Page 15 of The Laird's Bride
"Mr. Sinclair, I'm sorry but it's been a long day. Perhaps we could discuss this at a later date?" It wasn't a lie. She was exhausted. So much had happened. And there was still her wedding night ahead.
The older man acquiesced gracefully. She'd say this for him, he was a courtier to his beautifully manicured fingertips. She could see his point. The hall was rather bleak and gray and could use some brightening, but it didn't have to be expensive silk hangings from Paris.
And she wasn't going to be drawn into a family quarrel on her first day as a bride.
"ARE YOU READY?" CAMERON stood beside her chair, his hand out, ready to escort her upstairs.
Jeannie's heart beat a rapid tattoo. Her wedding night. She'd been thinking about it all afternoon, and now she knew exactly what she was going to say . . . He wasn't going to be happy about it.
The wine she'd been drinking at dinner tasted suddenly sour in her throat. She'd soon find out what kind of man she'd married.
At the door of her bedchamber—their bedchamber—he raised her hand and kissed it. "I'll leave you to get ready. I'll return in half an hour."
She nodded numbly, dread pooling in her stomach at the delay. She wanted it over and done with. She wanted it endlessly delayed.
Her maid waited inside. There was hot water in the jug and a fire blazing in the hearth. A wine decanter and two glasses stood on the table beside the bed. The very large bed. The sheets were turned down, the pillows plumped and waiting.
On the bed lay the brown paper parcel that the minister's wife had given her. She'd forgotten all about it. Someone must have found it in Cameron's saddlebags and brought it up.
She opened it and found a pretty nightgown, a delicate white woolen shawl, a cake of the rose soap and a small china pot. She opened it and sniffed, then dipped a finger in to test it. Face cream. Luscious and smelling faintly of roses. The nightgown was made of fine soft lawn, narrowly pin-tucked and embroidered at the scooped neck with tiny pink roses.
Jeannie hadn't worn anything so pretty to bed in her life. Given what she planned, it would be a waste to wear it tonight but she couldn't resist. Not that she had anything else to wear.
The maid, Mairie, helped her off with her dress and brushed out her hair, then feeling self-conscious, Jeannie sent her away. She washed with the rose soap, creamed her skin from the little china pot, then put on the dainty nightgown. It slipped over her skin like feathers. So light. So insubstantial. Thank goodness for the fire.
She glanced at her reflection in the looking glass and her eyes widened. The nightdress was so fine it was practically transparent. She arranged the shawl around her, but though warm, it was fine and soft and clung lovingly to her shape. Too lovingly.
It would not do at all.
Through the doorway on the right of the bedchamber lay another small room. She peeked in. Clothes hanging on hooks, a chest of drawers, boots and shoes neatly lined up. Cameron's dressing room. She searched through it rapidly until she found what she wanted, an old woolen fishing pullover, slightly unraveled at the neck, but clean. She pulled it on. It fell halfway to her knees. Perfect.
There was a knock on the door. He was here. She ran back into the bedchamber and took a flying leap onto the bed, landing on it as the door opened.
CAMERON TOOK A DEEP breath and opened the door. He was about to take his bride and make a wife of her. He couldn't wait. Ever since he'd seen her walking down the aisle of the kirk, since he'd smelled the scent of her and tasted her mouth, his body had throbbed with the knowledge that this was his woman, and that tonight she'd be his.
He smiled. She sat cross legged on the bed, looking as uncertain as a new born lamb. Under his gaze she flushed, and dragged the bedclothes up like a shield, covering her bare legs. And what the hell was she wearing his old pullover for? The room was perfectly warm—he'd ordered the fire himself.
Mind, he had no complaint; she looked very fetching in the shapeless old thing, one thin, bare shoulder sliding out of the loose raveled neck.
He couldn't wait to strip it off her.
She also looked pale and wary and a wee bit nervous. That was as it should be. Brides were nervous. Grooms were not.
Cameron shrugged off his coat. He wasn't the least bit nervous. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, well primed and raring for action. Well, his body was. But tonight, at least, his desires would have to take second place to hers.
He unbuttoned his waistcoat, placed it on top of his coat and loosened the ties at the neck of his shirt. Her eyes were on him, big and wide and dark in the firelight.
Cameron knew his way around a woman's body. He knew fine how to pleasure a woman. He'd gentle his bride and take her slow and easy, bringing her to the business with all the finesse at his fingertips—and that, he flattered himself, was considerable. She'd find pleasure in her marriage bed, he was determined on it. It would make her a more malleable, contented and obedient wife.
He pulled off his boots and, in his stockinged feet, walked toward the bed, smiling.
"Don't come any closer," she warned, her hands held up ready to ward him off.
Aye, she was nervous, all right. "Don't worry, lass, I'll be gentle."
"I said stop!" she repeated. "There's something I need to say to you first."
Cameron sat down on the end of the bed. "Go ahead."
