The Laird Takes a Bride(48)

What if it were Logan above her, upon her, now?

Logan with his deep dark eyes, all agleam, Logan with the bold black hair she loved to toy with, Logan who would say, caressingly, My beautiful one, when we are wed . . .

Between her legs, deeply within her, was hot, hard maleness, rhythmic, and Fiona, yielding without hesitation, allowed memories, fantasies, to flood her mind and body, like a flower blooming with artificial speed and violence. My beautiful one . . . my beautiful Fiona. Here. Touch me here. Her hand, timid, against the fall of his trousers, before retreating. Logan’s clever fingers at the back of her gown. Never had she let him undo the buttons, or lift up her skirts, but oh, with a sweet ache at the core of her, she had wanted him to.

Wanted him.

A hard chest brushed against her breasts, as if snapping her awake, and she opened her eyes to the shock of his face so intimately close to hers.

Alasdair’s face, and no other’s.

Red hair, not black. Those amber eyes were shielded, dark lashes upon his cheeks, upon his countenance was a look of—she puzzled over it. A kind of grave, remote concentration. He reminded her of a statue from Greek antiquity, regal, aloof, untouchable.

But magnificent.

He, Alasdair, was magnificent.

Suddenly she was too frightened—frightened of herself—to keep looking at him, and tried again to put her mind elsewhere, but it was impossible now. Alasdair’s breath had quickened, he moved his body more quickly. Then: his peak, a shudder, he let out his breath on a guttural sigh. Stopped. She felt the warm wetness of his seed as gently he withdrew.

It was over.

They had done their duty.

He lay next to her, and she listened as his breath evened, softened. She pulled the covers up a little higher. Wondered what she should do about the wetness between her legs. She decided to get up later, when he was deeply asleep.

Finally he said, “Thank you.” As he would acknowledge someone who had, in fact, passed the salt cellar.

Fiona was conscious of a welcome flicker of irritation. She’d die before she would say, “Thank you” in return. Or, even worse, “You’re welcome.” Instead she made a soft, vague, neutral sort of noise. It seemed to suffice, for he responded politely:

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” she answered calmly.

“Well then, good night.” And he shifted over to his side of the bed, rolled away with his broad muscled back to her.

“Good night,” she said, her tone just as civil as his. She lay listening to the sound of his breathing. It was but a few moments, she could tell, until he had fallen asleep. A kind of bitter jealousy flared, then subsided into her customary resignation.

She spent a few minutes eyeing the canopy above her. Now she was able to identify the figures. Stags, does, wildcats, foxes, hawks, eagles. It was remarkable embroidery work. Perhaps she’d do some embroidering herself. Not tomorrow, no, for she and Mrs. Allen, who now was helping her, still had many hours of linen inventory ahead. And it was baking day; she wasn’t sure if the starter yeast was as vibrant as she would like. Also, she wanted to . . . Her mind stuttered somehow, and she realized that not tomorrow, but right now, she wanted to know what Alasdair had been thinking above her with his eyes closed.

Had he been picturing some other woman? A lovely, rounded woman, all voluptuous and responsive, shameless and loud? The sort of trollop who’d agree to ride her man like a stallion?

A hot blush came over her, guilt manifesting itself in the blood that rushed to her face, and she was glad, glad, that Alasdair had turned his back to her. Hadn’t she been thinking of Logan, dreamily and treacherously, as she lay beneath her husband, as limp as a little doll?

So what? There’s no harm in it, a part of her cried out defensively, and she pressed cool hands to hot cheeks. It occurred to Fiona that Alasdair hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t even tried to kiss her.

Did she want him to?

Memory, insistent, undeniable, snaked its way into her head.

The empty parlor at Cousin Isobel’s, Isobel conspicuously gone out into the garden. Logan and herself on a sofa, Logan pressing her down upon it. His mouth on hers, soft, wet, his tongue fully within her, probing with such boldness, licking at her teeth, that she felt an excited kind of panic (half-wondering if she would suffocate), felt her knees start to shake as a hot giddy fire seemed to roar through her whole body. Logan laughing softly, obviously aware of her response to him, pulling her bashful hand to where he could display his desire, showing her how to stroke him through the fabric of his trousers. My beautiful one, when we are wed . . .