The feasting and drinking continued late into the evening. Outside, a violent storm battered the large tent, causing its hide covering to billow and snap. Yet inside, no one seemed to notice. The men passed a large drinking horn around the table—and many of the warriors grew raucous and red-faced as the night stretched out.
Galan was expected to drink twice as much as any of the men here, yet he refused the drinking horn more often than he accepted it. This was his wedding night; he wanted to be lucid when he took his bride to the furs. No woman wanted to be plowed by a swaying, drunken oaf. Galan wanted to remember this night.
Mid-way though the feasting, a fight broke out.
Tarl, who often got mouthy when he was in his cups, had been trading insults with a Wolf warrior across the table. The situation escalated when Tarl got over-exuberant and told the man his mother must have rutted with a hog to produce such an ugly son. In response, the warrior bellowed a curse, leaped to his feet and launched himself across the fire at Tarl.
Food and drink went flying, and Donnel, who was seated next to his brother, barely avoided getting punched in the face as he yanked Luana to one side. A roar went up in the tent—but Tarl and The Wolf warrior were oblivious to it. Teeth bared, fists pummeling, they were still snarling insults and threats when other warriors pulled them apart.
“Enough!” Loc shouted. The Wolf chieftain had risen to his feet, his high cheekbones flushed with rage. “There will be no fighting here—not in this place.”
Still glowering at Tarl, The Wolf warrior did as bid. However, Tarl remained on his feet, ignoring Loc’s command.
“Sit,” Galan growled at his brother, “before I knock you down.”
Reluctantly, Tarl took his place at the table, although with ill-grace. He knew that Galan did not make idle threats.
Now that the fight had ended, conversation resumed within the tent, the roar of voices drowning out the storm outside.
Galan watched Tarl for a few moments, noting that Donnel was now speaking to him. Judging by the tautness of his youngest brother’s face, and the angry gleam in his eyes as he spat out short sentences, Donnel was tearing strips off his brother for his poor behavior.
Satisfied that Tarl would behave himself now, Galan turned his attention back to his bride. She met his gaze; her eyes were dark, her lips slightly parted. If the fight had bothered her, she did not show it.
Tea had not spoken a word to him all night.
He did not know what to make of her. Her silence hinted that she was not happy about this match, and yet every time their gazes met the heat between them made him catch his breath. The look in her eyes now made him forget all else around them. Lust robbed him of his appetite, made him lose his taste for mead.
The only thing I want to feast on is her.
At this point of the evening, oatcakes dripping with honey were passed around the table. The sweets were typical of handfasting, and supposed to ensure a fertile and happy marriage.
As tradition dictated, Galan fed Tea a morsel of cake. Her gaze held his as she took a bite and chewed slowly, her lips glistening with honey.
However, his heart nearly stopped when she reached up and took hold of his wrist. She kept his hand raised as she licked honey from his fingers. Her tongue slid over his skin, setting it alight.
Around them, the table went silent.
The only sound was the snap and crackle of the fire pit and the roar of the storm beyond the tent.
Galan’s groin stiffened so suddenly in reaction that he almost groaned. He paid no attention to the revelers watching them; forgot they were surrounded by kin and warriors. His whole world shrank to this sensual, raven-haired beauty. She licked his fingers as if they lay alone together in the furs, their limbs entwined.
It was more than he could stand.
Galan leaped to his feet, scooped Tea into his arms and carried her from the tent. Catcalls, hoots and lewd comments followed them, but he cared not.
He could think about nothing but the beautiful woman in his arms and what he intended to do to her once they were alone.
Tea huddled against her new husband’s broad chest as he strode through the encampment toward their tent. The rain battered them in icy needles and the wind howled like a wailing woman. Tea did not mind. Her head spun and she could still taste the honey she had licked off Galan’s fingers. Her belly fluttered with excitement at the feel of his strong arms around her.
Hunger consumed her, but it was not for more venison or honeyed oat-cakes. Instead it was for this man.
The feeling of strangeness had increased as the evening progressed. She now felt as if she had stepped out of herself, as if a different woman—a lusty fairy maid—had taken over.
At the back of her mind, an angry voice heckled her. It told her she was a traitor to her family, that a true woman of The Wolf would have brought a knife to the ceremony and slit Galan mac Muin’s throat. Her conscience had been quite vocal earlier, during the handfasting and at the beginning of the feasting, but then as the night went on, she found herself ignoring it.
Wildness had taken over. She had forgotten her kin sitting nearby, or her brother’s warriors watching her from across the fire pit. She had barely noticed, or cared about, the fight between Galan’s brother and one of Loc’s men. The world had shrank to her and Galan. The impulse to lick honey off his fingers had risen unbidden, and the look on his face when she had done so nearly unraveled the last vestiges of her self-control.
She ached for him.
He carried her into a tent that sat near the Wishing Pool. The leather flap covering the entrance fell closed, sealing them inside a warm, dry space. Outside, the rain lashed and the wind shrieked yet in here a lump of peat burned on a brazier and a pile of furs had been placed in the center of the space, ready for the newly wedded couple.
Galan set her down before him, his arms going around her torso. His hands slid over her bare midriff to the supple leather binding around her breasts. Tea, who stood with her back to Galan, leaned into him, and let out a low groan.
In response, he muttered an oath and buried his face in her hair.
Deftly, his hands unfastened the binding and freed her breasts. His hands cupped them, feeling their fullness, before his fingers slid to her aching nipples. Tea groaned once more and leaned further back against him, angling her hips so that she was pressed hard against his pelvis.
It was Galan’s turn to groan. He swept aside the curtain of hair that flowed over her shoulders, his lips trailing up her neck to the shell of her ear.
Tea’s groan turned to a cry and she melted against him. If he had not been holding her up, she would have fallen. Every nerve ending in her body felt as if it was on fire.
Galan’s hands slid down from her breasts to her waist. There, he unbuckled her heavy gilded belt and unlaced her skirt. The folds of plaid tumbled to her feet, pooling around her ankles. Then he pulled her back against him once more and Tea stifled a gasp when she felt his shaft, thick and hot, pressed up against her buttocks. Wild excitement reared up within her.
They had not spoken since entering the tent and had not moved from just inside the entrance. Things were moving so fast, Tea felt out of breath as if she had just been running.
Slowly, she rotated her hips, pressing against his shaft. Galan’s answering groan caused a flush of pleasure to flower across her breast.
A heartbeat later, he bent her forward and entered her from behind.
She gasped at how big he was—Forcus was her only experience of men and his manhood had been far smaller. Instead Galan stretched her, filling her completely. She was so wet that he slid into her like a hot blade through tallow. Pleasure thrummed through Tea; her body began to sing like a harp the moment he entered her.
The groan she let out then was so loud and animal, she did not even recognize it as her own. Shuddering, her legs gave way under her and she sank to the ground. Galan lowered himself to the floor of the tent with her.
On all fours now, she gripped the edge of the furs while her husband—this stranger, a man she had not known until this afternoon—rode her in slow, deep thrusts.
***
Tea stretched on the furs and slowly awoke. Her limbs felt loose and languorous, and she felt a few instants of incredible well-being.
Then, like a crashing wave, reality intruded. Confused memories of the night before obliterated her fragile state. She could not remember everything that had happened. The memories were foggy, out of focus. There had been lucid moments, yes. She had known what she was doing, yet she had been unable to stop herself.
Galan had spent the long night loving her body, showing her the many ways that a man and woman could pleasure each other. Mortification flooded over Tea when she remembered how she had responded to him, how she had groaned and writhed under his touch, and how eagerly she had touched him and given him pleasure.
Her enemy.
Tea pushed herself up into a sitting position and groaned. Her head hurt; it felt as if an iron band had been fastened around her forehead and was slowly tightening. Not only that but she felt bilious. Her stomach churned and she felt as if she would vomit.
Shaking, she climbed off the furs and scrambled for her clothing. Mercifully, she was alone in the tent. Galan had disappeared for the moment. She dressed as quickly as she was able, hands shaking, nausea rolling over her in waves, sweat beading on her skin.
What’s wrong with me?
She felt as if she had been poisoned. Her belly was griping terribly. She needed to find a private place where she could put herself back together again—a place where she could come to terms with what she had done.
She finished dressing and turned to leave, only to find Galan standing in the entrance to the tent. He bore a tray of fresh bread, goat’s cheese and a jug of milk. Dressed in nothing but plaid breeches, the sight of him brought memories of the night before. She had kissed and licked her way across every inch of that broad, tattooed chest. As if reading her mind, he gave her a slow, sensual smile.
“Good morning.” His voice was low and deep, gliding over her skin like honey. Yet this morning, Tea was immune to his charms. Without uttering a word, she flew across the tent, pushed past him and ran outside.
It was shortly after dawn. The sun was rising over the edge of the hills to the east, although the Black Cuillins that reared overhead in a looming dark wall still lay in shadow. The storm had spent itself overnight and moved on, leaving the air fresh and crisp. The waters of the pools sparkled in the dawn light, but Tea paid the beauty of the setting no mind. Instead, she sprinted through the encampment and ran behind a lichen-encrusted boulder.
There, she fell to her knees and threw up the contents of her stomach.
Never had she felt so wretched, both physically and emotionally. Never had she felt so ashamed.
She had been bid to wed Galan mac Muin, not to practically mate with him at the table. She wanted to blame him for last night, but he had merely acted like a man. He had taken a woman to the furs who had been more than willing; it had been their wedding night after all.
She had been planning to fight him, to suffer their physical union as a duty but take no pleasure from it. Instead, she had groaned, whimpered and cried out for more. She had given herself to him completely.
Mortification flooded through her.
How will I face him?
“Tea … are you well?”
Galan’s voice, directly behind her, caused Tea to scramble to her feet. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and turned to find Galan standing a few feet away, watching her.
“No,” she answered honestly, her voice a low growl. “After spending the night with you—I’m far from well.”