Highland Warrior (Campbell Trilogy #1)(49)

At times like now and earlier in the chapel, he would feel a moment of connection, but they were so fleeting that he wondered whether he only imagined them. Still, it gave him hope of something to build on.

Of course, there was another connection that they had to build upon as well, and the time was drawing near for him to show her just how powerful a bond passion could forge. Their sexual attraction might be the best way for them to grow closer. Though he hated to upset the quiet truce they had established, he knew he could delay no longer. They were married, and he would be damned if it would be in name only. He’d wanted her since the first moment he’d seen her, and his wait was finally at an end.

“I will send for Lizzie soon. With Alasdair MacGregor’s surrender, it should be safe enough for her to travel.”

“You think the feuding will end?”

Jamie shrugged. “For a while. Without their chief and most of his guardsmen, the clan will be disorganized. Lizzie will be well protected”—he paused—“as will you.”

He read her shock. “You think I might be in danger?”

“You are my wife, and as you’ve pointed out numerous times, I have many enemies. Anyone close to me is a potential target. But don’t let it concern you, I would never let anyone harm you.”

“And yet you travel across the Highlands with only a handful of men.”

Was she worried about him? The mere prospect warmed him. “I can take care of myself.”

She looked as though she wanted to argue, but a serving girl approached with more wine. He waved her away. It was time.

“Your uncle has arranged a chamber for us in the tower. I will join you there in a short while.”

She paled, and he could see the sudden flare of panic in her eyes. “Surely it is early yet,” she said quickly. “The dancing has yet to begin, and—”

“If you would rather, we can go together now,” he interrupted in a voice that boded no argument. Her maidenly reluctance was expected, but he would not be gainsaid. Their marriage would be consummated. He gave her a long

look. “It’s up to you.”

If it was up to her, she wouldn’t be in this position, Caitrina thought.

Dear God, her wedding night. Her pulse raced with a flash of panic. A thousand divergent thoughts flew through her head, slamming and bouncing off one another in a confused heap. The moment she’d been dreading was upon her. It seemed that once she’d agreed to marry him, she could think of nothing else. Too often, the memory of what they’d shared by the loch intruded in her thoughts. She remembered how he’d made her feel and wondered if he would touch her like that again—until her body softened and shattered into a sparkling sea of sensation.

Worse, she feared that if he did, the carefully constructed wall she’d erected would begin to erode.

Would he be gentle? Would it hurt? She’d see his hands and imagine him touching her, stroking her skin. She’d look at his mouth and imagine him kissing her, sliding his tongue in her mouth, making her knees weak for want of him. If only it were fear that she felt, but she couldn’t deny that it was also anticipation. And that was the most troubling part of all. Liquid heat poured through her whenever he touched her.

She gazed into his eyes, seeing compassion, but resolve. If necessary, she suspected he would lift her in his arms and carry her up the stairs himself, like some Viking marauder of old. He was a ruthless man, and she best not forget it.

Mustering what courage she could, she straightened her spine and stood up from the table. “I will bid my aunt and uncle good night, then.”

He nodded. “I will not be long.”

“Take as long as you need,” she offered carelessly, feeling anything but.

Caitrina lingered over her good-byes, but in the end she knew she could not put off the inevitable. She made her way back to the old keep, and Mor led her up the stairs to the chief’s chamber. In honor of the day’s occasion, her uncle had given them his room for the night. Tomorrow they would return to the Isle of Bute and Rothesay Castle, where they would stay as the king’s guest while the repairs to Ascog began.

The room was large and sparsely furnished, with only the occasional needlepoint or stuffed velvet cushion to hint at her aunt’s presence in the room. Though she specifically avoided looking in its direction, she was keenly aware of

the four-posted bed with silk hangings looming large opposite the door. Tamping down the sudden spike of her heartbeat, she turned away, putting the ominous piece of furnishing behind her.

Mor fluttered about the room, chattering about the day’s events and recounting the latest gossip from the servants—doing anything to avoid the topic of the coming night. The airy cheerfulness was so unlike her, Caitrina realized just how nervous her old nurse must be, and it increased her own apprehension.

Would it be worse than she thought?

When the basin had been prepared for her to wash, and the candles—from what Caitrina could tell, every one available in the room—lit, as she did every evening, Mor helped to remove her gown. But the ordinary and habitual had taken on an uncomfortable significance. With each piece of her clothing that was removed, Caitrina’s nervousness and awareness of what was about to happen increased. So that by the time Mor dropped the silk nightraile over her head, Caitrina could barely hide her trembling.

Mor moved to the chest of Caitrina’s meager belongings, which had been moved down to her uncle’s chamber for the night. After removing a thick woolen wrap from the small pile of clothing, she handed it to Caitrina. “Put this on, my love. You look cold.”