Page 70 of To Wed a Wild Scot
Logan thought it was much more likely Juliana would send him back to Scotland alone, but he nodded again. He took Juliana’s hand to help her into the carriage, then climbed in after her and shut the door behind him.
The carriage rolled quietly out of the stable yard, Stokes following them on horseback. They stopped at the Sassy Lassie, where they left Fitz’s carriage and hired another to take them as far as Dalwhinnie.
They didn’t speak much. Juliana’s face gave nothing away, and Logan wondered what she was thinking. Was she worrying about their disastrous wedding night? Grieving over Fiona still? Fretting about her father and Grace? Or was she thinking of their wedding ceremony the previous evening?
Until Juliana arrived at Castle Kinross, Logan had never given his wedding day, or his bride, much thought. Both had always been hazy in his mind—something that would happen with some unknown lady, in a far distant future.
A Scottish lady, that is. He’d have laughed at anyone who told him he’d marry an English heiress in a rushed ceremony without any of the Scottish traditions he’d always assumed would take place on his wedding day.
There were no bagpipes. He and Juliana didn’t exchange rings. The bells at the kirk in Inverness remained silent. There was no dancing, and no brandy-soaked wedding cake. If he hadn’t been wearing the Kinross tartan it could have been any ceremony, taking place anywhere, between any two people.
Logan glanced at Juliana, tucked into a corner of the carriage. The pretty pink color he’d seen this morning hadn’t returned to her cheeks, and she was drooping with exhaustion.
“Try and sleep, Ana,” he murmured, after they’d traveled a half-hour in silence. “It will make the time pass more quickly.”
A wan smile lit her face. “Yes, perhaps I will.” She lapsed back into silence, and it wasn’t long before her head dropped against the window and her eyelids fluttered closed.
Logan didn’t sleep. He sat in his own corner watching her, listening to her deep, even breaths and worrying at a stone he held in his pocket.
He’d carved their names into the stone yesterday afternoon. Even now he didn’t know why he’d bothered, other than it was a Scottish tradition for a wedded couple to have an oathing stone. Juliana wasn’t a traditional Scottish bride, but he’d thought she should have one memento of her wedding day.
He’d intended to give it to her this morning, but then he’d woken up alone. He’d found it in his sporran when he retired to his bedchamber to change for the journey. He’d considered tucking it into a drawer and leaving it behind, but at the last minute he’d snatched it up and dropped it into his coat pocket.
Foolish of him, really. This wasn’t a real marriage, and given the drastic decline in Lord Graystone’s health, it was likely to be over before it began.
But it wasn’t over yet. When they retired to their bedchamber this evening they’d still be husband and wife, yet legally speaking there wasn’t a single reason Logan should ever bother Juliana with his attentions again.
All that fine, pale skin he’d imagined worshipping with his hands and mouth, left untouched, unkissed.
His throat went dry as his gaze moved over her thick, fair hair. He could remember just what it felt like, tangled in his hands. Was the delicate curve of her neck as delicious as her sweet pink lips were? Would she cry out for him, beg him?
He’d dreamed of her standing naked before him, her pale skin flushed, the heavy curtain of her hair tumbling down to her waist. Since she’d come to Castle Kinross he’d spent more than one lonely night in his bedchamber lost in fevered imaginings of her. Even when he hadn’t liked her he’d wanted her, and his need for her had grown deeper with every day that passed.
It had nothing to do with her sensuality, or her beauty. No, it was something else altogether. He couldn’t describe it, but it was the same thing that made her tongue so sharp, her dainty little chin so stubborn. It was the same thing that made her hold her own with the Robertson boys—the same thing that had sent her out onto that tree trunk to rescue Fiona.
A faint smile crossed his lips.Bhig galla, just as Brice had said.
The surprise of her…
Maybe that was all it was. Logan didn’t know. He knew only he wanted her, badly.
But not like this.
He let his head fall back against the squabs. He’d imagined her in his bed over and over again—had imagined taking her, making her his—but in every one of these heated fantasies she’d been in his bed for one reason only: because she desired him as desperately as he desired her.
Not because they had to consummate their marriage to make it legal, or because she was his wife, and it was her duty. He’d never taken a woman to bed for any other reason than she wanted him, and he didn’t want to begin with Juliana.
She was his wife. Hiswife.
Beads of sweat popped out on Logan’s forehead as he thought of how small she was, how fragile her body was compared to his. He was experienced with women, but Juliana wasn’t anything like the hearty, lusty, Scottish lasses he’d bedded.
Still, she was a woman, not a child, and much stronger than she looked.
Wee, but hearty.
He glanced at her again to reassure himself of this, but that turned out to be a mistake. She was lying across the seat now, her folded hands tucked under her cheek, and if anything, she looked even smaller than she had when she’d gotten into the carriage. Her entire body fit easily on the narrow cushion.
Mo Dhia, was she shrinking?
