“You look intrigued,” she said, choosing a safer reply.
She wasn’t about to admit he looked as if he might lean just a few inches closer and rain wondrous kisses all over her, a notion that kindled a spooling, languid warmth inside her.
“Intrigued?” He angled his head, considering. “I would say pleased, for your boldness is a joyous gift.”
“A gift?”
“Aye, and a far more precious one than you know,” he told her, a new huskiness in his voice. “Dear as a king’s ransom.”
A fiercely intent look settled on his face then, and he touched the ruby of his signet ring first to the top swell of one of her breasts, then the other, leaving it there. “A gift I shall return to you many times over, my love.”
“Oh.” Caterine’s eyes widened at the endearment, but the gemstone’s cold surface pressed so firmly against her breast’s sensitized flesh, proved too arousing for her say more.
She opened her mouth to try, but before she could, he pushed to his feet and closed the shutters, blocking out the chill wind but also the lovely magic of the silver-washed night.
Turning back to her, he swept her into his arms, cradling her, the crumpledarisaid, and even the furred bed cover, high against the hard wall of his chest.
“’Fore God, lady, there is much I would give you and I’d like to speak to you about some of those gifts now, but first I would know you warm,” he said. “Your teeth are chattering.”
And if he’d had to endure the bounty of her naked breasts winking at him in the moonlight another instant without taking her, truly having her, his ballocks would’ve drawn so tight he might well have maimed himself for life.
So he contented himself by whispering a single kiss against her temple, then strode across the darkened bedchamber, not releasing her until he reached the circle of warmth still cast by the dying embers in the hearth.
“Don’t move,” he said, sliding her down the length of him, just for the pure enjoyment of doing so.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” she returned, her voice soft, perhaps even sounding a bit smitten.
Marmaduke smiled, his soul warming. “There is much I would do for you, lady. And much I would spare you, though this night I would speak only of the gifts I mean to give you.”
She only gazed at the embers, so he lowered himself on one knee before the hearth and tossed a few clumps of peat onto the grate. He used an iron poker to jab at the fire until new flames, smoky and sweet, began to take the edge of the room’s chill.
“That should do us,” he said, satisfied. Straightening, he dusted his hands and then left her to fetch his fur-lined cloak from the ante-room. The newly-stoked fire crackled happily by the time he returned, as did a new blaze sparking in her eyes.
“Thank you.” She clutched the furred bed coverlet tightly about her as she looked at him, saying no more.
Silence that hinted something bothered her.
“You are troubled, my lady?”
“Not at all,” she said, looking anything but. “I just need to make clear that I do not need or want gifts. You said you intend to shower me with them, and I’d rather you did not.”
“I see.” He didn’t, but tamped down a frown. “Will you tell me why?”
“Of course.” She stood straighter, so proud and beautiful. “As we’ve discussed, I shall enjoy exploring fleshly pleasures with you. Carnal encounters belong to the marital pact.” She paused, drew a long breath. “Further, as I am widowed, I see no reason for coyness or denial now, during these few days leading up to our nuptial blessing. We are already committed.
“Even so…” she went on, her tone cooling a bit, “accepting any other form of gift implies an intimacy I cannot give you.”
“Understood.” Marmaduke nodded once, not telling her that he would do everything in his power to change her mind.
Some things were better left unsaid.
Others were evident despite spoken words. Such as the slight quaver in her voice as she’d made her proclamation – uncertainty enough to give him the nudge to calmly drape his cloak, fur side up, over a heavy oaken chair near the hearth.
That done, he settled himself into its sturdy embrace as casually as he could, then stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Then come, my lady, and let me at least warm you,” he said, opening his arms. “I would tell you of my home in Kintail, of Balkenzie.”
“This can be your home.” She took a step toward him. “Dunlaidir is a fine stronghold.”
“So it is,” he agreed, giving her one of his special smiles.
