The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(47)

As much as he wanted to pursue them farther, he knew he had to get back. The warriors from Bruce’s secret guard would be arriving soon.

Tor strode up the sea-gate stairs, greeting his clansmen as he passed. He was tired and hungry, but also aware—painfully aware—of the bride awaiting him. Every passing minute of the return journey, his heart seemed to beat a little harder and his blood rushed a little hotter as his body anticipated the pleasure to come.

The delay had only increased his hunger for her. Now that he was home, he was anxious to see her. He frowned, knowing that was not quite true. It wasn’t just because he was home. Oddly, he’d thought of her while he was away.

He’d regretted having to leave so suddenly, but there had been no time to waste. Every minute was precious. Knowing she would be safe at Dunvegan, his only thought had been to get to the village.

As he approached the Great Hall, he sent his An Leincchneas, privy counselor, Fergus, to inform her of his arrival. With the stench of his journey heavy on him, he decided to take a detour to the kitchens for a soothing hot bath. A warm pottage and bread would do much to improve his black mood before he greeted his bride.

Though more spirited than he’d initially given her credit for, she reminded him of a frightened bird. Treading gently, however, did not come naturally to a man who had spent most of his life surrounded by the harsh brutality of the battlefield. It was one of the reasons he’d initially rejected the alliance; he did not think they would suit each other. She needed someone to comfort and care for her. He was a man hardened by war and death who knew nothing but the duty to his clan.

Stopping outside, he heard the sounds of laughter and frowned. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Cormac, the old cook, laugh, and the deep, jolly sound took him aback.

No one noticed him as he entered the dark building. Which was understandable when he saw five people on their knees with their heads in the oven, backsides raised in the air.

From the amount of laughter, they were obviously enjoying themselves. Not wanting to interrupt, his gaze slid over them, trying to figure out what was so damned funny. All of a sudden he stilled.

It wasn’t the gown that gave her away, but something far more elemental. His entire body jumped with awareness as he recognized one of those raised backsides. Heat flared inside him. His gaze honed, gorging on every inch of that round, sweetly curved bottom. He remembered the soft lushness of it naked against him, the velvety skin pressing against the thick column of his erection.

His body tightened and every muscle flexed, knowing how easy it would be—how he had every right—to walk over there, lift up her skirts, run his hands over every inch of that creamy skin, and sink into her from behind. He wanted to watch her br**sts move as he thrust into her, slowly at first, then faster and harder. He wanted to reach around and tease her with his fingers until she broke apart around him.

His c**k strained, knowing how good it would be. Knowing how her body would grip him like a tight, warm fist. Knowing how wet he could make her.

He hardened his jaw, annoyed by the force of his lust for her. The things he wanted to do to her had no place in his thoughts about his innocent wife, even if she did have a body built to arouse a man’s pleasure. He’d never fantasized about a woman like this. But the long days and nights at sea, thinking about the new bride that waited for him, had made him more beast than man.

The cook noticed him. “Ri tuath,” he said with a start. “You’ve returned.”

The others turned at the sound of the cook’s voice, and Tor had to stop himself from laughing out loud.

His bride wore a white cap low over her head, but it and the rest of her were covered head to toe in ash and soot. She’d obviously made an attempt to wipe her face but had only succeeded in streaking a thin layer of black over the entire area. Only the whites of her eyes peered back at him in horror from the darkened corner of the kitchen.

Instinctively, he schooled his features to hide his amusement. Somehow he didn’t think his new wife would appreciate his enjoyment at discovering her in such a state.

“You’re back!” she exclaimed, getting to her feet. She took a step toward him, and for a moment he thought she might catapult herself into this arms. He frowned—more surprised than anything else—and she stopped herself.

What would he have done if she had? Would he have stood stiffly, or drawn her against him? Tor wasn’t used to such overt displays of emotion, but his young wife seemed to wear hers plainly on her face and in her natural exuberance. It was both refreshing and disconcerting.

“Aye,” he answered. “We’ve only just returned. I sent word for you in the Hall.” He looked back and forth at them all. “But it appears that I’m interrupting something?”

He swore he could see a blush rise beneath the black soot on her face. It was great cover, he realized, tucking the idea away for later when hiding in darkness might prove useful.

She attempted to put some order to her gown by shaking out the skirts and wiping off the loose ash with her hands. “I was just going over the stores with the cook and then, well, there was so much smoke I realized the chimney must be blocked, so I decided it should be cleaned before it caused a fire.”

He lifted a brow. “And you volunteered for the job?”

She bit her lip. “I’m afraid I was the only one who could fit. Apparently, I didn’t move fast enough,” she said wryly.