His own pulse hammering, he stood, relief flooding him that he’d pleased her so. Watching her eddy down from her bliss, hearing her gasping breaths, proved a sweet enough victory to keep his demons silent for a good long while.
But not his heart.
It thumped hard against his ribs, irrevocably lost.
And wanting so much more than soft sighs and passions spent.
Indulging himself in a roguish smile, content with what they’d shared, he looked down at her and savored the depth of his triumph mirrored in her passion-clouded eyes.
Sated eyes.
Never had he seen a woman more beautiful in her release, and never had his own need pounded with such urgency.
“So,” he said, trailing his fingers back and forth over her belly. “Are you pleased, my sweet?”
She reached for his hand, laced her fingers with his. “I am well pleased,” she said, her voice still thick with her passion, her admission of her pleasure warming his heart.
Her brow knitted. “But you, my lord…”
Marmaduke followed her troubled gaze. Not that he needed to look down to know that his manhood still rode hard against his abdomen.
He drew a long breath. “See you, I have waited many years for such a night as this,” he said, catching her hand to his lips for a kiss. “A bit longer will not be my death. It would please me to give you a special gift now, something your sister and her husband sent along for you.”
Releasing her hand, he trailed a finger down the side of her face. “Someone left us some hippocras.” He indicated a moisture-beaded jug on the nearby table. “Why don’t you draw on your robe so you won’t chill, and we can enjoy the wine while you admire Linnet’s gift.”
Turning away, Marmaduke sought the shadow-cast shelter of the little ante-room - but not just to fetch the bejeweled chalices Linnet had sent along as a wedding gift to her sister.
With a weary sigh, he dragged his large, leather satchel beneath the bluish-silver light slanting through the two narrow window slits, then rummaged through the bag until he found the goblets.
But rather than hasten back to his sweet lady wife’s side, he stood unmoving in the pale bands of moonlight, and willed his desire to ebb.
Clenching his hands, and excepting Devorgilla, someone he’d never dare offend - he summoned the shriveled faces of every crone he’d happened across on his long journey across Scotland, recalled with a shudder the odious task of securing Dunlaidir’s latrine chute, and other unpleasantries, until, at last, the fire left his blood.
When it did, he snatched his cloak off its peg, swirled it over his shoulders, and cursed himself for, once again, bowing to his dark side.
The beast in him he couldn’t seem to tame.
Frowning into the shadows, he rained a parade of curses on the foolishness of trusting his skilled hands and practiced lips to bestow marital bliss upon his bride, but being too much of a coward to risk seeing revulsion cloud her eyes in the instant he plunged his need into her.
But, practiced champion that he was, he ran a hand down over his face to smooth the cares from his brow, retrieved the two chalices, then left the ante-room’s darkness.
And his own.
Confident he’d challenge his greatest dragon on the morrow…and be bold enough - next time - to see the battle through to the end.
Chapter 43
She’d seen the chalices before.
Caterine peered at the magnificently jeweled chalice in her hand. The multi-colored gemstones adorning the elaborately worked wine goblet gleamed in the soft light of a hanging cresset lamp.
They winked at her, teasing her with the chalice’s familiarity.
She glanced at her husband, but found no answers. He sat in the heavy oaken chair near her bedchamber’s hearth, one powerfully muscled leg resting casually over the side of the chair. His fur-lined cloak gaped just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of the hard-muscled planes of his chest and abdomen.
Even more tempting, she could see a titillating hint of his bold masculinity, now fully relaxed and resting against his thigh. Though only partly visible, its length and thickness, even at ease, quickened her blood.
Very aware of the proximity of his maleness, she smoothed her bed-robe, a fine liquid heat winding through her, and tingly hotly across her womanhood.
