Chapter Eleven

A fortnight later, Genvieve could not believe she’d married. Though barely able to speak her vows, she and the man who’d rescued her not once but twice lay beside her unmoving. She knew he wasn’t asleep.

The devil in her had her reaching out and poking him in the ribs. He shuddered, and Genvieve’s hopes crushed in on her. The passionate kisses they’d shared were just that and would never lead to more. Her husband hadn’t lied about not wanting to marry; he just hadn’t told her his reasons.

MacInness’s loud sigh didn’t help the way she was feeling. Merde , she didn’t want to be facing another husband she barely knew across the marriage bed. She’d worked herself up to accepting another Norman as husband, but he’d died in battle, and Father had promised she’d never have to marry again. He’d lied.

Rolling over and away, as close to the edge of the bed as possible, Genvieve called herself a fool. Only a fool would continue to hold out hope when in her heart she knew the truth—she’d already had her chance at love and lost him to a Saxon’s blade. This time, her marriage would be payment to the man who’d save her life…twice.

The bed creaked and she went absolutely still. When her cousin had told her MacInness changed his mind and they would wed, she suspected it had to do with that night at the lake. Her husband was a born protector of innocents…and she’d not been innocent in years. Still, she couldn’t help the way her body tensed and stiffened as he shifted closer. His heat radiated through the thin cotton sleeping gown she’d slipped into when waiting for him to come to their chamber.

“I wilna have ye thinkin’ I’m no’ a mon of my word, lass.”

Genvieve turned to her husband, ready for rejection, and was swept into his arms.

“I didna want to marry, lass, but I never said I didna want to bed ye.”

He slid one hand down to her backside and pressed his lower body against hers. Years of tamping down her physical needs melted away as he boldly pressed his hardness against her, letting her feel his desire. Her womb clenched, and she felt her inner muscles tighten in anticipation.

Winslow. Her lips moved, though she’d trained herself not to make any sound when she spoke because of the snide comments about the sound of it when her back was turned.

He bent his head to press his lips to her throat.

There. Ah yes, right there.

She wanted him—now! Her arms tightened around him, and she arched her body up off the bed. His amber eyes darkened, and he pinned her to the bed with his hips. His lips and tongue blazed a heated path along the length of her collarbone. Her woman’s core clenched again, and she felt the familiar liquid warmth filling her.

The need to have him overwhelmed her. She lifted her hips, urging him to press down harder. He went absolutely still. Had she misjudged the man? Did he think her overbold?

“Lass.” Her gaze locked with his. “I dinna want to hurt ye.”

Tears filled her eyes and she let them fall. You won’t.

He waited a heartbeat, then bent his head and took her breast in his mouth.

Someone moaned. She didn’t care who. Her husband had latched on to her as if he were starving. His wicked tongue flicked and teased her taut nipple through the thin cotton. When his hand cupped the weight of her other breast, she shifted her legs wider in invitation.

Winslow…

He lifted his head, his eyes black with passion. Before she would ask him, he slid his free hand down to inch up her gown and draw it up over her head.

She gasped at the heat of him pressing against her. Her body went limp in response. His groan surprised her.

“Ye’re makin’ it hard to wait.”

Genvieve laughed.

He switched to her other breast, and her laughter died. He shifted off her and slid his hand along the curve of her waist and over her belly, dipping lower. A sharp, keening cry escaped from her lips as his fingers found her. Coaxed her. Stretched her.

His lips abandoned her breast, and he slipped his fingers from her, drawing his index finger into his mouth, sucking her essence from it.

“Honey,” he rasped. “Ye taste of it.”

“Winslow!” The ragged cry sounded like a cat being skinned, but she didn’t care. She wanted him inside her, would die if he didn’t take her right now!

She tugged on him to pull him back on top of her, but he shook his head.

“I’ve no’ finished.” His words shot straight to her core as he sucked his middle finger into his mouth.

Her heart stumbled in her breast.

“Now, where were we?”

She shook her head; speech was beyond her.

He gripped her hips, lowered his head, and kissed her belly.

She shivered.

He looked up and grinned. “I’ve a need to taste ye, lass.”

Her breath snagged, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Taste her? She’d heard decadent rumors of such, but never—

Taking her hesitation as permission, he lifted her to his mouth and plundered.

Each swirl of his tongue unleased a cry from the depths of her being. Her hands fisted around the bed linens as he devoured her. Alternating licks with the thrust of his talented tongue, her husband urged her higher.

Her body ached for more, sought the bliss of release.

But he left her there on the brink, lowered her to the bed, and growled, “Ye’re food enough for a starvin’ mon.”

His words had no meaning; she was beyond thought, craving completion only he could give her.

Her voice sounded gravelly to her ears, but she ignored it, telling him, “I need—”

Grabbing her hips, he thrust into her and filled her to the hilt.

Her hips lifted to meet each hungry thrust. His moans of pleasure urged her to take more, to give more. Her hands slid down to grab his muscled backside and press him impossibly closer. He growled and thrust home.

Her world exploded as her release ripped through her.

His shout of triumph roared in her ears as he went absolutely still.

Genvieve felt the incredible warmth of his seed filling her. Tears welled in her eyes at the realization that there would be no babe…ever.

Instead of pulling out of her, Winslow slid his hand beneath her, splaying it across her backside. In a smooth move, he rolled them over until she lay on top of him. “Ye’ve killed me, lass.”

The wicked grin on his face belied the fact that she hadn’t. She couldn’t hold back her smile.

He kissed her full on the mouth, and she tasted herself on his lips. Forbidden.

He chuckled when she stiffened. “What’s done between a mon and his wife isna wrong, lass.”

When she didn’t answer him, he nipped her shoulder. “If ye give me a moment to catch my breath, I’ve no’ yet satisfied my appetite, lass.”

*

MacInness pulled his wife against his heart. She’d surprised him with her passionate response to his loving. But when he’d tasted her, God in heaven, he thought he’d burst and spill his seed on the bed linens.

He’d dug deep for control, though his wife’s body threatened to destroy it. Her lush curves, and the way she trusted him to sup from her bounty, even when he realized she’d never experienced it before, went straight to his battered heart.

Satisfaction at being the first to pleasure her with his lips and tongue filled him. Bloody Sassenach husband of hers didn’t know how to properly bed a woman. A Highlander instinctively knew how to pleasure a woman…and take her to the stars…more than once. There was no pleasure if ye had a frigid, weeping, wailing woman beneath ye. ’Twas a mon’s job to make his woman hot for him, and he would reap the rewards.

She sighed and cuddled closer. MacInness swept his hand up into her silken hair and held her head to his pounding heart, wanting…nay, needing her to see she wasn’t the only one affected by their lovemaking.

Contentment filled him until he felt something wet sliding down his side. Tears? Had he hurt her? He pulled out of her, hoping his fear was unfounded.

“I didna think I hurt ye.” He leaned back far enough so that he could see her face. She shook her head. “Well, what is it then?” He tried to gentle his tone, but from the way her eyes widened, he hadn’t.

“Genvieve, I’m yer husband now,” he said gentling his hold on her, stroking the tip of his finger across one eyebrow and then the other. “There isna anythin’ ye canna tell me.”

She shook her head at him, more tears slipping from beneath her thick, dark lashes.

He sighed, brushed a kiss to her brow and laid her on the bed. Her eyes shot open.

“Dinna worry, lass, I’ve not lost me desire to have another taste.”

He slipped from the bed, walked over to the small table by the wall and grabbed the linen square next to the pitcher of water. Handing it to her, he commanded, “Blow yer nose and dry yer eyes, and then tell me what ails ye, lass, so I can fix it.”

The dam broke loose. His wife must have been holding back a year’s worth of tears.

“ Bollocks ,” he cursed beneath his breath. When she took a swing at him, he knew she’d heard him. With a sigh of resignation, he got back into bed and pulled her into his arms.

Cradling her against his heart, he wondered what he’d do with her. His plans never included a wife. Holding her as she cried, he wondered how much longer she’d be at it. He did not want to give her reason for more tears. The lass had to run dry soon, didn’t she? “Are ye done yet?”

His wife blew her nose and tried to hand the saturated linen back to him. He looked at it and shook his head. “Keep it.”

Finally, she dragged in a breath and settled down.

She was silent for so long, he wondered if she’d tell him or make him wait and then an unwelcome thought filled him. “Dinna tell me ye’ve left a lover behind.”

Her snort of derision surprised him, and had him promising, “He wilna live for long. Tell me the mon’s name and I’ll take care of him for ye.”

Genvieve tightened her hold on him, making him wonder if she did have a lover. “Lass?”

“I can’t have children,” she rasped.

MacInness didn’t answer right away, unsure of what she expected of him. When she trembled in his arms, he knew she was afraid he’d be angry with her.

“Dinna fear, lassie, I’ve probably a bairn or two. I dinna need any more.”

She shoved out of his arms. “Probably?” she asked, wincing at the sound of her own voice. “Don’t you know?”

He cupped her cheek in one hand and brushed his thumb near the corner of her mouth. “I’m a careful mon, lass. I dinna have bairns, though I’ve a nephew and six nieces.”

Her gaze latched onto his and for a moment he saw raw need flare in hers. She wants children. “How do ye know ye canna have bairns?” He shouldn’t push her to speak when he knew it pained her, but he had to know.

She closed her eyes and told him about her first husband. His stomach roiled at the thought of his wife losing babes. It was a miracle she hadn’t bled to death.

He slid his hand around to the back of her head and gently pushed it to his shoulder. “Ye should’ve told me. I wouldna want to risk ye having bairns at such cost to ye, lass.”

She shrugged. “It won’t matter, I’ve never quickened again.” Her anguished gaze held his. “After I lost the second babe, the healer declared me barren.” The words she uttered actually hurt more than the ache in her throat.

MacInness rubbed a hand up and down her spine. The delicacy of her frame wasn’t what he expected. Her curves were lushly ripe. He’d have thought her bones would be sturdier.

“Dinna fash yerself, lass. I’ll no’ get ye with child,” he promised, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “Yer my wife now,” he rasped. “And I protect what’s mine.”

He waited for her answer, tensed for it. When he heard the soft sound of rhythmic breathing, he knew he’d eased her mind, and she’d fallen asleep. His lie lay heavy upon him, but he’d slit his own throat before he’d tell his wife the truth.

He wanted bairns.