The Laird Takes a Bride(70)

“You are courageous, Fiona,” he said, looking into her eyes which she knew were wide, wide open.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m afraid.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t harm you.”

“I know you won’t. But I’m still afraid.”

“Why?”

“This is—different—from before.”

“Aye. Different.”

“Why?”

“Our nights together,” he said, “you didn’t enjoy them, did you?”

She hesitated. Then decided, now, to tell the truth. “No.”

“Of course you didn’t. I was not as I should have been. Would you like to try again?”

“Can we?”

“If you wish it, Fiona. The choice is yours.”

“I—I think I do.” Her mind seemed to drift and glide, like a bird dipping over the water, and then something shifted inside her and she said, “I would like to try. Yes.”

“I’d like that also.” He smiled a little. “I’d like to think the marital duty can be more than what we’ve known so far.”

“When you call it ‘the marital duty,’ it’s hard to believe.”

“Point taken. What shall I call it then?”

“Call it what it is.”

“I think sex can be more than what you and I have known so far.”

“That’s better.”

“Good. Are you still afraid, lass?”

“A little. Yes. Or a lot. I’m not sure.”

“You need not fear. All will be well.” He kissed each palm, first one, then the other, his gaze steadily meeting hers, and then there was a sort of pause, almost, she thought dreamily, like that odd shivery stillness before lightning strikes. She waited for him to bring her roughly against him, to press his lips hard on hers, perhaps, to blatantly push his tongue full and heavy into her mouth, to take one of her hands and press it against his shaft.

Just as Logan had.

But Alasdair did nothing of the sort.

Instead he leaned back a little. He curled his hands around her bare ankles, slid them in a caressing stroke—back and forth, back and forth—across the sensitive tops of her feet; slowly, oh so slowly, underneath her nightgown, his hands slid up her calves, to the back of her knees where the skin was yet more sensitive, where his fingers lightly, confidently lingered, as if relishing the feel of her. How warm it made her feel, how languorous and excited all at once, but when, she wondered, would this slow delicious interlude end and his own needs take over? Instead, he only said:

“Do you like this?”

She thought about it. “Yes,” she answered cautiously. But had to add, “Do you?”

“Very much. Why wouldn’t I?”

There were so many reasons, but she picked the most obvious one and blurted it out. “Well, for one, my legs are like sticks.”

“No. They’re soft and strong. Powerful. Beautiful.” He slid his hands higher, around her thighs, and in the very core of her Fiona felt a giddy flutter of pleasure. Oh, it felt good. He felt good.

He said, “Any other concerns?”

“Yes.” She was a little breathless now. “Isn’t this boring for you?”

He laughed. Not mockingly, but softly, kindly. “No.” Then he grasped her hips with that same gentle, deliberate touch, and tugged her forward on her seat, slowly pushing up her voluminous nightgown as if he was unwrapping the nicest, most wonderful gift in the world, exposing all the length of her legs, bunching the fabric up around her waist—but not as before, there was nothing brisk or businesslike about Alasdair now. He drew his fingers up along the soft inside of her thighs and Fiona quivered.

He had used the word beautiful twice. And about her. And he seemed sincere. She wanted to believe that he found her beautiful, wanted to trust his words and the messages conveyed by his caresses.

But trust did not come easily for her. Life—and by this she meant Logan Munro, of course—had taught her that a man could say something, but then do something which contradicted his soft, beguiling words.

Yet . . .

Here before her, on his knees, as a man might genuflect before some higher being, was Alasdair, his hands, like a sorcerer’s, conjuring from out of her cool composure a carnal fire that made the saliva pool in her mouth and her breath come heavily between parted lips.

“Open for me,” he said quietly.

“What—what are you going to do?”

“I’ll show you. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes.”

Fear warred with curiosity.

After several moments ticked by, each and every one an eternity, curiosity won.