Page 62 of Laird of Twilight
“I wonder if Grandda wanted you to see this,” she said. “He gave you the fairy brew, which he shares with no one but me. Then he set to his weaving this night, knowing that anyone who had sipped the fairy brew could see him at work.”
“He did this deliberately so that I would see it?”
“It is my guess. Still, we should stay out of sight. He has a fierce pride, and he is careful to keep the fairy magic secret. But for you and I,” she said, looking up at him thoughtfully. “Well, and Peggy Graham, but she prefers to ignore it all.”
“I prefer that too, my girl,” he murmured. “I am hoping any moment now that I will wake in my bed, with the taste of whisky on my lips, with a thick head, and no memory of how I got there. I wonder if you will be beside me when I wake.” He wrapped her close, fingers easing over her shoulder.
”No, and hush,” she whispered with a soft laugh. She set two fingers to his lips, and he kissed them. Elspeth took his face between her hands, lifted up on her toes, and kissed his mouth.
Slow, delightful, the power of that tender kiss sank through him, crown to sole. His body surged, craved. He caught her by the waist, kissed her hard and sure until she moaned breathily. Then she pulled back.
“That was real, that kiss,” she whispered. “Truly meant. Not magic.”
“So is this.” He traced his thumb under the delicious weight of her breast.
“Jamie,” she breathed, pressing against him. He closed his eyes, holding her. Years ago, his family had called him that; now only his sister used the affectionate name. On Elspeth’s lips, it sounded right, intimate, ringing differently, dearly.
“Real, aye. But nothing, lass, can prove to me that I saw fairy magic tonight—it was simply too much exceptional whisky. That is what I believe.” His heart thumped like a drum. He kissed her brow, her cheek, traced down to her lips to kiss her fully.
She sighed. “Sometimes you must trust that something is true.”
He drew back, set his cheek against hers. Trusting easily was not his nature. Yet Elspeth constantly challenged him, having a sort of magic about her, but that was her natural charm, he told himself, a blend of whimsy and wisdom. And he had to admit to himself that she and her grandfather—his grandmother too—had pushed him to think beyond what he was prepared to accept.
Still, he shook his head. “It is the whisky at work on me.”
“And well it should. The fairy dew gives that whisky a touch of fairy magic.”
Enough, he almost said. Enough of this insistence on magic. She felt solid and real in his arms, and that was all he wanted. Needed. He brushed a hand over her soft hair, grazed his thumb along her cheek, the curve of her lips. He kissed her again, touched the merest tip of his tongue to hers. She opened, inviting more.
Real and reassuring, this warmth of breath and flesh, this passion burgeoning in his body. He needed her, wanted her for his lover and his wife, nothing to do with obligation or responsibility. He knew that now. He wanted to spend his life with her. He loved her.
Yet she had refused him, although her response felt as passionately real as his own. She pressed against him, lips lush and urgent under his. She pulled back, looked up. “Your feelings, and my own, that is what is real here and now,” she whispered. “That is truth, I will give you that.”
Once again, she echoed his thoughts. “You are a conundrum.”
“We must come away from here,” she said, and drew him with her through shadows and fog, away from the building and toward her own small weaving cottage, its windows dark. There, James pulled her into the shadow of the wall, where she set her back against the stone and lifted her arms to his shoulders. He snugged the small of her back, taut and slim, against him. Swathed in darkness and silence, he kissed her, deep and fervent, then slow and tender.
The wildness he had felt before with her came through him again, his heart thudding, body savoring the feel of her against him. Even as he cautioned himself to slow down, consider—she pulled him closer, opening her lips to his, giving him her moist, curious tongue. He grew full and hard, aching for her, and her fervor clearly equaled his, with no hesitating. He would follow the craving so long as she would allow it, standing in the lee of the stone wall, lost in needful kisses and touches.
Beneath the warmth of her plaid shawl, the softness of her night rail bunching under his palms, her body was all soft curves and slenderness, and his own quickened like fire. Kissing him, she ran her hands over his shoulders, then inside his coat, fingers slipping inside the fabric of his shirt, for he had foregone a waistcoat and neckcloth in his haste to step outside in the middle of the night. As her touch teased, he pressed her against the wall, hunger driving him now. He must master himself, pull back, he thought. But he was already changing with her, letting her see his desire, his vulnerability. It unsettled him to lose his accustomed reserve, but he wanted to be truthful with her, honest with himself.
All of him, his reliable, routine, careful life, his feelings, all of it had shifted since he had known her. What his logic found fanciful and impossible, she found easy to accept. She was open with her emotions, and his own feelings, guarded so strictly, were expanding. That scared him most of all. He loved her, and had almost from the first moment. Yet being impulsive was unlike him. And his certainty about loving her, without studying the problem from all sides, questioning and pondering—that was especially unlike him.
Now he was surrendering to the moment, accepting her permission, feeling her fervor build in tandem with his. She was seductive, charming, willing in his arms. Magic, fairies, all that was impossible, faded. Here and now mattered most.
Yet he was at his core a thinker, a scientist, a constant questioner. He sucked in a breath, drew back, breath ragged. He must remain true to that, and not change so quickly. It felt—capricious somehow, as if he was fickle to his own stolid nature.
She tilted her head, breathing quickly, leaned toward him to ask another kiss. He leaned away, cautious for her sake as well as his own.
“Just what are we doing here, my girl?” he asked.
“Hush.” Taking his hand, she led him around the corner to the stone step of the cottage and lifted the door latch. Feeling her intention match his, James lifted her in his arms, pushed the door open, stepped inside, kicked the door shut behind them.
The dark, snug space smelled pleasant, a mingling of wood and wool and peacefulness. He set Elspeth down, and she took his hand to pull him toward the corner, where plaids were stacked. She tossed a few of them down for a nest, tugged him to the floor.
“What are we doing, love,” he murmured, sinking to his knees.
“What we will,” she said.
