A Kiss Of Fate Part 8

Gwynne smiled a little mistily. Bethany had spared no efforts to make this wedding special despite the haste. And since she and Duncan would be dining quietly, why not don her nightwear now? It wouldn't be long until they were in bed, she was sure. "I would like that."

The maid opened the wardrobe and brought out the most amazing negligee set Gwynne had ever seen. The robe was many layers of sheer gauzy silk, with the outermost a pale leaf green and each underlying layer a darker shade. Tiny sparkles of gold thread floated like stars on the delicate fabric. The nightgown itself was a sumptuous emerald satin that s.h.i.+mmered a subtle blue where light struck the fibers.

"How lovely! I shall look like a water nymph."

"You will be even more beautiful than you are now," Elsie promised.

The robe slid easily over Gwynne's head and clung to her figure with wanton sensuality, while the robe tied in front with a ribbon and drifted around her like sea foam. She regarded the low neckline warily. If it weren't summer, she would risk lung fever. But Duncan wouldn't mind, she was sure.

"Let me brush out your hair," Elsie said. "Don't look in a mirror until I'm done."

Gwynne obediently sat still while the maid brushed her hair into a s.h.i.+ning ma.s.s, then tied it back loosely with an emerald velvet ribbon, leaving a few strands to curl around her face.

"Now you may look, my lady."

Gwynne turned to face the long mirror, then gasped. Proper Lady Brecon had been replaced by a creature of fire and water, all glowing color and voluptuous female curves. Was this how Duncan saw her? But this image was an illusion born of garish hair and expensive silks. She hoped he wouldn't be disappointed with the mundane reality of her bookish self. "Thank you, Elsie. I look better than I dreamed possible."

The maid beamed. "Now you must find a proper lady for Lord Falconer to marry. The household needs a mistress."

Gwynne felt one of her flashes of certainty. "In a year or two, he will bring you his lady. You will like her."

"Is he courting someone now?" the girl asked with interest.

"Mere female intuition on my part," Gwynne said lightly. "A man who has no urgent need to marry must ripen to the point of readiness to become a husband. I think Lord Falconer is approaching that state."

Elsie nodded thoughtfully. "I know just what you mean, ma'am. My Ned, the head groom, kept coming to me for months with no word about marriage, yet when he decided it was time, he rushed me to the altar as soon as the banns were read."

The women exchanged a conspiratorial smile. Duncan had been even quicker than Elsie's Ned. Had he been entranced by her in particular, or was he merely very ready to settle down after years of traveling? Well, whatever the reasons, he was her husband now. "Thank you, Elsie. I won't need you again tonight."

The girl curtsied, then left the room. Gwynne found the gla.s.s vial that held her favorite perfume. It had been made by the current Countess of Brecon, who was a noted perfumer, and it combined delicate floral notes with a deeper, more provocative scent. After dabbing a bit behind one ear and, self-consciously, between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she returned the perfume to her cosmetics case.

She looked in the mirror one last time, vibrating with antic.i.p.ation. Though she knew in principle what happened in a marital bed, that knowledge was of the mind. Soon she would know the physical and emotional reality, and her teacher would be a man who affected her like no other.

How would their relations.h.i.+p change? She couldn't begin to imagine. But people had been marrying since the dawn of time, so she and Duncan should be able to manage it. Certainly she intended to be a good and loyal wife.

Praying that her Guardian oath would never clash with her duty to her new husband, she crossed the room and knocked on Duncan's door. His tense but willing bride was ready to face the thunder.

Duncan supposed it was natural to be nervous on his wedding night. Thankfully Gwynne wasn't a flighty young girl, but she was an innocent, and he wanted so much for everything to be right. His blue velvet banyan robe swirling around his ankles, he stalked to the window and stared out, his hands clasped behind his back.

He wanted desperately to make love to Gwynne. Even more, he wanted to bind her to him. Though he didn't doubt that she would take her vows seriously, she'd had to be persuaded to marry him. He wanted them to merge, to be one in love, but he sensed a deep reserve in her. He hoped intimacy would dissolve that, because he wanted all of her-body, mind, and soul.

Needing calm, he reached into the dusk to sense the air and the weather patterns. There were storms to the west in Wales, but overall it was a peaceful summer evening. He flowed his consciousness into a cloud that drifted over fields of ripening grain, and it slowed the impatient beat of his heart.

Nonetheless, he spun around and crossed the room in three strides when Gwynne tapped on his door. He opened it, and peace vanished. Dressed in a confection of gauzy green silks and with sunset hair spilling over her creamy shoulders, she was dazzling. A pagan G.o.ddess. "Each time I see you, you are more beautiful," he said huskily.

Her smile had a shyness he found ravis.h.i.+ng. "I'm glad you think so."

He wondered how long it would take for her to believe in her own beauty. With luck, he would have her convinced by the next morning. "I owe Lady Beth a great gift for persuading you to marry me. Now . . ." He bent into a kiss. Her lips opened easily under his, and for an intoxicating instant they tasted each other. When he started to embrace her, she stepped away.

"First we eat," she said teasingly. "I didn't pay much attention at the time, but there were sounds coming from the next room, and a few delicious scents. Shall we see what the cook has provided?"

Knowing that antic.i.p.ation would make fulfillment all the better, he kissed the bare hollow of her shoulder, enjoying her sudden inhalation of pleasure. She smelled of violets and provocation. "Your wish is my command, my lady."

He wrapped his arm around her waist and they crossed to the sitting room. Her strides were long, and the soft sway of her hip against his almost persuaded him to carry her directly to the bed.

Later. Dark events might be unfolding in Scotland, but tonight was theirs. They would savor every moment of it.

When they stepped into the sitting room, he scanned the porcelain and crystal and silver laid out on immaculate white table linens. "Excellent. I asked Simon to arrange a souper intime. He promised to send his French chef from London to prepare the dishes."

"An intimate supper? Does that term have some special meaning?" Gwynne went to investigate the covered silver dishes set on the sideboard, some of them steaming gently over canisters of hot water.

"The French invented the idea, I think. It's a meal designed specifically for seduction," he explained. "With chafing dishes and bowls of cracked ice to keep food and drink the proper temperature, there's no need for a servant to interrupt, so we can dress informally. The dishes are chosen to be light and exquisite, teasing the palate rather than making the body heavy and ready for sleep."

She gave him a roguish glance. "Is it seduction when husband and wife share such a supper?"

The brightness and humor in her eyes went to his soul. He drew a deep breath to compose himself. " This will be a seduction of sorts, as we take the time to become attuned and discover what pleases."

"I am glad for that," she said softly.

One end of the sideboard held bottles of red wine, plus two bottles of white wine set in a large silver basin filled with pieces of ice. One was champagne, so he poured them gla.s.ses of the sparkling wine. "To our marriage, my lady. May we never be less happy than we are at this moment."

She took the gla.s.s, but a small line appeared between her eyes. "It seems almost ill luck to wish for such an impossible goal. To our marriage, my lord, and may we suit each other even if we don't always agree."

As he sipped the champagne, he felt a small chill of premonition. There would be disagreements, some of them shattering. Yet he could not imagine wanting any other woman in her place. "Agreement isn't essential. Respect and honesty are."

"I can't imagine not respecting you." Her gaze moved away from his. "Shall I serve you some of this lovely clear soup? I think it has slivers of truffle in it."

"Please do." He took a seat at the elegantly set round table. "Truffles are said to be aphrodisiacs."

"From what I've read, anything that gives a person the strength to act upon desire has been considered an aphrodisiac at one time or another." She ladled the delicately scented broth into small porcelain bowls and set them on the immaculate white linen, then took her chair, layers of silk drifting around her enticingly.

Duncan sampled his broth. Yes, this had to come from a French chef.

Without haste, they consumed their meal. Each dish was chosen to complement the other offerings, and the superb food provided a source of easy conversation. They drank wine, enough to relax but not enough to become befuddled. They fed each other choice tidbits, sampling fingertips as well as lips.

He was delighted to learn that she had a hearty appet.i.te, for the love of food often went with other fleshly appet.i.tes. By the time they reached dessert, he was in a sensual haze beyond anything he had ever experienced.

He dipped a succulent, perfectly ripened strawberry from the Falconer gla.s.s house into a silver porringer filled with an orange-flavored liqueur. She licked a drop from her lower lip. His groin tightened and his mouth dried with the heat that surged through him.

Forcing himself to raise his eyes from the cleft revealed by the loose neckline of her negligee, he took a sip of wine and broached a subject that must be discussed. "In your studies, you must have learned that intimacy between Guardians is exceptionally intense. There is an opening of the souls, a dissolving of barriers. It might feel unnerving the first time."

"Do you find it so?"

"I've never lain with another Guardian." Before she could voice her surprise, he popped another liqueur-dipped berry into her mouth. "Intimacy is too powerful to share lightly. Even with a non-Guardian, there are dangers. A cruel or malicious lover can poison one's spirit. That's why it's rare to find a rakish Guardian."

"I've read such things in my studies, of course, but the subject was of mere intellectual interest, since I had neither lovers nor power." She propped her chin on her hand and gazed at him with languorous eyes. "Have you experienced a malicious lover?"

He grimaced, remembering. "Once, when I was young and foolish. I was besotted by a pretty face and didn't take the effort to look more deeply. I suspect I didn't want to acknowledge the meanness of her nature. So I lay with her, and spent months feeling soiled. I took so many baths my valet thought I'd scrub my skin off."

Gwynne c.o.c.ked her head, her hair catching red and gold highlights as it slid luxuriantly over her shoulder. "And here I had thought you were a vastly experienced man of the world."

He smiled wryly. "Is it worse for me to confess to decadence, or to admit that I am less worldly than you thought?"

She fed him the last strawberry, her fingertips brus.h.i.+ng teasingly over his lips. "I am glad you're no rake."

The berry burst in his mouth with tangy sweetness. "And I'm glad you are a virgin even though I didn't expect it. Knowing that you are untouched is a rare and special gift." And it made it more likely that he could bind her with pa.s.sion. He caught her hand and kissed the palm. "I shall strive to be worthy of it."

Her hand tightened over his. "A souper intime certainly puts one into an agreeable mood. I will agree willingly to whatever you desire."

Her words kindled the latent fire that had been searing his veins. He stood and took her hands and raised her to her feet. "Then let us wait no longer, my dearest bride."

ELEVEN.

T he pleasures of the dining table were nothing compared to the delights of Duncan's touch. Gwynne leaned into his embrace, both relaxed and tautly ready. The velvet of his banyan was a richly textured contrast to the sleek elegance of her silk. If she was fire and water, he was earth and air, solid and yet blazingly exciting.

As they kissed, his warm hands slid over her negligee, bringing her skin to tingling life. He murmured, "I feel as if I have been waiting for you for a lifetime."

"And I feel as if you're the lightning that struck from a clear blue sky, changing my life with no warning," she said honestly.

He bent to nip lightly at her bare shoulder. Her reaction was so intense that her knees weakened. As his arms tightened in support, he said, "It's time to seek our bed."

He claimed her mouth, and she was barely aware of how he guided her into the bedchamber. When the back of her thighs touched the edge of the mattress, he halted and untied the ribbon that secured her robe, then peeled the garment from her body. It drifted down into a gauzy cloud around her ankles.

"Better," he murmured as he cupped her satin-covered b.r.e.a.s.t.s and slowly circled his palms. The sensations shot straight to her core, creating heat and moist readiness.

"But then, no robe is as lovely as female flesh." When he started to pull down the shoulder of her nightgown, she tensed, embarra.s.sed by the thought of being naked before him. With his preternatural sensitivity, he caught her reaction. "Later, then."

Effortlessly he swept her from her feet. "You're so strong," she said breathlessly. "I'm not a delicate sylph."

"No, you're a lush, sensual woman. Every man's dream of the perfect wife." He laid her full-length on the bed.

They had dined from dusk into night, and the bedchamber was lit by only a single candle on the nightstand. Just enough to illuminate his craggy features, his powerful shoulders, his mesmerizing gaze.

She slid hungry hands inside his banyan and was startled to find nothing beneath the sumptuous fabric but warm skin over hard muscle and bone. Knowing he had been naked under his robe when they shared that sensual meal was powerfully arousing.

The robe was secured by silver b.u.t.tons. One by one she unfastened them, revealing a haze of dark hair over his broad chest. Inspired, she reached up and untied the riband that secured his hair at his nape. It tumbled forward in an irresistible wave. "You, too, are beautiful," she whispered as she slid her fingers into his hair.

Her Lord of Thunder looked almost shy. "No male can match female beauty, my lovely Sa.s.senach."

She recognized the Scottish word as meaning someone who was English. It wasn't usually an endearment, but his rich, smoky voice made it one.

When he kissed her breast through the emerald satin, she arched with shocked delight, her nipple hardening instantly. She had expected that even in pa.s.sion she would retain her conscious will, but every kiss, every touch, triggered wondrous new sensations that dissolved coherent thought. "I . . . I don't know what to do," she said helplessly.

"You need do nothing but surrender yourself to pleasure, my love." He drew down the loose bodice of her gown so he could have full access to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She exhaled with a rich, purring sound.

Dizzily she recognized that as his caresses became increasingly intimate, she was becoming more attuned to his spirit. Merciful heaven, but the strength of his broad, muscular body was nothing compared to his powerful, disciplined mind. He stirred her emotions and senses as easily as he stirred the wind.

Her satin skirts slid upward as his strong hand stroked her exquisitely sensitive inner thighs. She cried out when he touched the moist, throbbing folds of intimate flesh. Her breath fractured into short, rough pants. "Please. . . . ," she gasped.

He yanked off his robe and tossed it aside, then moved over her. "This may hurt," he said raggedly. " I shall try to block that. Now relax. . . ."

As the insistent pressure increased between her thighs, she sensed his mind reaching into hers, easing discomfort with tenderness. When he suddenly filled her, there was only the briefest twinge of pain, and it vanished as the essence of his spirit swept through her like a rus.h.i.+ng tide.

As he began moving slowly back and forth, her hands kneaded at his shoulders and chest like a tigress. She could feel his power in every fiber of her body, as if she were filled with light. "This is magic," she choked out.

"More than magic," he breathed. "A divine gift."

She locked her arms around his lean waist as he thrust harder and harder. Following him like a dancer, she enhanced his movements with her own.

As thunder boomed across the sky, she had the dizzy feeling that every secret she had must be visible to him. She could deny him nothing, nothing. . . .

He had meant to proceed slowly, to initiate her with patience and care, restraining himself so that all his attention could be on her, but her eager response was the sweetest of aphrodisiacs. Her urgent breath and rapt expression shattered control and turned him into a lover, not a teacher.

Though he had enough control to mitigate her pain, as soon as she rocked against him he was lost to reason. They were born to be together, mated as surely as the wind and rain that slashed this house, as the thunder and lightning that ripped the sky. Only a tempest was powerful enough to express the pa.s.sion that blazed through him.

Searing lightning, thunder that hammered the air, pa.s.sion that vibrated through marrow and bone as urgency rose to fever pitch. "I love you," he gasped, his words lost in the howl of the storm. "I love you. . . ."

Then he lost himself utterly in his bride.

The Lord of Storms had claimed his lady-or had she claimed him? In the dazed aftermath of desire Duncan drew her close, blood hammering through his limbs. Now that his wits were returning, he recognized that the inner storm that had swept him away was echoed in the tumult of the sky. The violence of the tempest las.h.i.+ng Buckland Abbey reflected the vastness of their pa.s.sion.

Despite his exhaustion, he forced himself to find the heart of the storm. It took all his trained will to disperse the energy before the las.h.i.+ng winds and pounding rain did too much damage to cottages and crops.

When the storm had faded to soft rain, he relaxed, so drained he wasn't sure he could even roll over. He must find a way to reduce the linkage between his pa.s.sion for Gwynne and his weather magic, or the possibility of wreaking havoc in Scotland would be no joking matter. He looked down at her red gold hair, her face invisible as she burrowed against him. Tenderly he stroked her nape. His desire for her was unabated even though his ability to perform was temporarily nil.

Mentally he reviewed the spells he had learned and remembered an obscure one created by Adam Macrae. The spell was intended to temporarily isolate power, and it might suit his needs. Had his several times great-grandfather had a similar problem because of his pa.s.sion for the magnificent Isabel?

Gwynne turned a little and gazed up at him, the centers of her eyes dark, dreamy pools of wonder. Truly, she was magnificent, a symphony of curves and soft, sleek skin. "Now I know why I found you so alarming," she murmured huskily.

He frowned, thinking this was not what a man wanted to hear from his bride. "What do you mean?"

"On some level, I sensed the terrible immensity of pa.s.sion between us, and that it would change me forever." With gentle fingers, she smoothed the frown lines from his brow. "The girl that I was feared that, for don't we all fear the abyss? Yet now that I look back, I'm amazed. Lady Bethany was right to tell me I must surrender to the part of me that yearned for you."

Relief washed through him. He should have guessed why she had been so ambivalent about him. A transforming pa.s.sion was indeed fearsome to contemplate, especially for a virgin who had led a sheltered life. Yet as they had found tonight, such pa.s.sion was glorious when embraced. "We will both be transformed, mo cridhe, my heart. And be the better for it."

"I'm sorry, dearest husband, that I gave you such a difficult time." Gwynne s.h.i.+vered a little. "It's turned cold. Did you conjure that storm?"

"I'm afraid so. I've remembered a spell that might help me keep the weather magic under control in the future. For now, we must rely on blankets." He tugged the covers up around them, then deftly removed her crumpled gown so they could lie skin to skin. Amazed, he felt the first tremor of returning desire. He would have thought it would take him days to recover after such explosive lovemaking.

But she was cold and tired and new to the sport of Aphrodite. He wrapped himself around her for warmth. "Sleep, my dearest bride."