Page 83 of Bride of the Mad Laird
She swelled with pride at hearing her name her his wife.
“Aye, I am ready.” She smiled, while her heart began pounding. It was time to leave the festivities and, at last, be alone together.
He took her hand and got to his feet. The crowd grew silent as he waited to speak.
Finally, the hall was hushed.
“I thank ye all fer sharing our celebration and honoring me new wife.” A ripple of approval ran through the assembly at this. “It is time fer us tae take our leave and savor the delights of our first night of marriage.”
A cheer went up and as they both walked through the throng to leave the hall, Lyra kept a smile on her face. No one could be allowed any hint of the strange combination of eagerness and trepidation that filled her heart.
Tòrr wound his arm around her waist and drew her close as they made their way to his bedchamber.
“If ye wish it, me new Lady MacKinnon, I will respect yer innocence and yer convent ways. Mayhap ye would prefer tae sleep taenight in yer own bed.”
Glancing up at him she saw the concern etched on his face.
She looked up shyly from beneath her lashes. “Is it yer wish tae sleep alone, me laird, on this first night of our married life?”
His hold on her waist tightened. “Nay. ‘Tis nae what I wish fer. I long to share the delights of lovemaking wi’ ye. But ye’ve kent little of the ways of lads. I wish ye tae come tae me with readiness, nae fer me tae force meself on ye simply because ‘tis the night we’ve wed.”
They were at the door of his chamber, and he paused waiting for her answer.
It was tempting to tease him by withholding her response. But one look into his storm-cloud gaze convinced her otherwise.
She reached up and brushed his cheek with her hand.
“I am ready fer ye, me husband. 'Tis true, I ken little of the ways of men, yet I ken enough tae wish tae share every delight and every pleasure wi’ ye this night.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
Lyra’s scent was in his nostrils and his heart was beating fast as he took her in his arms and dropped a soft kiss on her forehead. Already he felt his shaft growing harder, yet he knew full well that he must use every scrap of restraint in his power.
She was an innocent, a lass who had never viewed a man’s rod when it grew into steel. Despite her eager responses to his kisses, he was aware he was a big man and sometimes daunting for the lasses he had bedded in the past. Mayhap she would be horrified.
He carried her across to the chair by the fire and let her slip through his arms so that she stood before him.
“Would ye care fer a sip of mead or wine, me lady wife?” He asked, suddenly at a loss as to how he should behave. After all, this business of marrying was new to him too.
How was a groom supposed to be with his new wife on their wedding night?
She glowed in the firelight, as he handed her a goblet of wine and poured himself two fingers of whisky.
“Well,” she said after taking a sip of the fine French wine. “Will ye kiss me again?”
He gave a small laugh at her boldness. Mayhap this night would not be such a trouble after all. He placed his whisky on the table and took her in his arms.
Apart from their tender kiss in the chapel under Father Padraig’s instructions, he had only given her gentle, brief kisses that day, when all the while he’d been aching for her.
When he had first glimpsed her on Edward’s arm walking toward him in the chapel his heart had all but left his chest. He had marveled at her beauty and at the glorious –and scarcely believable – fact that she was to be his.
Lyra’s face was upturned, her eyes closed, her lips parted just so, waiting for his kiss. He dipped his head and took her mouth with his.
At first the kiss was chaste, soft, delicate as a robin’s wing, yet she wound her arms around his neck, urging his head down, her tongue teasing his lower lip. In response, there was the rush of blood in his veins, a swirling heat that started in his belly and went to his groin like a flame igniting. He felt himself growing hard.
As the kiss deepened, their tongues melding together, her breasts pushing hard against his chest, a little sound issued from somewhere deep in Lyra’s throat, that brought an answering growl from him. He pressed her curves close, folding his hands over the round globes of her buttocks, his hardened shaft finding a place between her thighs.
She gasped, one hand reaching between them, feeling his jutting member beneath his kilt.
