Page 30 of When a Highlander Weds a Hellion
“I’ll nae force ye, lass,” he said, surprising her once again. “I dunnae want ye any way but willing.”
“What of the need to seal our wedding? What of the public bedding?” She had heard some of the Blackswell warriors already joking about it.
“Dunnae fash yerself.”
“I’m supposed to trust ye?” she asked incredulously.
“Aye. Always,” he answered so cockily that she ground her teeth. “I trusted ye nae to allow yerself to be fooled by the Blackswells. I warned ye! And tricked ye, they have!” She wanted to say more, to say that it was because he was so happy to have his own family that he could not see his own weakness, but she couldn’t to bring herself to wound him so. Not tonight anyway. She would fight the battle tomorrow. With sleep and care.
Eleven
“Ye must allow us to watch ye bed her!” Brodee protested to a hearty chorus of agreement.
Even if Broch had not given his word to Katreine, which he had, he would never allow anyone to watch him bed her. He despised the tradition, and he’d never taken part in viewing it, either.
Blackswell stepped close to Broch and Katreine, who stood looking mutinous beside him. The great hall resounded with the noise of all the warriors gathered who thought to accompany him and Katreine upstairs, but even with the roar in the hall, Broch could swear he heard Katreine’s labored breathing.
“Son, we are yer family now. This is our tradition.”
“’Tis nae a tradition I want any part of,” Broch growled.
“Ye must prove yerself worthy to be in this clan,” Brodee snapped, touching a raw cord inside of Broch.
Katreine sucked in a sharp breath, and her small hand grasped his. She was deathly afraid he was going to relent, and he thought he knew why. The lass understood well the need that had long driven him to prove himself worthy to be a MacLeod. That need was still there, but he had to fight it. He understood that now, seeing that same need in Brodee to prove himself to their father. It came from within, and not simply because Broch had thought himself a bastard. Brodee had always known he was a Blackswell, and he had the same affliction as Broch, the same weakness. Broch could not give in to that itch and risk Katreine. She was his responsibility to protect.
“I dunnae need to prove myself worthy to ye or anyone,” Broch said, willing himself to believe it to the marrow of his bones. “And I will leave this night and take Katreine with me back to the Isle of Skye to live with the MacLeods before I relent to a public bedding.”
“Go then!” Brodee said, clearly pleased at the possibility.
“Nay!” Blackswell snapped. “Tradition be damned, then. Ye are my son, and I will nae lose ye again.”
Broch felt himself relax, and he felt Katreine do so, as well. “Come,” he said to his wife, leading her from the great hall as Blackswell commanded his warriors to remain there. Jeers and booing followed them into the silence of the passage, and as the great hall doors closed behind them, Katreine stopped. He turned to look at his stunning wife. “What is it?” he asked gently, awed by her beauty and strength.
“I—” She swallowed, her gaze clinging to his. The ache in his chest for her to soften to him, to ask him for his touch, shook him to the core. “Thank ye,” she said simply, but it meant the world to him. “Thank ye for keeping yer word.”
He wanted to touch her, to kiss her, to claim her and make her his. He wanted a life with her that he had not even realized he longed for. Yet in this moment, he would settle for her thanks. It was a beginning, however small. “I will always keep my word to ye, Katreine. I vow it to ye.”
She looked on the verge of saying something else, but then she merely nodded. So he turned and walked them to their chambers. Trepidation skittered across her face as they entered the bedchamber and she looked at the bed. “I’ll sleep on a pallet on the floor,” he offered, wanting to ease her worry.
Glancing to the floor, she bit her lip. After a long pause, she said, “Ye may sleep in the bed with me. Just keep to yer side.”
“I vow it,” he said, feeling as if he had been handed a gift.
She laughed at that, then turned and presented him with her back. “Will ye unlace me?”
He’d not even considered that she would likely not wish to sleep in her gown. Desire sprang forth, throbbing through him as he slowly started to undo her bindings and, inch by inch, revealed her sheer léine and the outline of her perfect body. His hand trembled to place it upon her creamy skin, but he feared his touch would send her racing out of the room.
“I’m finished,” he said, his voice a husky rumble that made him wince.
She turned swiftly toward him, her gown slipping off one shoulder to reveal the silken temptation of it, and a groan of need escaped him. Her eyes rounded, and pulling up her gown, she stepped back from him. “If ye will just turn toward the hearth,” she said, her own voice husky, revealing, he suspected—and hoped—her own desire.
With a nod, he did as she asked, staring at the dancing flames of the fire. Her gown rustled and swished, and then she padded across the floor, the bed squeaked, and she said, “Ye may turn around.”
When he did, it was to find her completely covered except her nose, eyes, and forehead. Her luminous eyes beckoned to him, though he knew it was not her intention, which made him grin.
“What are ye grinning at?” she demanded.
He decided instantly to be truthful. “With naught but yer wee forehead, eyes, and nose poking out of the blankets, ye are still the most alluring lass I’ve ever beheld.”
