Margaret Mallory - The Guardian

“You’re my wife,” Ian said. “That means I can have my way with ye.”

“So I’m your wife now, am I? Ye didn’t think so before.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts, and his throat went dry.

“I… I’ve decided to accept the situation,” he said, his eyes and thoughts on her breasts. The skin of his palms tingled with the memory of the feel of them in his hands. “I’m ready to take ye for my wife now. Quite ready.”

“Are ye now? And what has made ye come to this decision after all this time?”

She was tapping her foot, not a good sign. Ach, Sìl even had pretty ankles…

“Ian!” she said to get his attention. “I asked what made ye decide ye wanted to be married to me. I thought I ‘disgusted’ ye.”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and gave her a slow look up and down.

“Ye don’t disgust me now,” he said, his voice thick. “And I don’t disgust you either, judging from the way ye were kissing me.” He couldn’t help grinning when he said it, which was probably a mistake.

“I was asleep!” She had her hands on her hips now, and her foot was tapping furiously.

“Maybe ye were at first,” he said, finding he was enjoying teasing her, “but I don’t believe ye were sleeping when ye kissed me back.”

“I thought I was dreaming,” she snapped. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“For not knowing, ye were doing fine,” he said, grinning at her. “Verra fine indeed.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked prettier still. He grabbed a handful of her voluminous nightshift and pulled her closer.

“I know ye heard me say some unfortunate words about ye before I left, and I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. But I find ye appealing now.” He dropped his gaze to the lovely, rounded breasts just inches from his face. “Verra appealing.”

When he looked up, her eyes were boring holes into him. He couldn’t think for the life of him what he was saying wrong now. What woman didn’t like to hear a compliment?

“What you’re saying is that ye want to take me to bed,” she said.

“Absolutely,” he said.

“And that’s the reason ye want to be my husband.”

“It’s one of the reasons,” he said, speaking carefully now. “I’ve also seen all you’ve done for my family, and how attached they are to ye. My mother is very fond of ye.”

“So ye want to keep me because your mother is fond of me,” she said. “That would be a rare comfort to any woman.”

The conversation had somehow gone awry. The problem was that there was too much conversation altogether. If he could just get her into bed again, he could make her forget whatever nonsense she was fussing about.

He stood up and pulled her against him.

“I am sorry if I can’t find the right words, but ye feel so good,” he murmured against her hair, “and ye smell so good, I cannot think.”

She gasped when he cupped her breast. Finally, she seemed at a loss for words.

“We are going to bed eventually, Sìl,” he said against her ear. “Don’t make me wait. I want ye badly.”

She shoved him away. “There’s nothing special about wanting to take me to bed, Ian MacDonald.” Flinging her arm to the side, she said, “Half the men in the clan could say that. At least, I don’t think many would refuse if I made the offer.”

Blood pounded in his ears. “If ye offered? If ye offered!”

“Ye wanting me in bed is not a good enough reason for me.” She stomped across the room. At the door, she turned and shouted over her shoulder, “You’re not good enough for me.”

She slammed the door so hard her pretty rocks on the windowsill bounced.

He was more than a wee bit annoyed himself. If she offered. How could she say such a thing?

He grabbed his shirt from the floor, pulled it over his head as he crossed the room in three long strides, and took off after her down the stairs. “You are the one who wanted to be married to me in the first place. Ye can’t deny it.”

“Just stay away from me,” she shouted back. “Or I swear, I’ll stick a dirk in ye.”

“You planned the whole thing because ye wanted to be away from your step-da,” he bellowed, as he followed her through the hall and into the kitchen. “And I wasn’t supposed to have any say over it, was I? Everyone would get what they wanted—but me.”

They were in the kitchen now, with the worktable between them. When he reached around the side to get a hold of her nightshift, she grabbed a skillet from the table and swung it at his head.

“Now that I want ye to be a true wife, ye change your mind,” he shouted. “Just what did ye think you were getting into? Did ye no expect a husband to want ye in his bed?”

“Perhaps I did expect it—a year ago. Or a month ago,” she shouted back. “Or a few days ago, when ye finally decided to bless us with your presence.”

“I am prepared to be your husband now,” Ian said, gritting his teeth.

“Oh, thank ye.” She rolled her eyes and patted her chest. “My heart is all aflutter over it.”

“You picked me, and like it or no, I am your husband,” he said. “And I don’t want to ever again hear my wife talking about other men and what they’d do if ye offered .”

That was when she caught him on the side of the head with the skillet.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, ye hit me!” He doubled over holding his head. It hurt like hell.

Sìleas looked as shocked by what she’d done as he was. He decided that if she were in a forgiving mood, so was he.

“Come, lass, this is no way to start our married life.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said in a shaky voice.

He noticed that she had a kitchen knife in her other hand now and reached for it. “Put the blade down, Sìl, and come to bed.”

That was when she hit him the second time.

He woke up on the floor with Sìleas standing over him, the kitchen blade still in her hand. Judging from the fire in her eyes, she was debating just where to stick it into him.

“I think you’re safe from the beast without having to use my best kitchen knife on him.”

At the sound of his mother’s voice, Ian risked taking his eyes off Sìleas long enough to see his mother standing in the doorway in her nightshift and cap. Her long, black and gray braid hung over her shoulder, and her hands were planted on her hips.

Ian rolled out of the way as the knife fell from Sìleas’s hand, and it clattered to the floor where he had been lying. Sìleas opened her mouth as if she were trying to form a reply to his mother, then she clamped her hand over her mouth and ran from the room.

“Thanks, mam,” Ian said as he got to his feet. He shook his head, trying to get his bearings and make sense of what just happened. One minute, he was kissing Sìleas in bed, and the next she was trying to kill him.

“And just what did ye think ye were doing?” his mother asked.

“Me?” he asked, thumping his chest. “Sìleas was the one attempting to murder me in your kitchen.”

“Ach, even half drunk as ye are, I expect ye could get away from a wee lass like Sìleas.” His mother waved a dismissive hand. “Now, are ye going to tell me how it is that sweet lass was chasing ye around the kitchen with a knife?”

“This is no something I’m going to discuss with my mother.” He picked the knife and skillet up from the floor and banged them on the table.

Niall appeared in the doorway behind his mother. “What’s he done to Sìleas? If he’s hurt her, I’ll kill him.”

Ian sighed and picked up the skillet again, in case he needed to defend himself.

“This is none of your business,” his mother said in a sharp voice. “Go back to bed. I’ll deal with Ian.”