Free Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) by Glynnis Campbell, Sarah McKerrigan

moment to break through the clouds, casting a vivid rainbow across the sky.
    “‘Tis a sign, my lady,” someone said.  “Your marriage must be truly blessed.”
    Deirdre stared bleakly across the courtyard.  Blessed?  Never in her life had she felt more cursed.

    Pagan took a deep sobering breath, filling his nostrils with the rain-pure air, as he carried his new-made wife across the soggy ground, several steps closer to the bedchamber they’d share this night.  Deirdre smelled of damp wool and earth and anger, but it was a scent that nonetheless aroused him.  Her body felt strong and willful in his arms, like spirited prey, but that, too, filled his veins with thrilling heat.  Indeed, he feared the fierce throbbing between his legs, undisguised by his usual braies, lent conspicuous evidence to his lust.
    By the Rood, what was wrong with him?  He’d dreaded this moment half the night and all morn, dreaded the thought of the wedding feast with Miriel by his side, where the clan would doubtless taunt the subjugated groom and his unwilling bride, dreaded even the marriage bed, where he knew he’d face a virgin’s fears and tears and regret.
    But the instant he’d seen the figure mincing toward him across the wet sward, bundled heavily enough for a hailstorm, he'd suspected foul play.  And when his eye caught the soft glint of a silver Thor’s hammer beneath her cloak, he knew who had come to be his bride.  Then, to his chagrin, his apprehension dissolved away like butter on warm bread, and his heart began to pound with the exhilaration of battle.
    If she thought her deception would embarrass him, she was wrong.  He’d never claimed to perceive a difference between one sister and the next.  Nor did it matter.  If she thought it would invalidate the marriage contract, she was wrong there, too.  He was pledged to marry “a daughter of Rivenloch,” no more, no less.  And if she thought that once she revealed herself, he’d refuse her hand, she was very, very wrong.
    And so all through the ceremony, he’d been distracted by delicious visions of his lusty retaliation.  For now, through her own devices, Deirdre would be his.
    In every way.
    Forever.
    His loins tightened as he imagined her whimpering for mercy while he seduced her, imprisoning her hands in one fist and stripping away her garments, inch by tantalizing inch, envisioned the sweet horror in her eyes as he whispered lurid eventualities in her ear, foresaw her hungry anticipation as he let his fingers roam over her gentle curves, stroking, tormenting, invading...
    Bloody hell!  Maybe he’d misjudged his command of his own wits.  His heart beat far too forcefully.  His breath came too shallow.  His body ached with yearning.  He wanted Deirdre...now.
    As soon as they crossed the threshold of the great hall, Pagan glanced toward the steps leading up to her bedchamber, weighing the moral consequences of foregoing the feast to bear her hence and claim his husbandly rights at once.
    It was Colin who saved him from his unruly passions.
    “Pagan!” he barked jovially, clapping him twice on the shoulder, hard enough to jar him from death.  “Let your bride go and make herself ready for the feast.  Come have a cup with me by the fire, and we’ll toast your marriage.”
    That idea apparently appealed to everyone.  They cheered and began milling into the great hall, and Deirdre struggled to be free of him.  But Pagan hesitated, unwilling to let her out of his arms or his sight.
    “She’ll cause no trouble,” Colin murmured in assurance, then raised his brows at Deirdre.  “You’ll cause no trouble, will you, lass?  After all, ‘twill be but you and Pagan in the bedchamber this night.  You and Pagan.  Alone.”
    Again, she astonished Pagan.  Instead of shuddering in fear, she gave Colin a grim smile.  “Then he’d better watch his back.”
    Colin chuckled in surprise.  “Well said!  But I think you’re too wise for that sort of