The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [95]
He would simply have to trust himself. As his brother Ryder always said, “If a man can make a woman laugh, she is his.”
Laughter. How the devil did a man make a woman laugh when the man couldn’t think beyond those raw, very urgent surges in his groin?
He came back into the bedchamber. Mary Rose was lying in the middle of the bed, propped up on pillows, the covers to her chin. He smiled at her. He went methodically about the room, pinching out the myriad candles. When there was only a single candle lit near the huge bed, he moved away into the shadows and undressed. He pulled his nightshirt over his head. He came to a halt beside the bed.
“I’m not wearing one of your nightshirts,” she said. “I think you look better in it than I do.”
He pulled back the blankets and came in beside her. He said, looking down at her beloved face, “Do you know we had never even seen each other before a very short time ago?”
Mary Rose pulled her hand out from beneath the mound of blankets and lightly touched her fingers to his face. “Yes, and it both frightens me and makes me believe devoutly that God had very good plans for me. You’re quite wonderful, Tysen.”
Her words stirred inside him, moved him, and he said, “I don’t want you to think that I married you simply because of my honor, because I want to protect you, save you from the machinations of your wretched uncle and Erickson MacPhail. I am very fond of you, Mary Rose. I am very glad that you are now my wife.” He looked away from her a moment, then said, “And we are man and wife now. Or vicar and wife, if you would prefer.” That was an attempt at humor, but it didn’t yield anything except perhaps a tiny smile.
“I can barely see you, Tysen.”
“Well, one doesn’t have intimate relations in full daylight,” he said, although he imagined that his brothers even had intimate relations in the gardens, beneath the oak trees. But he never had. He’d always believed that a wife was precious and should be protected from a man’s lust, her modesty never to be violated. “I don’t wish to shock you or embarrass you,” he said, his voice austere.
“Thank you,” she said, but there was something odd in her voice that he didn’t understand, and he said quickly, “Please don’t be frightened of me. I might not be much good at any of this, but I wish to try. I’m going to kiss you now, Mary Rose, kiss you until I’ve gotten all the way to that crooked toe of yours, and I will kiss it as well.”
She grinned. Aha, nearly a laugh. “All right,” she said, and closed her arms around his neck.
“You taste like strawberries,” he said, “and your hair is as soft as my mare’s mane.”
She giggled when he at last touched her breast. Then she jumped. He closed his eyes a moment, wondering what to do. He knew he was in a bad way, and that surprised him, but it didn’t matter. He said, “I want you to hold still, and I will try not to hurt you.”
He eased her nightgown up, felt her soft flesh, and prayed fervently that she was ready for him, that he wouldn’t hurt her too much. She didn’t pull away, did nothing to escape him. And her kisses had been so very enthusiastic. He had to control himself. So very long, he thought, so very long since he had been with a woman, and that woman had been his first wife. He regretted that in his inexperience he might hurt Mary Rose, that he might deny her pleasure. Then he realized he could only do his best. He could, as a matter of fact, do exactly what he wanted to do, and surely that wouldn’t be bad. He was a Sherbrooke male, after all.
He gritted his teeth, knowing the moment was upon him, and came inside her, pushing slowly, his blood pounding through his body, nearly splitting him apart with lust, but his determination not to hurt her was profound. He was a man, not the boy who had mauled Melinda Beatrice. He moved very slowly indeed. He stopped. “Mary Rose?”
She was looking at him, but she wasn’t smiling now, ready to kiss every bit of his face, ready