Rhona stifled a groan and swayed on her feet. She felt as if her legs might give way under her at any moment. His mouth was working magic on her; she had no idea she could feel this way. The way he suckled her made another sensation rise within her, an aching hunger. She didn’t understand it, and the feeling scared her. What could she possibly be hungry for?

  Taran tore his mouth from her breast and straightened up. He gazed down at her, his expression fierce. “It’s time … are ye ready?”

  Rhona nodded, trying to quell the trembling in her limbs. “What must I do?”

  “Lie down on the bed.”

  The command sent a tremor through her. She edged around him, moving toward the bed in tentative steps.

  Fear and an odd excitement pulsed within her. How was it possible to be afraid, and yet yearn for something? It felt as if she had strayed into a strange dream. What was she doing alone in this chamber, stark naked, with Taran MacKinnon?

  We are man and wife, she reminded herself, and this is our wedding night.

  Keeping her gaze upon his face, she lay down upon the coverlet, amongst the sprays of heather and rose petals. The sweet, woody scent enveloped her.

  Taran towered above Rhona, and for a long moment he merely observed her, his gaze drinking her in.

  Rhona attempted to steady her breathing. Her body flushed as his gaze slid down the length of her, branding her. Her skin tingled, and her breasts ached.

  Without meaning to, she let her own gaze shift from his face, down the hard, muscular planes of his chest, to his groin.

  She stifled a gasp. He was fully aroused and very big. The hard column of his erection reared up against his belly. Rhona swallowed. Dampness flooded between her thighs at the sight of it, even as her pulse started to thunder.

  Caitrin had told her that her first time with Baltair had been traumatic. Would Taran hurt her?

  Chapter Twenty

  Nothing to Prove

  TARAN LOWERED HIMSELF onto the bed, and she felt it give under his weight. On his knees, he moved between her thighs, parting them.

  Mortification flooded through Rhona. He had spread her thighs wide, exposing her to him. There was nowhere to hide. No one had ever looked upon her there. She watched him gaze down at her, saw the flush that suddenly stained his cheekbones. His chest was now rising and falling fast; she felt the tremble in his body.

  Looming over her, Taran placed the head of his shaft against the entrance to her womb and began to gently rub himself against her. Rhona gasped at the sensation, at the slick heat of their flesh meeting.

  A throb began deep in her belly.

  He continued to move against her, shifting his hips in slow, sinuous circles.

  Groaning, Rhona threw back her head against the coverlet and rode the waves of pleasure. Unbidden, her thighs parted wider, and she hooked one leg around his hips, drawing him against her. She was no longer afraid. She now ached to have him inside her. She didn’t care if it hurt; she felt as if she could die from wanting.

  “Rhona,” he gasped her name. “I want to take this slow … I don’t want to hurt ye.”

  She whimpered in response and met his gaze. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take, before she started begging.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Taran breathed a curse. Reaching down, he grasped her hips, lifting her up to meet him. And then, slowly, he slid into her.

  It didn’t hurt at first, just a full sensation as she stretched to accommodate him. But then, a sharp, stinging pain caught her by surprise. Rhona gasped, her body growing taut. Her eyes widened, and she grasped hold of Taran’s wrists, stilling him.

  He gazed down at her. “That’s it, lass,” he murmured. “The worst is over … it shouldn’t hurt anymore.”

  And with that he lowered himself further. Rhona felt the full length of him penetrate her. A wonderful aching sensation filled her womb.

  “Oh,” she gasped, releasing his wrists.

  “That’s right,” he rasped. There was an edge to his voice, as if he was barely clinging onto control. “Give yerself to it.”

  Rhona obeyed him. She closed her eyes and let her head roll back once more. Caitrin hadn’t told her that it could feel like this, no one had.

  However, her eyes snapped open, her head lifting, when Taran started to move inside her. Pleasure coiled deep within her womb, tightening, building. The intensity of it frightened her. “Taran,” she gasped. “I can’t …”

  Taran murmured her name, hushing her. He took hold of her left knee, for her right leg was still wrapped around his hips, and lifted it high. He then drove into her. He took her in slow thrusts, his gaze never leaving hers.

  Rhona heard a woman’s cry echo through the chamber—it must have been her own, although she had never before made such a sound. It was a wild, keening cry. Her body trembled, need thrumming through her. And yet there was more, so much more, she could sense it as the aching pleasure deep within coiled tighter still.

  She was reaching toward it, brushing the edge of it, when Taran’s body arched above her.

  She stared up at him, fascinated, watching him go rigid. The sinews on his neck stood out as he threw his head back and choked back a cry. Even now, even at this moment, the man still fought for control.

  Then she felt the heat of him release inside her, and Taran’s body shuddered.

  Rhona awoke slowly, blinking in the warmth of the sun that filtered in through the open window.

  She had slept deeply, her limbs loose and rested. However, her mouth and throat felt parched, and her head ached.

  Too much wine.

  Stifling a groan, Rhona pushed herself up onto one elbow. Her gaze settled upon the naked man who lay sprawled upon the bed next to her. For a moment she just let her eyes feast upon him.

  How had she ever thought Taran MacKinnon ugly?

  His face, relaxed in sleep, was much softer than when he was awake. Even the scars seemed less evident. His mouth, which often appeared a hard slash, was sensual this morning, his usually furrowed brow smooth. She realized then how much of the cares of the world he carried with him.

  Her gaze slid down to his body, and memories of the night before flooded back. Heat crept up Rhona’s neck as she remembered what they’d done, how she’d arched under him and cried out. He’d taken her once more before exhaustion pulled them both down into its clutches. That coupling had been even better than the first. He’d brought her to the brink, and then taken her over the edge with him.

  Rhona’s cheeks flushed hot as she recalled how she’d gasped his name, had pleaded with him for more. She ran a hand over her face, stifling a groan of mortification. How would she ever look him in the eye again?

  Taran stirred, his eyes flickering open. “Morning,” he rasped. “Lord … my mouth feels like a piece of leather.”

  “Too much wine will do that to ye,” she replied huskily. “I’ll get us some water.” Rhona slid off the bed, pulled on a robe, and padded over to the sideboard, where a ewer of water and two cups sat. Filling them, she returned to the bed.

  Taran had pulled up the sheet to cover his naked loins when she handed him the cup. Rhona’s chest constricted; she didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved by his modesty.

  She perched on the edge of the bed and drank the water. An awkward silence fell between them. Eventually, Taran broke it. “Are ye well, Rhona?”

  She glanced up, meeting his gaze. “Aye.”

  “Last night … I … we …” His voice trailed off. The look on his face was so pained she almost pitied him.

  “Don’t worry,” she replied. “Ye didn’t force me, Taran. I lay with ye willingly.” The relief in his gaze made her smile. “What? Did ye think I’d rage at ye?”

  His mouth curved. “I didn’t think that far ahead. I got carried away last night.”

  Rhona took another sip of water and observed him over the rim of her cup. It was odd how shy she was of him this morning. It made her realize that although they were wed, and had lain together as man and wife, they weren’t comfortable around each other. Until yesterday their ranks had imposed a certain type of relationship upon them, a distance.

  Taran drained his cup before running a hand down his face. “What time is it?”

  Rhona glanced toward the window, at where the sun pooled upon the flagstone floor. Outside, she could hear goats bleating and the laughter of children. “Almost noon, I’d say.”

  He stiffened, gaze widening. “I’ve never slept so late.”

  She favored him with an arch look. “Since it’s the morning after our wedding, I think my father will forgive ye.”

  Unfortunately, the mention of Malcolm MacLeod had an instant effect on them both, like a cloud blocking the sun. Taran scowled, and Rhona’s mood soured.

  Her father might end up overlooking her past defiance now that she was a wife, but she would never forgive him for humiliating her. Nor would she ever forget his parting words as Taran had carried her from the Great Hall.

  I’ll have the sheets checked in the morning—and if they’re clean, I’ll have both of ye whipped.

  Rhona frowned, her gaze shifting to the crumpled coverlet. There was a small dark stain upon it. Her fingers tightened around the cup. “Ye are not the ‘Beast of Dunvegan’, Taran,” she said, her voice low and fierce. “My father is.”

  She felt the bed shift. A moment later Taran was sitting next to her, his thigh pressing against hers. He was so close she could see the blond stubble on his jaw. His nearness unnerved her. Rhona gripped her cup tightly, staring down at it. She felt so strange this morning, full of conflicting emotions.

  It was as if she’d been asleep her whole life and had just awoken. Everything seemed different.

  Taran hooked a finger under her chin, raising it gently so that their gazes met. The tenderness in his grey-blue eyes made her breath catch.

  “I never would have wished for any of this, Rhona,” he said softly, “and yet I can’t bring myself to regret it. If I die tomorrow, I’ll go to my cairn a happy man.”

  She managed a half-smile. “Ye speak hastily … I don’t think I’ll make a good wife. Ye may regret this yet.”

  His mouth quirked. He let go of her chin and brought his hand up, stroking her cheek. “Can we start again?” he asked.

  “What do ye mean?” His touch made her breathing quicken. She was aware of how close he was sitting, the heat of his naked body.

  “Would ye let me woo ye?”

  Rhona inclined her head, pushing aside the need that was curling like wood smoke in her belly. She would have smiled if his face hadn’t been so serious. “But we’re already wed?”

  “Aye, but not in the best circumstances. I want a chance to prove myself to ye.”

  Their gazes held. The earnestness in his eyes made Rhona’s throat constrict. It was a strange sensation, one she had never felt before. Did she deserve a man like this? She hadn’t treated Taran well at all, and yet it was him who wanted to be worthy of her.

  She reached up and cupped her hand over his, pressing it against her cheek. “Ye can woo me if ye like,” she murmured, “although ye have nothing to prove.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Friendly Advice

  RHONA FOUND ADAIRA in the gardens behind the castle. Her sister was collecting flowers, placing them carefully in the wicker basket she carried slung over one arm. It was a humid afternoon, with not even a sea-breeze to cool the air. As such, Adaira wore a light linen kirtle. Her thick brown hair was piled up on her head, although tendrils had escaped, curling at the nape.

  Adaira didn’t see her sister approach. Instead, she swiped at a fly that dove at her face, before muttering a curse as she caught her thumb on a rose thorn.

  “I hope I didn’t teach ye that word,” Rhona teased. “Una would faint to hear it.”

  Adaira swiveled round, a smile stretching across her face. “I was wondering when ye would surface.”

  Rhona gave a soft laugh. “Too much wine, I’m afraid.”

  She saw concern shadow her sister’s eyes and held up a placating hand. “Worry not, I am well. The marriage is consummated. Da has no cause to flog us.”

  Her sister’s shoulders relaxed at this news. “I’ve been so worried.”

  Rhona smiled. She appreciated her sister’s concern; it felt as if she was the only one in the keep who actually cared about her welfare. “Continue with yer collecting,” she said, stepping close and peering into Adaira’s basket. “We can talk while ye work.”

  “I was going to make rosewater,” Adaira said, moving along the avenue of roses. “Would ye like some?”

  “Aye, ye know I love the scent of roses.”

  Adaira stopped and carefully snipped off three pink roses from a bush. She then cast Rhona a veiled look. “So … what was it like?”

  “What?” Rhona replied, pretending she didn’t know what Adaira was asking. She knew only too well, for she herself had been filled with curiosity after Caitrin had wed.

  “The bedding,” Adaira said, a groove forming between her eyebrows. “Is it as awful as Caitrin said?”

  Rhona paused, wondering how best to answer her sister. Her experience last night had been a revelation. “I thought it would be an ordeal,” she admitted quietly. “I was terrified.”

  Adaira’s blue eyes grew wide, and she straightened up, her slender body growing tense. “So, Caitrin was right?”

  Rhona shook her head. “She would have spoken the truth about her own experience … but mine was different.” She broke off here, suddenly embarrassed. “Taran wasn’t what I expected.”

  She didn’t think her sister’s hazel eyes could get any bigger, but they did then. “Did ye enjoy it?”

  Rhona cleared her throat before managing a nod.

  Adaira’s cheeks flushed. “So … are ye in love with him?”

  “What?” Rhona gave a laugh. Adaira could be such a goose. Her head was full of silly ideas. “How could I be?”

  Her sister looked crestfallen. “I just thought … after last night …”

  “Just one night? Love takes time.”

  Adaira nodded. She then moved on to the next rose bush and started snipping. “It’s all backward, isn’t it?” she said after a pause. “Ye are supposed to fall in love before ye wed.”

  “Aye,” Rhona agreed. “But there are many unions where there is never any love. I’m grateful Taran won the games and not Dughall MacLean.”

  Adaira shuddered. “That man makes my skin crawl … although not as much as Baltair MacDonald does.”

  Rhona frowned. “Has he been bothering ye again?”

  “Not since ye interrupted us,” Adaira replied. “I think ye offended his pride. He makes a point of looking through me these days … and I’m grateful for it.”

  “And I’m relieved … I wish our sister wasn’t wed to the brute.”

  Adaira glanced up, her gaze shadowed. “She’s so unhappy, Rhona. I don’t want to wish anyone dead, but I sometimes find myself hoping he chokes on a fishbone. That way Caitrin could come back and live with us.”

  Rhona sighed. She too had fantasized about Baltair MacDonald meeting his end, although her imaginings had been a lot bloodier than her gentle sister’s. “Maybe he will,” she replied, before favoring Adaira with a wicked smile. “Or someone will poison his wine.”

  Gordon was shoeing a horse when Taran found him.

  The warrior plunged the glowing iron horseshoe into a pail of cold water after shaping it, and steam billowed. A few feet away the waiting horse snorted and stamped its unshod foot.

  Sensing someone’s approach, Gordon glanced up. “Good afternoon,” he greeted Taran with a grin. “Ye look a bit worse for wear.”

  Taran grimaced. “Aye, a handfasting will do that to a man.”

  Gordon straightened up and wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm. “I’ve never attended a celebration like it.” Gordon eyed him, his expression speculative. “The bride didn’t scratch yer eyes out, I see?”

  Taran’s mouth curved. His friend’s curiosity was palpable. “No, she didn’t.”

  Gordon put aside the horseshoe, his work forgotten. “And are ye preparing yerselves for a whipping?”

  “There’ll be no need for that.”

  Gordon inclined his head before giving a low whistle, his mouth twitching. “Ye rogue. I didn’t think she’d let ye anywhere near her.”

  Taran huffed. “I’ll try not to take offense at that.”

  Gordon scratched his stubbled jaw. “So, all is well between ye?”

  “For the moment,” Taran replied. He paused here, considering the question he’d sought his friend out to ask. He wasn’t sure how to present it, so he decided to be blunt. “Gordon … how did ye manage to woo Greer?”

  Gordon raised an eyebrow. “Who says I’ve succeeded?”

  “Ye are set to wed her at Samhuinn. The girl adores ye.”

  The warrior cleared his throat and glanced away. Taran’s candor had thrown Gordon off guard; he actually looked embarrassed. “I’m not sure what I did to deserve her,” he said finally. “Why do ye wish to know?”

  “I must woo Rhona.”

  “But ye are already wed to her.”

  “It matters not. I want my wife to love me.”

  Gordon’s gaze widened. “Of course,” he murmured. “I’d forgotten that ye have been long carrying a torch for her.”

  “Aye.” Taran dragged in a deep breath. The night before seemed like a dream, but everything had moved so fast. He wanted to take things back to how they should have been. “Do ye have any advice?”

  A wolfish smile spread across Gordon’s face. “Aye, throw the lass down on the bed every night and plow her till she begs for mercy. She’ll soon not be able to live without ye.”

  Taran raised an eyebrow. “Is that it?”

 

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