Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (25 page)

Almost immediately
Iain’s body responded, his manhood swelling.

Overcome with an almost furious lust, he avidly stared at
his lady love, feasting on each and every womanly curve. He very much wanted to rip the linen
léine
from her body and lavish her with a torrent of kisses. Lave her body with his tongue. Suckle at her breasts. Finger her lush wet chasm
.

I want
to take her, here, against the battlements, and the devil take anyone who might be watching us.

“We will wed on the morrow,”
Iain muttered hoarsely.

Yvette’s eyes opened wide.
“So soon?”

“Believe me . . . ’tis no’ soon enough.”

“ . . . and I hereby charge that you are handfasted and heartjoined, to abide in affection and comfort for one year and a day,” the king of Scotland gravely intoned as he bound Yvette and Iain’s left wrists together with a length of green silk ribbon.

At hearing those words, Yvette suddenly f
elt lightheaded; whether from the profusion of heather, willow and crab apple that bedecked the small chapel, or from the wisps of mugwort incense that wafted through the air, she knew not.

To countermand the dizziness, she fixedly stared a
t her and Iain’s joined hands.

H
is hand is twice the size of mine,
she marveled as a myriad of images flashed through her mind – that same hand holding a knife to her throat; ably swinging a claymore in battle; gently wiping the tears from her face; caressing her naked flesh.

Blinking her eyes several times to clear the unbidden images from
her inner eye, Yvette shifted her gaze to the ribbon that bound their hands together. Though it had been wrapped three times – in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit – she wondered at its
true
meaning. She had already given her heart to Iain MacKinnon, and soon enough she would give her body to him. But what would he give in return other than his protection and leasehold on his body for one year and a day? While such concessions were well and good, she would have more from him.

As
she entertained that errant desire, a beam of rose-colored sunlight pierced the stained glass window, bathing Iain in an almost heavenly radiance. In that instant, Yvette thought it wondrous strange how the same face she’d once feared had become so beloved. With the prominent cheek bones, bold cleft in his chin, and patrician nose, Iain MacKinnon’s face was a dream made manifest.

Foolish woman!
she instantly chided.

Iain MacKinnon was but a man
– blood, bone, sinew – well-knit, true, but still just a man.

But if that
is true, why does he arouse me like no other?

Yvette had no ready answer to the thorny conundrum,
the answer buried deep within the recesses of her woman’s heart.

His air one of solemn dignity,
King Robert of Scotland unraveled the silk ribbon from their wrists. “With high courage and good will, your hands and hearts are now joined.”

“It is done,”
Iain said with quiet emphasis. “We are now bound in wedlock.”

Although her newly made husband stared at her in waiting silence, Yvette foun
d herself incapable of a reply. Aware that all eyes were upon her, she somehow managed a tremulous smile.

“You are not truly bound one to the other, until you are bed one to the other,” the king remarked
slyly, his earlier
gravitas
eclipsed with a lecherous grin.

“We shall be bound
before the new day dawns,” Iain assured him.

Embarrassed that they openly spoke about
so private a matter, Yvette turned toward the two other persons who’d stood witness to the ceremony. Diarmid, his jaw tightly clenched, stared through her as though she was nonexistent. Standing beside him, Laoghaire, her full lips curved in a sneer, openly glared. Neither offered a word of congratulation or good cheer, their dual silence a compounded slight. One that weighed heavy on Yvette’s heart.

“Let us adjourn to the great hall,” Iain said, solicit
ously offering his arm to Yvette. If he’d taken notice of his relations’ snub, he gave no indication of it.

Wordlessly, Yvette lifted the train of her mended and freshly laundered green kirtle with her left hand while she placed her right
hand on Iain’s crooked elbow.

Although her wardrobe was severely limited, she’d taken special care with her attire, having draped a swath of MacKinnon plaid across her chest, pinning it to her shoulder
with her ruby-studded brooch. Even though it was a gaudy splash of red and black, she’d intentionally donned it out of deference to her handfasted husband.

A
s for the wreath of showy crab apple blossoms atop her head . . . Yvette had been unable to refuse the well-meaning Eara.
‘’Twill bring ye and the laird much love,’
the maid had enthusiastically assured her. Personally, Yvette thought the wreath made her look like a perfect pagan. Not to mention that she was skeptical as to the blossom’s reputed efficacy; for she knew it would take more than a mere garland of flowers to garner Iain MacKinnon’s heart.

In all honesty
, she didn’t know what it would take to gain’s the laird’s love. While she could don MacKinnon plaid and swear allegiance to her Scottish husband, neither action would change the fact that her father had orchestrated Kenneth MacKinnon’s murder. She could only cling tenaciously to the hope imbued in seven words:
‘You are a gift, pure and simple.’

Those had been
Iain’s exact sentiments, freely spoken, and without coercion. Perhaps she was a lovelorn fool, but she was placing her entire hope for the future on those seven simple words.

And I pray f
ervently that I do not come to regret my impulsive decision
.

As Iain ushered
Yvette into the great hall, the crowded chamber erupted in a clamorous outburst of cheers and shouts. Taken aback by the boisterous welcome, she hesitantly smiled, the unexpected reception leavening her sullen mood.

“My kinsmen are well
pleased with the new lady of Castle Maoil,” Iain whispered in her ear as he led her to the high table. “As am I.”

“Tr
uly, ’tis an honor that . . .” Yvette’s voice trailed into silence. It had all happened so quickly – Iain returning to the isle, an offer of marriage, the handfast ceremony – that she had not considered the fact that for the next year and a day she would be the laird’s wife. “I, too, am pleased for I have grown exceedingly fond of your kinsmen,” she affirmed, her voice thick with emotion.

Iain came to a halt at the gar
land festooned table of honor. Taking hold of Yvette’s hand, he raised it to his lips, brushing her knuckles with a tender kiss. As he did so, the shouts and well-wishes swelled to a near-deafening roar.

“Ye make me glad-hearted, sweet Yvette,”
Iain husked as he assisted her to one of three cushioned chairs that had been placed in the middle of the long table – a chair for the king, the laird, and the lady of the castle. “And ye do me and my kinsmen proud by wearing the MacKinnon plaid. Ye’re a proper Englishwoman, aye, but with the mantle of Scotland about her shoulders.”

“I
was worried that you might not approve of my attire,” she confessed, smoothing her kirtle about her hips as she seated herself at the table. Particularly since she’d decided to wear her English garb rather than the traditional Scottish
léine
for her wedding day.

“While I despise King Edward and the land hungry earls who do his bidding, I
happen to be enamored of a certain English lady,” Iain said matter-of-factly. “And if ye want the truth, ’tis yer English qualities, yer proud bearing and yer obstinacy, that attracted me to ye at the onset.”

“A mule is both proud and obsti
nate,” Yvette pointedly remarked. “I would rather have you enamored with my eyes, or my chin, or even my ears rather than any mulish qualities”

“Ach, we’ve been wed
only a few moments and already ye’re fishing for compliments.”

Yvette stifled a gasp, guiltily aware that was
precisely
what she’d been doing.

Leaning toward her, Iain lowered
his voice and said, “Ye dinna have to cast yer net far for I shall never forget the first time I set eyes upon you. Ye were so regal and lovely, like a stone Madonna. And when I stood close to ye and breathed yer scent, ye smelled of the heather and fresh morning sunshine.”

“As I recall, your tender regard was well hid behind a fierce scowl and an even fiercer demeanor,” s
he reminded him.

“Th
ose days are long since past.” As he spoke, Iain gently skimmed his hand across her cheek, the caress so tender, Yvette could
almost
believe that his motions were animated with love.

When
, in the next instant, Iain’s fingers roamed to the throbbing pulse at the base of her neck, Yvette’s breath caught in her throat.

At h
earing her quick intake of air, Iain lazily smiled. In wanton fascination she stared at his well-molded lips, remembering how he’d used his mouth to arouse her, to bring her to the apex of pleasure. If not for the horde of plaid-swathed kinsmen who watched their every move, she would have succumbed to the temptation to trace the smooth curve of his lips with her fingers.

“
It pleases me that you donned the tunic I made for you,” Yvette said with a smile, noticing as she spoke how the dyed fabric turned Iain’s eyes a mesmerizing shade of blue. “I feared the garment might be too small across the shoulders. You are quite big.”

“Aye, I am . . . but
I think we will be a good fit.”

While n
othing in Iain’s expression or posture suggested anything lurid, Yvette nonetheless suspected a more intimate meaning behind his innocent remark.

As
her new husband wordlessly stared at her, a heated blush crept up Yvette’s neck and settled on her cheeks.

“You
blush, lady.”

Guiltily aware that the color on her cheeks was due to
the fact that she anxiously looked forward to their wedding night, Yvette gestured to the musicians on the other side of the chamber. “The Scottish bagpipe music is very beautiful,” she remarked. “Since my arrival at Castle Maoil, I have developed a fondness for the pipes.”

“The pipes are no’ nearly as beautiful sounding as yer sweet moans when ye’re in the throes of pleasure,” Iain crooned in a deep-throated
whisper. His eyes, heavy-lidded, glittered with a blue fire; a fire so intense Yvette’s knees began to quiver.

Flustered, she averted her gaze, feigning a sudden interest in the scene before her, the great hall as
lively as she’d ever seen it, the chamber echoing with the strains of laughter and bawdy banter.

Nearer to where she sat, and n
oticeably subdued given all of the boisterous merrymaking, the king of Scotland was deeply engaged in conversation with Diarmid. Laoghaire also sat at the high table, the fierce MacKinnon scowl etched onto her face, the young woman having yet to utter a word to anyone. Disappointingly, her new sister-in-law had not deigned to wear the blue wool kirtle that she’d made for her, but was instead attired in her customary tunic and trews.

Suddenly noticing that
Fergus approached the dais bearing a ewer, basin, and several clean towels slung over his forearm, Yvette anxiously awaited his arrival.

“I have trained Fergus to be Castle Maoil’s new ewerer,” she announced as the former kitchen scullion deferentially stoo
d by King Robert’s chair.

Iain cocked a quizzical brow.
“I didna know we had an old ewerer.”

“Whether you
had one or not, I have amended the situation.”

Holding her breath
, Yvette watched as Fergus deftly poured water over the king’s hands. Then, with a theatrical flourish, he handed their honored guest a clean towel . . . just as she’d painstakingly schooled him to do.

“
Mmph. It makes me wonder what else ye ‘amended’ during my absence.” Although he still wore a wary expression, Iain nevertheless held his hands over the basin so that Fergus could drizzle water over them. Taking the proffered towel, he dried himself. That done, he unexpectedly took both the ewer and the last clean towel from Fergus. “I will see to my wife,” he said, dismissing the newly ordained ewerer with a nod of the head.

As Iain slowly poured the rosemary and thyme scented water over
Yvette’s hands, a fevered awareness vibrated between them. One that was as warm and thick as a sun-kissed Highland mist. His movements unhurried, Iain put down the ewer and reached for the towel. Bracketing her damp hands between the folded cloth, he rubbed them dry.

“I would have us forego the feast and
immediately commence our wedding night,” Iain murmured in a lowered voice.

Yvette gnawed on h
er bottom lip, highly tempted. “We could . . . but I have ordered a lavish feast especially for your delectation. Ah! The wedding cider has arrived,” she announced as a manservant placed a pewter flagon on the table. “’Tis made from pomegranates.”

“
From the Greek isles?”

She confirmed with a quick nod of the head. Then
, hoping to circumvent a harangue over the cost of the exotic fruit, she said, “According to the ancient myths, Persephone was condemned to spend part of each year in the underworld with Hades because she ate from the pomegranate.”

Appearing unconcerned as to how much coin had been spent to purchase the imported delicacy, Iain idly caressed the side of his goblet, his bronzed forefinger moving
in a slow, concentric circle. “This pomegranate . . . ’tis all red and juicy, is it not?”