Page 78 of Laird of Secrets
He turned to pick up a candle in its brass holder, then waved her ahead of him to the door. Moments later he began leading her up the turning stone steps.
“I will go first,” he said. “The way is steep and dark.”
At the upper landing, she reached for the door latch and paused, glanced up. Dougal hesitated. A cool, mere good night here would abandon the promise of what was happening between them, though perhaps that was best.
One more kiss, he thought, one more moment to hold her. Morning would arrive all too fast. They would not have this chance to be close, alone, honest.
But they were unchaperoned, and already he should take the full blame for it. Already he knew he ought to offer marriage for the situation she was in at his home. She and her Lowland family would surely expect it.Marriage.
Suddenly that did not seem an ill fit to him any longer. Here she was, standing so close, alone with him in his very house, in front of a bedchamber, wearing his very dressing gown. Here she was, a girl he could love, a girl special enough to sip the fairy brew and see the fairy of the whisky—he liked the name she gave it—and she had come into his arms willingly and sweetly. And he had already confided secrets to her that he would never have shared with another.
Trusting her felt good. Right. Marriage. The word had a soft insistence. Even his uncles had suggested it not long ago. He tilted his head, watching her.
“Goodnight,” she whispered, pressing the door handle.
“Fiona,” he murmured. He set the candle in a niche in the wall. “Wait.”
“Aye?” She turned, and in that instant, she moved, he moved, opened his arms. She went into his embrace silently, smoothly, looked up.
He touched his lips to hers, and she complied, gave back. Sweet as honey, hot as the burn of whisky, a new kiss, another, blending together in a chain of kisses, tentative, then deeper. She opened her lips beneath his, curved her body snug to his. He cradled her head in his hand, fingers sliding through her silken hair, tumbling loose its curling softness.
“Fiona,” he said, “this is madness—”
“It is magic,” she murmured, touching her lips to his again.
“It is the whisky,” he answered, drawing back, “and I will not—”
“It is not all the whisky,” she whispered, sliding closer, the brocade robe slipping open, her body in a plain lawn shirt—his own—pressed intimately against him, warmth through fabric.
“More than you know, lass,” he said firmly. Though he knew he should let go, he pulled her closer, kissed her deeply. His hand skimmed down to her waist, to her hip. Sighing, he straightened, then released her.
“Into your room, now,” he said quietly.
“If you think I am fou, I am not. Not any longer.” She touched his shoulder. “Would you stay with me?"
“If you were sober, you would not ask that. Go on, now. Later for it, when we both are clear, and in agreement.Then we shall see, and we shall discuss what obligation the laird owes the lady.”
“Obligation?”
“Hush. Enough for now. It is rest you need, and no more talk.” He brushed his knuckle over her cheek, and kissed her again, could not help it, lips dragging hungrily over hers, his body pounding in its need for satisfaction. Mustering his will, he pushed her gently away. “Go, my girl.”
Opening the door, she stepped backward over the threshold, watching him. “What if I see fairies again tonight, when I am all alone?”
“That may happen, for the whisky is still upon you. I thought you wanted to see them.”
“Not alone, in the dark.”
“Then go to sleep quick as you can,” he suggested.
“Tell me more about the fairies of Kinloch.”
“A fairy story before sleeping?” He quirked a brow, amused.
“It is important that I know. I wish I could explain. Later.” She put a hand to her head, her slim bandaged finger white in the darkness. “I am dizzy. So tired.”
“Go on, now, and goodnight.”
“But I do not—oh!” She looked past him. “Oh!”
