“Slàinte mhath,” his voice carried through the hall. “Tae me beloved lady wife, Selene. Good health, long life, and happiness tae her and tae all my dear ones.”
Selene lifted her goblet, her eyes misting as the others echoed the toast. In that moment, surrounded by warmth and love, with Kenneth at her side, she knew, with a certainty that steadied her soul, the darkness had truly passed.
They lingered over the feast far longer than anyone had intended, unwilling to let the day slip away too quickly. Selene sampled everything that was set before her, determined to do justice to the sweet abundance laid out – baked apples swimming in custard, fragrant rosewater jellies, and spicy, delicious clootie dumplings.
By the time they pushed back their plates, content and pleasantly heavy with food and wine, laughter came easily to them all. They retreated to the solar, where the fire blazed high and the air was rich with the comforting scents of peat smoke and whisky.
The men soon settled themselves with a dram – or two – while the lasses gathered at the harpsichord. Selene took her place at the keys, her fingers moving effortlessly as Maureen and Elsie joined in, their voices weaving in harmony. They sang old, well-loved songs: melancholy ballads, and bright, jaunty tunes that had feet tapping and smiles spreading around the room.
When the final song ended, the men applauded enthusiastically.
“I’m ready fer a dram of yer whisky, braither,” Elsie declared. Accepting a glass from Kenneth, she tipped it back and downed it in one bold swallow, prompting peals of laughter from the men. Selene and Maureen contented themselves with a final goblet of claret.
As the day waned and the deep darkness of a winter night crept in, the time came for Selene and Kenneth to bid the others goodnight. The fire burned low, casting long shadows across the walls.
Halvard rose and drew Elsie close to his side, his arm firm and protective about her shoulders.
“I am glad I was able tae be here,” he said, his voice earnest, “nae only tae see ye wed, Laird Kenneth, but tae stand with ye against the madness that has stalked ye fer far too long.”
Kenneth stood as well, his expression solemn but grateful.
“I thank ye,” he replied. “Fer all ye’ve done fer the MacDonalds, and fer meself and Lady Selene. I am proud tae call ye braither, and I look forward tae the alliance between our clans.”
At last, Selene slipped her hand into Kenneth’s and leaned closer, her voice soft, her eyes alight with mischief and affection.
“I wish to retire to our chamber, husband,” she said, the promise in her smile unmistakable. “After all – itisour wedding night.”
Kenneth’s answering smile held a promise all its own as he led her from the room.
The instant the door to their chamber closed behind them he seized her in his arms and, without further ado, carried her giggling across the room to lay her unceremoniously on the soft feather mattress among the furs and woolen blankets.
He leaned over her, his eyes on fire. “At last, ye’re mine, and I can love ye as ye wish.”
She smiled up at him, “And I can love you as you wish also, Laird Kenneth, it is not only ye who has lust in your heart.”
He clasped her to his heart and rolled her over so that she lay atop him, her heart pounding, her senses filled with his aroma of whisky and wool and that other undefinable scent that belonged to Kenneth alone.
He pulled her head down for a wild kiss, filled with the passion and the desperate, pent-up longing they’d shared for too long. She lost herself in the feel of his lips on hers, the thrust of her tongue and the low, guttural sounds he made deep in his throat.
She stretched her length on his, luxuriating in the sensation of her breasts pressed to his chest and their hearts beating in time. His shaft hardened beneath her and she shifted her hips, pressing herself to him. She moaned as they at last drew back.
“I couldnae wait another day.” His voice was hoarse, rough with desire. “I wanted tae wed ye at once.”
She grinned and rolled to lie beside him, knowing without being told that Father Mulcahy had never been called away to Ireland. This was something she’d have out with him. One day.
“I want ye naked. Now.”
She sat up so he could untie the laces and pull her dress over her head. She wore no stays under her gown, only a silk chemise and a petticoat, which was quickly removed from her body.
He ran his fingers over the silk chemise, cupping her breasts, brushing her nipples with his thumbs so that they puckered and grew hard beneath his touch. She gasped and lay back. Pulling aside the chemise he suckled on the delicate, sensitive nubs, nipping and licking. Heated sensations of pleasure rushed through her, coming to rest between her thighs at her core.
“Oh God, Kenneth, dinnae stop. I want ye tae keep doing that to me.” She arched her back as he tugged with his teeth. She groaned. Loudly.
“Take off yer shirt. I must feel your skin against mine.” Her fingers were busy with the laces on his linen shirt. He raised his arms and she tugged it off, casting it aside. She reached for his buckle and after a moment’s hasty fumble it was undone. His kilt unraveled, and joined his shirt somewhere on the floor.
Then he was naked, his body gleaming in the firelight. She drew breath, lost in the fervor of passion for that man who was her husband.
He ripped the delicate silk of the chemise, so that there was nothing between their nakedness as she twined her arms at his neck and he pulled her to him.
