Page 134 of Bride of Ice
The laird and her husband had even afforded him special courtesies. His own bedchamber. An extra chest for his vast selection of garments. The daily hot baths he so enjoyed.
But he’d seen the clan folk whispering in the corners behind their hands. And he’d heard enough to know what they were saying.
In a clan full of warriors, Archie was as misfit as a duck in a dovecot. He had no interest in battle and no stomach for bloodshed. And no matter how Rauve, the captain of the guard, tried to encourage his skills, hoping to mold him into the protector everyone needed for their laird, Archie always ended up with a bruised and battered body and a face full of dust, feeling like a miserable failure.
He’d ultimately decided, despite their displeasure, no one was trying to poison him. What made him nauseous and dizzy was the anxiety of having to prove himself to these very demanding border clansmen…and women.
Disappointment was clear in everyone’s eyes. His bride’s father frequently frowned in concern. Her mother’s cool smile was edged with pity. Hallidis’s oldest siblings, Gellir and Brand, gave him glares of barely disguised contempt. Her sister, Isabel, regarded him with sorrow and despair, as if she wished he would vanish.
There were moments he wished hecouldvanish.
Only one person kept him from surrendering all hope and made Archie think there might be a chance at happiness in this household.
Ian.
Hallie’s youngest brother.
He was blond. Frail. Young. Comely. Exactly the kind of lad suited to Archie’s particular tastes.
A lad of intellect, he even seemed to bear some affection for Archie. He’d shown Archie his book of clever drawings and pretty letters. He’d demonstrated his designs for birds made of parchment that could actually fly. He’d even given Archie a pouch of what he said was dried mint and mugwort to help soothe his stomach, though at the time Archie had thrown it down the garderobe hole, fearing it might be poison.
The lad’s one flaw was he was sometimes too forthright and forthcoming. Perilously prone to speaking freely and sharing information. He hadn’t hesitated to explain to Archie that the reason everyone at Rivenloch hated him was because he wasn’t a champion and he wasn’t The One. Whatever that meant.
In any event, Archie had won Ian’s trust, which was…fascinating.
Archie had never engaged awillinglover. Geoffrey always forced the lads they shared to do their bidding—with shame, threats, and on some occasions, violence.
The thought that Ian might come to Archie of his own free will was intriguing. Considering that, the lad might maintain Archie’s interest for longer than usual, perhaps a few years, until he approached manhood. By then, Archie might have sons of his own, lads he could train specifically to his pleasure, another interesting prospect.
First, however, he would have tomakethose sons.
He’d survived the wedding. Despite the significance and weight of the ceremony, that wasn’t what made Archie quiver and perspire with nervousness.
What troubled him was the bedding. And his history with women.
He’d never been able to perform with them. It wasn’t for a lack of trying. Indeed, it was after several disastrous trips to the stews of Stirling that Geoffrey had pulled him aside, telling him he had something that might be more to his liking.
He’d been right. And that was the last night Archie had embarrassed himself with a woman. For the last seven years, he’d sought pleasure only with the young lads Geoffrey brought to his bed.
Tonight, however—on his wedding night—he had to succeed. He had to maintain an erection long enough to claim his bride’s virginity and hopefully impregnate the lass. And he had to do it while her kin waited below for proof of his accomplishment.
“Are you all right?”
Archie cringed. Even the slightly impatient sound of his bride’s voice from the adjoining chamber was intimidating. At least she’d foregone the traditional bedding ceremony. The only thing that could have made his situation worse was a room full of witnesses.
“F-fine,” he replied, mopping his brow one last time. “Are you ready?”
It was a ludicrous question. She’d already been lying in their bed, completely naked and shameless—her breasts jutting out like a pair of pale targes from between the ropes of her hair, her impossibly long legs culminating in a strangely barren tangle of blonde curls—when he’d bolted for the garderobe in a panic.
“Aye,” she said.
Steeling himself, he emerged from the garderobe, trying to focus on anything but the lass, who gazed at him in expectation.
“Isn’t it rather bright in here?” he asked. Candles were lit all around.
“You prefer the dark?”
“Aye,” he said in a relieved outpouring of breath.
