A Scandalous Scot (21 page)

Everything had changed, however, hadn’t it? A thought lasting until she saw Morgan striding down the Long Gallery. She didn’t need light to know there was an intent and determined look on his face.

Her fear level rose to eight.

S
he looked absurd standing there, the moonlight streaming over her dark cloak. She hadn’t fastened it; in between the folds he could see the hint of her nightgown. She looked ethereal, like a ghost of herself.

Foolish woman.

His pulse raced, no doubt because of their argument. He’d always liked a good debate.

How long had it been since he’d bedded a woman? Long enough. He didn’t have to deny himself any longer, did he?

“Do virgins feel lust?” he asked, stopping in front of her.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, blinking.

He didn’t ask again; he knew full well she’d understood him the first time.

“You seemed interested in me when I was naked. Was it lust I saw on your face?”

Lillian had seduced him; Jean had no concept of the idea. She didn’t realize how lovely she was, standing in the moonlight, the illumination enough that he could discern the frown on her face.

A prickly bride.

“I have no intention of answering that question.”

“Let’s say it was lust. Couldn’t you feel it again?”

She blinked at him.

“You think I insulted you,” he said.

“It’s not an opinion, Your Lordship. You did.”

“Morgan.”

“I’m not your first wife.”

That comment was surprising.

“No, you certainly aren’t.”

“If you’d wanted a beautiful wife, you shouldn’t have insisted on this marriage.”

He was not about to respond to that comment. “Are you really afraid?”

She turned her head, an answer without words.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her toward him. Pressing his lips against her ear, he whispered, “Don’t be afraid of me, Jean.”

“I’m not exactly afraid,” she said. “I’m cautious. Unprepared. Unschooled.”

“Virginal.”

She nodded.

He turned her, grabbed her hand and left the Long Gallery.

It was time that inconvenient virginity was done away with; the sooner the better.

S
he was not foolish enough to try to escape, but his strides were longer than hers and her slippers kept falling off.

In the corridor she said, “I won’t run away, but I can’t keep up with you. Or am I to leave my shoes as a trail for the maids to follow in the morning? Like your French story?”

He turned and looked at her. She pulled her hand free and bent to put on her slippers again.

Standing, she said, “If I agree to go with you to your suite, will you let me do so without dragging me there?”

A look slid over his face, too quickly for her to decipher it. But he immediately bowed his head in acknowledgment of her words.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be boorish.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You weren’t boorish. Perhaps a little eager,” she added.

His smile took her aback.

“I’ll be damned if I know how to act at this moment,” he said. “I never envisioned a wedding night like this.”

“I never envisioned a wedding night,” she admitted.

“Surely that’s not true. Didn’t you see yourself marrying?”

She shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I did see myself attending Catriona’s wedding, being a doting aunt to all her children, but as for myself, no.”

He looked at her and frowned.

She’d said something wrong, something that had irritated him. Instead of speaking, however, he simply turned and led the way to the Laird’s Tower. Not once did he look back. She felt not unlike a mongrel pup who’d found a hint—the barest hint—of a meal and a place to rest for the night.

“Shall I feel grateful you’ve decided to bed me?”

“If you wish,” he said, his voice reverberating against the stone of the tower.

She halted on the steps, one hand gripping her nightgown and cloak, the other holding onto the banister.

“Were your ancestors called the Murderous MacCraigs because they killed people or because they incited others to violence?”

At the top of the stairs he turned and looked down at her, his smile causing her heart to beat faster.

“Have I incited you to violence, Jean?”

He incited her to something, but she wasn’t exactly sure what it was.

Her hands were trembling, her face felt too hot. She’d never had any training in flirting. Nor did it come naturally to her, as it did to Catriona. Tonight, of all nights, she should feel soft and feminine, intriguing, a little mysterious. Instead, her fear level remained at an eight.

If he kissed her, perhaps she’d feel better.

She eyed him as she climbed the rest of the stairs.

“May I ask you something?”

He turned back and glanced at her. A nod was her only encouragement.

“Does a woman experience pleasure in the marriage bed?” She didn’t look at him when she spoke, but at the floor. “Is that proper?”

“You ask the damnedest questions, Jean.”

Still, she didn’t look at him, moving beyond him to stand at his sitting room door.

“It doesn’t seem quite right if a man is the only one to enjoy the act, does it?”

“Shall we adjourn to the library so you can seek out a book on the subject? Or talk to one of your ghosts?”

“I doubt if there’s a book on the subject,” she said.

“You’ve already looked.”

She wasn’t going to answer that. “And they’re more properly your ghosts,” she said. “And they’ve given me no advice at all. Not even the French Nun, and I half expected her to counsel me to run as far and as fast as I can from you.”

“Why? We’re married. You’re not in danger of becoming a fallen woman.”

He swung open the door and made a gesture with his arm for her to precede him. She did so, forcing herself to take a deep breath. Her fear level was now an eight and a half or perhaps a nine.

Without being coaxed, she strode into his bedchamber, removing her cloak and throwing it on the nearest chair. Seconds later her wrapper joined the cloak.

Again, without a word or an action on his part, she climbed up on the bed and sat on the edge, her hands clasped demurely on her lap. She stared straight ahead, wishing the mirror on the wall wasn’t aligned so she could see herself as she sat there. In the moonlight, she looked unearthly pale, except for the twin spots of color on her cheeks. Her hair, however, looked exceptionally well.

“If women didn’t enjoy it, I doubt my wife—” He stopped himself. “—Lillian would have engaged in it.”

She nodded, wishing he hadn’t brought up Lillian again.

“I’m not going to ravage you,” he said.

“Pity,” she said. “If you did ravage me, it would be over soon. We’d be done with it.”

He didn’t say anything. When she turned her head, he was staring at her with the most interesting look on his face.

“Are you angry?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Surprised, perhaps. Confused, of a certainty. I never expected to be urged to hurry on my wedding night.”

“Oh, I’m not asking you to hurry,” she said, feeling the fear level rise one notch. “But it would be better if it was done with, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” he said, coming to stand before her. “If that’s how you feel, we should perform the expurgated version of the wedding night.” He reached out and unclasped her hands, taking both of them in his larger ones.

“You’re a virgin?” he asked solemnly.

She nodded, just as serious.

“And you want this done rather quickly?”

She nodded, a little less fervently.

He gently pulled her from the bed until she was standing in front of him, placed both hands on either side of the curved neckline of her nightgown, and ripped the garment in two.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly.

It would be foolish to pretend otherwise, so she only nodded.

She was standing there naked before him, and he was looking at her with the same intensity and regard she’d once studied him.

She forced herself to stand straight, hands down at her sides. Let him look his fill, then. She certainly had.

A small smile graced the corners of his mouth.

“You call yourself plain, Jean?”

What did he expect her to say? Compared to Catriona, she was.

“I’ve never seen a woman less plain.”

She wanted to ask him if his experience with women was so extensive, then realized it would be a foolish question indeed. It might bring Lillian back into the room.

Besides, Morgan was tall, strong, and handsome. Of course he had a great deal of experience.

His hand reached out and gently cupped her breast, his thumb sliding over her nipple. Her indrawn breath made him smile.

“I didn’t touch you,” she said.

His laughter was disconcerting. “No, but you wanted to.”

Her gaze flew to his face. How had he known that?

He stepped back and began to remove his clothes. He had no hesitation in doing so, and appeared to relish her wide-eyed stare. First his shoes, then his jacket, shirt, trousers, and underclothes were removed and tossed to the other side of the room.

Did he think to have a maid in his wife? Was she supposed to pick up after him?

There was a great deal about marriage she needed to know, and it looked as if she was going to get an education right this moment.

He stood in front of her, one particular physical item of interest growing as she stared.

“Why does it do that?”

His laughter filled the room.

“It’s his way of greeting you,” he said.

“Do you always refer to it as though it’s someone else?”

He grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.

“What a delight you are, Jean,” he said, kissing her temple.

He’d effectively trapped her with her arms in front. She snaked her hands between them and wound them around to his back.

His skin was so very warm. Before she had time to further muse on the different contours of their bodies, he was kissing her.

Every thought flew out of her head.

All she could do was feel—the soft and hard texture of his lips, the heat of his inquisitive tongue, and the sensation of the top of her head lifting up to the ceiling.

Was this passion? Or was he right, and she’d been feeling lust all along?

Her fingernails scored his back, and he made a sound in his throat.

Shamed, she murmured an apology against his lips.

He pulled back and looked at her, his eyes glittering.

“Why?”

She only shook her head.

He took another step backward, and she wanted to apologize again. Was he going to leave now? Had she hurt him, or done something wrong?

Her hands flailed in the air, coming to rest against her thighs. Her body was warm, as if he’d somehow conveyed his heat to her. Her skin felt prickly, and her breath was coming too fast.

She wanted to do something and didn’t know what.

“Dear God, you’re lovely,” he said, his voice sounding choked.

He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, then trail down her left arm. The other measured the contours of her right breast.

“You have magnificent breasts,” he said. “And that damnable uniform didn’t give a hint of you.”

“I believe that’s the intent,” she said.

His laughter startled her again. Was she supposed to make him laugh so often, especially on their wedding night?

Now, one large hand cupped a buttock, while the other pressed flat against her abdomen.

She shivered.

“Everything about you is perfect,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

She’d never known words could warm her from the inside out.

Her hand reached out and pressed flat against his chest, wanting to make him feel the same.

“You are,” she said softly.

He was a statue come to life, Roman or Greek, did it matter? He was a warrior, and she could easily envision him holding a shield and a spear. Or perhaps it was more correct to say he already held a spear, one pressing insistently against her.

She smiled at her own impropriety. Then he was kissing her again, but this time the room swirled around her. No, that was him as he put his arms around her.

Suddenly, she was on her back. How had he managed that?

Before she could comment, he was on the bed, leaning over her, kissing her again, and her hands had no place to go but trail through the hair on his chest.

“I wish to God you weren’t a virgin,” he said, kissing her throat.

Shocked, she drew back.

“Do you want me experienced?”

His expression was suddenly thunderous. “You’ll not lie with anyone else, Jean. Ever. You’re my wife. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, Your Lordship. Must you call me ‘wife’ in that tone? As if I’m vermin? Or Lillian?”

Abruptly, he was standing beside the bed, glaring down at her.

“You’re right, this marriage was a mistake.”

As she watched, naked and stunned, he stalked to where he’d tossed his clothing, grabbed it and left the room.

She fell back on the bed, staring up at the tester. Her lips were still tingly. Her body still felt his touch, but Morgan had left her.

Surely, this wasn’t a normal wedding night? This was the second time he’d stalked off. Was that a usual reaction from a bridegroom?

Should she return to her room? Should she go in search of him?

Was the peerage so different? She couldn’t understand why he’d been so offended. All she’d done was ask a question. Was she not supposed to ask questions? Was she supposed to be docile, submissive, and subservient?

In other words, was she supposed to behave exactly as she had as a maid?

She sat up, looked around for her cloak, and realized she’d left it in the sitting room. Naked, she peered around the door.

Morgan wasn’t there. She sighed heavily as she donned her cloak and left the Laird’s Tower, her destination the one place he would go in the middle of the night.

A few moments later she stood in front of the library door. The fact it was closed indicated he was inside.