He nestled the shivering creature inside the warmth of his cloak, taking some small comfort when Leo stretched up to lick his chin. “Not bothered by my scar, little man?” he pushed past the burning tightness in his throat.
He didn’t want pity.
Nor canine adoration.
Though the latter proved decidedly more palatable than the dog’s usual fare of snaps, growls, and piddles.
Squirming in his arms, Leo wiggled himself ever deeper into the folds of Marmaduke’s cloak, his little-dog-groan of satisfaction once he settled himself, a clear indication of the true reason for his sudden show of affection.
The wee beastie was merely cold and sought Marmaduke’s warmth.
His mantle’s protection from the swirling, wind-driven snow.
Much as his lady sought comfort from him as well, succor of an entirely different nature.
A dark scowl settling round his heart, and his wife’s clever pet clutched tight in his arms, Marmaduke turned away from the sea to face toward Kintail and Eilean Creag.
Toward home…Balkenzie.
Too distant to be seen even by fair weather, but there nonetheless. And tugging on his heart more fiercely in this moment than in all the long weeks since his departure.
Waiting for him, and his bride, whether she chose to go or not.
And so…
He would make her love him.
Accept him.
He’d do so even if he had to employ every sensual trick, every artful touch and kiss, he’d ever learned. Secrets taught to him by court harlots at an early age.
Unfair measures, to be sure, but bold and rousing enough to fire any woman’s blood.
For the first time since he’d left Caterine’s bed, a spark of hope glimmered inside him, for in his lady’s quest to explore desire, she’d innocently given him the means to seize that which she thought to keep from him.
An ignoble path to a lady’s affections, but the only course she’d left him.
And she’d never know that, with each sweet, carnal sigh he wrested from her, each tumultuous release, he’d be stealing back a piece of her heart.
* * *
Several nights later,the brightly burning flames of countless torches lit Dunlaidir’s crowded great hall. The golden light cast a cheery glow over the wedding feast revelers, though several discreet alcoves and corners remained murky enough for those wishing more amorous entertainments than gorging, guzzling, and the singing of bawdy songs.
The rich smells of wood-smoke, heavily spiced wine, and roasting meats lent a festive air to a hall long filled with naught but shadows and the too-familiar reek of braised seaware and roasted gannet.
Amidst this tumult and din, Caterine sat straight-backed at the high table. She trusted the throng of celebrants, all in high good humor and sating themselves on fine Keith beef and rivers of cool, heady ale, found themselves too occupied to notice her flaming cheeks.
Or if they did, she hoped they’d credit her flush to the overcrowded hall’s smoky warmth and wouldn’t peer close enough at her – or her husband – to glean the real reason for her discomfiture, for the heat searing her cheeks couldn’t compare to the raging burn spinning low in her belly.
A fire put there by her husband’s stroking fingers - a casual caressing of her beneath the table linens, through the folds of her skirts, and executed with such expertise only sheer force of will kept her from squirming all over her chair.
But, while hidden from general view,heknew of her edginess, and its reason. And the beast clearly reveled in tormenting her.
Tremors of exquisite sensation, highly inappropriate for the moment, spooled through her over and over again. She slid a look at him. An agitated look that left him wholly unfazed.
Confident and proud, he sat calmly beside her, conversing with his men, offering her prime morsels of roasted beef from their shared trencher or sipping hippocras with clear appreciation - all the while gentling slow, lazy circles across her most sensitive places.
“All the gods thunder!” she hissed, snatching the wine cup they shared. She took a healthy gulp, let the rich, spiced wine flow down her throat. She also thanked the heavens his questing fingers couldn’t breach the cloth of her skirts.
