Page 37 of The Highlander's Accidental Wife
“I should put ye down,” he said and slowly did so.
Standing felt strange, and gravity felt stranger as Damien let her go, still pressed against the wall. He had a hand splayed by her head, as though he needed the wall to stay upright. His hair was mussed, and his shirt seemed to gape wider, and when she looked down, she saw an enormous bulge in his breeches.
“Ye look almost properly ravished,” he mused and went to touch her cheek, then stopped. “Ye must leave, Helena, if ye want yer year. Otherwise, I shall—” He swallowed hard and looked up at the ceiling. “Nay, I am a gentleman. Or at least I try to be. I didnae expect aSassenachto make it so hard. To make me so goddamn hard.”
A laugh escaped her. “At least we have something to look forward to?”
Damien shook his head, and a low growl escaped his throat as he glared down at her and then pointed at the door. “Get out, ye cheeky minx. Or I will flip yer skirts over yer head and then rut ye like every feckin’ one of yer countrymen expects me to—right on me desk, with ye beggin’ for more.”
Helena’s lips parted, and Damien had to wrench his gaze away. He walked to the sideboard and threw back the rest of his drink.
“Helena. Go. Please. I need… relief. Unless ye are joinin’ or want to watch, I suggest?—”
She fled, and his laughter followed her, even as she realized what he meant. His big hand on himself, mimicking the act of consummation. Another woodcut, one she had not understood, and now she knew all too well. The pulse between her legs demanded… something.
Damien could offer you that. Mercy and more.
She all but fell against her door as she burst into her room and locked the door. Not that a lock seemed like it would keep her husband-to-be out if he really wanted to get in. But perhaps she was locking herself in.
In the quiet of her room, dim and shapeless, Helena found that what had happened felt less and less like an exciting adventure and more like a dangerous interlude.
What was I thinking? Why did I go to him?
She began to pace and nearly broke her shins on a low stool. Kicking at it, she pressed the heels of her palms against her forehead and bit back a scream of frustration. The pressure of tears suddenly overwhelmed her, and she fell in a heap before the fireplace.
It was all too much, with no mother to guide her, because her mother had probably fallen for the same foolishness. Was not her mother’s work proof that intelligent women could be swayed by men’s wiles? Did not the Church warn of it?
Somewhere, Helena knew that she was overwrought and tired and that none of this was logical—that Damien had promised her the year and would hold to it.
But as she caught her breath in her dark room, hands pressed against the cold stone floor, none of that logic mattered.
All that mattered was her work.
I cannot be so foolish again. I cannot let myself fall for his words and charm. He means to seduce me. Every time I let my guard down, we end up kissing.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, and a sob tore out of her. Never in her life, even during the dreariest and most monotonous days in her father’s house, had she felt soalone.
How she hated how much she wanted to rush back to Damien and find comfort in his arms again. More the fool she was. They’d gone from hugging to kissing to nearly making a baby. And now, too many nerves and feelings were running riot through her veins. She felt she barely knew herself.
Fear seized her.
Is that what happened to Mother?
And so she clung to one thing. She could not give in to Damien’s touch or words or looks, or else her dream would die. And she knew—sheknew—she would perish with it.
That cannot happen. I refuse to end up like my mother.
Though, alone in the dark, and crying bitter tears, Helena had never felt more like Lady Lovell.
“Ye must have tossed and turned somethin’ fierce, Milady.”
Shona’s innocent comment on the mussed state of Helena’s braids followed Helena all the way down to breakfast. She knew that she was late. According to her maids, she had slept in. They were loath to wake her, but apparently, the Laird had insisted.
However, the disarray of her braids and her sleepiness meant that when she arrived in Edenhall—as the great room was called—nearly everyone was gone. Except for Lady Merie, who was gossiping with two women in lively Gaelic, and Damien, who was scowling at the far end. His eye immediately flicked to her, and she noted that his eye patch was back in place. It gave her a strange feeling, as though he was half-hidden from her. It was rather dashing, though. Besides, wasn’t it right that only she, his wife, should see his true face in their boudoir?—
Have I lost my mind?
“Helena.”
