The MacKinnon’s Bride(67)

Unable to contain it, she gave a sleepy little moan, and turned to bury her face against his chest. But it was a mistake, she realized at once, for she breathed in the scent of him, and was wholly undone by it.

Jesu, but she wanted to stay this way forever.

But forever was an impossibility, and the moment would be over too soon. Hot tears slipped from her lashes, though she told herself they were absurd.

How could she love a man she scarcely knew? Jesu, but she thought she did.

How could she have given herself so freely? Loved him back without compunction?

Not love. Anything but love.

Lust, she tried to convince herself. It was lust, simple and true.

So, then, why did the sting of tears persist?

And why did her heart feel suddenly so heavy as though it were weighted with stone?





Stiffening at the delicate brush of fingers across his back, Iain peered down, trying to determine whether Page slept or nay.

It was a lover’s caress. A sleepy lover’s caress that stirred his senses and started his pulse to pounding. He thought she might have awakened, but she didn’t open her eyes.

No matter, he took pleasure in holding her so. She was so light, delicate within his arms, fragile even—despite the invulnerable facade she put forth. She appeared at first sight to be as sturdy as the stone walls her father had erected about his keep, but remove a single brick, and her walls came toppling down.

She’d been exhausted after he’d loved her so thoroughly, so much so that she’d fallen asleep within his arms as he’d stroked the damp wisps of hair back from her face. Och, but this he relished more than he should... the trust she’d placed in him to so easily fall asleep within his embrace.

It was a simple show of faith, one that endeared her to him more readily than even her enduring nature. It was something he’d never had from Mairi. Trust. Something he would never have dared even hope for.

Instead, his wife had withdrawn from their bed to that infernal window, where she’d stood staring into the night. He’d listened to her weeping, and watched her quiet revulsion for the act of love they had committed, and his heart had wept pure blood.

Once she’d conceived, he’d never touched her again—nor had she desired him to by the way she so studiously avoided him. She’d carried his bairn without sharing a single whisper of him, had mourned every moment she’d nurtured his babe within her womb, as though it were an abomination of her being.

His son had been magnificent.

Aye, Malcom was everything he’d ever hoped for in a son; free of spirit and unafraid to love. It was something Iain envied of him.

Page... he smiled at the memory of her halting acceptance of the name he’d chosen for her: Suisan. It gave him pleasure to think of her so. Her response to him... her openhearted acceptance of his loving—not mere acquiescence—was like a balm for his soul.

God, but it made him dream again, opened doors in his heart he’d never known were closed.

She wiggled away from him slightly and he reached out, never touching, but tracing the out line of her belly with his palm, imagining his babe growing there. It gave him a fierce pleasure. He’d withdrawn each time before planting his seed within her body, but couldn’t keep himself from imagining her belly swollen with his bairn.

He wanted to do it again... so badly—love her, aye, but more than that, to give her his child. He’d thought his chances were all gone. All the things he’d wanted to do with Mairi and never could... place his hand to her belly, feel the first stirring of life from their bairn... touch his cheek and lips to her body where it nurtured their babe... lay her naked upon his bed each morn and every night to study the glorious changes in her body.

All those things he suddenly found himself wanting with the woman lying so serenely within his arms.

It made his heart full with joy and alight with anticipation merely to think of it.

Damn, but he had to chuckle at the look auld Angus had given him when he’d come bearing her back to camp—a mixture of outright indignation and reluctant approval. The old man had been after him long enough to get himself a woman, but Iain thought he might have favored one a little less vexing. He chuckled softly, for in truth, he might have preferred one a little less troublesome, as well.

The little termagant.

Och, but the truth was, he loved her spirit, including her tempers, for they were evidence that her soul burned with life. No quiet, seething, mourning woman was she. Nay, she was passion incarnate, feeling everything, be it anger, or lust—and love?—to its fullest degree.

His cousin, on the contrary, had been wholly disapproving, if the look upon his face was any indication. Too bad. Iain had long since abided by his own decisions, and it was a lifetime too late for Lagan to insinuate himself upon them. His cousin would simply have to learn to live with the Sassenach spitfire in their midst—as would the rest of them, for he intended to keep her.