A shout arose from the men in the hall as the newlyweds danced together, Fiona lifting her skirts to prance daintily in the familiar steps of the wedding dance that every highland girl learned at an early age. She had never thought to dance it with anyone but Angus Gordon. Then again, her own mother had never danced it at all. How strange, she thought, that both she and her mother loved Gordons but were forced into marriage with other men.

His arm clamped about her waist, and he lifted her up, swinging her about, then back down again. Unable to help herself, Fiona laughed up into his handsome face while the men about them cheered wildly, some leaping onto the floor to join the couple, so that Fiona found herself with several partners. She danced until she could dance no longer, and retired, panting, back to the high board, where a well-trained servant placed a cup of chilled wine into her hand. Her head was spinning.

The atmosphere in the hall was becoming raucous and boisterous.

"Take yer wife to bed," the Lord of the Isles ordered his brother. "The men are rowdy and will become more strident as the night passes."

Nairn took his wife's hand, and they quietly slipped from the hall to find their way back to their apartment. There Nelly was already awaiting them. "Help yer mistress, and then be quickly gone," he told her firmly. "Do not come until ye are sent for in the morning."

Nelly nodded, and he disappeared into his own chamber while she helped Fiona remove her gown and chemise. Fiona sat as Nelly pulled the shoes off her feet and rolled the stockings down her legs and off her. Standing, Nelly drew the silver caul from Fiona's hair. "There's a basin with warm water to wash yerself, lady. God grant ye good rest," she said, and hurried from the chamber.

Fiona walked slowly to the basin and, taking up the cloth, bathed her face and hands. Then she scrubbed her teeth with a bit of pumice and ground mint Nelly had left her, rinsing her mouth afterward with wine and water. Taking up her comb, she drew it slowly through her tresses, smoothing the knots out, making it shine in the firelight. Finally satisfied, she peed in the chamber pot, then made her way to the bed, climbing in and drawing the coverlet over herself. She wore no chemise, for she knew he would simply remove it.

Her heart was beginning to beat a little faster as she waited for her husband. What was the matter with her? She was no virgin to fear coupling with a man. Her idyll with Angus Gordon had been just that, and James Stewart had taken any future she might have had with him out of their hands-and into those of The MacDonald of Nairn.

He was a handsome man, Fiona admitted to herself. He had no end of charm, which he had persisted in working on her. That night by the loch when he had caressed her, touching her so intimately-and she had responded-burned in her memory. How could she claim to love Angus Gordon when she felt the passion in another man's touch? She must not feel any emotions for Colin MacDonald. How could she serve the king if she fell in love with her husband?

He entered her bedchamber saying, "I bathed for ye, sweeting. With soap, too," he told her proudly. "I smell like a damned flower."

"I'll prefer the flower to the stink of the horses," she said, and quickly added, "I didn't know ye were such a fine dancer, my lord. I did not see ye dance at court. The ladies would have loved ye."

"The ladies loved me despite my seeming lack of social graces," he taunted her. "The ladies have always loved me, Fiona mine."

"And they may continue to do so, for I care not a whit," she said wickedly.

He chuckled. She was so prickly, and he liked her that way. He was never certain where he stood with her, and he found it exciting. She did not cling and weep with love over him, although one day he would make her love him, but it would be on Fiona Hay's terms, he knew, not his. She was not a weak woman, and that was to the good. "Come here to me, sweeting," he said. "I have something to show ye." He opened the doors of a cabinet that was set on a side of the room.

Slipping from the bed, Fiona approached him, watching as he swung the two doors open wide. Then she gasped, catching her breath. "What is it?" she whispered, amazed.

" 'Tis called a mirror," he said.

"Nay, 'tis no such thing!" Fiona declared. "Do ye think me a dimwit, my lord? I have seen a mirror before. The queen has one that she held in her hand, and 'twas set in a silver frame. This is not like that! This is big, and surely magic."

He stood before the mirror. "What do ye see, sweeting?" he asked her. "Is it not Colin MacDonald reflected in this glass ye see?"

Fiona peered hard. It was indeed he. "Aye," she said slowly, "but how can this be? The king doesn't have so fine a thing as this surely is."

He laughed heartily. "The king is not a MacDonald," he boasted.

"Is it truly a mirror? It must certainly be the biggest mirror ever." She was awestruck. "Where did it come from?"

"A MacDonald son served a king in a place called Byzantium. When his term of service was over, he told his master that if he would safely transport two of these mirrors home to Scotland for him, the mercenary MacDonald would take them in lieu of coin for his ten years of service. The other of the mirrors is in the lord's apartments." He held out his hand to her. "Come, sweeting, and see how beautiful ye are. The glass will not lie to ye."

Slowly Fiona came to stand before it. For the first time in her entire life she saw all of herself as others saw her. She stared hard at the reflection in the mirror. The warm light from the fire in the hearth and the flickering candles gave her milky skin a pale golden glow. Fascinated, she gazed upon her body, shivering slightly as Colin stepped behind her, his big hands sliding around to cup the globes of her breasts. They nestled in his palms like two doves. She watched, spellbound, as the thumb and forefinger of each hand played with her nipples, pinching them slightly, pulling them out so that they stood hard and pointed. Her head spun slightly, and she realized that she was not breathing. Fiona slowly drew in a deep draught of air to clear her brain. What was happening to her?

"This is our wedding night," he murmured in her ear, "and I would have it be a night ye will not forget." His breath was hot in her ear as his tongue tickled the shell of it.

He turned her about so that their bodies touched. Instinctively Fiona pressed her palms flat against his chest in an effort to hold him off. The heat from the pressure of her hands made him almost dizzy with desire. The contact between their two bodies was heady. He groaned with the pure pleasure.

"Ah!" The sound escaped her before she might stop it. Dear Holy Mother! She must surely have the heart of a whore to be so aroused by this man. Suddenly she wanted to weep, but she forced back her tears. Tears were a luxury she couldn't afford. Then all the anger she had been bottling up these past weeks overcame her, and she began to beat him on his chest and shoulders with her small fists.

"Nah, han, hinny lamb," he murmured, catching those little hands, kissing them, and then pinioning them behind her back with one great paw. With his other hand he began to caress her, stroking her like a pet cat, knowing he could have gone on all night simply touching her, but realizing that until he possessed her completely, she would continue to fight him. "Don't struggle against me, Fiona mine, for you know I mean to have you. You are my wife, sweeting, and I love you."

Damn him! How easily he said those words to her, and he did not have to, simply to take her. Damn him! Why couldn't Angus Gordon have said those words to her? She struggled against Colin MacDonald, swearing at him most colorfully in their native Gaelic tongue, a language that made her maledictions even more threatening.

Another man might have hit her, but The MacDonald of Nairn put a gentle hand over her mouth, admonishing her, "Do you want the entire castle to hear ye, sweeting?"

Fiona bit the hand that covered her mouth. Now it was he who swore, slapping her lightly, his blue eyes finally darkening with anger, and seeing it, she grew still at last. This big man could kill her if he chose, and then where would she be? Certainly no help to the king.

"Hush now, Fiona mine," he said softly, his anger easing. "Listen to me, sweeting, for I don't want to harm you. You see I am a big man in every aspect. I do not want to injure you. You must be still. Let me love you. You will find that I can give you great pleasure, even as you will give me pleasure."

He turned her about again, wrapping a single arm about her torso, drawing her back against his hard body. His hands pushed the mass of her hair aside so he might place kisses upon her neck. The fragrant scent of her newly washed hair excited him further. His hand wandered the length of her, caressing and fondling the soft skin. A single finger insinuated itself between her nether lips, finding with unerring aim the tiny jewel of her sex.

Fiona couldn't look away from the great mirror. She was mesmerized by the sight of this man making love to her. Unable to help herself, she let her head fall back against his shoulder. She sighed as he elicited sweet pleasure from her. She could feel his manhood raging against the flesh of her buttocks, but she could not contain the grinding of her hips into his hot loins.

"You belong to me now, sweeting," he murmured thickly in her ear.

"I belong to no man," she managed to gasp. "I will be owned by neither you nor Angus Gordon. I will not be owned by any man!"

Laughing softly, he kissed her angry mouth.