“Malcolm, someone will see.”
“Ye little hypocrite. Weren’t ye just spying on yer father?”
“I was not spying. I was making sure they were all right.”
“Yer father does not need a chaperone.” A wicked smile razored across his face. “But with all the things I have in mind,
ye
might.”
She smiled back at him. “You’re going to be a handful, I can tell.”
“Aye, ye can fill both hands with what I have for ye.”
She giggled at his ribaldry. “I’ve heard it said that those who brag the most have the least to show for it.”
His lips thinned with determination as he lifted her in his arms. “Care to put me to the test?”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and gazed down into his face. “Aye. Every single day.”
Since she was twelve years old, Serena had been fantasizing about her wedding day. But never, in all those years, did she expect it to turn out as it did.
It all started when they finally arrived in London. Serena was proud of her betrothal to Malcolm, but she was concerned that the same Society bluebloods in her set would look down upon him and make him feel inferior or excluded. She needn’t have worried. The Prince Regent himself had requested to meet Malcolm, and when news of his part in the rescue of Ambassador Marsh was circulated, Malcolm became quite a celebrity in social circles.
To be sure, Prince George had a particular interest in their marriage. There were political fences to mend following the Crown’s victory in the Scottish uprising. He made a gracious, albeit very public, tribute to Serena and Malcolm’s nuptials. The wedding of a daughter of England and a son of Scotland would go far in healing the rift in the kingdom and would celebrate the unity of the British people once again.
To Serena’s great surprise, everything Scottish became all the rage. Tartans were splashed upon window coverings and tablecloths, and whiskey became more prevalent at parties than champagne. And when Serena and Malcolm were called to Carlton House to sup with the Prince, evidence of his support of Scotland could be seen in everything from the food that he served to the entertainment he commissioned.
More than a hundred people were at this dinner when Prince George announced that he had a wedding gift for the couple. He waved his arm, and a page brought forth a plush purple cushion on which rested a leather portfolio. The page lowered the cushion before Malcolm with a sober bow.
Quizzically, Malcolm took the leather folder. “Yer Highness is too kind,” he said, and loosened the ties that kept the folds together.
Serena, who was sitting opposite Malcolm at the table, watched his expression dissolve from pleased curiosity to utter disbelief. “Malcolm? What do you see?”
Serena had never thought to see this particular emotion on the face of her betrothed. Her eyes jumped from the Regent back to Malcolm. “What is it?”
He held it up. “It’s the deed to Ravens Craig. My ancestral home.”
An appreciative applause rippled down the table. Malcolm faced Prince George.
“Yer Highness, I have no words adequate enough to thank ye,” he said haltingly. “This gift is beyond anything of value to me, save my bride. How can I ever repay ye?”
The Prince shifted his considerable frame in his chair. “By living in it. It was forfeited by one of the leaders of the insurrection, whose goods and property were seized by bill of attainder. It is especially fitting that a Scotsman and
loyal
subject should own it instead.”
“Ye overwhelm me, sir.”
Serena hadn’t seen Malcolm so moved since she first told him she loved him. “And I wish to thank you as well, Your Highness. Malcolm and I hope you will honor us by considering it your home when in Scotland and that you favor us with your presence very soon.”
The Prince nodded in appreciation. “There is one more gift. Ambassador Marsh has told me that Slayter is not your true last name, as this last was stricken from you for some offense. Is this so?”
A troubled look cast a shadow over his face. “It is, sir.”
“Well, then, by royal proclamation, in gratitude for your acts of bravery and loyalty to the government of our people, we hereby end the proscription of your name, restoring it to its former honor without blemish or prejudice, and decree that you will never again be forced to bear the designation of
slaighteur
again.”
The guests at the table applauded, but no one could have been happier than Serena herself. It meant everything to her that the world would recognize Malcolm for who he was, and honor him with the simplest of gifts—his own name back.
“A toast.” The Prince rose to his feet, and everyone
at the table rose in deference. He lifted his glass, and everyone followed suit. “To the rechristening of our honored guest, henceforth to be known as—”
Malcolm closed his eyes and smiled, forming the unspoken words on his lips. “Malcolm David MacAslan.”
The din of the thunderous applause dimmed as she basked in the contentment of seeing his expression. Serena beamed for Malcolm—and because of him. She’d become a new creature once Malcolm edged his way into her life. Now she, too, would carry a new name … Serena MacAslan. And she loved it.
Malcolm nodded at the people who applauded him, and slowly, his smiling green eyes landed on Serena. He raised his glass to her, and without words, the curve of the smile on his face told her how much he loved her.
Their wedding day was glorious. The weather had cooled, bringing a crisp chill to the London air. Serena’s dress was made of white silk taffeta with gold ribbon at the sleeves, bodice, and hem, with gold threading up the front of the skirt. Her modest tiara dripped with teardrop pearls, and a string of them hung around her neck. The bodice was tight enough to delicately lift her breasts over the hem, but ruched so as to give the appearance of looseness. Long white gloves snaked up her arms, leaving just a narrow band of pale skin showing on her arms. It was a costume of her own design, and she hoped Malcolm would like it. She thought of him when she ordered her bouquet, a singular piece with white roses interspersed with purple thistles and sprayed with heather, a subtle nod to the union of their two cultures.
And when Serena walked down the aisle on her
father’s arm, her apprehension evaporated when she saw Malcolm’s face. He smiled broadly as she approached him, his eyes shining into hers. She
pleased
him.
And he pleased her as well. His masculine beauty had been the object of more than a few whispered comments behind open fans, and now it was resplendent for all to see. His thick black hair waved over his head, echoed in the eyebrows that hovered above his luminous green eyes. His alabaster smile shone brilliantly against his healthy complexion, shaved smooth to see the dent in the middle of his prominent chin. Dense eyelashes lined the mischievous eyes that now dared her to desire him.
Malcolm was wearing a garment she had become quite used to seeing him in—a kilt. But its hue was not black, devoid of any identity, but the vivid blue, red, and green of the MacAslan tartan.
Her
clan now.
His cutaway double-breasted jacket in the same tartan formed a triangle of his torso, and was made even more elegant by a fly plaid tied around his torso and over one shoulder like a sash. His sporran had a silver cantle, and was made of black fur with six small tassels in white fur dangling from the front. He looked like a prince of Scotland.
Her father dropped a kiss on her cheek, and placed her hand upon the back of Malcolm’s outstretched hand. It was a moment full of poignant symbolism, and the tears began to well up as she left her father’s side and joined Malcolm.
Breaking tradition, Malcolm turned his hand upward, and their palms touched. His warmth and strength spread to her, even through her gloves. The meaning of the gesture was not lost on her. They would face the
future not merely as gentleman and lady, but hand in hand, joined together, as one.
“My hero,” she whispered as they approached the clergyman.
“My hero,” he answered right back.
The wedding festivities were held at Ambassador Marsh’s home, Greywood House, located in Highgate. Although the current fashion was to have an intimate gathering for the wedding breakfast, Serena had determined to buck every fashion to which she had ever confined herself. Besides, she reasoned, the circumference of her circle of friends was so large that it was difficult to leave anyone out.
Malcolm unwittingly provided the greatest revelry when he began to tell the guests how easy it was to marry in England. Bridegrooms in Scotland, he said, would be forced to endure any of several customs, which included blackening—when townspeople would pour treacle, soot, and boot polish over a couple about to be married—or creeling the bridegroom, in which a man about to be married would have a basket strapped to his back, and his friends would fill it with stones. He’d then be forced to carry the basket up and down the street until his betrothed willingly deigned to kiss him.
Three young gentlemen at the party looked at one another impishly and insisted that Malcolm demonstrate this custom on the spot.
Twin French doors connected the ballroom to the garden court. The three young men seized Malcolm
and playfully rushed him outside. Some of the guests went outside into the garden, and others, like Serena, watched from the open doors and windows. They didn’t find a basket, but they grabbed an empty wooden box, and with some rope secured it onto Malcolm’s back. One by one, they grabbed stones and empty bottles and threw them into the box. The guests laughed as Malcolm began to buckle under the heavy weight strapped to his back. Up and down the garden paths Malcolm ran, to the jeers and taunts of the wedding guests. He gritted his teeth as some of them continued to throw in a stone or two as he ran past them.
“Will you not put your husband out of his misery?” laughed one of the ladies.
“Yes,” shouted the man next to her. “Give him a kiss. He’s been subjected to enough torment.”
Serena grinned wickedly. “This is a good lesson for him. Let him prepare himself for the burdens of marriage.”
Malcolm stopped dead in his tracks. “Will you no’ give me my ease, woman?”
“No. I’m having too much fun watching you from here.”
His jaw jutted forward. “That’s it. I’m through indulging you.”
He stomped over to her. She shrieked and tried to back away, but the crowd behind her prevented a retreat. He bent over and swept her into his arms. Mortification and excitement shook her to her core. He paraded up and down the garden path, carrying the weight both behind and in front of him. Serena clung to his neck, her feet hanging in the air. Unsettled at being the object of this spectacle, Serena finally turned his head and planted a lingering kiss on his lips.
Malcolm stopped, relishing their first passionate kiss
since being proclaimed man and wife. “Aye. That’s my girl,” he said lovingly.
A short while later, Malcolm and Serena were seen off. In another Scottish tradition, Gabby had baked a special bannock, which was broken over Serena’s head to ensure happiness and wealth.
But the journey to their wedding night was only a short one. As part of Serena’s dowry, her father had given them a small cottage in Stratford, where she and Malcolm had planned to spend their honeymoon. The cottage had been in her mother’s dowry, but because Earlington’s career in foreign service required his presence in London or abroad, he and June had rarely used it. Serena herself had only vague recollections of it as a child. But Stratford was a day’s ride from London, and they would have to set out in the morning. Tonight, they’d stay in her bedroom at Greywood House.
Serena walked up the stairs slowly, nerves weakening her knees. Malcolm was just behind her, his heavy footfalls pounding upon the steps.
She’d never had a man in her bedroom before. Had her Mistake occurred in her rooms, she would have moved to a different part of the house. But even though Ben had never been here, she carried the memory of him—and the scars—inside. Now she was about to let a man into her room who would reside there forever. What happened next in her room would shape the entire course of her sexual relationship with Malcolm.
Her hand shook as it reached for the doorknob.
Malcolm stopped her before she walked through. “Another Scottish custom.” He scooped her into his arms and carried her over the threshold. With a kiss, he set her back onto her feet.
Malcolm walked around her suite of rooms. Serena’s living space comprised a sizable part of the second
floor of Greywood House. In addition to her bedchamber, there was also a private morning room, dressing room, and privy. The walls were cornflower blue and dripping with relief plaster. Her windows nearly reached the floor, and looked out onto the back garden.
“Ye grew up here?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes. Terribly cramped, I know, but I made do.” Remembering how the child Malcolm had been adopted by a village game hunter, she felt a stab of shame at the opulence of her surroundings. “I don’t suppose you had as much when you grew up.”
He shook his head, chuckling. “But I’ve learned a few things in my time. ’Twasn’t how much I had that made me rich. It was how little I required.”
Serena reflected on his words. She glanced around at her room’s fancy appointments, each one picked personally by her. She had
required
all these things because it was what had given her life meaning. Now she didn’t care for a single one of the brocade pillows or silver hairbrushes or gilt-framed paintings. She had found what made her life meaningful. It was the man who stood in the center of her room—the center of her existence.
He walked up to her and took her hands in his. “I never felt myself poor. Until that moment when our carriage fell down the brae. When I called out to ye and ye didn’t answer, for a single, terrifying moment, I thought ye’d died. That’s when I felt it. Because losing ye would have impoverished me beyond redemption. I knew then that I loved ye. I can’t think of my life without ye, Serena. I don’t need anything else but ye.”
She wrapped her arms around his torso, her cheek pressed against his chest. “And the difference is that I don’t
want
anything else but you. If you swept me away to live in the middle of the Highlands, in that forest
with nothing but a fire and a salmon, I’d be contented. As long as you were there, I’d be happy.”
His arms tightened around her. “Then it looks as if we’re the two richest people in all the earth.”
She tilted her head up to him. “What can I give you that would make you happy?”
“Ye’ve already given me yer heart. That’s made me the happiest of men.”
Serena cast her face away. “I wish I had remained a maid until this night. You deserve to have been my first. But I wasn’t virtuous enough for you, Malcolm. I didn’t think any man would ever love me the way you do. I didn’t know that one day I’d be in love with a man to whom I wanted to give something of mine very special, something that only he could ever claim. I was so very foolish. I sold myself for nothing more than romantic words, words that gave me a sweet illusion of love. But it wasn’t real. And after I gave myself away, both the words and the love evaporated into nothingness. You taught me what real love was. It’s not in words, it’s not in romantic flutterings. It’s in actions. Your actions, Malcolm. It was what you did for me. How you put me above yourself, your own life. I’ll never be able to repay you. Not ever. And not tonight.”
He put a warm hand on either side of her face. “I don’t want repayment, Serena. I can’t help loving ye. It’s as natural to me as breathing. But there is something very special of yers that ye can give me. And as valuable as yer maidenhead was, it’s so much more special than that.”
“What?”
His thumbs caressed her cheek softly. “Yer lifetime. Give me forever with ye. By my side, hand in hand. In my bed.”
She smiled at him wistfully. There was so much to
say, so many things she would promise. But she knew it would never be enough. Actions, not words—that’s what mattered.
“Will my bed do for now?”
A wicked grin cut across his handsome face. “Oh, aye.”
His lips touched hers. Warm, moist, delicious. She could still taste the sugar and brandy from the wedding cake upon his lips.
Her arms snaked up his chest and around his neck. Such a tall, strong man. She had always felt safe with him at her back, and now she felt safe in his arms. His hands rested on her waist. He walked backward until his thighs touched the edge of her four-poster bed, and sitting upon it, he wedged her between his knees.
Her fingers disappeared in the black currents of his hair that looked like a storm-tossed sea at midnight. She feasted her eyes upon each of his beautiful features, from the sensual mouth to the sensual glare from his eyes. Her fingers danced upon the silvering sideburns, which ended just above his square jaw.
“Do you know how much I love your beauty?” she asked.
He smiled. “No. Show me.”
She sucked in her lips as she contemplated it. “I love this part.” She leaned over and kissed his eyes, which fluttered closed as she did so. “I love this part.” She kissed the dimple on his chin. “And this.” She placed her hands on his face and pressed a kiss on his full lips.
“Are there no more features that please ye?”
She blushed. “There may be one or two. But these clothes are in my way.”
He revealed a row of white teeth. “Let’s have them off, then.” He unfastened the tartan fly plaid and threw it over his head, letting it slide down the opposite side
of her bed. He reached for the buttons on his jacket, and she stopped him.
“Allow me,” she said. Men’s clothes were always objects of fascination for her. And Malcolm was like a giant present that she wanted to unwrap.
Slowly, she unbuttoned the six silver buttons of the double-breasted jacket. She slipped her hands inside, wedging the MacAslan jacket off his shoulders. She let her fingers slide over his massive shoulders, then down his arms, relishing the undulations of the muscles under his black linen shirt.
His hands began a slow exploration of her thighs. She halted him. “Not yet. I want to see you first.” Visions of her dream that night in the forest danced through her head.
The voluminous sleeves of the black shirt gave him the appearance of having larger arms, but Malcolm did not need the same affectation as other men did. Serena well knew how heavy with muscle his arms already were. His waistcoat, an especially sensual garment as it hugged the V of his torso so tightly, was warm beneath her fingers as she undid the buttons at his chest.
A black silk cravat gave him a dangerous, roguish look. She undid the artfully arranged knot, letting the smooth fabric slide through her fingers.
His impatient hands began to play with the hemline at her bodice. She slapped the back of his hands.
“I said,
wait
!”
He retracted his stung hand. His jaw jutted forward as he playfully smacked her on the behind. “Cat! Keep yer claws sheathed, or I’ll give ye what for!”
Her eyes narrowed upon him in mock anger. She tightened the cravat around his neck until he coughed. “Those that board with cats may count on scratches.”
He fell backward on the bed, bringing her upon him.
“Are ye after making yerself a widow so soon?” He unknotted the cravat and slid the fabric from his neck. “Keep that up and I’ll tie ye down to the bed.”
She smoothed her lips over his. “As if that could keep my hands off you.”
A sultry determination surged in his eyes. He seemed to be the type of man who appreciated brazenness in a woman. Effortlessly, he rolled her over onto the bed and got on top of her.
“Ow. Malcolm. Ow.” The silver-framed sporran was digging into her thigh.
He raised himself to one knee. “Sorry,” he chuckled. He unhitched the offending article and let it fall to the rug.
“I want my go.” His head descended upon her chest, kissing the round flesh that mounded up from her bodice. She shivered as his warm lips sizzled on her cool skin.
His palm flattened on her breast, and cupped her bosom in his hand. The pressure upon her nipple made her arch into him. The sensation added a physical arousal to her heightened mental one. She wanted to see his chest, not through the shirt, but naked before her. She grasped at the fabric tucked into the waistband of his kilt, and yanked it free of its confines. Taking her lead, he sat up on one knee and threw it off his back.
Despite the scars that speckled his torso, Malcolm was glorious in semi-nudity. His skin was taut over his heavily muscled frame. A smattering of hair curled in the valley between his small brown nipples. His abdomen was bricked by muscles down the center—but her view was halted by a black leather belt.
Shrouded in a mist of arousal, Serena grabbed the belt and unfastened it for him. His breathing accelerated and his back curled toward her like a cobra about to strike.
She gave her hands free rein to stroke the soft skin on his hard abdomen. “I once had a dream that I was making love to you,” she confessed. “How I longed to make that dream come true.”