Frowning as she did so, Meg helped Islaen into bed. “T'will be the last night for that nightshift, lass."
Islaen looked at her attire, a sleeveless linen shift that only reached to mid-thigh. “I ken ye are right. ‘Tis no lady's wear."
"Aye. I have a few lovely ones sewn for ye. Now ye get your rest, for ‘tis a wondrous busy day for ye on the morrow."
Reminding her of that was not the way to insure that she would get any sleep, Islaen thought, as Meg left. Ever fair, Islaen then admitted that she did not really need Meg's reminders, for there was little else upon her mind. On the morrow she would marry Iain MacLagan and she was afraid, although not of marriage and all it entailed. She was afraid she would fail him and herself.
Now and again he had slipped in his aloof pose but it always returned, sometimes stronger than before. She feared the pose would become the man, that she would never reach the person he tried so hard to hide from everyone. That failure would leave her wed to a distant stranger who held prisoner the man she wanted.
Then too there was her secret. There would be no hiding it in the intimacy of marriage. Several times she had gotten up the courage to speak to him only to lose it when she looked upon his face. For a while she had thought it best to leave it as a surprise but now she doubted the wisdom of that. Not only was it unfair to Iain but she would not be able to bear his disgust when he found out. It would wound her sorely to have him turn from her on their wedding night, the very night he should be making her his.
Coming to a decision, she rose and searched out her houppelande. It was best to undeceive him now, before they had exchanged any vows. Somehow the wedding could be stopped if it was necessary. Even as she made a final check upon the fit of her houppelande she hoped Iain would, at the worst, insist that the candle stay snuffed for it might not feel as bad as it looked. Telling herself that exposure now was the only way, the only fair thing to do, she slipped into the hall and set out for Iain's chambers.
Though late at night, the way was not clear. Islaen was amazed at the number of people wandering about. It did not take many guesses to know that liaisons were plentiful. The fact that none of those about wished to be seen either made Islaen's way easier. Her first and only difficulty came when she was but two doors away from her goal. A woman she knew was wed met a man who was equally tied causing her to press herself into a shadowed niche from where, to her increasing discomfort, she could both see and hear the couple's rendezvous, a meeting that proved beds were not necessary.
When she finally reached Iain's door, she paused with her hand raised to knock. It might be the right thing to do but it was far from easy. No one liked to expose a fault or shame. Nevertheless, Iain had a right to know about her shames and faults before he was irrevocably tied to them, she told herself firmly. Her resolve strengthened, she rapped upon his door sure that her heart could be heard all along the hallway.
Iain lay sprawled upon his bed. He was trying very hard to get drunk, blind drunk, but was failing miserably. He was certainly not sober, but he had failed to achieve the soddened oblivion he was seeking. Very colorfully he cursed Fate which seemed against him at every turn. He did feel that depriving him of the ability to get stinking drunk was an exceedingly cruel trick. It was also a sad waste of some fine wine.
Admitting that it solved nothing to get drunk, Iain took another long pull of wine. Nothing had gone his way of late. He had felt like a good sulk, a thorough wallow in self-pity. However, even that was not working out.
The king had thwarted his plan to wed Islaen away from the court, so that he could avoid the consummation. The maids in the castle would quickly report the lack of virgin's blood. Since he could not explain that in any satisfactory way, Iain knew he would have to truly bed the girl. Even if he was very careful, there was ever the chance she could conceive, especially coming from as prolific a clan as she did.
Briefly, he wondered if that made a difference. He had been deluged with tales of her tiny mother and seen seven of the healthy brood of sons the woman had produced. Just possibly Islaen could do the same.
He then shook his head. It was something he could not chance. He freely admitted to cowardice. No matter what her heritage he could not gamble with another woman's life.
He groaned and poured another tankard of wine. As clearly as if it was occurring before him, Iain could see Islaen writhing upon her childbed, her screams filling the halls for long hellish hours until he feared to go mad from it. When it was over there would be nothing but a blood-soaked bed, a gruesome bier for her and their child. He could see Islaen and Catalina blended into one woman, the small lovely face still etched with agony, the pale lifeless body surrounded with blood and the bairn still wet from the womb, blue from the lack of air that killed him and the cord that had kept life going now wrapped around the tiny neck to end it.
Catalina had been right to curse him as she lay wracked with pain. He should never had bedded her, wife or not. She had not enjoyed the act at all, blessing the pregnancy that killed her in the end, for it had allowed her to ban him from her bed. Her shrill agonized voice still haunted his dreams, rightly blaming him for her cruel and far too early death. She had been but twenty, much too young to seek a cold grave or be pushed into one as he had pushed her. Islaen was but nineteen he recalled and felt like weeping.
"Oh God,” he moaned softly, “have mercy upon me. Make the lass barren. God, dinnae put me through it all again. I cannae bear it."
A soft knock broke into his morbid thoughts. When he flung open the door his first thought was to slam it shut again. Realizing that Islaen was no vision of a mind drunker than he had thought, he yanked her into the room, made a hasty check of the hallway to assure himself of the absence of people, and then slammed the door.
He then cursed the lust that tightened his drink-weakened body. Despite appearances to the contrary, he felt sure she had not come to his room for a tryst. If nothing else, she looked too solemn, even a little frightened.
Islaen looked at his dark scowling face and nearly winced. It was going to be hard enough without him being furious before she even started. Although it was an effort, she refrained from looking around his chambers to see if his anger stemmed from her interrupting a last bachelor frolic. It would not surprise her, despite the rumours of his monkish lifestyle, for he did not want the marriage, but was simply obeying his king.
Another cause of her embarrassment was his attire, or rather its absence. He wore only his hose. The lack of covering on his torso made her very aware of how broad of shoulder and muscular he was. A modest pelt of dark hair covered his chest, tapering to a thin line that dissected his taut stomach to disappear into his snug hose. She had seen many a man partly clothed, even naked, for it was unavoidable living with so many brothers, but she had never felt so warm before. Neither had she suffered such an urge to touch a man's chest. She forced her gaze upwards to his face.
Iain was just drunk enough not to care about his lack of attire before his young bride. “Be ye mad, lass? Why are ye here?"
"I had to talk with ye,” she replied, following him as he strode to the table by his bed to retrieve his drink.
Sitting down on the bed he took a long drink before looking at her. “Could it not have waited until the morrow? What if ye had been seen?"
"I wasnae and what folk I saw about wouldnae have wanted me to see them. What I have to tell ye couldnae wait any longer."
He reacted to that statement with increased alertness. Perhaps the girl meant to tell him she had a lover, was carrying some man's seed. Even as he decided that was impossible he realized that the thought did not cheer him despite the fact that the king would not make him wed her under such circumstances. Shaking his head over his own vagaries, he waited for her to speak.
"There is something ye maun be told ere we wed. Weel, shown actually. I am not as I seem, Sir MacLagan."
"Deformed?” he thought and could not believe it. “I can hardly reject ye for some mark or scar, child,” he said dryly and touched his cheek.
"'Tis nay a mark or a scar, sir.” She began to shed her houppelande. “I cannae deceive ye any longer. ‘Tis unfair and dishonest to do so."
After watching the houppelande fall around her pretty feet he studied her. Her night rail was no more than a short shift, revealing a great deal of her lovely legs. There was also something vaguely different about her but he could not pinpoint it. It did not help him to think when he was so attracted, his loins tightened painfully and his hands itched to bury themselves in her thick, hip-length hair.
For such a tiny girl she had a real skill for heating his blood. It was going to be very hard to keep that in control. Even harder for a large part of him did not want to control it, wanted to savor it to its fullest. The need for a woman, any woman, indiscriminate as it was, had been easy enough to control. What Islaen instilled in him was all mixed up with who she was, her looks, her character, even her smell. It was not easy to dispel it. In truth, it was beginning to prove impossible.
"I ken that my night rail isnae fitting for a lady, but Meg has made some more suitable ones,” she murmured as she fumbled to unlace her shift and felt color flood her cheeks even as her heart beat against the wall of her chest in growing agitation.
Realizing the girl was about to strip before his very eyes, Iain croaked, “'Tis no matter, lass. We can keep the candle snuffed."
He felt close to panic and actually thought of bolting from the room no matter how foolish that would look. Unfortunately, his body was not obeying his mind's frantic urgings to get away. It intended to stay where it was, intended that he should see if her image fit the one that had recently haunted his dreams.
"That willnae help, sir. Ye will still be aware of my deceit. Dinnae fear to hurt my feelings. I will understand if ye cannae bear it. Ye see, I am weel aware of my ugliness. ‘Tis why I have hidden it. I couldnae bear to reveal my oddness to the world."
She let her shift fall, her folded arms all that kept her from complete exposure as the loosened top draped over them. Iain stared speechless at the full ivory breasts she revealed, the pink tips hardening as he watched. Forcing his hungry gaze from such beauty, he searched for the defect she spoke of. He almost hoped for some startling mar so as to divert his mind from the lushness within reach of his lips. Aside from noting that the rest of her was still very tiny, he found nothing. His gaze returned to her breasts although he had intended to look at her face. Other than a few faint freckles that he found delightfully alluring, she was perfection. Groaning, his hand found its way to one of those full firm breasts that almost seemed too much for her slight frame as if it had a mind of its own.
His mind screamed its warning of the danger he now faced but he heeded it not. He felt spellbound. It seemed as if there was no part of his body that did not ache for her.
The feel of her warm silken breast beneath his hand made him shake with want. He knew he could not pull back now, could not grab at some semblance of sanity. All he could do was touch her, savor the feel of her and pray that she would stop him, even flee. A small part of his passion-fogged mind reluctantly admitted that there was little chance of that. She did not seem to see the danger she was in.
Trying to speak even though his touch was sending pure fire shooting through her veins, Islaen croaked, “Ye see? I grew all out of proportion. There is nay a need to pretend; I will truly understand if ye cannae abide such an oddity for a wife."
"Oh, God,” was all Iain managed to say as he dropped the tankard in his other hand and reached out to cup her other breast.
Whatever reaction she had anticipated, it was not this. Touching them as he was, his fingers toying with the hard tips, seemed to indicate that he was not repulsed. Nonetheless, there was an odd look upon his face, a strange fire in his eyes that turned them green, and a tic in his cheek that she was having trouble deciphering, especially with a mind that was rapidly disfunctioning as the heat in her body increased.
"Iain,” she gasped as one of his hands moved down to her stomach, pushing her folded arms down as well. “Will ye say naught? Are we still to be wed?"
In the grip of a force he could not fight, Iain simply reiterated, “Oh God."
His mouth was drawn to her and his tongue flicked over each taut nipple. Islaen's hands jerked up to grasp his shoulders in a natural reaction to the shaft of desire that careened through her. That action pulled them free of the light shift which quickly joined the houppelande at her feet. Diverted for an instant, Iain's gaze moved over her in pure white hot greed. He was swamped with desire as he noted her tiny waist, slim gently rounded hips, slender well-formed legs and the wine red triangle at the juncture of her beautiful thighs. His hands gripped her small waist and he tugged her closer.
"M'God, Islaen,” he groaned before his mouth closed over the beckoning tip of one full breast.
Islaen's knees buckled as waves of pleasure melted her. She made no sound as he tossed her down on the bed and partly covered her body with his own. He kissed her hungrily, his tongue ravishing her untried mouth. The hair upon his chest further excited her breasts while his hands searched out every curve and hollow. Her hands moved over his back feeling the tensed muscles as she fell beneath the power of his fierce uncontrollable passion. A flicker of sanity came when she felt him probing for entry but it did not gain strength fast enough to stop him. Crying out softly, she gave him her innocence. In payment he gave her ecstasy, swiftly taking her to the heights where he met her in the delirious fall into desire's abyss.
For several moments they lay silently entwined, their breathing growing less harsh and their rapid heartbeats slowing to normal. Islaen was surprised to find that the weight of him felt quite nice, not light by any means but nothing she would not gladly bear, even enjoy. A tiny voice in her head murmured something about sin but she easily ignored it. This was the man she would marry in hours or, at least, she hoped so. She wondered if she were being presumptuous by assuming he did not find her odd shape repulsive just because of what had occurred. According to Meg and a good many others, a man was not overly choosey about what he lay with if the urge was strong enough.
Iain was mortified. He had gone half mad. The problem was, he was feeling so inclined again. Worse, he had spilled his seed into her and he had the feeling that that would be hard to control as well. With that dismal thought he eased their embrace slightly and looked at her unaware of the tortured look in his eyes, a look that made Islaen think all her fears confirmed.
Islaen stared at him feeling her heart contract. “Ye cannae really abide it, can ye. I had feared as much."
Silently cursing herself and fighting tears, Islaen wished she had not come to his room. She had not saved herself anything. He had shown her what they could have together and would now take it away. The very worst of her fears had become reality. Shifting beneath him, she moved to flee but he held her still.
With a sigh, Iain put aside his own fears. Someone had done a very good job of giving the girl the ridiculous idea that she was ill-formed. It was important to rid her of that yet he was not at all sure how he could.
"Islaen, ye are not odd and certainly not ugly. Where did ye come by such an idea?"
"But I am all out of proportion. ‘Tis not right to be fat in one place yet so skinny everywhere else."
"Ye are small, not skinny.” His hand touched her thigh and lingered. “There is flesh enough to draw a mon's touch. Who has given ye the idea that ye look odd or ugly?"
"Meg says I look a cow, all udder and little else,” she replied in a small voice.
"I wouldnae hurl a cow to the bed and leap upon it. Aye. ‘Tis true that ye carry more than t'would be thought right for such a wee lass but ‘tis far from ugly.” His hand moved to her breasts.
"Oh,” she breathed as his touch restoked the banked fires within her. “I dinnae mind them when ye do that, Sir MacLagan."
He bit down a laugh. “I think ye can call me Iain now. Little one, every mon here would love to be where I am now, touching such perfection. Aye, they are full but not too much despite the slightness they adorn. To then come down and clasp a waist that I can span with my hands is a true delight.” His hands moved along with his words. “This gently rounded backside feels exquisite in my hands as do these slim hips. Och, lass, these slim thighs leave a gap at their top that fair begs a mon to move in. Meg is a jealous cow."
She stared at him in speechless wonder. There was no hint that he did not mean exactly what he said. For reasons that eluded her he seemed to find the body she had kept hidden so long of interest. Doubt still lingered, however, for she could think of no reason for Meg to lie to her. Then again she could think of no reason for Iain to lie to her either. She wanted to believe he found her fair to look upon, but for too long she had been thinking otherwise. Islaen found her thoughts growing decidedly confused and decided to get back to the matter at hand.
"Weel, I cannae believe I have suddenly become a beauty, but does all that mean that we will still be wed?"
"Aye.” He hid his dislike of the match for the first time. “I have just had of ye what should have been saved for your wedding night."
"That doesnae matter, Iain,” she gasped, her voice failing as his lips caressed her breasts. “I will understand if ye cannae abide it."
"Sweet, stupid, Islaen, I cannae keep my hands nor my mouth from ye. Would it be so if ye were at all repulsive to my eyes?"
"Nay, mayhaps not. Oh,” she breathed as his mouth closed over the tip of one breast and his hand caressed her taut belly, edging ever closer to the wine red treasure that he was aching to possess again. “How do ye do that? Make me go all hot and melting?"
A shudder tore through him at her words and he eased his hand between her thighs. “I dinnae ken, lass. How do ye make me crave this when I ken ‘tis the last thing I should seek? How can ye make me break all my vows to myself?"
Her initial shy tension gone, Islaen was turning to fire in his hands. “What vow was that?” she moaned, arching to his touch.
"That I wouldnae touch the women. Ah, ye have a muckle fine touch, lass,” he groaned as her hands moved over his backside. “I vowed I would be careful when we wed for ye maun ne'er get with child. I willnae kill anither woman.” He moved her hand to the proof of his strong, uncontrollable desire for her. “Touch me here, lass. Ken what ye do to a mon."
Her long fingers curled around him, then stroked and explored. She astutely understood his meaning but knew no way to dispel his errant opinions. There was really only one way to prove him wrong. It was soon evident to Islaen that Iain had no intention of letting her get with child, so that she could show him that he was wrong.
It was difficult to speak as her small hand lightly stroked him. Iain wanted to simply give into the strong, exquisite feelings she was able to stir in him but he fought that temptation. Later, when he had made her understand, when she had given him the promise he needed, he would let his passion run wild and free.
Forcing himself to think, he tried to gather the words needed to explain himself, yet not offend her. To tell a woman that she could have the marriage but not the children was not the easiest thing to do. Some women would be very grateful, but Iain sensed that Islaen was not one of those. She certainly had not sounded so on that day they had argued in the gardens.
Looking into her eyes he found that he also had to convince himself again. All he could think of was a sweet, lively girl child with Islaen's pretty eyes. He ached for a family but he tried to fight that weakness. Those thoughts put him into such a state of confusion that he decided not to explain himself. He would simply tell her what she would do. It was, after all, his right as her husband.
"I can at least try to keep my vow that I willnae get ye with child. For me to spill my seed outside is one way,” he gasped as her naturally skillful fingers toyed with the holders of that seed, “but I ken that will be verra hard so I will have ye do this for me.” Ignoring her blushes, he explained the sponge method to her. “Promise me, lass.” He was suddenly fierce as he stared at her. “Promise or we will ne'er lie this way again, I swear it."
Islaen stared at him for a moment. She could not believe what he was asking of her. For only one brief moment did she think he was joking when he threatened to stay out of her bed. That hope faded when she looked into his eyes. He meant every word he said.
It was a sin, both what he asked and what she decided she had to do. Then again he had no right to ask her to commit the sin of preventing conception. So too did he have no right to deny her the child she had every right to as his wife and in the eyes of God. She threw out a hasty prayer for forgiveness and asked that, in the end, she did not simply add to his anguish and guilt. With that done, she looked him straight in the eyes, her hands clutching his hips to pull him closer and proceeded to lie through her teeth.
"Aye, I promise, Iain, an it is what ye wish."
"It is,” he growled and then took her mouth in a hungry kiss.
His response to her promise was all that she could wish. Her guilt was pushed aside as they made their rapid climb to the heights and made the dizzying fall into passion's abyss as one. Sated, they lay in each other's arms. Iain knew he should send her back to her chambers but, instead, he let her rest a while before making love to her again. It was dawn before they both succumbed to exhaustion, Iain's head nestled comfortably on the full breasts that had so long been only a burden to their owner.