Page 26

26: THIS IS REAL, LASS

BONNIE LAY UPON the sheepskin, limp and boneless—her pulse beating in her ears.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak.

It surprised her that Iver was able to move either.

However, he pushed himself off her, rolled to his feet, and scooped Bonnie up into his arms, carrying her to the bed.

There, the ropes creaked as they settled onto the straw-filled mattress.

Iver pulled a blanket over them, for it was drafty away from the fire.

Inside this snug room, it was easy to forget that snow covered the land outdoors; the innkeeper had predicted a blizzard was on its way, so it was likely they’d be making a late start the following morning.

Not that Bonnie cared about any of that—all that mattered was the man she now snuggled into.

Iver’s body was strong and warm, and when she placed her palm upon his chest, she felt the thunder of his heart.

Like her, he hadn’t recovered from their coupling.

Wriggling closer still and placing her head in the hollow of his shoulder, Bonnie’s mouth curved.

The man next door had sounded irate indeed.

“I thought ye said no one would hear us?” she murmured.

A laugh rumbled through Iver’s chest. “Aye … but I think it was my bellowing he objected to.”

Bonnie’s smile widened.

Indeed, he’d let go—although she’d loved listening to it.

Once Iver had found his release, they’d both quietened down—and so had the guest in the next chamber.

A thought occurred to her then, and her smile faded.

Raising her head, Bonnie looked up at him.

Indeed, a bruise was forming on his jaw.

“Yer brother or Campbell didn’t take the room next door, did they?” Embarrassment prickled her skin.

Neither of them liked her—how would she face them in the morning after this?

However, Iver shook his head.

“I made sure our chamber was at the opposite end of the inn to theirs,” he assured her.

His hand rose then, and he brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek.

“I wanted to give us both some privacy.”

Their gazes fused, and Bonnie’s breathing caught.

She could drown in this man’s gaze, and despite what they’d just done, her body still ached for him.

As if reading her thoughts, his mouth lifted into a sensual smile.

“The night is still young,” he murmured.

“I’m afraid our neighbor is going to have a rough sleep.” His fingers now trailed up and down her spine under the blanket.

Sighing, Bonnie curled against him, her own fingertips stroking the muscular planes of his chest.

She supposed she ought to feel embarrassed about the noise they had made, and would continue to make, this evening, yet she couldn’t bring herself to care.

As she caressed Iver’s chest, her fingers traced the lines of rough silver scars.

“Ye handle yerself well in a fight,” she said softly.

“Have ye seen many battles?”

He huffed a dry laugh.

“Aye … too many.”

“How old were ye when ye fought in yer first one?”

He paused then, deep in thought, before replying, “Around fifteen, I believe. My father took me along with him to deal with cattle raiders. I killed my first man that day … and puked my guts out afterward.”

Bonnie winced.

She didn’t blame him.

She imagined a warrior never forgot the first life he took.

“After that, there were a few battles against the Gunns,” Iver continued.

“Not long after I took my father’s seat, I fought alongside Niel Mackay at Sandside Chase. And then, once relations improved with our old enemies, we went into battle against the Sutherlands.” His mouth twisted at that last name, his gaze glinting.

“For a few years there, all I seemed to do was fight.”

Bonnie propped herself up onto one elbow, gazing down into his face once more.

“But no longer?”

He smiled up at her.

“Not for a while. I’ve had the odd skirmish against cattle and sheep rustlers over the years, but it’s been good to enjoy a period of peace.”

“I’m glad,” she replied, and she was.

“I don’t wish to see my husband ride off to battle … and worry if he shall return.”

His mouth quirked once more.

“At least this time, there would be someone waiting for me afterward,” he murmured.

“I remember seeing my friend Breac Mackay, the laird of Balnakeil, greet his wife after our last battle against the Sutherlands. The joy of their reunion was so poignant that I had to look away.” He gave a soft snort then.

“I was so bitter in those days, Bonnie.”

Her chest tightened at this admission.

She’d deliberately not questioned him about his disappointments with women.

She didn’t want to pry into a history that had nothing to do with her.

But all the same, she was curious to learn of what had made him swear off love and marriage.

“Folk can be cruel,” she murmured, memories of her brief liaison with Harris Murdoch resurfacing then.

When he’d left her without a word of goodbye, she’d been bereft.

However, she now felt nothing but relief that things had gone the way they had—Harris didn’t hold a candle to Iver.

“Aye,” he replied. “Although, I was bull-headed and impulsive in my youth.” He gave a rueful shake of his head then.

“And as I’ve already admitted to ye, I had a habit of developing infatuations with women who didn’t want me.”

“Will ye tell me what happened?” she asked softly.

He sighed before nodding.

“The first I fell for was a lass named Eilidh. But it turned out she’d been in love with someone else.” His mouth kicked up into a wry smile then.

“Looking back, she was reluctant from the beginning … but I was willfully blind to it.”

Bonnie winced in sympathy.

“After Eilidh, I was cautious,” Iver went on.

“Nonetheless, I was willfully blind again three years later when I met a lass called Flora.” He pulled a face.

“She too had already lost her heart to another.”

Bonnie’s brow furrowed.

“Who?”

“The local priest. They’d been meeting in secret.” Iver’s features tightened then.

“Flora’s father was furious when he discovered what she’d been up to. He tried to force our union, but I refused to go through with it … as much as I was taken by Flora, I didn’t want an unwilling wife.” He paused there, shaking his head once more.

“Her father, the MacPherson clan-chief, hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“And what happened to Flora?” Bonnie asked.

Something in Iver’s voice warned her that this tale didn’t have a happy ending.

“I heard she took the veil,” Iver replied, meeting her gaze once more.

“If she couldn’t be with her priest, she would have no one. She resides at Iona now, in seclusion.”

Silence followed these words, and a little of the well-being that had wrapped itself around Bonnie following their coupling, like the blanket that covered them, slipped away.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she murmured.

“As was I.” Iver huffed a sigh before reaching up and brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.

“Fate is a cruel mistress.” He paused then.

“So, there ye have it … the embarrassing tales of my past entanglements. There were other disappointments too, but those two were the most galling. I made a right fool of myself on both occasions … and after the mess with Flora, I swore I’d had enough of being the laughingstock of the Highlands. I decided I was better off alone.”

Bonnie held his gaze.

“And yet here we are.”

His smile widened.

“Here we are.” His fingertips traced the line of her jaw and chin before he brushed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip.

“Meeting ye changed my life,” he admitted softly.

“Ye released me from self-imposed exile.”

“I’m glad,” she whispered back.

“Ye are a good man, Iver … and I swear yer heart is in safe hands with me.” She broke off there, suddenly embarrassed.

Neither of them had shared deep feelings yet, and she wondered if she’d said too much.

After all, he wasn’t in love with her.

All the excitement of the day—the wedding, their departure from Stirling, the journey, the brawl, and then their coupling—had clearly addled her wits.

Aye, they were husband and wife now, and there was no denying they shared a strong connection, yet it was still early days between them.

She was worried about ruining things—for she clearly remembered that Harris had departed the day after she’d admitted she was in love with him.

Averting her gaze, Bonnie tried to stem the blush that crept up her neck.

Iver gently caught her under the chin and lifted her face so she met his eye once again.

“That was a fine thing to say, lass,” he murmured.

“Yet ye now appear mortified. What’s wrong?”

Bonnie cleared her throat.

“I’m not used to speaking so candidly with anyone,” she admitted, wishing her cheeks weren’t starting to burn.

“Sometimes I feel that if I say the wrong thing all of this will disappear … that I’ll wake up to discover meeting ye was nothing more than a dream.”

He held her gaze.

“This is real,” he assured her.

“And ye can’t say the wrong thing to me. All I ask is that ye are honest. Tell me yer worries, yer hopes, yer fears, and I shall share mine.”

Butterflies tumbled through Bonnie’s stomach at these words.

His voice had turned husky now; his response was sincere.

She had to remember that Iver wasn’t Harris Murdoch.

He’d wed her, and he was taking her home.