Page 52 of Never Kiss a Scot
“You didn’t,” she replied, leaning into him to nuzzle his chest. She hoped he’d found some peace in this, the way she had.
He slowly pulled out, and her face burned with embarrassment at the sight of him, but he merely chuckled and fixed his trousers. Then he retrieved her chemise, and she stood so she could slide it down her body. But before she could pick up the rest of her clothes, he caught her and gathered her up into his arms.
“Leave it, lass. I want to take you to my bed and hold you.”
“I won’t argue with that. Freya may well be in my bed by now. And I’d much rather cuddle with you than her.” She couldn’t say that she’d felt foolish for going back on her desire to share his bed every night. But perhaps he’d understand now that she was recommitting to her desire to keep one shared marriage bed and not two.
He chuckled and kissed her as he began to carry her back to his chambers.
“I can walk.”
“I know. But let a man feel like a conqueror, lass. Sometimes it’s nice to carry one’s woman about, especially when he’s headed to bed.”
She definitely wouldn’t argue with that.
They entered his bedchamber, and he set her down on her feet before he pulled back the covers so she could crawl beneath them. She rolled onto her back, closing her eyes as she listened to him remove the rest of his clothes. She smiled at the sound of his boots hitting the ground. She felt the bed dip, and then she was cocooned by his large, warm body. He kissed the shell of her ear as she spooned back against him on her side.
“I truly didn’t hurt you?” he asked in a whisper.
“No, it’s was spectacular.” She rolled over to face him. They shared a pillow as she tucked her head under his chin. She’d had plenty of rest in the last two days while they’d taken the coach to his castle and she’d felt relaxed and ready for him this time. And the pain of losing her maidenhead hadn’t been present this time. There had only been intense pleasure.
This was going to be one of her favorite parts of being married. Sleeping beside Brock, feeling his breath stir the fine hairs above her forehead and the way their legs twined and his arms curled around her, holding her close. It was impossible not to feel cherished…lovedin a moment like this.
If Brock did not feel anything, she reasoned, he wouldn’t be doing this. That was the hope she clung to as sleep crept in upon her. She would find a way to make him fall in love with her.
She fell asleep to the sensation of him stroking her hair back from her face as moonlight and shadows rippled across the room. This was sweet married bliss.
19
It was still hours before dawn when something jolted Brock from his sleep. He struggled for a moment, the dream of riding through the forests with Joanna at his side still lingering in his mind, before a strangled panting sound caught his attention and drove him fully awake.
Joanna!
He turned toward his wife, and panic seized him. She was writhing in pain. Beads of sweat dewed on her forehead, and she clutched her stomach as she curled in around herself.
“Lass, what’s wrong?” He pulled the bedclothes back, afraid he would see blood or some evidence that he had harmed her during their lovemaking, but he saw nothing save her legs, which were bent up in a state of agony. He tried to catch his breath as his heart beat a visible pulse under his skin as loud as thunder. She couldn’t be ill. No, she couldn’t be.
“I…feel quite…wretched.” She leaned over the side of the bed and suddenly vomited. Brock held her, letting her heave as he pulled her hair back from her face and rubbed her back as his thoughts raced wildly. What was happening? Why?
“Breathe, Joanna. You must calm your body or else you will never stop.”
She sucked in a whimpering, anguished breath and started to cry.
It shattered his heart and terrified him. He needed to send for the doctor, but he couldn’t leave Joanna until she calmed a little.
It took nearly ten minutes before she stopped heaving and lay limp and exhausted on the bed, her head dangling off to the side a bit. He gingerly moved her back a little to try to make her more comfortable.
“Will you be all right alone for a minute, lass? I need to wake Tate and send for the doctor.”
“Yes. I don’t think…I have anything else left in me to…” She winced and placed a hand over her stomach. Brock stroked her hair, murmuring an apology before he threw his trousers and boots on and ran from the room. He headed to the east wing where the servants’ quarters were and pounded on Tate’s door.
“Tate!” he bellowed and pounded again. “Tate, wake up! Joanna is ill.”
A moment later, Tate opened his door and blinked owlishly up at him. “The lady is ill?”
“Yes. It’s very bad. I need you to fetch Dr. McKenzie straightaway.”
Tate grabbed his housecoat and pulled on his boots. Brock went to wake the cook, Mrs. Tate. She was not all amused to be dragged from her bed, and she grumbled about delicate English females as she headed to the kitchens to make some tea. Brock rushed back up to his room and found Joanna in the same position, lying on the edge of the bed.
