Читать книгу His Convenient Highland Wedding - Janice Preston, Janice Preston - Страница 13

Muriel helped Flora disrobe, unlaced her stays and removed her petticoats before unpinning her hair as she sat before the mirror on her dressing table. Bandit watched the proceedings from where he was curled on the foot of the bed.

‘I can manage now, thank you, Muriel.’

Muriel dropped a curtsy. ‘If ye’re sure, milady? D’ye want me to take Bandit?’

At his name, the terrier tilted his head and his droopy ear pricked. Flora scooped him off the bed and hugged him to her chest.

‘No. He can...’ Flora scanned the room. Bandit usually slept in her room, but Lachlan surely wouldn’t approve. ‘He will sleep in the boudoir. His cushion is already in there.’

She ignored the wrinkle of Muriel’s nose at the mention of the cushion. It was a touch smelly, but she was sure the familiar bed would help him to feel more at home.

‘You dinna want me to brush out your hair?’

‘No. Thank you.’

Muriel took Bandit and shut him in the boudoir before leaving.

Flora sighed with relief. She needed these few moments alone. Time to prepare, mentally, for what was to come. Her mother had warned her it would hurt, but had also drummed into her that it was her duty to stay silent and to submit to her husband whenever he wished. She had then refused to answer any of Flora’s questions, her lips pursed tight in distaste, leaving Flora...anxious.

She knew, from the animals in the fields, what would happen.

She knew, from overhearing maids whispering and giggling in corners, that the act—copulation—could be pleasurable, but that it was not always so. And she knew some of those maids actively pursued the experience.

But all that knowledge was overshadowed by the nights she had heard her father loudly grunting and her mother weeping.

She’d promised herself that her marriage would not mirror that of her parents, but that might be easier said than done when, in the past year, the little confidence she’d had in expressing her views had slowly been leached from her. See what had happened when she had spoken out against the Duke—she’d let down those she loved and made herself an outcast. For certain, had she wed the Duke she would now be fully accepted by those of her own class and her life would be very different. But she would not have been happy. Not with a man such as Galkirk.

The sound of footsteps followed by Lachlan’s bedchamber door opening and closing jolted her from her thoughts. Her heart thudded as she hurriedly stripped off her chemise and pulled on her plain cotton nightgown, buttoning it up to the neck. She pulled a brush hastily through her hair and loosely plaited it as she did every night. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she coiled the plait around her head and covered her hair with a lace-edged cap. A glance in the mirror changed her mind. She tore the cap from her head but then, as her fingers went to the ribbon binding her plait, she hesitated.

Would he think her immodest? She knew so little about her husband. What would he expect of her? The murmur of voices from the adjoining room sent her scurrying for the bed. She burrowed beneath the covers, her hair still plaited. And she waited, fretting that she had no prettier nightgown to wear for her wedding night—a lace-trimmed silk nightgown fastened with satin ribbons rather than plain buttons. But she’d had no opportunity to plan her wedding day, let alone the night. It was a far cry from the wedding she had once dreamed of—the magnificent gown she would wear...how beautiful she would look...how her bridegroom’s eyes would light up with love as he watched her walk up the aisle to his side...the splendid trousseau she would bring to her new life—trunk after trunk of fashionable clothes and accessories...the dash she would cut in society, as a nobleman’s wife.

All silly girlhood dreams.

Silly and unimportant. I must make the best of what I have.

At least Lachlan McNeill was a handsome man, if somewhat sombre. If only he was not such an unknown quantity.

The door linking their bedchambers opened to reveal Lachlan, clad in a ruby-red brocade dressing gown and a pair of velvet slippers. He paused at the foot of the bed, his gaze slowly travelling the length of her body, outlined under the blankets. His brows twitched into a frown as she pressed into the mattress, trying to minimise her shape, and she forced herself to relax. The last thing she wanted was to annoy him. She trembled, her mouth seeming to shrivel until it was as dry as the herbs dried on racks in the still room at home.

Lachlan’s chest swelled as he inhaled. ‘I will turn out the lamp.’

When the only light left was the sullen glow of the fire that had been banked for the night, he stripped off his dressing gown. The fire at his back cast his expression in the shade but silhouetted the curve of muscles in his shoulders and arms. His wide torso narrowed to slim hips and his legs were long and well-shaped, but Flora was shocked that he appeared to be completely naked. Did he not wear a nightshirt? He toed off his slippers and approached the bed. She squeezed her eyes shut, but strove to stay relaxed. He was her husband. She must learn to put her trust in him because he now ruled her life.

He slid under the covers and, when she braved a peek at him, she saw he was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. She felt no threat from him...maybe he, too, was nervous?

Don’t be ridiculous, Flora. He is a man. Why would he be nervous?

But the thought gave her courage and she rolled over to face him.

‘Did your mother tell you about...about the marital bed?’ The question appeared to grind out between clenched teeth.

‘A little.’ Flora swallowed. ‘I have seen the animals,’ she ventured. ‘Mother...she told me it would hurt.’

He turned his head on the pillow. ‘Only this once. It will not hurt after tonight. You have my word.’

It seemed an odd thing for him to say giving her his word about something as intimate as this, as though it were some kind of business deal, but before she could dwell upon it Lachlan rolled Flora over on to her back. His warm, hard and very male body half-covered her and she closed her eyes as his mouth descended on hers.

She tried to concentrate on other things, to distract herself from what was happening, but it proved impossible. The slide of his lips on hers was surprisingly pleasant and, when he began to kiss her neck beneath her ear, she felt a giggle bubble inside. She had to clench her jaw to contain it and tensed her body to prevent herself from squirming as her mother’s voice echoed in her head: ‘A lady must be silent and submit to her husband if she wishes to preserve his respect. Otherwise she is no better than the animals rutting in the field.’

But it proved impossibly difficult to ignore what Lachlan was doing as his mouth traced her collarbone and his hand stroked down her side to her hip and back again, before he—She failed to stifle her squeak of surprise as his hand closed around her breast and he gently pinched her nipple. It was as though an invisible path lay from her breast to her private place between her legs. She had felt a definite jerk down there. She bit her lip and tensed.

‘Relax,’ he whispered. ‘I will not do anything you do not like. Did that feel nice?’

She dared not answer. It had felt good, but what would he think of her if she admitted it? And he clearly took her silence to mean she had disliked it because he released her breast and he was gathering her nightgown, bunching it up, and then his hand was on her naked skin. He stroked her thigh, his touch warm but raising shivers in its wake—and then his fingers were between her legs, moving, and it was all Flora could do to keep still. But then, just as the urge to move near overwhelmed her, he moved on top of her, pushing her legs apart, and she could feel him nudging into her.

‘You’re ready.’

What did that mean?

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ Hot breath scorched her ear. ‘I hope I don’t hurt you too much.’

With one thrust, he filled her. Every muscle in her body went rigid, but there was only the one stab of pain and that soon dulled to a throb. Flora hadn’t uttered a sound and she was proud of that, keen to please her new husband. Lachlan started to move then, slowly at first, and, once she became accustomed to the rhythm and to the sensation of being filled, emptied and then filled again, she began to relax and even started to enjoy what was happening. His thrusts quickened, and his breathing, too, and she found her fingers digging into his shoulders, her legs clinging to his hips. She opened her eyes and the sight of him moving above her and the feel of him inside her...pounding into her...knowing it was him...it brought a lump to her throat and tears to her eyes.

And then he was done. With one final thrust and a groan, she felt a gush inside her and he withdrew.

Leaving her empty and confused.

They lay side by side, each on their backs, not touching. Lachlan’s breaths were harsh in the silence of the bedchamber and Flora tried very hard to suppress her own quickened breathing, so as not to disturb him.

At last, Lachlan moved. But it was not towards her, to take her in his arms and to tell her he was pleased with her, that she had done well—the response she had hoped and longed for. He rolled away from her, throwing the covers back and swung his legs over the side of the bed as he sat on its edge.

‘Thank you. I hope you will not be too sore. Next time there will be no pain. Goodnight.’

He stood up, walked to the fireside, grabbed his dressing gown from the chair, shrugged it on and left the room without another word.

Flora gazed up at the ceiling for a long time, willing herself not to cry.

* * *

In the morning, Flora roused from her sleep as Muriel entered her bedchamber and quietly opened the curtains. She sat up, stretched her arms high and yawned, surprised at how rested she felt. The past few days—ever since she had learned she was to marry Lachlan McNeill—had been a time of ever-increasing dread but, now, all she could feel was relief that the worst was over and it had not proved near as bad as she had feared. In fact, there had been a few times—the barest of glimpses only—when she thought that lying with Lachlan might be something less to dread and more to look forward to, shameful though that admission might be.

‘Good morning, milady.’ Muriel came to the bedside and pulled the pillows high against the headboard. ‘I’ve brought you tea, eggs and toast. And the master ordered water for you to have a bath.’

She cocked her head at a short bark from the next room and went to the door. Bandit scurried across the room and launched himself on to the bed.

‘A bath?’ Surprise gave way to embarrassment and Flora felt her cheeks redden. She buried her face against Bandit’s familiar sturdy body.

‘Ah, whisht, milady.’ Muriel beamed as she shooed Bandit from the bed and set a loaded tray upon Flora’s legs. ‘There’s nae need for blushing—it was your wedding night and a warm bath will set you right for the day.’ She gestured to the window, where Flora could see clouds scudding across a bright sky. ‘If the rain stays away, it’ll give you the chance to get to know your new home.’

Flora did not know quite what to make of Muriel’s forwardness. Mother would never have allowed such familiarity from a servant, but Flora welcomed it...it would be pleasant to have someone to simply talk to. Flora swallowed hard, past sudden emotion that clogged her throat. She was lonely. And she had been for a long time, with Father unforgiving over her failures and Mother and her siblings following his lead, as always. She might have earned their approval at last, by this marriage, but they were not here. Here there were only strangers. Including Lachlan, despite the intimacy of last night.

Muriel could never be a friend as such, but she could provide company, with her warm smile and her friendly chatter.

‘I should like the opportunity to explore,’ said Flora. ‘Is...is Mr McNeill at breakfast?’

‘Och, bless you, no, milady. He’s away off to the distillery, but he’ll be back for dinner, he said. He works verra hard. You can ask anyone. It’s no wonder he’s so rich.’ She lowered her voice. ‘They do say he made much of his money abroad, milady.’

There was companionable chatter and there was gossip. And the latter needed to be discouraged, no matter how curious Flora was about Lachlan’s past.

‘Did you work here at the castle before Mr McNeill bought it, Muriel?’

‘I did, milady. I was born in Lochmore village. Da’s a fisherman and Ma cleans the fish and mends nets, but they wanted better for me, so Ma’s sister, who worked for the Duchess, got me a job here as a housemaid when it was leased out and I worked my way up.’ The pride in her voice was unmistakable. ‘I never dared believe I might be a lady’s maid, milady, but I worked hard and here I am.’

Her smile faltered. ‘Mrs Dalgliesh says I’m on trial and if you’re not satisfied with me she’ll hire a properly trained lady’s maid. You will tell me what you want, milady, so’s I can prove myself?’

‘Yes. Of course I shall tell you.’

If only it was as easy to tell Lachlan what I want. The thought came out of nowhere, reminding her just how much the past year had robbed her of her confidence.

Muriel beamed again. ‘I’ll fetch your bath water, milady,’ she said and left the room.

Flora ate her breakfast, pondering the enigmatic man she now called husband, last night never far from her thoughts. The marital act was not what Mother had led her to fear, but she found herself baffled by the entire procedure. Was it acceptable for a lady to actually enjoy