Starcatcher, page 19
She tried to swallow her apprehensions.
Handfasting. It was not the wedding she had dreamt of. But it would do. It would do very well. Handfasted couples announced their intent before witnesses and lived together for a year and a day, then decided whether or not to officially wed. If not, no one’s reputation was besmirched.
But they needed Gavin’s cooperation. His presence as a witness from her family would be vital if the legality of the handfast was ever questioned. She bit her lower lip, unaware of her hands wringing each other at her waist. Her brother had not been pleased to find her in Patrick’s arms. What if the two of them fought, after all, because of her? A shiver of fear ran through her.
She waited, every moment a lifetime, as the two men she loved most in the world decided her future.
Chapter 16
Patrick questioned his own sanity.
He was inviting disaster for them all, and yet …
Yet, he knew he could not remain around Marsali without loving her, and without making love to her. Having tasted only a small measure of what awaited them, he knew it was only a matter of time. He had nearly dishonored her twice already, and the thought of a bastard child was abhorrent to him. He had to protect Marsali.
But handfasting? He was genuinely nervous about Gavin’s reaction. ’Twas a common enough practice in the Lowlands, but it was seldom used by Scot nobles. Would his friend think it good enough for his sister?
Gavin said nothing as they walked toward the stream, though Patrick felt tension radiating from his friend. Undoubtedly, he felt Patrick had taken advantage of his sister; God knew they must have looked guilty as hell when Gavin walked in.
When they reached the bank of the stream, Patrick turned to him. “Marsali and I want to handfast.”
Gavin drew back, his gaze narrowing.
“I would like your approval,” Patrick added.
Gavin studied him for a moment, then glanced down at the water rushing by between the narrow banks. For a long while, his gaze remained fixed on the tumbling water. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Patrick waited. He knew he should not be asking this of Gavin. His friend had already committed acts his father might never forgive. But for Marsali’s sake, Patrick would not handfast with her without her brother’s approval. To do so would be to leave her with no family at all.
Finally, Gavin heaved a deep sigh. “She has always loved you,” he said slowly. “I wanted to believe otherwise, but I knew it when I saw her face just now.”
Patrick said nothing. He did not want to force Gavin’s decision.
“It would protect her from Sinclair,” Gavin said. Shaking his head, he murmured, “’Tis true, I should never have agreed to support Sinclair’s offer when I knew it was wrong for her.” He cast Patrick a sideways glance. “Of course, she could still come home with me.”
Patrick willed himself to answer calmly. “Can you be sure your father willna try again to marry her off to Sinclair?”
Gavin considered it for a moment. “Nay, I canna,” he said. After another long pause, he said, “I want Marsali to be happy, but how can she be happy in a place she is hated?”
“Elizabeth adores her,” Patrick said. “So does Alex. It will not be long before she wins more hearts.”
“Bloody hell,” Gavin muttered. “How did we ever come to this?”
“Two stubborn, prideful old men,” Patrick said. “They willna listen to reason. They are destroying their own lives. I donna want them to ruin others.”
Another silence ensued, then Gavin spoke again.
“The king will approve your alliance to Marsali?”
“Aye,” Patrick said. “I served him in France. He knew of the betrothal and approved. He would approve anything that brings peace to the Highlands.”
“I wish I thought a marriage would do it,” Gavin said. “I canna help but wonder whether it might mean the spilling of more blood. Good God, if Fa learned that you and Marsali had handfasted … well, I canna imagine his rage. He canna learn of it. Not now.”
“Aye, I agree,” Patrick said, sensing victory. Though Gavin’s words sounded pessimistic, if he were going to say no, Patrick thought, he would have done so immediately. “I will wager,” Patrick said, “that Sinclair has been stirring the pot of trouble for years. He has finally found a way to divide us. First with Margaret, now with Marsali. But we will stop him, between us.”
Gavin knotted his fists. “If it can be proved, by God, I will kill him myself.”
“I have someone with the Sinclairs now,” Patrick said, wanting to give Gavin back some of the trust his friend had given him. “If they plan another raid, we will know of it.”
Gavin nodded. “I thank you for caring for Quick Harry.”
“Tell his family,” Patrick said, “but order them to tell no others. His life may be forfeit. Sinclair would want no witnesses to his perfidy. His head would be at stake.”
“Aye,” Gavin said. “His wife will do as you say, and be happy to do so.”
“Be careful, Gavin. I wouldna be surprised if Sinclair has spies in both our clans.”
Gavin turned to face him, studying him long and hard. The question that had begun the discussion still hung between them, unanswered.
Holding his friend’s gaze, Patrick said, “I will take good care of her, Gavin. I swear it.”
Gavin looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Aye, Patrick, I know you will. So handfast, then. I will support you and uphold the match.”
Patrick held out his hand, and Gavin clasped it. “I will be your brother in truth.”
“Aye,” Gavin said. “God help us all.”
Handfasting required little formality. All that was needed was for the couple to say they both agreed.
Marsali stood beside Patrick, her hand in his. He turned and looked at her, his deep green eyes glittering with something she could not identify. “I will always protect and honor you,” he said simply.
Marsali wanted more. She wanted an avowal of love, but with Gavin and Quick Harry and Hiram at their sides, she could not, would not, beg for it. One day, he would say the words.
“And I will honor you,” she said, wanting desperately to say more—to say she loved him. But he had not said it, and without that neither could she. It was enough, now, to know he wanted her.
“It is your wish to handfast?” Gavin asked.
“Aye,” Patrick said readily.
“Aye,” Marsali agreed.
“It is done, then.” Gavin seemed not to notice the absence of such words as love or obey. Instead, he merely kissed her cheek and wished her well.
She smiled and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Come to me,” he said, “if you ever need anything.”
“I will.”
He smiled at her. “Our little sister will be furious when she learns you did this without telling her first.”
Marsali knew he was teasing, but a hint of underlying concern in his voice prompted her to answer seriously. “Cecilia truly is safe, Gavin. Ask Patrick. I am sure he will tell you where she is.”
Gavin shook his head. “I trust you both. I am sure she is in good hands.” Then he added, sadly, “’Tis better she is gone for now.”
He seemed different, Marsali thought. Though things hardly could have been worse for their family, he seemed more confident—almost as if in the few days since she had left Abernie, he had found himself.
Because of Patrick, she thought. He brought out the best in people. She had watched him with Hiram, watched the pride in the big man’s face as he saw to Patrick’s interests. Even Quick Harry, who had been suspicious at first, now grinned easily at the man who had saved his life.
She stood between her brother and Patrick as they talked, making plans. She listened contentedly to their voices while she watched Hiram saddle the horses. After she and Patrick and Hiram left, Gavin would stay behind to help Quick Harry remove any traces of recent habitation from the hut. Then Harry would retire to the cave, and Gavin would return to Abernie.
As Patrick helped her into the saddle, his hand lingered on hers. “Tonight,” he whispered.
Tonight.
Anticipation surged through her. She looked down at Patrick and his eyes were warm enough to heat all of Brinaire. His mouth twisted into a wry grin as he handed the ferrets, safely in their basket, up to her.
“I might not ha’ brought them had I known we were returning so quickly,” he said. “I didna know that you were so fine a healer or that Quick Harry would mend so well. But Elizabeth said they were brokenhearted and would not eat.”
He may not have said he loved her, she thought, but the gesture showed her what he had not said. Her heart swelled as she looked down at him, at the hard body that contained a large and compassionate heart.
Her husband.
She watched as he moved away from her and mounted his own horse. She watched his every move, her eyes drinking in his lean grace, his fluid strength.
Tonight. Her body throbbed at the thought.
He settled into the saddle, then looked at her and smiled. A glorious smile. Warm and intimate. Promising.
Tonight. The word echoed in her head all the way to Brinaire.
Patrick listened to the litany of complaints from his father, allowing them to drift in one ear and out the other.
He had taken supper in the great hall with his clansmen. His father had demanded his presence. Marsali had decided to eat in her room, and Elizabeth had joined her.
His father had not bothered to ask about Marsali, apparently satisfied to learn she was again a hostage inside his walls. He was far more interested in the fact that the Sutherlands had lost a herd of cattle.
“Bloody Gunns,” he grumbled.
“I will get them back,” Patrick assured him.
“I want you to take Alex with you. ’Tis time he learned to be a man.” Gregor directed his glare at his younger son, who sat several seats down from him.
Alex flushed.
“You will go tonight,” his father ignored Alex’s discomfort and spoke directly to Patrick.
“Nay,” Patrick said. “I have been riding all day, and I am tired. We will go tomorrow night.”
“Then Alex will take the men out tonight.”
The clatter of dishes stopped. Sutherlands up and down the table looked down at their food, pretending to ignore the unexpected test of wills. One threw a bone on the floor amidst four of the dogs, who immediately began fighting over it. Several additional bones went bounding over the table.
“No,” Patrick said. “I will go myself tomorrow. I will do this my way, or I will leave Brinaire for good.”
The sudden silence in the hall was deafening. His father’s face went red, then white. But Patrick knew he had to stand firm if he was ever to expect the clan’s loyalty. He waited for an explosion. When it came, it was not at all what he had expected.
Abruptly, his father sat back in his chair and roared with laughter. “You are my son, at that,” he said. “You take no sass from any man. Tomorrow night, then. Bring me back my cattle and the hides of those thieving Gunns.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow at the bloodthirsty command. His father’s demands were increasing.
He finished his meal quickly and without further talk. Marsali was waiting. The very thought of her warmed his blood, and he wondered whether anyone noticed how many times he glanced at the stairs.
A few more hours.
Rivers of gold poured across the gentian sky, cresting along the tips of the hazy gray-green hills that lay beyond Brinaire.
Marsali stood at the window of her bedchamber, her face bathed in the light of the gloaming. Usually, she loved this time of day, the long hours where day and night converged. This night, though, she wished the hours away. She wanted nightfall.
She wanted Patrick. Her husband.
She hoped Elizabeth had not thought her rude. She knew the girl had wanted to linger after their meal together, to talk and play with the ferrets. But Marsali had pleaded exhaustion and the need to bathe as excuses to end what she feared would be a long visit. Elizabeth had not seemed put out; rather she had scurried off to fetch hot water and fresh linens. In her typically shy way, she had asked if Marsali wanted her help bathing, but Marsali had thanked her and said she could manage alone.
It would have been heavenly under any circumstances to wash away the dirt of three days spent in the hut. But as she bathed, Marsali thought about the coming night, about Patrick touching her and about bare skin on bare skin, and … well, bathing had never seemed so erotic.
She had dried off by the time she heard a light knock at the door. She ran lightly across the room, her heart suddenly racing, and opened the door.
Patrick stood there. He had shaved and was dressed in a fresh linen shirt and plaid. He looked intolerably handsome with his serious expression and fire flashing in his vivid green eyes.
He stepped in and closed the door behind him, his gaze raking over her. She had not dressed after she bathed but wore only a shift; the fabric was thin, and she blushed under his bold, possessive look. When he held out his arms in open invitation, she stepped into his embrace.
His arms closed around her, and for a moment, they did not move, simply allowing warmth to flow between them. She rested her head on his chest, listening to his heart’s steady beat, feeling his breath ruffle the hair at her temple. She sighed, filled with blissful contentment at being here with him. Alone.
Soon, though, it was no longer enough merely to hold one another. Marsali felt the tension begin to grow between them, felt the embers, still glowing from the morning’s tryst, come to life. His arms tightened around her, and her body began to hum with anticipation.
“Marsali,” he said her name softly, his hand stroking the hair that hung down her back to her waist.
She raised her gaze to meet his, and he smiled down at her.
“You are so very bonny,” he whispered, his fingertips stroking her cheek.
As he leaned down to kiss her, a shiver ran down her spine, and, inside, a pressure started building. He feathered her face with kisses, then his lips found her mouth and lingered there. Tasting, nibbling, tracing the seam of her lips with his tongue. The pressure became fire, the fire an inferno when she opened her mouth and his tongue swept inside.
His mouth slanted across hers in a kiss filled with tenderness as well as desire. His hands stroked her back, her sides, her hips. She felt him shudder, heard the deep, rumbling sounds he made, and was thrilled by her body’s familiarity with his. Alive with sensation, she clutched at his shoulders, fearing that soon she would be unable to stand.
Her knees weakened further when his arms enveloped her, pulling her to him, and she felt the growing hardness of him pressing against her.
“Sweeting,” he whispered, his lips nuzzling her ear.
“Patrick … Oh, please …”
As incoherent as her plea was, he seemed to understand it. He picked her up and took her to the bed, placing her on the great feather mattress. Then, standing over her, he let his gaze make another long, slow trip downward, across her breasts, her stomach, her hips, down her legs, and back up again. When his gaze returned to hers, she felt as if he had actually touched every inch of her. But then he sat next to her, his hands cupping her breasts, and she learned that actually being touched was something much more than she had ever imagined.
He leaned over to kiss her neck; at the same time his hands stroked and teased her breasts. Swimming in desire, Marsali felt her nipples harden and her back arch. Her hands went behind his neck, and she pulled him closer until her body strained against his.
With a low groan, he straightened to tug her shift over her head. For a second, she felt completely exposed—and totally vulnerable. But then she saw herself reflected in his eyes, saw the tenderness in them, and the momentary uncomfortable feeling faded away.
Patrick forced himself to be deliberate, gentle, even though he was burning like all the fires in hell. She looked so innocent, even puzzled by feelings he realized were new to her. Yet, despite brief moments of uncertainty, her passion was clear in her eyes.
He allowed himself the pleasure of looking at her, the slim body with high, firm breasts and rounded hips, the face with the lovely cobalt blue eyes and fine cheekbones and stubborn chin. Sweet Jesu, but he wanted her. For twelve long years, he had felt she belonged to him, with him. Finally—despite wars and wounds that might have killed him, despite her father who had tried to give her to another man and his father who would disown him sooner than hear him call her wife, despite everything that had happened to keep them apart—finally, she was his. She was a part of him. Now and for all time.
He stroked her possessively, his hands caressing her shoulders, her back, and, finally, her breasts. Her look became languorous, passion laden. Yet a hint of surprise, a sort of awe at the sheer novelty of the things she was experiencing, lingered in her eyes, and that innocent look both charmed him and seduced him completely.
“Marsali,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Marsali.”
Her answer, little more than a moan, stoked the fire inside him. He leaned down and kissed one of her nipples, then the other, and he felt her fingers on his cheek, threading through his hair, curling at the nape of his neck. Her touch was sensitive, wondrous. No one had ever touched him with such tenderness. Such love. He knew he had been waiting for this all his life.
He reached up and undid the pin that held his great plaid at his shoulder. It fell, and he stood, unbuckling the belt that held the cloth at his waist. The plaid fell to the floor, and a second later, the linen shirt followed it. He caught a glimpse of her looking at his naked body as he dropped next to her on the bed, and when her hand tentatively touched his shoulder, he felt uncertainty in her again. Gritting his teeth and willing himself to be patient, he started to move away.
“No. Do not,” she whispered, her hands clutching his shoulders and pulling him back to her.
The breath left his body in a great rush as he pulled her against him and felt, for the first time, the glorious heat of their naked flesh meeting. He tried to reassure her with every touch. Her eyes glowed with desire, and yet it was clear she was not quite sure what to do. She did not have a mother to instruct her, and he vowed to be slow and tender.
