Page 40 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

“Let it be known, good folk, that the laird indeed fancies his bride, and let no one, most of all her”—he squeezed her hand, now back within the crook of his elbow—“question it!”

A new surge of shouts erupted. Sakes, but how could folk be so loud for so long? Her ears were ringing. Blush was burning her cheeks with its telltale stains of embarrassment, and she dropped her gaze to her feet. These strange new people were pleased with the spectacle, and she felt a tumult of the same confusion that had plagued her since she’d sat fireside with James. And a treacherous desire to be kissed in such a way again. Her knees, so weakened, wobbled. Her fingers dabbed mindlessly at the moisture upon her lips. He was nothing like the man he’d at first presented himself to be.

She needed breathing room and needed to make sense of what she felt, for how could she so easily enjoy such a carnal pleasure with James MacDonald when her own people were ushering in Christmastide with naught?

“Mi lady,” Maudie now peeped, curtsied to her, with upset contorting her sweet face as she straightened the oversize crown. “Have I offended? I meant no’ to embarrass ye.”

“I’m quite well,” Aileana said, patting her back reassuringly. “Though, aye, a bit embarrassed. Worry nay, and enjoy yerself this holiday. I believe yer next command as Abbess is to order the lighting of the Yule log.” She turned to James, breathing, “Please pardon me.”

Aileana hastened across the hall, leaving James and the revelry behind her. Climbing the winding stairs, she clung to the rope railing until she reached the gallery above, where it was dark and shadowed.

“Sent her runnin’, he did,” she heard a couple of men jest below as she peered down upon the hall. “If the laird is wise, he’ll make chase.”

Breathing hard from her jaunt, she peered down at James to see if he had heard. He seemed to be clearing his throat, his face firm and his eyes fixed upon the stairway. He forced a strained smile, then took Maudie’s hand, leaned down to her to listen while the child spoke in his ear, then announced, “The abbess rules that the Yule log be lit!”

Guardsmen cleared the benches, abandoning them alongside a wall and shifting aside the trestle tables while maids hastened to keep balance of the platters piled high with juicy meats. Folk took to dancing in the newly opened space. James straightened his belts, then stepped down from the fireplace as Sir Angus held a burning wick to the kindling wedged beneath the log. He glanced around as he walked through the throng, his eyes coming to settle on the gallery and, no doubt, the shadowed shape she created.

Aileana exhaled hard, resting a palm against the fluttering inside her belly that thoughts of intimacy with James had induced, and she backed up until she bumped the wall, losing herself in thought. Is he coming to find me? Do I want him to?

“Aileana?”

She turned at the deep brogue. James leaned around the dark archway, watching her. She gazed back over the gallery to examine the dancers’ shadows lapping upward from ensconced torches around the great hall, feeling his presence as he stepped close. She could hear his soft breathing, smell his scent that had intoxicated her as his lips had pressed to hers—

A hand rested upon her shoulder.

“I meant no’ to embarrass ye,” he said softly.

Her nerves gnawed at her, and she chewed her lip.

“But I’m nay sorry I kissed ye,” he added.

She gripped her middle now, unable to look up at him. He moved in front of her, blocking her view. Dim light glowed around him, casting him in a halo. A strange bout of laughter nearly gripped her. A halo? Just mere days ago, the thought of a halo upon the Devil MacDonald would have seemed preposterous. But now that she’d seen how he looked after his folk? Heard his clan’s stories of terror brought on by her brother? She wasn’t so sure the thought of a halo offended anymore.

He settled his other hand at her waist. Such a familiar touch for him to offer, and yet she sensed no attempt at liberties. “Aileana?”

His palm left her waist empty and slid up her side, over her shoulder, alongside her cheek to cradle her face, and like an animal in a snare, she withstood the eruption of desire and nerves it evoked, alone in the darkness while the revelers below intoxicated themselves on drink, dancing, and merriment.

“Are ye sorry ye kissed me?” His question was gruff.

Trembling, she shook her head, her sentiments betraying her and her tongue failing her again, rendering her unable to speak.

He exhaled with pent-up relief, nodding, and his fingers alongside her cheek fondled her coif as he studied it.

“And if I were to kiss ye again, in the privacy of this corridor, would ye reject me?”

Sakes above, was an entire spring faire turning flips in her stomach? She clenched her arms around herself and felt her blasted head shaking again, surrendering to the desire to know the tame side to this warlord. He leaned toward her, his fingers on her coif, sliding around her nape to cradle her head. He braced his other arm upon the wall, easing himself forward, encapsulating her in his body heat, and yet his approach was so careful, she wanted to smile in spite of her nerves.

Lips trembling, she closed her eyes and waited for the touch of his flesh upon hers.

She felt his breath first, heard his exhale close and smelled the familiar wine, waiting, waiting, until he finally, blessedly, ended the torture and pressed his lips to hers. She exhaled shakily against his mouth. Her hands, fidgeting, needed something solid to which to cling and hold herself steady. Her blood roared in her ears, pounding, pounding, and he relaxed himself against her, slipping his hips aside her thigh to better anchor himself. Sakes, the kiss downstairs by all accounts had been their first, and yet this alone, engulfed by his broadness, was far more special, and she released herself over to the sensation.

…

James sensed the moment Aileana capitulated. Her hands, twisting themselves, gripped him. Her mouth softened with welcome. And he was floating. Sakes, he loved this part of her mouth, the part that gave tentative flicks of her tongue against his. Her breath hitched so innocently. She trusted him, a nàmhaid—he grinned at the word, an insult now becoming a playful endearment—to have care.

He angled his head, unable to stop the passionate sweep of his tongue, and growled appreciation against her as she encircled his neck and held him close. He nipped her lip with his teeth, devouring the offering she made. Both hands now cupped her head and neck, so slight in his massive palms. His tongue laved hers—tasting hers, touching hers—and his control, barely held by a thread, threatened to snap.

His hand made daring roves up and down her side, caressing her hip, caressing dangerously close to the underside of her breast, causing a strangled whine to catch in her throat.