“I’ll no’ argue that, laddie.” Malcolm grinned, wrapping an arm around his bride as soon as Grim released him. “I just wish I’d wed my Moira when I was your age, when we would’ve had all our days before us.”
“You could have done if you’d wished.” Lady Moira lifted up on her toes to kiss Malcolm’s cheek. “If I recall, I even begged you to do so.”
“So you did.” Her husband didn’t deny it. “I was a fool, for sure.”
Breena glanced at Grim, surprised to see he’d gone to stand before the fire, frowning as he stared down into the softly glowing peats.
“Aye, well!” Fergus Munzie’s deep voice boomed. “ ’Tis a right good thing all men present ken what’s best for them, eh, laddies? We need a woman’s warmth and loving heart. Such treasures matter more than all the feuding and wars we sometimes get ourselves into, what?
“No’ to mention the other delights they give us.” Winking broadly, he reached out to pinch Flora’s generously curved hip when she walked past him bearing a tray of brimming ale tankards. “Speaking o’ which”—he glanced at Grim and Breena—“you’ll no’ be riding on this e’en. There’s a fine newly made bed in our last unoccupied room abovestairs. The two of you will sleep there tonight, after we’ve feasted and lifted our tankards to Malcolm and Moira, and Grim and Breena. I’ll no’ be accepting a refusal.”
“He’s right, lass.” Flora set her ale tray on the table, flashed a smile at Breena. “Greer MacGregor’s tower house has stood hundreds of years. It’ll not vanish in the night, disappearing before you and Grim and ride there on the morrow. I’ve a fine venison stew simmering, roasted capon, a fine, butter-basted goose, and more loaves of fresh-baked bread than twenty hungry men can put away. And”—she winked at her husband—“my cheese and gooseberry pasties are the best in the land.”
“So they are, so they are.” Fergus raised his tankard, saluting her. “As it’s Christmas, she’s even made a batch of spice cakes.”
“And we’ve brought you a pouch each of ginger, cinnamon, and almonds.” Grim looked up from the fire, his words surprising Breena, his thoughtfulness again proving his goodness. “They’re in my saddlebags. Duncreag’s Cook thought Flora might appreciate them, this time of year. There’s also a flask of Archie’s best uisge beatha.”
Flora and Fergus beamed thanks. “That wasnae necessary, but good of you.” Fergus set down his ale, looking most pleased indeed.
Breena shifted, uncomfortable. The Munzies’ gregarious welcome reminded her so much of her Uncle Dermot and Aunt Mell. Worse, each time Grim spoke of them as a couple, she felt a terrible hollow ache in her heart. She hoped to use this journey to fill that emptiness, to replace it with love.
What if she failed?
She didn’t think she could bear it.
She also needed air, worried that these happy couples might have the opposite effect on Grim, reminding him of wedded bliss, of how inappropriate a wife she would make him. A village commoner without even a dowry, and him a great warring man of noble blood and so well respected.
Glancing at the door, she cleared her throat. “We should be going. The MacGregors—”
“Surely, you’d rather rest a night?” Malcolm’s wife, Moira, was suddenly beside Breena, her lovely face warm and sympathetic. “Enjoy fine company, a good meal, then a hot bath and fresh bed?
“You’ll be glad you stayed.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “I’ve noticed you’re walking a bit stiffly. I’m not keen on riding either and know how you feel. Let your man see to your comfort before you journey on.”
“Indeed!” Fergus winked at her, his apparent exceptional hearing making Breena blush to the roots of her hair. “I insist you stay.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Breena didn’t know else what to say.
She did smile, doing her best to play the part she and Grim had agreed upon, to pretend that they were a happily betrothed pair, soon to be married, deeply in love.
How she wished they were.
In truth, this was her big chance.
She hadn’t even considered the possibility of sharing a bed with Grim before they’d set off on their journey.
The notion of bathing in the same room as him was even more jarring.
And—the gods help her—so tantalizingly wicked, she could hardly stand still for the delicious tingles whipping across her womanhood. Equally bad was the slow, languorous heat pooling so deep in her belly, low by her thighs. Her other worries vanished like mist before the morning sun. Such a fierce reaction surely meant she was wanton.