Page 25 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander (Falling for Highland Villains #4)

CHAPTER 25

“Good mornin’ to ye,” Cecilia chirped as she climbed up the narrow staircase to her bedchamber.

Murdoch was coming down in the opposite direction, and he frowned when he saw her. “Aye, good mornin’.”

“It’s a pity they didnae think to make the staircases wider,” she continued in a breezy voice, not slowing her pace as she approached him. After all, she had planned it this way.

He halted. “Ye wouldnae be sayin’ that if the castle was attacked.”

“Nay, I suppose I wouldnae.”

She moved closer still and turned sideways to step past him, making no effort to press herself against the wall to leave some space between them. Instead, she murmured a soft “excuse me” and passed through the small gap between him and the wall.

She pretended to wobble and grabbed his arm for balance. “They’re so very slippery, too,” she gasped, slowly relaxing her grip and ensuring that she brushed against him.

As she proceeded up the stairs, she listened for the sound of his movements. He stayed still, and judging by the prickling sensation on the back of her neck, he was watching her, just as she had hoped he would.

Once she reached the hallway to her bedchamber, she allowed herself a small smile. It had been a week since the wedding, and her husband had done his best to avoid her, not realizing that she was on a mission to prevent that from happening.

Wherever he went, she found an excuse to be there too, though she never lingered long. She would apologize, find an opportunity to touch him or say something that might stir his imagination, and depart again. A measured attack on his willpower, slowly wearing him down. After all, Lennox had told her to be patient.

And I ken ye didnae mean what ye said about havin’ a white marriage. If ye did, ye wouldnae have come to me chamber on our weddin’ night.

She occasionally regretted not allowing him into her bedchamber that night, but there had been a good reason. He had demanded a “white marriage,” he had alluded to the fact that she would never be a mother, and she had not wanted a repeat of previous encounters. She had not wanted him to intrude in her bedchambers, take her virginity, then go back to being distant. Her heart would not have been able to bear it, so until she could be certain that he would not withdraw again, leaving her bereft and confused, she would deny him what he might want too.

Although she did worry that she might have missed her chance altogether, to know him intimately, her determination steeled her resolve. He would come to her again; she was certain of it. She just had to bide her time, to be sure that she would not regret lying with him instead of not lying with him.

She was almost at her door when she froze, hearing the sound of the staircase door opening and closing and footsteps thudding on the stone floor. Familiar footsteps.

“Husband?” She turned around, putting on her brightest smile. “Was there somethin’ ye wanted?”

She ran her teeth across her lower lip, standing in a way that accentuated her curves. The dress she wore had been chosen specifically to catch his eye. It was a simple piece of dark red wool, belted at the waist, with a low neckline and puffed sleeves. A reminder of the dress she had worn at the cèilidh.

Murdoch took a few more steps, keeping a fair distance between them.

He doesnae trust himself around me. That’s a good sign.

She smiled wider, pleased that her subtle tactics were working.

“Husband?” she prompted when he did not speak.

He shook his head slightly as if banishing a thought. “When is yer aunt leavin’?”

His voice was cold, but his eyes were not, shining with the embers of desire that she knew all too well. His hands were balled into fists, his back rigid, as if he were fighting against his base instincts.

“I dinnae ken,” Cecilia replied sweetly. “I think she wants to ensure that I’m settled in me new life as yer devoted wife before she returns to the convent. Actually, I was just about to change into warmer clothes so I could take a walk in the gardens. It doesnae make any sense for me to summon a maid when ye’re right here. Would ye mind helpin’ me?”

His eye twitched, and his lips pressed into a tight line. “I’ll send for a maid.”

“But there’s nay need,” she insisted. “It willnae take long. I just need ye to lace up the back of me winter dress.”

His eyes closed briefly, a long sigh making his chest fall. “Fine.”

“Excellent.” She walked the rest of the way to her room and then rested her hand on the door handle as she gave him a warm look. “Luckily, ye came to find me.”

He grumbled something under his breath, but she could not make it out.

Taking it as another sign that she was, indeed, wearing him down, she opened the door and stepped inside. She had been staging the room every morning, just in case he did decide to visit her, and she smiled to herself at her ingenuity.

The coverlets and blankets were in disarray, her flimsy nightgown was draped over the foot of the bed, and two cups were arranged on the writing desk with a half-empty decanter of spiced wine beside them. Jealousy seemed to stir him, and she hoped to stir him now.

Murdoch entered the room and glanced around, his half-masked face darkening as he spotted the cups and the bed, probably putting all of the wrong pieces together.

“Ye had a guest?” he asked coolly.

Seizing the opportunity, Cecilia went to the fireplace and turned her back to him. “If ye could unlace this one first, I’d be ever-so grateful.” She paused. “And aye, I had a drink with Tara last night. I needed someone to fill the void that Paisley left behind. I wish she would have stayed longer.”

A few moments passed before she heard Murdoch approach… and he was not gentle in undressing her. He tugged on the knot and tore at the laces, her body jerking with every pull. She made it seem like he had pulled even harder and knocked into his chest, staying there for a moment, enjoying the familiar solidity of him. Remembering how it had felt to be pressed against him.

“Ye ought to be more delicate,” she teased, turning her head to peer up at him.

The hunger in his eyes had intensified, his gaze almost ravenous as his fingertips tugged more gently on the laces of her dress. He bent his head slightly, and for a thrilling second, she was convinced he was going to kiss her.

“If I wasnae bein’ delicate,” he replied, “I’d have taken me dirk and cut the laces.”

She shivered at the thought. “Perhaps, if we were in a hurry. But we have nay need to rush. We can take our time.”

“ Ye might nae have nay need to rush, but I have important things to attend to,” he growled.

“More important than helping yer wife undress?”

His eyes flashed. “Aye. Now, turn around.”

She did as he asked, gazing at the fire instead, waiting for the moment he would break his rules. He grabbed her skirts and pulled her dress over her head, his breathing quickening as he peeled the garment off her. She was not wearing drawers and had entirely forgotten that she had not put them on that morning.

He willnae be able to resist.

He tossed the dress on a nearby armchair. The air in the room thickened as she felt his eyes roam over her half-bare form. She did not look up at him, letting him decide when to make the first move.

Any moment now…

“Where is yer other dress?” he asked flatly, and her excitement evaporated in an instant.

“It’s over there, hangin’ on the door of the armoire,” she replied, wondering if he could hear the disappointment in her voice.

He went to retrieve the dress, and as he turned back around, his eyes flitted to her, roving over her bare legs and stomach, lingering on the apex of her thighs as his tongue wet his lips. A second later, it was as if he had snapped out of a trance, his expression blank, his posture rigid again as he made his way back to her and handed her the dress.

“Be quick about it,” he commanded.

More annoyed than she cared to admit, her pride slightly bruised, she pulled the dress over her head and let the heavy fabric slide down her body. He was behind her again in an instant, tightening the laces all the way to the nape of her neck, where he made a knot.

“Wear a thick cloak,” was all he added before he marched out of her bedchamber.

Cecilia whirled around just in time to see the door close, and she rested her hands on her hips, glaring at the spot where he had just been.

Ye might think ye can win this, but ye have nay idea whom ye married. I dinnae give up so easily, and ye can be sure that I willnae give up on the hope of experiencin’ everythin’ that I wrote on that list. With ye. Me husband.

Grabbing her warmest cloak and reaching behind her to loosen the knot he had made, she decided to seek him out again. After all, he surely would not want some other man fixing his ‘mistake.’

Murdoch did not enter the council chamber in the best of moods. He was frustrated. He had visions of Cecilia whirling around in his head and fire in his blood—the kind that might burn him to ashes if he did not claim her immediately. But, of course, he could not, which only served to make him doubly frustrated.

“M'Laird, thank ye for joinin’ us,” George MacGill said cheerily as he stood and bowed his head. “We werenae sure if ye would have the time for us, seein’ as ye’re on yer honeymoon.”

Murdoch strode to his chair at the head of the table and sat down, balancing one foot on his opposite knee and glowering at the gathered men. “Nothin’ is more important than me duties to the clan.”

“Aye, well, the matter of yer honeymoon brings us nicely to our first order of business,” one of the other councilmen, a younger fellow called Kelvin Stonehaven, piped up.

Murdoch shot him a dark look. “What’s it got to do with ye?”

“Everythin’, M’Laird,” another councilman, Roger McGinty, chimed in. “As ye ken, yer marriage was a happy surprise to the clan. And we were hopin’ there might be another… happy surprise before the end of next year.”

“It’s a matter of legacy, ye understand,” Kelvin interjected.

Roger nodded. “A few sons would ensure the continuation of yer line.”

“The trouble, M’Laird,” Kelvin continued in a brazen tone that Murdoch did not care for, “is that the servants like to talk and gossip, and we have heard that ye and yer wife havenae slept in the same chambers since yer weddin’.”

Roger plastered on a tight smile. “So, ye can understand our concern. It’s imperative that we find out, sooner rather than later, if yer new wife is fertile. If she isnae, there might be considerations to make. Indeed, that is the only reason to marry.”

They were fortunate that Murdoch had not brought his broadsword with him, or the two men would have been headless by now.

Over the years, he had barely tolerated their constant nagging for him to take a wife, and now that he had one, they were still not satisfied. Perhaps he could have borne that, but what he would not stand for was other men deciding how he should live his life, and anyone discussing the fertility of his wife as if she were cattle.

“I wasnae aware that either of ye had been made Laird of Clan Moore,” he said darkly.

Roger paled. “That wasnae me meanin’, M’Laird. We just?—”

“Need to learn when to keep yer mouths shut and yer opinions to yerselves,” Murdoch retorted, cutting off the man’s shaky words like a blade. “Ye dinnae make decisions for me. None of ye do. It’s the other way around, and I’d urge ye to remember that in the future, providin’ ye like where yer heads are right now.”

He would not mention their rude comment about his wife—he had made his point well enough. He could see it in the way the color drained from their faces and the way they bowed their heads. Some of them were trembling in their chairs like naughty lads who had been asked to pick a switch from the woods.

Murdoch pushed back his chair and headed for the door. These men needed to stew for a while until they remembered who they served—The Laird and Lady of Clan Moore.