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Authors: Theresa Meyers
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the quicker the better. She tugged away the veil.
A sensual smile curled his firm lips and sent a warm heat rushing through her. His eyes were bright in a way that had nothing to do with drink, and everything to do with pleasure.
Out in the hall the cacophony of clanging claymores and banging pans echoed as the revelers began their efforts to keep the newly wed couple on edge.
"Will they be up to see us to bed?" he asked, as he gently cupped her face in his hand and traced along her cheek with his the pad of his thumb. His touch was possessive, but soft.
"I think not. As much as tradition bids it, I think they believe the witch would curse them should they do it."
Ian shifted his touch and lifted her chin with his palm. The way he looked into her eyes made her believe in that precise moment he could divine the very nature of her soul.
"Are you a witch?" It was barely a whisper, but shook her to the core.
"Nay." Her heart pounded harder in her chest and her desire-muddled brain cleared for an instant. Was he a witch pricker under another guise? Did he plan to take her at her most vulnerable, now no one could gainsay him and condemn her for coins from the kirk? As her mind spun in a panic, his next words brought those thoughts to a screeching halt.
"Then how do you explain the spell you’ve cast over me?"
She was momentarily stunned. He was daft, that was the only explanation for it. He thought himself under a spell?
"The powder I gave you was a protective, nothing more."
His lips tilted upward in a teasing grin and his fingers undid the leather strip that bound her plaited hair.
"I know. The earl indicated I should trust you. I drank it and am no worse for it."
"But you protested at dinner."
"Aye." His fingers sunk into her hair, and unwound the plait, sending shivers of a different sort coursing through her.
"Doesn’t it bother you that I’ve not a husband who’s survived the wedding night?"
"Nay," he murmured as he threaded one hand into her loose hair, then pulled her into the powerful embrace of his arms with the other. "For one, I’m not like your other husbands. For another, you’ll not kill me."
A burning jolt flashed through her and she pushed back from him.
"‘Tis not I that will be your undoing, but something far stronger." His touch scorched her skin.
He straightened, his voice laced with a deadly calm. His eyes narrowed.
"You think me weak? Is this why you’d claim such a thing? Do you not wish to share your bed? Is there someone else you would have rather married?"
His grasp on her arms dug deep enough to hurt. She gasped, and felt the blood leave her face. Her stomach flipped with dread. Dear St. Bridget, she had offended him.
"Nay! There is no one."
She screwed together all her courage and with shoulders held back and chin high, stepped back toward him.
"My uncle paid you to take me to wife. I can remove the claims of being a devil’s maiden no other way. If you’ll not, then return the coins to him and leave me. He only hired you because he heard told that you were afraid of nothing."
His face lost all emotion, but his eyes were too bright. He yanked his shirt off, tossed it to the floor and stepped toward her, close enough that she could sense the frisson of heat between them.
"If this is merely a transaction, then toss your skirts up, and let’s be done with it." His flippant tone made her eyes widen.
Sorcha licked her dry lips with a quick flick of her tongue, her gaze darting away from him for a moment so she could regain her internal balance. He did not intend to hold back on his husband’s duty as she had anticipated, but any chance she had hoped for a gentle deflowering had vanished. Her insides twisted.
"Do you not think we might talk a bit first or at least kiss, again?"
He stroked his chin and walked over to the bed, then settled his gaze on her. It smoldered with a heat she could feel across the room.
"I was under the impression you only wanted the services
A sensual smile curled his firm lips and sent a warm heat rushing through her. His eyes were bright in a way that had nothing to do with drink, and everything to do with pleasure.
Out in the hall the cacophony of clanging claymores and banging pans echoed as the revelers began their efforts to keep the newly wed couple on edge.
"Will they be up to see us to bed?" he asked, as he gently cupped her face in his hand and traced along her cheek with his the pad of his thumb. His touch was possessive, but soft.
"I think not. As much as tradition bids it, I think they believe the witch would curse them should they do it."
Ian shifted his touch and lifted her chin with his palm. The way he looked into her eyes made her believe in that precise moment he could divine the very nature of her soul.
"Are you a witch?" It was barely a whisper, but shook her to the core.
"Nay." Her heart pounded harder in her chest and her desire-muddled brain cleared for an instant. Was he a witch pricker under another guise? Did he plan to take her at her most vulnerable, now no one could gainsay him and condemn her for coins from the kirk? As her mind spun in a panic, his next words brought those thoughts to a screeching halt.
"Then how do you explain the spell you’ve cast over me?"
She was momentarily stunned. He was daft, that was the only explanation for it. He thought himself under a spell?
"The powder I gave you was a protective, nothing more."
His lips tilted upward in a teasing grin and his fingers undid the leather strip that bound her plaited hair.
"I know. The earl indicated I should trust you. I drank it and am no worse for it."
"But you protested at dinner."
"Aye." His fingers sunk into her hair, and unwound the plait, sending shivers of a different sort coursing through her.
"Doesn’t it bother you that I’ve not a husband who’s survived the wedding night?"
"Nay," he murmured as he threaded one hand into her loose hair, then pulled her into the powerful embrace of his arms with the other. "For one, I’m not like your other husbands. For another, you’ll not kill me."
A burning jolt flashed through her and she pushed back from him.
"‘Tis not I that will be your undoing, but something far stronger." His touch scorched her skin.
He straightened, his voice laced with a deadly calm. His eyes narrowed.
"You think me weak? Is this why you’d claim such a thing? Do you not wish to share your bed? Is there someone else you would have rather married?"
His grasp on her arms dug deep enough to hurt. She gasped, and felt the blood leave her face. Her stomach flipped with dread. Dear St. Bridget, she had offended him.
"Nay! There is no one."
She screwed together all her courage and with shoulders held back and chin high, stepped back toward him.
"My uncle paid you to take me to wife. I can remove the claims of being a devil’s maiden no other way. If you’ll not, then return the coins to him and leave me. He only hired you because he heard told that you were afraid of nothing."
His face lost all emotion, but his eyes were too bright. He yanked his shirt off, tossed it to the floor and stepped toward her, close enough that she could sense the frisson of heat between them.
"If this is merely a transaction, then toss your skirts up, and let’s be done with it." His flippant tone made her eyes widen.
Sorcha licked her dry lips with a quick flick of her tongue, her gaze darting away from him for a moment so she could regain her internal balance. He did not intend to hold back on his husband’s duty as she had anticipated, but any chance she had hoped for a gentle deflowering had vanished. Her insides twisted.
"Do you not think we might talk a bit first or at least kiss, again?"
He stroked his chin and walked over to the bed, then settled his gaze on her. It smoldered with a heat she could feel across the room.
"I was under the impression you only wanted the services
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