"I would have you call me by my name now that we're wed." He said, his voice barely over a whisper. When she refused to look up, he put his knuckle under her chin. "In the church, you fainted 'afore we could seal our vows. I would do that now."
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. To his surprise, she stiffened and he felt her tremble. Concerned by her reaction, he released her the moment she pushed gently against his chest. "You need not worry, my lord," she said breathlessly as she fumbled with the tie of her robe. "I know what is expected of me as your wife."
"Do you now? And what exactly is expected?" he asked. Much to his amusement, she squared her shoulders bravely, reminding him of a woman-warrior preparing to meet her doom as the robe fell to the floor. The long muslin gown she wore hid little from his gaze and only with his iron-will was he able to keep his expression calm.
She took a deep shuddering breath then caught her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment before answering. "I had thought," she began, clearing her throat, "since you were married before, that you would know."
She visibly swallowed and began to pace. "However, as it appears you don't ... 'tis my duty to ... to give you a legitimate heir. Sister Margaret says every man wants an heir."
"An heir?" he repeated.
"Aye." She stopped and gave a firm nod. "'Tis the reason why husbands hasten to consummate their marriages."
The sincerity shining in her eyes amused him, but he dared not laugh or even smile. He suspected too much wine and Sister Margaret were responsible for his wife's behavior. He knew if he made reference to it, or even smiled at the determined gleam in her eyes, it would shatter her innocent trust. And the very last thing he wanted to do was make her feel the fool.
"I suppose that's a good enough reason," he said when he realized his silence was making her even more nervous. He filled a goblet and took a sip of wine. "What else did Sister Margaret tell you about being together ... as husband and wife?"
His bride blushed hotly and stared at her hands. "We go to bed and I lie down and ... you--"
"I what?" he asked, watching her intently--enjoying every moment.
She raised her eyes to his and instead of fear, he thought he saw a tiny spark of anger--knew it the moment her chin came up and she very nearly glared at him. Good. He'd much rather soothe her anger than chase away silly fears fostered by an elderly nun.
"Have you forgotten how it is to be with a woman, my lord?" she asked with a tinge of frustration in her tone.
She began to pace once more by the foot of the bed. "'Tis embarrassing to have to explain every detail." She went to the table. "May I?" she asked as she filled a goblet and drank it down before he could stop her. She dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. "Now," she began, swaying just a little. "Shall we get it over with?"
Robert put his goblet on the table then pulled her gently up against his chest. "Did Sister Margaret tell you that some men like to kiss their wife before they bed her?"
"Nay, my lord," she slurred. "We did not speak much of kissing."
"'Tis true. Scottish men like tae kiss first."
She blinked several times, then heaved a long, impatient sigh. "Very well." She kissed him--once on the left cheek and once on the right, her lips barely grazing his skin.
"No' like you're kissin' a friend, lassie." He brushed a loose curl away from her face, enjoying the way her soft breasts pressed against his chest. "I was thinkin' we'd go slowly ... like this."
He kissed her deeply, until she leaned more intimately against him, unaware that when she pressed her body closer to his, she sent a bolt of pure pleasure arching through him. Desire, hot and potent flowed between them, he felt it, sensed it, tasted it, and suddenly he wanted more. Much more.
)
