“Are you comfy, honey?” Kurt asked Blaine as they snuggled on the sofa after supper, glasses of wine in hand.

“Very,” Blaine reassured him. “I hope you've written about a daring escape where the McAnders runs off with the fair maid Kurt McBurt.”

“Sorry, no. Blaine marries Rachel. And I should warn you, there's a lot of talk about women's breasts in this chapter.”

“Gross.”

The entertainment lasted long after the wedding supper, and eventually Tina came to remind Rachel that it was time to prepare for the wedding night. As little as Rachel was enjoying the festivities, and as woodenly as she had recited her marriage vows at the church earlier in the day, she was even less anxious to commence fulfilling her marital obligations. Given her druthers, she would sit in her chair forever.

To her relief, her betrothed—now her husband—was not ugly, and he had acted nothing if not scrupulously polite with her, even offering her choice morsels from his own plate which she ate although they tasted like dust on her tongue. Surprisingly, Blaine had not leered at her, as so many men did. He hadn't once glanced at her breasts, despite the fact that her generous cleavage was on display for all to see in the heavy wedding dress. Blaine had also talked to her as if she were a real person, which was atypical of the way that the men she knew treated women. She had heard rumblings that Scottish women were often considered the equal of men, some even acting as Laird. She dismissed this as scurrilous rumor, but a small part of her hoped it was true. If so, it might be the one good thing to come out of this marriage nightmare.

Still, Rachel couldn't expect Blaine to keep his hands to himself forever. After all, he was a man, and now he was her husband. She resigned herself to close her eyes when he bedded her—perhaps for the entirety of her marriage—and pretend that the hands holding her were rougher and bigger.

She had always been imaginative. If she could pretend that Blaine was Finn, she might just manage to get through the night without screaming.

Blaine tried to ignore the way his stomach fell when he saw Tina lead Rachel away from the wedding supper. It would not be long until the men would carry him up to his room where his new wife awaited him. Rachel was beautiful, but the thought of her, with all those breasts, naked in his bed made Blaine a little nauseated.

Why couldn't he have a proper Scottish wife? One with muscular arms and strong legs, rough hands, body hair, and…well, women didn't typically have penises, but Blaine found himself wishing that they did. Short of that, why couldn't it be Elizabeth?

Blaine looked through the crowd until he caught a glimpse of Elizabeth, gracefully dancing a strathspey with a number of the other Scots. Her hair flowed around her as she twirled, and the lamp light reflecting on her face made her look almost masculine. Blaine loved that about her. Soon he would have to retire to the bedchamber and try to produce an heir. If not tonight, it would have to happen eventually.

Perhaps if he closed his eyes and pretended his bride was Elizabeth, maybe he could manage to do the deed. He looked at Elizabeth's small breasts and then pictured his wife's rounder flesh in his mind's eye. He would just have to avoid touching those. Forever.

Blaine shuddered slightly.

It was well after midnight when Blaine entered the bedchamber, carried aloft by his rowdy, and very drunk, countrymen. They cheered when the door was opened, and each jostled the other to get a glimpse of the fair Rachel, who was cowering naked on the bed, covers pulled up high to her chin.

Blaine herded the men back from the door and closed it as quickly as possible, trying to spare his wife their leering looks. Once the door was barred, he turned and caught sight of Rachel huddling under the covers. She looked terrified. Certainly, she looked no more eager to get on with things than he was.

Walking over to the bed, he bent down slightly and blew out the lamp on the bedside table. Then he walked to the other side of the bed and blew out that lamp. Then he removed his sword, jacket, and hose until he was standing just in his smallclothes, backlit by the fire roaring in the fireplace. He would have sworn that his wife didn't breathe at all while he was undressing.

Striding back to the bed, he reached out and grabbed a tartan from among the many blankets now covering Rachel. Wrapping it around himself, he moved back to the fireplace, lay down on the floor, and pulled the top of the plaid over his head.

Blaine was nearly asleep before he heard his wife say, “My Lord?”

“I assume you mean me, my Lady.”

“Are you not meaning to sleep with me this night?”

“If you are asking if I plan to lay with you, then the answer is no. I fear you may be even less eager to do that than I am, and until we get to know each other better, perhaps we would both be happier to wait. If you are asking if I plan to sleep, then yes, I do plan to do so. Tomorrow we travel back to my lands, and it will be a long day.”

“But don't you want to be in the bed? Surely the floor is hard and cold.”

Blaine laughed. “You've a proper Scotsman for a husband now. Believe me, I've slept rougher.” In truth, Blaine had very little use for beds, and the thick rug on which he lay now, wrapped in his tartan, was far more comfortable than the many times he had slept in the forest with only rocks for a pallet. He wondered how Rachel would adjust to the harsher life in Scotland. Not well, he supposed.

“Do you not find me…appealing?”

Blaine realized suddenly that he had bruised his beautiful wife's ego. She didn't want to sleep with him, but she wanted him to want to sleep with her. It was irrational, but Blaine was sensitive enough to understand it. He felt bad, and he tried to make amends, “My lady, I would be blind to not notice your beauty. You are by far, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Are you disappointed that I have not yet bedded you?”

Rachel did not answer for a long time, and when she did, her voice was so low that Blaine could barely hear it. “No. I am relieved.”

Now it was Blaine's turn to feel a little rejected, so he asked a question, “Are you so reviled by being married to a Scot?”

Rachel laughed bitterly, “No. You could be an Englishman, and it would be the same.”

“Have you no use for men, then?”

“Not for most men, no.”

“Then there are some?”

Rachel did not respond, and Blaine began to put it together in his mind. He got up off the floor and went to the bed, where he perched on the side. He reached for Rachel's hand, and she flinched, but she did not draw away. “My wife,” he began, “is there one to which you wish you were wed, instead? You can speak true; I won't hold it against you.”

Rachel looked at Blaine for a long time, and then she looked at her hand, clutched in his. Then she nodded. “Yes, there is one, but it could never be. I know my place, and it is now with you.”

Blaine leaned forward and kissed Rachel on the cheek. “Sleep well, my wife,” he said simply. Then he rose from the bed, returned to his place in front of the fireplace and wrapped his tartan more firmly around him.

As he thought about it, he realized that his wife looked rather like him. Any child she was likely to have would, therefore, look like Blaine. Whether it was his or not.

Blaine was smiling when he fell asleep.

“I was so scared you were going to make me sleep with her,” Blaine called from the kitchen where he was washing their wine glasses.

“It was bad enough I had to watch you try to suck her face off when we were in high school. I don't even want to think about you putting your penis...there. Ewwwe.”

Kurt walked into the kitchen and picked up a dishcloth. Then he began drying the glasses and putting them away. Blaine went to where Kurt was reaching up into a cabinet. He wrapped his arms around Kurt, pressed his chest against Kurt's back and kissed him on the neck. Kurt's head fell back onto Blaine's shoulder.

“Let's go to bed,” Blaine suggested, “And I'll show you what Blaine MacAnders does to the fair Elizabeth.”

“The fair Elizabeth and her heaving breasts will join you, just as soon as she moisturizes.”

“Puh-leez don't mention breasts,” Blaine groaned.