Page 71 of Miss Delightful
Dorcas had hugged him back.
They’d spent two visits merely chatting and admiring John’s attempts to crawl. Dorcas still did not hold the boy, but her fondness for him was apparent in the way she watched Alasdhair cuddle him. She’d spoken of the challenges of planning a fellowship meal—church business, always church business—until Alasdhair had prompted her to instead speak of family.
Perhaps her indisposition was more than a passing affliction, or perhaps her brother’s visit weighed on her mind, because even as she’d regaled Alasdhair with the tale of that time her mama had confused raspberry cordial with skin tonic, something about Dorcas had been off.
Distracted.
Withdrawn, for all that she listened attentively and asked insightful questions.
She greeted Alasdhair on Tuesday morning, the distracted air more pronounced than ever.
“Michael arrived on Friday,” she said, handing over her cloak. “I ought not to stay long, and you probably won’t see much of me henceforth.”
He hung up her cloak and draped the scarf over it. “Should I attend services at St. Mildred’s just to catch a glimpse of you?”
He’d meant the comment to be teasing, but when Dorcas attempted to hang her bonnet on a hat peg, she missed the mark.
“Dorcas? Is something wrong?”
She passed him her hat. “Shall we go upstairs? Don’t bother with a tea tray today. I have much to do at the vicarage, and I only slipped away because Papa and Michael are calling on some old friends. I’ll just look in on John and be on my way.”
Her tone was full of false cheer. Alasdhair touched her arm, and he could see her trying not to flinch. “Upstairs with us, then,” he said. “The boy is in good spirits, as usual. He has a new letter.”
Dorcas swept up the steps. “A new letter?”
“In addition tob, as in baa-baa-buh-bee, he has now mastered the devilishly difficultf, feh-fah-fee-fah. A useful letter, in the opinion of many.”
Dorcas ought to have proceeded straight to the nursery. She instead paused at Alasdhair’s sitting room door. “If you have a moment, I’d like to talk.”
That sounded ominous. “I will always have time to talk with you, Dorcas.” Alasdhair ushered her into his sitting room, which now sported a pot of primroses on the windowsill and a fern in the corner. Powell’s housekeeper had found a lace runner for the mantel and another for the low table and a MacKay plaid blanket of softest merino for the back of the sofa. The draperies were tied back with lacy lavender sachets—another contribution from Powell’s housekeeper—and the andirons she’d unearthed resembled wrought-iron terriers.
Foolishness, but pleasant, domestic foolishness.
“How are you and Michael getting on?” Alasdhair asked, closing the door. Surely Michael’s visit was behind this odd mood.
“I hardly see him, unless it’s at a supper attended by guests. He’s put his time in the north to good use, polishing his command of Scripture and acquiring a kind of dignity. He’s not the brother who goaded me to try smoking a cheroot.”
She gave one of the sachets a squeeze, releasing the fragrance of lavender. Her perambulations took her to the primroses, which she watered from the pitcher on the sideboard.
“Dorcas, are you still indisposed?”
She set the pitcher back on the sideboard. “I am well, thank you, but Alasdhair… Mr. MacKay, I feel it only fair that having reached certain conclusions, I inform you of them in person.”
From ominous to dire. Alasdhair had had the experience of facing an enemy army and realizing that the opposing forces were much larger than the scouts had reported. Larger, better arrayed, and better armed. Dorcas’s unwillingness to look at him, her restlessness, put the same hollow terror in his belly as those French guns had.
He intercepted her between the sofa and the hearth. “Dorcas, whatever it is, we will weather it. If your father has turned up difficult, if Michael objects to our marriage, if some meddling uncle with a loathing for the Scots has stuck his oar in…” He put a hand on each of her arms, willing her to simplybe honest. “If you have decided we must elope, we’ll elope. If you need more time, I’ll wait.”Just don’t leave me.“Tell me what you need.”
Her features were composed—when had she ever appeared less than composed?—but her eyes were full of emotion.
“I needyou,” she said. “I need you, and I desire you, and I don’t know how to make that stop.”
Why would she want it to? Alasdhair could not ask her that, because she’d commenced kissing him. Her passion was a flame to the dry tinder of his longing, and he soon had her up against the door, her skirts hiked to her hips, and her legs around his hips.
“Take me to bed, Alasdhair. Please just take me to bed.”
The veteran officer in him protested that her behavior made little sense and wanted more explanation, even while the suitor scooped her off her feet and carried her into the bedroom.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, sitting her on the edge of the bed and going to his knees to unlace her boots. “I’ve dreamed of you, held entire conversations with you in my head, and cursed your brother for his bad timing.”
