The Laird Takes a Bride(47)
“Indeed?”
“Yes, the Watsons were there, describing how they’re—but I don’t want to bore you.”
“I’ve heard about the Watsons. Were they speaking of the Buchan humlie?”
“Yes, they’re cross-breeding it with the Angus doddie.”
“Oh yes, at home we’ve been thinking of doing that too. Did you hear anything about the Shorthorn strain?”
“It was the talk of the meet. In fact, I bought a bull from a factor sent up by the Colling brothers. A Sassenach, but he seemed to know his business.”
“Was the bull sired by Young Jock, by any chance?”
“Aye. This one in particular had a very broad chest, and its knees looked very sturdy.”
“Ah, that is excellent. When does it arrive?”
“Next month.” Alasdair paused. Then: “Would you . . .”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to see it?”
“What?”
“Would you like to see the bull when it arrives?”
“Oh. Yes. I would.”
“I’ll let you know, and we can ride out together.”
“Thank you, laird.”
“You’re welcome, madam.”
They stared at each other, and Fiona wondered if her expression was as surprised-looking as was Alasdair’s. Suddenly, abruptly, she wished she had banked the fire so that even its current dim glow was gone.
“Well—” he said. Now he was a little awkward, but polite, careful, businesslike, impersonal. A new transaction was about to happen. Needed to happen; there was nothing to discuss, or argue about. She answered in a calm, steady voice:
“Yes.”
“Speaking of, uh, breeding—”
“Yes.”
“I thought perhaps we ought to—”
“Yes.”
“You are amenable?”
“Yes,” she repeated.
Underneath the warm, cozy covers, he slid a few feet closer, and closer still. “You’re certain, madam?”
“Yes.”
“I gather you have an understanding of what will happen.”
Fiona stared up at the canopy. “Yes.”
“I’ll do my best not to hurt you.”
“Thank you.” For a crazy moment she wanted to laugh. Suddenly they were being polite with each other, and at this juncture! But when he came even closer, all desire to laugh vanished. The bedcovers had slipped down and she could see how densely muscled his shoulders were. How large he was, and why did his body seem to give off so much heat?
“I wonder if you might, uh—”
“Yes?”
“If you would lift your nightgown up? Just to your waist.”
He said it as he would ask someone to pass the salt cellar.
“Certainly.” Still staring at the canopy overhead (though she could not, to save her life, have articulated what those embroidered figures were), Fiona hitched up her nightgown, bunching it around her middle. “It’s done,” she said.
“Thank you.”
Still underneath the covers, Alasdair slid closer—closer—and she could smell the clean scent of him, soap, damp hair, a hint of the stables, ever so faintly pungent. It was a good smell, attractive in her nostrils. Then he was on top of her, and with a pulse of intense awareness she received his warm, heavy weight and just as quickly closed her eyes, plunging into the safety of self-imposed blindness. But she could not ignore the long length of him, hard muscles, the electrifying brush of wiry masculine hair against her bare legs. His knees gently nudging her own apart, her will allowing it, allowing her thighs to part to him.
He moved, gently rocked himself against her, and she could feel his hardening shaft. Far, far past the part of her brain where every vivid new sensation was felt, registered, noted before cataloging another one, she was thankful that he was able to bring himself to this necessary state.
“Are you all right?” His voice, low and deep, polite, so very close to her ear.
“Of course.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Well then.”
She kept her eyes closed, let herself be soft, not taut. She could tell that he braced his arms on either side of her, and she wondered what she should do, if anything, with her own arms held close to her sides. Then his shaft was there, at the very center of her. For a moment her breath stopped. Then his hand was there too, briefly, and back again, wet with his own saliva.
“Ah—” he murmured, as gently he moved, entered into her; paused.
“You needn’t stop,” Fiona said.
“All right.” Alasdair moved again, in short, careful strokes, was in her, within her, there was a brief and momentary discomfort, sharp and then gone, like a thought one had and forgot. Gradually his strokes lengthened, filling her up with him. Fiona was a little surprised, somewhere, at how gracefully her body gave way to his hard largeness, how gracefully he moved above her, but in her blindness still she wanted to turn her mind elsewhere: and into it flashed an image of the soft wee doll Isobel had made for little Sheila, Sheila’s preternaturally wise little voice saying Turn about, lady, turn about, and then to Fiona came a rush of anguished memory: big, tall Logan Munro, an empty parlor, his arms around her, his tongue in her mouth like a hot, wet, insinuating hint of his intentions as he drew her trembling hand down his chest, lower, lower still . . .