The Sinclair Jewels Books One-Three: A Scottish Medieval Romance Series Bundle Read online

  He’d been wrong.

  His bride had touched him with sympathy he hadn’t deserved, and had no one to be angry with but himself.

  Taking another gulp, he watched her on her knees in front of Callan, their arms wrapped around one another. Around them, the Mackenzies seemed to come alive, laughing and calling out toasts to the pair.

  Had Aileen ever held her son with this much love? Did Callan remember his mother sharing affection this way?

  “What?” the boy had yelled, pulling back and staring open-mouthed in Jaimie’s direction. Had no one told him his uncle would be marrying his stepmother? Jaimie sure as hell hadn’t—he avoided the boy as much as humanly possible.

  God Almighty, what a mess.

  The rest of the meal was better, sitting between Callan and Aunt Jean. Both thankfully ignored him, and the clan’s merriment seemed to grow in proportion to his moroseness. Finally, it was time for Agata to retire upstairs to her chambers, which connected to David’s old rooms.

  Where Jaimie was supposed to join her.

  He had muttered a curse and lifted his cup once more—then complained when it was pulled from his hand.

  “Any more of that, lad, and ye’ll be unable to fulfill yer duty.” Jean’s words had been light, but her eyes were hard as she shoved a piece of brown bread into his hands to replace the spirits. “Eat that. Soak up yer drink. And join her.”

  So now he stood in the corridor in front of her door, his lips dry, and his throat parched. He’d decided against bathing, as she’d requested—nay, commanded—him to, because he’d not be ordered around like a child. But after that interminable wedding ceremony, Jaimie found himself headed toward the loch.

  She was as spoiled and demanding as Aileen had been. But instead of punishing her, he was giving her exactly what she wanted.

  Him. Sweeter-smelling and ready to bed his wife, if his cock was any assessment.

  But still not sober.

  Steeling himself, he stepped into her room. There was no crowd of giggling women, thank God. No one to witness an act which would be cold and meaningless.

  Still, seeing her standing there in front of the open window, the breeze causing her robe to sway around her legs, made him hesitate. She really was beautiful, wasn’t she? Not in a soft sense, the way Aileen had been. Agata had honey-colored hair and brown eyes he’d noticed had flashed between sable and gold. But her features were sharp, and she looked more like someone an ancient sculptor would have admired, rather than someone Jaimie would have chosen to warm his bed.

  No, he preferred his women plump and willing to take coin. But this one was his wife now, and it wouldn’t matter, because he wouldn’t have to watch her anyhow.

  Determined to do as she’d commanded, he reached for his belt. Once, long ago, he might’ve worn a weapon beside his knife, but he wasn’t worthy anymore, so disrobing was easy. His kilt was loose and draped over one shoulder by the time he looked up.

  She was staring at him, eyes wide, her hands clutched at her robe. He lifted his chin and one brow in challenge. Had she thought he’d fuck her in the dark? Had she thought he’d wait? To hell with that—he needed a drink badly, needed to get this over with.

  “Well?” he growled.

  To his surprise, she crossed the room to stop before him. She took a deep breath, then lifted her right hand. This close, he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, see the determination and intention in them.

  Which is why, faster than even he’d expected, he caught her wrist before her hand reached his cheek. His ruined fingers wrapped around her tender skin, and she flinched.

  “Donae touch me,” he rasped out, the warning clear. Over the years, he’d met more than a few lassies who’d been fascinated by the cold burns the winter had left him, and he’d told them the same thing. “I donae like to be touched.”

  “Everyone likes to be touched, Jaimie,” she whispered in return, her eyes wide. Despite that flinch, there was no fear in her gaze.

  And that bothered him more than he expected. God, he was thirsty.

  His tongue darted out over his lip, and he wished his throat wasn’t so dry. “Get on the bed.”

  When she turned her head to look at the piece of furniture he’d indicated, the long column of her throat stretched, and he could see the flicker of her pulse in the hollow at the base. The fast rhythm told him she was nervous, but rather than feeling vindicated, he was nigh overwhelmed with the desire to taste her there.

  The desire to pull her into his arms, to press his lips to the honey-cream skin of her neck, to close his hand around one of the perfect breasts he was sure hid beneath that nightrail of hers. He wanted to touch her, to taste her. To feel her all around him.

  His cock went hard behind the drape of his plaid.

  She took a deep breath—he didn’t even bother trying to hide the fact he’d stared at the way her large breasts strained against her chemise—and turned toward the bed. With her back to him, she removed the robe and draped it over the foot of the bed, then turned to sit on the edge. Another deep breath told him she might be nervous as she scooted backward.

  His pulse was pounding under his jaw as he watched, surprised by how quickly his body had jumped at the knowledge of what was coming. In the last years since Aileen’s death, he’d only taken a woman when his hand would no longer do. Even then, he hadn’t bedded the whores.

  Agata was his wife.

  Still, when she’d reached the center of the bed, laid back, and began inching the hemline of her nightrail up, he held up his hand to stop her.

  “Flip over,” he growled.

  Her movements halted, the creamy linen lying against the perfect skin above her knees, and Jaimie felt his cock thrum with the need to feel her there.

  “What?” she croaked out.

  “Flip over,” he repeated, pulling his plaid off his shoulder and tossing it over a nearby chair. “So we can consummate this damned marriage.”

  “Flip…over?” Her brows dipped, but he wasn’t sure if it was anger or confusion. “As in, ye want me on my stomach?”

  He shrugged, and reached under his shirt to stroke himself. “Or on yer knees, with yer arse in the air. I care no’.”

  Now her eyes narrowed, and—God in heaven!—was she a sight when riled. Or maybe it was just because he hadn’t buried his cock in a woman in a long while. He stroked himself again.

  “Nay,” she finally said, and resumed the sweet torture of lifting her chemise. “I think ye do care.”

  “Ye think wrong,” he snapped.

  From her spot on the bed, she merely shrugged, and paused with the linen barely covering her mound. “I’m yer wife, and I’ll no’ be taken like a hound bitch.”

  Had she defied David this way? Did she see Jaimie as a weak man, a man she could order about?

  Maybe she was right.

  He shrugged, pretending he wasn’t bothered. “’Tis for yer own good.”

  So she didn’t have to watch him as he thrust into her. So she didn’t have to pretend not to grimace as she was taken by a monster.

  And maybe she realized that, because her chin came up and she lifted her arse just enough to pull her chemise up all the way. The linen rested against her flat belly, hiding what he knew were her perfect breasts, and framing her round hips.

  She lifted her knees, planted her heels on the bed, and spread her legs.

  Had Jaimie thought this throat dry before? God in heaven, he could barely breathe now.

  His strokes coming swifter as he stepped up beside the bed. Despite what he’d told her about touching him, he ached with the need to put his hands on her, to run his hands along her skin, to have her caress him the way she had in the chapel. He needed to taste her, to smell her musky perfection… but he wouldn’t. He was no longer that man.

  Instead, he tugged at his own cock, his gaze raking her legs and mound, knowing he’d spill as soon as he was sheathed inside. And he’d do it, whether she was staring at his scars or not.
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br />   With a snarl, he wrapped his ruined hands around her ankles and yanked her toward him. The movement spoiled her careful tease with the chemise, and the material ended up bunched up under her breasts. His palms itched to cup them, to fondle them, but he knew her look of revulsion would be one which would cut him deeply, so he didn’t.

  Instead, he met her eyes in challenge. This is what ye wanted, he almost said. Ye could’ve turned over, but now ye’ll have to watch a monster pumping into ye.

  It would serve the little tyrant right.

  He flipped up the end of his shirt, and his cock leapt as the air brushed against it. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t look away. Crudely, he lifted his thumb to his mouth and rasped his tongue along it, wetting it. Before she could guess his intent, he’d reached forward and dragged it through her slit.

  She bucked under him, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the unexpected move or because it felt good. A pang of guilt made him shudder as he remembered the ecstasy he used to bring women to, but he pushed it aside.

  And then, taking a hold of himself once more, he stepped into the circle of her legs and pushed into her.

  She sucked in a breath as her tightness clamped around him. She wasn’t dry, but wasn’t as wet as she should be, and he felt another pang of guilt over that.

  To hell with guilt! This marriage—this bedding!—wasn’t his idea in the first place. With a growl, he grabbed her knees and began working in her.

  The rhythm should’ve comforted him, should’ve soothed him. But the closer he came to release, the more disturbed he became.

  Because she wasn’t reacting. Wasn’t panting in pleasure the way his old lovers had. Wasn’t turning away with her eyes closed on a resigned wince, the way his new lovers did. Nay, she was…she was watching him, her expression curiously blank.

  And aye, the more he thrust into her tightness, the wetter she became, but that wasn’t passion. It wasn’t right.

  Still, he was only a man, and her wetness grasped at his cock as he felt the familiar pressure build at its base. Maybe his rhythm had changed. Maybe his expression did. Either way, when he felt he was close, she did the damnedest thing.

  She smiled at him. As if welcoming him. As if knowing he was just using her body and approved of it.

  And God help him, that knowledge set him over the edge. For the first time since she’d climbed on the bed, he broke eye contact with her, throwing back his head with a wordless bellow of release as he spilled his seed deep inside her.

  It felt…

  It felt good. He rocked against her slickness, made slicker still, and felt his blood thumping against the base of his brain and knew he’d been a complete arse. He panted and stared at the bed’s curtains, trying to drag his body under control. He slumped, his strength giving out at the same moment he’d realized how futile the effort was, and planted his fists on either side of her hips as he tried to calm his breathing.

  He was staring down at her perfect navel, wondering what in the hell had just happened, when he saw her lift her hand. And before he could stop her, before he could utter the obvious lie of not liking to be touched, her fingertips skimmed against the ruined skin of his cheek.

  Jaimie flinched away, but didn’t manage to go far. And it didn’t seem to matter, because she hadn’t intended to touch him there. No, instead, her fingers merely swept across his skin, lifting his hair away from the scar and tucking it behind his ear.

  And once she’d completed such an intimate, tender action, her lips lifted in another sweet smile.

  The shock of it slammed into his chest, knocking him away from her. As he stumbled back, he slid out of her, severing whatever brief connection they might have shared. He staggered away from the bed, his shirt falling to cover him once more, and his hand rising to press against his ruined face as he stared at her with shock.

  Who was this woman, to touch him so?

  More shaken than he could admit, Jaimie fumbled for his plaid, angry at the way his hands trembled as he tried to wrap it.

  Nay! She was just a lass, just a wench in his bed. There was no reason for him to feel so dazed by her… was there? Wife or no, she’d not be bothering him again to do his duty by her.

  He lurched for the door, leaning heavily on it as he turned against his better judgement. She was propped on her elbows, and her expression…

  She looked disappointed.

  He cursed and yanked open the door, unnerved by what she’d done to him.

  I need a drink.

  Chapter Four

  “Did ye miss this?”

  She and Callan were standing on one of the rises overlooking Mackenzie land, the keep at their back and the mountains and valley before them. The boy’s question drew her attention from the stunning view.

  She smiled down at the boy. “Aye,” she admitted. “’Tis impossible not to be awed by this view.” She winked. “But even more, I missed having ye to share it with.”

  At her confession, the boy’s face lit up, and her heart clenched at the sight. She’d missed him so much, missed this so much. Missed being with him, missed sharing what she loved with him.

  And while this might not have been the return she’d long dreamed of, at least they were together once more.

  She couldn’t even regret being married to the boy’s uncle. Jaimie was nothing like David. And even though he appeared, at first meeting, to be a man she never would have chosen for her husband… she couldn’t deny he was compelling. Intriguing.

  Certainly, his drunkenness was unappealing, but even she, who had just met him, could see how hurt he was. Not physically, because his scars had long since healed, but inside. He’d been hurt, and was still hurting.

  And although she didn’t have her sister Pearl’s healing skills, Agata ached to heal him.

  She’d never ran from a challenge, and didn’t intend to now. The man was her husband, and she could see he was so much more than the shell-of-a-human she’d married yesterday.

  “So, when are we coming back out wi’ our paints?”

  She realized she’d been staring at the mountains while she thought about Jaimie, but Callan’s question yanked her back to this sunny hillside.

  “Ye still have yer paints?”

  “Aye, of course,” the boy said factually. “With Father gone, there was nae one to disapprove. I’ve even made a few of my own.”

  Although her lips tugged down at the memory of David’s casual cruelty, Agata forced herself to focus on the pride in the boy’s words. “Really? What pigments have ye used?

  His hand still in hers, Callan shrugged. “Mostly browns, ’cause they’re easiest. I remember how ye had that one from far away.”

  “Burnt sienna from Italy,” she supplied.

  He shrugged. “Aye, but I’ve mainly just been using dirt.”

  “That’s because ye’re brilliant. Burnt sienna is just dirt they’ve cooked and crumbled.” Tugging on his hand, she directed his attention back to the sight before them. “Ye see that mountain to the south?”

  “Aye! That’s where our treasure is, Lady Jean says.”

  Agata chuckled at his interpretation of the Mackenzie saying. “Well, if we had yer paints here, how would ye use yer new color?”

  She watched him examine the view, and loved the way his little mouth pulled down into a frown. He was so serious, this once-stepson of hers, and she loved him for it. Seeing him yesterday had made her heart leap with joy, for he’d grown so much in the months they’d been parted. Although David had been blonde, Callan’s mother had been as dark as Jaimie. Callan’s dark hair and Mackenzie-blue eyes made him look very much like his uncle.

  Callan wasn’t much like David, and she loved him all the more for it. She loved the way he examined everything so thoroughly before making decisions, loved his intense emotions, and loved how thoughtful and sensitive he could be, despite his father’s best efforts to make him hard and unfeeling.

  In the short time she’d been here and been the lad’s
stepmother, she’d done everything possible to encourage his introspection and expression, against David’s wishes.

  Finally, Callen hummed thoughtfully. “’Tis summertime, so the valley is more green than brown. I suppose I could use my pigment wi’ some gray, over there for those rocks.” Using his free hand, he pointed toward the boulders at the base of the mountain.

  She nodded in approval. “And how would we make that gray?”

  “Soot and lead white,” the boy answered promptly.

  Her pride wrenched a laugh from her lips. “Good! Aye, that’s how we do it. What other colors would we need if we painted this scene?”

  Callan nodded toward the mountain. “More gray and blues, but ye donae like to use blue, do ye?”

  She shook her head, agreeing with him. “’Tis too expensive. The azurite has to come all the way from Germany, so it’s easier to use malachite.”

  “But that’s green!”

  She was impressed he remembered. “Aye! But sometimes malachite can be found in shades of blue, as well.”

  Her stomach growled then, reminding her how long they’d been out here enjoying the natural grace of the land. With the sun past its zenith, she and Callan would be missed… especially on today, her first day as the lady of the keep.

  When she tugged gently on his hand, the boy turned almost reluctantly away from the view, and that made her smile. She continued her earlier lecture, in an attempt to distract him.

  “Although I’ve never used it, the most beautiful blue, the pure blue we so often see on the Virgin Mary’s wimple, is made from lapis lazuli.”

  “Lapi…?” The boy attempted the name.

  “Lapis lazuli,” she said again, enunciating the syllables so he could learn the words. “’Tis a beautiful blue stone which comes from a land far to the east and south.”

  “England?”

  Hiding her grin, Agata shook her head, knowing that even with the recent conflicts with England, that country was still very far away in Callan’s mind.

  “Nay, much farther than England. Beyond France and Italy and the empire. ’Tis why it’s so valuable, and why depictions of our Lord’s sainted mother are one of the few allowed to use such a color.”