Goodness, she hadn’t thought of Logan Munro at all. Before, in those brief mechanical interludes with Alasdair, she’d allowed seductive memories to dance across her mind. But tonight, Alasdair had filled her senses, richly, completely. Filled her. Nothing that had ever happened between herself and Logan—the stolen kisses, the secretive caresses—could compare with making love with Alasdair.
A little voice, solemn, oracular:
You stare at the moon, ever changing. Turn about, lady, turn about.
Fiona suddenly remembered that evening in the Great Drawing-room some weeks back, when, unguardedly, she’d compared Alasdair to the sun.
Another memory superimposed itself, one she hadn’t thought of in a long time. A few weeks before she had left home on that fateful journey to Edinburgh at eighteen, to visit Cousin Isobel, an eclipse had come upon Wick Bay. She’d been riding with Father to visit one of their tenant farmers, whose sow had just given birth to an astonishing nineteen piglets, when the sky had begun turning to a deeper blue before fading into gray and continuing to darken, and day had somehow, bizarrely, become night. She had been shocked, and afraid, but Father had said, “It’s the moon passing across the sun. ’Twill soon pass away. There will be all kinds of tumult and gibbering among the poor folk, and they’ll talk of nothing but the devil casting his own shadow. Ignore it.” He had been right, and before long the afternoon had brightened again.
Then she had gone to Edinburgh and met Logan, with his jet-black eyes, gleaming black hair, who had said he loved her but changed so completely. It was not difficult, as she lay here replete, entwined, to think of Logan—the memory of Logan— as the moon, ever-changing and inconstant; and Alasdair, here, now, real and solid, her future, as the sun.
Alasdair, filling her with warmth and pleasure.
Maybe filling her with a baby, too.
Fiona closed her eyes. Her breathing had softened to an easy cadence. Images formed, as if fully fleshed in her mind: herself all rounded and pregnant, a chubby red-haired baby, all smiles and dimples, Alasdair holding the baby in his arms; another baby, with silvery-blond hair and a determined little face . . .
“Alasdair,” she said, keeping her eyes closed.
“Yes, lass?” He was stroking her arm again.
“I’m feeling very sleepy.”
“That is gladsome news.”
“I’m not sure I want to sleep on the carpet.”
“No, lass, I quite agree. Wait a moment. Don’t move.” He extricated himself from her embrace, and with easy strength he picked her up in his arms, lifted her, and carried her to their bed. He laid her down, gently as a feather; she gave a contented sigh, still with her eyes shut, and said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The mattress shifted as Alasdair got in next to her. Not all the way across the length of the bed, either. He lay on his side, with a big, splendidly heavy arm across her midsection, just below her breasts. “Good night, lass.”
“Good night, Alasdair.”
There was a short, comfortable silence.
“Alasdair?”
“Aye, Fiona?”
“I’m too happy to sleep.”
“Oh?”
Fiona opened her eyes and turned onto her side, facing him. How strange it felt to not have on a nightgown. But how . . . convenient. She slid closer to him, until their naked bodies were touching—skin to skin, her smooth breasts against his muscled chest, her hips pressed up against his—and felt his pleasingly immediate response. She smiled in the warm dimness of their bedchamber. “I know what we could do instead.”
“Do you?” His deep voice was lazy, amused.
Fiona curled a leg over his hip, and snugged herself even closer. “Do you want to?”
“You are daft,” he said, and kissed her, and she kissed him right back, and they began again.
Later, later, when their breathing had slowed and their sweat had dried, Alasdair lay watching as Fiona, this time, did fall asleep, on her back, one hand flung out toward him, on her face an expression of pure tranquility.
Ah, good for you, lass, he thought.
Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he brought the blankets a little higher, to cover her bare, smooth-skinned shoulders, then settled back against his pillows. He’d have thought he would have preceded her in sleep. Especially since he hadn’t slept at all last night.
Still, he could certainly lie here for a little while, and enjoy this marvelous feeling of satiation. And happiness, yes?
Yes?
Wasn’t he happy?
He should be.
The sex had been more than satisfactory.
Alasdair rolled onto his side, away from Fiona.
He should be happy, for now, for sure, there would be peacefulness between them.