Page 25 of The Handfasting
“Wait!” she cried. “Ye cheated!”
“Hurry up!”
“But ye never said go!”
“Go!” he yelled.
He gained several good yards. But then he made the mistake of turning around to gloat. While he was running backward, his heel caught on a tree root, and he fell smack on his arse.
She burst into laughter, charging past him as he scrambled to get up.
“Come back here, wife!” he bellowed after her.
“I don’t think so!” she crowed.
“But a wife’s supposed to obey her husband!”
She only laughed.
Chuckling, he dusted the snow off of his surcoat and let her get a short distance ahead. He was enjoying the view, after all, watching her bustling backside and catching a glimpse of her lovely calves as she picked up her skirts to scurry through the snow.
He couldn’t get over the fact that she was his. That breathtaking, vibrant, fresh-faced Highland lass belonged to him. How he’d gotten so lucky, he didn’t know. But he didn’t intend to let her get away from him. Now or ever.
In the end, he let her win, but only by an instant. He nipped at her heels the whole way, making her squeal in panic one moment and giggle at his antics the next. By the time they collapsed against the gate, they were breathless from running and giddy with laughter.
He grinned into her shining gray eyes and bent to give her a bold kiss, deciding he didn’t care whether it was proper or not. What should it matter if a few curious clansmen saw how much he loved his bride?
Her lips were cool. Her tongue was warm. Her breath mingled with his as they kissed, then caught their breath, then kissed again.
“You win,” he whispered, cradling her face with his palm. Then he stepped back with his arms outstretched. “Go ahead. Undress me.”
She gasped in delighted shock, shoving at his chest. “Ye’re a wicked, wicked man.”
She’d add a few more “wickeds” if she could read the lusty thoughts coursing through his head right now. Of course, he wasn’t about to act on any of them. By now there were several sets of eyes on them.
Instead, he escorted her politely through the gate, walking hand-in-hand with her.
The courtyard was bristling with Yuletide preparations. Cooks roasted haunches of mutton on a great spit. Maidservants tied together clumps of evergreen with red ribbon. Kitchen lads carted baskets of bread into the keep. And in one corner of the yard where the snow had been shoveled away, his men were sparring, providing lively entertainment for the laird and for the wee lads gathered round.
When No?l lifted his gaze, he saw someone else was watching. At the highest window of the tower, intently studying the knights, was Caimbeul.
“They’re very good,” his bride exclaimed as she saw his men crossing blades.
He smiled. “Aye.” The Knights of de Ware were the best swordsmen in France.
He peered up again at the window. Caimbeul had spotted him. The young man was staring back at him with a venomous glare.
No?l frowned. Was that jealousy? He had to find out. He might not be able to mend the lad’s broken heart. But he could at least try to make peace with him and make the truth—that Cathalin was his wife now—easier to bear.
“Would ye like to watch them for a bit?” he asked her.
“Aye, if ye don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Kissing her knuckles and releasing her hand, he glanced up again at the scowling Caimbeul. “I’ll be back. I’ve somethin’ to attend to.”
Ysenda admired good swordsmen. It was a trait she’d doubtless inherited from her mother. And the Knights of de Ware were far superior to any fighters she’d seen in Scotland.
But that wasn’t the real reason she wanted to watch them.
