Page 30 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
Erica stared down at her half-eaten food, Mairi's words echoing in her mind. Could it really be that simple? Could healing really happen between two broken people who chose to be gentle with each other's wounds?
Erica thanked Mairi with a polite smile. Standing up, she made her way back to their chambers with Mairi's words still echoing in her mind. The cook's insights had shifted something fundamental in her understanding of Lachlan, but she wasn't sure what to do with these new revelations. All she knew was that the fear that had gripped her during the walk to the kitchens had loosened its hold somewhat.
She opened the door to their chambers quietly, expecting to find them empty. Instead, she froze in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat.
Lachlan stood with his back to her near the window, in the process of changing his shirt. His previous garment lay discarded on a chair, and she found herself staring at the broad expanse of his bare back and shoulders. The late afternoon light streaming through the windows turned his skin to gold, highlighting every muscle, every scar that marked his skin like a map of battles fought and survived.
Sweet Mary and all the saints. What are ye doin' to me, husband?
Her eyes traced the powerful line of his shoulders, the way his muscles shifted as he reached for a clean shirt. There were scars scattered across his back—some old and faded, others newer—and each one told a story of pain endured and overcome. But rather than making him seem damaged, they only emphasized his strength.
He's beautiful. Lachlan is more beautiful than any man I've ever seen.
The thought came unbidden, and with it, a rush of desire so intense it made her knees weak. She'd never looked at a man and felt this pull, this desperate want to touch and be touched. Her body was responding in ways that both thrilled and terrified her.
She must have made some small sound—a gasp or intake of breath—because he turned toward her. The shirt was still in his hands, leaving his chest bare, and Erica felt her mouth go dry at the sight. Dark hair scattered across well-defined muscles, and she found herself wanting to trace its path with her fingers.
"Have ye had yer fill now, love?" His voice was amused, but there was something darker underneath—a heat that matched her own.
The endearment and his knowing tone sent mortification flooding through her. She squeaked—actually squeaked like astartled mouse—and spun around to face the door, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.
"I'm sorry," she stammered, pressing her hands to her hot face. "I dinnae mean to... I should have knocked. I dinnae realize ye were..."
"Dressin'?" His voice was closer now, warm with laughter. "Daenae fash yerself, lass. Ye're me wife, after all. Ye have every right to look."
Every right to look.
The words sent another wave of heat through her, but they also sparked something else—a sharp stab of what could only be jealousy.
Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out: "Ye must have had a lot of women see ye naked to nae be bothered by my stare."
The silence that followed her outburst was deafening. She could practically feel her face glowing with mortification. Why had she said that? What was wrong with her?
"Jealous, are we?" His voice was right behind her now, warm and amused and entirely too pleased.
"I'm nae jealous," she protested, still facing the door. "I was just... observin'. That ye seemed very comfortable with... with bein' seen."
"Erica." His voice was gentler now, though she could still hear the smile in it. "Look at me."
She shook her head. "I cannae. I'm too embarrassed."
"Ye daenae have to be jealous, lass." His voice was soft, intimate. "Only ye can touch me now."
The words sent a shiver down her spine. There was a possessiveness in his tone that should have alarmed her, but instead it made her feel claimed, desired, protected.
"I told ye, I'm nae?—"
Her protest was cut off as his hands settled on her waist from behind. She tensed, waiting for the familiar surge of panic, the desperate need to flee. But it didn't come. Instead, she felt... safe. Cherished.
I'm nae flinchin’. Why am I nae flinchin’?
"Ye're nae what?" he murmured against her ear, his breath warm against her skin.
"I'm nae jealous," she whispered, but the words lacked conviction.
His hands tightened slightly on her waist, and he turned her around to face him. She kept her eyes down, still too embarrassed to meet his gaze, but she could see he'd put on his shirt. Somehow, that was both a relief and a disappointment.
"Look at me, Erica."
