Mary Wine - Improper Seduction

“As I love you, my lord.”

He frowned at her.

“Do not be cross with me, Curan. I would gladly suffer more humiliation to remain your wife.”

“I will shelter you, Bridget.”

“I am looking forward to it. Yet why is it that you believe a woman should not have to stand up for her husband? It was but one fit that maintained the ego of the man who was set to give me to his hound. One temper tantrum to keep you from having to risk everything you have earned.”

“I would have risked it and more to keep you by my side.” Her husband suddenly lost his stern expression and grinned. “It was quite a fit, sweet Bridget.”

“I love you and care not what others say about me. Let them gossip.”

“You may not love me so greatly when I confess that I cannot stomach the idea of passing the night beneath this roof. I would rather sleep on the road, in stinking mud.”

Relief washed through her, sweeping away the tension and fear that seemed to have been her constant companions. A smile lifted the side of her lips, and she lowered her hands until she might grasp one of his.

“I’ll race you down the hallway …”

He laughed. Full volume that drew curious looks from those they passed. Bridget led the way, but only until they reached the yard. Curan surged past her then, showing her the way to the portion of the stable where their horses were kept. If anyone thought their departure in the late afternoon was odd, they both gave them no time to voice such thoughts. Curan’s men were eager for the road, too, saddling their mounts in quick motions before swinging up into the saddle.

Bridget watched her husband, proud of the way he sat so confidently in command. The crowd lingering in the yard parted when they headed for the gate. Bridget dug her heels into her mare, sending the animal up beside her husband so that they passed out of the curtain wall together.

May they remain so forever.

“Stop it, Curan. I told you, not tonight. I am freezing.”

Her husband grumbled but nuzzled against her neck again. “And I am trying to warm you, wife.”

They lay on the ground, beneath the limbs of an old oak tree. A tarp was tossed across the limbs to provide them shelter, but it did little to cut the chill of the night. Curan suddenly pulled her tighter against his body, inhaling deeply next to her skin.

“I fear to sleep, fear that I will open my eyes to discover that you have never told me you love me.”

His voice was husky and low, as though the darkness gave him the opportunity to say such words, words that no commander might say while his men watched.

“I will tell you again at sunrise and every hour after, if you will look at me with love in your eyes while I declare myself and my love unto you, Curan.”

His warm hand slipped along the side of her cheek as he rose up above her. In spite of the darkness, she saw the faint glitter in his eyes that she had come to cherish so dearly.

“You have my solemn promise, Bridget, along with the promise that I will march an army after you every time I must for I will not live without you. You hold my heart, and I must have it near.” He lowered his head until she felt his breath against her lips. “Have you near, my love.”

He pressed a soft kiss against her mouth, but it traveled straight to her heart, sealing them together. The night was suddenly much warmer, the heat coming from within.

From her heart.

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“Man up, for God’s sake, and drop the damn thing.”

“We’re not sending in nude shots,” Roan replied with an even smile, as the chants and taunts escalated. “So I don’t understand the need to take things to such an extreme—”

“The contest rules state, very clearly, that they’re looking for provocative,” Tessa responded, sounding every bit like a person who’d also been forced into a task she’d rather not have taken on—which she had been.

Sadly, that fact had not brought them closer.

She shifted to another camera she’d mounted on another tripod, he supposed so the angle of the sun was more to her liking. “Okay, lean back against the stone wall, prop one leg, rest that … sword thing of yours—”

“‘Tis a claymore. Belonged to the McAuleys for four centuries. Victorious in battle, ‘tis an icon of our clan.” And heavy as all hell to hoist about.

“Lovely. Prop your icon in front of you, then. I’m fairly certain it will hide what needs hiding.”

His eyebrows lifted at that, but rather than take offense, he merely grinned. “I wouldnae be so certain of it, lassie. We’re a clan known for the size of our … swords.”

“Yippee,” she shot back, clearly unimpressed. “So, drop the plaid, position your … sword, and let’s get on with it. It’s the illusion of baring it all we’re going for here. I’ll make sure to preserve your fragile modesty.”

She was no fun. No fun ‘tall.

“The other guys did it,” she added, resting folded hands on top of the camera. “In fact,” she went on, without even the merest hint of a smile or dry amusement, “they seemed quite happy to accommodate me.”

He couldn’t imagine any man wanting to bare his privates for Miss Vandergriff’s pleasure. Not if he wanted to keep them intact, at any rate.

He was a bit thrown off by his complete inability to charm her. He charmed everyone. It was what he did. He admittedly enjoyed, quite unabashedly, being one of the clan favorites because of his affable, jovial nature. As far as he was concerned, the world would be a much better place if folks could get in touch with their happy parts, and stay there.

He didn’t know much about her, but from what little time they’d spent together that afternoon, he didn’t think Tessa Vandergriff had any happy parts. However, the reason behind her being rather happiness-challenged wasn’t his mystery to solve. She’d been on the island for less than a week. Her stay on Kinloch was as a guest, and therefore temporary. Thank the Lord.

The island faced its fair share of ongoing trials and tribulations, and had the constant challenge of sustaining a fragile economic resource. Despite that, he’d always considered both the McAuley and MacLeod clans as being cheerful, welcoming hosts. But they had enough to deal with without adopting a surly recalcitrant into their midst.

“Well,” he said, smiling broadly the more her scowl deepened. “‘Tis true, the single men of this island have little enough to choose from.” The crowd took a collective breath at that, but his attention was fully on her. Gripping the claymore in one fist, he leaned against the stacked stone wall, well aware of the tableau created by the twin peaks that framed the MacLeod fortress, each of them towering behind him. He braced his legs, folded his arms across his bare chest, sword blade aloft … and looked her straight in the eye as he let a slow, knowing grin slide across his face. “Me, I’m no’ so desperate as all that.”

That got a collective gasp from the crowd. But rather than elicit so much as a snarl from Miss Vandergriff, or perhaps goading her so far as to pack up and walk away—which he’d have admittedly deserved—his words had a rather shocking effect. She smiled. Fully. He hadn’t thought her face capable of arranging itself in such a manner. And so broadly, with such stunning gleam. He was further damned to discover it did things to his own happy parts that she had no business affecting.

“No worries,” she stated, further captivating him with the transformative brilliance of her knowing smile. She gave him a sizzling once-over before easily meeting his eyes again. “You’re not my type.”

That was not how those things usually went for him. He felt … frisked. “Then I’m certain you can be objective enough to find an angle that shows off all my best parts without requiring a blatant, uninspired pose. I understand from Kira that you’re considered to be quite good with that equipment.”