Page 113 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
Before anything could happen, he would wash it all away.
A fire blazed. Ignoring the comings and goings, Adrian turned Isobel around and began unlacing her dress.
Slowly, gently, he eased it down her shoulders. As it pooled around her feet, she stepped free, and Adrian tossed it at a nearby maid.
“Have it burned.”
She bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Ye didn’t need to do that,” Isobel said. “If they laundered it, they could probably get the bloodstains out, and it would be perfectly serviceable.”
“I could buy you a hundred such dresses and not even notice the dent in my finances,” he said, leaning down to kiss her softly even as he undid the laces of her stays.
Finally, the flurry of activity in the room died, and there was nothing but the glow of candlelight and the gentle steam from the bath.
“Do not insult me. That dress is a symbol of everything terrible that happened tonight, and I want it gone.”
She touched his face, so tenderly though he could almost see the pain in her face.
“Adrian,” she murmured. “I am all right.”
“No, you’re not. But you will be. Come.”
Stripping off his clothes, he led her to the bath.
First, he stepped in, then he guided her to follow him. They sank into the water together, and he positioned her so she lay between his legs, her back against his chest, his arms aroundher. Wordlessly, he took the soap and worked it into a lather between his hands. Then he set himself to the task of washing her.
Almost for the duration, she remained silent.
His body reacted to having her here with him, between his legs, but he ignored it. Focused on washing her, including her hair.
When she was clean, she turned, taking the soap from his hands and doing the same to him. Her hands glided up and down his chest, stomach, arms, shoulders, back, legs. She washed him as diligently as he had washed her, her gaze fixed on her hands and the work she was doing.
The quiet intimacy of the moment caught him off-guard. He had apologized, told her how he felt, and she had forgiven.
This, now, felt like a culmination of that. Their words in actions.
When she had finished, she placed the sliver of soap to one side and looked at him.
“The water’s getting cool,” she said.
In answer, he rose, water streaming from him, and pulled a towel hanging over the screen. She rose, too, letting him wrap her up and dry her. The silence only, somehow, seemed to add to the intimacy. They each knew what the other wanted and needed before it was said.
Finally, clean from the terrible events of the day, they walked naked back into the bedchamber. He guided her to the bed and lay down beside her. And finally, he kissed her.
He kissed her with every word he had said, and all those he hadn’t—kissed her as though he had drowned in that tub and she was his last sip of air. He didn’t know quite how he could love her this much, but he knew for certain that he did, and he would never, ever take it for granted.
She loved him, too. Even after everything, he hadn’t ruined it.
He ran his hands along her stomach, the curve of her hips, the softness of her inner thighs. She lay there still but for her ragged breathing, letting him touch her in all the ways he had been dreaming of for days.
Had it only been days since he’d sent her away? It felt as though it had been months, years. As though he had been dreaming of her—pining over her—for half his life. And only now, with her in his bed, her legs falling open for him, did he feel as though he was whole again. Home again.
He pressed a kiss to her cheek, then her jaw. Her neck and collarbones, then finally the swell of her breast. She shifted impatiently under him, but he had never been less inclined to rush.
He would savor this moment. No longer would he take anything for granted. If all he had was this moment before somethingcame to split them apart again, he would make the most of every second.
“Adrian,” she whined as he caressed her inner thighs and pressed a kiss to the center of her sternum. “Please.”
