“We should probably go,” she remarked to him, her voice trembling slightly as she spoke. “I… I expect they’re waiting for us, my Laird.”
She spoke to him using his title, suddenly fearful of showing him disrespect. Now that he was her husband, he owned every part of her, body and soul, and could do almost anything he wanted to her.
To her surprise, his hand slid to her face. He moved her head, twisting it slightly so that she was looking him in the eyes.
“Husband. I’m yer husband now. Not yer Laird. And that’s how you’ll address me.”
The commanding tone to his voice stilled her for a moment. Everything else seemed to fall away as she gazed at him, hardly able to respond. His thumb was just an inch or two from her lips, and he reached across, grazing it over her bottom lip, the silky-softness of her skin a contrast against the rough calluses of his hands.
“Tell me you understand.”
“I understand. Husband…”
But, before she could speak another word, he drew her towards him once more, their mouths coming together with a raw, desperate hunger that spoke to how much they longed for one another. She gasped against his mouth, as he pulled her into his lap, his hands insistent as one slipped beneath the hem of her wedding dress.
He kissed her, harder this time, his tongue sliding into her mouth with a hunger that seemed to stir from some place deep within him. As his hand edged up her thigh, brushing aside the flimsy fabric of her skirt, the other moved into her hair, fingertips pressing into her scalp. His touch was firm, shuddering through every part of her, the pleasure slithering down her body to pool between her legs. She could feel something stirring beneath his kilt already, and a twist of excitement and nervousness took control of her. Her hands pressed to his chest, she fought the urge to move one down, to feel his manhood right then and there, while the townsfolk were just a matter of yards away, utterly unaware of what their new Lady was doing inside this carriage.
He groaned against her mouth, the vibrations of it coursing through her. The noise was almost animal, as though just a touch from her had drawn some beast out from inside of him, a beast that had waited long enough to slip the ring onto her finger before he made his move.
His hand moved up, up, along her thigh, his fingertips grazing along the crease of her hip. She could feel herself throbbing, her body crying out for him in a way it had never cried out for anyone before, longing, needing…
And then, all at once, a loud bang sounded on the door of the carriage. The two of them sprung apart, like teenage lovers caught in a tryst.
“Are ye coming, or what?”
Gregory yelled cheerfully through the door, seeming to sense that opening it would not be the best idea in that moment. Amelia could feel the blood rushing through her, and she could barely stand to look at Arran as she slipped from his lap and onto the seat beside him, quickly tugging down the skirt of her dress. What would they think of her, if they knew that she had allowed a man, even her husband, to slip his hand beneath her skirt in the back of a carriage like that?
Arran, after quickly adjusting himself, stepped out of the door, and offered her a chaste hand to help her down. She took it, still avoiding his gaze, like their eyes meeting would serve as flint to a stone.
The inn they had arrived at was a modest place, but there was a garland hanging above the door, and she could already hear the bright chatter of the people within. Arran put his hand on the small of her back again, guiding her with ease. She appreciated the way he touched her, as though he could sense that she needed his aid; she was sure she would not have been able to enter the inn with much confidence had it not been for him at her side.
She didn’t know what exactly she was walking into but, as the new Lady of the county, she knew that she would have to convince the people that she was worth trusting.
And that their Laird had not made the wrong choice in choosing to marry her.
8
“My Laird!”
A man exclaimed delightedly when he saw Arran enter the crowded inn. Quarts of ale were being passed this way and that along the rows, people cheerfully grabbing for a share when they passed by. There had to be at least fifty people crowded into that small space; men, women, and even a handful of children, though most of them seemed intent on hiding behind their mother’s skirts rather than greeting their leader.
The man strode over to Arran, and extended his hand enthusiastically.
“Congratulations on yer marriage,” he remarked, and his eyes darted over to Amelia. “And this must be…?”
“My wife. Amelia.”
My wife.She would take a while to get used to being referred to like that, she was sure. Something about it sounded right to her ear, like pieces of a song fitting together as they were supposed to. She nodded to the man in greeting, and, before she could get out another word, a woman appeared at her elbow.
“You must be the new lady!” she exclaimed, and Amelia could tell at once that the woman was more than a little merry. A redhue flushed her cheeks, and she was clutching a small glass of whiskey in her hand.
“Aye, she is,” Arran replied, an arm snaking around Amelia’s waist protectively. She shivered; she could still remember how good his hands had felt against her, how easy it had been to just sink into the pleasure that he gave her. And that was barely even a start to what was to come on their wedding night…
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” the woman remarked. “And you look so bonny, too. Here, let me introduce you to some of the other women.”
She grabbed Amelia’s hand, and, before Amelia could get out the barest protest, began to drag her towards a large group of women sitting at the far end of one of the long tables. Amelia could feel their scrutinous gaze on her already, and her heart skipped a beat. What would they think of her, marrying a man like Arran so soon after meeting him? Perhaps some of them had had designs on him, and would be angry that she had managed to become his bride before they did.
But, much to her relief, the woman—who just about remembered to introduce herself as Eileen—seemed to be reflective of the enthusiasm of the rest of the women, too. She was interrogated with questions, about how she had met Arran, what she thought of the area, where she had come from, and how she had ended up in Scotland.
