Page 20 of The Handfasting
No?l was even more magnificent than she remembered. He’d finger-combed his hair. His face was freshly scrubbed. He was dressed again in his dark blue surcoat, which set off his sparkling eyes.
Unfortunately, he looked nothing like a man who’d been forced to spend his wedding night in unrequited passion. And the memory of what they’d done washed over her like a warm wave, heating her cheeks.
“Ah. Good morn…son,” her father said. Somehow he managed to make the word sound like both an insincere welcome and an insult. He’d never called Caimbeul “son.” Not once.
“My laird,” No?l replied with a nod. Ysenda got the distinct impression No?l didn’t care to call Laird Gille “Father” either.
Already there was animosity between them. If Lord No?l found out that the laird had tricked him, it would get ugly. She couldn’t afford to let that happen, not before Caimbeul was safe.
“Have ye broken your fast, Sir No?l?” she asked, taking his hand, eager to separate the two men. “Are ye hungry?”
“Aye.” No?l was hungry, to be sure. He wanted to feast on his wife’s lovely body again.
His wife. He loved the sound of that. And to think he’d been dreading meeting his Highland bride.
When he’d awakened to find her gone, he feared it might have all been a dream. But the rumpled sheets smelled like her—fresh, warm, and womanly—and that scent had stirred him to life.
Now, walking beside his lovely new wife, he had to resist the urge to sweep her up the stairs, toss her onto the bed, and make love to her…all day long.
“There should be bannocks in the bakehouse,” she said, ushering him out the door of the great hall.
The courtyard was still covered in white. But the sun had peeped out this morn. Icicles dripped from the thatched roofs of the outbuildings. The snowy expanse twinkled like crystals.
His bride was still in her slippers. So he scooped her up to carry her toward the bakehouse.
She squeaked, startled.
He grinned down at her. Then he noticed something that made his smile vanish. One side of her face was red, as if someone had clouted her.
He stopped walking and tipped up her chin to examine the mark. He clenched his teeth. “Your cheek—did someone strike ye?”
She frowned, tugging her chin away. “Nae,” she told him. “I probably just slept on it.”
He suspected she wasn’t telling him the truth. “Ye know that I’m your protector now.” Indeed, he was surprised by just how fiercely protective he felt. “If anyone touches ye, he’ll have to answer to me.”
Her eyes went all soft and dewy when he said that. But he was serious. Any man who laid a hand on a defenseless woman deserved to be beaten to a bloody pulp.
“’Tis very chivalrous,” she said. “But ye knowIcome from a long line o’ warrior maids.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Still, he had a hard time believing his wee wisp of a wife could fend off a grown man. If someonehadstruck her—and he suspected it might be her father—perhaps it was a good thing he was taking her away from this place.
He carried her to the bakehouse. As she’d promised, there were oat bannocks, fresh out of the pan. They were warm, buttery, and filling. He ate three of them. But he saved his last bite for her. He fed her from his hand, letting his fingertip linger on her lip.
He’d appeased one hunger, but the other still nagged at him. He stared at her beautiful mouth. Then, not caring whether it was proper in Scotland, he pulled her close, lifted her chin, and placed a soft kiss on her lips.
She responded at once, letting her eyes drift closed. Her lips were pliant beneath his as she dissolved against him. He pulled her closer, reveling in her warmth. Her arms traveled up around his neck. And then he felt a strong surge of lust in his braies, one he had trouble concealing.
She gasped lightly, and he knew she felt it as well. Without another word, he finished the kiss, nodded to the baker, picked up his bride, and headed back to the keep.
Thankfully, no one stood in his way—not her unpleasant father, not No?l’s knights, not the Caimbeul lad. He climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to her chamber.
Then he stopped. Her sister was there, rummaging through Cathalin’s clothes.
“Oh!’ she exclaimed in surprise, looking back and forth between the two. “I…I just needed to…borrow a gown…from Cathalin. Is that all right…Cathalin?”
Ysenda had never felt more awkward. There was no question now. They were all conspiring together to fool the Norman knight. When he found out…
