Page 67 of The Scottish Bride
He was deep asleep, breath slow over her cheek. A nuance of moonlight through the window revealed his face. Not wanting to stir and wake him, she lay watching.
How was he here? She recalled lying on her side while he sang soft and low; then she had dozed. He must have fallen asleep too, seated on the bed with his shoulders against the wall, then had stretched out beside her, perhaps too tired to realize it.
She should have been alarmed to find him, might have leaped away, but she pressed close, comfortable in the warmth and quiet as his breath stirred her hair, as his hand slid, heavy with sleep, to rest at her waist.
Somehow, despite all that had happened between them—truth and falsity, doubts and fears—she felt perfect ease, as if he belonged beside her, in her bed.
Married by October—suddenly the phrase came back to her. Because she thought it meant Malise, the premonition had frightened her. But perhaps all along that promise, brought by the Sight, had meant Liam.
She studied his face, its planes and shadows balanced in beauty, dark brows, long-lidded eyes, tender mouth, the bristles of dark beard, a sweep of dark shining hair—and felt a sense of the true man. Suddenly she did not doubt that she could trust him, knew she had been foolish to resist him. The thought of a betrothal felt good and right now.
All will be well,he had assured her once. She wanted to believe it—believe in him.
Lifting a hand, she brushed back the dark hair that waved over his brow, let her fingers curve along his cheekbone, trace over the dark bristles along his jaw, textured like warm dark sand. Trust and truth were hers now, she thought. With him.
Stretching a little in the dark, she kissed his jaw, feeling the slight prickle against her lips, her breath mingling with his. Then she shifted and turned to snuggle her back against him, closing her eyes, flowing toward sleep again.
Then she felt him move, his fingers sliding to cup her shoulder. Felt his lips in her hair, pressing gently at her temple. She turned a little, her shoulder beneath his cupping hand, and his fingers spread over her throat, along her jaw, tilting her toward him. He kissed her, tentatively at first, his lips seeking, questioning, a movement almost drunken with sleep. She smiled against him, answering with a tilt of her head to welcome his mouth fully over hers.
Heartbeat quickening, body surging, she spun in his arms, drinking in the next kiss and the ones that followed. The silence felt seductive, almost holy in this sanctuary of peace and safety. Betrothal or none, vows or none, she felt nothing amiss. All was well. Whatever she had doubted faded in an instant under his lips, his touch; whatever loneliness she had felt melted in the warm circle of his arms like ice on a hearth.
As his hands roamed downward, his touch rounding, discovering, she arched against him, letting him know silentlythat here in the cocoon between them, she wanted this. Her heartbeat quickened with desire, with hope. His hand slid over her breasts, over wool and linen, while her body tingled beneath, aching. When his fingers rounded over her hip, she rucked up her skirts, wanting—without thought, without judging if this should happen—to feel his fingers on her skin, sighing, pressing toward him.
She could feel him against her now, hard where she was soft, muscled where she curved, the fit natural, the heat of his body, through the wool of their garments, driving her to seek more. Darkness, silence, touch and kiss and caress, all of it at once surged through her, delicious, mysterious, alluring.
Looping her arms around his neck, she shifted, wanting him to cover her if he wanted it too, if he was ready—wanting to let him know, without a word, that she wanted this too, more desperately with each kiss. Each heated, tender exploration of his fingers as they slipped upward, finding her breast and bringing it to pearling, sent a spike of desire through her. She gasped, a vibrant sound in the room’s thick silence. They were sealed in privacy here by stone walls, thatched roof, a warm and intimate space for secrets, for the passionate affinity growing between them. As he traced fingertips down and then over her abdomen, her body fluttered, desire rising. His hands soothed over, down, upward and under her clothing, his fingers heated and rich with sensation. She leaped a little with his touch, curving against him, shifting to allow. Then, opened, aching, she pulled him toward her. His lips were on her cheek, on her throat, kisses tracing there, his breath as ragged as hers now.
“Are you sure?” The barest whisper, a deep and mellow thrum. “My lass, sure?”
Her lips muffled his words. “Now, love,” she breathed, knowing the word was true, and she surged to meet him, accept his solidity, his thrust and his spirit with all that bloomed andburst within her. His hands buttressed her, carried her onward, his body rocking hers, breaths hard and fast and rising, a soft cry streaming from her, echoing his deep groan, his voice beautiful, soul beautiful rising through her—
Finally, there was a kiss and a separating, cooler air, and she missed him, wanted more. His arms came around her as he pulled her close.
“Jesu,” he said, “dear lass, what have I done?”
“What havewedone,” she said.
“I am sorry”—he pressed his cheek to her head—I was half asleep, or would have stopped myself. I thought it was a dream. Beautiful dream. Forgive me.”
“Do not.” She pressed fingers to his lips. “I wanted this too, so—”
Bong.The bell startled her like thunder.Bonnnng.
“The prime bell. Dawn already.” He shoved a hand through his hair. Then he drew her to him and kissed her, the motion loosening what was left of the plaiting in her hair, soft gold spilling over her, over him. He sat up.
“Now we have something else to sort out between us, lass.”
“Aye, but what we did, sirrah, was neither harmful nor wrong. Though—did we make a promise of marriage when we talked last night? I was so tired, I am not all that sure. It may be binding, that agreement.”
“We agreed to betroth, and that is binding in some circumstances.” He tilted a brow. “Like this circumstance. At least in Scotland it is binding. What would you like to do about that?”
As she began to answer, the bells pealed again. Liam combed her hair back with his fingers, waiting for quiet. Shivers went through her, and she drew a breath.
“If we promised to marry, we—confirmed that promise just now.”
“And that, my lass, is binding. Consummation is regarded as marriage by Church and Scots law both—providing they learn of it.” He stroked her hair. “So it seems we have just married ourselves by law and Church, following our agreement to betroth.”
“You know a good deal about Scots law.”
