The Laird Takes a Bride(69)

No. She said, “Yes.”

There was a pause. “Are you sure?”

No. She said, “Yes.”

Another pause. “May I come in?”

No, she wanted to say. She wanted him to go back into his own dressing-room, so that she could flee unseen to the bed and crawl in. Hide. But she summoned a shred of courage, mixed together with a large dollop of misery, swiped at her face with her sleeve (oh, how prim were those ruffles around her wrists), and answered curtly:

“If you wish.”

The door swung open, and in came Alasdair. Fiona did not turn around, but caught bits and pieces of him in her small mirror. Evidently he had on a dark blue dressing-gown, belted around his waist. She supposed she should have been grateful that he hadn’t waltzed in stark naked, but it was a thought without emotion. She laced her fingers together in her lap and locked her eyes upon them. There were ten, there were ten; she tried to focus her mind by actually counting them—

Alasdair stopped behind her. “Have you been crying?”

“No.”

In his silence was a certain skepticism; just as in some mysterious way, the weight of his gaze was a physical sensation upon her, though she hardly knew if she liked it or not. When lightly he ran his hand along the length of her braid, the muscles in her shoulders tightened and she had to force herself to stay still. Stay quiet. Not break away in panic.



“May I?” he said, and in her blind confusion she gave a quick nod.

Then his fingers were gently pulling apart the thick bunches of hair that she’d woven together and hastily tied at the bottom with a ribbon. They moved through her hair without hurry, with a slow, caressing touch.

“Give me your brush,” he said.

“No,” she answered, in an ungracious, grumbling way.

“Please.”

“No.”

“Please, Fiona.”

“Oh, all right,” she snapped, and thrust her brush over her shoulder, still without turning around.

“Thank you.”

Slowly, gently, patiently, he brushed her hair, from the crown of her head down to her waist, with long, easy, rhythmic strokes, as if he had all the time in the world, as if there was nothing better he had to do. As if he would never stop. As if there was no future, no past—only this moment, this very private, quiet moment between the two of them.

Gradually, very gradually, Fiona relaxed. Her shoulders lost their tense hunch. She gave herself up to the steady rhythmic movement of the brush. She breathed in. Breathed out. Easily. Her eyes drifted shut. She wasn’t sleepy, but had somehow slipped into a realm of pure and mindless sensation.

“Beautiful.”

Alasdair’s voice, softly, from behind her.

“Your hair is like silk, lass.”

“My only beauty, so it’s been said,” she murmured.

“That’s nonsense.”

He leaned past her to place the brush back onto her dressing-table, and Fiona’s eyes flew open. Alert again, she watched, repressed a little gasp, as with effortless strength he turned her pretty chair—with her in it—so that she was sitting perpendicular to her dressing-table.

“What are you doing?” she asked nervously.

“This.” He bent down, and lightly touched his lips to hers.

Shocked, dazed, even frightened by this unexpectedly intimate contact between them, Fiona didn’t respond. Her mind was skittering wildly, even as her heart thumped hard within her. Which Fiona was she right now? Oh God, which one?

He pulled away a little, and gravely said:

“Do you not want me to?”

She shrugged, hanging onto her composure for dear life. “You can,” she said, a little raggedly. “If you want to.”

“I do,” he answered with that same gravity. He kissed her again, gently, just to the side of her mouth, and then at the tender pulse-point underneath her chin, and then her cambric-covered shoulder.

Fiona did not resist, but remained very still.

And then—

He sank to his knees before her, and although she was glad to observe that the dark blue sash of his dressing-gown remained firmly belted, the lapels did gap open and she could see quite a bit of his chest, its hard planes, the springy dark hair, so very, very masculine. With my body I thee worship. One of their vows. It was allowed to touch that tempting hardness, but fear held her back. Fear paralyzed her. And then Alasdair reached for her interlaced fingers, took them in his big, warm hands, and turned her palms upward. Although her salve had helped, her wrists were still red, chafed, from the rope that yesterday had bound them.

Alasdair touched his lips to each wrist in turn, gently and deliberately, and Fiona jerked as if an electric current ran through her. His lips were soft and firm all at once, and such was the tenderness of his gesture that she almost felt as if he kissed her body, her self, her soul, entirely and in a way that sparked within her a wild, all-consuming hunger.