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He scowled, reached to pick it up. His tunic
flapped, whipped about his long legs and lifted clean to his
shoulders. He snapped upright. Yanked it down in back, only to have
the front fly up.

Catalin stepped back, near gagged. She could
not mistake her father-by-law’s member, swollen and upright,
straining and near bursting his breeches in lewd excitement. She
clamped her eyelids closed.

Broccin teeth snapped together. He grabbed
hold of his tunic, trapping it against his thighs.

“You disgrace yourself, brother. Get from
this room else I’ll take that chair across your nasty head.” Lady
Joneta’s anger filled the room.

Catalin peeked in time to see her hit his
shoulders with her fists, driving him toward the door whilst
shooing everyone from the opening.

Broccin stamped through the doorway, yet
tried for the last word.

“Dinna forget, Ranald. I would see the
blood-stained sheet come dawn to prove ye are still a man!”

Chief Broccin slammed against the doorframe
like a hand had pushed him. He caught hold of it and steadied
himself, his eyes wide, then trod away, muttering.

Raik, his arm across Ranald’s shoulders,
laughed and playfully slapped his cousin’s head before stepping
away.

“I kenned it would come in handy.”

Catalin frowned. What had come in handy? He
talked in riddles. The strange sound dimmed. Had it been the men on
the landing all talking at once?

“Turn yer backs,” Elyne demanded, “so we may
tuck the bride in bed.”

She waited until Ranald, Raik and Baron de
Burgh obediently faced the wall.

Letia pulled down the covers, Elyne thumped
the pillow while Hannah lifted the smock over Catalin’s head. She
slid between the sheets. Naked. Vulnerable. Her arms blossomed with
chill bumps.

Elyne bent to hug her and kiss her
forehead.

Letia leaned close to whisper, “He is a good
man. He will be gentle with you.”

Hannah waited until they moved away. She
pulled the covers up to Catalin’s chin and bent close.

“Do not fear, lovey, all will be well,” she
whispered, patting the pillow, pretending to smooth it. “I secreted
a small vial beneath your pillow. Once Ranald is done, empty it on
the sheets without his seeing.”

Empty what? She questioned Hannah with her
eyes, but had no chance to ask, for Baron de Burgh called to
them.

“Come, ladies. We are needed here no longer.”
De Burgh smiled and held his hand out to his wife.

Catalin wished she could protest and ask the
women to stay. But what could she ask of them? Would that she could
pull her smock back on.

Her fingers itched to delve beneath the
pillow. Perchance by the vial’s shape, she could tell what it
contained. While she pondered her problem, they left. She was
alone.

Ack! No, not alone. Ranald stood at the bed’s
foot. Why did he not move?

He did. He straightened; his jaw squared. She
noted shadows darkening his cheeks, his upper lip and chin. His
raven black eyes glistened in the candlelight as he circled the
room and snuffed the candles out, one by one. He left but one
aglow, there on the table beside the bed, for it was a moonless
night.

He strode over to the big chest. ‘Twas a good
distance from door to bed. She could see only his shadow. Glad of
it, too, for he started removing his clothes. He took such care
with each piece, seeming unfamiliar with it.

Of course. How foolish of her. He was unused
to the trappings of a lord. Each item he removed, he folded and
placed inside the chest. His belt he draped over the peg above it.
He looked around, searching for something. Ah, his sword. It had
fallen when the men had jostled into the room. He stepped over to
it.

She bit her lip. He was naked, for she saw
the outline of his body. Why did he bring the sword to the bed?

“Eep!”

“Is aught wrong?” He propped the sheathed
sword near the head, even with his pillow, then stilled, awaiting
her answer.

“Nay. I caught my hair in my ring. It
startled me. Thank you for it.”

“Ye thank me for the ring pulling yer
hair?”

“Nay, for certes not. For the ring. ‘Tis very
beautiful.”

In a graceful movement, he slid between the
sheets whilst he spoke. “My mother would delight to know ye liked
it. She was most fond of the blue stone at its center.”

The bed ropes swayed a bit as he settled on
his side, facing her. She grasped the edge of the bed so as not to
roll toward him.

“It brings to mind the color of yer eyes,” he
continued.

She fidgeted. The stone was a beautiful shade
of blue. Should she thank him for comparing her eyes to it? Mayhap
she should keep him talking, and he would fall asleep? Ack, no
chance of that, for his big hand came up to cup her face.

Ranald saw the whites of Catalin’s eyes in
the dim light, her pale face surrounded by sunlit hair on the white
pillow. The closer he came to her, the more the faint scent of
violets and woman’s flesh quickened his breath. Which was sweeter?
His nose brushed her cheek as his lips neared hers.

Hm, ‘twas the scent of a woman, by far. Her
lips were the softest of petals. His tongue traced their fullness,
dipped in that small hollow at the corners. She didn’t pull
away.

‘Twas a good sign
.

His breath hitched. His tongue slid between
her lips to brush over her teeth, to feel the softness inside her
lips. She opened to him, let his tongue glide over hers, play with
it. Hesitant at first, her tongue stirred against his. He took his
time, not wanting to force anything from her. His mouth left hers,
trailing kisses across her cheek, her jaw, to the hollow beneath
her ear.

Her hair had warmth to it as it cradled his
cheek. Life, too, for it clung to the top of his mask, to the
leather straps holding it firm. For the moment, he ignored it, much
preferring to nibble her ear.

He wanted to taste her. He licked a small
spot there on her neck, then around to the hollow at its base. He
kissed there, then across her collarbone and back again.

Raik had it aright. He hadna forgotten the
thrill of making love. His abstinence made it all the more
exciting. His heart’s beating drummed in his ears. Could she hear
it?

Slow, so not to startle her, he stole the
sheet off her, pulling it across his body to land behind him. She
shivered. Was she cold? Frightened? He slid his left arm under her
neck and with his right hand on her left hip, turned her to face
him. She was stiff at first, until he returned to kissing her.

Catalin greeted him, seemed eager even, for
she parted her lips, inviting him. No doubt, she thought to delay
more serious moves upon her body. His kisses were more demanding
now, exploring deeper, becoming more urgent. She gasped, put her
hands on the back of his head to bring him closer and opened wider.
To his surprise, she suckled his tongue.

‘Twas a verra good sign, for
certes
.

Pleasure shot through him. He stroked down
her side, dipped in to her tiny waist then cupped her hip. Were his
calloused fingers rough on her flesh? Did they scrape her? He hoped
not. How wonderful she felt. He lingered on the softness of her
thigh before easing back up again to knead her soft nether cheek.
Cupping her firm bottom, he brought her closer to him. Against his
own hips. She had felt his straining sex, for she flinched as if he
had burned her.

His kisses became more urgent, demanded more.
He stroked up the curve of her back, stopped and moved to outline
gently the soft swell of her breast with his fingertips. She
quivered when he bypassed her nipple to smooth over her shoulder
and arm.

He nuzzled her ear. Took deep breaths in the
hair behind it. Her arms moved down around his neck, hugging
him.

“Ye should bear a flower’s name, wife, for
ne’er have I savored anyone so sweet.” Her arms slackened.

‘Twas not a good sign
.

The years had not made him less the fool to
mention making love to other women! He groaned and kissed her
again. Soon she responded with growing fervor. He caressed her
breasts, still avoiding her nipples, but running his fingertips
around them, over her soft globes. She squirmed when he cupped and
squeezed them.

He rolled, slipping her body beneath him. She
ran her hands over his shoulder to his back. They stopped,
hesitated. Then explored. Inch by slow inch. Would the horror of
his back repulse her?

Ranald rose up on his elbows to break the
contact and giving room between their heated skins so he could feel
every inch of her. How he had missed this! As his fingertips
pressed the fullness of a breast, her nipple thrust against his
palm. His head dipped. He wet his lips. He groaned when they formed
around that hard bud. He rolled it between his lips, teased it. He
lapped over it. It was like a small raspberry. She gasped and
thrust up at him, urging him to suckle. He did.

She shivered then squirmed against him.
Restless hands brushed over his head. His mask slid, the ties
loosening. He started to raise his head. She grasped him tight to
her breast. He reached up and stretched her arms to rest on the
pillow above her head. With one hand holding them there, he tossed
his mask aside. He could take no chances, though, and kept a firm
grip on her wrists.

“Release me.” She tugged, tried to free
them.

“Nay, wife. Be still. I dinna want to bruise
ye.”

She shivered when he went from one breast to
the other, sharing his kisses, his snuggling against them, while
his hand roved. Her belly quivered when he brushed over it. He felt
its soft roundness. It pleased him noting she was not all sharp
angles, but ripe, soft curves down to the juncture of her body.

He groaned. So warm there in the crease of
her thighs. His fingers played with the hair shielding her sex. He
combed through it until he found what he sought. The full lips that
guarded her core. ‘Twas hot. Damp. Sliding between them, he
welcomed the slickness.

Ah. ‘Twas a verra good thing!

Ranald had deliberately ignored his body.
Until now. It demanded attention, throbbed and strained. Every part
of him was taut as a Welsh bow. His face. His neck. The muscles in
his arms. His stomach. And, of course, his throbbing arousal.

He hesitated, for Catalin had not yet opened
her legs to him. He reminded himself she was virgin still and knew
naught of love play. He nudged his knee between her thighs. At
first, she tensed. His gentle coaxing caused her to follow his lead
until he could nestle his hips between her thighs.

“Please. Let me touch you.” She was
breathless in her request.

“Nay. This night I will touch you.” He
fondled her cheek with his unmarked one, being careful to stroke
upward to keep his stubble from chafing her delicate skin. He moved
against her, caressed her with his body. With each stroking
movement, his tarse smoothed over her, teased her, until her feet
dug into the bed and she lifted to him, groaning, seeking what she
needed.

His impatient tarse nudged her cleft, entered
slowly. Hot flesh closed around him. She was tight, delightfully
so. He entered, then withdrew, each slow stroke dipped deeper. As
he suckled her breasts, her wetness built easing his way. He thrust
deep to seat himself. Though she flinched, naught hindered his
way.

He stopped. Lifted his head to peer at her in
the dark. Hesitated. Not for long, for that tight, hot silkiness
surrounding his tarse called to him. He buried his face in her hair
and rocked, faster with each stroke. Her body’s heat scorched him.
All her muscles tensed, were rigid. Then her stomach started to
quiver.

Catalin writhed and thrashed beneath him. She
jerked, twisted her hands, trying to free them. He clamped them
tight, balanced himself and reached between them to touch there
where he entered.

Catalin cried out. Her back arched. She
exploded around him. While she throbbed and strained, he allowed
his own release.

The two of them grappled each other until the
bed sheets were near on the floor. Finally, their passion calmed.
He dropped his head to her shoulder, panting, waiting for his heart
to ease. When he was again in control, he rose up, released her
hands and moved to her side.

He put his arms above his head, protecting
his face should she decide to touch him. Catalin was very still.
Stiff, even. He felt around for his mask, sat up, fitted it to his
face and tied the leather. He padded over to the lone candle that
was near to spluttering out. Holding it low before him, he gazed at
his sex, his thighs.

He strolled over to the bed. Held it over the
rumpled sheets. Over her. Catalin hugged her belly. Turned her back
to him. A deep sigh burst from his lips. He lit two more candles
afore the flame could die then set them on the table.

He stretched out alongside her. Knew why his
father was so gleeful. Why he insisted he produce bloodstained
sheets.

The candle flames flickered as anger thrummed
through him. His fists clenched, his nails dug into his palms
knowing why ‘twas so urgent he leave Kelso. Why they couldna wait
until he and Catalin could learn to know each other again. Why
trick him so? That his father had was what angered him. And
Catalin?

He turned to his side. His body was like a
plank, so tense his waist did not dip into the bedding when he
propped his head on his fist to study her. Grasping her shoulder,
he rolled her to her back.

Catalin was fearful. Had reason to be. She
had deceived
him
.

Her eyes shut. Tight. Not enough to keep the
wetness from escaping, though. He felt more than saw it. His finger
caught a tear as it slipped toward her ear, brought it to his lips.
He tasted the saltiness of it.