The Wedding

Chapter 4

Nothing was ever simple with the woman. They were eventually married, but honest to God, it took forever to get from the beginning of the ceremony to the end. His bride was entirely responsible, of course. She became so obviously distraught during the priest's long-winded dissertation on the merits of the holy sacrament of matrimony, she simply couldn't stand still. Connor forced himself to be patient and didn't get the least bit angry, or even disgruntled.

He did get dizzy, though. So did all the others. Two of his men had to close their eyes so they could maintain their balance. Sinclair was in much the same condition, and all because he made the mistake of trying to keep up with the bride.

It all started out simply enough. When the priest instructed the couple to stand side by side and face him, Brenna hurried to obey. She seemed eager to cooperate, and Connor naturally assumed she was in as much of a hurry as he was to get it done.

He really should have known better.

"Laird, if your followers would form a half-circle behind you, they may all be witnesses to this joyful event."

"There, now," he said once the men were where he thought they should be. "Lady Brenna, are you ready to begin?"

"Yes, Father."

The priest smiled. "You look radiant, lass," he whispered. He simply couldn't stop himself from blurting out a bit of praise, but he was quick to catch the men's frowns of disapproval, remembering then that Highlanders were known to be prickly about their women being given any attention by other men, and he realized too late that the peculiarity must also extend to men of the cloth.

He hurried to repair the damage he might have done. "Your bride realizes her good fortune, Laird, and that is why she looks radiant. I meant only to remark upon that fact."

Connor couldn't imagine why the priest had suddenly become so agitated. He nodded just to placate him so he would proceed with his duty of blessing the union.

Sinclair cleared his throat, made the sign of the cross, and then began his sermon on the responsibilities each would accept once they were truly husband and wife.

Brenna started out looking serene and somewhat relaxed with her hands down at her sides. Connor quickly tired of listening to the priest. She hung on to the man's every word. When she started shifting from foot to foot, Connor thought she was as bored as he was. Then she started wringing her hands together, a telltale indication that trouble was coming.

"Lady Brenna, please turn to your laird while you proclaim your vows."

She didn't hesitate in complying with the instruction, but Connor saw the panic in her eyes the second she looked up at him. The color had left her face, and he hoped to God she wouldn't faint before the priest finished.

He waited for her to speak, but after a long minute of silence, he decided he would. He made quick work of the duty with a brisk promise to protect and honor her.

Several of his men grunted their approval.

It didn't take him any time at all. It took her the rest of the evening.

"It's your turn now, lass," the priest coaxed when she remained silent. "You must proclaim your vows. Your hesitation makes me think you might be changing your mind. Could that be true?"

She frantically shook her head. "I mean to marry him, Father. I am searching for just the right words," she explained. "It's important that I get it right."

Those were the last coherent words she spoke for a long, long while. She started pacing while she worried over each and every word she would say. She circled the priest several times, then widened her circle to include all of them. No one was left guessing what she was thinking about, because she spoke each confusing thought out loud as she paced. Connor knew she wasn't aware of what she was doing, and as soon as he gave up watching her, he stopped being dizzy.

Around and around she went, until Sinclair was visibly reeling from turning so she would have his full attention. She explained she, too, meant to protect and honor Connor, just as he had promised her, but unlike the man she was marrying, she felt the need to expound at length upon those two vows with one qualification after another; yet she never quite finished any one thought.

It was apparent she wasn't going to stop until she had it all worked out, and Connor didn't even try to intervene. He relaxed his stance, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes.

The priest thought the laird looked bored, but every once in a while a quick smile would appear on his face, and Sinclair knew Connor had found something amusing in what his bride was saying.

She finally stopped. Connor opened his eyes then, and honest to heaven, he almost laughed out loud. His gentle bride was now standing next to the priest looking quite pleased with herself.

Sinclair seized the opportunity. He latched on to her arm to keep from falling over, but even after the dizziness left him, he didn't let go of her. He meant to keep her from taking another evening stroll.

"Are you finished, lass?" he asked.

"Yes, Father."

Sinclair cast the laird a bewildered look. "Did she get her vows said, then?"

"Would you like me to repeat them, Father?" she asked.

Everyone but Connor shouted no at the same time. She was so startled by their enthusiastic reply, her eyes widened and she took a quick step back.

The priest was the only one who felt the need to apologize. "Do forgive me for raising my voice to you, dear lady. I can't imagine what came over me. I'm certain your laird will answer my question."

Connor wouldn't give her time to protest. He held her gaze steady while he summarized her promises.

"She will honor me, protect me, obey me only when she believes I'm being reasonable-but I shouldn't hold out hope that that day will ever come-try to love me before she's an old woman, and I'd better get it straight in my mind that she will respect me until or unless I do something to prove I'm not worthy, and God save me then. Have I left anything out, Brenna?"

"Nay, Connor," she answered. "You made better sense out of my vows than I did."

The priest paused to mop the sweat from his brow, for the task of getting the couple married had already proven to be a most strenuous undertaking. He then tried to figure out how he could bless them with the bride standing a foot behind him and the groom a good distance ahead of him. He finally gave up on the dilemma, waved his hand about in a wide arc, and ended up blessing everyone.

"You are now man and wife," he announced.

He waited for the resounding cheer to end before suggesting to the laird that he might wish to kiss his bride. He then wondered which one would go to the other. It was the bride's responsibility to go back to her husband's side, of course, but she was still looking quite dazed by it all, and Sinclair doubted she was capable of realizing her duty.

She surprised him, however. She seemed to come to her senses and hurried back to Connor.

The priest was so blissfully relieved the ordeal was finally over and the laird hadn't gotten angry enough to injure the sweet lass's feelings, he added a second blessing just for the two of them.

Connor leaned down to give her a proper kiss and put his hands on her waist to keep her from pulling away from him.

She didn't resist him. In fact, she put her arms around his neck and met him halfway. The look on her face made him think the angels must be smiling, for it was filled with such joy. Was she happy, then? Connor stared into her eyes while he tried to figure out this dramatic turnabout.

She was about to remind him of his duty when he kissed her. She felt the warmth of his mouth on top of hers for the barest of seconds before he lifted his head and told his men they could eat their supper.

The kiss was nice enough for her to want another, and since Connor was still holding on to her, she thought he might feel the same way.

She was mistaken, however. He gave her his full attention for an altogether different reason. "Now it's going to get simple. Isn't that so, Brenna?"

Though she wasn't at all certain what he was asking her, she agreed just to make him happy. "Yes, it will. I'm going to be a good wife, Connor."

He didn't look as if he believed her, but she wasn't offended by his attitude. In time he would realize how fortunate he was to have married her.

"There aren't going to be any more complications, are there?"

"No more complications," she agreed. "Will you try to be a good husband?"

He shrugged an answer. She decided he meant he would and deliberately thanked him so he would know he had just agreed.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"Then we eat."

He finally let go of her. She thanked the priest and invited him to dine with them. Sinclair declined the offer, explaining that because the moon was bright enough, he felt it was his duty to ride to his father's home and spend the night there.

She tried not to feel as though she'd just been abandoned by an old friend. She held her smile, thanked him again, and then stood where she was until he'd taken his leave.

Connor never left her side. She turned to him and, only then, realized she'd taken hold of his hand. She let go immediately and followed him across the clearing.

His men hadn't waited for them. So much for a proper wedding feast, she thought to herself. The Highlanders weren't even sitting down while they ate. They stood in a circle around a jagged boulder, laughing and talking while they enjoyed their food. One of them had placed the supper on a coarse cloth draped over the top of the stone.

It was a dismal affair at best. The second she joined them, a thick silence fell over the group. None of the men would look directly at her either, which only increased her awkwardness.

She felt like a leper. How she wished she could go back home for supper. She pictured her family seated at the great long table, smiling and jesting with one another while they shared their meal. There would be pigeon and fish and perhaps some leftover mutton stew too, and there were always fruit tarts.

Brenna knew she'd soon be wallowing in self-pity if she didn't stop thinking about people she loved and cherished and begin to concentrate on the present. She was hungry, she reminded herself, and if she didn't eat something now, she probably wouldn't get another chance until tomorrow.

Unfortunately, there wasn't much of a variety for her to choose from. There was yellowed cheese, brown bread, and oat cakes. The Highlanders hadn't left any room for her, so she squeezed in between Connor and Quinlan. Her husband hadn't bothered to introduce the rest of the men to her yet. Because she didn't know if it would be considered proper for her to ask their names, she followed their example and didn't speak to any of them. She kept her attention centered on the food and tried not to think about how miserable she felt.

The oat cakes tasted bitter. She wrinkled her nose and took a large drink of water to rid the taste from her mouth, and then, because it would have been unladylike for her to put the remainder back or throw it away, she made herself finish it.

She was so nervous, she took another one before she realized what she was doing. She had to eat the thing, of course, and odd, but the taste did improve considerably, especially when she added a piece of sweetened bread to it.

Brenna didn't notice when the others finished. She ate four large helpings before her hunger was appeased. When she looked up to find out what was going to happen next, she found she had an audience intently watching her.

She was taken aback by their attention… and their smiles. "Is something wrong?"

Quinlan answered with a quick shake of his head. "Would you like the rest of the bread? There's one last oat cake as well. You're welcome to it, mi'lady."

Brenna nodded. "If no one else wants it," she agreed. She took the remaining bread and cake, broke both in half and offered some to Connor first, and after he refused, she offered it to the other soldiers.

Everyone declined. They continued to stare intently at her while she ate the food, and she found she didn't like being the center of attention any more than she appreciated being completely ignored.

"Whom should I thank for this food?" she asked when she'd finished.

No one answered her, but several of the men shrugged indifference. Their grins were beginning to bother her. She felt as though she were the only one not included in some jest.

She thought about telling the men it was damned rude to gawk, but quickly changed her mind. She shouldn't be using words like damn anyway, she reminded herself, or she'd end up with a day's fast as penance. She couldn't think of anything more atrocious.

"Please tell me why you're smiling," she requested.

"You've impressed the men," Connor answered.

"How have I impressed them?" she asked, pleased that Connor had finally spoken to her.

She straightened her shoulders and waited for the compliment. They'd probably noticed how she'd joined right in, and had been impressed with her because she'd tried to become one of them. Perhaps, too, they'd finally realized how polite she was being. Yes, they'd surely noticed her proper behavior.

"You ate more than Quinlan. In fact, you ate more than all the men."

It wasn't the answer she'd expected. Telling a lady she'd eaten more than a soldier wasn't a compliment; it was an insult. Didn't he understand that? "Quinlan and the others must not have been very hungry," she argued in her defense. "Besides, how much I ate shouldn't be impressive… or noticed by anyone."

He smiled. Lord, he was really quite attractive when he wasn't glaring at her. "We think it is."

She could feel herself blushing. She considered lying so they wouldn't think she was a glutton or a pig, then decided to be honest instead. She was going to have to eat with the rude barbarians again and again, after all, and they'd surely notice if she lied now and then ate until she was full at the next meal.

"I didn't eat as much as usual," she finally admitted.

"You sometimes eat more, mi'lady?" a soldier asked.

He looked incredulous. She gave him a reproving look to let him know what she thought of his behavior. " 'Tis the truth I do."

Quinlan was the first to laugh. The others quickly followed his sinful example. Her embarrassment intensified, of course, and she desperately tried to think of a way to turn their attention away from her eating habits.

None of them was ready to change the topic, however.

"Isn't it a fine, spring evening?" she asked.

"Do you eat more when you're nervous?" Quinlan asked.

What an odd question. "No," she answered.

The rude men all laughed again. She waited for them to quiet down before once again trying to change the subject.

"Connor, will you introduce me to your soldiers?"

"They'll introduce themselves."

She already knew Owen and Quinlan by name, of course, and when she looked at the other three warriors, they each told her their names.

Aeden was the thinnest of the group, though he still wouldn't be considered puny by an Englishman's measure, she supposed, and Donald was the name of the soldier with the big brown eyes that reminded her of a doe's.

Giric was the shy one in the group. He could barely look directly at her when he told her his name.

"It's a pleasure to meet all of you," she announced once they'd finished.

"May I ask you a question, mi'lady?" Quinlan said.

"Yes," she answered.

"When you first saw us, you were afraid. Some of us were wondering why."

"Did you think we were going to harm you?" Aeden asked. He added a smile, indicating he found the possibility amusing. "You were praying."

"Yes, I was praying, and yes, I did believe you were going to harm me."

"But after, mi'lady," Owen said. "After you knew we meant you no harm, weren't you still afraid? I wondered why."

Hadn't any of them ever looked in a mirror? Or did they have such luxuries where they lived?

She decided it would be unkind to point out how peculiar they looked, and so she simply shrugged and didn't say anything at all.

None of them wanted to let it go. "Was it our war paint that put you on your guard?" Owen asked.

"I really don't care to answer, for I have no wish to hurt your feelings."

For some reason, her honesty made the men laugh again. She decided to be a bit more blunt then. "However, I will admit it was your war paint that put me on my guard. Yes, it was," she emphasized with a nod. "And your size, and your dress, and your manners, and your intimidating frowns, and the way my father's twelve soldiers cowered to the five of you… Shall I go on?"

She could tell they'd taken her comments as compliments. She really should set them straight, she thought, and explain she hadn't been at all impressed with them-no proper English lady in her right mind would be-but then a fresh worry popped into her head, and she immediately looked at Connor.

"I'm not wearing war paint. You might as well understand that fact right this minute. It's barbaric, Connor, and you cannot expect me to…"

The men's laughter stopped her protest. Connor didn't laugh, of course; the man never laughed as far as she could tell, but he did smile. Her heart noticed by pounding a quick beat. He had beautiful white teeth, all of them did, and she wondered how they could put such ugly paint on their skin and take such good care of their teeth at the same time. They really were a peculiar lot, all right. Would she ever be able to understand them or find her place among them?

"Women aren't given the honor."

She didn't know what he was talking about. "What honor?"

"Paint," he explained. "The tradition belongs to warriors alone."

Connor didn't look as though he was jesting, and so she didn't dare laugh. The effort cost her, though. Her throat ached considerably from the strain of being polite.

"Have you never seen a Highlander before, mi'lady? Do you know anything at all about us?" Giric asked in a whisper. He was blushing to the roots of his freckles and, in his shyness, had directed his question to the ground.

"When I was younger, I thought I knew all about you. I even knew where you lived."

"Where did you think we lived?" Donald asked, smiling over the sparkle he'd noticed in his mistress's eyes.

"Under my bed. You came out only at night, while I was sleeping. I'd always wake up screaming, of course, and run like lightning to my parents' chamber."

She expected the men to laugh over her jest, or at the very least, smile a little. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to understand she was teasing them. Three of them looked confused; the other two looked appalled.

"Did you just insult us?" Owen asked. He sounded as though he couldn't believe such an atrocity was possible.

"No, I was jesting. For heaven's sake, couldn't you tell the difference?"

They all shook their heads. Quinlan had the most difficulty hiding his smile. "It seems your bride has been dreaming about you for years, Laird," he drawled out.

"It would seem so," he agreed.

She didn't even try to hide her exasperation. The effort to have a decent conversation with them was making her head throb, and being polite was a wasted undertaking.

She gave up trying. "Connor, may I be excused?"

She bowed her head to the men and walked away. She had already headed for the lake with her hairbrush, fresh clothing, and her blanket in her arms before Connor got around to giving her permission. She reached the break in the pines, stopped, and then glanced back over her shoulder.

"Quinlan?"

"Yes, mi'lady?"

"They weren't dreams. They were nightmares."

They didn't laugh until she was well out of sight, but the sound of their amusement was loud enough to reach the other side of the lake. She didn't believe the soldiers had finally gotten her jest, though; they appeared to be too slow-witted for that. She assumed Connor had made an atrocious remark about something his men would find humorous, like murder and mayhem. They all seemed to have a twisted sense of humor. She'd come to her opinion when she saw them smiling like heathens after Connor had told them they could kill the English soldiers. And hadn't they pouted like boys when the order was rescinded?

Brenna was immediately nagged by guilt. She knew she shouldn't continue to judge Connor so harshly. Could he help it if he was a barbarian or that he had been raised like a wild animal? No, no, of course he couldn't. Besides, he was her husband now. She was going to be stuck with him for the rest of her life, and shouldn't she at least try to like him?

Did he expect to take her to his bed tonight? She tried to block the frightening possibility as soon as it entered her mind. That was easier said than done, however; Lord help her, she couldn't even think about Connor touching her without shaking in panic. She knew her reaction wasn't at all reasonable. She was a grown woman now, not a child, and, therefore, understood what was expected of her. Her mother had patiently explained that all husbands wanted to bed their wives as soon as the wedding festivities ended. She hadn't given her daughter any specifics though, and while Brenna understood the basics, or at least believed she did, she'd still been left guessing about the finer points. It all sounded horribly awkward and messy to her.

Brenna wouldn't worry about it. If Connor decided to bed her, perhaps God would take pity on her and let her sleep through the ordeal.

She smiled over this fanciful notion while she stripped out of her clothes. She ran into the water before she could change her mind, gritted her teeth against the chill, and hurriedly washed.

Just as she was getting out, she heard someone approach. She moved back into the water, until she was covered to her chin, and waited.

A minute or so later, Connor appeared. A plaid was draped over his arm.

"It's time to get out."

"I would have privacy when I do."

"Why?"

She couldn't believe he needed to ask. "Because I require it."

"You're going to freeze to death. Come out. Now." His hard command didn't leave room for argument.

"I will not get out. I'm not wearing anything. I really must have privacy now."

He pretended not to notice she'd shouted at him. "No one's here," he said.

"You're here, and you're standing right in the moonlight. I cannot come out until you leave."

His bride had dared to shout at him again. He shook his head over her audacity. "Don't raise your voice to me."

He sounded as though he'd run out of patience. She reminded herself she'd vowed to get along and thought that perhaps if she gave him what he wanted, he would naturally reciprocate in kind.

Her lips were getting numb from the frigid water and her teeth were chattering so, she could barely speak at all now. "All right then. I won't shout. Will you please leave now?"

"No."

Her husband obviously didn't understand how to reciprocate. She'd have to explain it all to him later, but not now. Her skin was wrinkling like old prunes, and if she didn't get out soon, she really would freeze to death.

Pride was killing her. "I cannot possibly get out."

"Why? Are you embarrassed?"

He sounded surprised by the possibility. She closed her eyes, said a fast prayer for endurance, then answered, "Of course I'm embarrassed."

"Shyness has no place between us. Do you want me to come in after you?"

"I'll drown you if you do."

The ridiculous threat made him smile. "Will it help if I take my clothes off?"

"No."

She didn't realize he was teasing her, and honest to God, if she shouted at him once more, he thought he just might go in and get her.

"Connor, will you at least turn your back while I get dressed?"

His sigh was strong enough to push her under the water. "You're being very foolish."

She didn't mind his criticism. She got what she wanted, after all. He finally turned around. She hurried up the bank and dried herself with all possible haste. Fearing there wouldn't be enough time before her impatient husband turned around, she didn't bother putting on her chemise but slipped the white cotton gown over her head.

Pink ribbons secured the thin undergown from the bottom of her waist to the top of her chin. Her fingers felt as though they were being pricked by a thousand sharp pins now, making the task terribly awkward, and try as she did, she couldn't get the delicate ribbons properly tied.

She gave up on the task for the moment. The heavy tunic she planned to put over the undergown would sufficiently cover her bare chest. The problem was getting to the thing. She'd draped the garment on a low-hanging branch so it wouldn't get dirty, but she'd have to walk around Connor to get to it. She wasn't about to let him see her in such an indecent state and was forced to ask him to please hand it to her.

He turned around instead. She started backing away from him, thinking only to put a little distance between them, but then she felt herself slipping on the wet slope. She would have fallen flat on her face or plunged back into the water, but Connor saved her from disgracing herself by pulling her back to safety.

If he hadn't looked so disgruntled, she would have thanked him for his assistance.

She pulled her gown tight over her breasts and frowned with disapproval.

"I want you to understand you have nothing to fear from me. My duty is to take care of you, not harm you."

"I don't fear you."

"You just backed away from me," he reminded her dryly. "You were obviously frightened a minute ago."

She shook her head. The ribbon holding her hair up in a lopsided knot near the top of her crown flew into the water, and the thick mass of curls dropped down around her shoulders.

Looking at her in such a disheveled state gave him a sudden rush of pleasure. She was the most provocative creature he'd ever met. A man could get lost in the magic of those big blue eyes of hers and forget all about his duties while he paused to admire the sensual grace in the way she moved.

What the hell was wrong with him? Brenna wasn't casting a spell on him, yet he was acting as though she were. He quickly became irritated. He wasn't about to let her rob him of his discipline, and damn, but she was a bother.

And a temptress. All he wanted to think about was kissing her frown away and making hard, hot love to her.

She would probably die of fright if she had any idea of his thoughts. She couldn't possibly know how alluring she was, or how his body was reacting to her near nakedness. She wouldn't be frowning up at him with such indignation if she realized how close she was to being tossed onto the nearest blanket.

"Stop shaking your head at me," he ordered in a gruff voice.

"I was merely letting you know, most emphatically, that I wasn't frightened. It's just that I didn't expect you to turn around, and I was surprised. Your manners do give me grave concerns."

He smiled. Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Manners aren't important to you?"

"No."

"No? But you should think they're important."

"Why?"

"Why?" she repeated. Her mind went blank. Heaven help her, she couldn't come up with a single reason. The way Connor was looking at her, with such warmth and tenderness in his eyes, made her forget even what they'd been talking about.

She took a step closer to him. "You are a very confusing man," she whispered. "But if I am to keep my sanity, I guess I'll have to try to understand you. You'd better be worth the bother, Connor."

Almost as an afterthought, she said, "You may let go of me now."

He didn't feel like letting go of her, and because he was accustomed to doing exactly what he wanted to do, he ignored her wishes. Her soft skin, as smooth as an angel's and the color of pale gold in the moonlight, felt good against his rough, callused hands.

How had this treasure eluded other men?

"Haven't you ever been courted by other men?"

"I was betrothed to a baron, but he died before I was old enough to marry him. I never actually met the man, or many others for that matter. Father wouldn't allow any men around his daughters, especially Rachel," she explained. "She's the pretty one."

"Did the baron to whom you were pledged die in battle?"

"In bed."

"He died in bed?"

"It was tragic," she snapped. "Not amusing."

"Only an Englishman would die in his bed."

She thought his opinion too ignorant to argue about. "Will you stop squeezing my arms now?"

He lessened his hold. "Are you still feeling embarrassed?"

"Just a little."

"I don't want you to be embarrassed at all. You will stop it now."

She started to laugh before she realized he was perfectly serious. "Do you have any idea how arrogant you sound?"

She didn't wait for him to answer her. "I'm getting cold again. If you'll let go of me, I'll finish getting dressed."

"There isn't any need to dress. We're going to bed."

It wasn't what he said, but how he said it that made her panic.

He reeked with authority and looked as tense as a warrior about to go in for the kill.

She deliberately tried to misunderstand. "Together?"

"Of course."

"Now? You want to go to bed now?"

He really was beginning to hate that word. "Yes, now."

"I'd rather not."

"I'd rather so."

"You might as well know I'm dreading it, Connor. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I must be honest with you. Surely you don't want to force your attentions on an unwilling… Now what are you doing?"

"Putting the MacAlister plaid around you. Will you stop backing away from me every time I reach for you? It's damned irritating. Lift your hair out of my way."

"I'd rather you left me alone."

"You're trying my patience."

Why wouldn't he understand? She tried once again to get through to him.

"Connor, I don't have any experience."

She was sure she didn't need to explain in more detail. Surely he could hear the worry in her voice, see it in her eyes, and feel it in the way she trembled. Any decent, caring man would immediately try to soothe her.

"I do."

"That's it?" she cried out. "I'm supposed to be comforted because you have experience?"

"You want me to comfort you?" He sounded appalled by the very idea.

His reaction didn't sit well with her. Her frustration mounted until she wanted to scream. She took a slow, deep breath, instead, to calm herself.

It didn't help. "Yes, I most certainly do want you to comfort me."

He was afraid she was going to say that. For the first time in a very long while, he was at a loss for words. No other woman had ever made such a strange request of him before. In the past, women had always come to him willingly and offered their bodies, and if he'd been in the mood to accommodate them-which, he had to admit, was most of the time-he'd accepted. He'd been mindful of his responsibility to be gentle with them, of course, and he'd always made certain their enjoyment matched his own. None of them had been virgins, though; he wouldn't have taken them to his bed if they had been, and now that he thought about it, damned near every one of them had been well-versed in the art of pleasuring a man. In fact, they'd usually had more experience than he had.

But they'd all left smiling.

This gentle lady standing before him wasn't at all like other women. She was his bride, the woman who would carry his name and bear his children. He should respect her by doing whatever was required of him to allay her fears. Admittedly, he was completely lacking in experience when it came to meeting the emotional needs of women, but he was certain that, if he put his mind to it, he could draw from past observations.

No, no, he was wrong about that, Connor realized after contemplating the dilemma for a moment. He guessed he'd never taken the time to notice what other men did with their women, not even his brother, Alec.

Now what? He wasn't about to tell her she was out of luck. She'd probably start crying then, and he wouldn't have any idea how to get her to stop. His brother always left the hall whenever his wife wept and returned only after she'd calmed down enough to listen to reason. He wasn't going to follow Alec's example now. He'd never get her bedded if he walked away from her. Hell, she'd think she'd been given a reprieve.

There seemed to be only one way out of this mire. He was going to have to help her get over this foolish worry of hers, no matter how long it took.

He prayed for the unthinkable-understanding. "I have decided to comfort you."

"You have?" She looked thrilled.

"Yes, I have. However, you're going to have to explain this duty to me first so I'll know how to proceed. You may begin."

"This isn't the time for jests."

"I wasn't jesting."

"You're really telling me the truth?"

The scowl on his face told her he didn't like being doubted. She hurried to calm him. "Yes, of course you're telling the truth. You're a laird, for heaven's sake. You wouldn't ever lie."

"Will you get on with it?"

She nodded, but didn't say another word.

"Brenna…"

"I'm thinking about it," she cried. "Your impatience is making me nervous. How to give comfort is rather difficult to explain. I don't want to make a muck of it."

She lapsed into silence again for what seemed like an hour. He couldn't understand what was taking her so long. He hadn't asked her to solve an impossible riddle, for the love of God. Why was she acting as though he had? He honestly didn't know how much longer he was going to be able to stand there without touching her. Couldn't she see what she was doing to him? No, of course she couldn't. She was fully occupied thinking about comfort, of all things. She seemed to have forgotten how to speak. She'd forgotten she was half naked too, but he hadn't. The second she stopped holding her gown together over her chest, the gap in the material widened enough for him to see the gentle swell of her breasts.

It almost killed him to look away. He suddenly realized that if he didn't get her covered up at once, he was going to completely lose his sense of discipline. He would run his fingers down her smooth, enticing skin, gently, of course, and then rip the thin-as-air gown off her.

She sure as hell wouldn't be thinking about comfort then, would she?

Connor quickly wrapped the plaid around her. He draped one long end over her shoulder, spread the material wide to cover her breasts, and secured the wool with the roped belt he'd carried along. The back of his hands deliberately brushed across her bare skin, not once but twice, while he dressed her, and damned if he didn't feel as though he'd been struck by hot lightning.

Covering her up didn't make his primitive urges go away. Now all he wanted to do was tear the plaid and her gown off her.

He stared into the distance instead.

"I'm pleased you're thinking about this."

She certainly gained his full attention with her remark. "You are?"

"Yes."

He gave her a hard look. "Exactly what do you think I'm thinking about?"

"Comfort."

He didn't laugh. She wouldn't understand why he was amused, and God help him, he'd probably tell her.

"You still haven't explained what you want from me."

"When you were younger, didn't your mother…"

"She's dead."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Because she died. What about your father? Didn't he ever comfort you."

"No."

"Why not?"

"He's dead. That's why not."

"Connor, wasn't there anyone you could turn to when you were a little boy?"

He shrugged. "My brother, Alec."

"Did he ever comfort you?"

"Hell, no." He was disgusted by the very idea.

"Wasn't there anyone who cared about you?"

He shrugged. "My stepmother, Euphemia, but she was in no condition to ever comfort me, or her own son, Raen, for that matter. My father's sudden death destroyed her, and she's been in mourning ever since. She cannot even bear to come back to my land. Her pain is still terrible."

"She must have loved your father a great deal."

"Of course she did," he answered impatiently. "Does comforting take long?"

How in heaven's name was she supposed to know the answer to that question?

"I don't think so," she decided. "Some husbands simply pat their wives on their shoulders as they walk past them to let them know they care about their feelings. My father did that very thing all the time, but now that I think about it, I must admit I'm not certain if he was offering my mother comfort or showing her affection."

She lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. Trying to make him understand was turning out to be more complicated than she'd expected. She tried to think of another example to give him. "Perhaps other husbands put their arms around their wives and…"

"Which do you prefer?"

"I beg your pardon?"

He repeated his question in a brisk, will-you-hurry-up tone of voice. "Do you want me to pat you or put my arms around you?" He was hopeless. Comfort needed to come from the heart, and Connor needed to feel it before he showed it. She guessed it was also an acquired art, learned after years of being loved and cared for by family members. And if she weren't so rattled about what was going to happen to her tonight, she probably would be able to explain it all quite nicely.

She couldn't even remember her new name now. "This isn't a lesson in sword fighting. You have to be sincere, spontaneous… and…"

She didn't continue because she couldn't think of anything else to say.

"You really don't have any idea what you're talking about, do you?"

She let out a long sigh. "No, not really."

He wasn't amused. "Then why in God's name have we been standing here?"

"I didn't realize how impatient you were, and I… Now what are you doing?"

"Lifting your hair up from under the plaid."

"Why?"

"I want to."

"Do you always do what you want to do? You do, don't you?"

"You'd be flat on your back now if I always did what I wanted to do."

She quit trying to push his hands away. There really didn't seem to be any reason for her to continue to argue with him anyway. Admittedly, she couldn't stop him from touching her-he was at least twice her size and strength, after all-but she protected the fragments of her pride by pretending she was in control of what was happening to her.

He made quick work of his task, and his hands were surprisingly gentle when he touched the sides of her neck. A shiver of pleasure raced down her back, and though it was a nice sensation, what was even more pleasing and surprising to her was that he corrected what bothered him instead of criticizing her. She had grown up constantly being told what was wrong with her-God only knew, something always did seem to be amiss-then being ordered to correct the flaw. She knew Connor wouldn't be any different. It was only a matter of time before he got the hang of it and fell into the same routine as her parents and brothers and sisters.

Connor wasn't going to wait any longer. He took hold of Brenna's hand and started walking toward the bed he'd prepared. He was a little surprised she didn't fight him now.

"I might as well warn you now that I'm rarely put together," she suddenly blurted out.

"Your appearance doesn't matter to me."

"It doesn't?"

"Of course not."

She thought about that for a moment or two before realizing they were walking back toward camp.

"Where are we going?"

He heard the panic in her voice. God, he hated being patient. Were all virgins this impossible?

"What can I do to end this ridiculous fear of yours?"

"You could start by not snapping at me. It isn't ridiculous."

"Answer me."

"You could say something I might find… pleasant and hopeful about…"

"Mating?"

He thought of a thousand answers to give her, but all of them focused on how he would feel.

"Your hesitation worries me," she whispered.

"It won't kill you."

"It won't kill me? That's it?"

He smiled over the outrage in her voice. "You'll like it. Eventually."

She gave him a look that told him she didn't believe him. She kept walking though, and that was all he cared about at the moment.

"It's messy, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't."

"I doubt I'll like it," she whispered, for they were getting close to where his soldiers had bedded down for the night, and she didn't wish to be overheard. "I do want children, though."

"Exactly how did you plan to get them?"

She ignored the sarcasm in his voice. "Do you want children?"

"Of course. Why do you think I married you?"

"I don't know why. You promised to explain it all after we were wed."

"Later," he promised.

"Any woman could give you children. Why did you choose me?"

They stopped talking and now faced each other in the center of the clearing. She looked around, saw the other soldiers feigning sleep on their blankets, and in the center of the circle of men was an empty bed, fashioned together with yet another plaid.

She was horrified. Did he really expect her to sleep there, in the middle of the others? Yes, of course he did, she realized. Honest to God, he really didn't have any idea about the needs of women, did he?

She couldn't make a scene. His men would hear her if she started ranting at their laird, and that would only embarrass her and make him angry.

What was she going to do? She wasn't about to let him touch her with his men pretending to sleep not five feet away. Yet how could she stop him? Connor didn't look as though he would be reasonable much longer. His stance was rigid, his frown intense, and now that she thought about it, hadn't he already given her enough time to calm her worries? He had wanted to comfort her, or at least had tried to give her what she wanted, and she couldn't even imagine any other man going to such lengths to accommodate her.

The truth made her smile. Good lord, he really had comforted her, and she hadn't even realized it. She sighed. Her husband wasn't such a bad sort, after all.

It wouldn't be right for her to argue with him now. No, she would be diplomatic instead. If she was clever enough, he might not even realize she was getting her way. She reached for his hand just as he was about to take off his boots, and bent down, picked up the blanket from the ground, and then whispered, "Please come with me."

"Now what's wrong?" he demanded in a near bellow.

"Brides always prepare the wedding bed. It's a tradition in England."

She could tell he didn't believe her lie. She walked away before he could stop her, paused once at the edge of the clearing to give him what she hoped was a come-hither smile, and continued on.

Connor didn't move. He stood there with his legs braced apart and his hands on his hips, staring after her, his attention on the gentle sway of her hips as she moved. Then he started counting to ten. When he was finished, he was either going to let the impossible woman leave or go after her and make hard, passionate love to her.

"I've never heard of this tradition."

Quinlan drawled out the remark. The soldier was sitting on the ground with his back against a tree trunk and his arms folded across his chest.

Connor turned his frustration on him. "If you say another word, I swear I'll kill you."

Quinlan ignored the warning. "Don't you think you should go to bed before it's time to get up?"

Connor took a threatening step toward his friend. Quinlan immediately straightened up. "She's only wanting privacy, Connor. That's why she's moving your blankets."

"I realize that," he said. He hadn't realized it, of course, but he wasn't about to admit it to his friend.

He walked away without saying another word and caught up with Brenna near the lake. He wasn't at all amused that they'd come full circle and were now close to where they started.

"Were you planning to prepare our bed in England?"