Page 68 of To Wed a Wild Scot
There was pain—ripping, wrenching, stinging pain, so acute she lost her breath for a moment. Logan made a tortured sound, hot, sticky warmth gushed between her legs, and then…
It was over.
They didn’t speak afterwards. He didn’t leave her, but it was as if an invisible line had been drawn down the center of the bed. Logan kept to his side, and she kept to hers. She wanted to say something to him, but she was too busy struggling with her own discomfort to think of a word to say to ease his.
How had things gone so wrong?
She’d been nervous, yes. That was to be expected. But Logan had been nervous as well, and shehadn’texpected that. Surely, he’d had dozens of women before? He was strong, handsome, and irresistible when he smiled, but he’d been so hesitant, almost as if he were afraid to touch her. Somehow, they’d gone from those sweet, drugging kisses to painful self-consciousness, and then, that bit at the very end…
Juliana wasn’t so innocent she hadn’t known it would be painful.
Forher, that is.
She hadn’t thought it would be painful forhim, but there’d been no mistaking his look of anguish when he jerked away from her. And then there’d been so much blood. Even now she could feel it coating her thighs.
But for better or worse, it was done. They’d consummated the marriage, and now she could put the entire business out of her mind. But even as she tried to reassure herself, Juliana knew there was no puttingthatout of her mind. There was no looking her husband in the eye now, either.
She lay awake all night, listening to him breathing. Part of her wanted him to try and make love to her again, but he didn’t.
He remained on his side of the bed, and she remained on hers, staring up at the massive carved canopy above her, wondering where they’d go from here.
Chapter Seventeen
The room was dark when Logan woke the next morning. He reached out a cautious hand, expecting his palm to meet warm flesh, but Juliana’s side of the bed was empty.
He came fully awake with a start. Memories of the night before assaulted him, and he dragged his hands down his face with a groan. Jesus. He couldn’t have made more of a mess of things if he’d tried.
It was early still—so early the servant hadn’t yet appeared to tend to the fire. He threw the covers back, swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to the window, snatching the drapes aside. Just enough light spilled in for Logan to see the bedclothes on Juliana’s side of the bed had been neatly arranged, and her pillow plumped and smoothed.
But there was no sign of Juliana. He padded out into the other room in his bare feet, hoping to find her there, but the room was empty.
His wife was gone.
The house was dark and still, the sun had yet to peek over the horizon, and his wife was nowhere in sight. Logan wandered back to the bed and sank down onto the edge of it, uncertain what to do.
Where the devil could she have gone?
She’s likely halfway to Surrey by now…
A chill washed over Logan as memories of their wedding night came crashing down on him. Her green eyes, wide and anxious, staring up at him as he hovered over her. The startled cry that left her lips when he’d pushed inside.
He shuddered.Mo Dhia. It had been an utter disaster.
He let his forehead drop into his hands. How could he have made such a mess of it? It wasn’t as if he’d never had a woman before. He wasn’t a debaucher, but he also wasn’t a saint. He knew how to give a woman pleasure. Up until last night he’d flattered himself he was a skilled lover.
But he’d never taken a woman’s innocence before, and Juliana wasn’t just any woman. She was his wife.
His wee, dainty, delicate wife.
And he was a huge beast of a man, big and rough and clumsy…
Logan hissed out a curse. Now the marriage had been consummated, he doubted she’d ever let him near her again. She’d probably fled their bed the moment he’d fallen asleep, and crept back to her own bedchamber. Even now she was likely there, her cheek resting on her tear-stained pillow, having nightmares about the lecherous fiend she’d married.
Logan’s jaw tightened. Damn it, he wouldn’t have his own wife afraid of him. He rose from the bed, tugged on a shirt, a pair of breeches, and his boots, and made his way into the hallway and down the stairs, muttering to himself all the while.
Won’t have her hiding from me…fetch her back to my bedchamber…won’t lay another finger on her unless she asks…
“I beg yer pardon, sir!”
