Page 72 of Laird of Secrets
“I had some earlier with honey and hot water. And about half this glass now. My cough seems to be gone now. But I feel, uh, lightheaded.” She blinked.
“Aye, enough, lass. An Edinburgh lady will not have the head for Highland drink. I apologize. I should not have suggested another dram for you after Maisie’s dose. May I?” He stretched his hand out for her glass.
“I am fine,” she insisted, and set the glass on the small table. A strange sense of well-being, even joyfulness, filled her in tandem with the heated flush in her face and chest. She smiled, feeling content. Then she stood, wobbling a little, grabbing the chair for support. Looking up, she saw tiny lights flitting high up in the room. Reflections of the lamplight, she thought. Her head felt very spinny now.
“How do you feel?” Dougal asked. He was standing beside her chair. When had he stepped so close?
She smiled up at him. “Marvelously well.”
“Indeed,” he drawled. “So along with us being improperly alone here, and you in a state of undress, I am now responsible for your becoming fou.”
“I am not fou,” she said. “And if I am, I did that myself. And willingly.”
“`We are nae fou, well, nae that fou,`” he quoted softly.
“Just so,” she said, laughing, glad to hear a man quote Burns so readily His intellect, she realized, was equally as attractive as his kindness, his strength of will, his handsomeness.“You do make a lovely whisky, sir, if I may say. And if I am in a state of undress, well, that is my own doing.”
He regarded her for a moment. “I think you should go upstairs now, lass.”
“Not just yet. I like your company.” She really did, she thought, and stood, tipping her head. But the movement made her dizzy again.
“I like your company too. But your brothers would surely come after me if they knew we were together here, with you dressed like that.”
“Only if I tell them. It also depends on what you decide to do this night.” She reached for the glass again, but Dougal took it neatly away and set it aside.
“Decide to do about what?” he asked quietly.
She felt wicked. “About your black lovesickness.”
“Best we leave that be for now.”
“Perhaps we could cure it.”
Dougal was silent for a moment, standing so close that Fiona tilted her head to look up at him. He lifted a hand, brushed her hair from her brow, while she closed her eyes, waiting, hoping. Dizzy. But he did not kiss her.
“What cure do you suggest?” he murmured.
“Mmm,” she said. “Maisie’s potion cures all, so she said.”
“You have had enough of that, I think. Any other remedies are best not pursued at the moment.”
“For a rascally smuggler, you are a true gentleman.” She smiled.
“Just so.” He took her arm to steady her as she wobbled against him. Glad for the support, she set a hand to his shoulder. Thought of dancing. Hummed a little.
Dougal stepped back, his hand encircling her wrist. “Here we go, my girl, off to bed with you.” He began to turn her toward the door.
“I am not your girl,” she said. “Am I?”
“Not so far, unless you want to be.”
She looked up, slightly dizzy, yet finding steadiness in his quiet gaze. “I think I have a touch of the black lovesickness myself.”
“Do you? I am glad I am not alone in that.”
“We are in this together, sir.” She leaned toward him, and he caught her by the shoulders quickly so that she would not tilt and fall.
“Oh aye, upstairs for you, my dear.”
