***
For three days, and three excruciatingly long nights, Angus refrained from visiting Gwendolen’s bedchamber, for he did not think he could manage another session of foreplay that didn’t end in full-scale, outright, bed-smashing intercourse.
Instead, he spent those days exhausting himself on the construction of the castle gate, deliberately choosing tasks that tested his body, in order to distract himself from thinking about Gwendolen. Currently, he was at the top of a ladder, pounding on a wooden peg.
He also took steps to get their wedding celebrations under way as quickly as possible. Naturally, if he could drag her to the chapel that afternoon and be done with it, he would. He would marry her and bed her without delay, and rid himself of this hunger for which there was only one cure. But the two clans needed something to celebrate, and he wasn’t marrying Gwendolen to satisfy his lust. He was doing it for Kinloch—so it had to be a first-rate spectacle with a bounty of food, dancing, drinking, and applauding.
And then, by God, there would be sex. Lots and lots of sex.
He pounded harder and faster on the wooden peg, and accidentally smashed his thumb with the hammer.
***
The following day, Angus entered his bedchamber in the middle of the afternoon, locked the door behind him, and sank into an upholstered chair by the window. He was drenched in sweat after testing the gate, which was now complete, but required a few minor adjustments. He was tired of working on it, however. His thumb was still swollen and throbbing, so he came here to rest a while.
He lounged back, closed his eyes, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He rubbed his stinging eyes with the heels of his hands. It felt like the insides of his eyelids were coated in dust. He hadn’t enjoyed a good night’s sleep in days.
He pushed himself out of the chair and practically crawled to the bed, where he flopped onto his stomach and thought of his forthcoming wedding night. An unwelcome rush of lust stirred his blood.
He was not accustomed to satisfying his own needs. Raonaid, over the past two years, had always been eager, but it had been two months since he left her, and Gwendolen was still, as of yet, unavailable to him. He might do better if he just took the edge off a bit. At least one fist still worked, and that’s all he needed.
He rolled onto his back and stared up at the canopy above, feeling riled and annoyed that he had been reduced to this.
A knock sounded at his door just then, and he sat up abruptly.“Fook off!”
“Fook off, yerself,” Lachlan replied from the corridor. “Open the door.”
“I’m busy.”
There was a pause. “Too busy to receive Colonel Worthington, the governor of Fort William? I thought you might like to know that he’s outside, pounding at the gate. He seems agitated.”
“Dammit, Lachlan,” Angus said in a low voice, as he vaulted off the bed. “I’ll show you agitated.”
He’d always known that passion for a woman made a man weak, and here was the proof. He had been caught off guard, distracted by the persistent merrymaking that was going on under his kilt.
He flung the door open. “If you tell me he’s here with the full force of the English army, I’ll be throwing you over the castle walls.”
Lachlan stood in the corridor with feet braced apart, loading a musket. “Nay. It’s just the colonel himself and ten redcoats. But he’s getting impatient. I think you ought to let him in.” Lachlan poured powder into the pan, charged the weapon, and rammed down the cartridge.
Angus pushed past him, heading for the staircase. “Tell the guards to open the gate,” he ordered. “Bring the colonel to the solar. I’ll wait for him there. And offer drinks to his men.”
He quickly descended the curved staircase, aware of how quickly the threat of an attack could douse certain fires in a man’s blood, and light others that were equally hot.
His passion for Kinloch was immense.
He swept all thoughts of Gwendolen from his mind.
***
Gwendolen leaned over the battlements and looked down at the small company of mounted soldiers on the bridge, led by the great Colonel Worthington himself.
It was hardly an army of liberators with archers and cannons, appearing over the horizon for a surprise attack. To the contrary, the soldiers, in bright red uniforms, looked lethargic and bored. While they waited on the bridge for the gates to open, the horses nickered and tossed their heads. One soldier sneezed three times into his hand and complained about the dust, and another suggested that he sniff strong vinegar into his nose each morning to take care of the problem.
Clearly there would be no heroic battle today.
Colonel Worthington removed a folded linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead, while insects buzzed incessantly in the meadow beyond.
At last the enormous new gates swung open, and they all trotted into the bailey. Gwendolen moved to the other side of the roof to watch.
