The Devil Wears Tartan Page 5

  She lay there bared to his gaze, naked except for one very thin layer of fabric. The material clung to her body, leaving no doubt as to the contours beneath. She clenched her hands at her sides and closed her eyes and prayed for dignity, that she would not voice a whimper or a moan or a complaint. A Scotswoman was brave. A McLaren was valorous.

  But he didn’t plunder her body. Instead she felt a very gentle breath on her mouth just before he kissed her again. And this kiss was curious enough that she peered from beneath her lashes to look at him when it was finished.

  He was smiling, but he did nothing more than reach out his hand to pull one of her curls free.

  Instead of teasing her with words, or continuing their conversation, he pulled her to a sitting position and then kissed her again. He induced her to open her mouth to breathe into his, to allow his tongue to touch hers in the most intimate way. But the curious thing was the feeling such a touch evoked. Her face warmed, and her fingers tingled as well as her toes. Her heart began to beat rapidly, almost as if a kiss had some bearing on it.

  Her mind darted from one topic to another, and then circled back to concentrate on the touch of his lips on her cheek, her nose, her closed lids, and then her chin.

  He touched her breast with his hand, cupping the fabric around it. The effect was so startling that she gasped and opened her eyes simultaneously.

  His smile had gone, and in its place was a sober gaze.

  “I sent my solicitor to Edinburgh to pick a bride for me,” he said conversationally. “He returned with news of you. He neglected to mention, however, that you were exquisite. Or that you had the tongue of an asp.”

  A laugh escaped her. “Surely you shouldn’t say such things,” she said. “Not on our wedding night.”

  He smiled. “Or that you had a mouth like a sorceress, one that tempts me to kiss you silent.”

  “Should I be flattered or shamed, Your Lordship?”

  Or should she just close her eyes and pretend that this whole experience was over, done, and complete? Somehow, that didn’t seem sensible at all. She’d always been curious, and this could be a very informative and interesting interlude.

  This time, when he bent down to kiss her, she found herself turning toward him, and when he would have drawn away, she placed her palm against his cheek.

  The look they shared was disturbingly intimate. As if he knew what she was feeling, and felt the same: confusion, pleasure, surprise, and a curious yearning. She wasn’t hungry or thirsty, but she wanted something, some basic need that must be satisfied. The strangest feeling of all was that she knew he could satisfy it.

  Her hands slid down to rest on his clothed arms, her gaze on his face. Somehow it didn’t seem important anymore that she was nearly naked or that he was a stranger.

  He drew away from her touch, and just when she thought he might leave her, he merely removed his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  She wasn’t prepared for him to undress in front of her. At first she didn’t know where to look, but he didn’t appear disturbed by her curiosity.

  Before he removed his shirt he divested himself of his shoes, and then let his kilt drop to the floor. She concentrated on the tester above her for a few moments before she felt the mattress give, a sign that he’d returned to her side. Only then did she look in his direction again. His shoulders were bare.

  Her glance raced down his chest.

  Davina realized she’d never seen so much bare skin at one time. Certainly not masculine skin. Even when she’d bedded Alisdair, she’d done so with most of her clothes on. Nor had he undressed at all.

  Marshall was naked. Dear God, he was naked.

  Nor had he extinguished the lamp.

  Oh my.

  Perhaps she should have remained maidenly and reticent and kept her eyes closed, but curiosity kept them open. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscled in a way that hadn’t been revealed by the shirt. His hips were narrow, but that was all she had a glimpse of before he kissed her again. Now there was no choice of keeping her eyes open or not. Her lashes fluttered down along with her senses. She went spiraling out of control, to a land of darkness and delight.

  He touched her again, but this time she was naked. How very odd that she couldn’t remember how her gown had been removed. Her arms were raised over her head and then placed around his neck, as if he somehow knew that she needed to hold on to him as a point of reference, an anchor.

  Her breathing came faster, as if to keep up with the pounding of her heart. The world seemed to swirl around her in waves of color. He deepened the kiss, or she could have been the one who insisted upon touching his tongue with her own.

  How deliciously he kissed. How utterly wonderful she felt.

  When he kissed her throat, it felt as if it were right and proper. She arched her head back to give him room to trail a path of kisses from her ear down to her collarbone and across to her shoulders and then, blessedly, delightfully, wantonly, and wonderfully, to her breasts. When his mouth surrounded her nipple, she gasped.

  His hands were everywhere, his fingers skimming across the flesh of her stomach, her thighs. His palm pressed against her left hip, and she wondered at the sensation. How could she feel so many things at once? He kissed her right breast and tongued the nipple, and then pulled at it gently.

  Surely that sound didn’t come from her?

  He pulled back and looked at her. What other sight in this garish room was as beautiful as Marshall Ross? His brown eyes flashed with light; his mouth was smiling slightly; his cheeks were bronzed with color.

  She reached out her hand and pressed her fingers against his lips. He responded by kissing them, and then smiling at her.

  Words felt almost forbidden in those silent, enchanted moments. Her breath felt tight in her chest, and her blood felt as if it were beginning to boil, heating in her body and causing all manner of curious sensations. She wanted to smile. Then to lay her cheek against his and extend her arms around his shoulders, the better to hold on as this feeling buoyed her.

  How did she explain what she felt to him? Or would he even care to know? Did he want her to share her thoughts? Or was a wedding night only for a bridegroom’s pleasure?

  Daringly she leaned forward and placed her lips on his. His mouth was shockingly warm. As she savored the sensation, his lips curved into a smile beneath hers.

  Was he mocking her?

  She tilted her head just slightly to the right and deepened the kiss. Without warning, his tongue touched her bottom lip, sending an intense spear of delight through her entire body. She drew back and looked at him.

  His smile had faded, and there was not a hint of amusement in his expression. She bent forward and kissed him again, partly because she wanted to and partly because she didn’t want to face that intense gaze any longer. There were too many questions in his eyes. Questions that he’d no doubt ask her soon, and in doing so break this spell.

  He reached up with one hand and held her by the nape of her neck, pulling her forward. His other hand went to her throat, fingers splayed. A second later his fingers were on her face, his thumb at one corner of her lips. She made a sound at the back of her throat, a low protesting murmur. She wasn’t in pain, but confusion mixed with delight swept through her body so strongly that it was like a fierce wind. Everything she thought she knew about passion had simply been wrong.

  How wonderful that he could turn her warm with a kiss. How fascinating that her palms ached to smooth over his bare skin, feel the texture of it, measure his muscles, be heated with his warmth. What was that, unless it was passion?

  Were wives supposed to feel passion?

  This, then, was the answer to her earlier curiosity. This was what she’d thought to feel, this slightly wild sensation, this temptation of the flesh, this succumbing of the will and the sacrifice of self. She didn’t care, right now, if he was her husband or her lover or if they were in public or in a bedroom lit only by a small lamp.

  “Giv
e me your hand,” he said, his voice deep and dark.

  She’d never been considered a biddable girl, but she did as he asked without question.

  He placed her hand against his chest so that she could hear the booming beat of his heart. He said nothing further, only allowed the cadence of that organ to speak for him.

  The night was suddenly silent. The wind had calmed, as if he’d decreed it. No birds called, no crickets chirped. No moths beat their wings against the silvery panes of glass. Even the moonlight was muted now, as if the disk of moon had disappeared behind a pocket of clouds.

  “Davina.” He only spoke her name, but she knew it was a question. How should she respond? With a yes? With a please?

  He leaned over her again, tracing the line of her chin with one finger. Still he didn’t speak, didn’t attempt to convince her. Nor did he kiss her again when it was all she wanted.

  In the silence, she nodded slightly. Marshall smiled and reached over to pull her to him.

  She’d not thought that this night would be so different from her previous experience. But it was like comparing silver to pewter or silk to linen. The excitement she’d felt with Alisdair had been, no doubt, because of the daring of her acts. Never before had she felt this heady warmth, this delightful intoxication of the senses. Almost as if Marshall were a snifter of brandy and she was inhaling him.

  Oh my.

  He watched her, as still and silent as the air around them.

  “What do you want me to do?” She’d never before felt so young or foolish, for that matter.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “End this,” she said softly. “Finish it. Isn’t that what you want to do?”

  “Sometimes anticipation can be part of the pleasure.”

  Her anticipation was accompanied by a very real sense of dread. She knew what this act would entail. He’d enter her body. She’d feel the most incredible sense of discomfort, followed by an instant of something else, some indefinable sensation that might be pleasure if it lingered long enough. Then it would be gone, as simply as that. She’d no longer be an unmarried girl with foolishness in her past. She’d be a wife, a matron.

  There was no reason to feel shame now. This act was sacrosanct and allowed. More than allowed, wasn’t she to do it as often as her husband wished?

  “Do you not want to have it simply done with and over? I thought men felt that way.”

  “Then shall we get to it?” His smile was soft, intriguing. “If you’re impatient, that is.”

  She didn’t say anything as he stretched out his hand and placed his fingers on her throat.

  “What do you do all day that makes your hands so hard?” she asked, and knew again, by his sudden startled look, that she’d surprised him.

  “I ride every day. The reins produce calluses.”

  “Every day?”

  “Every day,” he said.

  “Even today?”

  “Are you delaying the inevitable, Davina? Or have you suddenly decided that you aren’t as impatient as you thought?”

  “I’m not at all impatient,” she said. “I’m simply attempting to be courteous.”

  Amusement danced in his eyes. “That is excessively sporting of you.”

  She smiled back at him. “It is, isn’t it?”

  Suddenly she was in the middle of the bed and he was leaning over her.

  “I find that I’m impatient after all,” he said.

  “Truly?”

  “Excessively.”

  “Oh.”

  The palms of his hands were warm, the tips of his fingers delicate as they trailed over her limbs. What she had once thought inviolate, he invaded, intrusive and gentle all at once. He held her chin as he kissed her, his fingertips stroking against her throat as he did so. The outline of one ear, the rounded curve of her shoulder, the angle of her elbow, each was a target for his touch.

  When her hips arched he was suddenly there, sliding inside her with such gentleness and skill that she could only moan slightly in response and surrender.

  He whispered instructions to her and she obeyed, wishing that she were more experienced. Shouldn’t she hold something back of herself, be more circumspect or cautious? How could she? She’d never felt anything like what was happening to her, had never expected to. Her feet clung to his calves as he began to thrust rhythmically,

  When she was a child, she’d seen a rainbow for the first time. It had stretched over Edinburgh in colors so brilliant that she’d been speechless in wonder. She felt the same now, awed by something she didn’t quite understand.

  This, then, was what the poets meant when they spoke of hearts wishing to weep, or a soul feeling as if it were entwined with another. She didn’t know this man, but he knew her. When she sighed, his lips were there to capture the sound. When she placed her hand on his cheek in wonder, his hand pressed against the back of it as if to hold her spellbound.

  In the next moment the world was gone, the night split by sunlight. She gasped, desperate for a breath. She wrapped her arms around Marshall’s shoulders and held on to him as pleasure raced through her, colored gold and yellow-white.

  “You weren’t a virgin.”

  Her heart fluttered in her chest, a tiny bird encaged by her skin. Slowly Davina slipped her hands below the covers and clenched them into fists.

  “You weren’t a virgin,” he repeated, raising himself up on one elbow to study her in the light from the lamp.

  How very strange that he was more handsome at this moment than he’d been before. There was a ruddy color on his cheeks, and his brown eyes appeared almost black. His lips were curved into a smile. For a moment she was fixated on his mouth, wishing that she were brave enough to reach up and kiss him.

  Perhaps it was his handsomeness that made her feel strangely shy. Or was it the sudden realization that intimacy had not made him less of a stranger? She knew the touch of his hands, the softness of his lips, the heat of his skin, but nothing truly important about his character. What made him happy? Sad? Was he kind to his servants or cruel? Was he arrogant or humble?

  Who was the Earl of Lorne?

  “Do you have nothing to say?” he asked.

  She closed her eyes, praying for guidance. Would God be annoyed at her petition? Had God become tired of listening to her prayers?

  Once more, God, and I shall trouble you no more. Or at least today. Give me the words to reply to him. Let me be wise and yet not offer myself up for more criticism.

  Dear heavens, she was tired of being pilloried.

  “No,” she said firmly. “I wasn’t a virgin.”

  Time stretched between them, measured in her slow and heavy breaths. She willed her heart to slow its frantic beat, pinned the corners of her mouth into the semblance of a smile.

  “You have no explanation?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, forcing herself to look at him. “You knew there was scandal surrounding me, that I had shamed my family. Had you no idea I might not come to you as an innocent?”

  He didn’t speak. Neither did he look away.

  “For what reason would I explain? For your approval?” She allowed the silence to stretch between them. “Is it necessary that you approve of me?”

  “Have you always chosen your own path?”

  She tried to bite back her smile, she truly did, but it was such an incongruous statement that she couldn’t help but be amused.

  “I am naked in a bed with a stranger I’ve just married. Hardly a decision I would have made myself. Or a path I would have chosen.”

  “You enjoyed yourself,” he said. The statement was almost smug.

  “I did,” she admitted, looking away. “Should I be ashamed?”

  “Do you feel shame?” he asked, moving to the edge of the bed and then standing.

  A strange time to ask that question. Or was he simply calling attention to the fact that he was naked and nearly fully erect again. Had he no shame?

  “Shame? It’s a word that seems
to have a variety of definitions,” she said, “depending upon the person you ask. But it all comes down to behavior, does it not?”

  “What do you decree as shameful behavior?” he asked.

  Without thinking, she spoke. “Cruelty. Falsehoods.”

  “Not flashing your ankles or being too forward?” His smile was not taunting but kind. “Who was cruel to you, Davina?”

  When she was silent, his smile faded. “Another confession that I’ll not hear, I think,” he said. “Never mind. I don’t require that you share your mind with me. Just your body.”

  He moved to the door, grabbing his clothing as he went. Did he not intend to dress before leaving her?

  “Will you not shock the servants?” she asked.

  He only laughed as he walked through the doorway. A moment later, she heard the door of her suite close behind him.

  Chapter 7

  The morning sky was glowing richly pink and orange, bathing the world with celebratory colors. A tint of it touched the window, drifted shyly onto the sill, and brushed against Davina’s hand as she sat on the vanity stool and watched Nora arrange her hair.

  Nora didn’t comment on her appearance, although she did smile occasionally as if attempting to stifle her amusement.

  Davina stared at her reflection. Her eyes were different, sparkly somehow, and there was a pink mark on her chin. There were other places on her body that bore similar marks, but she’d powdered them and covered herself before allowing Nora into her room.

  Nothing could lessen the heightened blush on her cheeks, however, and her lips appeared almost swollen. Anyone would know the extent of her experience if he looked hard enough.

  Last night had been a revelation, but not simply a physical one. Somehow, Marshall had also invaded her mind, even occupying her dreams. As she sat patiently waiting for Nora to finish, she couldn’t help but remember his touch. Without any difficulty at all, she could close her eyes and envision him beside her, wearing that strange half smile.

  She opened her eyes, disappointed to find only Nora standing there.