9
EOIN DIDN’T KNOW what had come over him, except that he knew he wasn’t going to leave here without Margaret MacDowell as his wife.
The lass did something to him—besides turning him into a lust-crazed lad, that is. She brought out a fierce, possessive side of himself that he’d never exhibited before. He wasn’t sure he liked it, and it sure as hell wasn’t very civilized, but there was no denying that he was carrying her to the bed with every intention of ravishing her—again.
He held her gaze as he crossed the few steps to the small bed. He had to put her down to pick up the plaid he’d shoved off her shoulders and lay it down over the straw “mattress.” Next time there would be feathers and silk bed linens, but for now this would have to do. At least it was an improvement over a wall.
With any other woman he wouldn’t have considered asking what he did next. But Margaret was different. She was bold and confident, and not easily shocked. “I want to see you, a leanbh. All of you.”
It took her a moment to understand what he meant. Her eyes widened ever so slightly before meeting his with a challenge. “And if I should wish the same?”
He grinned. He was hoping she’d say that. He was realizing there were some good things about a wife who couldn’t resist a challenge. “I could hardly refuse.”
“You first,” she said, her voice a little breathy.
He’d taken his clothes off in front of more than one woman, but never had he been so aware of the effect his nakedness had on another. She watched his every movement with the rapt attention of a hawk, not missing any detail as he quickly divested himself of his clothing.
With every inch of skin he revealed, her breath would catch then quicken, until eventually he pulled off the linen tunic to reveal his chest, and it stopped altogether. If the way her eyes seemed to devour his arms and stomach were any indication, she was one of those lasses who liked a lot of muscle.
As if the breathy sounds of her arousal weren’t enough, he swore he could also feel her growing hotter. And that in turn made him hotter.
By the time he removed his braies, he was as hard as a spike. And growing harder by the minute as her eyes devoured that part of him, and egged on by a little gasp that parted her lips in a perfect little O that was too damned suggestive. It was too easy to imagine her soft pink mouth closing around him, sucking, milking, taking him deep down her throat.
“If you know how to open your throat . . .”
Ah Christ. He groaned, and her eyes flew to his. “You’re big all over,” she said almost accusingly. “No wonder it hurt.”
He grinned; he couldn’t help it. A big cock was sure as hell something he wasn’t going to apologize for. She was sure to appreciate it later, although he doubted she would believe that now. “It will feel better this time, I promise.” He lifted a brow in silent challenge. “Your turn.”
She took one more look at him, sniffed as if to say we’ll see, and started to remove her own clothing. It was his turn to watch like a hawk. Hell, he couldn’t have looked away if the English were kicking down the door.
Her movements were quick and unthinking with no hint of seductiveness, yet that is exactly what she did. There was a natural sensuality to her that could not be denied. It permeated the very air around her.
Each movement felt like a silent beckoning, a lure for him to touch her. His hands itched to rip the blasted garments right off her, but he forced his fists to his side.
She shimmied. She dipped. She reached and tugged. Tempting. Enflaming his desire with the skill of Salome and her veils.
When Margaret finally lifted the chemise over her head to reveal a body that would have made Venus weep with envy, he thought he was going to explode. Unconsciously, he’d fisted his hand around himself and was one hard pump away from doing exactly that. When her eyes followed the direction of his hand and widened with unabashed curiosity, he swore and released himself.
She definitely was going to kill him.
She was unreal. Her body more incredible than he’d imagined—and he’d done some pretty detailed imagining. Long, sleek limbs, curvy hips, a narrow waist, lush, round breasts with berry-pink nipples that jiggled enticingly as she shook out her long hair over her shoulders, and inch after inch of flawless, creamy white skin.
She stood there proudly, without an ounce of shame, as he drank her in. Why shouldn’t she? She had nothing to be ashamed about. She was perfect.
And she was his. His wild, wicked little enchantress.
Holding her gaze, he reached out to brush the back of his finger over a pearly nipple so exquisitely formed it didn’t look real. “You are beautiful, a leanbh. Beautiful.”
She grinned. “So are you.” She reached up to loop her hand around his neck, bringing their naked bodies into contact for the first time.
He hissed at the sizzling shock of sensation, sliding his arm around her velvety-soft back to draw her closer. “Warriors aren’t beautiful. You’ll have to think of some other word.”
She sucked in her breath as he started sliding his mouth down the side of her neck close to her ear. “Or what?”
His teeth closed around the tiny lobe. “Or I’ll have to punish you.”
He could feel the excited jump of her heart against his. “How?”
Naughty lass. “Like this.” He nibbled on her ear and slid his hand around to take her nipple between his fingers and start to pinch. He could tell how much she liked it by the soft little moans and deepening imprint of his cock on her belly.
Carefully, he lowered her down on the narrow bed. As there wasn’t much room, he had to prop himself on his side and lean over her. But since that gave him plenty of access to that gorgeous body, he didn’t mind.
Margaret was grateful to feel the straw of the mattress at her back, as it meant she no longer had to think about standing. She could concentrate fully on what he was doing to her.
Everything was so new and incredible. The way his mouth ravished her neck, his fingers plied her nipples, and even the feeling of his big, hard body stretched out against her. All the little details fascinated her. The warmth of his skin, how tanned it still was from the summer sun, the small V of golden hairs on his chest and the even more enticing trail that led from his stomach to his manhood.
She’d wanted to touch him. Especially after seeing the way he’d held himself in his hand, when he’d been watching her. It had made her curious. And aroused. Just looking at him made her aroused. He was wrong earlier: he was beautiful. Tall and broad-shouldered, his body was tightly packed with slab after slab of lean muscle so sharply delineated it could have been carved from stone. There was not a spare ounce of flesh on him. Good lord, his stomach was lined with so many bands the washwoman could have beat clothes against it!
When he leaned over to kiss her, she couldn’t resist sliding her palm over some of those ropey bands before coming to rest on the big rock of muscle at the top of his arm.
She loved the feeling of him leaning over her. The solidness. The weight. The connection.
His kissed her mouth, her throat, and—finally!—her breasts. The warm, wet heat of his mouth closing over her and sucking made her cry out. She arched against him shamelessly, begging for more as he sucked harder, as his tongue circled her nipple and tugged it gently between his teeth.
A strange feeling was coming over her. Building. Intensifying. Her skin felt hot, her limbs weak, the place between her legs soft and achy.
She didn’t know what she wanted until he touched her. Until his fingers found that warm place and started to caress it. Softly at first, with gentle little circles that made her body weep with pleasure.
But soon it wasn’t enough. She started to shake. Her hips started to lift against his hand, pressing . . . begging for more.
He growled—maybe muttered some kind of curse—against her breast and sucked harder. Sucked until a needle of pleasure connected his mouth at her breast and his hand between her legs. Then finally, his finger slipped inside her and gave her what she hadn’t known she wanted. Stroking. Plunging. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. The heel of his palm pressed against her, giving her the pressure she’d unconsciously craved. It felt so good . . .
She was writhing, moaning, lost in sensations she didn’t understand. Her body seemed to be struggling, fighting against something.
Vaguely she was aware of the coolness of the air against her damp breast as he lifted his head to look her in the eyes. She would never forget the way he looked, his face a tight mask of restraint, his gaze as fierce and intense as she’d ever seen it.
“It’s all right, sweetheart. Just let it go. I’ll catch you.”
Whether it was simply the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes, or that her body simply couldn’t fight it anymore, his words snapped the last threads of resistance. She gave herself over to the sensations and felt her body lift and soar.
The flight of angels. For how else could she describe the catapulting into heaven, the shattering of stars, and then the gentle floating in the clouds as the wracked spasms of pleasure slowly ebbed.
And when she finally fell back to earth, he was there to catch her just as he’d promised.
Watching the pleasure of her release play over her features was the most beautiful thing Eoin had ever seen—and also the most erotic. He had to be inside her.
Dropping a tender kiss on her mouth, he moved over her. Hands planted on either side of her shoulders, he looked into her eyes until the haze faded. “I need your vow, Margaret.”
Her mouth curved into a slow smile that wrapped around his chest and squeezed. “I, Margaret, take thee, Eoin, to be my wedded husband, to death do us depart, and thereto I plight my troth to thee.”
He repeated the vow, and with one purposeful thrust, consummated the vows they’d just spoken.
And then he stilled. Savoring the sensations. Savoring the moment of overwhelming completeness and of rightness.
It was done. They were married. Bonded by God as man and wife.
The poignancy of the moment was not lost on either of them. It seemed to be thick in the air—and in his chest.
She looked into his eyes, searching his face for a long time. He could see the emotion in her eyes and wondered if they reflected some of his own.
“No going back,” she said.
“No going back,” he agreed.
She smiled. “You were right.”
“I was?”
She nodded. “It doesn’t hurt as much the second time.” She bit her lip. “You feel good.”
“So do you, sweetheart,” he groaned, “God, so do you.”
He began to show her just how good with long, slow strokes that gave voice to the emotions inside him. He loved her, and he told her that with every kiss, every touch, every thrust. And when he’d brought her to the peak and followed her over, he told her with words as well.
“Tha gaol agam ort.”
It was a long time before either of them spoke. Eoin lay there with his new wife curled up against him—her soft cheek pressed against his chest, her hair spilled over his skin like a silken veil, his arm holding her close—feeling more content than he’d ever felt in his life, watching the room grow dark, and wishing they never had to leave.
But they had to go. The sun filtering through the hole in the roof was almost gone. As much as he wanted to stay here and delay what was bound to be an unpleasant return to the castle, they’d been gone for a couple hours and someone would have noticed their disappearance by now. People would be commenting on it, which was the last thing she needed. And soon someone—her family most likely—would come looking for them.
For her family to find them here like this would make an already precarious situation much worse. Eoin did not delude himself. Despite their marriage, he’d be lucky to come out of this without a dirk in his back. If not from Dugald MacDowell, then from one of her eight brothers. Though the youngest among them was probably still only a lad, they were a bloodthirsty bunch.
He didn’t want to think about his own family’s reaction.
Margaret propped her chin on his chest to look at him. “Did you mean it?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He swept a few red strands of hair that had tangled in her thick lashes to the side, but it was only an excuse to run his fingers over the curve of her cheek. He wondered if he’d ever get used to the baby softness of her skin. “Aye,” he said. “I meant it.”
The happiness shimmering in her eyes and the smile that lit her face warmed the chill that had crept into the darkening room with his thoughts of what was to come.
“I love you, too.”
Though he’d guessed as much, hearing the words filled him with pleasure—and not a small amount of satisfaction.
“I’m glad of it, a leanbh.” And he was. Their feelings would help to make the shite storm they’d just unleashed worth it.
He hoped.
But seeing her naked limbs entwined with his, her hair tumbling around her shoulders in wild disarray, and the boldly beautiful features turned to his, he couldn’t help feel a twinge of doubt.
Fin’s words came back to him. Attention . . . Demanding . . . Wild.
Nay. His friend was wrong. Margaret might speak and act a little outrageously at times, but that was simply because she didn’t know any better. Despite the unusual freedom in how she’d been raised, there was something oddly sheltered about her—almost innocent.
She was ignorant of social mores, that’s all, not wicked. Well, maybe a little wicked, but as he suspected that would keep him well satisfied in the bedchamber, he didn’t mind.
With everything else, his mother would help. Once Margaret spent some time at his home with his mother and sisters, she would learn what was appropriate and expected of her as his wife.
If something about that didn’t sit quite right, he pushed it aside. It would all work out.
She’d lowered her face back to his chest, and was tracing little circles through his chest hair with the tip of her finger. “I wish we could stay here like this forever,” she said. He thought she might have picked up on some of his worry until she laughed. “Although as many times as I imagined what my wedding would be like, it was never like this.”
“You wanted a big wedding?” Of course she did. Didn’t all lasses? Damn it. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “That isn’t what I meant. I just never thought my marriage would be so romantic—or that I could be this happy being so wicked.” She grinned mischievously. “Although we might want to come up with a different story to tell our children.” His heart jammed. Children? “I don’t think ‘Father ravished Mummy against a wall so he had to marry her’ is exactly the kind of lesson in courtship we want to impart.”
He couldn’t help it; he laughed. She was outrageous, and damn if he didn’t like it.
“Although I suspect I’d have a hard time convincing anyone of it,” she added.
His brows drew together. “What do you mean?”
She rolled her eyes. “You hardly ever crack a smile, Eoin. I doubt anyone will think you’ve been swept away by passion.”
“Looking at you right now they might,” he said wryly.
She grinned unrepentantly. “Do I look as wonderfully and thoroughly debauched as I feel?”
“I think I should be the one who looks proud about it, but aye, you do.”
“Ooh, I wish I had a looking glass.”
He wished he could paint a picture. He would carry it with him forever, and never tire of looking at it.
Christ, she was turning him into a lovesick troubadour. Soon he’d be composing sonnets and singing songs about her beauty.
Sliding her up his body, he lowered his head and kissed her on the lips one more time, and then on the forehead. “We need to go.”
Her gaze locked on his. “Must we?”
He nodded.
The sudden trepidation in her eyes made him think she wasn’t as oblivious to the knowledge of what lay ahead of them than he’d thought.
“Will it be so horrible, do you think?” she asked.
He lied to her for the first time. “Once the initial shock is over, I’m sure it will be fine.”