Page 45 of The Laird's Bride
His stomach lurched. Did she just say what he thought she'd said?
She leaned forward, her hands moved at his hips, there was the click of buckles and he felt his kilt begin to slide away. He grabbed it, clutching it against him. "What the hell?"
"I . . . I've changed my mind. I canna wait any longer." She tugged gently at his kilt. "I want you now."
"But . . . I promised you a fortnight. It's only been eight days." And eight interminable nights.
Her eyes were luminous as she said, "I release you from your promise, husband."
He said nothing, just stared down at her, trying to breathe.
"The courtship is over, it's time to start the honeymoon." In one movement she pulled her nightgown over her head and knelt there, naked on the bed, her heart in her eyes.
His kilt fell away unnoticed as, with a groan, he pulled her to him. He lavished her with kisses, loving every inch of her skin with hands and mouth and body. She was warm satin, fragrant as petals and her hair flowed over her pale skin like the silky dark waters of a peaty burn.
She shuddered and gasped and pressed herself against him, wrapping her long silky legs around him, plastering him with hot, fervent kisses that drove him purely wild.
He'd planned to wait, to take it slow and gentle but she was wild and eager and impatient and so greedy for him he couldn't hold himself back.
"I love you, Cameron." There, she'd said it again, and again, his heart was fair to bursting.
He entered her with one long, slow thrust. He felt the barrier of her virginity, and checked as she gasped. But before he could say a word, her eyes met his. "Now, Cameron." And with a determined expression she lifted her body, thrusting against him, and he was in. And moving. And lost.
She cried out, arching and shuddering, clutching him with hard little fingers, her thighs trembling and closing around him as her body accepted him deep inside. Welcoming him.
Ancient rhythms pounded through him and at the spiraling edge of his awareness he heard a high, tremulous cry, and felt her shudder deeply as she shattered with him.
CAMERON WOKE FIRST in the morning. Usually he sprang out of bed, raring to meet the day. Now he lay quietly, listening to the soft sound of her breathing, examining the unaccustomed feelings that lay heavy and full in his chest.
This was how he'd wake every morning for the rest of his life. In bed with his wife, with Jeannie. Who loved him.
He felt . . . He tasted the feelings floating inside him. Happy. Humbled. Awed.
A little over a week ago he'd sworn a mad, rash vow and performed the most reckless act of a somewhat reckless life. It could have been the greatest mistake of his life.
He glanced at the girl curled up against him, her silky dark chestnut hair spilling over her shoulder, half hiding her face.
Instead she was the greatest gift.
He lay there, breathing her in, the scent of her; roses and woman. His woman, his bride. His . . . love.
The realization burst on him. Aye, she was his love. He loved her. Loved Jeannie. His Jeannie.
Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled sleepily. "Cameron," she breathed, and he couldn't help it, he had to kiss her, and then, well, he couldn't help himself again. He had no self-restraint, and apparently, neither had she.
Afterward they lay entwined, their breathing slowing, skin to skin, gazing into each other's eyes.
After a while she gave a shivery sigh. "That was the loveliest way to wake up." She stretched and gave him a rueful smile. "I suppose this means the courtship is over."
And she looked at him with that damned look in her eyes that shattered him every time.
He had to tell her. The feelings were like to burst out of him. But he had no words. And then he remembered . . .
Cameron took a deep breath and began.
“‘My love is like a red, red rose
That's sweetly sprung in June.
