Page 26 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
"Come here," he said, his voice rougher than intended.
She moved closer, and he positioned her in front of the easel, then stepped behind her. The moment his hands settled on her waist to guide her stance, he felt her flinch—just slightly, but enough for him to notice.
There it is again. What makes ye afraid of touch, lass? Was it a man that did this to ye? Is this why ye cannae stand me touch?
"Easy," he murmured, keeping his voice gentle. "I'm nae goin' to hurt ye."
"I ken that," she said quickly, but he could feel the tension in her shoulders.
Then what is it?
The mystery was driving him mad. She wasn't afraid of him—he was certain of that much. But something about being touched made her body react with fear even when her mind knew she was safe.
"Tell me if ye want me to stop," he said quietly, pressing a brush into her hand.
"Nay, it's... it's fine." But her voice was slightly breathless.
He guided her hand to the palette, his fingers covering hers. "Start with the sky. Blue, mixed with just a touch of white."
"Like this?" She dabbed the brush in the paint, and he felt her begin to relax slightly.
"Aye, but daenae be afraid to take more. Paint is meant to flow." He helped her load the brush properly. "Now, broad strokes across the top of the canvas. Feel the paint resist the surface, then give way."
She moved the brush as he directed, and he found himself acutely aware of every point where their bodies touched. Her back against his chest, her hair tickling his jaw, the subtle scent of lavender that seemed to follow her everywhere. He leaned in, sniffing deeply.
Focus on the paintin', ye fool.
"Nay, like this," he said, adjusting her grip. "Ye're holdin' it like a weapon instead of a tool."
"It feels awkward," she admitted.
"Everything feels awkward at first. Here—" He covered her hand completely with his, guiding the brush in smooth, confident strokes. "Let the paint do the work. Daenae fight it."
The blue spread across the canvas in a perfect wash of color, and he heard her small gasp of delight.
"I did that?"
"We did that," he corrected, though most of the skill had been his. Still, watching her face light up with accomplishment made something warm unfurl in his chest.
"What next?"
"Clouds." He loaded the brush with white and a touch of gray. "Softer strokes now. Think of how clouds actually move—light, driftin', never harsh."
This time, when he guided her hand, she didn't flinch. If anything, she seemed to lean back against him slightly, and Lachlan had to grit his teeth against the surge of want that shot through him.
She trusts ye enough to let ye close. Daenae ruin it by pushin' for more.
"I can see why ye enjoy this," she said softly as they worked together to create wispy white clouds. "It's... peaceful."
"Is it?" He'd never thought of painting as peaceful. For him, it was usually an exorcism—a way to bleed out the darkness so it didn't consume him.
"Mmm. When I'm rulin' the clan, me mind is always racin'—problems to solve, decisions to make, people dependin' on me. But this... this is just about color and light and creatin' somethin' that wasnae there before."
She sounds so young when she talks like that. So tired.
"How old were ye when ye became the lady?" he asked, continuing to guide her hand as they added details to the clouds.
"Twenty-four. Only a few months ago, actually."
