Taking his time, he feasted his eyes upon her beauty. Her flawless ivory skin was still far too pale, and her vivid green eyes too wide and fearful. Her lips, which he craved, were dark pink and lush. And her flaming ginger-colored hair remained in tight coiled braids, as it had been during the ceremony. He yearned to run his fingers through her silken curls and spread them upon a pillow. He almost cursed at the powerful arousal hardening his shaft and tensing his muscles, but he held his tongue. First, he would help her calm down and forget her troubles. 'Twas his responsibility to ensure she enjoyed their wedding night as much as he would.
"You were exceptionally lovely today, as you are now," he murmured, stroking her palm.
"Merci," she whispered.
"And how do I look?"
Her expression moved from surprise to the beginning of a grin. "Lovely."
"Och. Lovely? I was thinking you might say handsome or dashing."
The hint of amusement in her eyes grew a fraction.
"What say you?" he asked.
"Oui. You are…handsome, my laird." Her skin now glowed pink in the firelight—far better than her earlier ashen color.
"Lachlan," he corrected.
She turned away. "Oui, Lachlan."
"What? I cannot hear you. Say it in my ear."
Guarded, she searched his eyes.
He tapped his ear.
"You are not deaf."
"Nay, but I like the way you say my name."
"Why?"
"You have a pleasurable French way of saying it, almost purring, with that C sound deep in your throat. Please, indulge me." He tucked his hair behind his ear and waited.
"You are full of nonsense."
"Och! My name isn't nonsense."
She shook her head and leaned toward his ear. "Lachlan," she whispered, her warm breath fanning his skin.
Mmm. Shivers of arousal coursed through his body, making his rigid tarse even harder.
"Very nice."
She pulled away slightly and his chest ached at her desertion. He wanted her to lie on him and whisper in his ear all night.
"Remember how your hair was the first time we wed?"
"A disaster."
"Nay, your fiery curls were loose about your shoulders, hanging near to your waist. 'Twas beautiful beyond measure." He was dying to see her that way again, but without a stitch of clothing hiding her creamy skin from him. But he must be patient.
Her only response was a distrustful glance, her blush still in evidence.
"In truth. Would you allow me to take down your hair now?"
Angelique knew what the seducer was about—leading her toward undress and the bedding, one tiny step at a time. Indeed, Lachlan was clever, but so was she. One thing he possessed, which no other man did in such abundance, was that damnable, disarming magnetism and charm. His relaxed, playful attitude conspired to make her the same, to melt away her defenses.
He wrapped one of her escaped curls around his finger. The gentle tug on her scalp sent a frisson of longing down her neck. Longing for what, she did not know, not the bedding. Perhaps another kiss, but that was all. What drew her attention more was his stone hard shaft beneath her thigh and thin layers of clothing. Heavens! She did not know whether it intrigued her or terrified her. She only knew that part of his body was designed to hurt her, whether he intended it or not.
"Would you let me take the pins from your hair and unbraid it?" he murmured.
That was a question Girard would've never asked. He would simply have yanked the pins out, no matter her wishes.
"Oui." Parbleu. What was she saying? What was she allowing to happen?
"I thank you." Lachlan set about removing the pins with gentle fingers and dropping them to the floor. He appeared patient and didn't pull her hair overmuch, not enough to hurt. All the stimulation on her scalp showered down her body with an equal amount of yearnings and anxiety. He then unbraided the thick rope of hair and spread it in his big hands. Once her hair was loose, he combed his fingers through, and buried his nose in it for a deep inhale. "Mmm."
Mère de Dieu. He was far too sensual. Yet, strangely, she wanted to do the same to his neck perhaps even his hair, and breathe in his scent.
"Aye, 'tis the most bonny sight I have ever seen." He trailed his fingers from her hair to her neck and his attention shifted to her face. His eyes were the color of whisky in firelight and thrice as potent.
He moved his face closer to hers, his gaze dipping to her lips right before contact with his. She didn't know why she didn't jump up and run. His kiss was gentle, easy and tentative. Highly tantalizing. His tongue grazed her upper lip lightly. It was a dreamy kiss that snatched her rationale, like indulging in the most sinfully sweet dessert—honey and clove flavored. His tongue stole into her mouth, driving deep with sudden, compelling possession. Her nipples ached.
He slid his hand up the outside of her thigh, beneath the smock, higher and higher. His other hand rested upon her hip, holding her tight to his iron-hard shaft.
His kisses grew more passionate, his muscles harder, his embrace more tense.
Panic gripped her throat. She turned her face away, straining for breath, trembling with the realization of how far this had gone.
"Dear God, Angelique," he rasped. But he halted, his forehead resting against the side of hers, his breath harsh in her ear. "Mmm, you are delicious and…saints! I want you so bad I hurt with it." His voice was a fierce whisper.
Tears burned her eyes. She ached, too, her whole weakened body, the very core of her where he wanted to claim and possess her. But that ache would increase a hundredfold when he did take what he wanted.
She pushed at his shoulders but found them immovable, his arms locked around her, not painful but imprisoning.
"Do not," she said in a ragged whisper. She hated the tears dripping from her eyes.
"Angelique." He swallowed hard. "Don't do this. Please."
"No."
"You want me, too. I feel your desire. In your kisses, in your hands. You pulled me tight against you."
Her throat closed. She could do naught now but shake her head. She was caught, captured in his trap.
"Angelique." Her name was a pleading rasp. "Don't fear me. I won't hurt you. I swear it."
"You cannot help but hurt me…whether you mean it or not." He was not a woman; he did not know the pain of it.
He breathed deeply for a few moments. "You said you were not a virgin. Are you?"
She shook her head.
"Losing your virginity is what hurt, lass. After that, the pain is gone. There is only pleasure."
Maybe that was true for most women but… "No." She could not imagine pleasure, only the opposite.
"You think I'm lying?"
Perhaps not lying, but he simply did not understand her side. "You are a man like all others. I do not like coupling."
"Why?"
"It is painful…and demeaning." Heat and cold rushed through her.
"Who did you lie with before?" he asked, his voice harsher.
She could not tell him that. She could not say the name Girard.
"Or was that a made up story?" he asked in challenge. "Were you lying?"
She shook her head. "With a man I had planned to marry in France."
"Was he a bastard and didn't make it pleasurable for you?" Lachlan's breath fanned against the hair by her ear.
She shook her head.
"I'm not like him."