"Very well, a fortnight," he agreed. "On one condition."
"What's that?"
"We both sleep in the same bed—this bed. I give you my word I'll do nothing you don't want," he added before she could argue.
Courting couples did a great deal more than talking. Kissing, rolling around in the hay, all kinds of intimate exploration. He'd court her in bed with soft words and caresses. By the end of the fortnight when they came to do the deed she'd be aching for him as he ached for her now.
She gave him a wary look, sensing a trap.
"I don't want people gossiping about our marriage," he said.
"They're already gossiping about it," she pointed out.
"Aye, because it was sudden and unexpected, and because my idiot cousin spilled the beans about how we met. But if the people of the castle learn the marriage hasna even been consummated—put it this way, they'll no' be speaking kindly of a bride who married their laird then refused to lie down wi' him."
She flushed and in a low voice said, "Oh. I didn't think of that." She swallowed. "Very well, I agree. We sleep in the same bed."
"Right then." Cameron strode to the bed, flipped the covers back, pulled out his sgian dubh and cut his forearm. Blood spurted from the cut.
Chapter Eight
"What are you doing?" Horrified, Jeannie flew across the room to him. Fending her off with one hand, he shook a few drops of blood onto the sheets then turned and allowed her to examine his arm.
She grabbed a clean handkerchief and pressed it to the cut. It didn't look serious but any cut, even a small one, could be dangerous. Da had died of a rose thorn that had festered in his flesh. "What on earth were you thinking of?" She fetched the whisky from the side table.
"It's nothing. Dinna fuss, woman." He sheathed the sgian dubh.
"Nothing? You cut yourself deliberately!" She uncorked the bottle and tipped a little whisky onto the cut.
His breath hissed in. It must have stung. Good. "Waste of good whisky," he muttered.
"Even a small wound can fester," she said severely. "Why do such a thing to yourself?"
He shrugged. "I'll not have the maids spreading rumors about your virginity. Or lack of it."
"I don't lack—oh." She broke off in blushing comprehension and stared at the bright stains on the sheet. "You cut yourself for me, to preserve my honor," she whispered.
Jeannie looked at him in wonder. This tall young bridegroom of hers, a man she barely knew—he'd cut himself for her, to protect her from gossip and unkindness. What husband would do that for a bride who'd just refused him her bed? A bride he hardly knew, a bride he'd lifted from a bog and raised to the finest position in the district. He'd taken her from poverty and hardship—from misery with Grandad and the sheep—and made her his wife. The laird's wife.
Warmth flooded her. He'd given her so much.
She lifted her mouth to his and a kiss that started in gratitude ended in passion. The taste of him entered her blood like hot strong whisky, wild and dark and thrilling, dissolving her doubts, her fears.
The heated demand of his kisses, the leashed desire of his strong, lean body, the salt-clean scent of his skin—it all seemed so right, so familiar to her. How, when it had been barely a day? But time didn't seem to matter, not when she was feeling . . . this.
He grabbed the hem of the pullover and dragged it up. She hesitated.
"It's a scratchy old thing," he murmured. And then he added, "Don't be a'feard of me, lass. You have my word, I'll not do anything you don't want."
Gazing at his mouth, his beautiful, damp, clever mouth, and his steady hazel eyes, she lifted her arms and let him drag the pullover over her head. Cool air caressed her skin and from the way his eyes dropped, she knew her nipples were hard and risen. And aching.
She wanted him. She knew it, and from the look in his eyes, so did he.
Even before he'd tossed the pullover aside she was kissing him again. The taste of him was like wildfire in her blood.
Desperate to touch him she slipped her hands under his shirt, over his chest, caressing the smooth, hard planes, and all the time kissing, kissing . . .
He bent her back over the bed, half lying, grasping her by the hips and positioning her between his long brawny thighs, bare thighs, covered only by the kilt.
