“Weel, here is a more pleasing thought.” He slid his hand down to her backside and pressed her loins close to his.
“That isnae a thought.”
“’Tis all I have thought of since we returned to Dubheilrig. That and finding some suitable revenge to enact upon my mother for separating us. I dinnae ken what game she was playing.”
“Mayhaps”—she slipped her arms about his neck—“she but meant to ensure ye had the appropriate ardor for a new husband.” She hooked her leg around his and rubbed up against him.
“My ardor,” he said, gently pushing her onto her back and easing his body on top of hers, “doesnae need starving to stay sharp.”
“I am verra glad to hear that. Mayhaps ye should cease boasting about it and prove it.”
She laughed when he growled, her amusement quickly turning to pleasure when he kissed her. His hunger was immediately evident and she savored it. With each caress she sought to strengthen his need, and her easy success made her feel heady and seductive. Soon she was too caught up in her own passion to know or care who was urging whom on.
She held nothing back, denied Hacon nothing. She writhed and panted beneath his kisses and caresses. He writhed and panted beneath hers. When he finally steadied her under him, she arched greedily to accept the joining thrust of his body. She encouraged his increasing ferocity with her body and her words, clinging to him as tightly as she could when they simultaneously reached the culmination of their desires. Still trembling from the strength of her release, she accepted his weight with lethargic welcome as he collapsed on top of her.
It was not until Hacon slipped free of her body and rolled onto his side that she roused from her drowsy satiation. She turned her head to look at him, smiling faintly when she saw that he appeared as replete as she felt. When she brushed a lock of his hair from his face, he did the same for her.
“So, did I prove my boast, wee Jennet?” he asked as he tugged the tangled covers back over their cooling bodies.
“Ye will have to give me a wee bit of time to decide. ’Tisnae wise to rush a judgment.”
When he tickled her to punish that impudence, she begged him to stop. Still laughing, she curled up in his arms. Her passion had eased and she began to feel the chill with which winter cursed their chambers. While she had Hacon’s delightful warmth to curl up against, she intended to make good use of it. “I recognize that impudence,” he said, nuzzling her thick hair. “Your father said ye are much like him.”
“So, ye had time to have a wee talk with Papa?”
“Aye, a wee talk. And he didnae need to tell me ye have some of his mischievous spirit. I quickly saw it.”
“What am I to think of that? Do ye feel it a good or a bad thing?”
“Ah, a good thing. Oh, the mon is a rogue and not above a bit of thievery, but there is a lot of goodness in him.”
“Thank ye, Hacon.” She felt relief and realized she had been concerned over how Hacon would judge her father.
“There is no need to thank me, dearling. ’Tis but the truth.” Idly smoothing his hand up and down her back, he mused aloud, “Your father could rise verra high if he set his mind to it. With his charm and fine looks, he could make great gains. Aye, and he has wit and skill.”
“All ye say is true, but, Hacon”—she patted his chest—“I wouldnae try to change Papa’s ways. There lies a sure road to madness. He is what he is. If he wishes to change, he will. If he doesnae, I think only God Himself could change his mind.”
“Aye, and your father would probably argue with Him,” Hacon drawled, laughing softly.
“I wouldnae be at all surprised. I just hope that while he stays here he doesnae drag Ranald into his mischief with the lasses again. It doesnae make your sister happy.”
“Verra little makes Katherine happy anymore. Dinnae worry about her. She coddles Ranald too much. A little mischief would do the lad good. Aye, especially when his duty now requires him to take up arms from time to time.” He smiled down at her when she failed to fully smother a yawn. “Tired, lass?”
“I fear so. ’Tis puzzling. I lingered in bed this morning so that I wouldnae be.”
He felt her cheeks and forehead, but there was no hint of fever. “Ye dinnae feel ill, do ye?”
“Nay, just weary. Mayhaps ’tis just the winter. ’Tis so cold and dark. That may tire me.”
“Weel”—he kissed the top of her head—“get some rest. After such an arduous beginning to our wedded life, ye have earned it.”
She yawned again and, giving in to the overwhelming urge to close her eyes, decided to ignore that impudence. “I am sorry. Sleeping on one’s wedding night seems a poor thing to do.”
“ ’Tis a long night. Ye may wake from time to time,” he hinted. “In truth, I feel verra sure ye will.”
Giving a sleepy laugh, she snuggled closer to his warmth. It felt good to be sharing his bed again. It felt good to be married to him, to have exchanged vows before a priest. There was a lot that was good, but there was also a shadow over her happiness. He had still spoken no words of love. She had spoken none either. That was sadly wrong, yet she could not bring herself to bare her soul unless he at least attempted to do the same. She suddenly wondered if Hacon suffered a similar fear. As she succumbed to the irresistible pull of sleep, she promised herself she would gain the courage to test that possibility—soon.
Jennet blinked, wondering why she was awake. She did not want to be. Several delightful interludes with Hacon during the night had left her tired. Hacon, she noted a little crossly, was not even restless. She closed her eyes, determined to sleep.
