Rexanne Becnel - Scandalous Weddings

Helen felt as if she were the one with the fever. The firelight caressed his clean-shaven cheeks and strong jaw. Melted snow glittered on the night-black hair that brushed his shoulders. For so large a man, he had a remarkably gentle touch. What a curious mix of barbarian and healer he was.

"Where did you learn to set a broken bone?" she asked.

"Here and there." His blue stare bored into her. "So far from the city, we canna send down the street for a doctor."

"I don't suppose you can." And that made him all the more fascinating. He had skills unknown to the civilized gentlemen of London. His rough-edged manner only made her wonder what other unique abilities he possessed. An insistent curiosity settled low in her belly. In truth, he was unlike any other man she had met in her travels.

She helped to lift Abbott's leg so that MacBrut could pass the strip of linen bandage around the splinted ankle. As they worked together, she grew more intensely aware of him. Aware of the quirk of his hard mouth. Aware of the lock of black hair that had tumbled onto his brow. Aware of the clever movements of his hands, and how perfectly her breasts would fit his palms-

"That's quite enough," MacBrut said.

Flustered, Helen moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. "I beg your pardon?"

His gaze narrowed on her mouth, and his scowl deepened. "I'm finished. You can lower his leg, careful now."

"Oh." Helen saw that the bandage had been tied neatly. She eased Abbott's leg back onto the blanket. "How are you doing?"

The coachman sighed as if glad the ordeal was over. "Ready for that bite to eat, m'lady."

With the timing of a stage actress, Miss Gilbert trotted back with the provisions, and Helen helped her set up a picnic by the fire. She found herself seated beside MacBrut. A strange aching tension distracted her from any interest in food. While everyone dined on cold ham, bread, and cheese, she merely nibbled at her meal, feeding small bites to M'lord. She stole sideways glances at MacBrut, at the muscled bare legs beneath the kilt and the way his rough linen shirt and black and red plaid clung to his chest. He was so different from the elegant noblemen that Papa too often steered into her path. Was MacBrut thinking of her, too?

No. He had made it clear he despised her.

When she reached for the wine flask, their hands bumped and the contact prickled up her arm and into her bosom. His gaze jerked to hers, and for an unguarded moment she glimpsed a burning intensity in him, something vastly different from hatred, something deep and rich and mysterious. Elation swept like wildfire through Helen. She'd been around enough men to recognize the truth.

MacBrut desired her.

Though he turned abruptly away, she reveled in the feminine thrill of conquest. MacBrut wanted her. He wanted to take her to his bed. He wanted to do wicked things with her.

Things she wanted desperately to experience.

The heat within her flared into a pulsebeat. She had the spark of an idea so outrageous she doused it at once.

But the thought took hold like tinder, burning brighter until she could deny it no longer.

MacBrut was the perfect man to show her the secrets of physical love.

The deep hush of night shrouded the castle.

As Helen slipped out of bed in the small upstairs chamber, she could hear only the whine of the wind down the chimney and the soft snoring of Miss Gilbert, who lay burrowed beneath the pile of blankets. Nestled at the foot, M'lord lifted his head and wagged his tail, but Helen whispered, "Stay," and he obeyed, his liquid brown eyes watching as she crept toward the door.

The fire had burned down to smoldering embers during the hour she had waited to make certain her companion was soundly slumbering. Helen had spent the time in dreamy romantic fantasy until her every nerve hummed and she could bear the suspense no longer.

It was now. Or never.

The icy floor caused her toes to curl inside her thin silk stockings. She'd left off her shoes, which were still damp from the snow. Luckily, she had retrieved her cloak when Abbott had been moved to a bedchamber, for the air held a frosty nip that penetrated her thin shift and petticoats.

When Gillie had innocently suggested she remove her gown and corset before retiring, Helen had complied. She had also unbound her hair and let it tumble to her waist. Now she felt deliciously daring as she opened the door and stole out into the gloomy corridor.

Where did the master of the castle sleep?

MacBrut would have chosen the best room for his own-the laird's chamber. This was his castle, after all. Questions clamored in her. Where were his servants? Did he have another home elsewhere? Who was he, really? Helen sensed there was more to him than he let the world see. Much more.

With one hand on the cold stone wall, she slowly felt her way through the darkness. A frisson of excitement scurried over her skin. She could scarcely believe she was on her way to meet a man in his bedchamber. Such scandalous behavior could ruin an unmarried lady.

And if all went as planned, who would ever find out? Certainly no one from her social circle. This was her one night of adventure, her one chance to learn the truth behind the mystery of the sexes.

After tomorrow, she would never see. MacBrut again.

She stumbled into a chair, and the legs scraped the floor with a loud screech. Helen froze, her heartbeat surging. The passage was pitch-black; belatedly she realized she should have brought a candle. She had the eerie sense of being watched by a ghostly presence, and the image of that dusty abandoned table in the great hall flitted to her. But she deliberately put it out of her mind. She would let no morbid thoughts intrude upon her quest.

Carefully she moved on until she reached the bedchamber. The door stood halfway open. Feeling giddy, she tiptoed closer. From within came the glow of a fire and the faint crackling of logs. Helen pictured MacBrut lying sprawled in the four-poster bed: His eyes would widen with surprised appreciation when she walked into his room. He would be stunned by her offer; then he would sweep her into his arms and kiss her and do the wicked deed and at last she would know…

It would be as simple as that. Or would it?

She paused, her palm frozen against the studded oak door. All she had to do was to push it open and walk inside. But her hand disobeyed the edict of her brain. Her legs had all the strength of frostbitten flower stalks. What if MacBrut scorned her overture? What if he gave her that stony look of his? What would she say to persuade him?

Hello, I wondered if you would mind taking my virginity. Too blatant.

Ithought you might be feeling as lonely as I am. Too dreary.

It's frightfully cold. May I join you in bed? Too childish.

A draft of chilly air eddied down the corridor and slapped her cheeks. Helen shivered, hugging the ermine-trimmed cloak in an effort to contain the heat of her fantasies. Now that the moment was nigh, however, cold common sense asserted itself. What madness had brought her here?

She was no seductress. She couldn't offer herself to a stranger. Especially not a Highlander who hated her. What if MacBrut treated her ill?

Perhaps she had only deluded herself into believing he had a kind nature beneath his gruff exterior. Caring for an injured servant didn't necessarily make MacBrut a hero.

Perhaps she should find another man to be her teacher. A civilized gentleman whom she could trust.

She turned to go. And ran smack into the solid bulwark of a man. «

He crowded her against the wall, and her mind registered danger in the fingers gripping her upper arms. In the musk of his male scent. In the massiveness of his muscled chest pressing into her soft bosom.

Tilting her head back, she could discern only his large black outline against the gloom. But she didn't need to see his face to identify him.

MacBrut.

A secret thrill pulsed deep in her belly. It was part fright and part fascination. Like a wolf, he'd crept up and caught her. "What are you doing out here?" she asked in a breathy voice.

"Better I should ask that of you."

His deep, rolling brogue stirred her senses. The heat of his large body sparked a blaze of carnal curiosity, the feeling so powerful she forgot her change of heart. In a rush she blurted out, "I came to see you. To be with you."

Would he understand her meaning? Would he accept her bold offer? She waited in agonizing hope.

Silence throbbed around them. The tensing of his fingers betrayed a response in him, though whether it was disgust or desire, she could not tell. In contrast to the furnacelike warmth of him, the frigid stone wall pressed into her spine. From a distance came the scolding of the wind like the voice of her conscience. Turn back, make an excuse, flee while there's still time…

He parted her cloak and cupped her breasts. A shocking fervor melted the remnants of her resistance. His touch felt so right, so perfect, and she leaned into him, wanting more.

Abruptly he ground his hips against hers. "Out whoring, m'lady? I shouldna be surprised."

"Don't speak to me like that." She drew an indignant breath at his crude remark. "I'm not what you think."

" 'Tis pretty words you ladies want. And fancy trappings for your lust. But underneath you're all the same."

His hands descended, following the curve of waist and hips, moving downward over the layers of petticoats until he captured the prize between her legs. Gasping, she instinctively clamped her thighs together, but succeeded only in trapping his hand in place.

She shoved at his arm, a futile effort against iron muscles. "Don't."

"Don't? You came here wanting this." He rubbed slowly, provocatively. "But perhaps my manner is no' so genteel as your other lovers'."

This was how a man touched a woman? With harsh insistence? And to her utter shame, why did she like it? "I have no lovers. And I won't tolerate you acting like a brute." She gave him another, harder push. "That's brute with an e."

He jumped back half a step, removing his hand but remaining so close she could feel his body heat. His grimace flashed through the darkness. "You've a husband, then, I trow. Well, it doesna matter to me how many men you've had in the past."

"I have no husband, either," she retorted. "I've never done this before."

"You've never sought out a man in his chamber?" He fingered a silky strand of her hair. "No doubt the rutting curs grovel at your doorstep."

"Blast you." Helen slapped at his hand. "The truth is, I was curious. I'm twenty-four years old, and I've never been with a man. Not ever"

He stood unmoving. "You. A virgin."

She hated the skepticism that roughened his voice. She hated him for ruining her golden dream of discovery. "Step aside. I was mad to come here. If you must know, I was returning to my room when you appeared and started pawing me."

He didn't budge. Rather, he placed his hands on the stone wall to form a prison around her. "Were you now?"

"Yes, this was all a mistake. A momentary loss of reason." She ducked under his arm, but he moved with the swiftness of a predator, catching her against his hard form, his grip deceptively loose.

"Coward," he said softly.

Was he laughing at her? Certainly not MacBrut; he didn't possess a smidgen of humor in his muscle-bound body. She tugged at his arm to no avail. "Let me go."

"Not so quickly, lass. 'Twould seem I must voice an apology."

"So say it and be done."

"I shouldna ha' spoken so ill to you just now. If you are truly untouched-"

"There's no if about it."

"Then you canna be used to a man's ways. I shouldna ha' fondled you so." He was fondling her now, his fingers sliding beneath her cloak to trace her waist and spine with masterful delicacy. In contrast to his earlier scorn, his voice was pure honey, sweet and thick and addictive. "But you canna blame a man for going a bit daft over you. You're soft and curvy and warm the way a woman should be."

Her legs felt weak again, but she clung to her displeasure. "Release me. I wish to return to my room."

"First, here's something to take back to your lonely bed."

His dark head swooped down and the heated pressure of his mouth met hers, his tongue nudging apart her lips. The surprise of it held her motionless; her mind resisted his appeal. But her body thought otherwise. Her arms slipped around his neck and she gave herself up into the deep pleasure of his kiss. He tasted of the wine they'd drunk at dinner, and she could feel herself growing warm and giddy. All the while he caressed her in loving strokes that caused her skin to tingle and her blood to surge. She touched him tentatively at first, then with bolder forays over his chest and shoulders. His strength awed her, the muscle and sinew beneath the roughness of male skin. She loved the differences between them, the way they complemented each other, man and woman. This was what she had dreamed of, being kissed with passion and tenderness, held as if he could not bear to let her go.