Chapter 19

Chapter 19

The royal chamber, like the chapel, was illuminated by dozens of candles, each pillar resting in a small silver plate. The walls were covered in ivory damask, and on either side of the room, mirroring themselves, were twin fireplaces, their ebony mantels sleek and polished. Covering one wall were dozens of gilt-framed miniatures, and below their feet, a heavily patterned carpet in ivory and blue. In front of a windowed alcove, curtains drawn for the night, was a small oval table set with gold-edged dishes, crystal stemware, and a vase filled with white roses.

The focal point of the chamber, however, was the wide bed covered in ivory fabric heavily embroidered with the Sherbourne crest in a deep blue. Standing on its own mahogany pediment, the bed was easily four times wider than Alisdair's bunk aboard the Fortitude.

Tonight would mark the tenor of their marriage, the essence of it. He wanted the experience to be one of grace and favor, respect and humor, friendship and need. At least he had kissed her, he thought ruefully, glancing at her. Only a few moments had elapsed since they'd entered the room, but her cheeks had grown paler, and her smile now seemed forced.

There was something to be said for experience. Alisdair thanked God that he, at least, had enough to note that his bride was terrified. After all, words spoken before an Anglican priest and a room filled with observers didn't make them more married than they had been. Or this occasion any less awkward than their first wedding night.

"Why do you think it's called the royal chamber?" Iseabal inquired, moving to the wall of miniatures. He followed her slowly, wondering why he'd never watched her walk before. She did so with an alluring sway of her hips.

"No doubt because of the kings who stayed here," he said, noting the arrangement of the palm-sized portraits. "The Sherbourne earls evidently took this opportunity to remind each monarch of years of cooperation."

A chronology of history itself, with the depictions of England's kings hanging side by side with those of the Sherbourne earls who had served them. Strange, but he had never before given thought to these ancestors of his. His brother James took after their great-grandfather, Alisdair realized with a smile, and there was a touch of Douglas in one of the portraits.

His father was not pictured, and Alisdair had not expected it, but he halted at the likeness of his grandfather. One sat for a portrait grudgingly, if the stern, brown-eyed glare was any indication. If there was an air of sadness to Gerald Landers, it did not reveal itself. Instead, he had the appearance of a man who'd seen his duty and resolutely performed it despite any personal tragedy. Or perhaps Alisdair's grandfather had simply been adept at hiding his emotions.

In the next tier of paintings was David, his father's half brother and Patricia's son. Like the portrait in the sitting room, it revealed him as simple-minded, perhaps, but a kind man who lived in an isolated world, protected by his mother and stepfather.

"I wonder if life was kind to him," he said absently, touching the edge of the gilt frame housing David's portrait.

Iseabal glanced at him curiously, and Alisdair suddenly realized she didn't know the entire story. "He was the last Earl of Sherbourne," he explained. "A man who never grew beyond boyhood in his mind."

"He looks happy," she said, tilting her head to study him.

Alisdair nodded. "He was content enough with his cats and his picture books, I understand."

A knock on the door interrupted them. Alisdair strode to the double doors, opening the right side. Simon entered, followed by a line of footmen, each bearing a domed silver platter. One by one, they set their burden down on the small table.

When they'd finished and left the room, Alisdair extended his hand to Iseabal as Simon stood at the table.

"Will you join me?" he asked.

She nodded and came to his side, her heavily embroidered gown making a whispering sound as she sat. Simon began to serve them both, an honor, Alisdair supposed, since the man never unbent long enough to smile, let alone perform such a duty.

He waited until the butler had left, then picked up his wineglass in a salute to his bride. "To married life," he said softly.

Unexpectedly she smiled, the expression undeniably perfect. There was no self-deprecating humor in Iseabal's glance, no forced look of amiability. Only joy, sweet and sincere, dusting her smile and her eyes.

He wanted, at that moment, to give her the world. To set at her feet her deepest wishes and secret cravings.

"Would you like to live at Gilmuir?" he asked, lowering his glass. She did the same, her gaze wide-eyed, her flush deepening.

"In the ruins?"

"No," he said, wondering if she would have done so. "We'll build a little house to shelter us until the work is finished. I'm going to rebuild Gilmuir."

His smile increased as she simply stared at him, her eyes widening as the moments passed. "Rebuild Gilmuir?" she asked finally.

"From the foundations up."

Iseabal sat back in her chair, her fingers fumbling on the stem of the glass. Her gaze rested on the array of dishes and cutlery on the table, moved away toward the curtained windows, before finally returning to him again.

"Why?"

"Because it's my birthright," he said. "Perhaps it makes no sense," he added. "I only know I must."

"He'll never leave your land alone," she said faintly. "My father's greed knows no boundaries, Alisdair, not even those of birthright."

Abruptly he stood, striding to the door and opening it. Standing aside, he waved his arm impatiently as though ushering a ghost through the door. "I'll not have Magnus Drummond in my bedchamber, especially not tonight."

Her blush deepened, but so did her smile.

"Are you guarding us?" he asked incredulously, just now seeing the two footmen stationed in front of the door. "From whom?"

One of the men glanced over at him, bowing slightly. "We've been given orders, your lordship, to remain on duty."

"Here are your new orders," Alisdair said gruffly, striding back to the table. Grabbing the bottle of wine, he carried it back to the door and handed it to the surprised footman. "Go to your quarters and drink to my wedding," he said. "But do not stand there," he added, infused with a curious embarrassment. He'd never thought to have witnesses to his wedding night.

He closed the door against the flurry of thanks and congratulations, turning back to Iseabal. She was no longer seated at the table, but was standing behind him.

He pulled her close to him, wrapping his arms around her until they stood entwined in the other's embrace. They had never done so before, never measured the differences of height and breadth and shape. Her cheek lay against his chest, her feet between his, full breasts and womanly thighs pressing against him, an unnecessary reminder of hidden curves.

Bending his head, Alisdair rested his cheek against her temple. Her hair was imbued with a light and flowery perfume; her skin seemed anointed by ancient creams smelling of sandalwood.

She no longer trembled, but he could feel her breathing against his chest. Fast and unsteady, almost like his own.

"We should eat," he murmured.

"I'm not hungry," she said faintly.

"How strange," he said wryly. "Neither am I."

Moving his hands to her shoulders, Alisdair traced one heavily embroidered rose with a tender finger, following each curve of petal and arching stem until it led to her throat.

"You should be unlaced," he murmured, kissing the base of her throat as he spoke.

She nodded wordlessly.

"I doubt, however," he added, "if Patricia will send a maid to assist you."

She looked up then, her eyes sparkling at him. He had not seen her amused often, but in that moment Alisdair decided it was an expression he wished to see again. But not, perhaps, on his wedding night.

"Another of her ploys," Iseabal said, smiling gently.

Suddenly she turned and bent her head, sweeping up a few loose tendrils of hair with one hand in order to bare her neck to him.

The pose, both intimate and demanding, should not have had the power to arouse him. She glanced back at him curiously, and Alisdair found himself desperately wishing to be quit of gentleness and restraint. He wanted to pick her up in his arms, march to the bed, and bury himself in her. Weeks of hunger would then be eased, and this surprising need abolished.

But he bent and placed a kiss on the nape of her neck, praying for control.

The dress, in addition to being ornate in style, was laced in a series of tiny knots worthy of a sailor on his first voyage. Alisdair gritted his teeth as he worked his way from Iseabal's neck to her waist.

Once the garment was open, Alisdair reached inside her dress with both hands. She held her indrawn breath, then released it on a sigh as he leisurely traced a path around her waist on both sides until meeting at the front. He began to unfasten her stays, his fingers growing increasingly dexterous as he continued with his task. After the unlacing was done, his palms splayed against her stomach, feeling the heat of her body beneath her shift. His thumbs were close to her breasts, an intimate pose they'd shared before.

Now, however, nothing restrained him.

Leaning forward, Alisdair whispered against her ear. "Are you in pain?"

"No," she answered, just as softly.

With great care, he began to pull her stays away from inside her dress. She was still fully clothed, still proper, still maidenly to the unseeing eye. But she was nearly naked to his fingers, her heart beating so fast that her breasts trembled.

His resolve to take this night slow was weakening by the moment.

Bending, Alisdair touched his lips to the warm skin between Iseabal's shoulders, feeling her tremble at the feathery touch. Her hand, pressed against her hair, clenched almost into a fist. Not repudiation, he realized, but reaction.

He moved closer and she leaned back, resting her head against his shoulder. Iseabal's surrender was an inducement to haste, but he steadied himself and pretended control while his mind urged him to take her to his bed now, love her with tenderness and whatever grace he could muster.

Threading his fingers through her hair, he forced himself to be less hurried, loosening the tiny hairpins from each temple and letting them fall to the rug with a muffled sound. Slowly he pulled her bodice free, pushing the voluminous gown to the floor in a whisper of fabric.

He moved in front of her, placing his hands on her shoulders and gently walking her to stand against the door. Raising Iseabal's arms above her head, he pressed the backs of her hands against the wood.

"Keep them there," he murmured, his nails smoothing against the center of her palms.

She nodded, turning her head aside and closing her eyes.

Her arm curved gracefully from wrist to shoulder, long shadows adding mystery to her inner elbow and armpit. Her talented fingers were long, her callused palms heated. The fine hairs on the backs of her arms seemed to be alert, and a soothing brush of his knuckles against her skin brought a shiver of response.

When had an arm ever been as alluring? Sweetly so, as if enticing him to explore other treasures. He traced a path with one finger from her inner wrist to the inside of her elbow, resting there as if to mark the spot. Bending his head, he pressed his lips there against her warmed flesh, feeling the pulse beat rapid and strong beneath his lips. He drew back and did the same with the other arm, this time brushing the tip of his tongue against her skin.

Still she remained as she was, a pagan sacrifice for his curious eyes.

Slowly he turned her face to his, bending his head to kiss her. "You're beautiful, Iseabal MacRae," he murmured, and her only response was to tilt her head, encouraging a deeper kiss.

Their kisses in the garden had been light, almost tentative. Here, in this room marked as theirs, they took on a more heady flavor. A sweet, almost helpless sound escaped her as his tongue touched the edges of her lips, then entered her mouth.

How had he lasted so long without the taste of her? Or without touching the silkiness of her skin?

Gently he brought her with him to the side of the bed, holding onto his restraint with an almost desperate grip.

"Do you know what will happen between us?" he asked.

She nodded, eyes downcast.

"Your virginity is a gate we must pass through," he said, wishing that he could ease the experience for her.

Leaving her at the side of the bed, he extinguished all of the candles until there was only one left on the mantel, enough light to lift the darkness but not so much that Iseabal would be embarrassed.

He felt both woefully inept and almost painfully aroused.

Aboard ship, the small confines of his cabin necessitated order. But at this time and place, regimen and routine didn't seem nearly as important as removing his clothes. He took off his stock, throwing it on the dining chair. His coat and vest soon followed. His shoes, normally easy to remove, were now proving to be a nuisance.

Iseabal stood beside him, a small, amused smile curving her lips.

Humor, he thought wryly, was not entirely appropriate to this moment. But at least Iseabal wasn't as afraid as he'd expected her to be. Instead, she stood there lit by the light of the solitary candle, her shift falling in wispy, drifting folds from her shoulders, The silk revealed rather than concealed, the hair at the apex of her thighs a dark shadow, coral-tinted nipples pressing against lace.

Clutching his breeches in one hand, he bent closer, kissing her lightly on the lips in appeasement for his delay and unaccustomed clumsiness.

Finally, he was naked, finding the position an awkward one, especially when his bride was staring at him, her gaze fixed on his rigid shaft.

Reaching out, he gripped her shift with both hands, sliding it upward over her knees, the length of her legs, the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts. Graceful folds of silk were held suspended on her rigid nipples. He bent and tugged on the shift, replacing the silk with his thumbs and then his mouth. He bestowed a tender kiss to each heated nipple, her gasp of surprise his reward.

He knelt and leisurely rolled her stockings down, her legs as smooth as the silk that covered them. One garter, then another, each adorned with fabric roses and embroidered stems.

Finally, only her wrapping remained between them.

Standing, Alisdair placed both hands at her waist, moving closer until his erection brushed her naked skin. Her eyes widened even as he felt himself growing harder.

Now, now, now, a primeval need that echoed his heartbeat. A carnal whisper that urged him to fulfillment rather than prudence.

"Are you certain you're not in pain?" he asked again. As much as he wanted her, as desperate as he was beginning to feel, Alisdair vowed he would not touch her if the act would bring her discomfort.

"No," she whispered, her attention directed downward to where his erection lay momentarily quiescent against her belly.

He bent his head, his fingers trembling, and began unwrapping her bandage. Once around the back, and she was rewarded with a light, almost teasing kiss. Around to the front, and he kissed the tip of her breast, dampening it with his tongue. Another pass and the kiss deepened, his mouth opening around a tightening nipple, gently sucking.

She moaned, and the sound nearly drove him to his knees.

Now, please God, now.

"I wanted to touch you that first night," he said, the words muffled against her warm skin. Alisdair closed his eyes, praying for restraint.

"I wish you had," came her whispered confession.

An oath escaped him, and he pulled her forward, his shaft slipping between her thighs like a ship finding a berth. Almost home, was his last cogent thought before sensation overtook him. He kissed her again, his tutelage finding an apt pupil. Iseabal was artless in her skill, rendering him breathless as her tongue found his.

He wanted to be inside her, the urge so powerful that he tugged the rest of the wrapping from her with trembling fingers, uncaring that it dropped to the floor. Tomorrow he would tear up silken sheets to treat her, biting the threads apart with his teeth if need be.

But now, dear God, don't let her be frightened of me. He would never last for hours. Or even for the next few moments, he thought as she moved closer, the gentle friction of her body leaving him awash in a feeling so painfully perfect that it weakened him.

He moved away from her, needing the time to calm himself. His body was heated and aching with a yearning he'd never before felt.

"Is it time?" she asked, the innocence of her question inflaming him further.

"Yes," he said tightly, wondering if a man could spill his seed at the sound of a woman's voice.

Iseabal turned, mounting the pedestal and then the bed. Her body gleamed with the luminescence of a pearl as she rose to her hands and knees, pert derriere in the air, the globes of her breasts hanging down, nipples pointing the way to the mattress.

"I'm ready," she said, looking at him. She glanced at his naked body once more, taking a deep breath before lowering her head between braced arms.

He closed his eyes at the temptation of her pose, wanting feverishly to position himself behind her, entering her deeply and fully until she could not tell where he left off and she began. He could almost feel the curve of her buttocks against his thighs.

And nearly lost his resolve at that moment.

Alisdair climbed up beside her on the mattress, gently pulling her from that enticing position to lie on her back at his side.

"Have I done something wrong?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Who taught you that a man and woman love like that?" he replied, the words coming with great difficulty. Conversation didn't rank high on his list of priorities at the moment.

Her hands were clutched together and nestled between her breasts in a penitent's pose. Placing a light kiss on her knuckles, Alisdair felt torn between lust and tenderness.

"They don't?"

"Although the position is one I certainly wish to experience with you," he managed to say calmly, "it isn't appropriate for your first experience, Iseabal." He drew his finger over her knuckles, up the swell of her breast to capture a nipple against his palm.

She closed her eyes at the sensation, and he felt the same, brimming with feelings that were new and startling but too fascinating not to explore.

"I would enter you too deeply," he said, rubbing his palm slowly across her nipple, feeling it tighten even more against his skin. "We'll have to leave it for another time." When you're used to me. The thought nearly had the power to unman him, as needy as he was.

"The maid," she said faintly, her voice sounding constricted. "She said that if I watched the rams, I would know how it was done."

He stifled his smile, thinking that she would not appreciate his tender amusement.

Propping himself up on his elbow, he studied her, wishing that he'd left all the candles lit. Her legs were together, her feet pointed toward the ceiling, heels perfectly aligned. With her eyes closed and the position she maintained, she might have been laid out on her bier. Except that her breath came in short, measured bursts and her hands were trembling despite her convulsive grip.

"Are you cold?" he murmured, kissing the side of her breast. His nose nuzzled against her skin as he lifted her breast for his kiss. Soft and sweet and nearly his undoing.

She shook her head from side to side.

He wanted to place his mouth on her and make her moan with desire. To enter her and coax her to fulfillment with his will and his wish. Or scrape his teeth over her bottom lip in an atavistic urge to mate and conquer. But he leaned over her, clenching his fists in the sheeting, and contented himself with kissing her.

Desire did not come in measured doses, Alisdair discovered, however much he wished it. This urge did not ebb and flow like the tides, allowing him to ride it out. Instead, this hunger was a tidal wave, threatening to drown him.

Alisdair drew away from her, lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and praying for control.

Iseabal blinked open her eyes, feeling as if she were enveloped in a thundercloud preceding lightning and wild winds.

She wanted him to touch her again, to whisper words that heated her inside and made her breath tight. But he lay beside her on his back, one arm over his eyes.

"Touch me," he said unexpectedly. Not a command, but a request uttered in a voice unlike his own. "I want your hands on me, Iseabal. I have not tortured myself enough this evening," he added dryly.

Startled, Iseabal studied him in the near darkness, wondering if the hunger for touch could be a contagious thing. She'd never before considered that he might wish her compliance in this act. Mating was supposed to be quickly done, and simply executed, not touching and kissing and aching in spots that felt swollen and wet.

How delightful to be wrong.

How was she supposed to touch him?

Reaching out a hand, she let her fingers feel their way across his leg. Closing her hand around his erection, she was startled to realize that he was larger than her grip. Hotter, too, as if his flesh were a living brazier.

"Not there," he said in a choked voice as he removed her hand. "Like you did with that damnable statue."

She flattened her palm against his stomach, fingers splaying to touch the greatest area. Iseabal had never thought of exploring a man the way she did a block of marble. Nor had she known that her imagination could sketch in details that her fingers only felt. There was the straight line that ran in the middle of his chest as if to delineate both halves. Here was the nest of hair that rested at the base of his erection, and although she wished to linger there, his indrawn breath warned her that such exploration was unwise.

His thigh was hard to the touch, the muscles bunching beneath her fingers. His knees, his elbows, the bulbs of his shoulders, were all exquisitely formed. His flat stomach and broad chest were the reason his clothes fit so impressively. She had seen the same long line of muscle beneath the fabric of his breeches, but began to measure the corded length of his legs with stroking fingers. A moment later she felt the texture of the back of his hand, the strength of his arm, the warmth of a palm.

She played her fingers lightly over his nipples, feeling them rise, surprisingly, to her touch. His breath was held in abeyance for her to continue, it seemed, and she did, delicately tracing a line from one nipple to the other, then traveling down his stomach.

In such a way she was an artist of sorts, but instead of seeing the possibilities in stone, she traced the pattern of a completed masterpiece.

"Iseabal," he said warningly, as if divining her intent. But she could not help herself, fascinated as she'd never before been. Her hand closed around him again, measured his length, marveling at the firmness of him, as if he were, in truth, created from marble.

"You're the one who's beautiful," she said softly, remembering his earlier compliment.

He reached out and placed his hand on the back of her neck, pulling her over to him in a sudden, unexpected movement. In an instant his mouth was on hers, his tongue dancing across the seam of her lips until she gasped and welcomed him inside.

When the kiss was done, when both of them were gasping for breath, Iseabal lay at his side, whispering the words against his ear. "Touch me," she said.

For a moment she thought she'd shocked him in some way, because he didn't respond.

"Please," she said. "I want to feel your hands on me."

He made a sound, an oath or a prayer. But he pushed her gently onto her back. His hands learned her, his soft exploration of touch a feast of the senses. Had she made him feel the same?

Fingers lingering on the inside of her elbow and wrist caused her to wonder at the sensation. Even when he touched her there, almost innocently, her heart escalated and her breath tightened.

When she'd looked at him aboard the Fortitude, aloft in the rigging or standing at the bow, she had felt her heart flutter. But that feeling was nothing compared to what she experienced now, her body heating until Iseabal wanted him to hurry and at the same time wished he would linger.

One hand flattened on her abdomen, fingers trailing across the surface of her skin in an evocative exploration. He leaned over her, brushing the fingers of his other hand through the hair at her temple.

She wished there were more light so that she could study the expression in his eyes, know the reason for that somber look. For a moment, heedless in its length, they stared at each other, husband and wife, lovers for the first time. Impatient and hesitant.

He kissed her again, and she felt herself open up inside. Her heart seemed to expand to hold all these new, wondrous feelings. She'd never known intimacy, but at this instant of time, Iseabal felt it.

One finger, tenderly intrusive, entered her at a leisurely pace, his thumb sliding through her intimate folds. Molten heat both marked his passage and escalated at his touch.

"You're ready for me," he murmured, his voice sounding amazed.

"I've always felt this way around you," she confessed.

Alisdair lay his forehead down between her breasts. "Iseabal." Only her name, but he made that one word sound like a caress.

He raised up, knelt between her knees, entering her slowly. The pain she expected to feel was no more than a dull ache. Closing her eyes, Iseabal marveled at all the various sensations she was experiencing at this moment. An almost wanton pleasure wherever he touched her, a vulnerability for being so invaded, a wish to welcome Alisdair into her embrace and her body.

Once more his hands were on her, cupping her breasts and lifting them for the delicate branding of his tongue. He suddenly surged within her, and her body, knowing instinctively what he sought, rose up to meet him. Her fingers clenched on his shoulders as he filled her, her body accepting his presence in a muted delight and awed surprise.

The discomfort eased, the pinching feeling remaining, but not unendurable. He invaded her, surrounded her, stripping every thought but of this moment and these feelings.

She wrapped her arms around his neck tightly as a rhythm began, a thrust and capitulation. He was elemental and primitive. She was yielding and accepting.

His head arched backward as Alisdair abruptly stiffened, a guttural moan escaping him. A moment later he placed his forehead on the pillow beside her, his breath harsh, his hair damp from exertion.

Iseabal lay dazed, confused, and more than a little uncertain about what had just transpired.

"Are we finished?" she asked hesitantly.

He lifted himself up on both forearms, staring down at her. Once again Iseabal wished she could see his face.

"For at least an hour or so," he said wryly.

She nodded as his thumbs stroked from the corners of her mouth to her temple.

He slid his arms beneath her, rolling with her until he held her tucked against his chest. Iseabal rested her cheek against his skin, hearing the booming of his heart.

Tears were oddly right at this moment, words being too much and not enough.