And he too turned, and walked away.
The fiddler struck up, the drummer close behind. Their lively music thrummed through the room, until all feet were tapping and all hands clapping. Gregor led his bride into a dance, her hands in his, her silken skirts brushing his kilt. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were pink, for she had already danced many times, with many men.
Major Litchfield had taken a turn, smiling like a besotted fool, while Gregor had watched. He had been conversing with another of the guests, trying not to let the sight of his wife and the major concern him, but the jealousy had simmered inside. Gregor had imagined he was hiding it well, until the guest he was conversing with suddenly stopped talking and gave him a very uneasy glance.
Had there really been murder in his eyes? Gregor hoped not. He was not a jealous man—not normally—but something about Meg made him want to grab hold of her and never let her go.
Now the fiddler quickened his pace, his fingers flying, and Gregor spun Meg around and around. Her head fell back and she laughed. He spun her again and she laughed again, her eyes shining, her hair bouncing about her in a cascade of flame curls. Suddenly it didn’t matter what had been before this moment. The music, the dance was to be enjoyed for its own sake. And Gregor meant to enjoy it.
He pulled her forward into his arms, feeling the sway of her slender but curvaceous body, the scent of her skin in his nostrils, the soft brush of her hair as she turned her head.
The moment was as heady as Cragan Dhui whiskey. He was home, back in the place he loved above all others. He was home, and Meg had made that possible.
Now he wanted to move on to the next part of this special night. He wanted to make Meg his wife in truth.
“It grows late,” Gregor said softly, and knew by the sudden tension in her that she understood exactly what he meant.
Meg couldn’t stop her eyes from flying to his. She wondered if he saw the anxiety in them, and the doubt. He must have, for his mouth curved into what was meant to be a comforting smile.
“They are expecting us to leave very soon,” he went on. “They are waiting, Meg.”
Meg glanced about her. Half of their guests had nodded off, the priest among them, but the other half were watching them closely, alert, and waiting for the happy couple to retire. The general was slumped in his chair, while beside him Major Litchfield’s eyes were rather glazed from claret and good food. Gregor was right, it was time to face the ribald remarks, along with the laughter and good wishes.
With a quick nod, Meg assented.
Gregor slipped his arm about her waist, his hand resting naturally on her hip. “Are you ready then?” he asked her, as if he wanted to be absolutely sure.
Was she ready? Meg shivered with apprehension, and something else that curled in her belly and quickened her breath. His hand on her hip burned; no man had ever touched her there, so familiarly, so possessively. Meg had never lain with a man before, and yet she wanted to, if it was Gregor. She wanted Gregor. It was the truth, and she had told herself that day at Loch Dhui that she would admit the truth to herself, even if she told no one else.
“I’m ready,” she whispered.
With a brisk nod of his head, Gregor took her at her word. But for a moment longer, his golden eyes looked into hers. Meg was surprised to see, deep within them, a flicker of doubt. Was Gregor Grant uncertain, perhaps a little afraid, for all that he was a ladies’ man and a hardened soldier? And as he reached to hold her hand, Meg was surprised to feel his fingers tremble.
Just as her fingers were trembling.
Chapter 19
Candles, their flames dipping gently in the sweet breeze from the open windows, softly lit the room. It was Gregor’s room he had led her to, the big room that she supposed had once belonged to his parents. Rather ornate and formal, it had never appealed to Meg. She had always preferred the smaller bedroom, with its faded walls and larger windows and the view of Cragan Dhui.
Meg paused now on the threshold, suddenly doubtful. Perhaps, after all, she had been too quick to agree to a proper marriage to him. Perhaps she needed time to reconsider. She turned her face to his, meaning to tell him she wasn’t certain this was the right thing to do. Just as Gregor bent down and closed his mouth on hers.
Startled, Meg froze and her eyes grew big. His, she couldn’t help but notice, were closed. And he made a sound like a groan, as though the feel of her lips on his was more than he could bear. His mouth moved, sliding over hers, tasting her, enjoying her. Meg wondered whether she should pull away, or lean in closer. What was it he was feeling? What was it that had him in its hot grip?
And then the sensation reached her, too.
Heat, trickling down her spine, into her belly and in the secret place between her thighs. Abruptly she realized the bodice of her gown was too tight across her breasts, abrading her nipples. Her skin was hot, wanting to be stroked. She felt dizzy, lightheaded, and wonderfully pliant.
Naturally cautious, Meg felt the need to pull back, to take a breath. But Gregor’s mouth was warm, so warm, his lips softer than she could have imagined, and they were teasing hers. She was drowning, drowning in desire.
Lost in lust?
Meg smiled, and felt his mouth curve in response. And she knew then that she couldn’t pull back now. She was an explorer in a foreign land. A Sir Francis Drake or a Sir Walter Raleigh, setting out for unknown seas and a distant horizon. Only this exploration was one that would involve much touching and stroking, and such disturbing actions as kissing Gregor Grant’s hard, golden body and having him kiss hers….
His fingers were on the fastenings at the back of her green gown. He had turned her about, so
he stood behind her, his warm breath on her nape. He bent and kissed the soft, tender skin there, his mouth trailing down so that she shivered in delight and expectation.
“Should I call Alison to help me?” she asked, her voice husky and unfamiliar.