Page 11 of To Winter at Wildsyde

Do you remember that tactical advice you promised me?

Now would be a good time.

― Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Ruth Anderson to her aunt, Mrs Ethel Stephens.

7th November 1814. Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

Gordy stared at the door that connected his room to that of his wife. He’d eaten his dinner with all the grace of the beast she likely assumed him to be, bathed and readied for bed, and had then been forced to sit kicking his heels as it was far too early to present himself to her. He was damned if he’d let her think he was as eager as a boy, champing at the bit, though it was an accurate enough description. For the tenth time in as many minutes, he stalked to the door, his hand hovering over the latch, and then cursed and stalked away again.

He kept this up for another half an hour until he decided he’d had enough of playing the fool. If he wanted to bed his wife, he’d damn well do it when he damn well wanted, and she could make of it what she liked. It wouldn’t make it true.

Gordy threw open the door and strode in without a by your leave—ill-mannered brute that he was—and stared about the room. It looked warm and cosy, inviting, and very different from the last time he’d seen it. What he didn’t see was his wife. He’d been half-expecting her to fall into a swoon the minute she laid eyes on him, despite plenty of evidence to suggest she was made of sterner stuff than her mother. If he’d hoped for such an event, he was to be disappointed. She wasn’t even bloody well here! He muttered an oath. If the wench thought to humiliate him….

He stilled, suddenly aware of a soft sigh coming from the vicinity of the huge bed. The curtains on the grand four poster were half-closed, shielding the mattress partially from view. With a few hesitant steps, he crept closer, and his breath snagged in his throat. The damn woman was a witch, she had to be. When he’d first laid eyes on her, he would have sworn she was a plain English miss with little but her fortune to recommend her. Well, all right, he’d noticed her figure, what man wouldn’t? He wasn’t dead, after all.

She wasn’t a beauty, though, and he’d been relieved by that fact. The last thing he needed was some beautiful creature causing havoc when all the local men lost their wits over her. Perhaps he was not eager to be a husband, but he’d never be a cuckold in full view of his neighbours and with no heirs to his name.

Now, however, he wondered if he’d been bespelled, though whether the magic had obscured her beauty when they’d met or highlighted it now he couldn’t say. Either he’d been wrong, or something had changed, for the sight before him would be etched on his brain until the day he died.

Holy God, but she was lovely.

With her body curved in a sinuous pose of sleepy abandon and one arm raised above her head, she looked like a goddess who’d lost her way and fallen asleep in the mortal world. Her dark hair fanned out around her face, her skin flawless and tinged with a soft pink flush like the sky had looked in the last moment before the sun had gone down on the night of their arrival. The fine fabric of the wickedly indecent nightgown was so delicate he wondered if he dared touch it, or if it would snag on his work-roughened hands, and there, at the hem, her delicately arched feet and pretty ankles were exposed to his gaze. A strange and unwelcome feeling rose in his chest as he watched his wife sleeping, something too tender and yet too fierce to put a name to. Furiously, he pushed it away and gave the bed a hard shake, hoping to rouse her.

She gave a luxurious sigh and stretched out her long limbs, but didn’t open her eyes.

“Wife,” he said, his voice gruff even to his own ears. For a moment he regretted not having said her name, but it hadn’t passed his lips once yet and a surge of stubbornness would not let him say it now.

Her eyes flicked open and she froze, staring up at him and blinking as sleep fell away from her. A blush surged up her neck, the pretty pink tinge at her cheeks blazing a darker shade, but she did not move away nor try to cover herself. Instead, she returned his gaze, defiant despite the blush, that glimmer of steel showing itself once again.

Gordy stared down at her, refusing to admit he’d been thrown off balance once again and wasn’t entirely sure how to go about this. Deflowering virgins was not something he’d had much experience with, not since he was a lad and knew no better, at least. He looked away first, though not because she’d won any battle of wills, but because there wasn’t a man on earth who’d be able to hold her gaze when the rest of her was laid out for his inspection.

His slow perusal travelled over her, lingering on the dark shadow between her legs and the place where her nipples showed. Finally his hungry gaze returned to her face just as she licked her lips.

Hell.

Unable to just stand and stare any longer, Gordy reached out and slid his hand around her ankle, hearing the way her breathing hitched. He looked back at her, studying her as his palm moved up her leg. He took his time, watching her, watching the way her lips parted and her breath quickened as he reached her knee. It took him a moment to realise she was watching him just as intently, and it was too late to school his features into something impassive as she moved, opening her legs for him.

The way his breath caught was telling enough, but he was too consumed with the path his hand was on to pay it any mind. That blatant invitation had shredded any desire to pretend indifference. His brain had melted and he was all instinct now, something raw and primal in control.

Gordy reached for the hem of the nightgown and yanked it up with one, swift tug, baring her to her waist. She made a shocked sound but did not protest, nor move to cover herself, only watched him, wide-eyed as a doe caught by surprise in a woodland clearing. He swallowed, finding his mouth dry, and tamped down upon the urge to grin He refused to allow the triumphant sound that he heard shout in his head escape his lips.

Mine.

It felt like a dream, not quite reality as he returned his hand to her silken flesh and continued where he’d left off, sliding his palm up the inside of her thigh. Her breathing was coming fast now, her breasts rising and falling with increasing speed as he moved towards her soft curls. He trailed his fingers back and forth through the silky tangle of hair, edging a little lower with each pass, barely grazing her sex and revelling into the muted sounds she made every time he touched her delicate skin.

“More?” he asked her, alarmed to hear the husky quality of the question but unable to do a thing about it. He could scarcely breathe.

She nodded, a jerky motion but explicit. No shrinking violet, his wife, and thank heavens for that. He doubted he had patience enough to coax an unwilling bride at the best of times, but tonight he was holding on by a thread. He wanted to throw himself down and take her, take his pleasure with all the ferocity presently leashed inside him, but even he had limits. He had every intention of being an unloving, indifferent husband, but he’d not be cruel, certainly not to a maid on her wedding night. Besides, if he wanted to keep the upper hand, it was in his interests to show her what he could give her, and what he could deny her, if he chose.

So, he caressed her with care, tempting her to indulge herself further, to sink into pleasure and abandon herself to his will. She needed little persuasion and was soon arching up to meet his touch, demanding more as her eyes closed and her breathing became harsh and ragged. His own was not much better as he slid a finger inside her. Oh, God. He imagined sinking into that wet heat and his body ached and protested with such violence that his hand trembled. Hurry, hurry, he prayed, moving faster, needing to tip her over the edge before he lost whatever scant shreds of sanity remained to him.

“Let go,” he urged, noting the frown of concentration that had tugged her dark eyebrows together. For the love of God, he added silently, cursing as she moaned beneath his touch. He slid a second finger inside her, wanting to weep with frustration as she gasped and clutched at the bedclothes. “Yes, yes, like that, mo leannan,” he crooned, too desperate not to sound like her lover, like he cared, like the endearment that had escaped him meant nothing. It meant nothing, he just needed her to be ready for him. If he hurt her too much this first time, she’d not be so eager the next, and that would not suit his plans.

It worked, praise be, and he could not hold back a triumphant exclamation as she writhed and bucked and cried out, wanton, one hand clutching at his wrist, holding him to her as she took her pleasure. Damn, but she was glorious in abandon. There was no sight of that polite, precise English miss now. He’d vanquished her, leaving this delectable, shameless creature in her place.

He chuckled softly as she came back to herself, hardly able to meet his eyes as she realised how she’d just behaved. Aye, lass, he thought with satisfaction, and dinnae forget it. That he would not forget either, not before his last breath, was something he did not care to dwell upon. Besides, he had other things on his mind, like shedding his clothes with as much speed as possible. Not that there was a great deal to dispense with. His shirt hit the floor, his kilt followed, and he basked for a moment in the heat of her gaze as she looked him over.

“Do I meet yer expectations, wife?” he demanded, the words harsher than he’d intended, his tone mocking.