Angus decided at that moment that this marriage had indeed done something to him, because his passions were exploding inside of him like torched gunpowder. He was not the same man he had once been, and he was not happy about it. He had not taken a wife so that he could become a contrite, lovesick husband. He had not been seeking affection, or sentimentality, or attachment. To the contrary, he had wedded this woman to produce a son and provide an heir that would unite the clans of Kinloch, and one day become chief. It had been a political arrangement, nothing more.
Yet here he stood, looking at the stunningly beautiful woman who was carrying his child, and all he could think about was the fact that he might not live to see the day when she gave birth, and that his time with her was limited, and that she was angry with him.
He wanted more than anything to fix it, and apologize for his unforgivable behavior that morning. Even when he knew it was possible that she might betray him, he still desired her, and could not bear to think that she was cross with him.
Did he truly believe she would betray him?
His gut said no, it could not be so, but he simply could not take the risk that he was wrong. He knew what love did to perfectly sensible men. It made them blind and foolish.
“I came to see Raonaid,” he said vindictively, knowing it was not what she wanted to hear, but he said it nevertheless, in a passionate attempt to convince her—and himself—that he did not care how she felt.
But dammit, he did care. The sick feeling in his stomach proved it. He was done for. He should just send for a rope and a stool right now.
“Fine,” she said, pushing past him. “I’ll leave you two alone. I hope you enjoy yourselves.”
She walked haughtily to the stairs and disappeared from sight, but as he listened to the light tapping of her footsteps down the curved staircase, his passion for her exploded tenfold, and he had to follow.“Wait, damn you!”
She stopped and looked up at him. He shoved the axe into his belt and descended to where she stood, took hold of her hand, and dragged her the rest of the way down.
“Where are we going?” she asked. “Let go of me!”
He led her through the stone passageway, found an arbitrary open door, and entered what turned out to be the steward’s chamber. He shut the door behind them, locked it, then backed her up against the desk.
He said nothing. For the longest time, he just looked into her angry brown eyes, then cupped her face in his hands. She blinked up at him and seemed to recognize his urgent need for sex.
Yes, he wanted sex—and hell, he wanted it now. When she told him to go to Raonaid and enjoy himself, he couldn’t let it pass, and he needed to make sure she understood that he could enjoy himself with no woman but her.
He needed also to prove that she belonged to him, and that he was still in control. She had not made him weak. He was strong. She was his wife, and if he wanted her, he would damn well have her. He intended to prove that now.
Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he lifted her onto the desk. Quickly, he wrenched her skirts up and thrust himself up against her, while taking careful note of her mounting desires: her breasts heaving lusciously, her wet lips parting. She let out a tiny moan of need that aroused him beyond comprehension.
Angus hooked the back of her knee with the crook of his arm, while he quickly swept his kilt out of the way.
“I want no woman but you,” he told her.
She grabbed hold of his tartan. “Then prove it.”
Feet still on the floor, he entered her in one swift rush of fire, and felt as if he were charging forward with his sword in the air, riding headlong down a steep hillside toward an enemy on the battlefield. The damp heat between her legs provoked his lust, and he pushed hard, needing to claim her without boundaries or conditions.
He worked smoothly inside her on top of the desk, and their bodies moved in a perfect rhythmic harmony. She clutched at his shoulders and cried out with pleasure, and simultaneously, he felt the throbbing compressions of her orgasm squeeze and pulse around the impetus of his desires.
His own orgasm grew in force and spread through him in a steamy blast of vitality, until he couldn’t hold back another minute. He bucked wildly as he ejaculated into her and knocked a vase of flowers off the desktop. It landed with a smashing clatter.
Afterward, the whole world seemed to go quiet, while he held his wife tightly in his arms. It took some time for his breathing, and hers, to return to normal. Then slowly he withdrew from inside her. He let his kilt fall, and touched his forehead to hers.
So much for being in control.
Gwendolen took hold of his face and kissed him hard. “If you go to that woman now,” she said, “I swear on my mother’s life that I will run you through with your own sword. You’ll be a bloody mess on this floor, and of no use to Raonaid or anyone else for that matter.”
God help him, no woman had ever aroused him more.
“I don’t want her,” he said. “I give you my vow as a Scotsman that as long as I live, I will never want any woman but you. But if you betray me, lass…”
He didn’t finish the threat, because he couldn’t imagine what he would do.
“I will not betray you,” she assured him. “How can I make you believe it?”
“I don’t know.”
