When Ceana woke the next morning, she found the bed beside her empty, and she breathed out a sigh of relief. Last night, something had come over her. She didn’t know what, but she certainly wasn’t acting like herself. A flood of heat pooled in all those naughty places right then and there as she imagined the rise and thrust of Brochan’s body against hers. She pressed her hands to her face, squeezed her legs together, and tried to work out in her mind just how she was going to get out of bed.
Och. The noises she’d made, the way she opened herself up to Brochan, the way she’d taken pleasure and given it in return…
That was not like her to give and receive pleasure, and she wanted to be upset about it, but honestly what was there to be troubled about?
There was Gabriel… The man she was supposed to love. Well, she was not supposed to love him anymore, but there was a part of her heart that still did, and she was certain always would. The man had pried open the iron cage around her heart and given her hope that she could love and be loved in return. For that she would always be grateful to him and remember him with fondness. And besides, it hadn’t been so long since she had believed herself soon to be his wife; that she’d imagined having children with him. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. Which led to the next problem.
Brochan—the man she was married to. The man she’d taken pleasure with. The man her body seemed eager to take pleasure with again. And if she shoved past her own hellish thoughts, she knew that deep down inside of her was a wanton woman who would relish in the idea of pleasuring Brochan all over again. There was a certain glee inside her knowing that he was hers now to do so if she wished.
Aye, indeed. Those were some disconcerting thoughts. Enough that her stomach was wound up into a thousand knots. On the one hand, she felt like she’d betrayed Gabriel somehow. But in truth, they’d never been wed, and the moment she’d said “I do” to Brochan, any bond between the two should have been broken.
Which made her feel guilty in a whole new way, because those feelings should have passed, and yet she was still worried over Gabriel. And also worried over the quick degradation of her morals.
Was a wife supposed to take pleasure in her husband? She thought not. Aye, if it was given, she could accept, but to take it? She’d have to pray on that.
Ceana brushed the hair from her face and blew out a breath, forcing herself upright. She listened to the creak of the bed, the same creaks it had made the night before when they’d rocked on the mattress.
Was this waffling in her brain only because of how incredible Brochan’s lovemaking had been? Was there some sort of pleasure knob in her brain that had suddenly twisted into place—or out of place? Ceana still resisted the notion of being a pawn in the schemes of men, but at least it was with a man she could respect, if she chose to gift him with such. Which she hadn’t yet decided.
With a great sigh, Ceana climbed from bed, brushed her hair, washed with the water in the basin, and dressed.
Today they’d board the ship and she’d be off to Toward Castle. The strangest name for a castle she’d ever heard. What did it mean?
But she didn’t have time to think about it. The door behind her opened and Brochan stepped into the chamber. All the air seemed to suck right out the door behind him, and just looking at him as he took up the expanse of her exit point left her breathless. Her body seemed to recall exactly what had happened the night before and the blood in her veins started to hum with desire. No matter how much she tried to push those vivid memories from her mind, her body needed no mental prompting to react.
She gritted her teeth, pinched the inside of her arm, in hopes of gaining back some control. It barely worked. Maybe she ought to have pinched harder, for Brochan was staring at her as though she’d a goat on her back.
He cleared his throat. “Are ye well?”
“Perfectly.”
He winged a brow at her as if to say he didn’t believe her but continued, for which she was grateful. “The ship is ready to depart. Ye can break your fast in my cabin.”
Ship. All thoughts of lust were quickly gone and replaced with nausea. “Thank ye.” She remained stiff, unmoving.
Brochan gestured to the door. “’Tis time to go.” The wrinkled expression on his face begged her to say why she’d not moved, given his direction to do so.
Rather than have to explain herself, Ceana jerked into action, forcing herself to try and remain at least somewhat normal. But truth be told, she was terrified. She’d never been on a ship before.
Never felt the rocking of the sea beneath her feet. She barely knew how to swim. What if they sunk? She’d get sucked down into the depths of the water below. Ceana lowered her gaze, staring at her heavy skirts, feeling the weight of them all the more as her imagination worked in overtime, gripping her and dragging her deeper and deeper. The weight of her garments made her skin itch and she longed to rip them off. To be able to breathe again. But then she’d be naked, and what was worse, being naked in front of the man she seemed unable to resist, or sinking to the bottom of the sea?
The sea seemed infinitely less intimidating somehow.
Ceana thought back to when she’d been a wee lass, of perhaps seven or eight. How she’d toddled near the loch and fallen in. Luckily, Jamie had been there and fished her out, sputtering. She’d thrown up water for what felt like hours. And ever since then, she’d been cautious about water. It had taken her mother months to get her into the tub to wash. And even now, when she stood over the wooden tub, she stared down into the depths, wholly irrational.
Perhaps she was wrong and being naked would be better.
“What is it?” Brochan asked from behind, closer than she’d expected him to be.
Ceana’s tongue felt thick; her mouth dry. She tried to speak, but no sound came out, and she was embarrassed to show her weakness—especially this sort of weakness, with a man who not only owned a ship, but was supplying several ships to the Bruce’s army.
And she was afraid of water.
If he knew, would he be angry? Would he change his attitude toward her? Would he regret having married her?
Ceana forced a fake laugh and shook her head as though she’d been in a daze. “Just tired is all.”
Brochan eyed her as though he didn’t believe her. And she didn’t blame him; she was lying through her teeth and not very good at it.
He nodded slowly, accepting her lie, perhaps planning to interrogate her about it later. She prayed that didn’t happen, because she’d already had to deal with so much. One more thing was not what she needed.
Recognizing such and knowing that she was her own first line of defense, Ceana managed to sweep past him, every step an effort, and her heart doing a little dance in her chest that made her very light-headed.
Breathe.
Ceana concentrated on slowly inhaling and exhaling the dusty air as she descended the rickety stairs of the tavern and headed out into the dawn. Though the sun had risen, it was barely peeking from behind clouds that lined the horizon silver and orange.
The crisp sea air blew in gusts that whipped her skirts and hair, and while most people found comfort in the salty atmosphere, she her heart pounded harder. Every sting of her hair lashing against her face was a brutal reminder of what she was about to do. How on earth could she have ever considered that being exposed to the man she was married to was worse than the terrifying sea? There was no logic when it came to her fears. It attacked her unbidden, taking over every inch of her body and every last bit of space in her head. Consuming her.
She started to tremble. Curled her fingers hard into her skirts, on the pretense of lifting the hem away from her boots, but in reality, needing to grip onto something tight enough to cease the trembling in her fingers.
Brochan’s hand brushed against the small of her back as he led her. She had the feeling if she dug in her heels, he would simply push her along, dirt and sand building up a great bulge in front of her.
Had he picked up on her hesitation? Was she so obvious?
There was a low rumble from overhead, and the waves crashing on the distant shore sounded as if they were washing right into them. Her vision wavered and she swayed, righting herself and briskly walking two paces ahead before he could say anything to her about it.
“Is it safe to sail in a storm?” Try as she might, her voice still shook slightly.
“Storm?” Brochan looked over head at the clouds.
“Did ye no’ hear the thunder?”
He raised a brow at her. “Nay, lass. Are ye all right?” Her husband’s eyes had narrowed on her now as he studied her, and she felt every inch a fool.
Especially when she heard the thunder again, and it turned out to be a cart rumbling by with a faulty wheel. She swallowed down her embarrassment.
“Aye, fine,” she murmured, then stoically marched toward her fears, for there was no other way. Her legs were as heavy as logs, and her feet were numb. Every step she took experienced like a fall, so that her pace was just a series of inevitable tumbles in which she kept catching herself. Hopefully, she looked a bit more graceful than she felt.
The closer they drew to the docks, the louder the bustle of the quay became. Iron clinked against iron and wood, and gulls squalled. Men shouted orders and waves splashed against the ship’s hull.
The side of ship itself loomed from the darkness of the sea; its body curved like a slatted devious smile. Barnacles peeked out from the bottom between splashes. The wood itself looked aged, dark and gnarly, and she was certain within a breath of rotting. Attached to the mast was a massive flag with a large hand, palm facing out, painted in the center. Her eyes were drawn to the rigging that swung, the iron that clanked, the sleepy, guile of the hull. The ship seemed to beckon her forward at the same time it promised to punish her if she boarded.
“When was it built?” she asked softly, as her husband guided her through the throng of men carrying barrels and chests.
She lifted her skirts, stepping over a pile of something that had spilled from one of the barrels. Wine perhaps. Goodness, what she would do for a cup of that right about now…
“’89 I think.”
So, the death vessel was eight years old or thereabouts. Ceana chewed her lip. She wasn’t a connoisseur of ships, but she was fairly certain they could last for decades with proper care. How old was too old?
“’Tis called the Bàta Làidir.” There was pride in his voice as he spoke.
Ceana turned her face up toward his, a brow raised. “Ye named your ship Strong Ship?”
He chuckled, and the sheepish way in which he tipped his head was almost endearing. “Aye, ’twas my first one, and it seemed appropriate at the time.”
“I should let ye know that I’ll no’ accept a name such as Strong Lad if we have a son.”
Brochan winked at her. “What about Big Lad?”
Ceana rolled her eyes, trying to hide her smile, and then her sparkle faltered altogether. They’d so easily fallen into a comfortable moment, jesting with each other. But she was supposed to hate him. Also concerning, for a few brief seconds, she’d not been scared at all.
They reached the base of the plank, angled up toward the railing of the ship. The wood looked slick and steep. She was certain to fall off, head over heels, landing in the dark, cold depths upside down and with no way of righting herself, while water filled her nose and lungs.
Brochan nudged her forward, but she couldn’t move. Dug in her heels as she’d contemplated doing before.
“Where are the horses?” she asked, stalling for time, and looking around them to see if she could spot her mare.
The only animals in sight were a few stray hounds and cats begging for scraps. Poor Elsa had to be beside herself.
“They’ve already been boarded; they reside under the decks. Your Elsa is in good hands and likely filled with sweet oats.”
“Oh,” she breathed out, relieved to know that he cared at least somewhat for her animal.
“Dinna fash, lass, they’ll be fine. My horses have done it many times, and your mare will already be comforted by the calmness of the others.”
Ceana nodded. “I should probably go and check on her.”
“If that is your desire.”
She was surprised he didn’t try to deny her. When she looked at him out of the side of her eye, she could see he was actually quite concerned—about her.
“Have ye been on a ship afore?” He shifted until he was more in her line of sight, and she was unable to avoid looking at him. “I realize I should have asked ye.”
She shook her head, her throat suddenly dry.
“Ah.” That one sigh from him spoke volumes, as if he suddenly understood all of her reservations.
Which he didn’t. He couldn’t possibly know the extent of her fear. She chanced a glance up at him. Was he disappointed in her?
“’Tis no’ as bad as all that. But ye might get sick. Many do their first time.”
“Sick?” She felt sick already and pressed her hand to her belly, grateful she’d not yet had any breakfast.
“Come along. I think ’tis best ye get acquainted with the ship afore we set sail. Besides, as my wife, ye’ll be expected to know how a ship is run.”
“I will be?” There was no denying the horror in her voice, and even more so the dismay at sounding terrified.
Brochan’s face did not show what he was thinking, which only had her mind whirling. But she barely had a moment to try and think when he took her hand in his and started to tug her up the plank. The wood was as slippery as she’d thought, and weak-feeling beneath her boots, as if it would disintegrate with only the slightest prompting of a boot heel. She started to slide backward, the distance between her and Brochan growing inch by inch, until she was stopped only by his grip on her hand, her arm stretched out to its full length.
“I canna get a good footing,” she murmured.
“I’ll carry ye,” he said.
“Nay!” she shouted, imagining him tossing her over his shoulder and hauling her up onto the ship like the stores they hauled over the railing with them.
One hand gripping his, and her other arm extended, she slid forward one step at a time, until she’d caught up with him.
He smiled at her, but she couldn’t judge what it meant; alas, knowing he was smiling instead of frowning was enough for her. Besides, she needed to concentrate on not dying.
They took the rest of the plank slowly. When they reached the ship, he hopped on the deck first and then placed his hands around her waist. Eyes on hers, he winked, and her feet left the plank as he effortlessly lifted her over the railing. She stiffened, afraid the swift movement would ruffle her skirts enough to show her calves and knees to the men aboard. But just as swiftly as he lifted her, he set her down beside him.
The ship swayed beneath their feet, leaving her increasingly unbalanced. Ceana bit her tongue to keep from yelping. With the next reel, she clutched her husband’s arm, managing to uncurl her fingers from his bulging muscles. Letting go didn’t matter, because Brochan took her hand back in his, and she found the move extremely comforting.
The men on the ship stared at her as though she were a bad omen. Mouths agape in horror, more than a few crossing themselves, and nearly every one of them shaking his head. Her stomach fluttered with nerves. If they thought her to be a bad omen… then perhaps this whole thing was a bad idea.
Nay, not perhaps. For certes.
She was about to ask Brochan how long it would take for them to simply travel by land, when he spoke to his men, loud and clear. “Lady Lamont is aboard. Prepare to set sail.”
There was no going back now. Ceana’s lips went numb from pinching closed. She followed Brochan, or else she’d be dragged up a small flight of wooden stairs and through a door that he had to duck under because of his great height. Though it was not sunny out by any stretch of the imagination, it was even darker in the small chamber, and she squinted as if that would help her see better.
The chamber was small and sparse, but cozy nonetheless, with a framed bed in the corner, a chest at its foot, and a small, round table with four chairs.
Even still, the moment she turned in a circle and came face-to-chest with her husband, she realized again just how enclosed the space was. There was a good chance her heart would stop right then, and she sensed the pounding of his heart within his chest, even as her own beat her ribs. Perhaps intuiting her mindset, Brochan backed up to the door, leaning against it, his arms across his chest. The man’s shoulders were wider than the doorframe, and his head jutted above.
Despite his attempt to give her more room, she felt trapped, for he did cover the door with his sheer presence and power.
“Would ye care for some whisky, lass?”
“A lady doesna drink whisky,” she exclaimed, as heat came to her cheeks. She turned to examine the porthole.
“I’ve known many ladies who partake in a wee dram from time to time.”
She turned back around to see if he was joking. The man looked quite serious. “Are ye jesting with me?”
Her mother had never drunk whisky a day in her life, and Ceana was certain she’d heard her father explain on more than one occasion that it was not a lady’s drink, but for men who wanted to put more hair on their chests.
With that reminder, her gaze scanned toward his torso. “Ye dinna imbibe much, I should think.”
“What does that mean?” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Ye think me no’ manly enough?”
There she went again, speaking out loud. Ceana let out a bubble of a laugh. “I didna mean to say that aloud.”
“But ye did, all the same. Tell me what ye meant.”
Ceana chewed her lower lip, slightly embarrassed at her train of thought. “’Tis just that my da always said whisky put hair on a man’s chest, and well…”
“I’m no’ that hairy.”
“Aye.”
He chuckled. “Guess I’d better drink more, aye?”
She shrugged. “If ’tis your wish to have more.” She waved her hand toward his chest.
“What is your wish?” His blue eyes darkened, and she sensed that he was recalling what had happened between them last night. The way her hands and mouth had roamed so freely on the skin they spoke of at that very moment.
Heat filled her, causing sweat to bead on her brow and down the length of her back. She forgot the fears she harbored a moment before.
“My wish…” She was going to choke on her words. “I think ye’re just fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Better than fine.” Her face felt as though she were holding it over the flames in the hearth, and she was fairly certain if she didn’t splash some cold water on herself right then and there, she might actually ignite.
His gaze slipped to her lips, and she leaned forward before she quickly jerked back.
The heated look of desire he’d been showering her with instantly turned to one of humor.
A bell sounded from somewhere above, and the floor beneath her lurched. Ceana lost her balance, pitching forward, only to find herself in the one spot she’d been trying to avoid—in her husband’s arms.