Her eyes flashed with excitement. “Could you teach me how to fight with a claymore? It might prove useful one day. You never know when you might need your wife to protect you.”
“Protectme?” He pinched her hard on the bottom.
“Ouch!” She kicked him under the covers.
Ducking beneath the sheets, he slid down to join her at the foot of the bed. “Are you carrying my child yet?” he asked.
“I can hardly answer that question,” she replied. “We’ve only been married a month.”
“But we’ve shagged so much, lass, it seems more like a year.”
Gwendolen was tempted to kick him again, but couldn’t seem to do anything but gaze into the brilliant blue of his eyes.
“Is this normal?” she asked. “Do all married couples spend this much time in bed?”
“Don’t think so. I believe we are strange.”
She huffed. “I know for a fact thatyouare. Are you aware that you grind your teeth in your sleep?”
His eyes narrowed. “How would you know that? Do you stare at me in the night?”
“Occasionally.”
“Why?”
She ran a finger over his lips and spoke with quiet seduction. “Because I am fascinated by your beautiful mouth and all the wonderful things you do with it.”
“And I am fascinated by the smell of your skin.” Smoothly, he rolled onto her. “Especially this shoulder.” He brushed his nose down the inside of her arm. “And your wrists… Your hands… And lovely little titties.”
He took a nipple into his mouth and began that slow, succulent licking that never failed to bring her to the heights of trembling desire.
Gwendolen relaxed her body and let her eyes fall closed, accepting the fact that she was becoming rather obsessed with her brave, passionate lion, even when she knew that he did not return her feelings, for there was always something distant about him, even at times like this, when he was making love to her.
He wanted a child. She knew that much, and it was important to him that she was amenable in bed, so he did what was necessary to make it so. She suspected, however, that this was just a temporary interlude for him, a pleasant diversion from his warrior life, and the moment it was confirmed that she was expecting, he would retreat, and she would not see him again until the time came to conceive another.
It was not so for her. All her life, she had wanted a marriage built on intimacy and love, and she was frankly surprised that this first month had been so passionate, considering that they had begun as enemies. She still could not forget the fury she had felt when she watched him storm the castle gates and kill her clansmen, and often wondered what her father would think if he could see how infatuated she had become with his enemy.
Two nights ago, she had dreamed about their firstborn son on his wedding day. Angus—proud and loving as any father could be—presented him with his prized claymore as a gift. She woke from the dream feeling elated, and wondered if some dreams did come true. It was possible, she supposed, for many of hers had found their way into the reality of her life. The lion, for instance.
A moment later, her husband slid into her with exquisite ease and looked down at her face, while he braced himself above her on both arms. She gazed up at him in the silvery morning light and prayed that, one day, something more than sexual desire would exist between them. She was coming to realize that she wanted a deeper, soulful connection with her husband. For she could not live for duty alone. Not with him.
The knowledge of that fact terrified her.
Chapter Thirteen
On her way to the solar one afternoon, Onora rounded a corner in one of the vaulted passageways and collided unexpectedly with Lachlan MacDonald.
“Well, well, well,” she purred, taking hold of his tartan and pulling him into the shadows of an alcove. He followed her up against the wall and rested an arm over her head.
“Have you been following me, Mrs. MacEwen?” he asked. His eyes were playful, his voice seductive, and she quivered with pent-up desire.
Heaven help her, she had not yet recovered from her conversation with him the night before, when he crossed the Great Hall, whispered hotly into her ear, and teased her with sweet flatteries. He was a captivating man—the kind who knew just how to charm a woman onto her back in two minutes flat. Onora would be more than happy to volunteer to become his next conquest, even though she was ten years older and a woman of vast experience and reason.
“Certainly not, sir,” she replied, rubbing a finger down the center of his chest and wishing she could do so much more. “Perhaps you are the one who is following me.”
A glimmer of interest lighted his eyes. “And what if I was? Would you call the castle guards and have me reprimanded?”
She shook her head at the outrageousness of it all, for she had never been one to let any man affect her this way. It was usually the other way around. Her lovers often became obsessed with her, and perhaps, because of that, she had grown overconfident in recent years.
