brought you breakfast,” she announced. “No doubt you need it.”
No one could ever question Meg was Dougal’s sister, Isobel reflected. They shared the same black hair, the same almost shocking beauty, and the identical air of self-possession. Isobel found it difficult to believe Meg came to her now out of charity. Her expression looked too cold and her eyes, moving to examine Isobel, the room, and the bed, too merciless.
“So,” she said, setting down the tray. “You survived your night with the Devil Black, then? I will confess, I had some concerns. He has a reputation for charming women of every ilk, yet I could but wonder about a tender English maiden.”
Not knowing how to reply, Isobel kept silent.
“I see no wounds,” Meg said. “If you wish to complain of him to me, I will listen. I may even sympathize. But remember, you chose this course for yourself and made your bed, as they say.”
“I have no complaints.”
That caused Meg’s eyebrows to fly up. “No? You find yourself wed to the worst outlaw in all Central Scotland, a man so heinous even the King despairs of him, yet you make no complaint? Are you foolish as well as heedless?”
“I am heedless, am I?”
“Sit down. Allow me to tell you a few things about my brother.”
The fire in the hearth had long since burned out; the room felt cold. But they sat on the low bench facing the hearth and regarded one another like civilized women.
Meg looked thoughtful. “Let me begin by saying my brother has few redeeming qualities. He is intelligent—but his mind is twisted, and he uses his wits unwisely. He is, aye, confident, but he abuses his power and puts his clan at risk. He knows nothing of kindness or mercy—and so say I, who have, myself, been accused of cruelty. He flouts convention, custom, and the King’s law with equal enthusiasm and, I believe, will one day end either by hanging or by losing his head. And I will not mourn, when that day comes.”
Isobel’s eyes widened. “It is a harsh thing to say of your brother.”
Meg’s expression became tight with fury or pain. “I hate him. I cannot wait to see him get what he deserves.”
“What does he deserve? And why—”
Meg laughed harshly. “Believe it or not, we were close once, as children. We had a wild raising, just the two of us running these hills like pups, after our mother died. He was everything to me then. I thought his schemes clever and his escapades brave. I did not see his selfishness. But be warned, Mistress Isobel—my brother is utterly selfish. He sees only his own welfare, thinks only of his own hide.”
“I am wed to him now,” Isobel said as steadily as she could. “Surely I can expect some consideration?”
Meg’s lips twisted. Abandoning her role of confidante, she got to her feet. “Be warned—those about whom he is supposed to care, he treats the worst of all. I will tell you, woman to woman: whatever you do, do not fall in love with him. ’Tis a fate that I would not wish upon my worst enemy.”
Chapter Twelve
“I bade you wait for me.”
Cold to the bones, wet and unaccustomedly anxious, Dougal MacRae slipped into his wife’s bedchamber. For hours without end, with a small band of men at his back, he had played at searching the roadways, hills, and braes for a woman he knew to be elsewhere, while his body ached for her. And his mind had dealt sorely with him, imagining just this moment over and over again: himself reaching the place where she waited, to find her clothed only in her hair and in one of the glorious positions to which he had introduced her last night, either on or off the bed.
Instead he found her sitting sedately by the fire, fully clothed—sewing, by all appearances.
She gave him a cool look and lifted an eyebrow. He felt his pulse leap. One of the things—the many things—that attracted him to her was her self composure.
“I
am
waiting,” she said.
He approached her, shedding clothing as he came—his sopping cloak came off first, then the clammy tunic beneath. Leaving a trail of clothing from the door to the welcome heat of the fire, he ended before the flames, clad only in his kilt.
“And did you find the young lady for whom you searched?” she inquired.
He shot her an appreciative look. “You speak of Catherine Maitland? We did not. I fear some dire fate has befallen her. To be sure, though, she is not here. The only woman in this chamber is the Mistress Isobel MacRae.”
His wife made no answer to that, but continued to ply her needle, her bosom rising a bit faster than was called for by the activity.
“Has the search been called off, the night?”
He grinned. “Called for darkness. MacNab is beside himself with fury and suspicion. He would like to accuse me of something. He would also like to keep searching, but the weather is vile—snow, mixed with sleet and rain. All his helpers withdrew from him.”
“I see.”
She laid her sewing aside at last, and Dougal felt her looking at him, her gaze a virtual touch on his bare torso, arms, and the sopping hair down his back.
“You will be chilled, Husband, and hungry for your supper. Shall I ask for it to be brought here?”
Dougal allowed his desire to show. “I confess to being hungry, Wife, but not for food.” He saw the color flood her cheek. “Did I not,” he repeated himself, “tell you to wait for me?”
“And have I not?” Her eyes challenged him. “Would you have me wait naked on the bed?”
“Aye. Oh, aye!” Without thought, he unfastened his kilt and let it join the rest of his clothing on the floor. “Come, Wife, and only let me show you.”
****
Some time deep in the night, while the wind still gusted about the stones of the keep and the sleet drove hard, Dougal MacRae found himself spent—or nearly so. He lay in the big bed with his wife naked in his arms and his hand splayed on her breast. She breathed softly, and he thought she slept, though he could not be sure. His own mind felt wonderfully empty of thought or conflict—for once he knew no anger, spite or desire for revenge. This woman had successfully relieved him of everything but satisfaction.
Aye, and she proved clever and well adept, for a virtually untried, half-English woman, presumably gently raised. Curiosity prodded his mind as he wondered how, and in what circumstances, she had lost her virginity. He wondered, but it did not really matter. She proved passionate, open to try whatever challenge he set her between the sheets. And she tasted better than the sweetest honey wine.
Curse it, just the thought made him want her again. He opened his eyes and caught her watching him.